“Guess we’re free to look. Stop crowding.”
“Then shift and give me the window.”
“Not with your head, all that hair in the way,” Jones shot back. Then, “Some of them boats are longer by a length than ours in Ketchikan.”
“For halibut longline. Mostly run by Squareheads from Seattle, I hear.”
“You sure know a lot about this place.”
Gus tapped one of his sideburns. “I talk to people. Don’t just keep myself company.”
“Bar time, you mean. Don’t have a wife who expects you home.”
“For good or bad, buddy.” The shuttle deposited them on a paved street beyond the piers.
“Come on,” Jones said, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “Let’s walk back to the boats.”
“Easy, Jones. Let’s check out the burg a minute first.”
Jones trailed grudgingly. Kodiak appeared less of a place than Ketchikan, but it beat Naknek. Level ground stretched far enough beyond the main street to allow for a couple of parallel avenues before the land rose toward a steep hill. Gus and Jones strode past the usual supply shops, rugged clothing stores, and bars. But also, through a large salt-crusted window, they peered at an actual tablecloth restaurant—the sort Adele would jump for. If it didn’t cost to the sky. Remember the place, if he decided this is where they’d want to settle—a place to argue against California. He examined the menu pasted on the glass. Prices about double that of a regular restaurant—one with counters. Worse than the fanciest place in Ketchikan. But if going fancy couldn’t be avoided, at least they served a reliable choice of steaks and salmon with salad thrown in for the same price. And other things. “Something called ‘Crab Louis.’” Jones pronounced it with a hard “s.”
“Ever hear of that?”
“You poor dumb-ass,” Gus sneered good-naturedly. “They call that ‘Crab Loo-ie.’ It’s French. Crab with a fancy pink kind-of sauce. I had it once, down in Seattle. Not so bad.”
“She’d go for that, however it tasted.” Jones looked up and down. “Likes fancy things.” He turned from the window to stare down the street, his arm clapped over his forehead to block out the sun. “Buildings newer than in Ketchikan, mebbe. Not as many. I don’t know. One thing that woman likes is stores.”
“Does she cook you a good dinner?”
“Now and then.”
“Then stop bitching.”
Jones turned restless. “Why’re we here instead of looking at the stuff that matters? Come on.”
“Okay, okay. But you’d better look hard at this city stuff if you ever think that fine woman’s going to follow you here.”
Jones stopped to consider. “You’re right. She’s got to be happy some place.” Got to stop crying and forget our dead baby.
The day had started out overcast, but by now the sun was blazing in a blue sky. Jones pointed through an alley toward a range of frame buildings. Above corrugated roofs, poked masts that glistened in the light. “That way now.”
Back toward the airport and naval base stretched the gravel road they had passed coming into the town. It led to the wharves and fish plants. Jones steered them down among the buildings, ignoring an open bay where women in yellow aprons bunched around a long table heaped with fish. He turned in toward the water, relieved to be with boats—something he could understand. Even a quick glance showed that these were heavier boats than all but the best of those in Ketchikan. Built stronger to carry a heavier engine, most likely. They were even more weathered on the wooden surfaces where paint would have been scuffed and painted again. Their straking might be of thicker oak than the boats of Ketchikan too. Also their rails. But the rails were worn to the grain, a sign of heavier gear that was pulled in over them. The wheelhouses, too, seemed of more solid construction. Their seaward windows had thicker caulking—none of it cracked from age. Maintenance. Nothing careless and nothing left to chance.
Jones had a swift sickening vision of Nick Sandstol’s double-ender floating empty, bottom-up. Of Nick’s head bobbing up, then gone with the kid’s. Needed a boat built to take it. And the right engine. Then bad weather wouldn’t matter. Then let the worst come.
He looked across at a boat deck just below the pier planks. A man sat cross-legged, mending web. A wool watchcap was pulled to his ears, but he worked bare-chested under the sun. His right arm, half turned, showed part of a tattoo that looked like a Marine globe and insignia. A man worth talking to, Jones decided. But don’t spill over him all at once.
The bunched net around the man appeared to be part of a bottom trawl rather than a seine, since it had bobbins and fatter leads. Tighter mesh than a purse seine and heavier than he himself had ever worked. Jones cleared his throat.
