Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures)

by Garrett Dennis

  He stopped at the long bar-like reception counter and waited for someone to become available to help him. To his surprise, it turned out to be one of his dinner guests from Monday night. He tried to remember their names - Barb, Diana, Joette... Yes, this one was Joette, the one who'd been hanging on the Captain.

  "Well hey there Ketch, what can I do for y'all?" she inquired with a genuine smile.

  "Hello, Joette," Ketch said. Dispensing with further pleasantries, he pressed on. "If Mister Ingram is in, would you please tell him Mister Ketchum would like to see him?"

  "I could," she said, lowering her voice. "But I gotta tell ya, he's in some kinda mood this mornin'. He's been yellin' on the phone, and he told us no interruptions."

  "Really? Well, I'd appreciate it if you'd try. Or just point me in the right direction, if you'd rather, and I'll go knock on his door. I really need to see him, and I think he needs to see me." Having been lucky enough to find the man in, and feeling the adrenalin now, he was anxious to complete his business.

  "Well, I don't know..." she said.

  "I'm afraid I must insist," he said, determined now to not leave here empty-handed, not when he was this close. He clutched his envelope more tightly and waved it at her. "He has to see this today."

  Joette shrugged. "Okay, it's your funeral." She leaned across the counter and jerked her head toward the back hallway. "Take a right, last door on the left. Don't say I sent you."

  Ketch thanked her and hurried off in the indicated direction. It was time to get this over with.

  ~ ~ ~

  13. He wished he could see him once more, to know what he had against him.

  He drew his weapon, held it straight out in front of him, and zigzagged toward the office in a semi-crouch, quickly verifying that each intervening room was clear along the way and taking care to avoid tripping on his trench coat. Procedure be damned - there'd once been a time for talk, but it had expired. When he reached the closed office door, he lowered his shoulder and rammed it without preamble, executed a forward roll through the splintered doorway while simultaneously sweeping the room with staccato bursts from his semi-automatic, and came to rest on one knee with the barrel of the gun pointing straight at the chest of the lone man left standing behind the desk. He still had his hat on, and he was in charge now.

  Ketch briefly wondered if he could use this daydream somewhere in his gestating (or would 'festering' be a better word choice?) novel. His parents might have enjoyed reading a hunk of cheese like that, he supposed, but he doubted anyone else would nowadays. He refocused and knocked politely but firmly on the door.

  "I said no interruptions!" came an angry voice from within. Then shortly, "Oh, never mind, come on in." Ketch turned the knob and opened the door.

  "Sorry, didn't mean to bite your head off, it's been a hell of a mornin'..." Ingram started to explain, then stopped when he looked up and saw who his visitor was.

  "You!" he exclaimed. "What are you doin' here?" He exhaled loudly and sat back in his oversized leather desk chair. "Who let you in here? You don't have an appointment, that I can recall." His eyes bored straight into Ketch's and the impatience in them was obvious. "Well?"

  Ketch's mouth suddenly went dry again, and he was afraid he wouldn't be able to speak. But wait - wasn't it just yesterday he'd been congratulating himself on his newfound composure under duress? He could do this, he told himself; he had to do this.

  He looked away from Ingram's stare and tried to generate some saliva by thinking of something appetizing - the crab puffs at the Froggy Dog, the gourmet pizza at Gidget's, a sundae at the DQ, Kari earlier this morning... Whatever it was that finally did the trick, it worked. He swallowed once, resumed eye contact, and started talking.

  "No, I don't have an appointment, and I apologize for that," he enunciated clearly, managing to keep his voice even in the bargain. "But we have some urgent business to attend to."

  "Do we now? Well, I guess I might could humor you, since you're here anyway." Ketch silently closed the door and took a seat in front of the desk. "So, what's so damn urgent? I'm busy here. Did you finally decide to sell? Is that your big news?"

  Ketch skidded his manila envelope across the desk. "Please take a look at these pictures."

  "Pictures? Of what?" Ingram snatched the envelope, dumped its contents onto the desk, and quickly fanned through the printed photographs. "What the hell is all this?" he demanded.

