by Debra Dunbar
The large man hunkered down onto the stones across the fire from Lefty. “A catch, huh? So, you think your God’s bigger?”
“No,” Lefty replied. “I wouldn’t say bigger. The Church, maybe…”
Raymond grinned. “Then tell me—do you believe in original sin?”
Vincent huffed and stood up. “Oh, Jesus. I’m gonna let you two eggheads talk this out on your own.”
Lefty extended an accusing hand at Vincent as he leaned toward Raymond. “You’ll have to excuse my partner. He’s both a heathen and a Philistine.”
“Yeah, whatever,” Vincent groused, heading down a path by the hobo symbol.
A ways down he caught a glimpse of the hobo village, peering through the tree trunks, shanties ringing a campfire. There was no sign of Hattie, or any hoboes. Still, it was their nature to be mysterious. Vincent walked back to the tree with the carved symbols, touching the carving as if to divine its meaning. His thoughts slid back to Deltaville, and the glyphs painted onto the burned-out fisher’s shack. Whereas this hobo language appeared utilitarian, crudely drawn and clearly indicating something as a pictogram, those Deltaville scribblings were more like art.
More like religion.
Vincent looked over his shoulder at the other two, who were already so deep into conversation that Lefty was gesturing with his one arm. He rarely did that. In fact, Lefty wasn’t much of a talker, in general. That boat driver really stepped in it when he brought up religion. Good, Vincent mused. That would get it out of Lefty’s system for a bit.
Vincent wandered into the woods just a little, peeking at the village now and then.
At last, a set of footsteps rustled nearby. He turned in its direction to find Hattie stepping from behind a fat trunk.
Vincent shook his head. “Isn’t the village over—”
She turned behind her with a confused twist of her brow. “It’s there.”
He looked behind her, finding nothing but trees.
“You must’ve got turned around,” she added, patting his arm. “Easy to do in the woods.”
Vincent hopped up alongside her as she wound her way down toward the others. “Any word from the hoboes?”
“Yes. They said an oyster boat came through the other day. One of the men on the boat either knew Doc Freedman or was Doc Freedman. Seems my source was a bit…” She made a bottle gesture with her thumb and finger, tipping it into the air over her face.
“Got a name of that boat?” Vincent asked.
“The Bianco Fiore.”
He repeated the words, then asked, “Going south?”
“That’s the word.” She stepped down onto the rock flat, hands on her hips. “Well, you boys do any fishing while I was gone? Catch us some dinner, or what?”
“Actually,” Raymond declared, “we was discussin’ the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception.”
Hattie blinked rapidly.
Lefty shrugged. “It’s a work in progress.”
She stepped around toward Raymond. “You still have that bottle of grappa stowed under your bench?”
Raymond nodded cautiously. “A couple. Why?”
“Payment for information rendered,” she answered with a thumb thrust in the direction of the hobo village.
Raymond sighed, then hauled his frame to his feet. “Well, alright then. But I’m gonna steal me back a couple bottles from those Baltimore Crew people.”
Lefty squinted.
Raymond added, “That last bit was a joke. But you know what else I keep on the boat? Fishin’ line.” He nodded at Lefty. “What do you say, old man? Any good with a fishin’ pole?”
Lefty waved his one arm in the air. “Not unless you have a harpoon.”
Hattie pulled at Raymond’s arm. “Come on, we’re losing daylight.”
Vincent moved to follow, but Hattie lifted a flat palm at him. “Stay here, boy-o. Or go catch a deer in case Raymond’s no better with a line than your friend.”
The two trotted back down the path toward the boat.
Vincent lingered in the woods, turning back toward where he’d seen the hobo village, and then to the point closer to the shore from which Hattie had emerged. He could spot the tiny campfire near the makeshift shelters, but she’d come from the water. Were there two hobo villages? Or maybe these folk made a habit of meeting people away from where their shacks stood.
