Black River

by G. M. Ford

  “Let’s do the bottom the same color it is now,” Corso said.

  Hansen chuckled and scribbled on his clipboard. “She was due for bottom work in the spring, anyway,” he said.

  “Tell the crew I’m grateful for them coming down on a Sunday.”

  He shrugged. “Christmas is coming. They can use the extra cash.”

  A burst of static hit his radio. He pulled it from his back pocket, pushed it against his lips, and spoke. Another longer burst of gibberish crackled from the speaker.

  “Bernie says your cab is at the gate.”

  “Have him let it in, will you? I’ve got more crap than I want to carry that far.” He gestured toward the dock, where a suitcase, a garment bag, a backpack, and an Igloo cooler lay in a heap.

  Hansen relayed the message and returned the radio to his pocket. “Got a number where you’re staying?”

  “I’ll call you,” Corso said.

  Hansen permitted himself a small smile. “Can’t be too careful, I guess,” he mused. “Be sure you keep in touch. You know how it is. There’s always something we didn’t count on in the estimate.”

  “That’s what insurance is for.”

  “You call them yet?”

  “Said they’ll have somebody out tomorrow.”

  “What’s your deductible?”

  “Fifteen hundred.”

  Paul Hansen snorted. “So you’re out what? Maybe five percent of the tag?”

  Corso shrugged. “I’d rather have the boat.”

  The sound of tires pulled Corso’s head around. Yellow cab. He crossed to the pile on the dock, threw the backpack over one shoulder, handed the garment bag and the cooler to Paul Hansen, and grabbed the suitcase.

  Satisfied that any hard work was past tense, the cabdriver got out and opened the trunk. Hanson and Corso threw his stuff inside and closed the lid. Corso sighed and gazed blankly out over the forest of grounded boats.

  Paul Hansen smiled and bopped him on the arm. “You getting that hard-core boaty look, Frank.”

  “What look is that?” Corso asked.

  Hansen inclined his head toward the old man on the Cheryl Anne. “You’re gonna end up like Ole there. I can see it coming.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Got him a nice snug little apartment over in Fremont. His kids pay for everything, utilities and all.”

  “Nice kids.”

  “He only goes there to shower and do his laundry.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because he can’t sleep anywhere but onboard anymore. Don’t matter whether she’s afloat or on the hard. Either way, it’s the only place he can get a wink.”

  “I’ll call you,” Corso said, as he got into the cab. “The Marriott on Fairview,” he said to the driver.

  Corso kept his eyes straight ahead. Something about the sight of Saltheart up on jacks always bothered him. Like somehow being on land took her one step closer to joining the legion of derelict vessels who were pulled from the water for repairs and then, for one reason or another, never made it back afloat and now languish in backyards, along waterways, or in forgotten corners of boatyards, hoping for a last-minute pardon, as the brass turns green and the paint curls to the ground.

  The driver bounced out into the street and turned right down Leary Way, running along the ship canal, where the last of Seattle’s commercial boatyards, dry docks, and parts suppliers still held out against the yuppie condo tribe, whose insatiable appetite for waterfront has reduced what was once the very soul of the city to something like an outnumbered cavalry troop, holed up in the fort, brave and defiant but knowing it’s just a matter of time before it gets dark and the Apaches come and kill them all.

  An electronic beep pulled Corso’s attention to his jacket pocket. He extracted his cell phone and looked at the caller ID number. Nothing he recognized, so he figured it must be Robert Downs. “Corso,” he said into the receiver.

  A woman’s voice. “I hope you’re having a better morning than I am,” Renee Rogers said. “I just got off the phone with the AG herself.”

  “Trading recipes?”

  “Getting canned.”

  “Really?”

  He heard her sigh. “They’re never quite that direct. If you read between the lines, I’m being offered the opportunity to resign. Nice letter of recommendation and out the door.”

  “I take it Warren was much displeased.”

  “Actually—to tell you the truth—the little jerk was happy about it.”

  “That figures.”

  “Tomorrow’s my last day in court. They’re sending a replacement to take over on Tuesday morning.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it…assuming you are.”

  “Tell you the truth, Corso, I’m feeling ambivalent as hell. Part of me says, Good, let’s get on with whatever comes next in life and be done with it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And another part of me feels like I’ve failed at something. Like I’m being sent home in disgrace with a brand on my cheek.”

  “Know the feeling well,” Corso said.

  She sighed again. “Yeah. I’ll bet you do.”

  After a moment of silence, she asked, “How’s your friend doing?”

  Corso told her. The news seemed to buoy her slightly. “Well, at least there’s some good news,” she said.

  “Except she doesn’t know her boyfriend’s dead.”

  “Jesus.”

  Corso cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean for my life to slop over on yours,” he said.

  “Oh, hell, Corso. I was already on the skids.” He heard her laugh. “It was as much my doing as yours. I’m the one wangled the invite from you.”

  His first instinct was to argue about who was more to blame, but he stifled it.

  “You coming to court tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  “Should get Lebow on the stand sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “See you tomorrow,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  Corso pointed at the Fremont Bridge and the western shore of Lake Union. “Go that way,” he said to the cabdriver. “Let’s take a slow drive around the lake.” He scooted over to the water side of the seat, rolled down the window, and stuck his nose into the salty breeze.

