Finally he said, “I also know you got yourself some troubles now. How is Silver doing anyways?”
“The same.”
She stood with her feet planted firmly against the sway of the tides she could feel on the pier’s end. She wanted to steer the conversation back to the boat and the job. “How many cases can you carry?” she asked.
“Six to eight hundred, depending on the seas.”
She did the mental math, and blood rushed to her head. She’d heard that contact boat captains were almost doubling their initial investment on each case. But men like Dutch had boat payments and other expenses resting on their shoulders. Her money would be free and clear. If they ferried seven hundred cases on a run, she would make about $175 on each night out and make another $100 or so per month. It could mean everything. It could put everything she wanted for Bea within grasp. After high school she could go to college and get away from the place where her mother had sold herself. And now with Silver’s stroke, Frieda would need more money than ever to assure he got the care he needed. This money would take care of that, and she could cancel the loan against the house. Sure there were risks, and it was a bit terrifying to think of breaking a law, but finally she’d be making as much as a man did, doing the same job. She looked toward the water, where Silver’s face swam into view. She recalled one of the last things he had said to her before the stroke: “Don’t do it.”
Was that the last advice he would ever give her?
It had been three weeks since she’d made her “indecent” proposal to Hicks, and because of Silver’s stroke she hadn’t even thought about joining the rumrunning business again. She’d never dreamed that any of the men would take on a woman as crew. Now this had fallen into her lap.
Dutch gestured toward the shining city across the bay. “We work just as hard as them schmucks over there, harder even, and before now we made nothing. Now that’s changed. It could change things for you, too. I’m giving you a fine opportunity here. Only you got to prove something to me first.”
He didn’t need to say more. Frieda knew what money could do.
“So what do you say?”
Frieda stood in a quandary. Reason told her to think about the possible consequences. She had considered this a few weeks ago, but at the time it was just an idea she had no way to bring to fruition without Hicks’s help. She had always been pretty sure he would turn her down, so she had never let her hopes soar high. Now she had a real opportunity in front of her. And she tolerated Dutch better than the others. Rudy Harris crewed with him. Rudy was decent, too.
Now she had to ponder whether she was really willing to break the law. Some people had been caught, fined, or, more rarely, jailed. A few had lost boats and their livelihoods, and the coast guard was cracking down. Judges were handing down stiffer sentences. Most importantly, Silver wouldn’t want her to do it. It struck her: It was illegal—as was prostitution—so was this the right course for her? Her plan had always been to steer clear of anything that even remotely resembled what her mother had done. And once she started down a path such as this, would there be any turning back?
On the other hand, she believed that so many of her problems would sift away. Yes, money bought things that made life easier. She could do some repairs to the house. She could get Bea out of this town and on to the city and a better life. And money could do for Silver what she herself could not. She could hire the best possible people to look after him twenty-four hours a day if need be. It could mean restful sleep at night, money put aside, and even a few nice things this life had to offer.
If only she could silence that murmuring mouse inside her head—Don’t do it—or could she live with it whispering from time to time?
She didn’t take long to decide. “What do I have to do?”
The sea had gone silent for a moment, but now it resumed its ins and outs of life, its breathing upon the shore.
Dutch said, “Engine’s not running as well as she should. It’s missing, running rough and sluggish. Need to get more horsepower out of her. You fix her up and be quick about it, you got the job.”
Frieda was already formulating a plan. She could adjust the timing, reset the floats in the carburetor, check the gaps on the points, and change wires and spark plugs if she found them clotted with carbon and oil. Then it hit her. “Do you have tools on board?”
Dutch’s eyebrows flattened. “Hell, no. I expect a mechanic to come with his own.”
Of course. Frieda had a few tools she had purchased used, but they were mixed in with Hicks’s. Since she hadn’t been working, he probably had the tools with him, and he had gone out over the shoals today, despite the cold winter conditions. She gazed up at Dutch, trying not to let the quivering sensation running through her body show. “I have tools. I just have to go fetch them.”
Dutch pulled out a gold pocket watch and snapped it open, then said, “Clock’s ticking. I need someone who can get the job done in a jiffy.” He clicked the watch shut.
“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” Frieda said, her thoughts tripping over each other.
“What are you waiting for?”
She turned and started running.
Her head thrummed as her feet flew down the weathered planks of the pier, wood grating under each rushed footfall. Please oh please let Hicks be back from fishing.
She nearly collided with him while running along the wharf side.
“What’s the matter?” he said as he stopped her.
“You’re back. I can’t believe it,” said Frieda, breathing hard and fighting a sense of overwhelming fluster mixed with sudden relief.
“What the hell is going on?” Hicks demanded.
“I need the tools. Now.”
He put his hands on her upper arms. “What’s the rush? Tools? I thought someone had died.”
“I need. To prove. To Dutch. I can fix his boat.”
“What for?”
“I don’t have time to explain!”
“Well, I’m not giving you the tools till you tell me.”
