"Jacky, there's somethin' good in your dish! Come on boy!" Kari called when Ketch and the dog reentered the house. The dog trotted into the kitchen to find a bowl of the usual dog food, but this time with a fried egg on top. He stretched out on the floor with his back feet extended and his snout over the dish and began to leisurely feast on this unexpected bounty. He liked having this female here.
Ketch set the bag down just outside the kitchen, then added the newspaper he'd found on the deck to the ever-growing pile in the basket by the recliner. He was still behind on that, and he realized he also hadn't turned on the flat-screen TV he'd thought he needed even once in the last few days. He wondered if there'd be a Yankee game on this weekend; he'd have to check later.
He went to the kitchen and took over at the toaster. "Looks like you're planning on staying a while," he commented, nodding toward the bag.
"Oh, I just needed somethin' clean for today, and maybe tomorrow," she said. "I'm havin' a little problem at my apartment. The landlord said he'd try to get the exterminator to come out today. If he does, I thought I'd bunk at the shop for a night or two. I can't abide that smell."
A little too pat? Maybe, maybe not - but Ketch was sensing something off-kilter here, even through the fog of his infatuation. This exterminator story didn't jive with her reaction at first seeing him last night, nor with her remark about simply not feeling like going home; and both that remark and the exterminator bit were inconsistent with the duffel bag, which contained more than a day or two's worth of clothing and was clear evidence of premeditation. The questionable instincts of his fledgling detective alter ego again, like last night?
It was probably callous of him to be suspicious, and ungrateful as well considering the circumstances. He should just drop it. But he still couldn't help wondering - why didn't she want to go back to her apartment, really? Why did she really come here last night? Where did she get that bruise? What was she mumbling about in her sleep? She still hadn't asked him where he'd been yesterday - and not only did he appreciate that, he also correspondingly respected her own right to privacy. He decided he wouldn't push; if there was something she wanted to talk with him about, she'd bring it up when she was ready. But he thought of an experiment he might try, just to see what happened.
"Nonsense, you don't have to stay at the shop. I told you, you can stay here whenever you need to." That number four started flashing in his mind again, and it occurred to him that her staying here might crimp his style, so to speak - but he meant what he said. He couldn't let her sleep alone on some old cot in the back of a store.
"I know you did. It was the second thing you said the other night. See, I told you I wasn't that wasted," she reminded him with a quick smile. "But I didn't want to wear out my welcome, so I wasn't gonna ask."
Right, he thought - she was instead going to plant a seed and let him work his way around to it on his own, as he'd just done. He was finally starting to learn now how this worked. Or was he just being paranoid? But it was all right with him either way- and he'd be an ingrate to complain, with everything he was getting in return. He made a mental note that they'd have to at some point start working on communicating better with each other, and more honestly, assuming of course his feelings for her were reciprocated. He figured that might come naturally with time, though, and meanwhile putting up with a little subterfuge, if that's what it was, now and then wasn't all that much trouble.
"Well, consider it done," he said. "You'll stay here, for as long as you need to."
"Thank you so much!" she said. "I mean it, I gotta admit I wasn't lookin' forward to stayin' somewhere else. I mean, at the shop, I spend so much time there already as it is." She stopped what she was doing and gave him another hug. This is ridiculous, he thought - he was already ready again. But refusing to let himself be distracted this time, he performed his experiment instead.
"It's nothing, say no more about it," he said. "And by the way, don't let me forget, before you leave this morning I want to give you a check for that class I signed up for. I'd like to get that out of the way. And I want to pay your individual instructional rate. Your time is valuable, and I don't want to take advantage."
The effect was almost magical. She went completely limp in his arms, like a helpless rag doll - muscles of hers that he hadn't even known were tensed, and that she might not have known of herself, were no more, and she hugged him even tighter. "Thank you," she said, "God knows, I could use it." She backed away a little and looked up at him. "You've got really good timin', you know that? And I don't just mean with this." Then she looked away and said, "Come on, let's eat."
