Rival Sons

by Aidan Thorn

  “I didn’t want to bother you Mr Ball. It’s something with the electrics. I’ve called it in, the garage says the mechanic’s on the way.”

  “Well call them again and tell them to put a rocket under him. I don’t let them off their monthly protection payments just so they can make me and Mrs Ball hang around.”

  “No, Mr Ball.” The flat feet prepared to shuffle out again.

  “Where are you off to? I haven’t finished with you yet.”

  “No, Mr Ball. Sorry, Mr Ball.”

  “This isn’t the first time you’ve let me down. I had to remind you to come and meet me at the station last week, and then there was that scuffle outside the snooker club. I was made to look quite undignified. And I don’t pay you five grand a month to make me look undignified.” He realised he was shredding the desk blotter Cynthia had bought him for Christmas and stopped. His health wasn’t too good these days; too much stress, the doctors said. Which was why he employed boneheads like Bradley in the first place, so they could run things for him and take the stress away. Ha. Fat chance of that. He ended up doing all his own work and most of theirs as well. “Well? What have you got to say for yourself?”

  The spongy face took on an aggrieved look. “I didn’t know you wanted me to say anything, Mr Ball.”

  Was the fellow being insolent? He stared into the currant-like eyes but couldn’t see anything beyond stupidity and a hint of fear. Even so…Vernon had never liked insolence; wouldn’t tolerate it in his family and certainly not from his employees. Any hint of that and the fellow would have to go. “I’m still waiting,” he said.

  “Yes, Mr Ball.” Bradley was licking his lips. “Sorry Mr Ball. I’m just waiting for this ’ere mechanic to show up. Then I’ll take the car along to fetch Mrs Ball.”

  Vernon drew a long deep breath, partly to stop the incipient apoplexy and partly to stop himself throwing a paperweight at the wall. It was a nice paperweight, which Cynthia’s mother had brought back from a holiday in Switzerland, with a little model village inside, and when you shook it, it snowed. He was far too attached to the thing to risk smashing it to bits. “And how long do you think that’s going to take?”

  “Dunno, Mr Ball. Another hour?”

  “And Mrs Ball is supposed to stand outside the hairdresser’s, with her new and expensive hairdo, until you decide the car is ready enough to turn up?”

  “Well, yes, Mr Ball.”

  “Bradley, Bradley, do you not have any initiative at all?”

  “I’m not sure I understand, Mr Ball.”

  “Then I shall spell it out for you. One, you could have asked for one of the other cars. It’s not as though I don’t have enough to go round.” This was true, since there were six more sitting in the treble-treble garage right now. “Two, you could have got one of the other lads to give you a lift. Three, you could have phoned for a taxi. Or four, you could have come and reported the whole thing to me. Rather than sitting on your big fat backside doing whatever you were doing and not picking Mrs Ball up from the hairdresser’s.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. Silly to lose his rag like this, but Bradley was still standing there looking like a potato and it just about made him mad.

  “Yes, Mr Ball. But I wasn’t sitting down, I was having a look at the car myself and it was only when I realised I couldn’t fix it that I—”

  Vernon felt his teeth clench so hard he was in danger of shattering his jaw. “You mean to tell me you’ve only just called the mechanics in?”

  “Yes, Mr Ball.”

  “Bradley. Come here, please.” He waited, while the fellow shuffled over the priceless Persian rug towards the desk. “Closer. Another step. Thank you. Now, look out of this window and tell me what you see.”

  “Well, it’s your garden, Mr Ball.”

  Crack. There went a bit of his jaw. “And what is falling on the garden?”

  “Er, I’m not sure, Mr Ball. Unless you mean rain?”

  “Congratulations, Bradley. First prize for observation. It is pouring with rain. It is pouring with rain, and Mrs Ball is standing outside the hairdresser’s with her new and expensive hairdo rapidly turning into a sodden poodle. If you do not want to deal with Mrs Ball when she looks like a sodden poodle—and I can assure you that you don’t—then get yourself over there with some sort of transport in the next five minutes or there will be consequences.” He wheezed and used the handkerchief again.