  He closed his eyes and let the wind take him out onto the water, out past the channel buoys and then dead north, to where the tall-tale monsters lurked beneath the hull, until, suddenly, he was among the islands. In his mind’s eye, he saw Dougherty leaning over the bow, directing him this way and that, as they rode the flood tide through Thatcher Pass, Saltheart so close to the rocks they could smell the barnacles as they eased through the crack into the nearly landlocked body of water, smooth and black as oil in the lifting morning mists. And how, just as they’d put the rocks to stern, she’d pointed to the north shore of Blakey Island, at a family of deer as they emerged onto the shore like a smudged pencil drawing.

  31

  Sunday, October 22

  10:59 a.m.

  Joe Bocco leaned back against the wall. He had his feet crossed in front of him and wore an expression of extreme boredom. Sergeant Sorenstam popped the clip from a serious-looking Glock .40-caliber and worked the slide, sending a single round down onto the floor, where he accidentally kicked it once before picking it up and dropping it into his pocket. Sergeant Hamer had a pair of black-framed half-glasses resting on the end of his nose as he read the document in his hands.

  “What’s this?” Corso demanded.

  “National asshole week,” Bocco offered.

  Hamer stepped over and waved a finger under Bocco’s nose. “I’m not telling you again. You watch your mouth, you hear me?”

  Sorenstam pocketed the piece. “This”—he looked over at Bocco in disgust—“Mr. Bocco here says he’s in your employ.”

  “Yeah. He is.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “As a privat
e security consultant.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Doing what you guys ought to be doing. Guarding Miss Dougherty.”

  The cops exchanged looks. Bocco looked over at Corso, then nodded at Hamer.

  “Asshole here told her about the boyfriend,” he said.

  Hamer started for him. Sorenstam stepped between them, using his palms to keep his partner at bay. “Take it easy, take it easy,” he said.

  Hamer stepped back, adjusted his coat, and shrugged. “How the hell was I supposed to know?”

  “Musta been sick for the sensitivity workshop,” Bocco said.

  This time it was Corso who stepped between the men. “Something wrong with his carry permit?” he asked Hamer.

  “I’ll let you know when I’m finished with it,” Hamer snapped.

  Corso turned his attention now to Sorenstam. “His license in order?”

  “Seems to be.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  “The problem,” Hamer said, “is we don’t like cop wannabes.”

  Bocco burst out laughing. “Cop? Wannabe? Are you shitting me? I’d rather be Judge Judy’s toilet slave,” he said.

  Hamer was red-faced and pointing again. “Watch your damn mouth.”

  Sorenstam sighed and took his time as he pulled the clip from his pocket and thumbed the loose round in on top of the others. From his other pocket he produced the Glock. He kept the business end pointed at the floor while he inserted the clip and snapped on the safety, then turned it handle first and handed it back to Bocco.

  “Try not to hurt yourself,” he said.

  Bocco rocked himself off the wall, slid the gun into the holster on his hip, and then stepped around Sorenstam and held out his hand.

  “Whadda you want?” Hamer demanded.

  “My paperwork.”

  “I’m gonna call it in,” Hamer said.

  “Let’s go,” Sorenstam said.

  They stood for a moment like statues. Bocco with his arm extended. Hamer with the paperwork held back, out of reach.

  Sorenstam started up the hall. “Let’s go, Troy. He’s not worth the trouble.”

  Hamer opened his fingers, allowing the papers to float to the floor, turned, and followed his partner up the hall.

  Bocco waited until they were out of sight before retrieving his PI license and gun permit from the floor. “Is it just me,” he wanted to know, “or didn’t cops used to be more competent?”

  “Don’t get me started,” Corso said.

  Joe Bocco stuffed the paperwork back into his wallet. “I didn’t get a chance to see how she took the news. Minute I started ragging on them, they rousted me out into the hall. That’s where you came in.”

  “Why don’t you go downstairs and get yourself a cup of coffee or something,” Corso said. “I’ll see how she’s doing.”

  Corso stood in the hall for a moment, composing himself, and then pulled open the door and stepped inside. She was up on her right side facing the wall. As he crossed the room to her bedside, a slight movement of her shoulders told him she was aware of his presence.

  He stood there with his hands on the top rail. She slid deeper into the covers and sniffed up a runny nose. He waited for what seemed like an hour before she carefully rolled over onto her back and looked his way. He could see the long-ago little girl in her tear-streaked face. Lost her kitten Buster and wasn’t believing a word about this kitty heaven stuff. “Sorry you found out that way,” Corso said.

  She started to cry. “He was so sweet to me…” she began, before sliding into a series of racking sobs. Something about crying women brought out the worst in Corso. He felt compelled to do something. To right whatever wrong had brought forth the sorrow. To turn back time, if necessary. To do whatever it took to make it stop, not so much for the sufferer as for himself, because, for reasons he’d never understood, it was the suffering of others that connected him most readily to the well of sorrow he carried around in his own heart and forced him to wonder, once again, why his own pain was so much easier to ignore than that of others.

