“How did I nail you? You made a mistake. You brought a gun to a harpoon fight. Your turn… Who are you, and who sent you?”
“St-St-St…” Pink froth bubbled upon his lips. “Stubb. S-s-s-sent by Sta-Sta-Star…”
“Starbuck?” I finished, and he managed a weak nod. “Both of you work for Ahab. Did he order you to…?”
A low rattle from somewhere deep in his throat, then a stench as something foul left his body. Stubb sagged against the harpoon’s wooden shaft, and that was it. He’d told me enough, though, so I found a couple of pennies in my pocket and carefully placed them upon his unseeing eyes. He’d tried to kill me, sure, but I always pay my informants. At least he’d have something for the boatman he was about to meet.
I’d just stood up when I heard a voice behind me. “St-st-st-stop right th-th-there, Ishma-ma-mael, and p-p-put your h-h-h…”
“Hands up? Sure.” I raised my mitts, then slowly turned around. “’Bout time you got here, Billy. What took you so long?”
Constable Budd stood just outside the alley, pistol pointed straight at me. He wouldn’t miss if he fired, but I knew he wouldn’t. Billy and I went way back, when we’d both served on the same ship in the navy. He was a pretty handsome guy, with the kind of angel looks that make the girls swoon, but he was a lousy foretopman and had never been able to do anything about his speech impediment. Now he was just a stuttering flatfoot who was never around when you needed him.
“I-I-I w-w-w-” Billy stopped, counted to ten, and then went on. “I was handling another call when I heard about what was happening here. What made you kill this guy?”
“He tried to kill me first. You can ask anyone.” A small crowd of bystanders had come out of hiding and were beginning to gather around us. I had no shortage of witnesses. And, indeed, when Billy turned to look around, he saw a lot of heads nodding in agreement with what I’d just said.
“Uh-huh.” Billy wasn’t completely convinced. “And w-why w-would he do something like th-that?”
“Beats me. I was just defending myself.” Ignoring the pistol pointed at me, I planted a foot against Stubb’s body, grabbed the harpoon with both hands, and gave it a good, hard yank. The harpoon made a wet sound as it came loose.
“Yeah, I’m s-s-sure that’s all you w-were do-do-doing.” Billy remained skeptical, but at least he lowered his weapon. “Y-y-you don’t th-th-think it has anything t-to do with something y-y-you m-might be working on, do y-you?”
I wiped the harpoon clean on the corpse. “I haven’t the foggiest what you’re talking about.”
“Oh y-y-yes you do.” Billy stuck his pistol back in his belt. “I-I-I’ve t-told you m-m-many times, Ish-Ish-Ishmael… st-st-st-stay out of p-p-p-police b-b-b-business!”
“I’ll keep it in mind. Want some advice of my own? You really need to make another appointment with your speech therapist.”
Constable Budd cast me a cold glare, but he knew he wouldn’t get anything out of me. “G-g-get out of h-h-here. C-come d-down to the st-st-st-station later s-s-so w-w-w-we can get a… a… a…”
“A statement. No problem.” I shouldered my harpoon again, stepped around him. “C-c-catch you later.”
“J-j-j-jerk,” he muttered.
Making my way through the crowd, I continued walking down the street. Time to drop by the Spouter Inn and learn why Starbuck had sent Stubb on an errand that would’ve left me dead if only he hadn’t been such a lousy shot.
* * *
It was happy hour at the Spouter Inn, which meant that the proprietor had just opened the doors and let the drunks in. If it hadn’t been for local ordinances, I don’t think Pete would have ever bothered to close up; he probably would have just hired another bartender to handle the graveyard shift, rented cots to the chronics, and mopped the floors every other week. On the other hand, perhaps it’s just as well that he gave the regulars a chance to sober up. They’d only come back again the next day, anxious to damage their livers with the nasty swill Pete made from fermented apples and rubbing alcohol. Pete’s last name is Coffin. Don’t get me started.
It was half past noon when I walked in, yet the tavern had this perpetually lightless gloom that made it seem as if midnight never went away. Sailors and derelicts were sitting around tables, using wooden spoons to slurp up bowls of that reeking foulness that Pete called clam chowder; if you ever find a clam in there, please carry it back to the ocean and let it go; the poor thing got lost. The regulars were gathered at the bar, where Mr. Coffin himself was holding court. He noticed me almost as soon I found a vacant stool and sat down.
