Port City Shakedown

by Boyle, Gerry

She strode along, her Nikes spattered with mud, muttering to herself. “Let asshole Joel foot the bill, if he thinks he’s so goddamn smart. Yeah, right. If he’s so smart, why’s he in jail half the time—”

  The path curved, merged with a wider path, an overgrown logging road. She turned, continued deeper into the woods, big trees now, mostly spruce and pine, an undergrowth of grass and bushes. A hundred yards farther, in a cul de sac cut out of the woods was a small pickup camper. It was painted brown and green camo and it stood on metal stilts, one off kilter so the camper slanted to one side.

  Crystal went around the back to the door, banged it with her fist, the aluminum rattling.

  “Kelvin. You get the hell out here. We’re gonna talk.”

  She squinted. Waited. Tried the door, but it was locked.

  “Kelvin,” she shouted. “You here?”

  She turned away from the door, looked into the woods. Just like Kelvin to be out there right now, watching her. The thought made her seethe with rage.

  “Listen to me, you son of a bitch. You think I’m gonna lie for you and that goddamn Fuller and lose my baby, you got another think coming.”

  She paused. Listened. Heard birds, no Kelvin. She was sure he was out there. She could feel it.

  “I got cops here, looking for the two of you. And you know what? I’m gonna go right back up there and call them and say, ‘You want to know about drugs? I’ll tell you about drugs. You want to know about stolen guns? I’ll tell you about stolen guns. You want to know about a guy faking he hurt his back? You want to know about who ripped off that guy from Mass. with all the oxy? You hear me? They’re not taking my baby, you son of a—”

  “Bitch,” Fuller said.

  He stepped out of the camper, pressed the muzzle of a gun to the back of Crystal’s neck.

  “Don’t you touch me, you piece of shit,” Crystal said.

  “I ain’t touching you. I’m just listening to all you know. You’re a regular wicko-pedia, you know that? Drugs and guns and your old man’s poor aching back.”

  He pressed the gun harder and Crystal half stumbled, took two steps.

  “Yeah, well, they ain’t taking the baby. I don’t care.”

  He moved behind her, pushed her away from the door, toward the woods.

  “You stupid cow. You think they want your fucking screaming brat? They’re just playing with your head.”

  “They ain’t taking her,” Crystal said. “You tell Kelvin to get his ass home.”

  “I got a better idea,” Fuller said. “Why don’t you tell him yourself?”

  “He’s here? I knew it. Kelvin! Get out here.”

  “He’s down here hiding. I’ll take you to where he is.”

  He took her by the arm, lowered the gun to his side. She moved with him, uneasily.

  “What cops were they?”

  “Just cops.”

  He squeezed her arm hard.

  “Okay. Older one, soldier type, real hard ass you could tell, even though he started out trying to be nice.”

  “State police?”

  “Portland P.D.”

  “Just the one guy?”

  “No, a younger one. No uniform or anything.”

  “College boy?”

  “Yeah, looked like he mighta gone to college. I don’t know.”

  “Uh-huh. What’d you tell ’em?”

  “I said I didn’t know where the hell Kelvin was. I said I wouldn’t allow you in my house.”

  They were moving down a path, the one worn by the two guys going into the woods to take a leak.

  “Who’s with your kid?”

  “My mother.”

  “What’d you tell her?”

  “I’d be back in twenty minutes.”

  “Well, how ’bout if you never come back,” Fuller said, and he yanked her around, put the barrel of the gun between her eyes.

  “Cut it out,” Crystal said. “You crazy?”

  “Maybe that kid’ll never see you again,” Fuller said.

  “What are you—”

  “Maybe I’ll go up there and pop both of ’em, after I do you. Get all three generations, do the world a favor.”

  “No,” Crystal whispered. “Stop it.”

  “I think I oughta end this line of bitches right here.”

  “No, Joel. Stop it.”

  “Kneel down.”

  Crystal started to cry, the tears streaking her cheeks black with mascara.

  “No, don’t,” she said. “Please.”

  Fuller pressed her shoulder down, pushed her to her knees.

  “Oh, no. Oh, no,” Crystal said, her breath short, coming in sobs.

