Fisherman's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 4)

by David Feintuch

  “I din’ say that. Jus’, if a Bronk get a Hat ...

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “Hat?”

  “Cap’n, Annie and I be from ’Hattan. Bronks ’n Hats ain’ the same. Joeys here, dey eat anythin’. Even their dead, sometime. You think Annie an’ me be garbage like Bronks?”

  “Of course not,” I said with fervor, recalling the urine stains Eddie’s transpops had left on my corridor decks, the befouled cabins. “No. The difference is obvious.”

  He peered at me with suspicion. “Maybe,” he conceded, “you Uppies so far up, you can’t tell.” He spat with contempt at the squatters’ hovels. “Dey jus’ garbage, man. Come on.” He turned away.

  Exchanging glances with the astonished middy, I followed. “Where to?”

  He spoke as if to a child. “Home, Cap’n. ’Hattan. Annie’d know dem Bronks wanna kill her. So natch she try go home to Mace. If she alive, dat where she be.” Annoyed, he rattled the clinic gate. “Open up, joey! I got a Cap’n wid me.”

  “Eddie, how could she get back to Manhattan? The transpops tried to kill me on sight. I barely made it a mile.”

  He grinned sourly. “But you ain’t trannie, Cap’n. Annie smart. Stay low, move at night. She a Hat, better ’n any Bronk. Use her head, she get past ’em.”

  My tone was meek. “Where do we start?”

  “Dunno. Fin’ Mace tribe, first thing. Might be better I go alone.” We crossed the wide expanse of lawn.

  “I want to help.”

  “You don’ know tribes. On other nan’, you be famous joe, on alla news screens. I hear trannies even got special name fo’ you. Might help, dey see yo’ face. Okay, come along, but get me outa dis billysuit. Can’t go onna streets innit.”

  “What about me?”

  He grinned his gap-toothed smile. “You too pretty in whites, Cap’n. Work blues, maybe, like you was goin’ out on the hull ta supervise. But ’less you look Navy, dey won’ believe it be you.” He stopped, scratched his head.

  “What should the middy wear?”

  “Him? I ain’ takin’ care a no boy if we wanta fin’ Annie.” He seemed unaware of Adam’s outrage.

  “All right.” I rang the entrance bell. “Let’s hope they have something your size.”

  “Too small be allri’. Look more trannie.”

  I made my needs known at the clinic desk. While we waited I asked, “What about all I taught you, Eddie? How to talk, and the rest. It’s all gone?”

  He favored me with me a long, contemplative look. “My speech is jus’—just fine, Captain, when I use it. I didn’t want to be a trannie no more. You say do it. Okay. But you tell me to go trannie, I gotta be trannie inside too.”

  I reddened. “Sorry I asked, Mr. Boss.”

  “Don’ matter. Sir.”

  I left him to his thoughts.

  From the pilot’s seat Midshipman Tenere said, “I’ll be there at noon, sir. If you don’t show up, noon the day after.” He twisted to face me. “Sir, think again. Every sailor going through New York gets a packet warning that groundside travel is dangerous.”

  Eddie snorted derisively.

  “I’m not worried for myself, sir, I’ll get the groundcar through, but—”

  “Just be at Thirty-fourth and Broadway.” I patted the pocket of my blues, felt the reassuring bulge of the pistol. My other pocket held two recharge packs. A change of clothes, a light and shaving gear were all I’d carry. “Ready, Mr. Boss?”

  The seaman nodded. “Dark comin’. Bes’ be gettin’ on wid it.”

  Reluctantly, the midshipman started the engines. As we lifted from the Sheraton rooftop, Eddie lifted his lumpy bag. After leaving the clinic we’d stopped at a grocery. Eddie had picked out a couple of dozen cans of meat and vegetables, and a few instameals. At the hotel he stuffed them in a pillowcase. Then, outside on the roof, he’d taken a firm grip on the open end of the sack, and twice smashed it against the cement wall,

  “What was that for?”

  He grinned his gap-toothed smile. “My cansa be too pretty, dey won’ think I be trannie.”

  Now, as the heli swooped, Eddie turned to the middy. “Bes’ yo ... He scratched his head, started again. “Mr. Tenere, when you set down, we jump out, you take off real quick. Okay, sir?” The boy nodded. The huge sailor muttered, “Gettin’ night now. Never know, Maces and Broads might be dancin’.”

