by F. P. Lione
The FBI, the National Transportation Safety Board, and CIA tried to say that what the witnesses saw streaking toward the aircraft was actually flaming debris moving away from it after the explosion, and they even made a video to tell the eyewitnesses exactly what they saw. The CIA’s version was mostly used to discredit witnesses. It got ridiculous, to the point where the witnesses were all accused of being drunk and not knowing what they saw. Personally, I thought something was up.
“Were you out that night?” I asked.
“Not before the crash. Once I heard about it, I went out.” He pulled his cap off and put it back on, and I wondered if it was a nervous gesture.
“What did everyone else think it was?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound like I was interrogating him. I was just interested.
“Initially everyone thought it was terrorists. Later on people were saying that there were warnings in the Arabic newspapers saying they were going to strike us. I had also heard that an Israeli airplane was supposed to be in that flight path at the same time, but I wouldn’t know about that. Personally, I’m not sure it was a center fuel tank explosion. Jet fuel isn’t nearly as volatile as gasoline. Jet fuel’s a lot more stable. Plus, you have to think how many planes have empty center fuel tanks and they never explode.”
“So what do you think?” I asked.
“I think no one knows what happened, and the center fuel tank explosion is the best they can come up with.”
Personally, I thought the whole thing stunk. Plus, I’ve been a cop long enough to know how much the higher-ups get away with lying.
Romano woke up around 4:30 and started talking shop with the mate, who was setting up the poles and cutting bait on a wooden table next to the big rubber bins that would later hold the fish. They were talking equipment and telling their fireman war stories. The mate couldn’t keep up with Romano. I guess there’s not a lot that burns out here. Rooney, Joe, and O’Brien woke up around 5:00, just as we could see the sky brightening on the horizon.
The sunrise is incredible in New York. Whether you’re on the beach or out on a boat, there’s nothing like it. It was still dark along the water but lighter above it. The sun sent a stream of light along the water, with streaks of orange, pink, white, and blue behind it.
Within a couple of hours we started to see other boats, and like us, they were putting out their chum lines. We were going out for bigeye, albacore, and yellowfin. What happens is each boat has a chum line, and the tuna make their rounds, feeding through all the chum lines and swinging back around. Chum lines are small pieces of cut-up fish, with the heads, the tails, the body, and blood all thrown together in a bucket. The mate uses a ladle and scoops out chum every thirty seconds, leaving a trail of blood and guts.
The mate set up six lines, three on each side of the boat. That’s the nice thing about a trip like this; the mate does all the work for us, and we just have to worry about catching fish.
Romano, Joe, and I took one side of the boat, while Rooney, O’Brien, and Galotti took the other.
“If something comes up on this side, we’ll take it,” Rooney said, opening a beer. “If something comes up on that side of the boat, you three WOPS take it. I’ll just plan out my week of free lunches that Joe’s gonna buy me when I whup him in fishing.”
“We’re not WOPS, Mike,” Joe said. “And you better get your suit cleaned, you’re gonna need it to go to church with me next Sunday.”
“Mike, you don’t even know what a WOP is,” I said.
“Sure I do, it’s an Italian,” he said, guzzling half the can. “And we got the baby WOP over here with us.” He nodded toward Bruno. “Right, Bruno? Do you know what a WOP is?”
“No idea, but I know it has something to do with Italians.”
“WOP means ‘without papers,’ an illegal,” I said.
“Really?” This from Romano. “I never knew that.”
“Okay,” the mate cut in, “I know the rest of you have been out fishing before, but I want to go over a couple of things with . . .” He pointed at Bruno.
“Bruno.”
“Right. First, if you get something, yell ‘Fish on’ and I’ll know you got something on your line. Put the pole in your belt, lock your reel, and pull.” The belt is like a workout belt with a notch to put the pole into. He showed Bruno the stance, legs bent and locked.