  “Are you all right, Mr Ball? Only you’ve gone a funny colour.”

  “Not half so funny as the colour you’ll be if you don’t disappear.”

  “Yes, Mr Ball. Er, do you want me to take a taxi or one of the other cars?”

  “I don’t care!” He knew he was screaming, but he didn’t care about that either. He couldn’t remember when he’d been this aggravated. Possibly last week, when—“Just go! Now!”

  The flat feet withdrew, taking the buffalo neck and spongy face for the ride. The aggrieved pout appeared to stay behind afterwards, like the Cheshire Cat. Ball squirted his pine-scented room fragrancer at the place where the face still seemed to be. He kept the perfume to cover his occasional cigar-smoking tracks from Cynthia, but now it seemed appropriate.

  Damn Bradley and his stupidity. Cynthia had been waiting for the best part of an hour and he’d have to put up with a barrage of Serious Displeasure for the rest of the night, when he’d hoped to put his feet up, have a nice dinner and a few Scotches, and watch that saucy new series on TV. Something about a wartime hotel, with chambermaids. He’d seen a trailer the other evening and it had looked rather good.

  There was nothing else for it. Bradley and he had gone as far as a boss and a bodyguard-cum-chauffeur could go. Time for a parting of the ways. He reached for the phone again and dialled his lawyer from memory.

  “Sidney. That young chap in the police diving team you mentioned recently. Is he still working for us? Tell him I’ve got a job for him. Tomorrow night. I’ll send the chap over in one of the cars, with someone else to drive it back afterwards. And give your lad a hand if necessary. Oh, and Sidney? I’ll need a new bodyguard-cum-chauffeur, I’m afraid.”

  Click here to learn more about Gravy Train by Tess Makovesky.

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  Here is a preview from Harbinger, a prequel to the Ania Series by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky.

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  CHAPTER 1

  Boyd

  The sky is a clear, dark cobalt blue as the daylight fades. The sun just went down but its soft golden glow lingers on the boats and calm water of Gulf Pointe Marina. Going to be a half moon tonight and I can see its outline up there already. I work my stiff neck around a little and look down at the deck below me. Everything is done.

  Hicks and I have already scrubbed and washed the boat down. The bait wells are clean, tackle and gear stowed, rods have new lines and are ready in their holders. Even our little galley is squared away.

  Dusk is my favorite time of day and even more so on this Friday evening. Earlier, we had only our second charter of the entire week. A pain in the ass father and his two whiny, spoiled sons out on their first ever deep sea fishing trip. Probably their first fishing trip of any kind, period.

  Bottom line, though, Hicks put them on fish all day, as he always seems to do. Today it was mostly Spanish mackerel and bonitos but the youngest boy also hooked a good size kingfish. We had to help him so he wouldn’t lose it and he whined about that, too. They caught more than enough to get their fair share of excitement.

  The lunch we served them, on the other hand, was a ‘little disappointing’ according to the discerning tastes of the oldest son, who was probably twelve or so. All in all, though, I suppose they were satisfied and had a good time. As satisfied as a snake lawyer from New York City and his two brats are going to get, anyway.

  I shift in the captain’s chair on the bridge of our bo
at, the Harbinger, and it squeaks a little protest. I look at the few wispy clouds in the west that are now only a burnt orange and try to enjoy the beauty. Sipping on another ice cold Dos Equis that was going down good, I set the bottle back in the holder and resist finishing it just yet.

  The big ice chest is down on the deck, which isn’t very convenient when you’re doing some serious beer drinking. It doesn’t matter, since this is my spot. I like sitting up here and looking around. Watching the weather, whatever it may be. Looking at the lights of Fort Meyers, the causeway over to Sanibel Island. I watch the people on the docks and on their boats. I can think better in the big chair.