She sucked in a long breath, and letting it out, said, “I could get the engineer job. On his boat. But I have to prove I can make his engine run better. I know what to do. I just need the tools. ’Specially the box wrenches.”
Hicks looked incredulous. “You’re going to start running with Dutch? This is crazy.”
Her chest hurt. Each inhalation of cold air was like a blade. “Listen, I don’t have time to argue. Some of those tools are mine, and I need them. I also need to go for parts. Time means everything. I gotta be fast. Will you help me?”
Hicks’s eyebrow twitched and then stopped. He studied her as Frieda hopped from one foot to the other, glancing nervously around. Then she watched his face tremble, as if he were stuck in a dilemma.
“Please, Hicks.”
He stood still.
“Think about what I could do for Silver. You know how I love him. And the future I could give Bea . . .”
He seemed to be going through a long decision-making process.
Frieda rocked on her feet and said, “I need to know now.”
Finally he let out a long sigh. “You go for the parts; I’ll go for the tools. Meet you back here.”
Frieda rose on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He had never let her down. Now she’d have her shot at the job. She was already planning what she would work on first, second, and third as she rushed to see the man who sold parts. She gave him the last of her money and then ran back to the spot where she’d agreed to meet Hicks.
He was already standing in a way that told her weighty thoughts were holding him down. Without a word he simply handed her the toolbox, then turned and walked away.
“Wish me luck,” she called out, but Hicks never looked back.
That was odd, but she had no time to ruminate about it now. She made her way back to Dutch’s boat, where he sat wrapped in a heavy coat in the captain’s chair, his feet resting on the starboard gunwale, a cigar in his right h
and.
She jumped on board lugging the heavy toolbox behind her. “I’ll get started.”
Dutch puffed on the cigar, then exhaled in a white stream that mixed with the frosty air. He gestured down below. “Be my guest.”
Frieda went down and opened the engine compartment, the wheels in her brain spinning. Now to start and be quick about it. Prove herself. She opened the toolbox and began to sort through it.
Then a white-hot instant of shock.
Inside were no box wrenches, which she needed more than anything else.
CHAPTER SIX
No! She staggered on the brink of panic, her vision clouding. It took a few seconds for her to grasp what Hicks had done.
She felt woozy, as if the boat were dipping and lifting, although it was still. This had been a malicious act to deny her what she wanted. After she’d asked for his help! A deliberate deception! A dirty trick! That’s why he hadn’t spoken to her and had to walk away. Probably ashamed of himself, as he should be.
Anger erupted, and if there had been something there to strike she would’ve punched it. But instead she sucked in some shaky breaths and willed that urge away. This was a moment for thinking, not losing control. What to do now?
She would have to come up with some explanation for Dutch, then try to find Hicks and convince him to give her the box wrenches. By then it would probably be too late. Dutch was not a patient man, and there were others he could ask, those who had their own tools and could come on board and get this done as well as she could. Or almost as well. But she could think of nothing else to do but tell him the truth and look like a fool. Quietly she eased shut the toolbox and silently tread up the companionway to the afterdeck, where Dutch still sat, smoking the same cigar. Only moments had passed, but they felt like years.
Her heart in her throat, she said to Dutch, “It seems I’ve been sabotaged.”
“What’d you say?” Dutch said, looking none too pleased.
“Someone pulled out what I need.”
After roaring with laughter, he stopped. “You’re serious?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
With a cocked eyebrow he said, “Someone doesn’t approve?”
“Someone always disapproves,” said Frieda with a defiant little lift of her chin.
Dutch smiled wryly. “Well said.”
“But I’ll find them. I’ll borrow if I have to. I’ll be back, don’t you worry.”
“Settle down,” he said, and slowly took his feet off the gunwale. “I got some tools on board. Always carry tools with me on the boat. Just wanted to see if you could hustle, how bad you want this. I seen you scampering all over the place. You got the energy for this work. I was looking for that and for drive, and you got both.”
Frieda dared not breathe, much less say a word.
“But this disapproval, wherever it’s coming from, you gonna be able to stand up to that?”
Frieda made herself stand tall, although Hicks had made her feel like a punished child. “I’ve always done what I wanted.”
Dutch studied her, then rubbed his gloved hands on his thighs and said, “Wanting this bad and being willing to work hard for it means a lot. Plus I’ve heard good things about your work. Job’s yours.”
Frieda swallowed hard before her chest began to swell. “Thank you. I’ll do right fine work for you, Dutch.”
“And,” he said slowly, “just to let you know, pretty soon you’re going to have the best tools money can buy.”
She gazed around, still trying to fathom the day’s events that had led to this. The world suddenly looked so much more open and expansive. The wintry seas were splendid in their wrath and churned with opportunity. The cold air glistened and sparkled and no longer burned her cheeks. She hadn’t known such happiness in . . . forever. Things were finally going her way.
“Thank you, skipper.”
But what would Silver think? What would Bea say? What if, what if, what if . . . ?
Oh, stop.
“Frieda.” Dutch’s voice brought her back. “By God I still need you to fix the boat.”