Small talk occupied the rest of their short time together this morning. Again Ketch didn't press, as he'd earlier resolved not to - but it was apparent to him that her coming into a little money had made a noticeable difference in her demeanor. She was even more effervescent than usual, and she looked like a weight had been lifted from her.
So was it just a temporary financial reprieve for the shop that was responsible for this, or did she need the money for something else? 'I'll get it,' he remembered she'd said in her sleep. Get what, money? And for whom? Was this connected with however she'd really gotten that bruise? Was someone 'shaking her down'? Was that the appropriate noir mystery term? And if so, why? Or did her mother need money, maybe for a medical expense or some other kind of emergency? Did Kari herself have a medical problem of some sort? It was all just conjecture at this point. He was sure he'd find out eventually. Meanwhile, it would be interesting to see if she still felt the need to stay at Port Starbird with him after she cashed that check. He hoped she would.
While he was trying to prevent his imagination from running away with him, she finished eating and said, "I better get goin'. You could stop by the shop later if you want. If you've got nothin' else to do, I mean." But he did indeed have things to do - three more, in fact. "Or are you gonna clean your boat today?"
"I should," he said, though he knew he wouldn't. "I'll tell you what, I may not be able to get there earlier, but I'll be there by closing time, and I'll bring the tank. Then I'll take you to the Froggy Dog for dinner, how about that?"
"Oh, I'd love that, I haven't been there in ages! I don't get there much. It's kind of on the expensive side, you know."
Before she left the table he wrote out the check and gave her an extra house key. Then, after she'd gotten herself together and departed for wherever it was she really had to go this morning, Ketch shaved, took the dog out again, and prepared to head down to the boatyard. It was time to check a second item off his virtual to-do list.
~ ~ ~
10. Now it was time to think of the one thing for which he was born.
Ketch had seriously considered tailing Kari, the way he'd done with Mick, but he'd decided against investigating further at this time. First, he thought it would be wrong to invade her privacy; second, he didn't know if he could pull it off in broad daylight and he'd be mortified if she caught him at it; and third, he had an important task to cross off his list right now, one that might be time-sensitive and that should thus be completed as soon as possible.
Listen to me, he thought as he drove down to the boatyard - 'tailing' her, not just 'following'; and 'investigating', and 'premeditation', and 'shakedown'. And he was driving the pickup rather than walking or biking, with his backpack within easy reach on the seat beside him; he'd left the dog at home; and the backpack contained a set of binoculars, his camera, three water bottles, three granola bars, and a large empty wide-mouth jar. His cell phone was clipped to his belt, and he had a small notebook and pen in his shirt pocket. Finally, his camera and cell phone batteries were fully charged, and the truck had a full tank of gas after a quick stop at the Barefoot Station.
His parents might be pleased if they could see him now - even if he was still missing many of the classical noir trappings, like the fedora, the cheap suit, the drinking problem, and the long-legged dame with a hidden agenda. Though on second thought, maybe he'd come cl
ose enough this week on that last item. Oh, and a gun, he supposed.
Where indeed are his folks now, he wondered, and not for the first time. He had no idea, and he didn't think anyone else really did either. He sometimes wished he could blindly believe in something, the way most people did - heaven, hell, nirvana, reincarnation, astrology, voodoo, witchcraft, black cats, something - but he couldn't stomach any of the organized superstitions, as he liked to term the world's prevailing religions. While there might well be some sort of greater power or powers at play in the universe, he was certain it would be nothing like any of the anthropomorphic and dogmatic representations that had been variously foisted on the gullible masses throughout history.
He wished he could at least know that sentience doesn't simply cease to exist at death - but he did recognize the falsity of human conceit, and that could be something. Despite the expansive breadth and depth of all our accumulated knowledge, we really know next to nothing about the incomprehensibly profound and innumerable intricacies of the infinite wilderness of space and time we exist in - and because of this, perhaps all things were possible, and maybe that was enough to allow the faithless like himself to hope.