With a squint, he ventured deeper into the woods along the path Hattie had taken. The trees thinned quickly, and a sliver of the Bay came into view. It was a muddy patch of bog, and nothing else. A few seagulls eyed him from a floating log, bobbing in the late afternoon sunlight.
Then Vincent turned inland and climbed through the brush, stepping over as much foliage as he could to keep his shoes from further ruin. Despite Hattie’s warning, Vincent resolved to approach the hobo village. Her caution in treating with these vagrants made sense enough, but his instincts needled at his brain. Something wasn’t quite right, though he couldn’t put a finger on it.
A trodden dirt path emerged from the brush, swinging back to where they’d moored the boat. The other end of the path terminated at the village. So, whatever Hattie was doing out by the waterside had nothing to do with the hoboes. Either that, or she’d circled around to misdirect Vincent. Which meant she’d lied to him. It was a piss poor lie, too. He could see the shanty town from the far end of where they’d camped. As he turned to take the path into the hobo village, he wondered why she was so protective of these people. Simple esprit de corps? Was she beholden to them in some way he wasn’t aware of? Anything was possible.
The mouth organ started up again, its notes sour and trembling. Vincent winced at the noise as he rounded the first of the shacks to find three old men hunkered around the fire. They were covered in filth, hair falling in strings from the sides of dog-eared hats. They froze as Vincent came to a halt behind them, rheumy eyes watching him, waiting for him to make a move.
“Gents,” Vincent offered with a wave.
The man with the mouth organ pulled it from his lips.
“Don’t mind me. I’m just passing through,” Vincent added with a cough.
One of the vagrants, a silver-haired fellow with ferocious stubble, eyed his shoes. Then, with a grunt, he turned to the others. “He’s with Harry.”
The others nodded. The mouth organ resumed.
Vincent ventured forward a step. The hoboes ignored him.
“I’m traveling with a friend,” he asked. “A short woman with red hair. You fellows seen anyone come through here the past hour?”
Silver-hair replied, “Just Harry.”
“Well, I don’t know a Harry.”
The hobo with the mouth organ dropped it to his lap. “You lookin’ for Doc Freedman?”
Vincent nodded.
The musical hobo said, “Well he ain’t here.”
“No, I suppose he isn’t. Word I hear is he’s on some boat called the Bianco Fiore.”
The musician nodded. “That’s what we told Harry.”
Vincent cocked his head and approached another step. “Listen, I’m not with anyone named Harry. Just my associate, Lefty, you wouldn’t miss him, and my boat driver. Goes by Raymond.” Vincent searched their indifferent faces for reaction. “And my short friend, goes by the name of Malloy. Hattie Malloy…”
The man’s eyes lifted slowly to the trees overhanging.
Vincent asked, “Do you mean Hattie?”
“No,” Silver-hair grumbled. “Harry. Ain’t been no girl in this camp since I been here.”
“Well,” Vincent offered, “she’s got a masculine way about her. Wears pants. Keeps her hair over her eyes. Maybe you’d mistake her.”
The third hobo stood up, his mouth drawn into a smirk. “Look, pal. Harry’s a friend of ours. He gets us the little luxuries we feel we deserve, and we pay him in scuttlebutt. That’s the skinny.”
Vincent shook his head. “So, you know this…man?”
“Friend of ours,” he replied.
“
And you just gave this Harry some info about Doc Freedman.”
Silver-hair snickered. “And we’re drinking tonight. What’s it to you?”
“Harry’s paying you in hooch?”
“You can’t have any,” the musician groused.
Vincent nodded. “Thank you, gentlemen. Sorry to intrude.” He backed away several steps, then turned for the path.
Harry. Hattie.
These hoboes thought she was a he. And in spite of what he’d snapped at her when they were coming back with the rum, Hattie was clearly not a man. No pants and shirt hid that fact. He could see from twenty yards away that she was a woman, but these men looking at her close up saw otherwise.
“Well, what do you know about that,” he mumbled as he trotted back to the gravel flat.
Raymond had a line in the water already, wading halfway to his knees into the drink. Lefty stood as Vincent approached.
