All the Way Down

by Eric Beetner

  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 much 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.

  “What kind of wine do you like?” I asked her.

  She shrugged. “White.”

  I waved at the waiter, a new guy I didn’t recognize. He still made it over quickly enough. That’s what I liked about this place. Great service.

  “Sir?”

  I ordered a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. I’m sure she thought it was something exotic, or mysterious. My guess was that she grew up in a world where Chardonnay was just another word for white wine, and no other varietals existed.

  Not that I wouldn’t have preferred a good beer instead. Anything but the Mexican piss water Boyd drank. I mean, I liked Mexican beer, but Dos Equis was never a taste I could acquire. Besides, the girls in places like this one tended to think they were supposed to drink wine if they weren’t having something with an umbrella in it, so I rolled with it.

  We talked about her senior year of college that she spent abroad, which further confirmed her age, until the wine came. The waiter and I went through the ritual of the taste and the pour while she looked on. These sorts of social dances were mostly bullshit in terms of substance, but on another level, they mattered a lot, so I mastered all the steps. It wasn’t that hard.

  We toasted Florida, vacations, and new friends.

  “So are you, like, the captain?” she asked over the rim of her glass.

  I shook my head. “My partner and I are co-captains.”

  She pursed her lips. “A ship can have two captains at the same time?”

  “No.”

  “Then…”

  “Well, technically, I’m the first mate,” I admitted. “But I’m the majority owner of the boat, and the business.”

  She looked perplexed. “Then why aren’t you the captain?”

  “It’s not like the military. Captain is a job, not a rank.” I drank some of the wine, letting it roll around in my mouth. True, beer was better, but there was a certain appeal to a good wine. The taste buds really stand up and pay attention. I swallowed, then let some air in to savor the finish.

  “So the captain of your ship works for you?”

  “It’s a boat,” I corrected gently. “The Harbinger.”

  “Ship, boat, tuh-may-toh, toe-maw-toe.”

  I smiled easily. Funny how in this world some things are incredibly important to some of us and don’t matter even the tiniest bit to others. Makes you wonder if there’s some objective truth about it out there in the universe or if the whole goddamn thing is just perspective.

  “Harbinger,” she repeated. “Did you pick the name?”

  “Nope. My dad did, though.”

  “What’s it mean?”

  So much for college abroad, I thought. “It’s a sign. Or an indication. As in, things to come.”

  “Ohhhh,” she said, nodding. “Like a gypsy lady.”

  I laughed. “I suppose. I imagine there are a lot more boats out there with ‘gypsy’ in the title, anyway.”

  “I still can’t believe you own the boat but you’re not the captain.”

  “The captain pilots the boat,” I explained. “He handles navigation, checks weather patterns, currents, all the technical stuff.”

  “Sounds boring.”

  “It’s important, but yeah, it’s boring as hell.” I widened my smile, giving her my full wattage. I may be Florida born and raised, but one thing I made sure to pick up on the rare visits my dad took me on to Louisian
a was a trace of that soft Cajun drawl. “I’d much rather enjoy the company of my guests and put them on the fish so they can go home happy.”

  “You send a lot of people home happy, do you?”

  “Without fail.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “You’d win.”

  She finished her wine and I poured us both another glass. A light dance number floated out the windows and I asked her to dance.

  “Here?” She glanced around the patio area. No one else was dancing.

  “Right here,” I said. “These people won’t mind a bit.”

  The idea had a hint of the forbidden to it for her, I knew. I wished the thought of violating minor social conventions still had any sort of thrill for me, but those days were long past.

  We stood and found the rhythm of the music, standing close but not linking hands just yet. She avoided my gaze at first, but then seemed self-conscious about the others around us and so she focused her eyes on me. The locked stare grew slowly in intensity, building tension as the song progressed. By the end of the song, I had slid my hand around the small of her back, and our chests brushed lightly together. I soaked in the heat that radiated off her body and the heady scent of her perfume.

  When the song ended, we sat down to some scattered clapping. She tried to seem embarrassed, but I could see she was more exhilarated than self-conscious. Most of them were.

  The last of the wine gave us both about half a glass. I held the empty bottle above her glass, letting the last few drops dribble out. “Time for another,” I said, my tone somewhere between a statement and a question. I always shot for casual but suggestive with that tone. Safe, but with the promise of a little danger, if you wanted it.

  She did. “How far’s the beach from here?” she asked.

  “Close,” I said. “Down here, the beach is never far, no matter where you are.”

  “I want to walk on the beach. I want to feel the sand under my feet.”

  I waved at the waiter and made a check signing gesture. He brought the bill a few moments later and I gave him my credit card.

  She sipped the remainder of her wine, making lots of eye contact and smiling. “How do you stand living here? I mean, all this paradise?”

  “It’s a rough life,” I joked. “But I manage.”

  “I just want to live here forever. It’s so gorgeous.”

  “You fit right in.”

  “Such a charmer.”

  I shrugged. “There’s nothing charming about telling someone the truth, is there?”

  She smiled and swallowed the last of her wine.

  Moments like this one were nice, and I soaked it in. Some men enjoyed the chase, some the conquest. Not me. I liked these in-between periods, when the fish was on the line but not in the boat. When she was smiling from across the table but not in my bed. That curious mix of the beginnings of success while the risk of failure still loomed. And what mattered next in either of those scenarios was how I played it.

  “I just realized something,” she said, her lips curling in amusement.

  “What’s that?”

  “That old TV show? Gilligan’s Island? He was a first mate, like you.”

  “How do you even know that show? It’s ancient.”

  “TV Land shows reruns. My college roommates and I used to watch and play drinking games.”

  “And how would that work, exactly?”