“The fish is gonna pull, so use your body weight to counter it. Also, don’t lose the reel and the rod. They cost a lot of money, and I’d hate to see you ruin your trip because you lose one and have to pay for it.” He was talking to Bruno, but he looked at us all on that one.
“Don’t go behind anybody when you got a fish on, go to the edge of the boat.” He was saying that because tuna are the third fastest fish in the ocean, and if they take off and you’re fishing behind someone, that person could get tangled in your line and get pulled into the water or cut by the line slashing into their skin.
He finished with, “And whatever you do, don’t touch the line with your hands.” That’s so the line doesn’t get caught around a finger and rip it off.
Then the mate started telling us a story about someone who went sail fishing who had wrapped his hand around the line and pulled. The fish jerked and snapped the line and dove deep in the water, taking the guy with him.
“Was he alright?” Bruno asked, his eyes wide.
“No, he died. And they never found his body. Lots of sharks,” the mate said, using his two hands to make a set of jaws.
14
The first hit we got was an eight-foot blue shark. Actually, Rooney got it. The chum lines attract more than the tuna. I guess the sharks can smell the blood, and pretty soon we had a few of them circling the boat. It was creepy being out in the water with no land in sight with the fins of the sharks circling the boat.
“How do we get rid of them?” Bruno asked, moving away from the side of the boat.
“I’m gonna catch one,” Rooney said, then started imitating the theme from Jaws.
The shark took his bait and sat about six feet down in the water.
“If you reel him in real slow, he won’t even know he’s hooked,” the mate said.
“We don’t want sharks,” Romano said. “We’re here to catch tuna, Mike.”
“I want that shark,” Rooney said, bending his pole as he brought him up. “This thing is dead weight.”
“It’s like pulling up a Volkswagen,” the mate said, waiting until it was a couple of feet below the surface. “Go ahead and jerk it hard.”
Rooney jerked the line, and the shark went nuts, shooting water all over the boat.
“I can’t hold it,” Rooney said, his face red, the veins standing out in his neck. He buckled his knees into the side of the boat.
He struggled with it for about ten minutes before the mate finally said, “Are you done?”
Rooney was sweating now, with the bushy hair that stuck out of his hat plastered to his head. “Yeah.” He blew out a breath as the mate cut the line.
We slowed down the chum line so the sharks would go away. The tuna were moving in schools, making the rounds on the chum lines of the other boats in the area. As they made their way back to us we started helping the mate cut up the bait and kept the chum line heavy so the tuna would stay around the boat.
Joe bagged the first tuna. We heard the zzzttt of his line going out, and he grabbed the pole and put it in his belt. He yelled “Fish on” and locked his reel, pulling back on the pole while he reeled it in, moving forward so the line didn’t get loose.
Joe got the tuna up to the side of the boat. We could see the metal leader, so we knew he was close. I could see the fish’s head was pointed down, with his tail up, as he tried to swim downward. Once the tuna saw the bottom of the boat, he gave it all he had and went wild. We heard the zzzztttt, zzztttt of the line pulling out even though it was locked. He went about thirty feet down, and Joe had to pull him up all over again.
When he got the tuna up to the boat again Joe put h
is left hand in the middle of the pole and kept his right hand ready on the reel. The pole was bent all the way down, and Joe pulled back to keep him at the surface.
The fish was tired now, and Joe called to the mate, who was still keeping the chum line going.
The mate came over with his gloves on and a gaff in his hand. He leaned over the boat, grabbed the metal leader, and gaffed the tuna in the gill. He yanked the exhausted fish up real quick, pulling the line and gaff and plopping him on the deck.
There was blood everywhere. You wouldn’t know it, but tuna is a bloody fish.
It was a yellowfin, probably about sixty pounds. These tuna are built for speed, and they remind me of a torpedo. His tail was going a mile a minute, and the blood was spilling all over the boat, making it slippery. The mate threw him in the bin and grabbed the hose to rinse off the blood.
“Nice,” the mate said.