  “Gonna rat me out? Bad plan, you know why? ’Cause I always get even. They give me ten years, first thing I do when I get out is find you and your kid.”

  “I won’t say anything, Joel. I won’t say a word. I was just mad ’cause Kelvin, he isn’t working and we got no money and now these cops are coming and it’s all messed up.”

  She kept talking, as though he wouldn’t shoot if she were in the middle of a sentence.

  “And all I want to really do is take the baby and move to Florida. I got a friend, she moved down to Ft. Lauderdale and she said there’s waitressing jobs all over the place. Childcare, that’s not a problem, ’cause I could work a breakfast-lunch kinda place and she works nights so she could take care of Destinee while I was working and then when I got home it would be time for—”

  “Shut up,” Fuller said.

  She did, the only sound the rustle of the woods and her soft, rhythmic sobs.

  He pressed her head into the grass, put the gun to the back of her head.

  “Oh, my god,” said. “Oh, my baby. Please don’t hurt my baby. You can kill me, but don’t hurt my baby. Oh, please.”

  Fuller thumbed off the safety. Crystal felt the movement and closed her eyes. She wanted to say a prayer but she couldn’t think of one. She let out a low, sad moan and in the moment that it ended, as her breath ran out, he leaned down, yanked her hair, and whispered into her ear, “If you ever talk about me to anyone again, if you tell anybody about this, I’ll load the gun. And I’ll kill the baby first.”

  He shoved her and she fell forward, her face in the cold grass. As he walked back up the path, Crystal began to cry, a muffled, defeated whimper.

  And Fuller smiled.

  CHAPTER 26

  The northwest wind blew cold again the next day, the sky clear, puffs of high clouds sailing by like blown snow from some cold place in Canada. Lucky and Irina arrived at the marina at nine sharp, backed the Land Cruiser in, and popped the back open. Lucky took out four cartons of groceries, a smaller carton holding four bottles of wine. Irina slid two big L.L. Bean duffels from the back seat.

  Brandon propped the gate open, pushed a dock cart to the car. “You ready?” he said.

  Irina, face made up like she was going to a formal dinner, bundled in a new North Face shell, said, “I guess so.”

  “She’s raring,” Lucky said. “Keeps blowing like this, we’ll be in Booth-bay Harbor for cocktails.”

  “Shouldn’t be a problem,” Brandon said. “Not supposed to shift to the north until sometime tonight. You’ll be beating into it the rest of the way.”

  “No hurry,” Lucky said, hefting a carton onto the cart. “No need to be any particular place, nobody waiting for us. That’s when you get in trouble, you get caught pushing to make some schedule—”

  Brandon thought of Ketch keeping Black Magic on the move. Lucky, noticing Brandon darken, put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Hey, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “It’s okay,” Brandon said. “It’s always okay to say what’s true. And it is true. The ocean doesn’t care about your schedule.”

  Irina smiled at him and Brandon continued loading.

  They put the cartons and duffels in the Whaler, towed the inflatable behind them out to Ocean Swell. Brandon lifted the stuff over the stern to Lucky, then came aboard. He gave Luc
ky the standard charter briefing: the boat was fueled, water tank topped off. The waste tanks were empty, batteries charged, electronics all checked. There were charts for the entire coast of Maine, and towels and linens were on board. Doc had left them a complimentary bottle of Krug, and Irina popped up from the cabin holding it, saying, “Thank him for us. That was so sweet.”

  Brandon helped stow the boxes in the galley, the bags in the stateroom forward. He noted that Lucky and Irina bought expensive food, everything from a downtown gourmet shop. Under the groceries was a new chartbook for the eastern seaboard, a couple of pages with dog-eared corners. Brandon looked back toward the hatchway, flipped the book open.

  The marked charts were for the Canadian Maritimes, the waters east of New Brunswick, out to Nova Scotia. It looked like Lucky was hoping Irina’s shakedown cruise would be a success and someday they’d go way Down East.

  All about the weather, Brandon thought, as he tucked the book back. It rains for four days, she’ll stick to the Caribbean. There’s a storm, she’ll never set foot on a boat again.