  “You drink when certain things happen. Like, every time the Skipper calls him ‘little buddy’ or if the rich guy says ‘lovey.’ Things like that.”

  “And to think I missed out on that, not going to college and all.”

  She shrugged. “You own a ship…sorry, a boat.”

  I lifted my glass in salute. “You’re learning.”

  “I have a good teacher.”

  “Now who’s being a charmer?”

  “Touché.” She sipped. “Anyway, you have a career. So why go to college?”

  I thought about how I spent my college-age years, getting an education from Uncle Sam and Hadji in equal parts. Semper Fi University, you might say. Not a lot of electives, all courses were pass/fail, and graduation was a bitch.

  “Sir?”

  I turned to the waiter, and instantly recognized the faux contrite look on his face, as well as the contempt barely concealed underneath. Still, I didn’t want to believe it what was coming. “Yeah?”

  “Your card, sir. It’s been declined.”

  In my peripheral vision, I saw her expression change just a smidge. Or maybe I imagined that part, but the energy coming off of her definitely shifted a little. I ignored it, and favored the waiter with an easy smile. “That must be a mistake. It’s an unlimited credit line. Did you run it again?”

  “Yes, sir. Three times, sir.”

  “Well, thanks for trying that. I’ll have to call them in the morning and give them hell.” I reached out for the card.

  He hesitated. “I’m supposed to keep the card, sir.”

  I widened my smile. “But you don’t want to. Because you know this is some sort of computer mistake that I’ll clear up as soon as the bank opens in the morning.” I reached into my wallet and dropped enough cash on the table to cover our tab and a generous tip. The gesture tapped me out, but it was the only thing that was going to fix the situation with him, or with her. “Tell Miguel I said thanks for understanding,” I added.

  Dropping the manager’s name was the final straw and the waiter relented, giving me back my useless card. Only, it really wasn’t so useless, was it?

  We left and strolled down the street toward the beach. She took my arm and tried to play off what happened. I shrugged along, pretending it was nothing. “Computers are supposed to make our lives easier, but they just change what gets complicated, is all,” I offered, as a way to close the line of conversation. “It’ll all work out in the morning.”

  Only it wouldn’t. And not my easy confidence or the promise of this woman’s attentions in the soft darkness of the beach was going to change that. Reality was similar to death in that way. You can keep either one at bay for a while, but no matter what, it always comes for you in the end.

  Click here to learn more about Harbinger by Frank Zafiro and Jim Wilsky.

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  First Shot, Last Call—Now

  1

  Charlie Ryan’s head cracks against the bar top with a satisfying thud and snaps back up like a rubber ball—blood gushing from the shiny new gash on the bridge of his nose. He crumples to his knees. Sends the barstool his fat ass was resting on not moments ago flying back with a thud against the wall. A dartboard shakes loose and crashes down—darts, chalk, and all. A neon Coors sign vibrates on the nails holding it up—threatens to join the board on the floor.

  We’re at Jimmy’s Bar and Grill in the Bronx—all bar and no grill. A day-drinker’s paradise. Low light. Three televisions showcasing horse races. The smell of smoke and week-old beer. There’s a jukebox in the corner that’s seen better days. No surprise this is the place Charlie hangs his hat. He’s one of those sad cases you think only exist in TV or a movie. Had a good job and a family. Never made many waves. One day he falls in love with the horses and the next—well—the next day there’s divorce, bitterness, alcoholism, and a little over eighty large owed to some interesting people.

  Me? I work for those interesting people.

  I pull my .22 from the inside pocket of my suit jacket. Realize I hadn’t brought my suppressor—that’s what I get for getting caught up with this asshole’s personal life when I did my research. I snatch a handful of his salt-and-pepper hair and yank hard, so he can look at me in the eye. “You screwed up, Charlie.” The space between us gets hot. I twist the fabric of his button-down shirt harder and the top button po
ps off.

  “Please…” He’s a mess. The teary eyes and snotty nose are going full force. “I got an inside track and everything, man. I can make good, I can…” he gulps. “I have a little girl.”

  The kid defense—always the motherfuckers who walk out on their kids. They love pulling that card. Probably the first time he’s really given the poor thing any real thought in years. I’ve got me a glorified sperm donor here.

  “And you chose the ponies over her a long time ago.” I give him a gentle pat to the temple with the barrel of my gun. “Tell you what: you tell me how old that little girl is—to the very fucking day—and maybe I’ll have a talk with Paulie.”

  I already know the answer—researched everything. Charlie Ryan, forty-two years old, divorced for three years now. Ex-wife: Rebecca—thirty-nine years old. Daughter: Kira—nine years, three months, eight days old. Good girl. Maintains a B average and goes to ballet twice a week. Thankfully, she’s looks like her mother. Thinking about her gets that white-hot rage in my belly going. These gigs should never be this personal, but deadbeats like Charlie bring out the worst in me. Any other schlub, it’d have been quick. Tag them in an alley or a parking lot after sunset. This asshole, no, he gets a chance to reflect on his sins.

  “I know more about you than you know, Charlie.” I shove the gun against his temple hard. He struggles a little, but the four beers he had before I made my move have caught up with him. He’s a little sloppy. “I know that you’ve got a Master’s in Engineering, about the scar from the emergency appendectomy you had. Shit, I even know about the alleged sexual assault in college that was ‘sealed’ when they couldn’t prove you did it. I know the girl ended up taking a leap from the George Washington years back. You remember that one?”

  “I’m sorry, please. I can fix this.” He tries to pull away from me and I reacquaint his face with the bar. “Billy!” He calls to the bartender who’s been suspiciously missing. Good luck. Billy’s too busy counting out a wad of cash I handed him this morning before he opened the bar.