“It was okay,” Rooney said, sucking on a beer. “You almost lost him, Joe. Let’s get that chum line going again, and I’ll show you how it’s really done.”
Joe just smiled at him.
I hit next with another yellowfin, and then Joe hit again. Next was Romano and then back to Joe and me again.
After bagging my second tuna I sat down and lit a cigarette. I was tired from grappling with the fish, and I felt my face and arms stinging from the sun. I was already a little sunburned from yesterday, and I guess with the water around us the sun reflected more.
“So what’s the score now, Mike?” I asked.
“WOPS 6, Rooney 0,” Romano hooted.
“Yeah, you guys have the lucky side of the boat,” Rooney complained.
“Then let’s switch sides,” Joe said.
“No way,” Romano said. “This side is where the fish are.”
“I wouldn’t give up that side,” the captain said.
Joe smiled. “We’ll be fine.”
Rooney practically ran over to our side of the boat, elbowing us out of the way.
An hour and a half later it was WOPS 11, Rooney 0, and by 12:00 we had caught twenty-two yellowfin tuna.
Bruno was looking bored with the whole thing, and it took him a minute when he heard the zzzttt of his line going out.
“Fish on!” he yelled, excited, clamping the pole in his belt and locking the reel just before he almost went over the side of the boat. He caught his knees under the lip of the side of the boat to keep him from going over.
“Help me!” he yelled as we all ran over to help him. He almost got the fish to the boat twice, and after the second time he said, “Someone else take it.”
“No!” I yelled at him. “You do it. Come on, be a man and pull it in!” I guess he got psyched after that, because he let out a roar as he reeled it back up.
“This is a big one,” the mate said.
And it was, it looked about a hundred pounds. Once the mate gaffed it and we got it in the boat, Bruno practically strutted over to the cooler and cracked open a beer. He put his head back to chug but slipped and went flying, landing on his backside, sending the beer flying and getting his white sweats covered in blood and water.
“What is this, dago day?” O’Brien growled. “They’re like the friggin’ apostles.”
“It’s because Joe’s God’s golden boy,” Rooney said, aggravated.
“You could be God’s golden boy too, Mike,” Joe said with a smile. “He doesn’t play favorites.”
“I don’t know,” the captain cut in. “Whatever side of the boat these guys are on, they’re catching fish.”
We took a break and had some sandwiches and potato salad before going back to fishing again. Joe and I drank bottles of water, and the rest of them had beers.
When we started fishing again, Romano caught the next one; then Bruno caught a second. O’Brien finally hit, and then Rooney hit the mother lode.
“Fish on!” he yelled.
It was huge, a good two hundred pounds, and Rooney was whooping it up as he reeled it in. Then Rooney made the mistake of bending over to see the fish, letting his line get slack. As the mate went to gaff it, the fish started moving down, and it snapped the slack line as it dove down into the deep water.
After that things got into a frenzy. As soon as the bait hit the water, tuna would come out of the water and strike it. They reminded me of dolphins the way they were moving to the surface and then swimming down as if rotating in a circle. Romano was exhausted, pleading with us not to catch any more.
“This never happens,” I said.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” the mate agreed.
“Good fish,” the captain said with a nod. “Good fish.”
About 2:00 we headed home. We were happy and exhausted, with our arms aching and our skin burned. The mate was busy with the tuna, steaking them for us, knowing he’d get a great tip for the amount of fish we brought in. The way it’s done is we all chip in three hundred bucks apiece for the trip, so the catch is ours. There was a lot of fish, so we’d throw some to the mate and the captain, but the bulk of it would be ours. Out of the eighteen hundred bucks we paid for the trip, only three hundred of it would go to the mate.
Rooney, O’Brien, Bruno, and Romano were all drinking beers. I wanted to have just one, and I knew I could do it and walk away, but something was stopping me. Maybe it was Michele, and I found myself thinking that if Michele dumped me, then I’d go on a bender. Then I pictured myself going to Narcotics or the CAGE unit that works with the gangs, working the most dangerous thing I could and spending my off-duty time drinking myself into oblivion.