“Hey, Izzy… I hear someone took a shot at you.” He grinned as he spit into a beer stein and wiped it down. “What’s the matter? Someone’s husband upset with you again?”
One day, a smart fellow is going to invent a rapid means of communication. I’d be willing to bet that it might have something to do with electricity. Whatever it is, though, it won’t be half as fast as the waterfront grapevine. The guys at the bar laughed and I faked a smile.
“Wouldn’t know, Pete.” I rested my harpoon against the bar. “Why don’t you ask your wife?”
More laughter. Pete picked up another stein. “I will, soon as she gets back from giving your sister swimming lessons so she can catch up with troop ships.”
“You win,” I said, and as a consolation prize he filled the stein with ale and slid it down the bar to me. “Thanks… say, you wouldn’t happen to know someone named Starbuck, would you?”
Pete’s grin faded. “Over there, corner table. The guy with his back to the wall.” He lowered his voice. “Careful, Izzy. He doesn’t look it, but he’s one tough hombre.”
I dropped a silver piece on the bar, then picked up my ale and sauntered across the room, leaving my harpoon at the bar. There wasn’t enough room in the tavern for me to use it effectively; besides, the management frowned on customers killing each other. Starbuck spotted me before I was halfway there; although he didn’t stop talking to the sailor sitting across the table from him, his dark eyes regarded me steadily as I approached. His sun-darkened skin told me that he’d spent his life at sea, and the way his pea jacket bunched around his biceps was evidence that he’d never been a passenger. Other than that, he looked fairly ordinary… and it’s the ordinary ones who are often the most dangerous.
“Mr. Ishmael, isn’t it?”
“Just Ishmael. And you’re Mr. Starbuck?”
“Uh-huh… and don’t forget the mister.” He didn’t bother to introduce his companion, a muscle-bound pug who couldn’t have been anything else but another seaman. Without a word, the sailor stood up and walked away. Starbuck pointed to the vacated chair. “Have a seat.”
“I’d prefer not to.” A line I’d picked up from Bartleby. The scrivener may have been weird, but he was an expert at the art of passive aggression. “Met a friend of yours just a little while ago. Mr. Stubb.”
“Oh? And how is he?” As if he didn’t know already.
“Aside from the heart trouble he’s been having lately, just peachy.”
Starbuck’s eyes narrowed, but otherwise his expression remained stoical. “Stubb’s a good man. It would be a shame if anything happened to him. I might get upset.”
“Really?” I took a swig of ale and put the stein down on the table; I needed to keep my hands free, just in case he tried to start anything. Beneath his open jacket, I could see a big, bone-handled knife stuck in a scabbard on his belt. Starbuck’s right hand never strayed very far from it. “If you’d wanted to send me a message, maybe you should’ve asked someone else to deliver it.”
“A message?” Starbuck’s head cocked sideways just a fraction of an inch. “Now what sort of message could I possibly want to send you? We’ve only just met.”
“Perhaps a warning to stay away from your captain’s wife.”
“Mrs. Ahab?” A corner of his mouth ticked upward. “Pray tell, friend Ishmael… what possible interest could I have in the spouse of my commanding officer?
”
“If not her, then the woman she’d like to find.” I gave it a moment to sink in, but all I could see was bewilderment. “Moby,” I added. “Moby Dick.”
Starbuck stared at me in disbelief, then suddenly burst out laughing. “Surely you jest! You think Moby Dick is… is a woman?”
Only one way to clear this up: lay my cards on the table, let Starbuck know what I was holding. “She does. That’s why she hired me… to find the lady with whom Mrs. Ahab believes her husband is having an affair. Moby is a name her husband has frequently mentioned, so…”
Starbuck laughed even more loudly, a hilarious roar that caught the attention of everyone in the room. “Oh, really,” he yelled, slapping his knee, “this is too much! I mean… my God, when one of my crewmen happened to spy her leaving your office early this morning in a rather furtive fashion, he believed that she might have been having a tryst with you!” He chuckled, shaking his head. “That’s why I dispatched Mr. Stubb to… shall we say, attend to you. The captain has always been wary of unmarried men taking an interest in his wife… and you, sir, have a reputation.”
