“Mazzarelliʼs got a big mouth.”
“So, what is it? This Paladin?ˮ
“You donʼt want to know.ˮ
“Maybe not, but Iʼll do anything to help. I’ve done undercover before.”
“Right. An undercover social worker.”
“Former Army Ranger and a black belt in judo, and I’ve got a masters in law enforcement. Care to compare resumes, Detective?”
“I’m impressed, but no thanks.”
Channary was walking toward them, smoothing her dress, combing her hair.
Thompson’s face hardened, and when she spoke her voice was hushed but powerful. “Here’s some advice for you, Detective. You need my help. In fact, from what I can see, you need it badly.”
Chapter 20
Saturday morning brought sunshine, but not warmth. Conley watched the Kendricks’ mini-van pull into Ocean Park Municipal Marina, a crowded yard full of tired-looking fishing trawlers and lobster boats put up for winter. Kit and Leshawn strained against their seatbelts, necks stretched, eyes wide, peering through the van’s windows.
Curious about the world.
Madie looked too, but her wrinkled brow showed inquisition mixed with concern. Brown-bottomed boats sat on jack stands. Weathered scows lay on their sides, as if they’d been lashed and scattered by a Nor’easter. Lloyd Kendricks maneuvered around potholes in the unpaved lot, breaking thin layers of ice that frosted dark puddles of slush.
Conley sat near the launch ramp in his BMW, motor running, a plume of exhaust growing from the tailpipe. Kendricks parked next to him and they stepped out of their cars onto frozen dirt. Madie cradled a picnic basket in the crook of her arm. They gathered near the water.
“Which one’s yours, Lloyd?” Conley asked.
Kendricks pointed to a solitary lobster boat in the harbor that listed toward them as if longing for shore.
Conley whistled. The sorry-looking boat clung by a frayed line to a baby blue buoy. The bow had yellow streaks the color of egg yolk. A tarnished pulley wheel hung from the wheelhouse, its spool empty.
“Don’t be judging me, Conley. I bought it for almost nothing.”
“Looks like you almost paid what it’s worth.”
Kit looked at the boat and dropped his knapsack.
“We gonna swim to it?” he asked.
“We could,” Conley said. “Let’s take the rowboat instead and we’ll pick everyone up at the pier. We got a rowboat, right, Lloyd?”
“‘Course we do.”
They passed an upside-down stack of small boats and stopped at a weather-beaten skiff. Its name—DESTINY—shone in bright letters on the stern, letters as white as cake frosting. They dragged the heavy boat to the launch ramp, scraping a shallow trench in the hardpack. Beautiful reds, blues, and purples swirled an oily welcome when the bottom met water. They found a single wooden oar near a pile of broken pallets and rusted drums. When the two of them stepped into the boat, a gob of gray putty popped from the floor and danced on a tiny blossom of water.
Kendricks stared at the puncture.
“That gonna hurt us much?” he asked.
Conley shrugged. “Water’s on the wrong side of the boat, Lloyd.”
Conley rowed with the one paddle, Indian style, and made his strokes longer and faster as the water inside deepened. His boots were soaked, feet already numb from the frigid water. The fast-filling rowboat barely moved from the one-oar stroke.
They reached the buoy and he fastened the prow ring quickly. He pulled himself into the lobster boat clumsily, hands slipping on the low wall. The salt air and countless coats of paint had made it as hard and greasy as a clamshell. Kendricks followed. The rowboat was a quarter full now, pulling the line to the buoy taut.
At the cockpit Kendricks reached under the steering wheel, retrieved a rusty key, and turned the ignition.
A faint whirr sounded, slowed, quieted.
“Who sold you this boat?” Conley asked.
Kendricks hesitated. “Louie the Lug. He needed bail money.”
“Ever listen to the engine, Lloyd?”
“‘Course I did. Sounded healthy. Loud and strong.”
Kendricks turned the key again and after three weak chugs, the engine coughed to life and sent up a flag of white smoke from the stack pipe. Floorboards shook and a steady clang rang from the centerboard. A squeal escaped from somewhere under the deck.
“Bilge pump,” Conley said.