  He clamped his jaw, as if to lock the homilies in his mouth, the preacher talk of better days in better places. Of lives cut short as part of the grand plan. Of divine justice, the power of acceptance, and how time heals all wounds. Instead, he reached down and put a hand on her shoulder.

  Sunday, October 22

  9:00 p.m.

  “I’m going back to Boston on Tuesday,” Robert Downs said. “I’m not accomplishing a damn thing here.” He ran his hand through his hair and looked around the hotel suite.

  It had been nearly seven o’clock when, after devouring a room-service cheeseburger and downing a pair of Heinekens, Corso had finally gotten around to checking his messages: six, all from Robert Downs.

  “All I’m doing here is beating myself up for not knowing my father, and I can do that from home.” He pulled a handful of papers from his back pocket and dropped them on the coffee table. “My Harvard financial records,” he said. “Undergrad, grad, and med school. The whole thing.”

  “You’re getting married pretty soon, aren’t you?”

  “Seventeen days,” Downs said.

  “Probably a lot of details to be attended to back in Boston.”

  He blew air out through his lips. “Pamela—my fiancée—she’s obsessing. She calls every fifteen minutes. It’s like I’m supposed to—” He stopped himself. “Listen to me.” He wandered over and sat down in the chair on Corso’s right. “I want to thank you for the help,” Downs said.

  Corso waved him off. “I told you before, Robert. I’m pursuing my own ends here. The school district would have stonewalled me. I’d never have gotten a peek at those,” Corso said, gesturing at the folded pile of papers on the table. “We’re even.”

  “I’ve been reading Backwater,” Downs said, naming Corso’s first book, “and I’m amazed at the way you take these people you didn’t even know and imbue them with life.” He waved a hand in the air. “It’s like what I’ve been trying to do with my father: take all this disparate information and somehow shape it into the picture of a man who makes sense to me. I just can’t do it.”

  “It’s easier when you don’t know them at all,” Corso said. “That way you can start from scratch without any preconceptions.”

  “But how can you be sure you get it right?”

  “You can’t. All you can do is look at what a person leaves behind. Look at his art. Look at his children. Look at the feelings he’s left behind in others. Then look at the little things in his life. Ask people about how he kept his car. Find out if he returned things on time. Did he remember birthdays? Send Christmas cards? Show up at graduations? You do enough of that, and you start to get a picture of the character who does things for reasons that make sense to other people.”

  “That’s exactly it,” Downs said. “I can’t, for the life of me, understand this fixation the man had on me and my education. We hardly knew each other. I hadn’t seen him in nearly twenty years, and then I find out that his every waking effort went toward me, while—I mean, I’ve gone years at a time without even thinking about him.”

  “Reasons is where you have to be most careful,” Corso said. “That’s where the self-serving bullshit and the psychobabble rear their ugly heads.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because, first off, when you start ascribing reasons for people’s behavior, you’re kind of assuming they were aware of why they were doing whatever it was, aren’t you?” Corso didn’t give him a chance to answer. “And that doesn’t square with my experience at all. Seems to me a great deal of human behavior is every bit as mysterious to the person doing it as it is to those watching.” Corso shrugged. “Let’s say we knew your father had an impoverished childhood. We knew he always wanted to get an education but had been thwarted by circumstance. The natural leap would be to assume that his desire to see you become a doctor was just him living out his own desires vicariously through you.”

&n
bsp; “I don’t know anything about his childhood,” Downs said sadly.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Corso said. “Because whatever we say after the fact, even if it seems to fit, is just conjecture. All we can be sure of is that your father did the things he did because, in his mind at least, that was what worked out best for him. Somehow or other, he got more pleasure sending his money off to schools than he would have gotten spending it himself.”

  Downs got to his feet. Jammed his hands deep into his pockets. “That doesn’t leave much room for things like altruism or heroism.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Corso said. “Mother Teresa did what she did because that’s what felt best to her. Maybe she had a longer worldview than the rest of us. Maybe compassion made her all gooey inside. All I know for sure is that there was something in it for her.”

  “That’s pretty cynical.”

  “Ask war heroes and they’ll all tell you the same thing. It was over and done with before they ever thought about it. They were so scared or so mad or so outraged they acted on impulse. And you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because, for them, being heroes was the line of least resistance.”

  “How can that be?”

  “It can be, because something inside was telling them they wouldn’t be able to live with themselves if they didn’t take action.”

  A silence settled over the room. Corso got to his feet, walked into the kitchen, and poured himself a glass of water. It was one of those businessman’s suites: living room, kitchen, and a little office area downstairs; bedroom and bathroom upstairs. Extended Stay, they called it. “What are you doing tomorrow?” Corso asked.

  Downs was pacing the living room. “I’ve got to sign the insurance paperwork and the pension fund paperwork. Stuff like that.”

  “What are you doing with his stuff?”

  “Mr. Pov. He’s going to take care of it for me.”

  “He’ll probably find a home for a lot of it.”

  “Hard to believe.”

  Downs stopped pacing, took a deep breath. “You’ll let me know if anything develops? If you ever figure out what this is all about?”