The woman looked at Annie first, then dismissed her with a motion of her hand, the fingers covered with jewels that sparkled even in the dim shop light.
“Hello, Missus Kirby,” Harry said. The last time he had seen her was to ask for a renewal of her business ad in his newspaper. At the time she hadn’t been much more friendly, he remembered.
Sheriff Good wheeled her forward and stopped the chair at the side of her son. She turned her head toward Harry and stared at him directly, with a look of command that was close to hatred.
“You want Kirby business for your newspaper, you tell the truth,” she said.
“The paper tells the truth, Missus Kirby,” Harry answered.
She pointed with a wrinkled hand at him. “Taking the side of a murderer. I’m not letting you start up all the trouble again. This town has had enough misery.”
Harry said, “I don’t know what you are talking about, Missus Kirby.”
The woman swore and said, “You have it your way. We’ll see.” She moved her arm upward in disgust, indicating to the big man that she was ready to leave.
Catch said, “You let me know if my mother needs anything, Cheeks.”
“So, why is this wreck in here?” Missus Kirby said as the sheriff was turning the chair.
“Sheriff asked me to check it over,” replied Catch. His voice was like that of a small boy with none of the gruffness he had shown to Harry.
“Do it and get the thing out of my sight, boy,” she said.
“I was thinking we might as well get something out of it,” said Catch to his mother. “This boat might be a tourist attraction, fix it up a little.”
Harry could see the fury come over the older woman’s face as she replied,” You never did have good sense, boy. You just don’t get it, do you? Cheeks, you hear me, you take care of this. Get rid of it, burn it.” The sheriff nodded and helped her get settled in her chair. He pushed her to the door and as he opened it, the outside sunlight tore through the shop. They passed through and as the door slammed shut, the room was in blackness again.
“Hey, Catch, you missed something here,” said the engine man, pulling an object from the Black Duck hull. He was standing near the broken section, the place where the patch of deck in sheriff’s exhibit had probably been broken off. Harry looked up, then raised and adjusted his camera, ready to photograph the discovery.
“What?” said Catch. He noticed Harry holding a camera and raised his arm. “You put that film away or I’ll put it away for you,” said Catch, pointing at the camera. Harry lowered the camera, keeping his eyes on Catch’s eyes until Catch looked away.
Annie could read Harry’s face and took his arm, saying, “Don’t start anything. Let’s get out of here.”
Harry watched and listened as the mechanic went on, “Ain’t nothing. Just an old red fuel can stuck down inside here.”
“Don’t waste time with junk like that. Next you’ll be telling me you found the oars. Just work on the engine, Charlie. You’re costing me money,” said Catch, walking back to his chipping work on the workboat hull.
Chapter 7
Friday July 31, 10 pm
When Harry arrived at the Motorboat, the night was still new and the house full of noisy half drunk patrons. The air inside, like in most roadside bars on the Eastern Shore, smelled of cigarette smoke and beer and the wooden floor trembled with the non-stop clump and click of country music, accented by customer boots and high heels. The people filled the circular tables of eight to ten chairs and the bar itself was packed four or five deep near the dancers. On the platform at one end Francine was dancing, moving slowly to the music for a group of cheering men some adorned with cowboy hats and jeans, some bareheaded and dressed in sports shirts and shorts. At similar perches at the other end of the bar a young nude white man was also prancing, surrounded by applauding women, most in summer dresses and slacks.
The Motorboat was not an inexpensive bar and the audience, for the most part, was made up of successful people, people who had made it to comfortable economic plateaus and those who had enough money in their pockets to afford Lulu’s marked up drinks. Many of them relocated to the area from nearby cities, brought to River Sunday to run the new factories outside town. They had no allegiance to the culture of River Sunday. To them, the town was a place with a good job, a good bar, and a good party. They knew nothing of River Sunday, and if asked by a reporter like Harry, would admit that they only cared about the money they earned. These excited onlookers, sitting here in their playtime, in some cases spouses sitting at opposite ends of the bar, were letting off steam. They would, from time to time, reach up and fold dollar bills underneath the bright ribbons each dancer had attached to his or her ankles.
