River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  "No problem." I snatched the keys and descended the cement stairs.

  It took about ten minutes to find two decent soldering irons. Gertling nodded his approval when I handed him back the keys. He tossed them on the desk, and I gave the irons to Shirley, who was thrilled to the point of clamping me in a big bear hug.

  When I got back to the dock, I said, "I'm going to lunch."

  "Okay," said Hugh. "Hey, where'd you put the keys?"

  "I gave them back to you, remember?"?

  "Okay, then where'd I put them?"

  "Don't know. Want me to help you look?"

  "Naw, they'll turn up. Go have lunch."

  I parked in the back of my office building around noon but didn't go in. Instead, I walked across the street to Rawley Hardware and had some keys made. I picked up a sub in the Square and threaded my way back to StanMel.

  I ate in my truck again, with the sun trying to pop through broken clouds that were moving furiously from east to west. Maybe this latest batch of rain would finally break the heat wave that had everyone irritable and on edge.

  The second picture in John's notebook was a beautiful rendition of a huge striped bass, heavy and healthy. I had never seen a look like this before, though. The fish seemed to possess an almost human countenance. The blood-red eyes were incensed, and this was something I had overlooked before. This was one pissed off fish.

  And again the number five appeared, this time as a Roman numeral.

  According to the dashboard clock, I still had a few lunch minutes left. I finished up my sub and carefully folded John's notebook closed and slipped it into my back pocket.

  I picked my way among the boulders until I was down at the edge of the river. Out in the middle, on one of the floating rafts that had a sleek speedboat and a battered aluminum rowboat tethered to it a kid was tossing a lure around, hoping to entice a fish.

  I cupped my hands around my mouth. "Anything biting today?"

  "Naw," he yelled back. He shrugged his shoulders and made a cast in my direction. The lure barely made a ripple in the rolling water. He retrieved it all the way to the float, then turned and cast toward the apartments on the opposite shore.

  I walked up and down the bank, checking for signs of life in the water. I found a dead rat nestled among the rocks, its fangs bared in defiance. In a pool of greasy-looking water left behind by the receding tide, a school of small bait fish was all gathered at the bottom, belly up.

  Nothing seemed to be alive in this damned river. I was reaching down to scoop a few fish when Hugh Gertling startled me out of my skin.

  "Hey, no fishing," he said. "Let's get back to work."

  "I'll be right there."

  "What are you looking for?"

  "Nothing in particular. Just killing time."

  "Let's go kill some of our late backlog instead." He offered his hand down to me and I pulled myself up out of the rocks. "You know you remind me of John."

  "How so?"

  "He used to wheel out here sometimes at lunch. He'd just stare at the river until I'd coax him back inside."

  “I guess we'd both rather be outdoors than in," I said.

  Gertling grunted and pulled me further up the banking. He placed an arm around my shoulder like an older brother and guided me back to the loading dock.

  When Hugh was distracted by the intercom, I slid the keys under a mess of papers on his desk, satisfied with my sleight of hand.

  For the rest of the afternoon, we shipped everything we could get our hands on. By three-thirty, every inch of the dock was covered with sealed boxes, some stacked three and four high.

  Hugh Gertling was beaming.

  "Let's call it a day," he said, clapping me on the back. "I can't believe what a difference an extra pair of hands makes around here."

  "I don't want to work myself out of a job."

  "Don't worry. That can't happen." Gertling tucked a pen behind his ear and scratched at the back of his head. "Have a good evening, Stu."

  "How late are you staying tonight?"

  "Not much longer. I'm trying to get eighteen holes in before dark tonight. The way I play, it's a five-hour operation." He laughed and turned away to answer a jingling phone.

  The sun was shining brightly now, and just a hint of breeze fluttered the trash in the parking lot. The humidity of the morning had been replaced by a cool, dry afternoon. I wheeled out of the parking lot and headed toward Weymouth Landing, making a left at the train station to avoid most of the traffic.

