Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  "Well?" I asked. `

  "Well what. Who are you?"

  His memory span was abbreviated.

  "My boat. I'd like some work done on it."

  He weaved in his seat squinting, trying to draw a bead on me. I thought I detected traces of faint recognition in the dull face. Had he seen me before?

  "Wood or steel?"

  "Steel."

  "Commercial?"

  I nodded.

  "I don't do engines. Who sent you?"

  He stared at me, as through a glass darkly, smashing out his Camel in the tin ashtray. He had brown hair and beard and a pleasant, youngish face. I would guess his age to be somewhere in the lower thirties. But already there were the telltale signs: the nose beginning to fill with tiny cracked purplish veins. The red eyes. The sagging eyefolds. It wouldn't be long before the booze would really start taking its toll on this young man. He fumbled again for his cigarette pack.

  "What you want done?"

  "I want the superstructure changed. More cabin space forward. You know, make a cruiser out of her. Also, I want a double hull."

  "Hull? Double hull?"

  "I want an extra hull portion added where it won't show—below the waterline. I want it accessible through a hidden hatch below decks. . ."

  "How come?"

  "I want a hidden cache for my cash."

  He squinted at me, tilting his head. He was trying terribly hard to concentrate and remember what had been said in the previous two seconds.

  "Your dough? Or somethin' else maybe?"

  "What does it matter to you if the price is right?"

  "Sure. What's her name? Where is she?"

  I thought there was no point in playing games anymore. I leaned forward over the tiny table and glared at him.

  "Her name is Penelope, Dan. And I don't know where she is. I want to find her. Badly. Where is she?"

  He kept looking at me, squinting slightly through the gloom and smoke of the Schooner Race. His eyes came into focus, slowly at first, then quickly, totally. I peeled the label off the beer bottle and watched his face, and mind, coming back together through the booze and smoke. Like a silvery fish being drawn up through murky water, his consciousness became progressively sharper.

  "Nah. Can't help you. What's your name?"

  "Charles Adams. And I know your name because I saw it on a Master Carpenter's Certificate at the Coast Guard Registry. I want to know where Penelope is, Dan. You can help me a lot by telling me. If not I'll be mad. I am also supposing that if the authorities discover that maybe you really didn't build the Penelope after all, you'd be in hot water."

  I suspected instantly I'd said more than I should have. Daniel Murdock slammed his bottle down on the table, got up, and swayed over to the bar for another. I watched him drink quickly from the bottle of beer then set it down. A shot glass appeared at his elbow. He tossed it off and returned to the beer. He turned and glanced at me, then turned back. His face showed hatred. But it showed something else even more. It showed fear.

  The cards were on the table for Dan Murdock. The last hole card had been flipped over and he had the deuce of clubs. I sat thinking on what should happen next. Maybe the best thing was for me to skedaddle and let him ponder his ill fortune for a day or two, then phone him. Murdock was out of my vision now; a new group of men had just entered the Race. The bar was packed three deep, and the general noise level was still rising. It was almost impossible to hear Charlie Pride on the jukebox.

  Four men came in. Two were old and heavy. One was tall, the other medium. All were dark, keen featured, and wide in the shoulders. They were not in good humor.

  The young man named Ted leaned back and asked if I'd had any luck with Murdock. I replied some, and noticed Ted's expression change when he saw the four men.

  "Here comes action," whispered Ted. "That's Joey Partmos and his brothers. They own the Antonio."

  "So?"

  "S0? See the other bunch of guys down at the far end of the bar?"

  "Yeah. So what?"

  "OK. That's Mike DeCarlo and his bunch down there, owners of the Caterina. They were bragging earlier how they busted a school of haddock right from under Antonio's nose."

  I asked if the Antonio could lay claim to said school of haddock, and was informed that though there was no law stating who had first option, there was a long tradition—an unwritten law—that the boat first "on" the school was by custom allowed to work it alone.

  "But you see since the CB radio bug hit, everybody's always in touch with everybody else, and a guy who used to work for Joey, that now works for Mike, he knew the Antonio's code words. That's how the Caterina busted the school—"

  I was completely in the dark as to the busting of schools, CB-radio codes, and the like, but was informed thoroughly by Ted as we sat and watched the tension at the bar grow with each second. What Ted and his friend told me was this:

  Like the truckers, fishermen use the CB radios to stay in constant touch with one another. Also like the truckers, they use code words and slang. The CBs are a big help to everyone, especially in rough weather, because a fully laden boat that pitchpoles or gets swamped goes down in seconds.