  Adam came in fast and low. At the last moment he flared, dropped us in the center of the street with a thump. Before I had time to speak Eddie flung open his door, leaped out, hauled me from my seat. He slammed the door. “Outaheah, Navyboy!” Adam lifted instantly.

  To my surprise, the streets were deserted. When I’d taken the Gray Line tour, people had been everywhere. Of course that had been midafternoon, and a bit farther uptown.

  “Now what do we—”

  “Move, man, ’fore some Broad diss ya!” Eddie propelled me toward the crumbling facades. I thrust his hand away, but hurried to keep pace. We moved cautiously down the desolate street. Where I would have pressed against the wall for safety, Eddie stayed close to the curb, staying clear of open doorways. I did likewise.

  “Who are we watching for? There’s no one here.”

  He snorted with derision. “It gettin’ nighttime, what you expec’? Broads be out plenny inna day. Maybe dance wid us, come dark.”

  “Broads?”

  Eddie favored me with his gap-toothed grin. “Fine time be askin’ dat. Broads be trannies live here. Annie ’n me, we Maces. Dis’ be Broad turf.” We neared the corner.

  “How do you know?”

  “Don’ you listen, Cap’n?” He pointed to the rusting street sign: BROADWAY. “Where else Broads be? Lesgo!” He slung his bag of foodstuffs over his shoulder, sprinted across the street.

  We crouched behind the shelter of a gutted electricar. The sign read Thirty ... it could have been an eight or a nine.

  “Next block, lotta buildin’s down. Too open. You see anyone, keep quiet, grab my arm.” He rose cautiously. My hackles rising, I followed.

  “Why didn’t we just land at Thirty-fourth?”

  “Not so loud.” He studied the windows above, finally relaxed. “Ol’ Eddie come down outa sky in a heli in middle a Mace turf, anyone gonna listen he say he be trannie? Trannie wuzbe, maybe, but no trannie still.”

  “I don’t under—”

  “You wanna find Annie, dey gotta help. No trannie gon’ tell nothin’ ta no Navyboy come down inna frazzin’ heli. Dis way we walk in, natural. Get ready ta run.”

  He took a breath, sprinted past a lot filled with the rubble of a collapsed building. We came to a storefront with boarded windows. The doorway was sealed with crumpled sheets of siding. Eddie surveyed it, grunted with satisfaction. “Alrigh’ here to corner.” He straightened. “But better I had somep’n.” His gaze fastened on a battered speed sign. He shambled toward it, put down his bag, and took a firm grip on the sign pole. He heaved. The steel post bent only slightly.

  “I have a pistol.

  “Pistol okay, you wanna diss someone. Scare ’em off, you wan’ a pole.” He considered the unyielding post. “It’s in kinda deep. But maybe—” He grasped the pole, hauled on it until his muscles bulged. It bowed a few degrees. With a grunt of anger Eddie threw himself at the pole, forced it the other way.

  I wandered back to the rabble-filled lot. Was there some board, a piece of wood or metal?

  “How’m I gonna watch fo’ you, jus’ walk away?” Eddie had abandoned his battered post.

  “I just thought—”

  “Never min’, let’s go. We fin’ something.” We retreated toward the boarded building. “Two blocks, come to Mace—”

  Suddenly we were face-to-face with a gaunt woman and a bearded man, at the boarded door. The man gripped a bat.

  I gawked. Eddie thrust me behind him, twirled the sack over his head, lunged forward. The woman screamed. The man took a wild swing with the bat. Eddie dodged the blow. The man shoved the woman back to the d
oor, bared his lips, flexed his bat.

  My hand went to my pocket, and the pistol. Eddie snapped, “No, you get us killed.” He took a menacing step forward.

  The man blurted, “Fadeout be cool.”

  Eddie hesitated, lowered his sack. “Evenup?”

  “You ain’ no Broad. Outaheah.”

  “Outaheah evenup.”

  The man looked to his woman. She nodded. “Zark.” He backed a step to the door.

  “Cool,” said Eddie. Cautiously, they took a step apart, then another. The bearded man pulled aside the sheeting. He and his woman backed into the doorway and disappeared.

  “Run.” Eddie’s tone was urgent. We dashed across the intersection without checking for hazards. In the middle of the next block Eddie crouched by an abandoned car.

  I asked, “Won’t he call for help?”

  “Nah, he say fadeout cool.”

  “But what does that—”

  Eddie’s exasperation showed. “We was ready ta dance. He ask fadeout. Mean we split, no rumb. I made him say evenup too.” He searched my face for a sign of understanding. “Evenup, no geteven. Long as we get outa Broad turf, we okay. He won’ call tribe.”

