Grinder

by Mike Knowles

  The winter ended, and we went back on the boat. I was strong and healthy, but tired. I was sleeping less and less with each night on the island. My first nights in my new home had been long and restful, but each passing day took with it precious minutes. I collapsed into an ever shortening dreamless sleep each night waking before the sun in the loud silence of the house.

  Together Jeff and I fished and worked charter groups of die-hard anglers out for a new challenge and loud drunken businessmen taking days away from the difficult island golf courses. After each day of fishing, Jeff would take the charter off the boat with the catch and set up for a photo. The people who had chartered the boat crowded together to get in the shot while I stayed clear. Jeff had stopped trying to include me, deciding it was a fight he would never win; he left me to clean the boat while he schmoozed the clients for the last few minutes. I stayed clear of the crowds and their cameras despite the fact that I hadn't been anywhere close to trouble for almost two years. Part of me couldn't let go of all of the years of training beaten into me by my uncle. While I stopped looking over my shoulder all of the time, I couldn't let myself be captured on film for anyone to see. I was happy to clean the blood off the boat and prepare for the following day. Life went like this for months until the day I slipped up and was caught off guard.

  Four politicians down from Ottawa caught an eight-hundred-pound bluefin at the tail end of a slow day. I was cleaning up the boat while they took their picture and quietly conversed around the hanging fish when one of the men grabbed his chest and uttered that he was having chest pains. His friends searched his pockets for his pills, but they were in his bag — left behind on the boat with me. Jeff yelled for me to bring down the bag and I did it without thinking. I ran as my right hand searched the bag for the pills. I had them in my hand as I reached the crowd of people around the man, who was lying on the dock. I didn't check to see what kind of safety top was on the pill bottle; I just dug a nail into the plastic and sent a geyser of white pills flying over the dock. I dug one of the remaining pills out of the container and tried to shove it down the man's throat, but he was too far gone. He died on the dock, below the massive fish he helped pull in. Camera flashes pelted the body from nosy tourists who took shots of the scene before I could move out of the way. One of the shots, one with a profile of my face as I bent down to help the dying man, got national coverage in the papers. The man who died was a politician who was pro big business and against protecting Canada's national resources. Headlines like “Nature Fights Back” led the picture out to the rest of the country. I saw the photo the next day after Jeff slapped the newspaper on the back of my head.

  “Ya managed to get your ugly face into the paper. Well, half of it anyway, didn't ya, city boy? Yer just lucky my face was in it to balance it out. Yer mug would scare off the tourists.”

  I ignored the comment as I looked at my face created out of thousands of meticulously placed ink dots. My face had been sent out across the country for everyone to see. It was that front page postcard that brought the man to the wharf; he was there because of the picture. He was there for me.

  Few people came to the wharf alone, and no one did it dressed like he was going to a club. The outsider was not dressed to fish or tour — he had no camera, fishing pole, or binoculars. He didn't even seem to be interested in the large fish being cut to pieces by the chainsaw. He just stood at the edge of the pier watching people get into their cars. I pulled my hat down low and bent over pretending to work around the boat. I thought I had an agreement with my old boss, Paolo Donati, and his criminal army. After I helped Paolo survive his very own Russian revolution, he said we were even. The man on the wharf said different.

  I closed my eyes and thought about the photo. I stared at it when I first saw it — enraged at my stupidity. I got too comfortable and I paid for it. The picture had my face in it and the boat's name was in the caption. Soon the guy with the pointy shoes would get tired of waiting and watching the wrong people walk by. He would get impatient and decide to walk around the ships looking for the boat named “Wendy.” It was close to the end of the day, the perfect time for someone looking to go unnoticed to walk down to the boats. People were coming and going all over the pier; no one would pay much attention to an out-of-place man looking at the ships

  I moved to the other side of the boat and took a seat. If I finished the nightly cleanup, there would be no reason for me to stay on board. I wanted to be the only one around when Pointy Shoes came looking for me. I wanted him to be out of his element when he made his play, so I had to wait and make sure Jeff couldn't see me taking it easy while he schmoozed on the dock with the day's charter.

