Black Duck

by Janet Taylor Lisle

  It wouldn’t last, of course. Couldn’t last. Out to sea, I’d watch laden schooners tacking upwind, or fishing sloops sneaking into coves beyond Coulter’s at dusk. I’d hear a seaplane buzz over the bay and I’d know that real life was out there with its shifting fogs and confusion, ready to come in on me again given the slightest excuse.

  One bright, unusually warm afternoon at the end of December, it came. I was down on the beach by myself looking for washed-up fish heads the inshore trawlers might have dumped that would do for a soup. Crabs had begun to disappear with the cold and Tom was moving on to his winter menu. From the direction of West Island, a dark speck appeared on the water. In short order it became a boat heading toward the mainland at a high rate of speed, a white plume of water rising off her stern. Right away, I knew she wasn’t headed for the harbor or any other place. She was coming straight in to Coulter’s. I took off back to Tom’s shack to warn him.

  He’d spotted her already and was out front, up on a dune, squinting against the sun. Sadie was standing tense beside him, preparing to bark her head off as usual. As I came up, Tom laid a hand on her snout and said:

  “Looks like we got visitors.”

  “Is it . . . ?” I was afraid to say. All I was thinking about was thugs and machine guns.

  “No. Not them.” He cupped his hand like a spyglass around his good eye. “I believe it’s a craft you don’t often catch a glimpse of in the light of day.”

  A minute later, as we both watched, the speedster roared into Coulter’s at full throttle, cut engine and turned sideways to the beach. At the helm, the dark outline of the skipper was visible in his captain’s cap, working the controls. Even at that distance, I knew him.

  Billy Brady was one of those fellows that stand out a long way off. As the Black Duck drifted softly in toward the beach, I saw a girl come up beside him in the wheelhouse, a red bandana tied over her long, brown hair.

  “Marina!” Tom exclaimed. “Go meet ’em, Sadie.”

  He let the dog free and followed her down the path as fast as he could hobble. Last of all, I went, eager to see them, too, but sad as well, guessing this arrival meant my happy days with Tom Morrison were nearing an end.

  FOG

  THERE WAS JUST BILLY AND MARINA ON board the Duck that warm blue day. To see them side by side, dropping anchor, securing the line on deck, lowering the little skiff into the water and, Billy at the oars, rowing in to shore over the waves, was to know without a doubt that they’d thrown in their lot together. They were laughing and fooling around like a couple of kids. Whatever hope I’d had, if you could even call such an impossible dream “hope,” that Marina would wait for me to catch up with her in life blew away.

  It was no use being jealous or angry at Billy. He was above and beyond anything I could be. They stepped out of the skiff holding hands, grinning over some private joke, barely aware of Tom and me calling out our hellos as we came down the beach.

  Then Sadie was on them, wild to see Billy after all that time, galloping around in circles and barking so loud, nobody could hear a word. Billy brought out a ham bone he’d saved up for her, and wrestled her for it. At last she got it away and took off into the dunes.

  “You’re a nervy pair to be out on the Duck in broad daylight!” Tom teased them as we walked down the sandy path to his cabin. To Billy, he said, “I hear the whole United States Coast Guard is out to lay you low.”

  “Well, I’ve got nothing on board this afternoon. They’ll have to be patient!” Billy kidded back.

  “Nothing but Marina McKenzie, the brightest pearl in the sea,” old Tom said. He grinned at her. “I hope you know you’re putting yourself at risk traveling with this scurrilous pirate.”

  “I believe I’ve decided to take that risk,” Marina replied. Though she said it with a smile, a darker tone was in her voice. I guessed she was under no illusion as to what she’d entered into.

  “Come on in,” Tom said when we came to the cabin. “Can I take it for granted that you’ll both stay for supper? You’ll be surprised, I’m sure, to hear we’re having crab. It’s the last of it, though. Ruben and I are going on to fish-head chowder tomorrow.”

  Billy laughed and said it would be a special pleasure to stay, due to the tricky situation they were in.

  “And what’s that?” Tom asked.