  Eddie peered over the car, decided it was safe to proceed. We hurried on. “Daytime, Maces ’n Broads, even Subs c’n talk, sometimes trayfo. But joey was righ’, we on his turf, don’ belong.” He slowed. “So I din’ hurt him none.”

  I grinned, thinking of the bat the man had wielded.

  As if reading my mind Eddie shot me a sidewise look. “You don’ know nothing ’bout ol’ Eddie, you think a little bat stop ’im.” Still, he looked over his shoulder one more time, for safety.

  The litter-strewn avenue stretched into hazy distance. I could see little difference from one tribal block to the next, but nothing recalled the bizarre campfire I’d encountered near the Bronx clinic. Here, no shacks leaned against one another in haphazard lanes of rubble. Tall, neglected buildings brooded above us, but at least they still stood. Maybe someday, money and attention could resurrect the central city.

  “C’mon, Cap’n. One mo’ block, Mace turf.”

  “What’s a Mace? You keep using that—”

  “I showya. Nex’ block be Mace.”

  I glanced around, appalled. “Annie was born here?” A horrid thought.

  “Yeah, Annie an’ alla resta us.” He stomped down the street, muttering under his breath. Then he brightened. “Deke gone on ship, but Sam ’n Boney’ll ’member ol’ Eddie. Don’ worry none, Cap’n. I talk fo’ you.” His step lengthened.

  “Where to?”

  He pointed. “Corna.” He straightened, walked proud past the remaining buildings. “I showya where Annie ’n me ... He stopped short.

  The sack slid from his fingers.

  “Eddie?” I gripped his arm; he shook me off as a fly.

  He charged into the debris-filled lot. For a moment he stared at nothing. Then he snatched up a rock, hurled it across the rubble. “Maces! WHERE YOU BE?” His agonized cry echoed in the dusk.

  I retrieved his sack, picked my way across cement and brick. Eddie hunkered on his knees, scrabbling through crumbled stone.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Mace gone!” His eyes held something akin to madness.

  “We must be in the wrong place.”

  He stabbed at the rubble. “Here, I tolya! We Maces!”

  “What’s a Mace? I already asked you one—”

  “Tribe! Where we live. Like, Broads live on Broad!”

  I stood, turned slowly, searching the empty block. “What was here?”

  His finger jabbed at the open space. “I born dis spot. I maybe thirteen, Ma die in rumb wid Broads. Righ’ there!” He pointed to the corner. “We a big tribe, hunners of us. I Boss on four flo’.”

  At last I had a glimmer. “Eddie, this was the old Macy’s?”

  “I keep tell’n’ ya.” A tear trickled. “Cap’n, where dey be? What hap’n my Maces?”

  “Dey be gone.”

  We whirled. Four figures, crossing the lot. The leader was male, lean, hard. A ragged jacket. With him were two other men, and a woman.

  Eddie leaped to his feet as if galvanized. “Whatchew wan’?”

  “Naw, wha chew wan’? You on my turf.” The leader’s tone was sharp.

  I swallowed. My hand moved to my side.

  The leader barely looked my way. “Prolly fif’y of us Rocks be watchin’. C’n ya take fif’y, sailorboy?”

  “Where be Maces?” Eddie took a step forward.

  The Rock smiled meanly. “Innifo!”

  Eddie opened the sack. “Cansa. Two.”

  “Prong ya frazzin’ cansa.” The Rock snickered. “Two minutes, offa Rock turf. Else ya diss.” He turned on his heel.

  “Rock turf?” Eddie’s eyes were wild.

  “Eddie—”

  “Rock turf?” Eddie’s sack lashed out, smashed the leader on the temple. The Rock reeled. Instantly, knives appeared in his mates’ hands.

  Eddie spat as he advanced, sack whirling. I clawed for my pistol, but the two men were already in retreat. The woman, more intrepid, leaped on Eddie’s back. He shrugged her off. She scrambled to her feet; Eddie’s fist shot out, caught her alongside the jaw. She dropped.

  A retreating figure turned. “You meat, joeyboy! Rocks comin’ out now!” He cupped hands to mouth. “Aiyee!”

  At the cry Eddie sprang forward. The Rock tribesman turned and ran. Eddie followed a few steps, spun around to see the Rock leader stagger to his feet. Eddie thundered back. His second blow smashed the dazed Rock across the back of the head. The man dropped and lay still. Eddie swung again.