  I got up twenty minutes later after feeling the boat slightly shift with the addition of my captain's weight. I scanned the wharf, noticing how empty it had become. There were a few fisherman left hosing off their boats and loading their trucks, and one other man still watching the parking lot.

  “Shit, city boy. You're not done yet? I'll help ya get finished, 'cause at this pace you'll be here all night.”

  “Sorry, Jeff. I just got to thinking and it slowed me down. You don't need to stick around. I'll finish up here. You get home to Wendy; she's probably craving something.”

  “Don't ya know, that is for sure. Her and that baby have me going everywhere for food. The only thing she doesn't crave is tuna. At least I could bring that home with me. Last night I had to go into Charlottetown for Taco Bell. I wasn't in bed until one.” He sighed and looked around at the mess on the boat. “Make sure to lock her up when you're done, city boy.”

  “Tell Wendy I said hey.”

  “Tell her yourself at dinner. After you're done here.”

  The rest of his goodbyes trailed off as he walked away from the boat. I watched him go, making sure to stand straight up on the side of the boat so I could be seen from the parking lot. I watched Jeff pass Pointy Shoes; they nodded a greeting to one another as Jeff walked over to his car. Pointy Shoes pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. I guessed it was the newspaper photo. He glanced at the paper, then turned to look at Jeff again. While his back was to me, I took off my hat. When his head turned back, I made an elaborate production of stretching and wiping my forehead. I didn't look in the direction of Pointy Shoes, but I was sure he was looking at me. I walked to the ladder on the side of the boat while, in my peripheral vision, I watched my audience consult his piece of paper once again. He was comparing me to the paper. I made my way down the ladder to the dock. Once I had two feet on the wood planks, I kneeled at the ropes holding the boat to the dock. I untied one of the knots and began retying it slowly. With my right hand, I unsheathed the knife I kept at the small of my back. The knife was a worn fishing knife that I used everyday; it was battered, but razor sharp. Jeff always made fun of the way I carried my knife, but I could never force myself to wear it out in the open or leave it in a pocket where it was hard to pull free. A concealed weapon always felt more natural.

  I put the knife on the dock beside my foot, so that it was hidden from anyone approaching. I flipped one loose end of the rope over one side of the knot then the other, pretending to be unsure about the right way to finish. I didn't have to pretend long before I heard the squeak of old worn wood planks groaning under human weight. Pointy Shoes was walking towards me. Being on my knees made me an obvious target. Every schoolyard bully loved to shove a kid when he was down on a knee tying his shoe. Pointy Shoes was just a bigger schoolyard bully — one with a paycheque.

  I looked in his direction as he approached, smiled, and said, “Evening.” Looking at him to say hello let me see that his hands were empty. A fact that made me happy.

  He didn't smile back; he just stopped eight feet away and spread his feet apart. I didn't want to act first because there was still a small chance that this guy was a tourist or maybe just a reporter doing a follow-up story. “You want to book a charter, you'll have to talk to the boss. I can give you his number if you want, or you can c
ome back tomorrow.”

  I got no response at first from the man with the pointy shoes. I looked into his eyes and I knew there was no way he was a tourist or even a reporter. His greeting relieved all lingering doubts about what he really was.

  “Hey, Wilson.”

  I remained on my knees as our eyes locked. My face didn't register surprise, instead it pulled into an expression I thought I had forgotten. My face made an ugly grin, my uncle's grin. It was a look that I learned the hard way. Whenever I thought I knew the score, I would see the look on my uncle's face and know I was wrong. The look tormented me, but I was lucky — everyone else who saw it usually wound up dead. I spent years learning my uncle's craft, years surviving his tutelage, until the same grin became my property. Pointy Shoes saw it and it told him something he didn't like. It said I wasn't afraid. It said I wasn't even surprised. It said I knew something he didn't. My grin said all of this in a fraction of a second.