  The long-range VHF radios are useful for calling the Coast Guard on distress frequencies (which may never be used for idle chitchat), but the CB radios keep everyone in touch and allow nearby fishing boats and yachts to perform rescues the Coast Guard could never hope to accomplish. There just aren't enough USCG boats to do it all.

  He was interrupted in his lecture by a waitress who flung three bottles of beer down on our little table. She informed us that they were courtesy of the Caterina. The boys were celebrating their big haul.

  From the talk that had filtered down to Ted earlier, she'd struck three big schools one after the other. But one of them, it was said, was claimed by the Antonio, and before either boat could work it properly, the school busted.

  "You see Wayne Fletcher works for Mike DeCarlo now, but he used to work for Joey aboard the Antonio. He knew all the code words and things the Partmos family uses, so when they heard the San Sebastian calling Antonio, they knew where the school was, and what it was. Wayne says the two boats get there at the same time, but Caterina got what was left, not Antonio."

  "Who owns San Sebastian? This is beginning to sound like one of Rossini's operas . . ."

  "Tom Partmos, Joey's brother. The San Sebastian is out of Rockport. You see, the whole code idea started up over in P-town about eight years ago when everybody started buying the CB radios. Fishermen figured it was a good way to let certain friends or relatives know where the fish were without telling anyone else. The P-town fishing is almost all done by Portuguese families you know, and there's a lot of family loyalty. Some of these families have three, maybe four boats owned by brothers, uncles, or cousins. Well the beauty of the code is, you talk to your relatives on the CB and nobody else knows what the fuck's comin' off, right?

  "You say: 'I'm standing in front of the five and dime eating popcorn,' and nobody understands, except your brother, who knows that means you're ten miles off five-fathom ledge and have found a nice school of haddock. Or you might hear your cousin call you and say he's at the bowling alley with a six-pack of Schlitz. An' you know that the bowling alley is really Grayson's Channel, and Schlitz means he's found mackerel—"

  Fascinated, I listened to the explanation of the strange messages I'd been hearing aboard the Ella Hatton on the CB radio. These weird nonsense messages did have a meaning: telling "friendlies" where the action was.

  But I was getting nowhere fast. Dan Murdock was not to be seen, though he might be lurking somewhere in the crowded bar. My watch said 10:45. If I left now, taking time only to visit the head, I would be home before midnight. That seemed to make sense. I wended my way through the crowd. to the john. As I was coming back after washing up I saw him. He was emerging from a tiny nook that held a pay phone. It wasn't a booth, just a small bend in the big room where one could—in theory at least—t
alk with some privacy. He didn't see me as he went back to the bar.

  I realized now that if I'd just left the Race a few seconds sooner, I'd have been home free. But the argument started before I even returned to my table. I walked past the bar, noticing that Dan Murdock was doing everything possible to make himself conspicuous there. Whom had he called? I was turning the possibilities over in my mind when I heard the first of the insults.

  I'll tell you how to know when there's a fight about to start in a crowded bar: every conversation stops. . .but one. And that one grows louder and more heated until it stops, because one of the conversants is getting hit in the chops. As soon as I heard that one, rising, ominous dialogue, I knew something was brewing. Two men were shouting now in the silence of the Schooner Race. It was no surprise that it was Joey and Mike, rival captains of the Antonio and the Caterina. Perhaps the thing could have been amicably resolved if Mike had not mentioned Joey's sister. He not only mentioned her, but some specific parts of her anatomy as well, and the strenuous use she was giving them. According to Mike—who I think I could safely say was not a gentleman—Carlotta Partmos had been intimate with various and sundry lower forms of marine animal life, and also with other members of her family. However, she had curiously avoided anything in human form between these two extremes. I found this incongruous. . . And Joey Partmos found Mike's jaw with a left.

  I was still stunned by Mike's remarks, but learned a few seconds later that Joey had begun the insults by mentioning the sexual misadventures of Mike's wife—especially her fondness for military bases. These comments were without foundation of course; they were meant to inflame the opposition. This they did.