  “No, Eddie!” The downed Rock lay inert. I clawed at Eddie’s arm. He raised the sack, clubbed the fallen tribesman yet again. The sack dripped red.

  “Stop!” I thrust between him and his victim.

  “Mace turf! Was, is, will be! Always!” He stared down at the body, kicked it savagely. After a moment he sagged. His expression lapsed into misery.

  “Eddie, get us out of here!”

  “Mace gone.” He stood dumbly, as if paralyzed.

  “Who are those people?”

  “Rocks. Useta live uptown in Rockcenta, ’til got pushout.”

  “We can’t stay.” I prodded him. “Is there a caller somewhere? We need Adam and the heli.”

  Eddie looked back at the corpse. “Rocks was never much inna rumb.”

  “Eddie!”

  “All righ’. We go Three Four, eas’.”

  “Why not back where—”

  “Rocks.” He pointed across the street. I chilled; men, women, even children, were gathering outside the crumbling buildings. They were ominously quiet.

  Eddie seemed to throw off his daze. “Move!” He hurried me along Thirty-fourth Street. Behind us, voices.

  “Eddie, the whole tribe is—”

  “Who care.” Nonetheless, he increased his pace. After a moment he said grudgingly, “Better getcha pistol ready. All Rock places, here.” His eyes roamed, lit suddenly. “ ’Xcept maybe there.” He pointed across the street to a storefront covered with heavy metal plates. “Pedro Chang, useta be. My—a neut.” He veered across the street.

  The Rocks followed. Unlike the rabble who’d chased me to the precinct house, they kept together, seemed in no hurry to close in. I asked, “Will he help?”

  “Dunno.” Eddie tried the solid door. His foot thudded into a steel plate.

  I said, “Those locks won’t help much against a laser.”

  “No lasers inna street. Recharges too hard ta get, an’ Unies dissya onna spot if ya got one.” He hammered on the door. “Chang! Openup!” He waited, tried again. The Rock tribesmen were closing in.

  Behind the door, a cough. “Close.”

  “Eddieboss nee’ trayfo, man!”

  “Eddie be gone three, fo’ year. Jerry sen’ him outboun’.”

  A stone thudded into the boarded window. I flinched, drew my pistol, set it to high. Acro
ss the street the mob waited. Clubs, spears, children lugging bricks.

  “C’mon, Changman, let us in!”

  A fit of coughing behind the door. “Innifo?”

  “Cansa. Dozen.”

  I braced myself against the wall, aimed with both hands.

  The sound of metal on metal. A lock turned, then another. The door opened a cautious inch. A wizened face peered between heavy chains. Another stone whizzed past.

  “Who—Eddie? I din’ think—” The door slammed in our faces. I cursed, but almost immediately the door reopened, this time fully. Eddie’s brawny hand shot out, hauled me inside. The door swung shut against a hail of stones. The old man scurried to secure his chains.

  I blinked. A light mounted on a Valdez permabattery pierced the gloom. The dusty store was filled with boxes, piles, odd assortments of goods. Cans of foodstuffs were stacked on sagging shelves meant to hold lighter stock. Heavy winter clothing was stacked high on chairs. A scent of spices lingered.

  “Hola, Pedro.”

  The old man scowled at Eddie. “You din’ say no bringalong.”

  “Cansa be his.” Outside, banging on the door.

  “You got. Gimme.”

  Reluctantly, Eddie handed over the sack.

  “Why he widya?”

  “I—” Eddie seemed at a loss. “He be my Cap’n.”

  The old man looked my way, cackled. “Cap’n of what?”

  “Navyboy.” Eddie drew himself up. “Like me.”

  “You was sent outboun’ when Unies gotcha.”

  “I be joinup.”

  “Outaheah, you try swind ol’ Chang.” The man Eddie had called a neut shook his head decisively. “Trannie joinup? Nevah hearda no—”

  Some metal object rapped on the boarded windows. They were braced with iron struts; for the moment we were safe. Chang scuttled to the panels, shouted, “Go way! Don’ mess wid Chang!”

  A voice from outside. “Give us Maceboy. Wan’ venge.”

  Chang reared back. “I dunno no Rock venge on Mace. You comeon ol’ Chang, he show you venge!” That brought a silence. Chang nodded with satisfaction, said softly, “Dey ain’ goin’ nowhere.”

  After a moment he trotted back from the window, looked me over, snorted with derision. “Cap’n, hah!”

  “Mr. Boss, who is—”