“Call that about a number ten twine, I’d judge,” he ventured.
“You’d judge right.” The man spoke around a cigar that dangled from his mouth, untouched by the hands working the net. His chin had several days’ growth, enough to be black. An oilskin jacket and plaid shirt lay bunched beside him.
“Sun feels good, eh?” Jones continued.
“When it comes.”
“Down where I fish in Ketchikan, it rains most of the time. Except mebbe August.”
“Rained here this morning.”
“That so?” After a silence, “Down there we don’t need that thick of a twine.” The man nodded without answering. Jones, usually taciturn himself, suddenly wanted information. Maybe Kodiak was the place for him after all. He realized that it was up to him to pump for it. “Down in Chatham Strait, we get pretty good blows. Mebbe forty-fifty knots, times.”
The man spat out the remaining stub of his cigar, slowly licked his lips, then said, “Mister, out on the Albatross here, Albatross Bank, we’d call that a Sunday school blow.”
Gus stood watching, and laughed. “Guess that says it! I’m going to look around.” He sauntered off to peer through the open sliding door of a building adjacent to the pier.
Jones watched the net-mender for a time, then ventured, “We seined for reds up in Naknek just now. They run by here yet?”
“Red salmon come and gone over a month ago, out at Igvak. I’d be on to the pinks and silvers here now. If that’s what I was doing.”
Jones glanced at the reinforced wooden panels of the boat, lashed near the stern at each side. “Guess you’re dragging.”
“What it looks like, don’t it?”
“Need a heavier engine than for seining, I judge. What power and make you got? And for what kind of fish?”
The man looked up. “You some kind of spy?”
Jones turned away, resentful, but embarrassed at his own boldness. “I’m a fuckin’ fisherman like yourself. Was Marines too if you want to know. You can go to hell.”
The man went back to his mending. He appeared to think it over, then called, “If you want, go see that live-box built into the water. Further down the dock. Go take a look if you want.” Jones considered, then altered course to go where the man pointed.
He lifted a wire mesh lid fitted over weathered boards. At first all he saw was a surface of water reflecting sky. Then, dimly, a few inches down, he saw a round creature the size of a saucer. A thick bumpy arm ended in a claw. The creature circled in an easy motion and then disappeared into deeper water below.
“They teach you about them in Marine camp?”
“No place has crabs that big,” Jones muttered. “So I don’t know what I saw.”
“Go grab one! Stop! Just kidding. Take that big net lying there, and dip way down to bring one of ’em up.” Jones did as he was told. The net’s metal rim scraped against the bodies of creatures that moved sluggishly out of sight. They had hard, slick shells to judge by the feel—massive ones. He finally trapped one and felt the weight of several pounds as he raised it to the surface. It was a crab all right, but it was bigger by far than any he’d ever seen. The main shell measured nearly a foot across.
“What do you feed these buggers to make ’em grow like
this?” Jones exclaimed.
“They grow like that in deep water, buddy. No help from me. I hear the Japs used to catch them around here before we kicked their ass.”
“They good to eat?”
“Well, the legs shake out meat by the hunk. Tubes of it! Three-five times thicker than from one of them Seattle Dungeness crabs. Got a restaurant in town that buys from me. They give those legs some French name and serve ’em at a high price. Cover ’em with some kind of pink or red stuff I hear, then don’t mind charging for it. They say. Suits me, since I charge them more by the pound than for a prime salmon.”
“Ever eaten any?”
“Not with some French name on it. But we boil one on the dock here now and then. It’s definitely crab, but you can’t eat much all at once. Leg meat’s rich like butter. One of the boys said it reminds him of lobster from back East.” He glanced at Jones and shrugged. “I might have been to Iwo and places, but never to Boston where they sell lobster.”
“Iwo, eh?” Jones nodded slowly. “You own that boat?”
“Me and the government.”
Jones hesitated before offering: “Did the Canal and Okie, myself.”
The man studied Jones for the first time. “Huh. Well, then. You look over those crabs. King crabs we call ’em. Then come aboard and maybe I’ll find us a drink somewhere.”