  It would have been ugly enough if the fight had been contained, but as so often happens at hockey games, the benches emptied; and the crews joined in. The ill feeling between the two boats had a long history—I learned later on—and now it was just boiling to the surface. The most amazing thing, though, was not the donneybrook but the detached, almost amused composure of the remaining patrons. Except for the dozen or so brave souls attempting to separate the combatants, the crowd remained passive, evidence that this sort of thing was not uncommon in the SR.

  Whether I was too old or too high-born I couldn't tell, but I decided when the fight was only seconds old that the social climate of the Schooner Race had disintegrated to the point where I wished to depart posthaste. But this was made difficult by the enormous crunch of humanity that pressed against us as the crowd, in its eagerness to avoid the brawl. I swayed back and forth in the long room, like water sloshing in a trough. I fought my way from the bar toward the door. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Danny Murdock. He was sitting in another booth. He stared after me as I went to the door. But I didn't make it.

  Four feet from my goal, I was flung backward as a body crashed into me. I reached down and picked the man up, holding him under the arm. He was heavy and tired. Attempting to drag him over to a booth away from the action, I locked my arms around his chest and began to drag him back. This was a mistake, because just as I had clasped my hand around my plaster wrist another combatant charged us, butting him in the chest with his head, and then finishing off with a short choppy right to his neck.

  The man slumped in my arms. To all bystanders, it appeared as though I was not helping him, but setting him up for this abuse—much as the movie tough guys work in teams: one man to hold the victim, the other to work him over. The illusion did not stand me in good stead. Instantly, both the attacker and I were set upon.

  They say you never see the knockout punch. Maybe so, but you surely may catch a glimpse of one that does a good deal of damage. This came winging my way, in the form of a hairy fist, from over the shoulders of the ranks nearest me. It landed on my left cheekbone, which is called the zygomatic arch. This bone is the part of the skull that wraps around the side of the middle face, protecting the sides of the eye sockets. It is easily broken. But even if not broken, trauma to it causes rapid subcutaneous extravasation of blood to the region. This is all to the good. But in a matter of hours the trapped blood begins to die and discolor, resulting in a pronounced bluish-black darkening that is called eccymosis. In short, a black eye. As I jolted backward and began to slump down, I knew I was going to get a hell of a shiner. I crept forward, hunched over. Someone came in low, battering my rib cage on both sides with his fists. I didn't like it at all. In fact it aggravated me, and I wanted him on the floor. I first distracted his attention by ringing his chimes. I made a tight fist with my right hand with my thumb along the top of it. I hooked this pointy thing around and into my assailant's left ear as hard as I could. He didn't slow down fast enough, so I did it again. My hand came back wet and gooey. Caught his eye a bit. Gee, sorry about that, but quit hitting me in the ribs. He bent over and lifted his hands to grab for his injured head. I shook hands with him and yanked down hard and back on his right arm, placing my right foot out so he'd trip over it. The arm drag worked and he slid down at my right side, groaning and rolling around and grabbing at himself.

  I was just beginning to shout my apologies when someone shot a forearm into the nape of my neck. I struck hack, flinging my left arm around behind me blindly. My cast smacked something hard and hollow sounding, like a head. But it was too late; the neck chop had done me in. Suddenly the world seemed like I had two pairs of sunglasses on and my ears were plugged. I let the force of the blow take me forward; I stumbled on as far as possible to get out of the way. Friendly arms reached out to me. I felt myself half-dragged to a table. I faintly remember a couple of kids slapping me on the back. l remember seeing a cop, and several men being held by their friends and led out of the place. The world came back into focus as I was holding a glass to my lips and drinking. There was a faint clangor of bells. No, ice cubes against glass.

  "Feel better?"

  It was Ted, sitting next to me with several pals.

  "That's a double of CC. That should help."

  I finished it. It helped. Then a big mug of coffee appeared at my elbow, and I drained it. It was strong, but cut with plenty of cream and sugar. I felt a lot better, although pain was beginning to emerge in several places, most notably my sides, neck, and left cheek. I looked around the Schooner Race; all was calm. The rowdies had gone—or been taken away. The place was filled with peaceful folk. I noticed how bright pine-yellow the walls were—how stunning the mural photos appeared. My mind was collecting itself. . .the red Naugahyde seats seemed bright. . .the bottles seemed to shine with a new luster. . . .