  Eagle Head Marina looked just as lonely as the first time I saw it. I bounced into a parking spot and surveyed the rippling Back River for a few moments, watching two sailboats nearly collide, before making my way to the building.

  The old-timer I had spoken to before was rocking in his chair, his tennis shoes slapping at the worn boards of the porch floor. He was whistling a lively rendition of "Dixie" when I pulled up a bucket and sat down next to him.

  "LaPierre's back," he said. He swigged some beer and wiped his chin with the back of one bony wrist.

  "How did you know it was me?"

  "Your vehicle. The muffler has a distinctive sound. Like it fell off a couple of years ago." He cackled laughter and drank more beer.

  "Have you seen him today? I mean... ah, shit."

  “I know what you mean. I heard him pull up to the pier this morning, then I heard him and his friend talkin'. That was early, maybe around 8:00. I ain't heard them since they went away in Lapierre's car. His boat's still here, though."

  I looked over my shoulder at the pier. A half dozen boats were swaying gently in the breeze. The FRENCH FRIED was tied up near the end of the pier.

  "Do you remember what they were talking about?" I asked.

  "They were far away. I didn't catch a lot of it. Something about the biggest haul they ever made."

  "I'm going to take a walk," I said.

  "Figured you might."

  "Do me a favor. If you hear someone coming, load up that whistle again. I love that Dixie tune."

  The old-timer nodded and began rocking back and forth again. I pushed the bucket back into a corner and strode toward the pier.

  From a distance, the FRENCH FRIED appeared to be in decent shape, but once I got closer I could see how run down it was. The paint was peeling from every surface, and the rails were split in several places. Most of the cleats were either missing or hanging by one screw. Beer and soda cans were strewn across the decks, mixed in with fishing gear and a variety of lines and ropes.

  I put one foot on the rail, feeling my leg rise and fall with the gentle swells of the river. I took one more look around, then slipped over the side and onto the deck.

  More junk was in the pilothouse, so much that I could barely fit in. I took a quick look around, found nothing that attracted my curiosity, and moved up to the bow.

  A dozen or so green plastic tubs were stacked neatly along the port and starboard sides. I glanced around again quickly, then sank to my knees and pried a lid off one of the containers. Blood pounded in my ears. My heart was racing.

  A two-pound lobster stared back at me, his beady eyes full of fire. A couple of his brethren flipped their tails, spraying salty drops of cold water into my face. I closed the lid.

  Damn, I thought. I moved to the port side and grabbed at another tub, clawing the lid free. More lobsters and these were also in a vicious mood. Thank goodness all the claws were banded.

  I was about to shut the lid when a piece of plastic caught my eye. I tugged on it, but it wouldn't budge. I pushed a few lobsters aside to get a better look, and I hit pay dirt.

  Nestled under a layer of lively lobsters was a huge bale of what appeared to be marijuana. I replaced the lid and checked another container. Same results.

  I snapped the lid closed and tapped my foot on the deck, keeping time with the music. I loved that Dixie tune.

  Crap! I peered over the bow, watching as two men, one almost as big as a bear I had once seen in New Hampshire, strode confiden
tly toward the FRENCH FRIED.

  Now I could hear their boots thudding on the pier, and their muffled voices and raucous laughter. I was trapped, and in less than a minute they'd be standing on the deck of the boat.

  I crawled along the deck toward the stern, the smell of the ocean and wet rope and fish filling my nostrils. I put one foot on the port gunwale, lifted myself like I was doing a pushup, and dropped quietly into the water.

  Nice going, McCann, I thought. Now what?

  Chapter 18

  The port side of LaPierre's boat was slick with slime and scabbed over with old barnacles that bit into my hand as I treaded water beside it. I heard footfalls thud above me, and muffled voices punctuated with laughter. In the distance, a siren wailed. My only chance at remaining undetected was to swim around to the bow, then between the FRENCH FRIED and the boat tied up in front of it.

  I kept one hand pressed against the hull and stroked as silently as I could with the other, hoping like hell LaPierre and his friend weren't standing up front. I caught two fingers on a razor-sharp cluster of barnacles and stared stupidly at them as blood oozed from the gashes.