  He came up on deck, walked with Lucky to check hardware, the rigging. Back in the stern, he shook Lucky’s hand and said, “Good cruising.” Irina leaned close and they touched cheeks. Her skin, toned and spa-tanned, wasn’t soft like Mia’s. Brandon got into the Whaler, started the engine, and drifted off. He stayed, circling against the wind as the anchor came up and Ocean Swell motored slowly off like a big swan.

  Lucky waved from the wheel. Irina, sitting in the cockpit near him— her hood up, pulled tight against the wind—waved, too. The boat moved out of the marina and out into the channel. Brandon watched until they cleared the buoy at the harbor entrance, still under power. He buzzed the Whaler out into the harbor and, as Ocean Swell bore northeast, in a last glimpse he saw the mainsail go up.

  Two hours later, Lucky sighted the buoy marking Seguin Ledge, some twelve miles east of Portland. From there he could set a course to the northeast for Boothbay Harbor, up Sheepscot Bay. He could stay outside, make for Matinicus, a lobstering island 23 miles out, or stay south of the island, run down east to Mt. Desert Rock.

  He’d memorized the bearings, the buoys. An eye on the compass, he adjusted, setting a course for the long run down east. Irina switched on the GPS, watched as their bearing came up on the screen. She punched in another set of coordinates, watched as the course direction came up. Eighty-four degrees, nearly due east. Lucky peered up at the sails, said to Irina, “The jib’s luffing.”

  She glanced upwards, saw the sail snapping, moved quickly up and along the deck. Grabbed a winch handle from its holder, and cranked until the sail was taut. She came back to the cockpit, looked out at the white caps tumbling off a following sea.

  “She’s not a bad boat,” Lucky said. “Making seven knots.”

  “Won’t be doing that on the way back,” she said.

  “This wind keeps up, we’ll be good, at least for the trip out.”

  “How long?”

  “Tomorrow, before noon,” he said.

  “When do you want me to take the helm?”

  “Thirteen-hundred hours,” Lucky said. “After you make me a nice lunch. A little smoked turkey, some Irish cheese. A bottle of English ale. Hustle now.”

  “In your dreams,” Irina snapped.

  “Yes, you always are,” Lucky said, but she was down the companionway and gone.

  She was annoyed, once again. Lucky grinned.

  CHAPTER 27

  The bay in close was rippled, but calm in the lee of the land. Nessa was on the sun porch, still warm from the morning. She sat in a rocker, dressed in black stirrup pants and a red sweater, a glass of Chardonnay in her hand. She tried not to put down her glass of wine, didn’t like the feeling of panic when she couldn’t find it. Like a chain smoker with multiple cigarettes, she sometimes ended up with more than one glass going: today, with this girl here, having to talk, there was one upstairs in the bedroom, where she’d been changing the sheets. Another in the kitchen, where she’d been listening to the radio news. She’d taken the bottle with her to the sun porch.

  “The shadows come so early on this side of the house,” Nessa said. “Brandon used to say it was nighttime in the living room, but daytime in the den.”

  “A nice place to grow up,” Mia said, sipping tea in the second rocker. “Right here on the water.”

  “Lonely, especially in the winter,” Nessa said. “If you live in the city, you have neighbors. I have the bay and the ferries. Always the ferries. Sometimes I feel like I’m Robinson bloody Crusoe out here.”

  “Why don’t you move?”

  “It’s home. It’s my life, where it all took place.” She took a sip of wine. Swallowed. Another. “I can look around and see them, you know? I can hear them talking.”

  “You mean Nikki? Your husband?”

  “You must think I’m a crazy old coot,” Nessa said, “but you’ll find out someday. The best days of your life don’t come at the end.”

  “You have Brandon.”

  “Do I?” Nessa said. “Sometimes I feel like I’ve lost him. Moving out to live on that old boat. Wanting to do this police stuff, which for the life of me I don’t understand. My husband would be so disappointed, that his only grandson wanted to be a common cop.”

  She drank. Crossed her legs and jiggled her shoe.

  “Your husband didn’t like the police?” Mia said.