  “Marina can’t be seen with me in town,” Billy answered. “Her dad’s laid down the law. He’s a great believer in defending a woman’s honor.”

  “He needn’t worry. I’m doing that perfectly well by myself,” Marina countered, giving Billy a push.

  “You are!” He laughed. “I can’t make a dent.”

  Marina turned to me. “Billy’s not taking it serious, as you can see, but it’s true about Dad. He heard about us getting together up in Harveston. That snake Charlie Pope found out and told him.”

  “I thought Charlie and the chief weren’t getting along.”

  “They aren’t, which is the very reason Charlie went and told. He was aiming to get back at me and Dad all in one swoop. It’s worked, all right. My father’s on the warpath against Billy.”

  “Does he know you’re in with the Duck?” Tom Morrison asked Billy.

  “If he doesn’t know by now, he’s blind, deaf and dumb,” Billy said. “What he can do about it is another question.”

  This boastfulness didn’t go over well with Marina. A worried wrinkle came up on her forehead and she seemed about to speak when Billy announced it was time to get on with things. He told Tom he had a plan to put before him. The two went inside the cabin for a private talk. Marina drew me back outside to give me the latest news of home.

  “Everybody’s fine. They’re holding to their story of you being with your brother, though folks in town are beginning to wonder what’s taking you so long up in Providence. The school’s on your case, too. Your father told them you’re taking classes up there. He said no one would know the difference once you got back. You’d catch up in a blink with all the brains you’ve got.”

  “He said that about me?” I swear it was the first compliment I’d ever had from him.

  Marina nodded. “He did. He’s missing you, Ruben. This whole episode’s given him fits.”

  We sat down on Tom’s stoop in the last of the afternoon sun. Out to sea, a strange fog was gathering over the waves. It appeared that the warmth of the day was having an unusual effect, for rarely did the ocean produce mist in winter.

  “What’s happening with Jeddy?” I asked. I’d been thinking of him a lot.

  “You know, he’s been wondering the same about you,” Marina said. “That’s something he’d like to fix.”

  “What is?”

  “The two of you. He said he wants to get back together sometime.”

  “Well, how about right now? Does he know where I am? Tell him to come down for a visit.”

  “Oh, Ruben,” she said. “If only I could. He thinks you’re up in Providence, like everybody else. The way things are, it’s probably better he doesn’t know the truth.”

  “But why?” I asked. “He wouldn’t tell, would he?”

  Marina sighed. “I don’t know. There’s a lot between us we don’t dare talk about.”

  Jeddy had quit at Fancher’s, she said, but was still in and out of the police station, following his father more closely than ever.

  “He knows Dad’s been a partner on some pretty shady deals, but he’d rather overlook it,” she said. “It doesn’t fit with Jeddy’s view of what he’d like to believe. I’m just as bad if it comes to that. We’re both shutting our eyes. In the beginning, Dad just did small favors for favors in return. He’d stay away from certain beaches on certain nights, or keep the State Patrol off roads where liquor was being trucked through. Now I think he’s in deep with a big-city gang and doesn’t know how to get out.”

  I thought this a mild description of the chief’s activities after what I’d heard and seen during that year, but I kept my mouth shut.

  “I w
ish my mother were here,” Marina went on. “She’d set him straight. He never speaks to Jeddy and me about it, of course.”

  “Of course.” I knew how that was. My heart went out to Jeddy. I saw how he was caught in the snarl of the liquor racket even worse than I was. If he stood by his old rule of “police business,” he’d have to turn the chief in, and if he stood by his dad, he’d be lying to himself about what he knew was a crime.

  Beside me, Marina sighed and shook her head. “Sometimes I stop and wonder what’s right,” she said. “And there isn’t any answer, so I just go along. I guess, in the end, if you have to make a choice, you do what’s best for the people you love.”

  I nodded, though I wondered how Marina herself would ever apply that rule. She had her father on one side and Billy Brady on another, and neither of them were on the right side of the law. I didn’t know what I’d do if I were in her shoes, so I didn’t say anything. We sat silent together watching that unseasonable fog rolling toward us in great white billows. It was the sort of fog that, once it’s settled over the bay, hangs on till morning, giving plenty of cover to anyone who might need it.