  When I got to the bow I was out of breath. Treading water fully clothed sapped a lot of my energy, and I tried to rest while planning my next move. The pier was only ten feet away and if I could make it under, I could probably make it to shore without being spotted. When I caught my breath again, I pushed off and did the dog paddle until I could wrap both arms around a giant piling.

  I pulled myself around to the far side, putting it between me and the boat and feeling the bite of more barnacles.

  In the shadows of the pier, I began to leapfrog from one set of timbers to another until I was safely out of sight. The salt water stung the cuts in my hand, and the smell of diesel fuel was nauseating.

  On the opposite side of the pier, I stroked awkwardly until I reached water that was shallow enough to stand in. I walked to shore, crunching clamshells underneath my feet, slipping on weed-covered rocks, and emerged underneath the shack that served as an office for Eagle Head Marina.

  From where I was I couldn't see LaPierre's boat, but I also couldn't see if they were approaching, either. I circled the back of the shack, keeping as many obstructions as I could between me and the two people on the boat.

  I ended up near the porch, where my friend was rocking and sipping his beer, staring off into space. I plucked a piece of seaweed from my hair and flicked it at the gravel.

  "Got wet, didn't ya?" he said.

  "Yeah," I said, wheezing loudly.

  "Could hear you dripping." He laughed and swigged some beer. "They're still on the boat."

  "Thanks for the whistle." I moved toward my truck, watching LaPierre and his friend talking and leaving a trail of mud behind me. "I'll see you again soon."

  "I'll be here, hearing." He cackled and began rocking furiously.

  I reached my truck and slid in, fishing for my keys. They were slick with the silt I had stirred up from the river bottom. I wiped them off as best I could, keeping an eye on the FRENCH FRIED, and backed out of my parking space. In my rearview mirror, I saw the old timer rocking and smiling.

  I headed toward Hull. The dashboard clock said 4:15, and I knew I could probably still catch Billy on his boat.

  I found a moldy pair of sweat pants in the back of the truck and held them out the window on 3A to clear the dust. At a stop light near Hingham harbor, I worked my saturated jeans off and pulled on the dry pants.

  When my truck clattered to a stop in front of his house, Billy poked his head over the transom of his boat. He did a double take when he noticed my soggy shirt and dripping hair.

  "You want to borrow a bathing suit?" he said when I climbed aboard.

  "We need to talk, Billy. I just came from Eagle Head Marina. I was on board the FRENCH FRIED. I got a couple of surprises."

  "Like?"

  "Like LaPierre and his friend came back when I wasn't expecting them to. That's how I got wet." I swiped at a piece of seaweed that was tickling my ear. "Like those guys are picking up a lot more than lobsters out on the ocean."

  "What are you talking about?" Billy stood up and put his back to me, wiping his hands on an old T-shirt.

  "They're shuttling drugs for someone," I said. I grabbed one tree trunk arm and slowly spun him around. Billy's gaze was riveted to the deck of his boat. "Damnit, Billy."

  “I didn't know at first," he whispered. "I swear."

  "Talk to me." I pulled a bucket under my butt and kicked

  another one toward Billy. He sat down heavily and put his face in his hands.

  "Lapierre said he needed some help. Hauling cargo, he called it. At first, I had no idea what he meant. You gotta believe me, Stuart." He looked up at me and shook his head.

  "I'm listening."

  "I didn't like dealing with him. Everything was a big secret. 'Don't tell anybody', he said. 'This is just between us'. I should have been more suspicious. But I could use the money. A few grand, Stu, just for picking some floating bundles out of the water, bringing them back to Hull. I mean, I got the mortgage, and the payments on the boat, and every year we seem to slip further and further into debt. It seemed like a simple way to bring in some extra cash."

  “You should’ve told me. These people could be dangerous."