Vincent looked around. “Where’s the woman?”
Lefty shrugged. “Taking her booze back to the hoboes.”
“I just came from the hoboes,” Vincent said. “Which way did she go?”
Lefty nodded back up the path.
Vincent shook his head. “She must’ve wound her way back around the shoreline again.”
Lefty squinted at Vincent. “What’s the angle?”
Vincent cocked his head for Lefty to join him, easing away from Raymond. He whispered, “Listen, remember when we first found these two characters? Last week, after our day trip to Richmond?”
Lefty nodded.
Vincent continued, “You remember when I spotted their boat, but you didn’t?”
“What about it?”
“What did you see?” Vincent asked. “Exactly. When you finally saw the boat.”
“I mean…they’d tied some branches to the side of the hull as camouflage, and up the engine house. Didn’t look that impressive once you got up close, but seemed to do a good enough job in the dark from a distance.”
“But when did you see it?”
Lefty shrugged. “You pointed it out, and when I got closer up beside you, I saw it. Like when you spot a snake in the grass under your feet at the last minute.”
Vincent nodded.
Lefty urged, “What’s going on?”
“And when we landed back at their pier,” Vincent continued. “The wharf, whatever. That woman—Malloy—she was pawing some iron when we got off the boat. I had a moment, wondering if she was about to plug us in the back of the head, but you didn’t look like it was any concern. So, I let it go.”
“What iron?” Lefty grumbled.
“Looked like a service revolver or something. Nothing big. But it was there, in her hand before she shoved it in her pocket. You’re telling me you didn’t see no gun…ever?”
Lefty shook his head with an impatient squint.
Vincent nodded. “I got a theory. But it don’t make a lotta sense.” Maybe he was wrong. Maybe Lefty’s eyesight was going. Maybe that camouflage hid the boat well enough in the dark. Maybe she’d pocketed the revolver before Lefty noticed it.
Or maybe that prickling in the back of his mind was right.
“You gonna share this theory of yours, or do I have to guess?”
Footsteps approached, quick and hustled. Vincent lifted a hand to suspend the conversation and took a step away as Hattie trotted into view. She puffed several breaths, then said, “I was looking for you. Wandering off, are you?”
Vincent gestured for Lefty to follow. “Come on.”
He eyed Hattie, who joined them as he led them both back to the path. “So, you delivered your booze already?”
She nodded.
He turned to Lefty. “Which way does that path go?”
Lefty sighed. “What?”
“The hoboes. She just came from their little shanty town, right? So, which way did she come from?”
Lefty pointed toward the shoreline.
Hattie said, “They’re skittish. If you barge in on them, you’ll probably just scare them into their holes.”
Vincent eyed the faint glimmer of the village campfire through the trees, and then turned back toward the bog closer to the shore. “Those guys?” he pointed.
She nodded again, her brow wrinkling.
Vincent brushed off his jacket. “Alright, then they’re happy?”
Lefty asked, “You gonna come out with it, what?”
“Yeah,” Vincent blurted, turning back for the gravel flat. “I don’t think this Doc Freedman is on the boat. But whoever is on the boat has probably heard of him. Cashing in on this fellow’s name to do business.”
Lefty followed Vincent back toward their own fire. “What makes you say that?”
“Because this Doc Freedman is supposed to be a pincher.” He turned to Hattie, who watched him with a guarded frown. “Like me. Only, he’s just living out here on his own. A free pincher, as it were.”
Hattie asked, “He’s a pincher, then?”
“Yeah,” Vincent replied. “A water pincher, to hang a name on it.”
She stepped down onto the stones. “You said he was a mystic.”
“Well, I wasn’t lying, was I?”
“What’s your interest in free pinchers, then?” she asked.
“Well, you see, people with my sort of talent are highly prized among the family. There’s opportunities for this man in the city—opportunities to use his powers for something more than whatever he’s doing out here.”
She curled her lip. “Isn’t that little more than servitude?”
“You can call it what you want. I don’t feel like no servant. I got a job. A real purpose. I belong to something that matters.”