“That’s good, right? It’s working hard.”
“Working too hard, Lloyd. It needs a new bearing.”
Madie and the boys stood at the end of the dock. Kendricks wiped his palm across his forehead.
“We going to pull this off, Conley?”
Conley looked toward the pier, then back at the buoy. The rowboat was almost underwater, only its outline visible, dark water covering the seats.
“Let’s just get to the pier.” He nodded at the rowboat. “We don’t have much choice.”
He nudged the throttle lever forward. The engine growled, speed dipping dangerously, smokestack spewing. The prop splashed behind them and the boat shuddered and lurched forward.
The Kendricks family was waiting, six eyes following every move.
“We take them around the harbor,” Conley said, “and hug the shore in case we have to beach it.”
Kendricks nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”
Conley spun the ship’s wheel and maxed the throttle. The boat turned drunkenly toward the pier. Madie frowned and hugged Kit with one arm. Kendricks hung on to the gunwale, knuckles as white as the ice clouding the windshield.
The boat slowed and eased into neutral. They drifted to the gray pier, toward Madie and the boys, frozen as statues.
“Take the wheel, Captain,” Conley said to Kendricks as he checked frayed lines and faded pink bumpers, leaped onto the dock, and tied the boat to a cleat.
Kit put his hands on his knees and bent over to look at his father. “You the captain, Daddy?”
“He sure is,” Conley said, planting his foot against the boat when a plastic bumper cracked like an eggshell and wood knocked against wood. “And I’m the mate.”
“Daddy your boss?” Leshawn asked.
“Captain’s everybody’s boss,” Kit said angrily.
Madie and the boys got into the boat.
“This boat’s crooked, Lloyd,” Madie said.
Conley led them to the port side of the deck—the high side—and had them sit on the weathered bench.
“I’ll take over, Captain,” he said and steered the boat toward the inlet that led to open ocean.
Kit peered past his father. “You letting your mate steer, Daddy?”
“Just a little.”
Kendricks sat next to Madie, arm around her. The boys got brave and tried their sea legs, exploring the boat. Kit opened the wooden bait bin, smelled decades of fish heads, and closed it fast. He looked in the tiny cabin and saw the flapping door to the head.
“Can we sleep down there?”
“Sure,” Conley called. “Just need to swab it first, clean the toilet maybe.”
“Mate stuff, huh?”
He looked back at Kendricks and Madie, arm in arm on the bench. The harbor opening framed them, blue sky and bluer sea. Kendricks stared straight ahead, smiling as if he saw something that pleased him in the air.
“That’s right,” Conley said. “Mate stuff.”
The engine clanged louder. He cut the speed and knelt next to the engine hold. He lifted the door on a creaky hinge and watched the vibrating Mercury engine. It was caked with dirt, spark plug cables cut and frayed. Brown water sloshed underneath.
Kendricks knelt next to him, hands on his knees.
“What’s the problem, Conley?”
“Bad plug or cable if you’re lucky. Bad piston if you’re not.”
“I vote for the plug and cable theory.”
“We’ll change them first, then do a compression check.”
“We gonna sink?”
Kit asked from the other side, hands on his knees like his dad.
“No way,” Conley said. “Can’t sink on a shakedown cruise.”
“That’s good. That water down there is pee-eew.”
“Lloyd,” Madie called. “Maybe we should go back.”
“What do you think, Conley?” he whispered.
“Smart lady. We’re almost to the other side of the harbor. I nurse the engine and take it back to the marina dock. Worst case is tide goes out and you’re grounded. These boats have big skegs that protect the prop.”
“I like it.”
He swung the boat across the harbor inlet, prayed it didn’t quit near the foaming sea. They motored past the Ocean Park Yacht Club, home of gleaming pleasure boats and gaudy yachts. The pier in front had a fancy canvas cover.
The engine held, coughing, dieseling. He finally cut the motor and they drifted back to Gibbs Marina as if on a track. Kendricks grabbed the lines this time, jumped onto the dock, and tied off the boat the way Conley had.
Madie was already unpacking sandwiches and handing them out. Kit leaned over the side and started tearing pieces of bread and dropping them to minnows. Leshawn joined him.
