“What gold? both boys said,as one.
I massaged my forehead with both hands.
“You tell them,” I instructed Hathoot.
I started helping our driver get all the luggage back into the van. We rode to the nearest downtown hotel, called the Totem Square Inn. The boys talked excitedly for the entire short trip. I got three rooms for the lot of us. The Basque got her own room. The boys were booked together and I put myself in with Hathoot. He complained, of course, about his money, the loss of his job, and my fault in all of it. I remained silent, mentally rehearsing myself to talk to my control officer at the Agency.
I waited until late morning to make my call. Everyone, except the Basque, slept in. She was in the lobby, where I went to get coffee after finishing my thirty-minute conversation. The call went well, until Webb handed me off to an analysis officer named Boatwright. I listened to the strangest chewing-out I’d ever received from a man who wasn’t even in operations. Apparently, the analyst had somehow become personally responsible for Kenneth’s reunion with his father. For one of the few times in my career, I hung up on an Agency officer in the middle of a call.
I sat in the threadbare lobby. The blond veneered furniture was dated and ugly, but it was adequate for just lounging around. The Basque asked me how it had all gone.
“The papers proved to be no problem. Filipe and Gloria will have what they need and Marlys and her Mom, too. General delivery, waiting for them at the post office in Waikiki. I’ll just have to get word to them to pick it all up. Your stuff will come to the Nugget in Nome, express. And Ivan’s, as well. No problem. They aren’t happy with Ken’s decision not to go home. But there’s nothing they can do about it. They’re even less happy about my taking a couple of weeks off on vacation. They don’t believe me. They don’t trust me. But then they never have.”
I drank some of my coffee, not expecting a response.
“Should they?” she asked, drinking something from her own cup. It wasn’t coffee, that I knew.
I thought about her question. It didn’t really call for an answer. It was rhetorical. The Basque was an intelligent enigma. She took in information, like the Agency, and gave out almost none, like the Agency. I wasn’t certain I liked her, but I respected her.
We flew out in the afternoon, paying a fortune for last minute tickets on Alaska Air and for our severely overweight baggage. We had to hide the wine inside our other stuff as they wouldn’t even consider approving its transportation. We had to transfer in Anchorage and then fly out of there at midnight. It was still summer, however, so it was still very light.
Our arrival in Nome was, as before, in the early morning hours. There were no vans and only two broken down taxis. Both drivers were asleep, not even awakened by the sound of a jet liner on final taxi.
The run into the middle of Nome took only moments. I paid the fare with some of Hathoot’s money. We weren’t running low on cash, but every dollar was going to have to count. There would be no way to replenish our cash reserves. None that I could think of, anyway.
Nobody manned the Nugget’s front desk, but I had expected that. The drivers piled our luggage into the foyer.
“Let’s go,” I said to everyone present. “We’ll sleep later.”
I led them to the glass doors of the restaurant. When we were assembled, I pushed lightly against the right door. It opened. I smiled. We went into a shambled mess.
It was not as bad as it had been my last time around, but I bet myself that the place was left in a sad state every night out of deliberation. It was a strange Alaskan tradition. My definition of strange had changed dramatically, however, over the passage of the past few weeks. Deep down, I was glad the place needed us so badly.
I set everyone to work. I found the manager’s apron in the back room hanging on a hook. I donned it. Only Hathoot lounged, still unable to actively get about. He did make the coffee and then made sure everyone had enough of it. He’d also brought in his small CD player, now reclaimed. The contacts, where he had rewired it to record events in my shipboard cabin, had deteriorated. He tinkered to make it work.
I cleaned the stoves while I watched him fiddle. I had fallen asleep at the Totem listening to him drone on and on, endlessly, about the beauty and wonder of Benito. If only he had been able to stay aboard, he could have lived in complete bliss. If we had to stay together in the future, I determined right then that we would each room with one of the boys.
The Basque labored like a fiend, clearing tables and getting all the dishes done. The boys mopped the floors and even did the windows, which hadn’t seen care in years. By the time the owner came in, I was serving scrambled eggs with bacon and sausage to everyone. He positioned himself near the double doors, looking around. His eyes met mine.
“You, you’re back. You’ve decided to take my offer.” He laughed, as he advanced toward us. “But who are your friends?”
He stuck out his big hand to each person as he approached, except the Basque. He simply bowed to her and then moved on to where I stood. He pointed at the “Cochon” apron I wore. Then he laughed openly.
“It sure suits you to a T.”
“Breakfast?” I asked him, frowning.
I had not intended to claim the man’s title. He took a seat next to Hathoot at the bar and then rocked back and forth. I served him what the rest of us were eating and poured him a bowl of coffee.
“There’s no ship in the harbor this time,” he said between bites.
“I came about one, though,” I said, leaning into the counter across from him.
His eyebrows went up, but he didn’t reply. He was too busy with his breakfast.
“Well, you sure can cook, to add to your other talents.” He looked around at my companions. “Anthropology. Somehow, these people are all traveling with you, or at least gathered here with you, as a result of your being an anthropologist?”
He knew better. His last question to me, I recalled, which had gone unanswered at the time, had been “Who are you really?” He was still searching for that answer.
“That boat you mentioned—” I began, but he cut me off.
“The Retriever. Ship, not a boat. Boats are under a hundred feet. The Retriever is right at a hundred. The last landing craft tank ship around. Leftover from the big war. Used later by NASA to recover space capsules, hence the name. Three two-twenty horse Detroit diesels. She’ll make eight knots carrying over a hundred tons and through the roughest seas this ocean can throw at her. I still got her. What do you want her for?”
