Billingsgate Shoal (15 page)

I heard a juke inside as I approached the door. I
entered. It was a pine-paneled place without windows. A big S-shaped
bar snaked along the far side. Tables and booths lined the other
walls.

I ordered a beer and sat in the corner. The place
wasn't crowded although it was past nine. I looked around. Hell, the
Race wasn't so bad. In fact it was downright charming. The large
mural photographs were stunning. They were pinup pictures of
Gloucester's best-loved women. Then there were the rivals from the
Maritimes too.

There was the
Gertrude L.
Thebaud
, the queen of them all. She was
close-hauled on a port tack, and well heeled over, her lee rail
awash. The
Adventure
on a broad reach. . .and in the far distance the triangular shape of
the second-place boat. Right over my head was a shot of the
Bluenose
,
a boat from Nova Scotia notorious for dashing the hopes of the New
England challengers. They lined the walls, these pictures of the
Grand Banks schooners, the most graceful medium-sized sailing vessels
ever built. They were built sleek because the first boats back to
port could demand the highest prices for their catch.

I sipped and watched patrons dribble in. They looked
young, which was Father Time's insidious way of tapping me lightly on
the shoulder. I stared pensively down at the tiny stream of bubbles
rising in my glass.

The jukebox was getting louder too. A song was
playing that went: "You are all that I am. . .(bum ta bum bum
bum) You know ya make me
feel like a bran'
nehew man
. . ."

It was a C&W number, by a guy named Clyde
McFritter, or something similar.

The place was filling up faster and faster now; the
boats were coming in. The girl behind the bar was kept solidly busy
at the spigot, drawing mugs and pitchers of Schlitz dark. It seemed
to me that most of the men were between twenty-five and thirty-five,
and their clothes and general appearance were remarkably similar.

To begin with, most of them had beards or moustaches.
They all wore jeans, topped with hooded sweatshirts, flannel plaids,
or knit sweaters. Rubber boots. It might seem to most people that
they were overdressed for late summer. But many of them had been over
fifty miles out at sea—some perhaps as far as Georges Bank. And
it's always chilly there.

They also wore either the knitted blue wool watch
caps or the truckers' hats with long bills in front to protect them
from the glare. The glare on the ocean is terrible, even on cloudy
days. It can wear you out. The front of these caps bore the logos of
manufacturers of things very macho. Beer companies. Companies that
made trucks and diesel engines, firearms and knives. It couldn't help
wondering what would happen if you went into the Schooner Race
wearing a hat that said Singer, or Hoover, or—God forbid—Mop 'n
Glo?

Another standard item of the uniform was the folding
hunter knife carried in its compact belt sheath. When unfolded with
the blade locked open these are every bit as big as the regular
sheath knives. All the lads in the SR were wearing them.

Bits of conversations floated past. Most concerned
themselves with fishing. The names of the fish weren't attractive
ones like trout or salmon. Instead they had ugly names like hake and
cusk. I ask you, how'd you like to dive into a plate of cusk? And if
you've ever seen a cusk, you'd know why they named it that. . .

It was past ten. I had better commence asking if I
wanted any results concerning the whereabouts of Dan Murdock,
erstwhile boatbuilder. Two fishermen came over to ask if they could
borrow a chair that was sitting vacant next to me at the small table.
I said sure and asked the nearest one—who was wearing a bill cap
with the words Cummins Marine above the visor—if he knew where I
could perchance find a boatbuilder named Daniel Murdock.

The young man, whose name was Ted, lifted his head
toward the ceiling and chuckled. They were sitting on the chairs
backward, leaning their forearms over the seat backs, and sipping
their shots and beers.

"Murdock? Murdock? Sure he could build ya boat,
if he ain't too bombed or strung out. What ya want him for?"

"I need some extensive repair work done on a
boat I'm thinking of buying. I've heard Murdock is good
and—well—pretty cheap too."

The men sat and swigged in silence for a few minutes
as if they hadn't heard me.

"Murdock. . .Dan Murdock. . ." the other
man repeated. He said the name philosophically, as if it were a
special precept, syllogism, or school of metaphysical thought.

"Yes? Dan Murdock what?"

"Danny Murdock's a drunk, mister, that's what. I
guess he was a pretty good builder but now he's a drunk. Spends a
lotta time in here. Surprised we ain't seen him. Spends alotta time
drinking in here and hidin' from his old lady."

"Do you know where I can find him? If he comes
in, can you guys point him out? I'll buy you a round."

"No need to, mister. He's right behind you, and
fried to the gills."

"Heah ah is . . ." said a warbly voice in
imitation of a black minstrel singer. He came shuffling over to us,
sideways like a crab in a tide pool, working his feet like Buddy
Ebsen. It was a poor imitation, mainly because he, was gassed. He did
a bad Cab Calloway. He did a frightful Bill "Bojangles"
Robinson. He tripped and slid to his knees. I noticed he was wearing
one work boot. Its mate had disappeared to God knows where.

He rose and fumbled with a pack of Camels. At least
his taste in cigarettes was good. It had been twelve years since I
smoked a cigarette. I still had dreams about Camels.

Murdock lighted the cigarette that jiggled in his
mouth. But he put the flame halfway underneath it, not on the tip. It
made for an interesting smoke. His missing work boot reappeared. The
mystery of its absence was instantly resolved as it arrived, airbome,
from the other end of the room. It thumped is again this heavy
mackinaw and dropped to the floor.

"Thanks!" yelled Dan Murdock as he picked
up the boot and hopped around pulling it on. "Been looking for
it. . ."

"Mr. Murdock? Am I addressing Mr. Daniel
Murdock?"