  "I'll summarize for you," Ketch said. Now that he'd gotten some traction, it seemed to be getting easier. "Those are pictures of hazardous waste from Tibbleson Construction being illegally dumped at sea. The ones on your left were taken on Roanoke on Tuesday night. The ones on your right were taken at the bottom of the ocean yesterday afternoon."

  Ingram stared at Ketch, then looked more closely at the pictures. "What the hell..." he mumbled. "Where'd you get these? What's this got to do with me? These don't even look real. What are you tryin' to pull here?" he asked, his voice rising again.

  Ketch remained calm, outwardly at least; so far so good. "I took them, and they're real. These are just computer printouts, but I have the originals. I can have a nice set of glossies made up for you if you like, I'll be making a set for the Coast Guard and the EPA anyway. And what they have to do with you is this - since you're running Tibbleson Construction now, you're liable for numerous felony violations of the federal Clean Water Act and Ocean Dumping Act, and some state laws as well. From what I've heard, the fines could be hefty, and someone might go to jail."

  "You don't say? Well, they might have to stand in line if they want it to be me." Ingram ran a hand through his hair and rubbed at his eyes. Ketch wanted to ask what he meant by that, but he didn't get the chance. "Assumin' you're tellin' the truth, what do you want me to do about it? Why are you here?"

  "I'll tell you -" Ketch began.

  "Forget it, this is bullshit," Ingram suddenly interrupted, waving Ketch off. "I need this right about now like a hole in the head. I know nothin' about any of this, it isn't my concern. I'm too busy for this."

  Ketch cleared his throat and leaned forward in his chair. "It will be your concern, if I report this."

  Ingram's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, 'if'?"

  "Well," Ketch began again. Here goes nothing, he thought. This is it, the big kahuna. Though his heart rate was elevated now and he had to work at it, he continued to keep his cool. Just a few more minutes, that was all it would take - and then everything would be right with his world again. "Here's the deal. I won't report this if you do two things. First, you see to it these drums get salvaged and disposed of properly, according to the law. Second, you promise to stop trying to take my house. In writing."

  Ingram's eyes widened and then he let out a great bark of a laugh, startling Ketch back into his seat. "Are you kiddin' me? You tryin' to blackmail me? Me? Jesus H. Christ!" He stopped laughing and swept the pictures from his desk onto the floor. "Who the hell do you think you are?" He rose from his chair and pointed a finger at Ketch. "Blackmail is illegal, sir! Get out of my office before I call the sheriff!"

  Ketch felt his face redden. This wasn't turning out to be quite as easy as he'd hoped. "It isn't blackmail, it's a business deal. You do something for me, I do something for you. Weasels like you must make backroom deals like this all the time."

  "What? You're callin' me names now?" Ingram exploded. "Damn you! I should call the sheriff on you right now!"

  "Go ahead," Ketch said. "It'll be your word against mine. And I'll call the Coast Guard, and then maybe you'll get fined and run out of money and I won't have to worry about my house anyway." He stood and pointed a finger of his own, surprising himself again with his audacity. "You have one hour to decide, and then I'm calling the Coast Guard." He started to turn toward the door.

  "God damn it!" Ingram was shouting now. "I will not be ordered around by the likes of you! Get out!"

  Ingram was bluffing; he'd see reason, he'd call. He had to - didn't he? "You can keep the pictures fo
r your scrapbook, along with the ones of your murdered wives," Ketch tossed back over his shoulder, in what he thought was a nice noir touch.

  A second later something whizzed past said shoulder, ricocheted loudly off the far wall, and bounced across a table. It looked like a paperweight. Ketch spun around in surprise. "You son of a bitch, I said get the hell out!" Ingram bellowed, groping this time for a rather large stapler.

  Ketch fumbled with the knob for a moment that seemed to last forever, then got the door open and himself out of the room before anything else could come flying at him. He took a few shaky steps down the hall toward a rest room he'd noticed earlier. He went in, locked himself in a stall, and leaned against the wall. He was dizzy and having trouble catching his breath.

