Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  I got the marine glasses out of the bosun's box and glassed the pier. Nothing. I could see only one side of it. But there were four draggers tied up there. . .no restaurant. I was getting hungrier. The dock was dingy. It was a series of abandoned warehouses and old pilings.

  Everything was still and putrid. The water didn't move; it sat. The still air hovered in thick dampness. The herring gulls sat in long lines on the mudflats. They were all fluffed up and pouty, and didn't say a thing. No shoreside sounds reached me. . .not a screech of brakes, a pile driver, or a jet plane. Nothing.

  I was seriously contemplating returning to the bunk with a book and a bottle when I spotted an American flag hung limp on a masthead at the end of a small pier near Gray's Beach. I grabbed the binoculars and was delighted to see a gilded sign with a lobster on it. Further inspection revealed a sign in the window that said OPEN. Faint shapes bustled about within. Soon I had the dory whining along on the slick straight toward the old stone dock. It was apparently an old quay that had been furbished and graced with a small restaurant. The big commercial pier was off to my left, and as I proceeded toward breakfast I noticed that the boat dock curved around the other side of the big brick warehouse, and was full of all kinds of vessels. Several draggers were moored off the pier in the gray water. The boats sat immobile, lapping up the waves of my tiny wake that struck their big, blunt bows. I passed them and headed on to the old stone quay. Arriving there I took the dory around and moored it next to a slanting foot ramp that was, at low tide, about 45 degrees to the water.

  As I was making fast, I looked at the Hatton riding far off in the mist. She slightly resembled a Gypsy caravan because of the big gizmo tent that covered her boom.

  I trudged along the big pier, clad in a waterproof parka, thick woolen sweater, and my droopy canvas rain hat that just about covered my face. Despite the clouds and rain I wore my sunglasses to hide my black eye. My pants were getting slowly soaked. But I didn't care; the wind was warm, and I would linger over breakfast and coffee, and the Globe.

  I followed a group of patrons into the place. The varnished pine door was warm and sticky. The inside smelled a bit too much of cooking oil. But it was crowded. At seven o'clock that had to be some kind of recommendation. There were big booths separated from one another by pine partitions that rose up a foot and a half above the heads of the seated customers.

  I sank into one of the booths at the far end of the restaurant. Nearby was a window that looked out into the harbor and the grim silent shapes of the big draggers that swung in a line into the current of the incoming tide. Was one of them the boat that awakened me in the wee hours? A waitress appeared and poured me coffee. It was actually pretty good (and I'm fussy—if you haven't already guessed). I ordered two poached eggs on toast, hash browns, bacon, and a side plate of kippers with extra lemon. I removed my dripping canvas hat and placed it on the seat next to me. I drank the coffee and gobbled the breakfast. I had been sitting for perhaps half an hour with the paper when a sound—or rather certain sounds in sequence—sent my blood cold.

  I don't know when I became aware of it. It crept upon me gradually as I was reading the paper. Sometime in the middle of an article about Ted Kennedy, I replaced the canvas rain hat upon my head and drew it down on all sides. I slipped my damaged hand into the depths of my thick woolen sweater, replaced the big dark glasses, and turned into my booth to gaze out the window, hunched over.

  And yet if anyone were to happen upon the scene and ask me why I couldn't have answered. Perhaps it was that same message—sent coursing through my injured brain—that forced me to swim under the filthy waters of Gloucester Harbor rather than surface to be killed. Like a Canada goose gliding low over a duckblind, I veered warily. I sat hunched, invisible as I could make myself.

  The sound I was hearing was the scuffing footstep of a heavy man pacing back and forth behind me. Underneath that sound I could hear, at intervals as regular as Old Faithful, the sniffing, snorting, of a man nervously clearing his throat. I listened for ten minutes. There was no mistake. The fearful hour in the cold water was indelibly burned into my memory. I knew.

  Mr. X, the Quiet One, the lethal sneak who sandbagged people, was behind me.

  The pine partition of the booth kept me out of view. In the momentary dizziness of my discovery it—was curious how my mind had remained in a rather pedestrian state as I stared out the window, watching the big draggers in the gray drizzle. I felt a thump at my back, and almost jumped out of my skin. I do not consider myself the least bit cowardly (I suppose nobody does), but the thought of that expert sapper behind my line of vision upset me. It upset me a good deal.