Harry pushed his way through the crowd, looking for the drivers and mechanics, old friends of Walker John, Annie had discovered for him among the race competitors. She had arranged for them to meet with Harry for an interview about Walker and his racing background.
The three men were at a table against the wall. A waitress was talking to one of them as Harry approached.
“Hey, who are you?” A skinny man with hair to his shoulders spotted Harry and called out to him. The man had his right arm around a plump waitress who started laughing.
“Harry Jacobsen from the paper,” Harry answered, coming up to the table.
“Where’s Annie?” asked a gray haired full faced man.
“She sent me instead.”
“No offense, but I’d rather talk to her. She came over and did the interviews herself last year. Had dinner with us and all. Here, I’m Jesse,” said the man, who proceeded to make introductions. “This is Fat Mike, and the skin and bones over there with our waitress is Jimmy. Jimmy is my mechanic. Fat Mike and me both run our own boats.”
The other men mumbled friendly helloes as they shook hands with Harry.
“Annie’s breaking me in this year,” Harry said and smiled.
They moved their chairs so Harry could sit down. He sat with Jesse on his left, Jimmy on his right, and Fat Mike across from him.
“What can I get for you, Harry?” the waitress said.
“Woman, how about some pleasant River Sunday lovin’?” Jimmy said, pushing back his hair and grabbing for the waitress again, with a big grin. She smiled back and sidestepped him, bumping into Harry.
“Mary Lou, you have my permission to slap him down,” said Harry. The waitress smiled and winked at Harry.
“I’ll just keep on taking his money,” she said.
“Maybe a sandwich,” said Jesse. “You got some crab cakes?”
“Gotta have crab cakes,” said Fat Mike, in a deep voice, his big stomach jiggling.
“Coming right up,” she said. “How about you, Harry?”
“Crab cakes,” Harry said.
“What do you want, lover?” she asked Jimmy.
“Let’s get everybody another beer. I’ll have some of them crab cakes and some apple sauce,” Jimmy said. He had a drawl that was as sensuous as his face, soft and melodic.
“Annie said you want us to talk about how much fools we are to be driving boats,” said Fat Mike, a hearty kind of man with a deep voice.
“Tell her racing’s about money,” said Jesse, his face long like a horse, his voice rough. Harry thought he seemed more serious than the others, or perhaps the man had just had less to drink.
“Oh, money, honey,” sang Jimmy, slapping the table. “That’s what I like. Give me some of that money instead of boats that don’t finish the race.”
“Fat Mike’s all excited because he thinks he’s going to win with his new boat,” said Jesse. He spoke slowly, his lips curling around each word.
“You got that right,” said Fat Mike, his deep laugh rumbling across the table.
The beer arrived and Fat Mike tapped Harry’s glass before he drank his whole draft in one swallow.
Jimmy signaled for another round. “Jesse isn’t telling you about how we love racing, like it’s part of us. Most
of us would run these boats, money or not. All this talk about Walker, well, he was like that,” he said.
Fat Mike added, “You take yourself a piece of half inch plywood, sit down on the middle of it, hook up the engine right out of your car on the end of the wood behind you, just as close to your ass as you can, hold on and start her up full speed.”
“It’s that bad?” asked Harry.
Fat Mike smiled, “Then you lean forward and pray the bow will come down. If the bow doesn’t plane out, get level with the water, then the engine sinks further and pretty soon you have a wet backside.”
“So, you boys knew Walker?” asked Harry.
Jesse said, “Annie said you were trying to figure out Walker. Why he set the town on fire. I can tell you that for years we heard all this about Walker, about how he suddenly got to be this killer and all. I saw Walker the day of that fire. All he had on his mind was running his boat. You ask me, which nobody did, he didn’t hate anybody.”