  “What’s Billy got going for tonight?” I asked.

  Marina glanced up. “Well, you might as well know since you’ll find out soon enough. A boat’s come in from Canada with a big load of holiday liquor. It’s a shipment that could make up for some of what he might’ve had if the Firefly had come through. The whole crew is going out in the Black Duck to bring it ashore. They want to land the cases here at Coulter’s, and store them overnight with Tom. If Tom’ll allow that. Billy’s trying to talk him into it right now.”

  “So Tom hasn’t been in on things?”

  “He doesn’t like the liquor-smuggling business. It was losing Viola that turned him against it, I think. He’s never gotten over the way she was killed.”

  “You don’t go on jobs with Billy, do you?” I asked.

  “I have,” she admitted. “It’s a wild ride, all right. Lately, there’ve been too many close calls. The Coast Guard’s been stepping up their patrols. It’s harder than it was to get a speedboat in shore. Also, the big gangs are muscling into Billy’s territory. There’s always danger some stool pigeon like Charlie Pope will hear about one of his jobs and rat to the Coast Guard.”

  “So the Coast Guard is taking bribes, too?”

  “Some are and some aren’t, the same as everywhere. A lot of officers are honest enough, but the Black Duck has slipped through their fingers once too often. They wouldn’t mind a hot tip on her whereabouts, no matter who it comes from. I wish Billy’d quit, but I know he never will,” she added. “The money’s too good. He’s making ten times what he ever did fishing.”

  At this point, Tom Morrison gave us a shout from inside. We’d been hearing some banging around in the kitchen and guessed he was cooking up supper while Billy talked to him. As we opened the door, he was laying out bowls and spoons on the table. We came in and sat down to a steaming crab stew.

  “Tom’s stubborn as an old mule,” Billy told us while we ate. “He won’t take any liquor back here. I’m going to have to get transportation straight off the beach.”

  “You’re lucky you can use my beach!” Tom said. He was agitated. “I’m not in favor of losing another dog. Your dog, if it comes to that. Or having my cabin smashed to pieces. I’ll be lying low tonight with Sadie and Ruben, so don’t be sending any of your rummies back here.”

  “You narrow-minded coot!” Billy exclaimed. “Here you could make a bundle and get away from these broken-down chicken coops, and you won’t lift a finger to help yourself.”

  “I’m lifting my finger in the direction of peace and quiet,” Tom replied. “Money’s no answer to what’s needed in my life.”

  That finished the discussion. He wouldn’t hear any more of Billy’s plans. He was good-natured about it. Not long after, he had Marina and me laughing at some tale from his early days. Finally Billy resigned himself and joined in with us.

  It grew dark and Tom lit candles. We sat for another half hour, talking and drinking coffee while Sadie snuffled around below, looking for scraps. When she gave up on that, she lay down on Billy’s feet, in hopes, I suppose, that she could keep him there forever. It was what we all would’ve hoped for, Tom and Marina and me, if we’d known how fast the end was coming. We didn’t, though. Even with all the signs pointing in one direction, we didn’t want to think that way. Fair warning, they say. But you have to be ready to see it when it comes.

  The Interview

  A TELEPHONE IS RINGING. OVER AND OVER. From some room back in the house.

  Mr. Hart doesn’t hear it. He’s still in Tom Morrison’s chicken coops, eating crab stew and dreading the future.

  Want me to answer the phone?

  The phone?

  It’s ringing.

  Where?

  I don’t know. Where is it?

  Mr. Hart looks around with a dazed expression.

  Outside, rain is still coming down and they’re still in the parlor, sitting on those rock-hard chairs. In darkness now. The wet weather has caused a strenuous new bout of growth in the window bushes out front. It really is time to cut them back, David thinks. He can hardly see his notepad.

  He still brings the pad with him every day, believing he’ll be taking notes, though he never does. Perhaps, he thinks, he’s not suited for journalism, a profession requiring a bloodhound nose for the truth, wherever it lies hidden, and (apparently) an ability to write in places only a bat could navigate.