  The thump was someone sitting down in the booth directly behind me, throwing. his weight back against the partition. Was it Mr. X? I wasn't about to turn around and ask. Had he seen me? Probably not. First of all, he certainly wasn't expecting Yours Truly, having assumed that green crabs and slimy things were now dining on my remains,. Also, there was the recent beard, the pulled down cap, and my general low profile. I listened.

  If indeed the patron behind me was Mr. X, or one of his accomplices, it didn't come out in the talk, at least in the few words I was able to hear. There was a continual reference to dawn, which I later decided was Shawn, or Sean, but I wasn't I sure. The partition kept thumping me in the kidneys, as if the occupant of the next booth was on edge, or excited. I stared out at the boats in the rain. I focused in especially on the one I thought bore a strong resemblance to Penelope. I stared hard. The more I stared, the more I realized it wasn't her. Just wasn't, from a thousand big and little clues.

  Perhaps one of these big boats was the one that thumped by me in the night. . .but Penelope was not among them.

  "We ready'?" came another voice from the booth behind me.

  'Almost."

  Then they talked some more, their words drowned out by the clatter of dishes and chatter of customers. I looked at my I watch: 7:40. Jack was to meet me at 4 P.M. at Duxbury! Plymouth Harbor. If I failed to appear he was to call out the militia. Another thump hit me in the kidneys and I heard the booth patrons get up and walk away to the counter. I didn't move. Half a minute later the door slammed, and I saw the two men walking past the window. The bigger one was limping, ever so slightly. It was more a slight roll than a limp. It was Mr. X. He was wearing a yellow slicker and a blue billed hat. He had a dark beard. His shoulders were wide. Very wide. The man next to him hobbled along quick and nervous, like a fox terrier. There was something vaguely familiar about his manner. Finally I recognized him as the man in the runabout who had streaked for shore in Wellfleet Harbor to seek the much-needed repair job for Penelope. I remembered too the same man hobbling with great agility on the sand flats a few hours previous. The men reached the end of the dock and began to descend a ramp to their boat, which obviously rode on the water out of sight. But at the top the big man turned and stared at something. Then I saw him in profile, and I knew I was looking at James Schilling, presumed dead. My heart skipped about three beats in a row—

  Schilling was momentarily frozen at the top of the ramp. What was he looking at?

  Then I realized he was staring at the Hatton. He kept looking at her a goodly time. Then he swung around, slow and stately as a bull elk, and looked down at the water on the side of the pier opposite the ramp he was standing on. That's where I'd tied the dory. And then, he kept swinging around and fixed his level gaze in my direction, though I was certain he didn't see me.

  I didn't like it. I was about to glide casually over to one of the phone booths and bunker down into it, back to the window, if he came inside again. It wasn't that I was terribly afraid he'd attempt something in a crowded restaurant. If so, assuming he carried no firearm or hidden machete, I would I get in a few good licks myself. Lord knows I had reason to. Besides I was getting to be an expert at fighting lately. But I had to remain invisible from Schilling. If he knew I wasn't dead, he'd keep after me. More important, he'd realize his cover was blown, and lie
low or disappear. Had he recognized the Hatton? I remembered again the glare he shot us when I took his picture as we left Wellfleet. No doubt he'd gazed after the departing catboat uneasily. Now he sees a catboat in Plymouth. No. I was worrying unnecessarily. Still I couldn't help wonder if he knew, or even thought, that the man in the Schooner Race was indeed the same fellow who snapped his picture in the harbor. Had he put my two identities together? I thought of the photograph on my driver's license.

  Schilling spun on his heel and they stomped down the ramp and seconds later I saw their dinghy—I swore it was the same one I saw in Wellfleet—heading toward the cordage company's commercial pier. I stared down at the empty plates and wondered what to do next. Wearily, I rose from the booth and paid my bill.

  Then I entered the phone booth and dialed Mary. I told her what had happened, down to the smallest detail. There was a longish silence ion the other end. When Mary finally spoke, her voice was shaking. She told me to get home fast or she was going to call the police and make them fetch me.

  "Goddammit Charlie! Goddamn you, how can you keep doing this to me—"

  And so it went. On and on.

  "Let me talk to Jack. Is he there?"