“That’s not the way Catch Kirby talks,” suggested Harry.
Jimmy nodded. “Kirby puts down Walker a lot these days. Hell, he was just a kid in those days. I never heard him not liking Walker then.”
Jesse added, “I was a young guy around here too, Harry. We all were. Just so you get the story straight, until the fire, Walker and Catch’s father, Homer, were pretty tight. Matter of fact, Walker built the boat that Homer won with. Some say Homer lost a lot of races after Walker was gone because he didn’t have Walker around any more to help him. Yet Homer turned in Walker, testified against him. I never understood that.”
Jimmy said, “Walker just wanted to build fast boats and race them. A pretty simple guy.”
“Yeah,” said Fat Mike. “Homer was the same way. Why, Homer’d be alive today if he’d kept on doing what he knew best.”
“What do you mean?”
“His wife got into it,” said Jesse. “Got him the new boat, pushing him all the time to win national races. That boat was never set up right. That’s why he got killed. Walker could have fixed it. Homer and him didn’t have a chance to work out the boat. They would have too. That’s why it’s all so suspicious, the two of them having blows.”
“Walker knew how to match the power and the hull,” said Jimmy. “He had a real talent.”
“I wouldn’t mind him working on my boat today, no offense, Jimmy,” said Jesse.
“None taken,” said Jimmy. “Walker was good, as good as there has ever been. I’d like to learn from him. Any good mechanic would say the same.”
The waitress brought the crab cakes just then. Jimmy waited until Harry got a mouthful and then said, “Fat Mike, tell him about that rubber mallet you got.”
Fat Mike leaned back and said, “I got the best mechanic, this little black rubber mallet I carry with me in the boat.”
“He’s running big outboards, now, Harry,” said Jimmy washing down a bite of his crab cake with a swallow of beer.
Fat Mike shook his head. “I keep it right beside me at the wheel.”
“Tell him what you use it for,” said Jesse.
“Wellsir, you boys know how little use I got for outboard motors. Ain’t a one of them worth the powder to blow it to hell. “He looked around with a grin and said, “Goddamn I hope my sponsor didn’t hear me say that.”
“He ain’t worried about all the money from the factory that he gets paid to run that boat, nossir,” said Jimmy, waving to the waitress for another round of beer.
“No,” said Fat Mike, savoring his words, “That part I like. So when I get out there at the start, I reach out behind me and I take that little mallet and I just tap the side of the engine a little bit.”
“Why?” said Harry. “You think that will help it go faster?”
“Harry, I don’t know what tapping that engine will do. Engines aren’t human or maybe they are, I don’t know. I’ll tell you the truth what that little mallet does for me. It reminds me that when the race is over and the damn engine didn’t run the way it was supposed to, well, I got a hammer to beat the shit out of it.”
When the laughter died down, Harry said, “Let’s just say that the fire wasn’t set by Walker. Who else would do it? You guys know what the town was like that night. I was wondering about the racial angle. Do you think that this whole situation, the crime, all of it, was staged to keep Walker out of that 1968 race? I mean because of him being black and the other drivers being white?”
“Some drivers back then thought it was a white man’s sport, but whether Walker got mad and set the fire for that reason, I don’t know,” said Jimmy, pushing back his hair as he ate. “Some of the drivers felt that way about Walker, I guess. The world was different then. Most of them, though, liked Walker, black or not. They sure as hell wanted him working on their boats.”
Jesse said, “I remember something strange that happened at Homer’s last race. He come up to me the night before. He said he wanted to tell me something.”
“That was several years after the big fire here,” said Harry.
“Yes,” said Jesse. “Homer was racing though, out in a lot of regattas all over the country. He got pretty famous, made a lot of money until he got killed.”
“Nobody will ever convince me Homer’s boat wasn’t the cause of that crash,” said Fat Mike. “I never believed Homer steered her wrong.”