“Oh, boy…”
“Yes. One error, compounded by another.” His grin disappeared. “But now it seems as if I’m down one crewman, on the very day that the Pequod is about to set sail again.”
“You’re leaving today?” Mrs. Ahab had told me the ship was leaving soon, but not that soon. I wondered if she even knew.
“The whales are running, Mr. Ishmael, and the Pequod is a whaling ship.” His gaze shifted to the harpoon I’d left leaning against the bar. “You’re good with that thing. I could use another harpooner.”
“Thanks, but I’ve got a job already.”
A malicious glint appeared in his eyes. “You misunderstand me, Mr. Ishmael. I’m not offering you a billet… I’m giving you one.” His gaze shifted past me. “Dough Boy…?”
I’d forgotten the sailor who’d been sitting at the table. I was about to look around to see if he was behind me when something crashed against the back of my head. The next instant, I was face-down on the unvarnished floor.
I wasn’t unconscious yet. Dough Boy’s boot made sure that I was. The moment before it connected with my ribs, though, I heard Starbuck say one more thing.
“Now you’ll get to meet Moby Dick,” he said. And then Dough Boy kicked me into oblivion.
* * *
The creak of oak boards; the mingled odors of salt and fish and sweat. The brown-tinted light of an oil lamp swaying from the rafters of a low ceiling. A narrow bunk that rocked beneath me. As soon as I woke up, I knew I was at sea.
That wasn’t my only surprise. I opened my eyes to find a tattooed face hovering above me. “Queequeg … what the hell are you doing here?”
“Iko iko.” My partner’s black eyes regarded me from beneath his beaverskin hat.
“You signed up? Why would you…?” My headache wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t put two and two together. “We’re on the Pequod, aren’t we? And you took a billet when you’d heard I’d been shanghaied. Right?”
“A whop bop-a-lu a whop bam boo.”
“Yeah, okay… the pay’s better, too.” I started to sit up, and the sharp pain from my ribs told me that I might be rushing things. Dough Boy had done a number on me. I was in the crew quarters aft of the main hold; there were no portholes below decks, so I couldn’t tell whether it was day or night. “Have you seen Ahab? Do you know who Moby…?”
A deck hatch swung open, and I heard booted feet descending the ladder. Queequeg stepped aside to make room for my visitor; a second later, Starbuck came into view. “Very good. You’re awake.” There was a copper mug in his right hand. “Like some coffee?”
I stared at him. “You abduct me, and then you offer me coffee. You’re a real piece of work, Starbuck.”
“It’s good coffee. Made it myself. And I told you… it’s Mister Starbuck to you.”
“It’s going to be Mister Dead Meat when I get through with you.”
“Uh-huh. You and what navy?” He slapped a hand on Queequeg’s shoulder. “Your pal here is the only friend you have aboard, Mr. Ishmael. There’s forty men on the Pequod, and they all take their orders from me. I’d think twice about making idle threats. The captain usually lets me give twenty lashes for insubordination… and you know, of course, that mutiny is punishable by hanging.”
Yeah, I knew. Old scars on my back were proof that I was no stranger to a bullwhip, and I’d once seen a sailor do the dead man’s jig from the end of a noose. So I accepted the mug from him and took a sip. Not bad coffee, for a creep. “I don’t get it. Why did you bring me along? If you’ve got Queequeg, you’re no longer short a harpooner. Hell, he’s better than I am.”
“He signed up after we brought you aboard. Someone on the dock must have recognized you when Dough Boy and I hauled you down from the Spouter Inn.” Starbuck grinned. “We knew that he’s your partner, of course… but you’re right, he also has a good rep as a harpooner, and we need all the spearchuckers we can get.”
Queequeg scowled at him. “Bang shang a lang,” he growled.
“What did he say?”
“Don’t call him a spearchucker. He doesn’t like that.” I didn’t give him an accurate translation; it was something Queequeg’s victims often heard just before he shrunk their heads. “So when are you going to tell me what’s going on here? Who the hell is Moby Dick, and why is he so important to Captain Ahab?”
“You can ask him yourself. He sent me down here to fetch you.” He stepped back, made a beckoning gesture with his hands. “C’mon now… time to get up.”