  As the light continues to fade, the pole and berth lights of the Marina are blinking on one by one. The rows of boats are gradually lit up. Some of these boats are just trophies. ‘Look at me’ boats, as we like to call them. They get used maybe three or four times a year by folks who don’t even live here. Just toys for people with money to burn. People who are really just grown children who get bored quickly. Other pleasure boats here, though, are at least out on the water almost every weekend. Then there’s boats like ours. Working boats.

  Many are sitting quiet, still, and dark. There’s a number that still have crew guys washing them down, cleaning up and doing prep work for tomorrow’s business. Something Hicks and I don’t have. We’ve got a six hour charter booked for Wednesday of next week but nothing in between. And nothing after that. No email inquiries to answer, or phone messages to follow-up on. Zero.

  And right on cue, my phone laying on the padded console next to me vibrates and the screen lights up. I finish my beer while standing to twist and stretch my back out a little. Definitely not answering, but I pick it up to look at the number displayed and recognize it immediately. Just not in the mood to talk to anybody right now, let alone my dad.

  He’ll be wanting to talk about the customer we had today, whether we caught fish and whether the boat is ready to go for the next run. Was the customer happy and will he be back someday. Now, Hicks would have answered it with a smile on his face and he would have obliged my dad. He would have talked about the day. He’d play the game, say the right things but he would have glazed over the real issues.

  Not me.

  I grab my empty bottle and head down the metal rungs that I’ve gone down and up more times than I can count. Down on deck, I get another beer, open it and take a slug. I check the rods in their holders, open the clean bait wells, and check the tie downs…as if I’m going to find something out of order. Then I pace around the deck and talk to myself a little more.

  Again, the phone hums and vibrates in my pocket. Dad wants to talk, and I feel guilty about that but the conversation that needs to be had, never happens. What Dad won’t want to talk about is how we need to advertise more, how the Harbinger needs a full refitting right down to the cracked vinyl seat I was sitting on up there. The boat basically needs new everything.

  Back in the day, our business, Fish-On Charters, was one of the best in the Fort Meyers area. My father, Ben Tomlin, and Dan Ledoux, Hicks’ dad, had a winner. They were downright prophets when the named the boat Harbinger. Good things did come. The calendar was full. Hell, potential customers sometimes needed to be turned down and referred to one of the other charter boys out here. They made good money around these waters, and even better legends.

  That was a good fifteen, twenty years ago, though. Competition kept coming, not only in numbers of boats but in what they had to offer, the amenities, equipment and such. They caught up to our dads and then ran by them like they were standing still.

  The phone stops and I try to hang up in my mind too. Maybe not think about this situation for a bit. Best I can do though is just push it back in the corner for now, because the problem is not going away. Bottom line, we’re damn near broke and the money won’t get spent to turn this thing around. I can see that coming as clear as any reef.

  Heading back up the ladder to the bridge now. I settle back into the cracked vinyl chair again and sip the cold beer. Looking blankly at the dash of instruments and gauges, I remember that today we had a little glitch in the GPS that we’ll have to check out closer tomorrow. It’s always something, always.

  I can feel my mood getting darker and I’m glad to be alone. Having no one else around, even Hicks, is just the way it needs to be sometimes.

  Hicks is pretty much the only guy in this world I want to be around and we are almost always together, always have been. But earlier, when he headed over to Sanibel to hit a few of our haunts, I passed. Just one of those nights where I need to completely check out, I guess.

  Three boat slips down, the big twin inboards of the Sea Witch cough and then rumble to life. Earl ‘Early’ Loomis is the owner and captain. He’s been running his charter business for over twenty years. An old friend of our fathers, as well as Hicks and I.

  Early just bought that boat less than a year ago, a new Cabo that had been hardly used by the previous owner. The hours on it were so low that he must have paid top dollar. Not saying it isn’t worth it, but damn.

  I can see him up on his bridge, but the light is fading fast now. As if he knew I was thinking about him, he does a half turn and waves, then salutes me. I salute him back. It’s a little routine we have and it at least brings a half smile to my face.