I was working myself into a state when Joe grabbed us each a soda and said, “Here, Tony, have a cold one.”
“Thanks, buddy,” I said.
Rooney was bragging how he had the biggest fish.
“And the biggest mouth,” I said. “And it doesn’t count unless you get him in the boat.”
“So, Mike,” Joe said. “You didn’t forget our bet, did you? Be at my house at nine o’clock next Sunday. Donna will make you a nice breakfast before we go to church.”
“I’ll be there,” Rooney said. “I’d never welch on a bet. They’re not gonna be doing any weird stuff, right?”
“No,” Joe said, confused. “Like what?”
“I don’t know, screaming about the devil and all that other crap they say.”
“Nobody’s gonna be screaming, Mike. You’ll enjoy it.”
I wasn’t sure it was a good idea. Rooney’s not as stupid as he looks, he’s pretty sharp. If I picked up that Pastor was doing something wrong, he might too. He already thought a lot of these preachers were shady, and if he sensed something was up, it might turn him off to God.
We were all tired, and Joe and I passed out on the ride back while the four of them were still drinking.
When I woke up about two hours later they were all asleep and didn’t wake up until 6:30 when we slowed down at the marina.
I called Michele as soon as I hit the dock and got the answering machine again. I left a message telling her I’d be stopping by to see her and Stevie. We divied up the tuna, thanked the captain and mate, and said good-bye to Rooney, O’Brien, and Bruno.
I took 27 back, turning off at 111, and headed north.
“You stopping by the house?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, I’m not staying long,” I said.
When I got to the house her car was gone. I went inside to see if she left me a note or something, which she didn’t. I was getting mad now along with that sick feeling in my stomach that was telling me she was leaving. I left a note saying I stopped by and to call me when she got in.
We dropped Joe off at home. I would have gone in if I saw Michele’s car, but it wasn’t there. The traffic going into the city was heavy but moving on the Long Island Distressway, but once I cut over to the Southern State it slowed down.
I dropped Romano off at his truck and helped him with his gear.
“Great time, Tony,” he said, shaking my hand and slapping my back. “Fish
on, buddy.”
I let myself in and checked my answering machine. There were three messages—one from my mother asking if I was okay and if I would call her, one from Grandma asking where I was and that I better call her, and one from Sandy asking how I was and if I needed anything.
I called Michele again as I wrapped up the tuna steaks six at a time in plastic and foil. I tasted a piece of one. It reminded me of sushi, only it needed a little wasabi. She didn’t answer again, and I didn’t leave a message this time. I put the phone down instead of smashing it into the wall when someone knocked on the door.
I thought for a second it was Michele, then I thought it was my father or brother looking for a fight. It turned out it was Alfonse, checking on me and giving me a bowl of rice with peas and proscuitto.
“You okay, Tony?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. Anything happen after I was gone?”
“Yeah, the cops had to come for that kid on the corner, the one on drugs that’s always fighting with his girlfriend. Did you know she was pregnant?”
“The blonde? No,” I said when he nodded.
He was talking about a couple of crackheads that rented one of the tiny condos on Greely Avenue. Every time they got a new tenant it was the same thing, they got high and they fought. In June someone got shot over there. Supposedly it was gang related, but the neighbors were fed up with the two of them. I hated to say it, but what kind of life were those two gonna give a kid? They didn’t think about anything but getting high, and the kids always suffer.
“We caught a lot of tuna,” I said, taking a stack of them out of the freezer and handing them to him.
“Oh, Julia will love this, look how fresh,” Alfonse said. “Come have dinner with us tomorrow before you go to work.”
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks, Alfonse.”
I heated up the rice and peas and ate it while I watched the 10:00 news. I was sick of hearing about the mayoral race, so I shut it off and collapsed into bed. I didn’t set my clock or read my Bible and was asleep almost immediately.
