“You’re saying it was the Lord’s will that the place burned?” asked Harry.
“Many a time I’ve heard Reverend Blue say just that,” said Chauncy, his hands shaking. “Lloyd went up there the next day after that place burned down but he come back and told me he couldn’t find any news to it.”
“Lloyd said that?” asked Annie.
Chauncy nodded. “Way I heard it, before the fire, Pastor Allingham’s people used to meet up there figuring out how to cause trouble.”
“Did you ever see buses of students come here from Boston, say for voter registration?” asked Harry.
“One or two times,” replied Chauncy. “Nobody paid them any mind. They came and they left, that’s all.”
“Did Lloyd do any articles, take any pictures?”
He shook his head and said, “If that’s all you wanted, I got to finish the proofs to go out.”
Chauncy walked a few steps, stopped and looked back at the two of them. He said slowly, “Look, I been a good employee. Worked for this paper a long time. I don’t want no trouble. You watch out, Harry, and you too, Annie, because all of us going to get hurt if you keep on with this Walker Douglas story.” He crumpled the proof in his hand, and, not waiting for Harry to reply, went on to his computer to finish his work.
Annie watched Chauncy and said, “He’s a good man, just careful.”
“Are you careful too?” Harry asked her.
She looked at him. “You know, a few days ago I would have agreed with him. Then I thought about it. I thought about you and the news business. I thought about me too.”
Harry stood up, smiling at her, appreciation in his eyes. He said, “We’ll be all right. Walker John is a good story. After the regatta, when we have more time, I’m going to look into this Presidential visit too. I’ll get Lyndon Johnson’s records from his library and I’ll check out the Pastor’s medal.”
He looked into her eyes and asked, “Not scared anymore?”
She shook her head. She was very attractive he thought, noticing how she looked now that she was excited about this story. She caught his glance and replied with a grin, “Scared of these crackers? You got to be kidding.”
Outside, a huge red and white banner stretched across Strand Street, proclaiming the news of the race in bold type to all automobile and pedestrian traffic passing below. Harry took Annie with him when he walked over to the Kirby Race Shop. Harry wanted to see Walker’s boat up close.
On the way, crowds of people in vacation dress moved in the incessant hot Maryland sunlight. Clattering and shouting voices were all around them, the products of the extensive preparations going on. Intermittent roars of high speed engines came from the waterfront where boats were lowered into the harbor water for continuous adjustments, tests, and retests.
In the maelstrom, mixed in chaos with local station wagons and muddy utility vehicles, were polished six wheel trucks towing highly chromed and colorful racing motorboats to the pit areas at the nearby harbor piers. These expensive trucks and their boats, in turn, were each of them trailed by great custom buses with the racers names on their sides, the tops of these aluminum buses towering as high as the rooflines of the antique buildings that lined the main street of the old harbor town . These coaches and their aloof chauffeurs held the skilled racing retinues of drivers as well as mechanics and the photogenic wives with their television-ready coiffures. Female racers, male racers, all were were perfectly groomed for television coverage, for family value and image. Popping up everywhere throughout this wild activity, like in a fantastic bazaar, were the names and logos of the local and national sponsors, including the Kirby marinas and speed shops all over Maryland. The advertising provided the financial energy source. The driving reason for all the enthusiasm was making money, huge, almost piratical sums drawn from spectators and advertising to television audiences fascinated with the glory of racing these craft. In addition the tense onlookers waited for the spectacular moments, the winners coming across finish lines or the instant cries of horror when a trick wave flipped a boat at high speed and drowned its driver.
The more immediate ugliness was closer to the two of them as they walked through the hordes. Even in the boisterous welcome that the town was giving to the racers through all the banners and signage of upcoming festivities, horns and yells showed unfettered anger and anxiety. As the boats on trailers moved amidst the other street traffic, their pace was slowed to the point where the high speed hulls seemed well out of place in turtle-like motion. The drivers competed for space and movement in the narrow street while on the sidewalks, passersby tried to gain advantage by pushing. Harry had learned from Annie that with every summer the confusion got worse and the fans more unreasonable.