“How bad a shape this boat in, Conley?” Kendricks whispered.
“Every boat needs something, and some boats need everything.”
“I’m talking about this boat.”
“I’d say this is one of the everything variety.”
“Take a lot of money, won’t it?”
“Yep. Unless you do it yourself.”
Kendricks nodded. “I got a confession. I don’t really know much about boats.”
“Shocker.”
Kendricks glanced at his family, folded his hands, kneaded them. “Hey, Conley. I got a proposition for you. How’d you like to go in half on this boat? No cash. Your know-how and my git-up-and-go. Like an investment.”
Conley looked at Madie and the boys. They were quietly eating now, staring at the glitzy boats across the harbor. The boys leaned into their mother like bookends. Lloyd didn’t know boats, but he certainly knew families. Kendricks was blessed with something better than yachts and mansions. His family was his treasure.
Kendricks unlocked his hands and thrust his right one out hard, thumb up. Madie’s gaze drifted toward them. Conley shook the hand.
A big cabin cruiser—a twin to his and Lisa’s—left the yacht club and purred by. It left a wake that roiled the water around them and made the lobster boat seesaw and its gear shake. Suddenly the rusted pulley snapped and crashed. A tiny cloud of rust powdered the deck.
“We better start right away,” he said as he watched the sleek boat clear the harbor and disappear into the horizon. “Cruising weather will be here before you know it.”
Chapter 21
Channary slept fitfully, as usual. Night and day were reversed in this crazy land. In Cambodia, night was for sleeping. In America, everything happened in the darkest hours. Often she was awakened by the constant roar—cars, trucks, airplanes, the nearby factory—that she’d come to think of as the sound of America. Other times the boys in the house woke her. They were busiest at night—running, slamming doors, shouting orders to each other, even louder now, on the weekend.
She sat up in bed. Three other girls shared her room, but not her sleep problem. They enjoyed deep sleep, their breaths long and shallow. The dolls on their beds had dead, staring eyes, sparkling from the streetlight outside, that reminded her of friends at the orphanage. Were her friends waiting for her return? Or were they sad they’d never see her again?
She lay down and thought of her mother, begging in front of their tiny, worn shack. She’d point Channary out to passersby as she pleaded for money and food, and had taught her daughter to make a sad face Channary had feared would freeze forever.
The beating machines outside became a steady drone, and Channary’s eyes wanted to close. She sighed deeply.
Conley, the kind policeman, stood on a porch and beckoned her. Not a tenement porch like she was used to, but one on a pretty house like she’d seen in picture books. His handsome face smiled. A swing sat in the side yard, and a garden beyond. Sheila tended the garden plants, tall beyond belief, and brushed the soil from her hands and clothes. She climbed the steps to the porch and laced her fingers with Conley’s, and together they called her.
“Channary, come. Channary—ˮ
She awoke with a start and sat up straight. The bedroom door swung open and three of the Aunties hurried in, a finger to their mouths. Each lifted a girl, cradling them like babies. The womenʼs hair smelled like soap, their breath like cinnamon. The other girls protested sleepily and were shushed. The Aunties closed the bedroom door behind them. Their long dresses whispered as they hurried down the hallway, Channary and the girls in their arms, and carefully descended the stairs.
****
Samay followed Vithu down a narrow alley to a one-story building whose peeling sign simply said LAUNDRY. Samay followed him inside. The floor was faded linoleum and the walls were scarred paneling. An overhead fan turned lazily. Somewhere in back, laundry presses hissed and workers chatted noisily. Samay rounded a counter whose Formica top was held together with tape, and sat on a stool behind a cash register
“Repeat your instructions,” Vithu said.
“I wait for Ramon and let him in.”
“And what do you say?”
“Nothing.”
“And then?”
“When Ramon leaves, I follow.”
Vithu turned the sign in the window to CLOSED and smiled. “You’ve found your perfect job, Samay—doing the three things you do best—wait, shut up, and follow.”
Do what you do best, Vithu. Leave.
Samay’s hate for his mentor seemed to grow daily, and he contemplated what do with the secret he held—that Vithu had started selling drugs against Pon’s wishes.
