Bunker 01 - Slipknot (16 page)

“Hey, join the crowd. He was supposed to be here to settle up with us three hours ago.”

I interpreted this opening statement as an invitation to climb aboard, and I did. Noting the fully packed garbage bags, I said, “Looks like someone’s jumping ship.”

“Yes, ma’am. We’re all going home as soon as we get paid.

This boat is a death trap.” The other three guys nodded in agreement. “I hope we made enough to cover bus tickets. I tried to convince Mr. Marten to invest in a new net for us, but no way. We spent three days trying to repair that rag with nothing to work with.” He pointed to the net haphazardly wrapped on the drum and draping over the stern. I found it interesting that he was offering an apology for quitting. “If we had some rockhoppers, we could have fished the hard bottom and caught something more valuable than these damn starfish.” The man I now presumed was
Desperado
’s hired captain nudged a dried brittle star with the toe of his sneaker.

Brittle stars appeared in some abundance in the nets and cor-

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ners of decks of boats engaged in the cod fishery. I recalled their presence aboard
Fearless
.

Through continued conversation with the group’s spokes-man, whom I was told was indeed the captain, I learned that the young men were from a small fishing village down east.

They had responded to an ad in last month’s
National Fisherman
and had been hired with one short phone call. They had spent the last three weeks working like dogs, with dreams of record catches and promises of paychecks. They had hoped to return home at the season’s end with bulging bank accounts and bigger reputations. So far they had struggled not only to get the boat and themselves safely offshore and back in, but also to sell enough fish to cover the running expense—primarily fuel and groceries.

“My father warned me about accepting the boat sight unseen, but I just couldn’t bear the thought of working on the deck of his boat the rest of my life,” the captain confessed.

“Now I’ve dragged my friends away from paying jobs for this disaster.” His sincerity was touching. And the mention of his father’s warning confirmed this group’s age for me. Late teens and early twenties, I thought.

“Hey, man, we came of our own free will. We’re all in this together,” said one of the crew members. “Let’s just hitch-hike home. Marten isn’t coming. He knows we’ll take the money and run. Where else will he find four fools who’ll work for nothing?”

Following some quiet discussion during which all four weighed in, they decided to wait a while longer. After all, they reasoned, Mr. Marten was bound to arrive eventually, s l i p k n o t

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since he was expecting the insurance lady. I thought it was hopeless, but I did not want to say anything that might add to their downtrodden spirits. I had witnessed similar scenes on many occasions. In Florida towns where commercial fishing was on the skids—Fort Pierce, St. Augustine, Mayport—

boats owned by investors who were not fishermen themselves were the first to circle the drain. Mr. Marten, I had learned from the paperwork, was an attorney who had invested in the fishing industry in the early 1970s, when there appeared to be no end to the resource. He had extracted every possible penny from his investment and had no history or intention of putting anything back in—until now, of course. He claimed to be applying for a loan for “improvements,” using the boats as collateral. The bank required a survey and full insurance.

Liquidation? Maybe. Red flag? Certainly.

“What about
Witchy Woman
?” I asked. “Is anyone aboard her?”

“No. They quit last week. The captain’s wife came and drove them all back home to Port Clyde. They said we were stupid to stay, and I guess they were right. How can he not pay us
anything
?”

He was not expecting an answer, I knew. So I excused myself to begin my job while they waited for money I knew they would never receive.

“You’re going inside?”

“Yes. I’ll start in the engine room bilge and work my way up to the top of the rigging. Good luck,” I said as I started toward the fo’c’sle door.

“You’re the one who needs the luck, from the engine room

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bilge right up the rigging,” the captain said tentatively. “We’re not responsible for the mess aboard here. We did our best, but she’s a wreck. Maybe you should wait for Mr. Marten.” The men shuffled their feet uneasily.

“I’ll leave the waiting to you. Don’t worry about me. I’ve seen it all.”