“I’ve got a buddy here with me. He’s snooping down the pier just now, but he’s with me. He was only navy. But Pacific.”
“Only navy. Too bad. But he’s welcome too.”
Jones took one of the creature’s legs to pull it from the net. Its big claw at the end of the leg opened and closed sluggishly. Claws on the other of its eight legs snagged in the net, all in slow motion. Jones bent down and started to yank free a tangled claw.
“Careful, man! Those claws might not be snappers like the Seattle crabs, but let one close slow on your hand and you’ll have less fingers than ten.” Jones found himself laughing. Something he hadn’t done for a while.
When, not long after, Jones and Gus jumped over the rail—not soberly leg by leg, as he would have done just hours before, but with a spirited leap—he declared by way of introduction, “Name’s Henry, Jones Henry. And this here’s Rosvic. Gus.”
The hand that gripped his was appropriately large and firm. “Hoss is name enough for me.” The man had put his wool shirt back on and had shoved the flaps into his dungarees. He hung his oilskin jacket neatly on a hook by the cabin, opened the wooden door, and gestured them inside. “Two steps down. Careful with your head.” On entering himself, he removed his watch cap, releasing long blond hair tied up with a strip of red cloth. “You’re sure a hoss with a tail, Hoss,” joked Gus.
“Keeps it out of my eyes, buddy. I always said when they’d shave my hair to the skin back there in the Pacific, that some day I’d see how long it could grow when I didn’t need to worry about lice.” He gestured grandly. “Just sit where you please.”
The seating choices consisted of a single bench alongside the narrow table that filled the center of the cabin. One end of the bench adjoined a platform by the steering wheel; the opposite end crowded an oil stove radiating heat. There was a small sink opposite the stove, stacked with plates and cups in even rows. Above on each side was a pair of curtained bunks. Despite the cramped quarters, no woman could have kept the cabin in better order, Jones noted. Quite the opposite of his own boat cabin—and that was smaller by a few feet.
Hoss opened a cabinet above the sink and brought out a nearly full bottle of whiskey. Strips of black tape anchored the cap to the glass. “This ain’t a drinking boat, fellahs. Nobody touches the stuff at sea or even at anchor. But here in port, tied secure, with crew ashore and probably boozed by now anyhow, just a shot won’t hurt.” He paused. “To tell the truth, sometimes I get . . . well . . . bad dreams.” Hoss glared at Jones. “Things you can’t forget, especially after everybody’s stopped talking and gone to sleep.”
“You know it,” Jones said softly.
“I figured you might.”
“Don’t need to explain.”
Hoss brought down glasses from a cupboard and poured a measured three fingers of the amber liquid into each. “Water over there for anybody who wants it.” He replaced the bottle and shut the cabinet door. “Overdoin’ it ain’t my style. Too easy then to . . . you know?” He raised his glass, leaned over to clink both of theirs, and drained the whiskey in two rapid gulps. Jones glanced at Gus, shrugged, and followed suit. Gus laughed and raised his glass. “Okay, down the hatch!”
Jones’s eyes watered and his throat burned. At least it appeared that Gus was having the same problem. He coughed and regained his voice. “Good stuff.”
“Only one life. No use to drink shit.” The whiskey spread warmth to every dark corner of Jones’s body. He settled back. “You keep a shipshape place here, buddy.”
“You know any other way, marine?”
“Sounds like you was a real ass-buster.”
“Well, one thing the Marines taught me was standards!”
Jones thought it over before declaring with a cheerfulness he hadn’t felt for a long time, “Good thing, standards.”
“You know it.”
“So . . .” Jones glanced around and, growing increasingly relaxed, leaned back against one of the lower bunks and put his hands behind his head. “Catching these big crabs, huh?”
Hoss glanced at Gus from under thick black eyebrows leveled to a scowl. “Not sure I trust Navy here with a secret.”
Gus waved his hand in good humor. “Ever heard of navy honor, buddy? Trust me. We did the Pacific, too, you know.”
“Yeah,” muttered Jones with continued high spirits. “With a clean bed every night.”
“The fact is . . .” Hoss stopped to study them, then wiped a hand across his forehead. “Fact is . . . navy transport once . . . It was taking us from one island to the next. Got torpedoed.” He forced a laugh. “At least a foxhole don’t sink under you.”