  When he felt he could walk again, he cautiously exited the rest room into the fortunately empty hallway, then stood as straight as he could and marched back outside to his truck, ignoring the curious stares of the employees in the reception area. Joette started to follow him out and tried to say something to him, but he didn't know nor care what and didn't acknowledge her. He climbed into his truck, quickly put it in gear, and spun out of the parking lot.

  He made it back to the house safely, though he'd driven on autopilot and wouldn't remember anything about the drive later. He stormed in and went immediately to his bathroom, paying no attention to the dog's initially excited attempts to greet him. Seeing that his face in the mirror was alarmingly red, he ran the water as cold as possible and splashed copious amounts of it over his head, then held both of his wrists under the faucet for a while. Though it was but a dim and vague memory now, the dog had seen behavior like this before and quietly held back, watching Ketch closely.

  When Ketch abruptly stomped out to the kitchen without bothering to towel off, the dog followed but kept his distance. Ketch grabbed a couple of bottles of beer from the refrigerator and went out to the front porch. The dog made it through behind him before the screen door slammed shut. While Ketch ensconced himself in a chair and worked at twisting open one of the bottles, the dog discreetly went down to the yard, did what he had to do, and returned to the porch. He again took up a position near Ketch, but not too near, and lay down and continued to observe.

  Ketch essentially chugged the first bottle, then immediately popped the second one. He was calmer now and would sip this one more slowly. He put his feet up on a table and finally noticed the freshly and neatly trimmed lawn. It looked better than when he did it himself.

  "Well, that's something," he said aloud. "Might not matter much now, though." He'd have to remember to put the mower away later. The dog, encouraged, crept a little closer to test the waters. Though Ketch had never hit him, he wasn't quite sure what to expect next.

  "Jack," he said. The dog's ears pricked up. "Come here, boy." The dog got up and went to Ketch and rested his head in Ketch's lap. Ketch softly stroked his head and neck, and the dog relaxed.

  "I'm sorry, boy. You're a good boy," he said. He continued to pet the dog for a while and sipped at his beer. "So, what do we do now?" he unproductively inquired of the dog. Things certainly hadn't worked out the way he'd hoped. He hadn't thought much about what the ramifications would be if his little ploy tanked, as it apparently had. There was probably no way in hell Ingram would let him sell now - he'd just seize the house, to save time and maybe out of spite as well. But still, even if Ingram ignored Ketch's ultimatum and failed to call, wasn't there a chance that turning him in to the feds might have some effect on the bastard's immediate plans? Doubtful, but possible.

  He found himself wondering why life had to be so hard for him, then mentally reprimanded himself. Granted some parts of his life had gotten messed up along the way - okay, some major parts - but it was generally he who'd messed them up, truth be told; and he knew life was a lot harder than this for an awful lot of other people in the world. At least he didn't have to eat bugs for lunch. Closer to home, he thought of his father, who'd grown up during the Depression and had been a fighter pilot in World War II. Everyone else from his flight class had died in that war, but he'd gotten lucky. Not so much afterward, though; there hadn't been money for college and though they hadn't technically been poor, there were not a lot of extras when Ketch was growing up. The only truly useful thing he'd inherited from his father was a stack of durable work bandanas, most of which he still used.

  Ketch had never had to serve his country. Viet Nam had lurked in the background when he'd gone off to college, but he'd had a student deferment and the draft had ended before he graduated. So he didn't have any post-traumatic stress disorder to use as a crutch or an excuse for his troubles, nor substance abuse problems, physical infirmities, or unusual personal tragedies, no more so than most middle-class Americans normally had to deal with; he only had his own defective self to blame.

  He started to nod off in his chair after he finished the second beer; he tried to sit up a little straighter to forestall it, but then thought, what the hell, why not? Every day was Saturday now, right, since he was retired? Though more often than not, he'd found it to be like a Saturday with all the Saturday chores. But sleeping had always been his best defense against unpleasantness, so he let it happen.

  A single bark from the dog woke him some time later. He winced when he sat up; his head felt like someone had put a bucket over it and was banging on it with a wooden spoon. Squinting, he panned his eyes around the yard to see what was bothering the dog, which turned out to be Kari's car pulling into the driveway.