  Pointy Shoes was good; he didn't waste time looking confused. He instead reached behind his back under the stretchy fabric of his synthetic shirt. His reaction didn't faze me; I was good too, better than this guy, even after two years of rusting. My right hand found the knife by my foot, and I lobbed it in the direction of Pointy Shoes. The throw was slow and sloppy not because I was rusty, but rather because I wanted Pointy Shoes to use both of his hands. He gave up on whatever was behind his back and decided to try to catch the slowly spinning knife moving towards his chest.

  Instinct is a funny thing; every person will always opt to save himself over almost any other choice. It takes years of training and experience to be able to fight the primal urge for self-preservation. Pointy Shoes chose personal safety over inflicting harm on me. He didn't catch the knife; he only managed to knock it out of the air. Pointy Shoes let out a sigh of relief just before my fist crushed his collar bone like a beer can. The blow knocked the air out of him, pushing with it any means of screaming. To his credit, Pointy Shoes stayed standing; he just crumpled inward like he was a balloon losing air. My heavy work boot smashed his instep knocking him off balance and into my hands. The fishing and rehabilitation had turned my grip into something close to a vise. His greasy hair had nowhere to go in my hands but down, dragging his face to my rising knee. Pointy Shoes fell to the old salt-soaked boards as though he were poured from a cup. His body just splashed unconscious at my feet. The few leftover fishermen were too far away to see what had just happened in four seconds beside the Wendy, and the sound couldn't have carried over the roar of motors and lapping water.

  I bent down and loosened the rest of the ropes holding the boat to the dock. Once the boat was free, I pulled Pointy Shoes into a fireman's carry. I laughed to myself when I realized that holding a full-grown man on my shoulders and climbing a ladder onto a boat were close to effortless. I had healed in time.

  I put Pointy Shoes in the bow and went to the wheel to fire up the diesel engine. The engine roared to life and let off a cloud of smoke that I secretly inhaled every day as though it were the scent of a rare rose. The exhaust gave me something that the clean sea air never could. As time went on the smell of man-made pollution was something I craved, something I welcomed like a secret devil.

  The rumbling of the engine pushed the boat through the cloud of smoke and away from the wharf. The motion of the boat caused Pointy Shoes to stir. I aimed the boat straight out to sea and walked out to meet my new friend.

  Before saying hello again, I took a nickel-plated .32 Smith & Wesson revolver from Pointy Shoes's waistband along with a wallet, keys, and a cell phone from his pockets. Pointy Shoes had a name: Johnny Romeo. The name told me everything. Someone had reached out to me. Someone who should have known better.

  Johnny was too out of it to cause trouble, so I went back to the wheel and guided us through the rapidly dimming light to a spot on the water where I could barely make out the lights from the dock. I yelled to Johnny as soon as I cut the engine. “What does Paolo want? Payback?”

  Johnny groaned in response. He had managed to pull himself up to a sitting position against the side of the boat. His synthetic shirt had a sharp angular bulge near his neck. The unnatural distension was surrounded by a growing wetness. Johnny had a compound fracture and probably a concussion from my knee. I picked up a bucket and got water from the bait tank. The fish inside swam happily when they realized I only wanted some of their real estate.

  The salt water hit him, soaking his shirt and sending pain through the wound; he sobered instantly.

  “What does Paolo want, Johnny?”

  “He . . . he wants to see you.”

  I was surprised at the answer, but I didn't dwell on it. “Why did he send you and your gun? Was that supposed to lead the way?”

  “Fuck, I can't move my arm. Fuck, it hurts. I think I'm gonna be sick.”

  I hit him with another bucket of fish water just to keep him in the here and now.

  “Jesus, he . . . he just wanted me to find you and make sure you went to see him.”

  “He here now? On the island?”

  “He's back in Hamilton at the restaurant.” Johnny barely got his words out before he was sick all over himself.

  “How were you going to make me go to him? Were you going to threaten me? Or were you going to force me with your shiny gun?”

  Johnny looked away from me and the mess on his synthetic shirt. I read the body language and knew that he had already made a play. “What did you do, Johnny?”