It wasn’t until we came up the ladder that I realized that night had fallen. A cold wind slapped at the mainsails; Orion was rising from the east, and when I looked to the port side, I spotted the Nantucket lighthouse upon the western horizon. The Pequod was several miles off the Massachusetts coast, heading north. It must have set sail shortly before dusk; I’d been unconscious for quite a while.
A group of sailors were gathered on deck, eating beans and drinking rum. A guy with an eye-patch sat on a pickle barrel, playing an accordion. All the scene lacked was a talking parrot and some guy in a striped shirt singing “What Shall We Do With A Drunken Sailor?” Now I remembered why I left the navy. God, I hate sea chanteys.
Queequeg and I followed Starbuck to the aft cabin. The chief mate knocked twice on the door, then opened it and walked in. The captain’s quarters were larger than the crew accommodations, of course, but it was still a cold and uncomfortable little room that made the rudest hovel in New Bedford look like a luxury suite. Not that its occupant would probably mind. One look at Captain Ahab, and I knew that he was a hard-boiled egg no one would ever crack.
“Mister Starbuck? Is this our new crewman?” Ahab turned away from the window, the wooden peg of his left leg thumping against the deck. Cool gray eyes regarded from a leathery face framed by a white jaw beard. He reminded me of every bad teacher I’d ever had, the kind who’d break your fingers with a ruler for chewing tobacco in class.
“Yes, sir. Woke up just a few minutes ago.” Starbuck unnecessarily pushed me forward, as if I was a prisoner being brought before the warden. “Name’s Ishmael.”
“Ishmael.” Ahab stamped closer to me until our faces were only a few inches apart. “Mister Starbuck tells me my wife hired you to check up on me. Is this true?”
“That’s pretty much the shape of things. She thinks you’re having an affair with a woman named Moby.”
“Does she now?” A smirk danced on his lips. He glanced over his shoulder at Starbuck. “Moby Dick is a woman… did you get that?”
“Sure did, Captain. I’m just as amused as you are.”
“Indeed.” Ahab turned away from me, hobbled over to his desk and sat down. “Moby Dick took my leg, Mr. Ishmael, but my wife would take all my money if she could. I suppose that’s why she hired you. If she could prove in court that I’m having an affair…”
“Hold on. She told
me that you lost your leg when you fell off a topsail.”
“I know. That’s what I told her.” His eyes rolled toward the ceiling. “If I’d let her know the truth, I would’ve never heard the end of it. ‘You lost your leg to a whale? What kind of idiot loses his leg to a—?’”
“Moby Dick is a whale?”
“Of course it’s a whale. Have you ever heard of a girl named Moby?” Ahab stared at me in disbelief. “The biggest sperm whale anyone has ever seen, and as white as an iceberg. Mean, too. My leg got caught in a harpoon line when we fought it a year ago, yanked it right off. Not that I’m going to tell this to my wife.” He sighed and made a talking motion with his hand. “Nag, nag, nag…”
“Might have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had.”
“Yeah, well… she wants a divorce that bad, I might just give it to her. When I catch Moby Dick, I’m gonna saw off its head, take it home, and drop it on the front lawn. ‘Here’s the lady I was having an affair with, bitch. Now gimme a divorce so I can have my life back.’”
“I take it that you’re going after Moby Dick for the sake of revenge.”
“Revenge is such a harsh word, Mr. Ishmael. I prefer to think of it as aggressive fishing. Anyway, I need another harpooner, and since you took out my second mate, you and your partner are going to replace him.”
“Diddy wah diddy,” Queequeg said.
“Diddy wah diddy?” Ahab scowled at him, then looked at Starbuck and me. “Can somebody tell me what diddy wah diddy means?”
“He’s asking about bennies. Y’know… medical insurance, stock options, retirement plan…”
“Three bucks a week, a cup of rum every day, and a promise to keelhaul either of you if you ask me that again. But you can have my wife after I dump her, Ishmael. God knows I never slept with the skank.”
“So I’ve gathered.” No wonder he hadn’t ever been his wife’s monkey. He was too weird for sex. At least I had something to look forward to once we got home.
I didn’t know it then, though, but that was going to be a problem.
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