H.J. Gaudreau - Jim Crenshaw 02 - The Collingwood Legacy (11 page)

Chapter 28

Cole put down the cell phone and took a drink of his coffee. This was good, he could squeeze a few hundred out of this little deal. He wondered how long Elaine would stay once she knew he was broke. Who was he kidding? She’d be gone the same day and they both knew it. He pushed back his chair and walked to the porch. Elaine was reading something on her iPad and sipping her Kahlúa flavored coffee. “I’ve got to go to TC. Work.” he said to his wife.

“Sure baby, you going to be home by dinner?” she asked.

Cole was stunned. She sounded like she cared, which he was sure she didn’t. Nothing about his drinking, nothing about him sleeping on the floor and looking like a wreck. Maybe she’d not noticed? Impossible, she had to know.

“Naw, I’ll eat on the way home, don’t worry about it.” Cole eyed her. She had returned to her iPad. Nothing unusual. Something was up. Elaine swiped her finger, the iPad showed a different page. Damned if he could figure it out.

Elaine suppressed a smile. For the past fifteen years she’d endured a two-timing, ignorant husband who couldn’t carry on an intelligent conversation about anything other than himself and boats. Fortunately, she’d figured it out early. She looked back at Cole. “Okay, if you’re sure. I can leave a plate in the ‘fridge if you want?”

Cole paused. “Maybe she was taking her happy pills again,” he thought.

He pulled his keys from the kitchen drawer. This was odd; what the hell was she up to? “No, no, I’m good, thanks. See you tonight,” he said and headed for the garage.

Elaine nearly laughed out loud. He was a fool. Then she thought about what could have happened and thanked her lucky stars it hadn’t. She’d done three things that guaranteed her a life. First, she’d made sure she didn’t have this idiot’s kid. Elaine figured the Spartans had it right, only her standards were higher. In fact, she had never met a baby that shouldn’t be put outside the walls.

Second, she made sure Cole’s banker was her banker. Not that Wisecup would ever touch her money; she didn’t trust him anymore than she trusted her husband. Wisecup was her source of information. She paid for that information. Well, ‘paid’ might be too strong a word. She slept with him. Fortunately, he was surprisingly satisfying, which kept her happy and him under control. As a result, though her name was missing on every account Cole and the business had she had access as if it were.

Elaine fingered her smart phone. A little bit of electronic magic that held the key to the third and best decision she’d ever made. It held the passwords to the investment accounts established by Mister David McFain. Now, those accounts were well into seven figures and it was time to drive the stake in the heart of the idiot she’d married.

Elaine rinsed her coffee cup in the kitchen sink and watched Cole’s car back out of the driveway. He turned left and headed to the marina. She headed to bathroom. There she brushed her teeth, applied whitener to fight coffee stains and dressed. Then she placed two phone calls, one to her investment advisor and another to a moving company.

Chapter 29

Cole Prestcott arrived at the orchard gate at one o’clock as promised. He had driven one of the shop vans used for work at various marinas in the area. The van looked like the mobile boat shop it was. The vehicle was packed with parts and power tools of all sorts. On one side of the van a cage had been installed which resembled a bookshelf. It held two rows of reference books and parts catalogs. Each book was devoted to a popular marine engine, brand of boat, or specialized marine parts supplier. The worker could find schematics and order parts without returning to the shop.

He met Gerry and Jim at the orchard office. After handshakes and a bit of small talk Jim said his ‘Good-byes’ and drove into TC. Gerry escorted Cole into the orchard office, poured two cups of coffee and began to recount the discovery of the boat. The group had previously agreed not to mention the bottles of rumrunner booze, but Gerry did describe the additional hidden storage holds they’d found.

“That’s an amazing story Gerry,” Cole announced.

“I’m certain that you’ve got a fairly rare example of a Chris-Craft cruiser. Well, now they’re all rare, but you know what I mean. So, let’s go take a look?”

“Sounds good Cole, we can take my truck and…”

“No, Gerry. Thanks, but I’m going to have to take my van, it has everything I need. I’ll follow you.”

Cole followed Gerry’s truck across the back of the property, down a two-track path between rows of cherry trees and stopped at a fence gate. Gerry opened the gate, let Cole through, then drove through himself, stopping to close the gate behind. A few moments later they were parked next to the old brick barn. Gerry walked to the large set of doors while Cole took a tape measure and various other tools from the van.

Slowly the doors swung open and sunlight filled the dark interior. Gerry blocked the first door open then went to do the same for the other. Cole casually approached the barn, stopping suddenly as he realized what he was looking at.

“WOW!” Cole was suddenly animated. “I don’t believe it! sonofabitch! You’ve got a Chris-Craft Express Commuter! This thing is beautiful! I never thought I’d find one. I’ll be damned.”

“This is good huh?”

“Good? Gerry this is a piece of art!”

Gerry went to the side doors and propped them open, allowing more light into the building. He couldn’t help but grin. The boat was indeed a beautiful thing.

Cole simply stared. After a few moments he gushed, “This is amazing. There aren’t many of these left. Only a handful in fact.”