“Homer had something to say to you, Jesse?” asked Harry.
Jesse nodded. “We were drinking, just me and Homer. This was a little bar near the race course. Homer was pretty drunk.”
“He got that way in the years after the fire. Not on the day of the race but all the other days. Never drank that much before,” said Fat Mike.
Jesse continued, his face even more serious than before, “Homer leaned over to me and said, ‘Jesse, something’s wrong.’
“I said, ‘What do you mean? You talking about your boat set up?’
“He said, ‘No, it’s not the boat. I want to make things right again.’ Then he asks me, ‘You remember Walker John?’
“I answered, ‘Sure, we all remember him.’
“’Walker never meant to hurt me,’ said Homer, ‘I hurt him though.’
“I asked, ‘What do you mean?’
“What did Homer say next?” asked Harry.
Jesse continued, “He didn’t get a chance to tell me. It was about then that his mechanic, the fat boy Cheeks who’s now your sheriff, came in and told Homer his wife wanted him back to the boat. I remember how Homer looked at me though, like he was afraid of something.”
“Afraid?” asked Harry. “Of what?”
“Yeah, fear, I guess you could call it,” said Jesse. “I’d never seen Homer like that. He had more guts than any man I ever met. You have to have guts to drive these boats. Maybe he was getting scared of the driving, I don’t know.”
“Sometimes a man going out in a race just knows he’s going to die,” said Fat Mike.
Harry said, “Tell me more about Walker.”
“We go way back, years before the fire. We all started coming to River Sunday for the races when we were in our early twenties. Walker was in his later thirties then, I’d say. It was before 1963, when Kennedy was shot, I remember,” said Jesse.
“Walker told me,” said Jimmy, “he started out in River Sunday cutting grass for the whites and eventually he had two or three contracts to take care of the lawnmowers that the town used. He made good money and worked pretty hard. His mother and him got together, she was doing domestic work, I think, and she helped him build a little barn in back of their place down in Mulberry.
“He knew more about Ford V8’s than the factory. Why, sometimes you’d go in his shop and the factory guys would be in there asking him questions.”
“Tell me about his boat,” said Harry.
“I’ll tell you one thing. I never understood why he called it Black Duck,” said Fat Mike.
“Was he trying to make a statement, like something about civil rights?” asked Harry.
“Walker didn’t seem that kind. I mean he didn’t talk about being black or nothing,” said Jesse.
“I know he didn’t like hunting. He wasn’t naming it after the wild black ducks that nest all around the harbor and the swamp,” said Jimmy.
“Guess we’ll never know,” said Fat Mike.
“Walker John wanted to race those big car engines, Ford more than Chevy or Chrysler, so he looked to the Super Stocks,” said Jesse. “A lot of ideas were around in those days about racing boats. What you needed was a small enough boat to race here in the harbor and in the small lakes. The big races went to the high speed unlimited with the airplane engines and the ocean racers. Walker didn’t want to get into that. Too much money and he had to go too far away from home.”
Jesse laughed and said, bending over the table so the others could hear, “He told me that he didn’t want to travel that much, just make his home right here. He said a man could get all he needed right here. It weren’t so hard, he said, if you knew what you were doing.”
Jesse sipped his beer and went on, “He specialized in the eighteen foot inboard runabouts, what we call the flatbottoms. The class had just been redefined by the national boys. He thought he’d stay with the regular gasoline models because that class had enough speed and he could concentrate on the design side of the engines. Then he told me he wanted to get into building the boats too.
“That’s when he put in the railroad to his repair barn and started in taking racing boats as well as others in there for his rent. Brought them in on those rails right out of the harbor water. He got known as a pretty good man on hulls and he had a knack for getting the finish just right so they’d fly across the water. A high speed boat doesn’t have a lot of the hull in the water anyway, but when it is on the water you want it to glide.”
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 10