She sneered. “And here I thought you were looking for his magical elixir.” She stepped past him, calling to Raymond. “You catch anything, yet?”
Raymond glanced at her from the water. “Just drownin’ worms, so far. Might need to dig up some more.”
She replied, “I’ll do it.”
As she brushed past Vincent again on her way to dry land, he lifted a chin at Lefty.
“Why don’t you toss some more wood onto the fire before we lose it?”
Lefty shot him a beleaguered scowl before reaching down to grab a length of driftwood. As he dropped it onto the fire, sending a sharp crackle into the air, Vincent snapped his fingers.
Time pinched tight in a bubble to the left and in front of Vincent. The sparks hung twinkling in the air just over Lefty’s face. Raymond stood in the water, his line suspended over his head mid-cast. This was a little test, just to see if his theory proved correct.
Vincent watched cross-armed as Hattie continued to rummage in the dirt for a few seconds. She lifted her head slowly, breathing the thick air, looking at Lefty, the fire, and then at Raymond. Then with a wary expression, she stood and walked toward Vincent. As she neared him, she sucked in a deep breath, her eyes wide.
He said, “This is a small bubble. Just holding the others so we can have a word.”
“We can talk this time? So you’re freezing time, but you’re not inside it, not like you did before?” Her jaw dropped.
“Yes.” This pinch wasn’t particularly cheap, with him on the outside of it, but the distance wasn’t too large—just big enough for Lefty and Raymond. Hopefully they’d have enough time for this conversation before he passed out.
Hattie looked around, gaining her bearings. “This is a bizarre thing to do, you know that?”
Vincent angled his head as he watched her. “You don’t get it, do you? I was the only one out of the area of effect. Not Lefty, not your friend in the water back there, and not you. All of you should be frozen in time together. All of you.”
She shrugged. “Everyone makes mistakes.”
“Not like this,” he said, uncrossing his arms. “For some reason, my pinches don’t work on you. This happened back on your boat. It’s happening again. Once, maybe, I could say it’s a fluke. But twice? With me making absolutely sure you were on the insid
e this time? No.”
“Then I guess that makes me special,” she muttered.
“It makes us both special,” he replied, gritting his teeth against a sudden twinge in his stomach. “Because it seems that not only are you immune to my powers, I’m immune to yours.”
The blood drained from her face. “What’re you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you being a pincher like me. Not sure exactly what it is you’re supposed to be doing, but other people see things around you. Or don’t see things. What is it, mind control or something?”
She took a step away.
“Maybe you shouldn’t run off like that,” Vincent called. “I mean, where do you think you’re gonna go, anyway?”
She balled her fists as Vincent strode toward her. Reaching down for a stick, Hattie brandished it near her shoulder like a club. “You stay right there!”
He extended his hands in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
They stared at one another for a long moment.
Finally, she lowered the stick. “It’s not mind control. I…I pinch light.”
“Huh. What do you know about that.”
“I can make people see things. I can make light bend around things. Change the way things look.”
Vincent nodded with a grin. “That’s why those hoboes thought you were a man?”
“You spoke with them?”
“Where’d you think I really was? Yeah, I talked to them. They’re not as skittish as you said they’d be.” He pointed for the shoreline. “And what’s with making everyone think they were down the shore?”
She tapped her stick against her boot. “Didn’t want you sniffing around them.”
“Because I’d find out they thought you were Harry?”
“Something like that.”
Vincent shook his head. “How come you two are keeping this a secret? You’re running booze for the Crew already.”
Hattie snarled. “Because I won’t be anyone’s slave, is why! I work for myself. Not your gang.”
“Hey, easy. I think you got the wrong idea about how pinchers live in the real world.”
She waved her stick at the Bay. “This is the real world, not your birdcage in the city. I want no part of that!”
“Listen, you could make some real cabbage working for Vito,” he urged. “Get yourself some proper clothes. Eat in nice restaurants. Pinching light? Do you have any idea how useful a skill that would be for us?”