Entering the building Gerry showed Cole the damaged bow. Cole walked around the boat twice, each time pausing at the damaged bow.

“This can be fixed Gerry. I’ll tell you that right now. And you’d be foolish not to do it. This is an amazing boat.”

Cole went to the rear of the craft, mounted the ladder, and climbed to the command console. He strolled about the deck, moving from level to level, touching and caressing the different parts of the boat.

Cole had changed somehow. He was many things, most of them a bit slimy, but Cole did know Chris-Crafts. His voice took on extra confidence. He pointed out brass fixtures and fine joinery. To Gerry, Cole’s running commentary certainly sounded like it came from a man that knew what he was talking about.

“These Chris-Crafts are the Cadillacs of the boat world. The company was started by a kid; can you believe that? Seems this kid, Chris Smith built a boat when he was thirteen, a couple of years later he was building full size duck boats. Apparently he could make a duck boat better than anyone else in southern Michigan and he got a reputation.”

“You’re kidding me, a thirteen year old kid?” Gerry wasn’t sure if he was hearing a tall tale or not.

“Yeah, no joke. Christopher Columbus Smith, now there’s a name I could never forget.”

Cole climbed down the ladder, decided he didn’t have all the tools he needed and went to his van. A few minutes later he returned holding a large toolbox and talking as if he had not stopped.

“So anyway, by the 1880s his brother Hank and ol’ Chris Columbus had formed a little boat building business and made duck boats and small work boats for the Detroit waterfront.”

“Detroit waterfront? What waterfront?” Gerry asked.

Cole climbed the ladder and had found the engine access panels. “Well, Detroit was a big waterfront town in those days. Remember, all the goods on the east side of the United States went up and down Lake Erie, then along the Erie Canal through upstate New York. If something was going to or from Chicago or New York it went through Detroit.”

Cole had taken the cover off the motor compartment and was inspecting the boat’s engine. Several minutes, a screwdriver, two different sized wrenches and one pair of pliers later he said, “I’ll be damned.” Then called, “Gerry, come look at this.”

Gerry climbed the ladder and looked over Cole’s shoulder. “What am I looking at?” Gerry asked.

Cole pointed. “See that?”

“What?”

“A restrictor plate! Someone slowed this boat down. This plate keeps air from getting into the carburetor and won’t let the engine develop full power. Pretty odd thing to do with these boats.”

“What? I don’t get it, what do you mean?” Gerry’s strong suit was not large engines.

Cole looked at Gerry as if he were a child. “Okay, a motor needs three things to run. Gas, air and fire. Right?”

Gerry nodded. Cole continued. “Except, you’ve got to  get the gas and the air in the right proportions to burn properly, right? That’s what a carburetor does. Most cars use fuel injection nowadays, but back in the day carburetors were the thing. Anyway, this is a four barrel carb. See those two big cylinders?” Cole pointed.

“Those are the first two barrels. The mixture is controlled by that butterfly looking thing right there.” Again Cole pointed. “Those two slightly smaller cylinders are the second two barrels. When the throttle is opened wide, fuel shoots into those two barrels and that flap there opens to let more air in.”

Gerry nodded. “Okay, got all that. But, what’s a restrictor plate?”

“Well, if you block the barrels…if you restrict the amount of air going into the barrels the fuel can’t all burn. You slow the boat down,” Cole explained.

“Ah, now I see. Why would someone do that?” Gerry asked.

“Damned if I know! They used to race these big Chris-Crafts all the time. It was a point of pride for the high rollers to see whose boat was the fastest. Goin’ slow didn’t cut it. Maybe somebody was messin’ with this boat.” He pulled himself off the top of the engine and began to crawl behind it. Soon Cole’s voice came from the rear of the boat.

“Anyway, by 1920 the brothers were doing pretty good. They won a couple of races, and were pretty well known for high powered speedboats. They made boats from the best mahogany money could buy. The boats were easy to operate. Rich people loved ‘em and they were reliable, at least for their day.”

Cole paused to shift his position. “Hey Gerry, in my tool box there’s an inspection mirror. Hand that to me would ya?” Gerry opened the box and soon found the little mirror on an extendable rod. “Got it.” Cole’s hand appeared above the engine and he returned to his story.

“Thanks. Yeah, so anyway, they sold boats to all the high rollers. Even Henry Ford owned one. So did the newspaper guy they made the movie about. What the hell was his name?”

“You mean Citizen Kane and William Randolph Hearst?” Gerry asked.

“Yeah, yeah yeah! That’s it. How’d you know that? Anyway, in those days a Chris-Craft boat was considered a must have if you were rich. A boat like this one was what all the rich people were after. If you restore this she’ll be the talk of the town that’s for sure.”

Cole was now laying across the top of the engine, dangling between the rear of the boat and the transmission. “If you ask me these are the prettiest wooden power boats ever manufactured. So, that’s about it. The company lasted into the sixties; then somebody bought them out. It’s always the same story ya know. A classic American icon, the kids take over and sell out. It’s a damn shame. Somebody makes boats now and they call ‘em Chris-Craft but…I don’t know, not quite the same.” A small lament showed itself in Cole’s voice.