  "I swear I didn't know what they were up to at first. I had a rotten feeling about it." Billy had his hat off, twisting it between his huge hands. "That's when I got to thinking. I thought about my family and all the things I had to lose. I backed out at the last minute. LaPierre was pissed. When they trashed my boat, I really got scared. I didn't know what to do."

  "So you never picked anything up for them?"

  "No. I just figured whatever they were up to, and I had no idea at that point, I didn't want to be involved in it. No way it was worth it."

  "You should have told me, Billy."

  "Yeah, well, I realized that too late." He looked up at me and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

  I stood up and paced around the deck of the boat, plucking my soggy shirt away from my skin. Billy remained seated and stared off into the distance. I picked up a spinning rod that was leaning against the pilothouse and fiddled with the drag.

  "What do we do now?" asked Billy.

  "I guess I have a phone call to make.” I backed down the ladder and strode toward Billy's front door. "And after I'm done," I called over my shoulder, "then it's your turn."

  I sat at Billy's kitchen table and looked up the number of the Coast Guard station in Hull. A professional-sounding petty officer answered, and I began telling the story. About halfway through she passed me along to her supervisor and I started over, giving him enough information to be able to identify the FRENCH FRIED and the two pirates, LaPierre and Broadhurst.

  I thanked him and hung up when he asked for my name.

  Billy came in and cracked open a beer, pushing it in my direction. I pushed it back at him.

  "I've still got some business tonight, Billy."

  "How about burgers, then? I'll throw some on the grill."

  "Okay," I said. "I'll run to the market and get some potato salad."

  When I returned twenty minutes later, carrying a shopping bag in one hand and a twelve pack in the other, Billy was just sliding the phone back onto the cradle.

  He looked up at me, then gave a sheepish grin.

  "Well? I said.

  "They'll probably be back on Sunday. They have a day trip to Vermont scheduled for tomorrow."

  "What did Jill say?"

  "I didn't want to get into it over the phone. I'll tell her about it when she gets back."

  I nodded and cracked open a Budweiser, then shoved it at Billy. He took a sip and then began forming some hamburger into patties.

  In a few minutes, he was engulfed in a cloud of smoke out on his patio, trying to wave it away with a three-foot-long spatula. I spooned potato salad onto some paper plates, filled a bowl with potato chips, and took the whole mess out to th
e picnic table in Billy's back yard.

  We ate in relative silence, grunting our approval at the hamburgers, washing bites down with cold Bud and orange soda. When we were through, Billy dragged everything over to a trash barrel and tossed it in. He sat down on the bench opposite me and stared at his hands until I cleared my throat.

  "I'm sorry, Stuart. I did a dumb thing." He looked up into my eyes, holding my gaze. "You ever go down the wrong road so far, it's impossible to turn around?"

  "Many times, Billy. That's why it's a lot easier to travel

  with a friend. Even if you can't turn around, having somebody to

  talk to sometimes helps."

  "I appreciate it," he said, and that was it. We drank beer and soda until the shadows lengthened and dusk started filtering through the oak trees that provided shade during the hottest part of the day. I stood up and stuck my hand out at Billy.

  "Keep me informed," I said. Billy laughed and said that he would.

  He walked me out to my truck and stood waving in the driveway until I drove out of sight.

  Chapter 19

  After searching the truck in vain for my cell phone, I stopped at a gas station on Route 3A on the way back to Fairshore and was lucky enough to find an old fashioned pay phone. I fished for some loose change in my trucked and punched in Whitey's home number, guessing at some of the digits. The phone smelled like fried chicken and bourbon. After three buzzes he picked it up.

  "Yeah," he said.

  "It's me."

  "Oh, the long lost fisherman returns from the sea." He chuckled and wheezed into his end of the connection.

  "Ease up, pal. Let’s plan a trip, sometime soon."

  "Yup, I've heard that one before."

  "Listen, Whitey. I have a question."

  "Sounds serious. Go ahead."

  I could hear a lighter click in the background and pictured Whitey sucking smoke into his lungs. Out on 3A, an irritated motorist was honking a horn incessantly.