  "Can you walk OK?"

  "Yeah. Thanks. I'm going now."

  And I did.

  I left the Schooner Race and lugged my weary frame across the parking lot. I looked at my watch: 12:07. Mary would not like it. The song I had heard upon first entering the bar was going through my rattled brain: "You are all that I am (bum ta bum bum bum), You know ya make me feel like a bran' nehew man. . ."

  Well I'd be the hero though. DeGroot chickened out. But I went. I wasn't afraid, and I had the scars to prove it. DeGroot was a fraidy cat. DeGroot was also at home, snug in bed and undamaged. DeGroot was smart. I was a big dummy. I turned and looked at the bar for several minutes. Reason: as I left—finally—I noticed Danny Murdock slumped at the bar. I didn't want him following me. I wanted to make sure he stayed put.

  Ten minutes and nobody emerged from the Race. I was half hidden in the far reaches of the parking area and could see without being seen.

  No, I was safe.

  I found the Scout and fumbled for my keys. Over my shoulder the mucky harbor water shimmered white-gray in the moonlight. The air stank. My body ached. In the dark I produced the key ring, flipped through the bright jangling metal. From behind me came a faint sigh. . .a whisper of sole scuff . . .an indefinable cloth-wrinkle sound of stealth—

  The lights went out.

  CHAPTER TEN

  WHEN YOU GET hit on the head really hard you can taste it in your brain. It is the taste of sour metal—of tarnished copper or b
itter tin, of solder and rancid flux. . .and you taste it not with your tongue or mouth, but with your brain. And the place you taste it, just at that instant before unconsciousness or agonizing pain, is right in the center of your head. Above your throat. Behind your nose. Under the back of your eyes. When you taste it, you know you are in deep trouble.

  Looking down into my hands to find the bright silver key, I had heard the faint rustle behind me. I was in the act of looking around when there came a sound like a super-tanker grating fast on a granite ledge—a million artillery pieces letting go at once. A tympani between my ears; Then a dropping feeling and a going away. And through it all, the metal taste I felt in the center of my head.

  And then I felt nothing, saw nothing, thought nothing, until I came to. And coming to was most terrifying of all. I awoke in a howling gale, a shrill symphony of mad whines and roars. Dim phosphorescent shapes glowed before me. It was dark and cold. The sound grew louder. Clicking and clacking not in my ears, but in my head—sounds I heard in the bridge of my nose. I was dying. I had to get out. . . I was underwater.

  Something from I-know-not-where told me a vital message as I regained consciousness in the depths of Gloucester Harbor. I did not, starved for air as I was, swim straight up. I swam at an angle, spurting precious bubbles of air as I went, until I saw a thick cylindrical shape pass by my right side. A piling, clustered thick with barnacles, mussels, and rock-weed. Four feet below me I could barely see an orange starfish. Spent, I came up, popping and blowing, on the top of the scummy water. I still had not recalled why I had swum up behind the piling—what signal of self-preservation I had obeyed. Perhaps in my unconscious (or subconscious) state, a grim logic was working: someone had knocked me on the head and tipped me into the harbor. Ergo: that person was not the best one to come sputtering up to, flailing arms and water, screaming for help.

  I clutched the piling, panting and blowing as softly as I could. Fortunately for me, a loud delivery truck came rattling along the street above, and so hid any noises I was making. Within half a minute the panting stopped. I clutched my numb fingers around the craggy shells that covered the piling, which was as thick as a telephone pole. I was glad the shells were there; they made it easier, to hang on. I looked from under the pier back in the direction I had come, and saw a thin beam playing along the water. Flashlight. The beam came toward the pilings and I slid behind, out of sight. It played along each one with monstrous slowness and deliberation. It snaked around beneath the pier like the Serpent in the Garden. As it approached my timber, I sucked in the biggest breath I could manage and went under, holding onto the barnacles tight to keep from floating up again. The cold water helped my head—but the rest of me was shivering, the deep convulsive shiver that tells you there is not much time left.