He pulled himself up from behind the engine with a series of grunts. “Let’s take a look forward. Ya know, I really love these boats.”

They climbed down the ladder and walked to the bow. The two men spent several minutes examining the damage. The boat rested some two feet off the floor. Cole lay on his back and slid under the keel. “She’s hogging a little but that’s because this cradle isn’t quite right, might come out once she’s set up right or in the water. And, even if it doesn’t it’s not a lot. Actually, it’s pretty small considering her age,” he said as he crawled from under the boat.

“Hogging?” Gerry asked.

“Yeah, she’s got a little sway back goin’, but don’t worry, not much.”

Cole stood and walked right past Gerry, his running commentary not missing a beat. Gerry found the whole experience odd. Anyone watching would get the sense that Cole was talking only to himself. He had left himself; his troubles were far behind, totally forgotten. Cole was doing the only thing that really, honestly made him happy. He was playing with a Chris-Craft.

Reaching the battered front of the hull Cole grabbed a piece of splintered planking, broke it off and peaked inside the hull.

“I’m going to pull some of these damaged planks off so I can get to the frame. If the frame sections are cracked that’s a big deal. If they’re not, and they’re not dry-rotted, then it’s a lot better deal.” Cole pulled a crow bar and hand saw from his toolbox. “You got any power out here for a work light?”

“No, sorry.”

Working quickly Cole pulled several pieces of splintered wood from the front of the craft. Eventually he had removed most of the damaged wood and had made a large hole in the side of the boat. Setting the tools on the floor he said, “That should do it, I’ll be right back.” Cole jogged out to his truck. In a moment he had returned with a large battery powered spotlight. “Well, let’s take a look.”

He began to squeeze his right arm and head inside the hole. Carefully Cole inspected the framework of the boat. He noted with satisfaction the absence of water or obvious rotten wood. Then he began a careful examination of each individual rib. Apart from the hole in the exterior planking he didn’t see any obvious damage from the grounding years ago.

Rolling to his right the jagged edge dug into his ribs. Cole ignored the pain and inspected the ribs near the cabin. They were intact, but the false bottom to the bilge made Cole’s work difficult. Despite his discomfort Cole smiled, these smugglers were clever. From where he was Cole could see at least one other false compartment. He ran his flashlight along the false bilge. It extended several feet to the rear.

The light swept along the frame then passed a strange wad of dark gray material. At first, Cole thought the object to be a mouse nest but a small green protrusion piqued his curiosity. Cole began to wiggle forward in an attempt to gain a better view. The effort bought him only a few more inches. He grunted as the wood dug deeper into his side.

“Find something?” Gerry called.

After a bit more wiggling and pushing Cole had gained another four or five inches. He refocused the light on the mouse nest. A face stared back at him; the face of Benjamin Franklin. Cole’s eyes widened. Surprised, he snapped his head up, hitting the overhanging wooden frame. “Ouch, damn!” he cursed.

“You all right? What happened? What are you seeing?” Gerry was trying unsuccessfully to look past Cole into the body of the boat.

Cole lay there for a moment, his head and shoulders buried deep inside the boat. A hundred dollar bill was right there! Recovering from his surprise Cole yelled back, “Just trying to see this frame a bit better. I think it’s okay, but I’ll have to get some tools.” He tried to put the light down and stretched toward the mouse nest. It was out of reach by at least two feet.

Cole began to wiggle back out of the boat. Once free he turned to Gerry and said, “Everything looks good. No dry rot. The framing doesn’t look cracked or rotten. There’s a false bottom to the bilge that’s sort of blocking my view. I’ll need to grab some more tools. I’ll be right back.”

Cole was excited as he walked to his truck. It would be nice to pocket an extra hundred bucks on this job. He could certainly use the cash. He popped open the truck’s toolbox and began pulling out various tools. Reaching the bottom of the box he found what he was looking for, a tool-grabber.

The tool was a long tube with a pistol grip at one end and a three-pronged claw at the other. Squeezing the handle of the grip opened the claw. Releasing pressure on the handle closed the claw. Cole used the tool for picking up small objects like nuts and bolts dropped in engine wells, bilges and other areas with limited access.

Gerry watched Cole walk back from the truck. “So what do you think? Should we restore this or not?” Before Cole could answer Gerry noticed the tool-grabber. “What do you need that for?”

Cole was caught off guard but thought quickly, “I’m trying to get a wood sample from the lower frame. This might work.”

Returning to the boat Cole wedged himself back in the hole. There he propped the flashlight against a cross member so its light would shine on the wad. Squeezing the grabber he opened the claw and extended his arm. The claw just brushed the hundred-dollar bill. Cole did his best to push his body forward. Finally, he was able to get the claw on the bill. Smiling Cole pulled the tool back, the bill resisted, the wad moved toward him just an inch and then the bill slid out. He put the tool grabber down on the inside of the hull, picked up the bill and stuffed it into his shirt. “Any luck?” Gerry yelled.