Spartina (16 page)

A flare went off over the pond, waggled slowly down.

Parker got his stomach over the transom. Dick took another pull at the oars and then grabbed the back of Parker’s collar.

Parker got his knee up over the side and spilled in, took a breath. “I lost my boot.”

Dick rowed a few more strokes in case a bigger wave rolled in.

Parker said, “What’s going on? Fucking Fourth of July.”

Dick was glad there was some chop now they were beyond the surf. The skiff was so small she fit completely in the trough, wouldn’t show up well on the radar screen, would look like sea clutter. So long as they didn’t look too close. He angled away from the cutter so the skiff would present her narrow stern.

His arms were a little tired, but it was calming to keep pulling on the oars.

Parker said, “Hadn’t we ought to crank her up?”

“Yeah. Get on up in the bow. You can’t get any wetter.”

The motor caught. Parker pulled out a piece of soggy chart and spread it on the rowing thwart. He cupped a hand around his flashlight and pointed to a smudged pencil line. “That’s where our boy ought to be.” Parker got the handbearing compass out of the bow locker. He switched the battery light on and wedged the handle into the rodholder.

Dick speeded up as much as he dared, angling the bow southeast across the waves from the south. The waves spread out some as they got offshore. Dick looked back. The beam of light was still shining toward the breachway.

Dick figured they were now a half-mile due south of Green Hill. He squinted at the compass dial lit up with a soft purple glow. He hefted the gas tank. Not too bad. Now just a five-mile sloppy run in the light chop.

Parker took his shirt off and wrung it out.

Dick leaned forward and said, “Your boot. I sure hope it didn’t have your name written in it.”

“Jimenez, J.” Parker said. “Good old Jorge Jimenez.”

As they got out farther the breeze was colder. Dick got Parker to steer while he wrung his clothes out, emptied his boots.

“What do you figure,” Parker said, “another half-hour, forty-five minutes?”

Dick took over again. Parker settled down on a life jacket, his back against the bow thwart, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, hands in his armpits. Dick pulled his watch cap down over his forehead and ears.

Parker pointed out another flash of a spotlight. Dick looked back. Seemed like just outside the gut into Little Salt Pond.

Parker leaned toward Dick over the rowing thwart and said, “Busy, busy, busy. It makes you wonder. Is it all just for us? We’re only little fish. Little, little fish. Maybe there was someone else going in. Maybe it was just bad luck we picked up that motorboat. Maybe the whole coast, you know, every little inlet was covered. I’d like to think it was bad luck. And that maybe that wasn’t a cop in the parking lot.”

Parker settled back and sang “Maybe, Baby” for a bit.

The breeze was steady, the waves regular. The skiff was doing okay. Dick put his watch near the compass light to see the time. If they missed
Mamzelle
they’d look mighty funny bobbing around out here once it got light. The Coast Guard might send up a helicopter. There was some mist but not a real fog.

Of course, if a real fog rolled in, they’d have a hell of a time picking up
Mamzelle.
Their problems weren’t over.

When they’d run almost an hour Dick told Parker to start looking. Dick figured they’d been making just under five knots.

“I suppose your boy knows enough to keep the running lights on.”

Parker said, “Oh yeah.”

Dick said, “What’s he do after he runs his half-hour out and his half-hour back in?”

“Back out a half-hour. In, out, in, out.”

“So we could be chasing him out?”

“For a bit. Then he’ll turn round.”

Dick slipped the piece of pipe over the throttle and stood up. His sweatshirt was still pretty wet. The breeze flattened it against him.

Parker spun back around on the bow thwart. “Know what I think? I think they served us up. They’ve never been easy to deal with, I’d try to make a little deal, they’d be real aloof. This time—this time it wasn’t quite so hard. Maybe I was wrong about being a little fish. Maybe they decided to serve up a little fish at Green Hill, you know, let the narcs get something for their arrest record. Big fish goes in somewhere else. Big fish has my money, what the fuck does he care. I’m no loss to him. I’m no harm to him.” Parker spit over the side. “Maybe being a little fish cut the wrong way this time.”