As I groped for a light switch on a tacky bulkhead, I wished I had thought to bring a pair of rubber gloves. When I found and flipped the switch, I knew I had not quite seen it all but was about to further my education. Even the lightbulbs were greasy. I made my way down a slippery set of steel stairs to a dimly lit engine compartment. A thick, mealy coat of soot from an old exhaust leak frosted every surface like black powdered sugar. The diamond-plate steel decking was as slick as wet ice from what appeared to be years of grease, oil, and diesel fuel. Apparent total neglect of what I knew to be the heart of the boat said a lot about the vessel’s overall health. My first impression was that
Desperado
would be put on the critical list—not yet terminal but in a bad way.

Something stank. Perhaps the holding tank for the head had been leaking, I thought. I wished for boots and coveralls along with the rubber gloves I did not have. I crept slowly to the forwardmost space ahead of the engine, shone my flashlight down, and found a steel plate small enough to remove in order to inspect the bilge. The plate had an oval hole just big enough to use as a handle. Lifting and sliding the plate aside, I discovered the source of the stench. I had smelled some bad bilges in my day, but this one reeked.

Casting the beam from the flashlight down sent the re-s l i p k n o t

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mains of my breakfast in the opposite direction. I swallowed hard against the bile that rose in my throat as I bolted back up the stairs and out onto the deck the men had since vacated.

Leaning over the port rail, I hurled long, hard, and loud until dry heaves racked my weakening frame. Wiping tears from my eyes with a sleeve black from soot, I wondered what kind of human beings would defecate in the bilge with the entire North Atlantic Ocean surrounding them. I quickly recalled my intention to attend diesel mechanic school at the age of nineteen, and the advice of my mentor to try something else unless I wanted to spend my life in shitty bilges. Until now I hadn’t thought he meant it literally.

No, I thought, I had not seen it all. I had investigated through grime and squalor, but nothing like the filth, human waste, decay, and maggots here. My ribs ached and my throat burned by the time I had checked off the last item on the survey list for the
Witchy Woman
. The day had me questioning my new career. What had I done? Never prone to depression, I had always fought the urge to wallow in self-pity. I reminded myself that I had important work to do. Sadly, I wasn’t bothered by the possibility of Mr. Marten scamming the insurance company. Nor was I overly concerned about him ripping off his own employees. Sure, these were social injustices of the kind that would normally make me crazy. But I had more important things on my mind. There was a killer at large in Green Haven, and if I didn’t hustle back to Turners’ Fish Plant, I might miss an opportunity to gain another lead.

My sweatshirt and sneakers indicated (falsely) that I might be inclined to exercise, and I forced myself to run from

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Quarry Landing along the length of the waterfront to the gate outside the plant. The plant’s parking area would be a natural place to stretch after a jog, and the dock where the
Sea
Hunter
was berthed was the perfect spot to cool down. My smooth and athletic gait soon dissolved into what could be best described as a hurried limp. My unconditioned body refused the ruse midway up Main Street. Still, I pushed on, gasping for oxygen, while my messenger bag slapped my hindquarters like a jockey spurring on a crippled horse with every jarring footfall.

Feeling as if I had managed to pound my hips clear up to my shoulder blades, I finally saw the gate. Using it as the finish line, I slowed my pace and checked my wristwatch as I broke the invisible tape. Five minutes before seven o’clock—

perfect. I could be stretching in the parking area in time to see Blaine Hamilton’s arrival for his meeting with Ginny Turner.

Then I might need to prowl around in search of a restroom, perhaps in the neighborhood of Ginny Turner’s office, where I might accidentally overhear something of interest.

The only wrench in my plan was around the corner in the parking lot. There in midlot was Lincoln’s pickup truck, along with Lincoln’s brother, George, who sat on the open tailgate.

George was darker-complexioned than his brother, not nearly as attractive, and perhaps a few years older, if the slight pot-belly and depth of crow’s feet were true indications. Strange, I thought, that the only other time I had seen George was in this identical spot—hanging around the back of the truck in the plant parking lot. A second vehicle was parked against the building in a spot designated for Ginny Turner. George’s press l i p k n o t

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ence would hinder my surveillance somewhat, as well as post-pone my casing of his brother’s boat. The best I could hope for was that George intended to leave in the next five minutes.