After a long time, the rusted sleigh bells on the door signaled the arrival of Ramon, Diaz’s friend from the Hispanic Club. He looked worn. Tan was fading, cheeks showing coins of pale skin. Goatee was ragged, eyes bloodshot.
“Where’s Trong Tri?” Ramon asked.
Samay gathered the green curtain behind him and slid it along the aluminum tube. The wizened old man named Trong Tri sat on a thin mattress on a wooden slab. A wispy crown of white was all the hair he owned, save for an equally sparse mustache flecked with crumbs of bread. The man’s eyes studied the delicate tea service on a stand in front of him. A poster of Vietnam decorated the wall behind, lush green gardens on a blond wall panel.
Ramon tapped the man’s chin hard enough to clack yellow teeth together and make the mustache crumbs fly.
“Let’s go, old man.”
“No. I quit,” he said. “Choose another.”
Ramon smiled as he squatted, resting his arms on his quads, folding his hands.
“Cambodians, Trong Tri,” he said, a delicious whisper. “Cambodians. Sworn enemies of every Viet. A brave strike against them. An hour of your time. Translate what she says, that’s all. Simple for you. You’re a master of their silly gibberish.”
Trong Tri’s head started to shake.
“Choose another. Leave a tired old man.” He pulled crisp bills out of the pocket of his baggy pants and offered them.
Ramon stood, unfolded his hands, and clapped them back together. He blew into the space between his thumbs.
“Sorry. You’ve been paid. There are no refunds in this life, my friend.” He cocked his head. “Maybe in the next.”
He lifted Trong Tri by one arm and signaled Samay to take the other. They dragged him out of his cubby, around the colorful counter, under the cheery chime of door bells. Arm in arm they passed shuttered, sleeping stores. Trong Tri cried as they pulled him down the alley, thin shoes scraping asphalt, loose clothes waving and flapping in protest. Plastic bags and rotten vegetables lined the way, an earthy stink that made the crowded Vietnamese section of Ocean Park smell like a farm. They passed tiny storefronts, buildi
ngs painted with splashes of outrageous color that distracted the eye from broken shingles, peeling paint, rusted drainpipes.
The back door of the van opened when they reached it. Five men sat on bench seats that lined the walls. One was striking, more a bull than a man, covered with black hair so flat and greasy it looked like a hide, and with arms the size of cannons, covered with sleeves of tattoos. Dark, merciless eyes darted like a lizard’s. Where was this monster from?
Hell, maybe.
Ramon held the door wide, threw Trong Tri onto the van’s floor, and bunched Samay’s shirt in his fist.
“You saw nothing. You remember no one. Otherwise, you’ll share the old man’s fate. Got that?”
Samay nodded.
Ramon started the van and pulled away toward the river. Gray paint and dull tires, slightly tinted windows, stock as stock could be, forgettable as a gust of wind.
When they were out of sight, Samay ran to his scooter and followed.
****
Soon after, Samay shut off his motorbike and pushed it the length of River Street. He turned onto a dirt path and hid behind a high hedge that bordered the courtyard of the tenements. The van sat in a dark corner. Trong Tri could be heard inside, sobbing—until two sharp slaps rang. Silence followed.
The back door opened. Ramon and four Latin Kings jumped to the ground and scattered. One hid in the dark alcove formed by a porch, another under the awning of a side door. The third disappeared down the alley next to the tenement as Ramon and another gangbanger climbed the porch stairs. They twisted the unlocked doorknob and slipped inside.
Crickets chirped in the weeds along the bank behind Samay, and animals scurried through the weeds. The Saugus River murmured, fish splashed. The earthy stink of mud and vegetation filled his nostrils.
A creak came from the van, almost imperceptible. A grunt followed soon after from the direction of the first sentry, quick and low, then a cry from the second’s position. Minutes passed before the van creaked gently again.
The silhouette of Ramon, unmistakable, burst from the tenement’s entrance, leaped down the steps, and sprinted across the courtyard. Samay positioned his kick starter. The back door of the van opened slowly and Trong Tri crouched on the lip, holding the door open like wings.
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