“The town’s too small, ‘ she had said, when she saw the first crowds come in a few days ago, “Too damn small for half the people in the eastern United States to suddenly visit in hot weather to show their sunburned bellies, watch a bunch of loud boats and drink too much beer.”
Great television trucks parked strategically along the sidewalks. Across the harbor Harry spotted technicians in red or blue coveralls raising and tuning the large white satellite dishes, steel saucers mounted on the backs of brightly painted trucks or trailers. All this was being done to insure immediate coverage of the weekend race heats to the tuned in national viewing audience.
“The racing community will own River Sunday for the next two weeks,” Annie told him. “This coming week they’ll set up their boats and test them, then on the weekend we’ll have the races, and the following week all of the stuff comes back down.
“I’ve thought about how to write about the risk. A racer can still get killed pretty sudden,” she said. “If it’s not the engine, it’s the hull. Something explodes or catches on fire or cracks in half.”
Harry added. “Or the driver makes a mistake.”
“’Scuse me,” A powerboat racer, a young black man, muscular in tight fitting silver coveralls, his face almost covered by his bright sunglasses, pushed by, helmet in hand. He was followed closely by two reporters, the black newsman who had been at the briefing, and a white photographer, a woman who was sweating and panting heavily, her cameras hung on shoulder straps and slapping against her thighs. The driver’s shiny fireproof suit was decorated, like tattoos on bare skin, with the logo insignia of his national sponsors.
“Drivers are pushy. They seem so damn cocky,” Annie said. “They aren’t though. Last year I saw one of them after he was hurt, lying there screaming in the River Sunday hospital.”
Harry heard his name called from behind him. The black reporter had come back.
“I wanted to ask you a question, you being from around here and all,” he said.
“Go ahead,” said Harry.
“I wanted to ask you about that Walker John, the fugitive whose boat was found. My editor wanted me to find out why he named his boat Black Duck.”
Harry looked at Annie, who shook her head.
“I guess we don’t know,” answered Harry. “It’s a good question.”
“Well, I thank you anyway,” the man said and went back into the crowd.
As they got closer to the Kirby shop, she added “Missus Kirby’s done all right with this racing.”
“You almost said she runs the town,” Harry chuckled.
“Harry, she almost does. If she buys Lulu’s place, she’d control everything worth owning around here.” She ducked and almost swore as another driver and his team pushed them against the side of a building.
“How’d she end up in a wheelchair?” asked Harry.
“She fell at home. That’s all I know,” said Annie. “Made her pretty mean, I guess. She’s not too pleasant.”
Harry stopped at the potholed, side street going toward the harbor and Catch’s shop. Here was shade, the wooden buildings along the street blocking the sun, and the air still had retained some of the coolness from the morning dew.
One half of this side street had been block
ed by a table of literature. An overweight woman sat there. He remembered her singing in front of Reverend Blue’s church the night the Black Duck was hauled through town. The table was decorated with American and Confederate flags which formed a draping curtain to the ground along the table edge. The woman herself wore a red dress with a billowing skirt and a white waist sash and on her feet were canvas strap sandals. In front of her on the table were stacks of pamphlets.
Some of the passersby, Harry noticed, would stop at the table and open the proffered pamphlets with a smile. They’d glance at the material and then, with a sudden angry look back at the woman who continued to smile at them, would immediately throw the document to the ground. Some, especially black tourists, would shout and wave their hands at the woman. Others, though, would simply glance at the papers and give a thumbs up wave at the woman who would then return the wave with what resembled a salute.
Harry picked up a booklet. Most of them were about the history of River Sunday. The covers all included some type of southern image such as the cross buttonry of the ancient Maryland Confederate Army uniforms, or even various symbols of the Lost Cause such as battle flags and images of soldiers.