  I got number-one son on the line and told him to meet me at Duxbury Harbor with the Hatton's trailer at dusk. Duxbury is next door to Plymouth. This meant he had to go to Wellfleet first, then deadhead back with the empty trailer in tow. But time was of the essence. I had located my quarry, and had no desire to sail back to Wellfleet in a boat that could be recognized. It would be a simple matter for a big steel dragger like Penelope to cut me in two with her high bows. That meant the cruise was going to end a lot sooner than anticipated.

  But perhaps finding James Schilling, Mr. X, in Plymouth was more than just simple good fortune. Perhaps studying the charts and thinking a lot had paid off. Perhaps I wasn't as dumb as everyone seemed to think. I had some other theories too.

  "Call me on the CB when you arrive in Duxbury. I may not be inside the harbor when you get there, but I'll be within earshot. Use the name Ella Hatton, not our name; we may have eavesdroppers."

  He agreed and I told Mary not to worry, then rang off. As I emerged from the booth I felt resentful. Schilling was sharp and cautious. Of that there was no doubt. He had a keen eye and memory, and used them. The distant boat had alerted him immediately. I felt out-foxed, and the dunk in the harbor added to my anger. I had worked myself up to a pretty good rage by the time I was whining back to the mother ship. I clambered aboard Ella Hatton fuming. The son of a bitch! With a pipe clenched between my teeth, I had a think session of about ten minutes, then decided to approach the big pier and see what I could see.

  By the time I had the engine started and the dory in tow, I had managed to convince myself that Schilling had not recognized the Hatton. I drew up the anchors and crept along at a snail's pace. I was crouched under the gizmo, working the wheel and gazing out ahead through the triangle opening of the canvas flap. The boat slid into shallow water, and finally drifted to a stop between Gray's Beach and the pier. I crept still closer after waiting there awhile, until I was barely eighty yards from the dock. It was topped by a long warehouse that extended the full length, much like the big fish pier in Boston Harbor. I saw four big semi-trailer trucks on the dockside between the boats and the warehouse. They were refrigerated trailers; their compressors were grinding away. A few tiny figures moved behind the maze of masts, cables, and white crescents of radar antennae. Along the shore, behind the big warehouse on top of the dock were several other big buildings of red brick. They looked deserted. There was a huge chimney projecting out of this industrial wasteland. It was the same one prominently marked on the chart of Plymouth Harbor. It was a perfect landmark—much easier to find than the squat lighthouse called Bug Light in the center of the harbor. I let go the anchor cable and slouched in the cockpit, glassing the pier with the binoculars.

  No Penelope present, so Schilling had ditched her. But just then one of the draggers began gliding away from the pier and, as she left, revealed a white boat that was a dead ringer for the one I'd been looking for. I glassed her carefully from stem to stem. It was her. No doubt about it. She was painted white, and looked brand spanking new. Other than a coat of paint, she wasn't changed except for some kind of superstructure far aft. It looked like a raised hatchway. This altered her appearance considerably, especially in profile. It would fool anyone who wasn't looking carefully, or was unaware of what to look for. How long had it taken the men to add it on?

  Three or four days was my guess. And another carpenter's certificate. I wondered what her new name was as I hauled out my camera and a 300-millimeter lens from the aluminum case. I read the name on her bow: Rose. I set up the camera on the tripod and snapped away at the snow-white boat at the pier. Nothing projected from beneath the gizmo canopy. I was—for all practical purposes—completely invisible underneath it in the gray drizzle. But of course Ella Hatton was plainly visible to those aboard. She was tauntingly visible. Were it not for the fact I was moored in about three feet of water, the Rose could chug right over and have a close look. Through the long lens I caught a flicker of motion in the boat's wheelhouse. I raised the binoculars and had a peek. I'll be darned if someone in the pilothouse wasn't looking at me too. No, wait. The person was holding something up to his mouth. He was talking into a microphone. I scurried down under the companionway and turned on the CB scanner. I got a good variety of jabbering. But one in particular made me stop the dial. It was underlaid with a lot of hissing and buzzing common to Citizen Band transmissions:

  "mmmmmmmmm—sssstt! No so I'll stay put for a-sssssst! You can catch us back here at the usual

  t1me."

  "OK general. You meeting the other party then? When can I expectmmmmmmmm—or late tomorrow?"

  "ssssst! Yeah tomorrow's fine. I gotta keep a date first though. Got swordfish and tuna this time— fsssst."

  "OK but don't forget me."