  It looked like she was in a hurry. She barely gave the car time to come to a stop before hopping out and bounding up the front steps. "Are you okay?" she asked Ketch. She gave him a quick hug, then sat in a nearby chair and gave the dog a pat. "Hey, Jack, good boy. So?"

  "I guess I'm okay," he said, a bit puzzled. Why was she here? "I fell asleep."

  "Joette stopped by the shop on her lunch break. She told me what happened with you at the realtor's. I stuck a note on the door, locked up, and came right over. She was worried about you."

  "Really? Well, you can tell her I have a headache, but I'm fine otherwise."

  "Are you?" she frowned at him. "Look, I know I said I'd mind my own business, but maybe you should tell me what's goin' on with you, do you think? I mean, I'm worried about you too. Maybe there's some way I could help."

  Ketch frowned back at her. He actually didn't feel all that great, and he wasn't ready to do this right now. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? "I could ask you the same thing, you know."

  "Huh? What do you mean?"

  "I mean, what's going on with you? For example, why do you need money, who bruised your arm, how's the fumigating going, and why are you practically living here now?" he rattled off, immediately regretting having done so.

  She remained calm and regarded him evenly while he rubbed at the back of his head. "I'm goin' inside to get you a cold drink and somethin' for your headache. I'll be right back," she said.

  Damn; he shouldn't have done that. While she was gone, he decided to check his phone in case he'd been sleeping too soundly. Nope, no missed calls from Ingram, just the three from the Captain that had accumulated since yesterday and which he'd been ignoring, and it had been well over an hour now. So, the game was afoot... He'd better assemble his packages for the Coast Guard and the EPA, and put Mario and Len to work on those floats. Would it take them more than a week? Maybe not, if he could get them to hustle - but then, would he even have a week before Ingram lowered the boom? And would he have a week if the Coast Guard went after Mario? Maybe they wouldn't be able to identify Mario's boat from the pictures. Oh, and he should make sure he picked up his tanks for Saturday, if he could still take the time to play divemaster then; should he, or not? And... He should stop overtaxing his brain and get rid of this headache. But first of all, he should apologize, something he knew he'd never done enough of in the past.

  "I got you a pop, figured you might could use some caffeine," she said, returning with his drink and pills.
>
  "Thank you," he began. "Now, before you say anything else, I want to apologize. I have a headache and I'm frustrated. I shouldn't take it out on you, and I'm sorry I did that." There, that wasn't so hard; in fact, just saying it was making him feel a little better already.

  "Well, okay, I guess you're forgiven. Did you have any lunch at all? No? All right then, I'll go back and fix you a sandwich. You just rest here and come on in when you're ready."

  He took his pills and her advice, and tried to relax. Though he'd managed to extract himself from the self-pitying mindset he'd started falling into earlier, he had to allow himself the opinion that life, his and everyone else's, was seldom simple; it's often more than just the joy and pain of the path followed, it can also encompass alternate paths, the endless permutations of branches and forks not taken, the stuff of remorse and regret, all crowded together in one finite mind struggling to understand - if you let it. No wonder we get headaches, he thought - and with that thought, he decided to think of nothing.

  Which was easier said than done - but still, after a short while he felt considerably better. "Come on, Jack, let's have lunch," he said to the dog, who had stayed with him instead of following Kari despite the possibility of food. Ketch was impressed; he'd make sure he saved some of his sandwich for the dog.

  When Ketch entered the kitchen, Kari said, "Before you sit down, let me hug your neck," and proceeded to give him a long warm body hug that pretty much took care of the rest of the headache. He saw she'd made up a plate for herself as well. They sat down to eat.

  "I didn't get lunch either today, hope you don't mind," she said.

  "Of course not. What's mine is yours."

  "Yeah, well, about that... I don't have to stay here anymore, my apartment is livable. You know, if you're gettin' tired of me bein' around." When Ketch attempted to protest, she cut him off. "No, I understand, believe me, if you need some alone time. I do too, from time to time. It's not a big deal."