"Hmmmm?"

"This guy wants some work done on his boat,
right?"

The man speaking was Ted, who was jabbing a finger at
Murdock, motioning for him to he seated. Murdock leaned over and
swayed himself along to the nearest chair, grunting and exhaling
smoke, and accusing the cigarette—which was I not functioning the
least bit properly—of having sexual intercourse with his mother. Or
its mother. Or any mother. For a rolled piece of paper containing
dried vegetable matter burning in the middle, it had an amazing sex
life. Sitting down now and puffing and blowing, he finished pulling
on his boot and fumbled with the laces.

"Well?" I asked. `

"Well what. Who are you?"

His memory span was abbreviated.
 
"My boat. I'd like some work done on it."

He weaved in his seat squinting, trying to draw a
bead on me. I thought I detected traces of faint recognition in the
dull face. Had he seen me before?

"Wood or steel?"

"Steel."

"Commercial?"

I nodded.

"I don't do engines. Who sent you?"

He stared at me, as through a glass darkly, smashing
out his Camel in the tin ashtray. He had brown hair and beard and a
pleasant, youngish face. I would guess his age to be somewhere in the
lower thirties. But already there were the telltale signs: the nose
beginning to fill with tiny cracked purplish veins. The red eyes. The
sagging eyefolds. It wouldn't be long before the booze would really
start taking its toll on this young man. He fumbled again for his
cigarette pack.

"What you want done?"

"I want the superstructure changed. More cabin
space forward. You know, make a cruiser out of her. Also, I want a
double hull."

"Hull? Double hull?"

"I want an extra hull portion added where it
won't show—below the waterline. I want it accessible through a
hidden hatch below decks. . ."

"How come?"

"I want a hidden cache for my cash."

He squinted at me, tilting his head. He was trying
terribly hard to concentrate and remember what had been said in the
previous two seconds.

"Your dough? Or somethin' else maybe?"

"What does it matter to you if the price is
right?"

"Sure. What's her name? Where is she?"

I thought there was no point in playing games
anymore. I leaned forward over the tiny table and glared at him.

"Her name is
Penelope
,
Dan. And I don't know where she is. I want to find her. Badly. Where
is she?"

He kept looking at me, squinting slightly through the
gloom and smoke of the Schooner Race. His eyes came into focus,
slowly at first, then quickly, totally. I peeled the label off the
beer bottle and watched his face, and mind, coming back together
through the booze and smoke. Like a silvery fish being drawn up
through murky water, his consciousness became progressively sharper.

"Nah. Can't help you. What's your name?"

"Charles Adams. And I know your name because I
saw it on a Master Carpenter's Certificate at the Coast Guard
Registry. I want to know where
Penelope
is, Dan. You can help me a lot by telling me. If not I'll be mad. I
am also supposing that if the authorities discover that maybe you
really didn't build the
Penelope
after all, you'd be in hot water."

I suspected instantly I'd said more than I should
have. Daniel Murdock slammed his bottle down on the table, got up,
and swayed over to the bar for another. I watched him drink quickly
from the bottle of beer then set it down. A shot glass appeared at
his elbow. He tossed it off and returned to the beer. He turned and
glanced at me, then turned back. His face showed hatred. But it
showed something else even more. It showed fear.

The cards were on the table for Dan Murdock. The last
hole card had been flipped over and he had the deuce of clubs. I sat
thinking on what should happen next. Maybe the best thing was for me
to skedaddle and let him ponder his ill fortune for a day or two,
then phone him. Murdock was out of my vision now; a new group of men
had just entered the Race. The bar was packed three deep, and the
general noise level was still rising. It was almost impossible to
hear Charlie Pride on the jukebox.

Four men came in. Two were old and heavy. One was
tall, the other medium. All were dark, keen featured, and wide in the
shoulders. They were not in good humor.

The young man named Ted leaned back and asked if I'd
had any luck with Murdock. I replied some, and noticed Ted's
expression change when he saw the four men.

"Here comes action," whispered Ted. "That's
Joey Partmos and his brothers. They own the
Antonio
."

"So?"

"S0? See the other bunch of guys down at the far
end of the bar?"

"Yeah. So what?"

"OK. That's Mike DeCarlo and his bunch down
there, owners of the
Caterina
.
They were bragging earlier how they busted a school of haddock right
from under
Antonio's
nose."

I asked if the
Antonio
could lay claim to said school of haddock, and was informed that
though there was no law stating who had first option, there was a
long tradition—an unwritten law—that the boat first "on"
the school was by custom allowed to work it alone.

"But you see since the CB radio bug hit,
everybody's always in touch with everybody else, and a guy who used
to work for Joey, that now works for Mike, he knew the
Antonio's
code words. That's how the
Caterina
busted the school—"

I was completely in the dark as to the busting of
schools, CB-radio codes, and the like, but was informed thoroughly by
Ted as we sat and watched the tension at the bar grow with each
second. What Ted and his friend told me was this:

Like the truckers, fishermen use the CB radios to
stay in constant touch with one another. Also like the truckers, they
use code words and slang. The CBs are a big help to everyone,
especially in rough weather, because a fully laden boat that
pitchpoles or gets swamped goes down in seconds.

The long-range VHF radios are useful for calling the
Coast Guard on distress frequencies (which may never be used for idle
chitchat), but the CB radios keep everyone in touch and allow nearby
fishing boats and yachts to perform rescues the Coast Guard could
never hope to accomplish. There just aren't enough USCG boats to do
it all.

He was interrupted in his lecture by a waitress who
flung three bottles of beer down on our little table. She informed us
that they were courtesy of the
Caterina
.
The boys were celebrating their big haul.