  "mmmrrrrmmmm No problem—"

  * * *

  Then there was a bunch of static and buzzing, and nothing else. I moved the dial around. Most of the people were calling each other "good buddy" and saying when they'd be in, or to tell their wives and girlfriends that they'd be gone another day or two. I couldn't find anything else. I peeped out to see the person in the wheelhouse sweeping a pair of heavy lenses over the Hatton. What did it mean?

  I had placed a stem anchor to make sure Hatton's sternside didn't swing around, so people on the white boat could read her name or port. I grabbed the glasses and stared back, but from inside the cabin about a foot behind the glass of the tiny porthole. I knew he couldn't see me. . . but I could see him. It was the big man. It was him. For half a minute I was tempted to drag the 30-06 from underneath the forward bunk and level it at his chest. What was I saying? Had this slimy crook made a sniper out of me? Nevertheless, I found myself breathing more heavily than usual, and my pulse was pounding. I hoped, really hoped, he'd come a-hunting my boat.

  But he didn't. Apparently, he did not recognize the Hatton, or its occupant, or anything else. For several hours, until almost noontime, the three figures walked to and fro along the boat's decks and up and down her hatches. They came and went often from the new superstructure aft, which was obviously a hatchway. So it was real, not just a bunch of welded metal.

  Not much was happening. Trucks continued to arrive and depart the old quay, and loiterers and cane-pole fishermen trudged wearily about the long dock, trying their luck in the slimy waters below. The big warehouse had wide doorways every forty feet or so. Some were open, some weren't.

  Occasionally men went through them wheeling carts full of stuff. I saw a lift truck gliding along between the semi-trucks. a The long rows of buildings and loading docks behind the big warehouse were quiet.

  Just before one o'clock a blue van pulled up on the quay and the two men jumped from the Rose and went over to talk to the driver. Schilling put his head into the window and nodded. I snap
ped away at the proceedings, but then grew bored.

  I decided to move on. There were three additional piers in Plymouth. One was reserved for the Mayflower II and the gift shops. Another was the main fishing pier. Finally, the Plymouth Yacht Club had a small marina at the southern end of the big, wide harbor. I weighed anchors and motored the Hatton in a wide sweep around the commercial pier. As I rounded it to make for the main harbor, I knew that Schilling or his men could read Hatton's name and hailing port on her transom, but it seemed they had lost interest in me.

  Hatton snuggled nicely into an empty slip at the fishing dock. On both sides of me were trawlers whose high topsides rose up cavemously and hid me from view except from the dock above. I wheeled up the ten-speed and rode down the dock, out to Water Street and up to Main, which was route 3A. At that intersection I thought of something. Should I be armed? No. I didn't even know how to tote the pistols around. Then too there was the weight problem. Even small bore handguns are much heavier than you'd think. At night it would be a different story. For now, I'd rely on Schi1ling's innate cowardice to protect me. It didn't take me long at all to return to the cordage pier. There was a big white sign telling me the place was called Cordage Park..Under the big letters was a directory. Ocean Spray Cranberry Company had a big spread there (as they did everywhere in the area), along with a wire cable company, a soft drink manufacturer, two electronics firms, and a fishery.

  Some of the big buildings had connecting catwalks that joined them several stories above the ground. Others had big boilers and stackpipes attached to them—machinery that by the look of it hadn't seen any action in decades. Some of the buildings were U-shaped and had giant courtyards. The straight brick walls rose up six stories high around these gloomy places, allowing little light to enter. Most of these courtyards terminated in a truck loading dock at the far wall. But the steel shutters were locked down tight. The yards were deserted and silent. Row after row of these swept by as I cruised along. Then I crossed over the railroad tracks. No doubt these were the old spur that had once serviced the Plymouth Cordage Company. Oil drums were everywhere. Some were bright red, most rust colored or dirty gray. They were stacked in rows; they were strewn about; they were tipped over; they were crushed and torn. Just beyond the tracks was a tall Cyclone fence topped with barbed wire. A big sliding gate that led out to the pier was drawn back on its rollers, open. I parked the bike and loitered briefly near the gate. The Rose lay back by the pier beyond two other draggers. She looked I out of place though, truly a rose among the nettles. The big gate had a sign on it that said it was closed at 6 P.M. sharp, and all strangers and vehicles had to be off the quay by then. Period. I took in the whole cordage compound in a long sweeping glance. If one were up to something shady this spot certainly had its advantages. Old broken-down warehouses. A quiet section of a quiet town. A semiprivate pier. A locking gate and barbed wire.