Stretching and pacing as if I were a real jogger, I caught my breath enough to consider approaching the truck to speak casually to George. But before I could open my mouth, George sprang from the tailgate to his feet, pumped a fist up and down, and bellowed, “Ortiz!” Startled, I took two steps back and watched this relatively large man complete a very immature victory dance around the tailgate of the truck. He was actually strutting, bobbing, and weaving in sheer delight as he chanted, “You the man. You the man. You the man . . .”

Although he was ruining my game plan, his antics were brightening up an otherwise dank day. When he settled back on the tailgate, he acknowledged my presence. He removed the earpiece that was attached to a transistor radio dwarfed by his hand. He smiled warmly. The personal twinkle I found ir-resistible in his brother must be genetic, I thought, and I returned his smile. “Getting a little exercise, Miss Bunker?”

“Yes,” I said. “I didn’t realize how out of shape I’ve become. What are you doing here this time of night?” I hoped I didn’t sound accusatory.

“Listening to a Red Sox game.”

“Why here in the parking lot?”

“It’s the best reception in town.”

“Why don’t you watch the game on TV?” I hoped he didn’t feel like he was being interrogated.

“We don’t get TV reception offshore, so I always listen to games on AM radio. I enjoy it more this way. Are you a fan?”

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“No.”

“We’ll have to do something about that!”

“Is Lincoln aboard the
Sea Hunter
?” I couldn’t believe I’d asked. I needed to practice some self-restraint.

“No. He’s probably at home.”

“Oh, well, of course. Well, I was just wondering because of his truck being here. And I was just here stretching and cooling off and happened to see his truck and thought he might be around. I’m not looking for him or anything.” Now I was nervous and sounding like a cross between a teenager with a crush and a cop looking for a suspect. I needed to shut up.

“I can see how you might assume he’d be here, even if you didn’t really care.” George had a nice way of teasing, I thought. “But this isn’t actually his truck. Not his alone, anyway. He and Quin bought it together to use for boat business.

We call it ‘the boat truck,’ and it’s driven by all of us, even Eddie and Alex.”

That was good to know. The object of my lust needn’t necessarily head up the suspect list. With multiple drivers, the odds were against Lincoln having been behind the wheel at Dow’s.

A black Mercedes I recognized as Blaine Hamilton’s pulled into the lot and parked close to the building. Placing the miniature speaker back in his ear, George said, “I’ll tell Lincoln you were asking for him.”

I wasn’t asking for him, was I? Blaine Hamilton was heading up the stairs and through the door. I had to do something. Bouncing slightly on the balls of my feet, I asked, “Is s l i p k n o t

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there a ladies’ room up there?” I pointed toward the top floor of the plant.

“No, that goes to Mrs. Turner’s office.” As he twisted the volume knob on the radio, I could tell I was beginning to annoy George; he wanted to follow the ball game. “The only restrooms are down by the processing area, and that’s all locked up for the night. I guess you’ll have to run home,”

George said, dismissing me.

“I don’t think I can make it home,” I said with some urgency. I crossed my feet, pressed my thighs together, and squirmed a bit. Forcing a look of anguish, I said, “It’s an emergency! I’ll go up and ask for a key.”

“If it’s that urgent, go aboard the
Sea Hunter
. That would be quicker.”

“Great! Thanks, George,” I said, and sprinted down the pier toward Lincoln’s boat. Too easy, I thought. Like taking candy from a baby. When I turned to back down the ladder onto the deck, I noticed George coming along behind me.

Damn. Wouldn’t you know George would be a gentleman.

“Through the main door. It’s the next door on your left,”

George called from the dock above.

Standing in the closet-size room into which were squeezed a marine toilet, shower stall, and tiny sink with vanity, I realized I had no time to search, with Mr. Manners waiting outside. Pulling the cell phone from my bag, I placed it in the corner of the floor, where it could not easily be seen by someone sitting on the head. The old “retrieving the forgotten item when nobody’s home” trick was so basic, it was ridiculous. But as much as I hated to part with the phone, it was my best ploy