And that's enough deep thinking for one day, he decided as he pulled into the boatyard. Back to business.
It looked like things were pretty quiet here this morning. Those who had somewhere to go had apparently already gone, and those who didn't might still be asleep. He saw that Mario's boat was tied up at the dock, and he wasn't detecting any overt activity there either.
Okay, mister smart detective, he suddenly thought - ever picked a lock? It had just occurred to him that if Mario wasn't on board his boat, as he'd initially hoped, then the cabin door would probably be locked. What would he do then? Well, as Senator Ted might say, he'd drive off that bridge when he came to it.
He left the truck and strode purposefully out to Mario's boat, just as if he had a good reason to be there. He boarded the boat and found the door was unlocked. He took a quick, light-footed stroll around the perimeter of the cabin and glanced in through the windows. He couldn't see any movement, but he did see the GPS unit he was after. Congratulating himself on his luck, he thought about just opening the door and going in. But then he decided to try knocking first.
It was a good thing he did. Mario came to the door almost immediately and squinted at Ketch through the glass. Maybe he'd been in the head. He swung the door open and spread his arms.
"Hey Ketch, what's up amigo?" Mario said. "Come on in!"
"Thanks, Mario. I hope I didn't wake you."
"Nope, I just got up, so your timing is perfect." It must be, Ketch thought - this was the second time he'd heard that this morning. "Hey, you want some coffee?" And that, too. "I just made some."
"No thanks," Ketch said. Mario motioned for him to sit at the table and then joined him with a steaming cup.
"So what can I do for you, my man? By the way, thanks again for havin' us over the other night, that was a nice little party."
"You're quite welcome," Ketch said, "and thanks for coming." Now what? He had to come up with some reason for being here. He tried to concentrate. "Well," he started, "I was just wondering about something..." Wondering about what? Ah yes - the obvious finally jumped up and smacked him in the face. He should have thought of this right off.
"I don't usually do this, but I was wondering if you might be able to spare a little weed? If you have enough, of course. Not a lot, just a little for some company I might have coming into town soon. You know me, I like to be a good host, keep the customers happy, and these people..." he said, and then forced himself to stop talking.
"Sure thing, amigo! Not a problem! What are we talkin' here, enough for a couple joints? Three, four, half-ounce, ounce?"
"Oh, probably three would be good," Ketch said, and then added in another moment of inspiration, "and would you mind rolling them for me? I've tried it before, and I'm no good at it."
"No problem! I'll just go on down right now and get that taken care of. Hey, you want me to teach you how to do it right?"
"Actually, thanks anyway, but would you mind if I took a look at your GPS while you're doing that? I'm thinking about buying a new one, and I noticed you have a Garmin, which is what I'm considering."
"Sure, go right ahead, man." Mario rose from the table and headed off, cup in hand. "Back in a flash if not sooner!"
Could it really be this easy? Could Mario really be that guileless? It would seem so. Still, he wasn't completely out of the woods yet. He'd have to work fast - but that shouldn't be a problem, as he was in fact already familiar enough with this GPS, since luckily he already owned almost the exact same model - and both of these models had memory.
What could be a problem would be if Mario hadn't set a waypoint at the dump site - which he may well not have if they were just dumping the drums at random. But even then, Ketch knew there would be a track log, which Mario was likely to have used, and from which the tracks had to be manually cleared. So if he hadn't deliberately cleared the track from last night, Ketch could still find out where he'd dumped those drums.
As it turned out, there was a waypoint in the Atlantic east of Oregon Inlet that looked promising - and only one, not several, which could be a good thing as it implied there might be only one dump site. He extracted the notebook from his shirt pocket and jotted down the numbers. Again, could it really be this easy? He wondered how long this lucky streak he'd been on lately would hold out.
Mario hadn't returned yet, so Ketch glanced at the track log - which hadn't been cleared. He found the track from last night and saw that it matched up with the waypoint; and a quick scan through the log showed no other tracks that seemed relevant. He switched off the GPS just as Mario came back with his contraband.