  “He was a doctor, a general surgeon. Very well respected. Everybody knew Dr. Blake. I think he would have wanted more for his grandson than going around handing out parking tickets.”

  “I don’t think that’s all Brandon sees in police work.”

  “What does he see? People who fight at funerals? My God.”

  “That was strange.”

  “And now see where it’s gotten him. A prisoner in my own home because of some thug.”

  “Brandon and Officer Griffin will take care of it,” Mia said.

  Nessa didn’t answer. They looked out at the water, a raft of ducks rounding the next point, paddling into the cove; in the distance the white specks of two sailboats boats far out on the bay. Mia watched them for a few minutes, then turned to write in the pad on her lap. Nessa finished her wine, then could put the glass down.

  “What are you writing?”

  “Things I want to remember.”

  “If I sat down with a pad like that, it would be all the things that come to me in the middle of the night, the things I want to forget.”

  Mia hesitated as Nessa lifted the nearly empty glass to her lips, swallowed the last drops. As Nessa lowered the glass, Mia plunged.

  “Like what, Mrs. Blake?” she said.

  Nessa got up from the chair, stood unsteadily for a moment, took her glass and went to the sideboard and poured more wine. Came back and sat down heavily, the chair rocking backwards and Nessa concentrating on the wine glass, now full, keeping it from spilling.

  She sipped, put the glass on the table beside her, but kept her fingers on the stem, looked out at the bay. The sailboats, once close together, were now far apart. Closer to shore, the ducks were diving where the seaweed rose and fell with the swell. “Those weren’t the most happy times,” Nessa said. “Even before we lost Nikki.”

  “Oh?” Mia said.

  “My husband, he worked a hundred hours a week, drove himself to exhaustion.”

  “I know,” Mia said, wondering if Nessa remembered saying this before. Mia repeated, “My dad’s a lawyer. He was always gone. If he had a big case we wouldn’t see him for weeks. I almost never saw him growing up. I still don’t.”

  “All about the career,” Nessa said. “Push and push. I said, ‘You’re going to have a heart attack, you keep this up.’ And sure enough. Walking to the car at the hospital. Boom. Like he’d been struck by lightning.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Nessa took a swallow of wine.

  “It was a hell of a shock. You’d think I wouldn’t have been surprised, considering I
was the one who predicted it.”

  “But when it happens, I’m sure—”

  “Your life just shatters,” Nessa said. “You try to picture what it’s going to be next, but you just can’t. The pictures are all wrong, no matter how you rearrange them.”

  Mia waited.

  “So it was just Nikki and me, here all alone. We were both so sad, it’s what we had in common. And then things just went along. Nikki decided not to go to college, which would have just killed her father. She got in with that Portland crowd, they were awfully fast. I hadn’t worked since Nikki was born.”

  “So what did you do?”

  “Sold some land we had, house lots we’d bought along the shore. Be worth a fortune today, stupid me. But they kept me going, and then—”

  Nessa’s fingers worked the stem of the glass. She looked like she was going to cry. She was going to talk about losing her daughter, Mia realized. After seventeen years, she still couldn’t talk about—

  “It was a strange time,” Nessa said, her voice starting to slur. “I was younger, the people she was with were older than her. I was with little Brandon a lot. All I wanted was for her to have a life.”

  Mia could make no sense of it. She smiled, waited. Nessa drank, the shadows lengthened over the shoreline, the ducks moved north, almost out of sight.

  “She wanted to buy the restaurant down in the Old Port, she and this other girl were starting to spruce it all up. But that takes money and—”

  Nessa took a deep breath, shook her head at the recollection of something. “Of course, it all went wrong. If they’d waited for him. If they’d stayed another day. If she hadn’t gone, if I hadn’t—”

  Finally she started to cry, a woozy sort of weeping. Mia got up from her chair and went to her, put her hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s not your fault.”

  “But it is,” Nessa said. “If I—”

  And the phone rang. Mia said, “It’s probably Brandon,” and left the room, following the ringing. She found a phone in the living room, on a table by the window. She looked out as she picked it up.

  “Hello,” Mia said. The window faced a narrow band of lawn bordered by dense cedars.