  In the bedroom, Mr. Hart says about the telephone. Can you get it for me?

  David races back and answers. At first, there’s silence from the other end. Then:

  Ruben? A woman’s anxious voice.

  He’s here, David assures her. I’m just answering for him. Wait a minute. I’ll get him.

  The old man is already making his way to the phone. He mouths to David: Must be the wife! and slices a humorous finger across his throat.

  David grins. He goes back to the parlor to give them some privacy. The small tables laden with photographs are there, evidence of Mr. Hart’s long life with friends and family. While he waits, David wanders around examining them.

  A head shot of a very pretty girl with laughing eyes and long, dark hair catches his attention.

  There’s an old wedding photo, a mass of bridesmaids and groomsmen fanned out around the happy couple. Ruben Hart and wife? The groom is too decked out in wedding finery to tell.

  The next photo stops David in his tracks. It’s of a fishing vessel tied alongside a pier. Three men stand on deck, gazing straight into the camera’s eye. A fourth is in the wheelhouse, his face just visible through the glass. David bends closer and, despite the parlor gloom, reads the boat’s name in faded letters on the bow.

  Black Duck.

  There it is!

  He picks up the photo. The men staring out at him are young and earnest-looking, nothing like the wisecracking outlaw crew he’d imagined. They’re wearing plain fisherman’s overalls and heavy rubber boots. Two are solemn, and have taken off their caps in honor of the camera. The third wears a captain’s hat cocked jauntily over his forehead. He’s raising his hand in greeting, a teasing smile on his face, as if he knows the photographer.

  None of them looks remotely like Ruben Hart, but then David wouldn’t have expected him to be here. He was a kid at the time, fourteen years old. The only survivor of the Black Duck shooting was Richard Delucca, a man in his early twenties, according to the newspaper. There’s no telling which of this crew he is, though David would bet a good amount that Billy Brady is the guy in the cocked hat.

  He returns the photo to the table. It gives him an odd feeling to look into the young faces of men who will soon be dead. Their eyes announce confidently: I have my whole life in front of me! They have no idea of their approaching fate. Even if they’d appreciated the risk they were taking, and had “no one to blame but themselves,” as the newspaper clipping said, David f
eels a deep regret for the waste of their lives. He wants to warn them: Don’t go. Watch out. It’s not worth it!

  For the hundredth time, he wonders what happened out there in the fog. Were they machine-gunned without warning, as the most recent newspaper article he found seemed to report? Or did Rick Delucca, member of a crew caught with over 300 cases of liquor on board, a crew with a reputation for brazen escapes in the past, tell that story in self-defense? There’s one person still alive who may know the answer.

  In the back room, David can hear the old man winding up his conversation with Mrs. Hart.

  You come home when you’re ready. I’m fine here. . . . No. No. Don’t you worry, I’ve got plenty. I’m still working on your clam chowder!

  A hearty act. Reality shows up a moment later when Mr. Hart clumps back into the parlor, lowers himself onto a chair and gazes dismally at the floor.

  He’s gone, he announces. Just heard it from my wife.

  Who?

  Jeddy McKenzie. Died early this morning. He glances up. In the split second before he looks down again, David sees tears welling up in his sea-colored eyes. I hope you won’t mind me stopping early today. Don’t have the stomach for any more.

  Of course not. So, your wife was looking after Jeddy?

  She was. It’s over. She’ll be coming home now.

  You won’t be going there?

  He wouldn’t want me. Now you’d best go.

  Can I do anything? Really, I’d like to help. I could run an errand. Whatever.

  Come tomorrow, Mr. Hart says, wearily. And bring a good pen to write with. You’ll be hearing something that’s never been told.

  David leaves him sitting alone in the shadowy room, an old man haunted by a friendship broken seventy years ago. Does it have something to do with the Black Duck shootings? The photo of that boat and its doomed crew rises up before David again. On the spur of the moment, he decides to go by the town library one last time, in case he’s missed anything. He mounts his bicycle and heads out.