"Here you go, my man!" he said, holding up a plastic baggy with three exceptionally fat joints in it.
"Thanks, they look great, really," Ketch said. Thinking fast, he added, "I made a note of this model number, so I wouldn't forget it." He quickly pocketed the notebook and took the baggy. "So, how much do I owe you?" he asked, carefully stashing the baggy in a pocket of his cargo shorts and zipping it shut. "For parts and labor," he lightly added.
"Hey, for you? Nothin' this time, amigo - on the house!" Mario replied. Through a brief storm of protests, Mario continued to insist and Ketch had to finally acquiesce. Despite what Ketch now knew, he still felt a stab of affection for this generous outlaw - or rather, criminal now, he supposed. He'd be genuinely sorry when he finally did what he knew he had to do.
"So, you want to talk about the job?" Mario asked, referring to Ketch's floatation blocks. "Or should we wait 'til Len's around?"
With everything else that had been happening, Ketch had almost forgotten about that. Another complication... How could he make this man work for him and then turn him in? But he guessed he didn't have much choice at this late stage of the game. And anyway, who said he had to name names, after all? While he wouldn't at all mind punishing Mick, whom Ketch had never liked and who probably amply deserved some kind of punishment, Ketch didn't feel the same compulsion where Mario was concerned. Maybe he'd just let the authorities figure it out for themselves, if they could - and if they couldn't, then so be it.
"Um, yes, that's probably a good idea," he stammered. "We'll get together then. I'll give you my cell number, and you can give me a call sometime when you're both available."
He extricated himself as graciously as possible. As he disembarked, he noticed the Captain was puttering around now on the Minnow. He didn't really want to take the time right now to go into the explanation he knew the Captain was waiting for, but how could he avoid it? He tarried on the dock where a houseboat shielded him from the Captain's view, then started to thread his way back to his truck as unobtrusively as possible.
But not unobtrusively enough, as evidenced by the familiar booming voice that now shattered the early morning quiet of the boatyard. "Ahoy there, Mister Ketchum! Top a the mornin
' to y'all!" Ketch heard several kerplunks from the neighboring marsh; probably bullfrogs. He turned and backtracked a bit in the direction of the Captain's boat, just so they wouldn't have to yell to each other.
"Good morning," Ketch said. Before he could continue, the Captain spoke again.
"Hey, I been meanin' to ask, how come you-know-who's car was still parked at your place yesterday mornin'? Is that why y'all didn't want to come down here with the rest of us? You dawg! Come aboard and tell me all about it! And while you're at it, I still wanna know what the Christ you're really up to with them blocks!"
Since the Captain was grinning at him, Ketch briefly grinned back, but then he said, "I'm sorry, but I can't talk right now. I have to get going."
"Oh." The Captain's grin faded. "Hey, sorry if I offended y'all."
"No, not at all, I'm not offended," Ketch hastened to reply. Though he hated doing it, he could see it was time for another lie. He wondered how a habitual liar could keep up the charade for very long; he was already starting to lose track. "I have an appointment."
"Oh yeah? What kind? You finally decide to sell?" the Captain asked - testing, apparently.
"No, it's something else. It's nothing to worry about. I'll explain later, maybe tomorrow, okay?"
"Tomorrow? Must be some appointment," the Captain said. "Did you have another one down here at the yard this mornin'?" Ketch shook his head and turned to go. "Okay, never mind, I'll mind my own bidness. Hey, before you run off, I got a dive charter on Saturday. You interested?"
"Yes, and thanks!" Ketch called. He waved once and kept walking. He needed to get out of here.
And he was greatly relieved when he finally did, though he knew the reprieve would be short-lived; the Captain wouldn't let him slide for too much longer. But he'd gotten by for now, and he had the coordinates he needed; plus a little of Kari's 'wacky terbacky' to boot, which his new paramour might appreciate. He wondered what it would be like with her after a taste of that; he'd never tried that before.
Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) Page 12