They fell silent. Finally Jones cleared his throat. “Those are big crabs, like I was saying.”
Hoss came back to life. “Yeah. Well. You see. Before the war, the Japs knew about these king crabs. Caught ’em. Shipped ’em home. Got rich on our American resources, since those Japs eat anything. Took us what?—four hard years to put a stop to that shit. Those years taken right out of my ass and yours. Now, them crabs belong to nobody but us.”
“You can say that again!” The whiskey had turned Jones mellow. It wouldn’t hurt, he thought, if this new buddy broke out the bottle again. He turned toward the cabinet. The guy’s glance caught his, as if the man knew what he was thinking. Eyes turned sharp with lids compressed—the look lasted just seconds, before settling back into a cool gaze. Even the lips around his unshaven chin had tightened. Leave be, Jones decided on the instant. This man needs space. Bad stuff had been out there in the Jap-land Pacific—things one drink might help make bearable, but more could make them boil over. “Crabs are ours and you’re catching ’em, eh?”
Hoss resumed with less hesitation. “There’s this American fellow named Wakefield. Lowell Wakefield. He’s got a special-built factory ship called Deep Sea. Scouting where the big crabs are. Mainly in the Bering. But he’s got some of us prospecting around here, too. I’ve leased this little dragger instead of hitting the salmon at this time, like I’d be doing in other years. Call it a gamble. I never took a chance like this before. Always depended on the salmon run to see me through, you know? But . . . only got this one life.”
Jones nodded. “You can say that again.”
“The fact is, after I mustered out, I wasn’t sure what I wanted for a couple of years. Figured I’d do something new and fuck if it don’t work out. So I crewed one winter for Lowell aboard that dragger Deep Sea. Back in winter of ’47. Bering Sea. Weather was a bitch most of the time. Wind usually up to a gale. On deck, twelve hour shifts. You’d bat ice off your shoulders and watch it blow like ashes out into those black waves. No
t that I wasn’t up to anything that came. We tried for both bottomfish and king crabs at first. Then hit a real field of these crabs. Saw the future, man.”
Gus rose and happily bumped his fist against the overhead for emphasis. “Right on! That’s the sort of reason why I sprung for an engine in Bristol Bay, buddy. Take the chance and go for it. Now Jones here—not saying he ain’t finest kind, top notch. But he only wants for nothing to change.”
“Bull.” Jones said it with none of the heat he’d usually feel when cold sober. “Those crabs you have out there are big buggers,” he mused. “Makes a right kind of handful, each one, when you grab him.”
“You know it. Then think when you’ve got a whole drag of ’em aboard. They try to claw right through your boots. Pick each one from the net ’til your arms hurt.”
“Whoo!” Gus exclaimed. “Guess I’d need another slug to handle that kind of crab!” He glanced toward the cabinet.
“Middle of the day, you asshole?” Jones exclaimed before Hoss could reply. “No thanks from both of us. This ain’t the navy. We’ve got stuff here in town to do.” He turned quickly to Hoss. “Now me. I wouldn’t mind my arms to hurt from pitching crabs like that!”
Hoss grinned. He seemed relieved. “And what you just picked up outside was nothing. This is still the wrong season for big hauls. Crabs are just finished moulting. Those buggers will be nearly twice as full of meat by October-November if we leave ’em be now.”
“Then why catch them now? You just showing off?”
“No harm to scout around and be prepared. That’s what I’m doing. Sure, we sell what we catch for whatever it brings—they still have meat, don’t they? Get restaurants interested in the product. Lowell says the meat packs well in cans, but whole legs frozen in their shells go to fancy restaurants for a better price. I’m talking about the future!”
“I guess I wouldn’t mind fishing them things. Never seen crabs like that down in Ketchikan.”
Hoss sized him up, took in his muscular appearance, then nodded. “I’m one man short. A guy just quit last week to crew salmon with his brother. I’d pay you half a crew share till I saw you knew the gear and could stand up to it. Not that a Marine couldn’t take anything that comes. Make it two-thirds.”
WARRIORS Page 29