  Early isn’t frugal and money doesn’t wear a hole in his pocket, that’s for sure, but I think that’s also what has made him successful. Got to spend money to make it and all of that. His charter business is good, always has been through the years. Steady business, his boat is out on the water more than it’s sitting here.

  I take another pull on my beer and sigh. It’s one of those still nights where there isn’t a whisper of wind and the temperature is just right. I lean back and close my eyes for a second but the constant deep gurgle of the Sea Witch’s engines eventually brings my head back up.

  I mean hey, there is no denying that I love boats and love being on the water. Besides the military, the Corps, it’s all I’ve ever really known. On the other hand, it’s also a fact that I’m getting burned out on this business struggle and the burn out is growing.

  My eyes float back to the right, over to the familiar noise of those idling boat engines. For some guys, guys like Early over there, that boat or the next one is literally his entire life. It’s his house. It’s everything to him. The fishing business is his past, present and future.

  He’s never been married, has no kids or even relatives. I think he’s originally from Arkansas, or some damn where but he sure as hell ain’t never leaving here. He’d rather be dead and no doubt would be, within a year, if he didn’t have his charter business.

  The Sea Witch’s running and deck lights come on now. Early throttles it up a little, then down again. He’s getting ready to head out somewhere. Not unusual. He goes out all the time, even later than this sometimes.

  He’s told me more than once that on calm nights he likes to cruise around, have a few drinks and think about things. Just last week we were swapping stories about our worst customers. He winked at me and said, “I’ll tell you what Boyd, when I go out at night and just cruise around a bit…well, it’s like good medicine to me. It heals whatever is ailing me.”

  I guess it’s kinda like me sitting up here on the bridge. Early is a man of the water and I suppose I am, too. I think the difference between him and me is that to him, this is not really work. It’s almost as if he’s on a permanent vacation. To me, it’s all work, it’s a job. A job I’ve grown to hate, I guess.

  He wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else, doing anything else. When and if he does dream, I’m sure they’re good and he remembers them. In all of them, Early is probably on the water, on that boat and he’s catching that once in a lifetime blue marlin. Or some clueless customer has lucked into hooking a huge grouper, or some damn thing.

  When I dream and that’s pretty much every night, they don’t have anything to do with that. They are bad mu
ch more often than good. The only blessing is that they’re hazy and fragmented. I don’t really remember them, I just know it wasn’t good.

  I raise my beer to drink and get nothing but a little foam. I stare at the empty bottle and draw the analogy. I’m running on empty as well.

  The moving lights of the Sea Witch grab my attention as Early slowly pulls out his slip. Like a white ghost he glides by our row of docked boats and steers towards the mouth of the marina. From there, he’ll make his way out into the bay. Even beyond that maybe, to open water and a two or three hour little cruise down the coast. Whatever, who knows.

  The only thing I do know is that I need another beer and I head back down the ladder. Just as I reach the ice chest, I hear Early throttle up to a third out there in the dark water. He’s cleared the no wake zone now and is free to run.

  Gotta admit, I will always love that sound and the carefree feeling it brings with it.

  As I go back up to the bridge, my mind just won’t allow me to ease up. I start counting things off that we need to do tomorrow with each rung I climb. I’m all about symbolism and irony, I guess.

  Chapter 2

  Hicks

  “Do you really own a ship?”

  She had to shout it to be heard over the musica Cubana in the place. That made her face so close to mine that I’m sure she felt my cheek muscles flex when I smiled. “Well, ‘course I do, darlin’. Lying about such things is a capital offense down here.”

  She laughed. Giggled, actually. I put her at twenty-three, but she could just as easily be an up-jumped nineteen-year old. Either way, she was comfortably legal, certainly fun, and right in that perfect notch that is my wheelhouse—good looking enough to be pretty, but not enough of a knockout to think the world owed her everything.

  We moved to a patio table. The music still spilled out of the open windows, but conversation was possible here.