After she got Dutch’s engine purring, it was late, hours past sundown. A hazy moon glowed dully through the high overcast clouds, but to Frieda the night was a cocoon of cottony glory. She spent a few moments with Dutch on deck, thanking him and assuring him that she could do the work, stand up to any naysayers, and always be ready when he needed her, day or night.
An onlooker might never have guessed that something monumental had just occurred. But as she walked away, her heart was still in her chest, its beats throbbing in her temples. No one else had any idea yet that their futures would now be linked. And that for one of them the day had changed everything.
“One more thing,” Dutch called out.
Frieda turned. Dutch appeared placid, as if the day had not been even the least bit extraordinary. He existed in a constant state of seeming neutrality—not anxious, but not calm or disinterested, either. Here was a man who could deal with any adversity that befell him with complete confidence and competence. Good qualities for a captain.
He said, “You’re the third man. You follow my orders and those of the first mate at all times. That going to work for you?”
He knew enough about her to be skeptical. It had always been near impossible for Frieda to follow orders, but for this to work she would have to stuff that side of her personality into a deep internal pocket. For the money it would be worth it, hard as it might be. That was the only way it worked on a boat. The captain was king.
For Bea and Silver, Frieda said, “Yes, captain.”
She splurged on a Cel-Ray soda, a private celebration in one of the dockside bars, then went to tell Hicks what she thought of his ploy, even though she could hardly stay mad at him now. Nothing could tamp down the pure, sweet joy of this day. She walked down the dock to the pier where the Wren rocked in the water. She found him on the boat, sitting on the transom, waiting for her. By now a cold wind that prickled her cheeks had blown the clouds away, and the indigo skies were peppered with planets and stars.
“It didn’t work,” she said calmly as she strode up and set the toolbox on the pier.
Then she took a closer look at Hicks. He held a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and that stilled her. Hicks had never been much of a drinker. The pain in his eyes burned in her throat. He said slowly, “Figured it might not.”
“I won’t even bother to ask why you did it.”
“You don’t have to, because you already know why I did it.”
Frieda said softly, “You can’t save me, Hicks.”
He took a swig from the bottle. “I know that.”
Speechless, she realized that she had blinded herself for two years now, telling herself that Hicks was getting over her, that only fondness and friendship would remain. Now the truth sat in front of her face. She remembered the first time she’d thought his affection for her might be his undoing. And now she was forced to acknowledge the reality of their situation. Was he unraveling now? She made her voice soft and easy, but she had to be sure never to give him any false hope. “You must be feeling pretty bad about yourself right now.”
His eyebrow was twitching. “Damn right. Probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“I need the tools that are mine. I’ll get my own box and come for them tomorrow. Dutch is going to front me the money I need for a box and a full set of tools until I can pay him back.”
“How kind of him.”
It was unlike Hicks to employ sarcasm. “What do you have against Dutch?”
Hicks shrugged. “He’s not so bad, but he’s getting caught up in a trap. They’re all getting reckless.”
“Seems to me he knows what he’s doing.”
Hicks hugged the whiskey bottle inside his heavy coat. “Whatever you say, Frieda. Whatever you say.”
The sea breathed beneath her, but a stab of remorse froze Frieda. Was she doing the right thing? No matter now; she’d accepted the job. And sitting bef
ore her, suffering, was the man who’d given her the skills to do it. The quicksilver tide rushed beneath her, and she breathed heavily, then spoke tenderly: “I know what I’m doing, thanks to you. I’ll always appreciate what you taught me . . .” She ran out of air, and Hicks held still and stared at her, as if he could read her thoughts, and he understood.
He gave a single nod of his head.
She turned to walk away, then thought better of it. After spinning around, she said, “Thanks for trying anyway. To save me.”
He took the bottle out of his coat and raised it to her. “To your success,” he said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She spent the next few days working on engines for other runners and fishermen while they waited for the weather to improve. Others were already pulling their boats out in expectation of ice, and those men often needed help repairing their boats’ hulls, cleaning them, and repainting them. She hadn’t made any money on running yet and had to keep some cash coming in.
She worked with Hicks on one of the jobs and was happy to see that he was back to his old self. He avoided eye contact with her, but beyond that his behavior was the same as before his attempt at sabotage. Calm. Warm. Accepting. Hicks seemed to have the ability to get past things, to forgive others and himself. It was as if his anger could blow away like sand; he simply couldn’t hold on to it. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe his blood always ran rich with emotion, only most of the time he secreted it. Frieda had noticed that many men, especially Great War veterans, were good at that. They had been through horrors they never spoke about. She also knew that the story you made up in your mind was rarely the real story. Maybe she didn’t know Hicks at all.
On Tuesday, rubbing the pinpricks of blond hair on his chin, Dutch told her they were making a run that night. The recent gales had passed, but the air was bitter cold. It would feel even colder out on the water. But Dutch needed to make good on his investment in the new boat, and the ice that would put them out of the water was coming soon. Plus there was no moon.
The Whiskey Sea Page 7