“Let’s just find your damn boat.”

Parker faced forward again. Dick heard him cackle. Parker looked over his shoulder. “You know what? Right now this little-bitty skiff with this little-bitty basket is worth more than
Mamzelle.
”

Dick wondered if Parker understood the problem. Dick wondered if Parker might be crazy. Dick yelled up at him, “I’ll tell
you
a know-what. There may not be enough gas to get back to shore. Then your goddamn basket is worth zero.”

In the dark, with the skiff bobbing, Dick found it hard to tell the difference between sea and sky. There were some stars at the top of the sky, but just above the horizon it was pretty well clouded in. He also began to worry that, if he’d made one degree of compass error and Keith got off a degree or two the other way, they might have gone by each other. He started scanning all around, but he got a little sloppy about steering. He yelled to Parker to turn around and look astern.

Parker said, “Problem is, did we get served up by name or was it just a vague kind of thing? Hey, boys, somebody’s coming in
somewhere in South County. It makes a difference, you know. Makes a difference in what we do next.”

Dick was afraid Parker really was crazy. He checked himself.
Mamzelle
making, say, six knots. Three miles out, three miles back. Even Keith couldn’t get off a whole mile. Dick was pretty sure he’d be able to see a light up to a mile off. So where in hell was she?

“Hey, Parker. What exactly did you say to your college boy?”

“I told him go out southeast, do a one-eighty, go a half-hour at one-half throttle. Then do another one-eighty, and so on. Out and back.”

“Did you tell him a number or did you say southeast?”

“I said both. Southeast, a hundred and thirty-five degrees.”

It occurred to Dick that the kid might have subtracted 135 from 180 instead of adding 180 to 135. That’s what Charlie did once when Dick was teaching him. So what would that give him? Forty-five. Northeast. Jesus. Then what would he do? If the kid caught himself would he be able to figure where he’d got to? And then would he be able to retrace his course and get back where he was supposed to be?

Dick could imagine the kid in the dark, with only the binnacle light on, just doing it by the numbers, by what he thought was the numbers. Not paying attention to which way the wind was blowing, which way the sea was running. On board the
Mamzelle
, inside the wheelhouse, it wouldn’t be so damn obvious as it was in a skiff.

Dick imagined Keith steering, getting a little bored, checking his watch. Would he get bored enough to take a fix? Dick saw him drawing in the lines on the transparent overlay. Looking at the X. Goddamn, must be wrong. Do it again. Uh oh. Fucked up good.

“Hey, Parker. Did you draw in the line on the kid’s chart? You know, the three-mile track he was supposed to keep his train on?”

Parker thought. “I believe I did. Yeah. Drew it on the overlay for him.”

Dick checked his watch. Another twenty minutes at four and a half knots would take the skiff pretty near the southeast end of the three-mile track. Eight miles out to sea.

“Hey, Parker. I’m going to row for a while. Save a little gas. Get warm.”

Dick rowed for ten minutes, felt better. He let Parker take a turn. Dick sat on the bow thwart, facing forward. After ten minutes they switched again. Dick figured they were making under three knots rowing. He was recalculating their position when he saw a white light way off to port, almost due north. The skiff rose on a wave, and under the white light he made out a red running light. Then the shaded white stern light.

Dick cranked up the motor and swung the skiff round. Parker looked back at him, Dick could just see his mouth open. Dick yelled, “Dead ahead.” Parker’s face disappeared as he swung forward to look. It reappeared. Parker said, “Suppose it ain’t
Mamzelle
?”

Maybe Parker wasn’t crazy.

“Better find out.”

The problem was to catch the damn boat. The skiff now had a following sea on her port quarter. Dick had to take it easy going down the front of the waves to keep from plowing into the trough. He gave her more speed climbing the back of a wave, eased up as the skiff surfed a little past the crest, went skiing down the front.

It took them another twenty minutes to get near enough to get a close look at her. Dick peered at her. What he could see beneath the red running light looked like it might be the right color, dirty green. He let her pass by, and then he cut across her stern.
Mamzelle.