“Can I find something for you, Mister? Or for your wife?” She smiled. “I’m selling tickets to the church dinner tonight. You are certainly invited, and the little lady too.”
She held up two tickets. “Only five dollars for you and half price for your missus. I guarantee you’ll like the cooking. Best in River Sunday.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Harry.
The woman, encouraged by Harry’s pleasantness, went on. “Sure. You just enjoy yourself.”
Harry picked up one of the booklets. “Is that what the Temple does? Print books?”
“Oh, no. We follow the Lord. We know all kinds of ways to do His bidding and we just try to find the Way. You’ll find out more when you come to the dinner.”
“Well, thank you,” said Harry.
“You’re the new editor, ain’t you?” she said, rising from her chair.
“Yes,” he answered.
“You know about your paper, don’t you?” she asked, sitting back down now that she had their attention and fanning herself with one of the brochures.
“What should I know?” asked Harry.
“Why, your paper was the Secesh paper,” she smiled.
“What is that?” Harry turned to Annie.
Annie smiled, “I guess she’s going to tell you, Harry.”
The woman reached for a brightly colored booklet, opened it and folded back a page. She handed it to Harry and said, “Here it says that during the War Between the States, the Federal occupation troops forbid the Nanticoke Times from publishing its paper.” Harry glanced at the page and handed the booklet back.
“You didn’t know that, Harry, did you? That your paper was a Rebel rag,” Annie chuckled.
Harry now realized why his black readership was so small. He remembered a lesson he had learned in Africa, that most people don’t forget the harm done to their families in the past, that hatreds are carried on for decades, even centuries, passed on in oral traditions from parent to child.
“Lot of us buy your paper,” the woman said, still holding out the booklet.
Harry smiled and said,” Well, thank you.”
“We thank you,” the woman said. “We’re glad you’re still in business.”
Harry passed by the table and went towards the shop.
“You don’t want to go in there,” the woman called behind him, her voice higher in pitch.
Harry stopped and looked back at her. “Why not?”
“The motorboat of the Devil is inside.”
Harry looked at her. From the intense look in her eyes and the fact that she had half risen again from her folding chair, he knew that she was dedicated to preserving his immortal soul, as if he believed he still had one.
“I’ll just take a look. I won’t stay,” he said, smiling.
She sat back down. “You’ll take care of yourself if you go inside that shop?”
“I certainly will,” Harry assured her.
Annie had already gone ahead and when Harry caught up, she said, smiling, “I think you have an admirer.”
“She’s looking out for me all right,” said Harry.
“You watch out,” Annie winked. “Some of these country women preach a good story but they’re also pretty quick to plop a potential husband into their bed.”
“I will,” said Harry, squeezing Annie’s hand. “Thanks for the advice.”
Harry pushed through a steel door that was to the right of the large garage opening, now closed, that had been up to let in the Black Duck. Annie was right behind him, and they stepped over the raised wooden sill and into Catch’s workshop. Harry adjusted to the dark after the intense sunlight outside. The Black Duck had been moved further inside and Harry could not see it. At the other end of the shop, was an area lighted by sunlight. As he stood there, the smell of gasoline and seawater all around him, he could just hear the sound of an oak mallet pound on a steel chisel, regular in beat, one dull hit after another. Then, as if whoever was making the noise was suddenly aware that he was no longer alone, the noise stopped.
“Any one here?” Harry shouted.
“Down by the water,” a hoarse voice called, its owner still unseen.
He passed more clutter and smelled fresh marine paint mixed with the light flowery scent of Annie’s perfume. The light entered from an opening in the wall to his left where the railroad of the boat shop met the tidewater. His eyes following the light, he could see through the harbor door several moored craft in the shallows, results of Catch’s handiwork, waiting to be picked up by customers. As he moved ahead, Harry could make out the craft under repair. Two railways were in this shop. On the one close to Harry, was a thirty five foot oyster boat, its narrow dead rise hull pointed and sharp. At the waterline the hull was encrusted with barnacles.