He sat back, rocking, his breakfast consumed. I refilled his bowl of coffee.
“What’s your name?” I asked, to delay him.
He was way ahead of where I wanted him to be. He had lived in Alaska a long time and served in the Navy before that. Not much got by him. It made me uncomfortable. When he didn’t answer right away, I pressed the point.
“And don’t tell me you have one of these exotic names I have become so used to hearing up here.”
He rocked some more.
“John Smith, proprietor of the Golden Nugget and captain of the Retriever,” he said, then stuck out his hand.
“Arch Patton. Late of the M/S World Discoverer. Some people call me Indy, but I don’t much like that. I’m soon to be transport chief aboard the Retriever, however, if we can come to terms. What do you want for her?”
I took his hand and shook it. We both warmed to the other. I genuinely liked the man. I had from the first moment I had met him. Rough around the edges, that John Smith, Captain.
It came to me in a flash. Captain John Smith. Pocahontas and the Jamestown mythology. There it was again, I realized. I could not climb out of the rabbit hole, no matter how close I came to the edge.
But my liking the man was tempered, by recent experience. I had also liked the Captain of the Russian cruiser, for a time.
“Not for sale. I’ll rent her, but only if I’m the captain,” Smith insisted.
He drank from his bowl. I stared at him. Was he holding me up for a higher price? My memory was not off. He had told me earlier, quite clearly, that the boat was for sale or rent. I tried a different tack.
“We’ll be out there, running from island to island for quite some time. Weeks, maybe months. Who’s going to run this place while you are gone?”
I smiled at the man as if to reassure him that I was actually trying to help him.
“Not many months. Not in these waters. Winter comes early up here, not that you’d notice just yet. Maybe a month and a half. And there really aren’t many inhabited islands out there. Besides, I’ve got a manager now. She’s a beaut. Be here in a bit. Take me along. It’ll be cheaper. And you’ll need me, unless you’ve captained a boat in these waters before. What do you have for money?”
He smiled back at me with the same smile, as if he was actually trying to help me. I liked him all the more. He was right, I knew. The waters were terribly treacherous and we’d be running in and out of shallow waters. None of us had any experience in such things.
I carefully unstrapped one of the leather bands of Krugerrands I had left. I rolled it into a ball, then set it in front of him.
“Jesus Christ,” he swore loudly, staring down at the edges of the revealed coins. “Krugers, no less,” he breathed. “How many you got?”
After a few moments of silence, he fingered the belt, and then eased one of the coins from its case. He massaged it lovingly.
“Good God, man, what are you into?”
He mouthed each syllable with reverence. His eyes, however, never left the coin.
“We’re into gold, as you see before you. You can come along, but it’s not been a smooth sail so far. There are bodies back there, behind us. Maybe some in front of us, too. Are you sure that this is something you want to do?”
I posed the last question without inflection. All of us waited for his answer in complete silence.
The Retriever was our only hope of transportation. The key to the continuance of the mission rested with the decision of one eccentric man. Captain John Smith suddenly stood up and then walked away. We all looked at each other, but said nothing. In seconds, he was back, once again taking his seat. He placed a heavy wrapped box in front of me.
“This’d be yours, I presume,” he intoned quietly.
I knew what was in the box without even touching the wrapping. On the brown paper was written “Patton” in big red letters. Underneath them were smaller letters. “We’re backing your play down here. We expect you’ll back our play up there.”
Maybe, just maybe, we would not be playing without any support at all.
“You look inside it?” I asked Smith directly.
“Does a hobby horse have a wooden dick?” he shot right back.
I fought back laughter.
“And so?” I inquired.
“It’s a big bore. I like big bores. Gotta fifty Ma Deuce under the floorboards of the ship. Now, that’s a big bore.”
Still, no one in our team spoke as I considered with some excitement what great value there might be to possessing a fifty-caliber machine gun in the time ahead. But we had to have commitment.
“And so?” I said again.
“I’m in,” he announced, his voice very soft, but missed by none of us.
It was as if a director on a Hollywood set said “ACTION!” Noise began again as the Basque cleared the plates. The boys went back to working on the windows and Hathoot banged the button on his CD player to see if he could bully it into working again. Music came out of it.
“Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t you … Forget about me … Will you stand above me? … Look my way and never love me … Rain keeps falling, rain keeps falling … Down, down, down, down …”
I recognized the song. It was by a group called Simple Minds. Again, in spite of my lack of belief, I felt God was speaking in His obscure fashion. I took my apron off, then held it out and examined it.
“Hey, Ken, you speak French. What does this really mean?”
Everyone turned to look at me, silent again, as before. John Smith stared, his face a blank. The boy walked over, looked at the inscription, then around at everyone waiting, and then directly at me. I saw conflict sweep across his face for a brief second before he answered.
“Ah, Indy, it means ‘The Boss.’”
About the Author
James Strauss was born into a U.S. Coast Guard family during WWII. He’s live in thirty-four places — from South Manitou Island in Michigan to Honolulu Hawaii — and held positions, with credentials, to serve in over twenty-five careers, ranging from University Professor in Anthropology, deep sea diver, and Physician’s Assistant to U.S. Marine Corps Officer, police officer, and novelist.
Mr. Strauss enjoyed publishing three novels (The Boy, The Warrior, and The Bering Sea); written numerous television and movie screenplays; and currently publishes a weekly newspaper, The Geneva Shore Report, in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, where he lives with his wife of forty-seven years.
Visit www.JamesStraussAuthor.com for exclusive peeks at new boks, author interviews, and more.
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