  He didn't answer me. He looked into my eyes and I saw that he was an errand boy. He was a hard young man who got cocky, wanted to impress his boss, and had ended up neck deep in trouble.

  “You have to go meet the boss.”

  “Or what, Johnny? What did you do?”

  “Heh, I found you yesterday and before I came down to the wharf I had tea with the nice lady who you rent from. Me and her talked all about you. Her mysterious stranger, she calls you. Can you believe that shit? The mysterious stranger who always says hello and pays his rent on time.” He burped up some vomit after his last revelation.

  “Where is she?”

  “Don't worry about her, you got bigger problems. You need to get home.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Fuck you.”

  I turned and walked back to the wheel. The diesel engine sputtered back to life, violently sending fumes in waves out over the water. I breathed the smoke in deep and felt it burn my nose as I exhaled. Each second I smelled the exhaust pulled away months of the atrophy that had set in from safe living and honest work. Almost at once, fishing with Jeff seemed years ago. I turned the boat around towards the docks and set the throttle to a slow chug. Johnny had managed to get to his feet, but the effort along with the compound fracture caused him to vomit and retch over the side. I retrieved the heavy black gaff Jeff and I used to hook the giant bluefin. The gaff was four feet long and heavy. Its hook was dulled with age, but it would still be sharp enough. The tool hung low in my hands as I walked back to Johnny who was still bent over the side of the boat.

  Johnny had just finished another retch and shudder into the dark water. He turned his head in time to see me coming with the gaff in my hands. He tried to turn his body, but my left hand found the back of his neck. My hand held him in place, his chest forced against the railing. I hooked the gaff into his stomach and pulled hard towards me with my right hand. The hook moved through the synthetic shirt like it wasn't there and buried itself in Johnny's guts.

  Johnny let out a scream on the desolate water, but the only person who could hear it didn't care. My left hand let go of Johnny's neck and found a metal-studded belt under his ruined shirt; I used it to propel Johnny over the side of the boat into the water. All of the noises Johnny made were eaten by the merciless ocean. I gripped the railing hard with one hand and held tight to the gaff towing Johnny's body through the water. I clenched my jaw shut and held tight as the veins in my forearm began to stand out. Johnny was dragged through the wake of the boat backwar
ds by the gaff. The speed of the water and the weight of his body made sure that the hook wouldn't dislodge. I braced myself and held the gaff at an angle that allowed Johnny's head to stay above the water so he wouldn't die on me right away. His flailing arms and legs created a lot of drag, making his body feel as though it weighed a ton.

  After a minute, I pulled Johnny up into the boat by the gaff. He coughed up sea water from his lungs and communicated his agony is low groans. He lay face down on the deck of the Wendy, impaled on the gaff. The hook was buried deep in his belly, making the wooden handle stand straight up in the air like a fence post. Johnny lay still while I caught my breath, watching the lights of the docks off in the distance. We were moving so slowly that it seemed the lights were no closer than when I had turned the boat around.

  “See, Johnny, this is how we bring the big tuna in once we catch them. We drag them behind the boat until all of the fight in them is gone. Thing is, fish like the water so they can hold on for a long while even on the end of a hook. How long you think you can stay alive in the water on the end of a big hook? Think you're tougher than a fish?”

  Johnny had no response for me. His back rose and fell as he took in shallow breaths letting me know he was still alive. “I want to know what you did to the old lady, Johnny. You keep me in the dark much longer and I'll show you how much a fish has to put up with. I'll drag you the rest of the way back so I can get a hold of the chainsaw they use on the dock. You saw them do that today, didn't you? It'll be much easier with you. I promise.”

  Johnny's eyes fluttered and opened; his lips began to form a word over and over again. I put my hands on the gaff and pulled, lifting Johnny off the deck of the boat. If you ignored the hook in his belly, it would have looked as though he were levitating in a magic show.

  “Trunk.” Johnny's lips finally found a voice two feet in the air.

  “She's in the trunk, Johnny?”