Outlined against the harbor light, Harry could see the form of a man sitting on a low stool, his chipping at the boat’s barnacles the source of the noise. It was Catch, filthy with grease and spent oil spattered on his faded skin. Catch looked far older than his forty years. The black dirty oil accentuated, with its contrasting stains, the lines on Catch’s face and arms. His stained tee shirt framed his bulging belly to near the waist where some of the baby white stomach showed. Catch was short and stubby, a fact Harry figured had stood him well as a driver, as his research had indicated that small, tough, men better fit in the tiny racing boat seats.
“What the hell do you want?” Catch moved his arm up between himself and Harry, slowly as if he saw danger in Harry’s presence.
Harry stopped in front of Catch, and saw that the hull on the other railroad was the Black Duck. He looked at Annie and saw that her eyes were full of questions she was impatient to ask.
“You shouldn’t be in here. No one is allowed to see Walker’s boat,” Catch said. He looked at Harry carefully as if Harry was another one of the barnacles he had been scraping.
”You gonna write some lies about my father?” he finally said.
“Why would we do that?” asked Annie.
“I hear you been asking questions about whether Walker was guilty. Maybe you’re going to say he was some kind of hero. I know about you northern people come down here and what you say. Anyway, that’s making my father a liar. Man tried to kill my dad, that’s all,” he said.
Catch leaned back, mallet in one hand, chisel in the other, staring at Harry and Annie.
“That race boat ain’t as good as Walker thought it was,” Catch said.
“Where were you in those days?” asked Harry, trying to get Catch to talk more about Walker.
“Don’t you worry,” he said. “I was just a kid but I knew what was going on in River Sunday, even then.”
Harry heard the clank of a wrench and spotted another workman in the shop, one Harry did not recognize, who was standing inside the hull of Wal
ker’s boat, a flashlight in one hand.
Catch stood up and grinned, “Hey, you newspaper folks, come on over here. Maybe you’ll realize just how bad a man Walker was.” He walked toward the hulk which Harry could see had been substantially cleaned of its seaweed and grime.
“Charlie here knows more about boats and engines than anybody, even me,” Catch said. As he approached Harry could see that the mechanic had taken the engine from Walker’s boat. The engine was on a test block beside the race boat, some of its metal now shining.
“Charlie’s the best engine man in the area,” said Catch.
“This engine,” Charlie said to Harry, “was one of the best made up Fords I’ve seen on these boats. Walker got her revs and torque high without hurting her strength, changing her from the rules. Look.” He pointed to the crankshaft which he had removed from the corroded engine.
“See how Walker didn’t take much out. He just tuned what he had,” the expert said, showing Harry a gauge measurement on the crank diameter. “You have to know how and Walker did.”
“Charlie, I want you to tell this reporter that Walker didn’t have nothing here that could have beat my father,” said Catch, his face suddenly angry.
“I ain’t saying that, Catch,” the mechanic answered. “You brought me here to be honest. Walker got her revs and torque high without hurting her strength. I’d like to have seen this boat and engine run in the water, I would.”
Harry heard the creak of the shop door behind them and light flowed across the cement floor. Catch’s mother came into the shop with the sheriff behind her, pushing her wheelchair. The big sheriff’s face, above his gray uniform, shifted in expression as he spotted Harry and Annie. The man’s eyes grew furtive, his expression, first that of one appearing completely subdued by this old woman as he entered the shop, changing quickly to that of a brusque policeman, as though, even though he was a nurse, he was daring anyone to question his power.
Missus Kirby, for her part, was bent over in her chair, decades of aging evident on her face and hands, dressed in a wrinkled blue dress and, even in the heat, had a blanket over her lap. From her appearance that seemed so completely immobilized except with the help of the sheriff, Harry found it hard to believe that she had ever been active, that her brain had built the business empire she now owned in River Sunday. Her face, pocked with large sun freckles, was worn with age and the anxiety that must have come with years of managing the multitude of business and real estate that she controlled.
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 9