Parker yelled, “Keith! Hey! Keith!” Dick ran the skiff under
Mamzelle
’s lee, was able to speed up enough to get past the wheelhouse. Parker blinked his flashlight and shouted. The kid
must be deaf and blind. Then
Mamzelle
’s engine cut back, clanked into neutral.

The kid came out. In the green-and-white glow from the running light and the masthead light, Dick saw the kid wave uncertainly. He looked dazed. Parker laughed. Dick was in a rage.

They got the basket of whelks and the skiff on board. The kid started to stow the basket in the hold. Dick said, “Better keep that right nearby. In case you have to dump it.”

The kid looked at Parker. Parker said, “Yeah, okay. In the wheelhouse.” He turned to Dick and said, “Well, well, here we are back on board
Mamzelle.
What say the captain orders grog for all hands. Give me a cigarette, Keith. The smoking lamp is lit.” He pulled off his one boot. “Do me a favor, Dick. Throw that overboard.” He held out the boot to Dick. “Then old Captain Parker’ll make sure his crew get all warm and toasty.” Dick took the boot and tossed it over the side.

Parker said, “Goodbye, Jorge. We commend your body to the deep.” Keith laughed.

Dick said, “You take a little detour, kid? You take the scenic route?”

Keith stopped laughing. Looked at Parker again. Parker said to Dick, “I’ll work that out. You go get some dry clothes. Keith’ll fix some coffee. Then we’ll look into my crystal ball.”

Dick said, “Jesus, Parker.”

“Yeah, that’s right. I guess you don’t have to call me Captain.”

T
hey didn’t look into Parker’s crystal ball that night or have a little talk. Dick sacked out. The kid got him up after four hours to take the wheel. A red smoky dawn. Headed at two-thirds speed for the lobster pots they’d set.

Parker got up a couple of hours later. The kid stayed in his bunk. Parker brought Dick some coffee but didn’t offer to relieve him.

Dick waited.

Parker said, “Well, we can’t stay out here forever.”

Dick didn’t say anything.

“But, then, we have certain problems about going in.”

Dick said, “I’d like to get in. I got to work on my boat. Put my five thousand to work.”

“Dick. Dick, old buddy. That run wasn’t what you would call a complete run.”

“I took you in. I goddamn saved your ass getting out.”

“You saved my ass. You saved
your
ass. You saved our ass. We saved our ass. Our ass got saved.”

“You said flat fee, Parker.”

“Tell you what, Dick. Here’s your five thousand right here.” Parker held up one of the whelks, nudged Dick’s elbow with it. “Here go, Dick.” Dick looked down at it, looked ahead again.

Parker said, “See what I mean?”

After a while Dick said, “I see it’s worth about as much as your word.”

“You are an unreasonable son of a bitch. First you’re all worried about your cherry, you say, ‘Oh no, oh oh, I couldn’t do that!’ Next thing I know you want to get paid—before you’ve turned the trick. And what do we do with our little bundle? I just know what you’d like. ‘Dump it.’ But you still want your five thousand.” Parker snorted.

Dick said, “Flat fee.”

“For a completed run,” Parker said. “I’m not going back on my word. We ain’t through yet. It’s real clear to
me.
You can see it my way, or you can go fuck yourself.”

Dick thought again of getting in the skiff. Going in by himself. Not enough gas. He’d goddamn row in. And say what when he got stopped? No matter what he’d say, it would be the same as fingering Parker.

He wouldn’t do that.

Dick could see the newspaper story. He’d seen stories like it, the Providence
Journal
was full of them. So-and-so, age such-and-such, stopped in his pickup on Route 1. Dick Pierce, age forty-three, of Matunuck; five to ten years. Next thing Dick imagined was Charlie pasting the newspaper story in his scrapbook. Parker was right about one thing. If it was up to him, he’d dump the whole basket.

By the time they got to the lobster pots it was blowing. A real smoky southwester. They spent so much time just holding on that it was well after dark before they got the pots hauled. It struck Parker as funny that they didn’t do too bad, pretty near filled one well.