Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3)

by Thomas Hollyday

  “Walker could make a boat plane out good on the water,” said Fat Mike.

  Jesse smiled, “Then, that last year word got around that he was building his own boat. Walker had always driven other people’s hulls, not as an accredited driver but just for test, you know. He had to apply just like anyone else to get his driving license. This was the ultimate thing in the business. If you could drive, do your engine and also make the hull then you knew it all.

  Fat Mike said, “You get a keel that isn’t straight when the boat goes through the water and she’ll ride funny, bounce.”

  Jimmy added, “Both sides got to be equal or she’ll ride funny, steer to one side or the other. That ain’t good when you’re traveling at high speed.”

  Fat Mike went on, “He had to build his engines a certain way. That was a real talent of his. I’ve seen him machine those parts until they were as balanced as a scale could make them. Of course he bought only the best materials for his pistons and cranks. He had a sense about the carburetors. He could make them work better than design.”

  Jesse said, “Now you put that engine on backward and set it so the engine drives the boat through a reversing vee drive that’s mounted right under where you sit. That made it a little dangerous.’

  “A lot dangerous,” he said. “A fast turning shaft directly under your ass and if anything lets go, you know where it’s going.”

  “You boys ready for a little table dance?” Francine, blonde hair coming halfway down her back, several one dollar bills stuffed in a small bracelet on her left wrist, and wearing nothing else, was smiling at them.

  “How about a big dance?” said Jimmy. He pushed back his hair again. His big arms lifted her by her waist easily on to the table. She pushed back the tableware with her bare foot and began to move in time to the music.

  “Mercy, girl, you don’t want to give me no heart attack,” said Fat Mike.

  “You boys were laughing so much, maybe you’d tell me the joke,” she said.

  “Speaking of a joke,” Fat Mike pointed across the room to where Catch Kirby had entered. He was with two other men and they were coming towards Harry’s table.

  “Surprised Reverend Blue ain’t with them,” said Jimmy.

  “Good God man, don’t ruin my life with Reverend Blue. Man is worse than any devil.” Jesse said. He whispered to Harry, “I get away from people like him.”

  “What happened to Catch when he himself was racing?” asked Harry, while Catch was still far enough away.

  “I don’t know any more about it. I can tell you he ain’t no driver. He didn’t have the boats,” said Fat Mike.

  “It’s not all the boats,” said Jesse. “Catch couldn’t drive like his father, that’s all. He’s had it in for all of us since them, all his father’s old friends. He can’t face up to it, I guess.”

  “What was it?” asked Harry.

  Jesse said, “To ride these boats you have to have a lot of guts and a lot of luck. The waves hit you wrong and you have to try to recover or you’ll lose the race. Some of us go after the turns, the rough water and take a chance and some don’t. Some just quit.”

  Catch had come up to the table and was standing behind Harry. Beside him were the two other men, one of them the crane operator and another, the expert mechanic Harry had seen in Catch’s shop.

  “You best behave around the lady, Catch,” said Jimmy.

  “I don’t see no lady,” Catch said, slurring his words.

  The girl stopped dancing and looked at Jesse.

  “You did all right, honey,” said Jesse, handing her a twenty dollar bill. She tucked the money in her wrist and shot a glare at Catch.

  “You’re interrupting our party, mister,” said Fat Mike, pushing his chair back from the table.

  Catch reached over Harry and picked up Harry’s beer. Then Catch poured the liquid over Harry’s crab cakes.

  “I don’t like nosy people,” he said. “You ought to go back to New York where you come from.”

  Harry had spent a good part of his life working in live fire wartime combat situations chasing news stories. He’d found himself plunged into bad situations at the whim of a New York news producer who needed a spot to fill out an upcoming story. His many Special Forces and Ranger sidekicks overseas had taught him how to survive and his tough frame had absorbed the lessons easily.

  As the last of his beer was poured out, Harry suddenly lifted his arms, grabbed Catch’s neck and pulled the mechanic forward over Harry’s own head. Catch’s feet went up in the air as he flipped over Harry and drove headfirst into the table, his face smashing against the wood of the table top, crab cakes flying through the air. At the same time, the naked dancer jumped off the table and ran into the gathering crowd, screaming.

  Harry threw Catch’s legs forward and stood, adjusting his powerful arms and fists to face the other two outsiders. Fat Mike, not to be outdone, pushed the stunned Catch off the table, upturned the table, dishes and silverware clattering to the floor. He moved around the table to join Harry, while Jimmy and Jesse did the same. As the four of them stood abreast, several of the onlookers joined the crane operator and the other mechanic and all came toward them, fists raised, yelling “Get the bastards.” A chair came through the air and crashed against Jimmy’s shoulder, knocking him to the floor.

  Screams erupted from the other table dancers who snapped their wads of dollar bills from their shoes and clambered over their patrons to get to the floor. Male and female customers swelled forward, throwing bottles and chairs at each other as the room took on a free-for-all fight.

  Harry faced the crane operator and the mechanic as his partners took on others. The operator was small but wiry and he held a long neck bottle in his right hand. Harry aimed a straight right at the man and the slender man fell back, the bottle flying into the air. He traded blows with the mechanic but was unable to score. He tried another right and left combination and saw the man stagger. As he recovered, Harry never saw the man’s return left hook as it hit his own jaw. That blow was the last thing Harry remembered.

  He woke up, his head throbbing. He was lying on a cot and Jimmy was grinning at him, sitting further down on the edge of the bed. Jesse and Fat Mike were on the floor propped up against the broken and stained plaster walls, both of them snoring. Harry focused on the iron bars in front of him and knew they were all in a jail cell.

  “Welcome to the River Sunday jail,” said Jesse.

  Harry felt his head. “Did we save the girl’s honor?” he said.

  “I don’t know about that, but Catch and his boys are locked up, too,” said Jesse. “They’re over in another cell. Cheeks cleared out the bar. A friend of yours, a Mister Charleston Grow, looked in on you while you were out. Said to tell you it was the first time the poker game has been disrupted since Lulu took over the bar.”

  “What time is it?” asked Harry.

  “About two in the morning. Race Committee is arranging our bail. This won’t be the first time we’ve been in this jail,” said Jimmy.

  “Harry Jacobsen,” said a man coming down the hallway outside the cell. Harry recognized the voice of Sheriff Good. Lulu was with him and she had the sheriff laughing. Her perfume was welcome against the urine stink of the cell.

  In the street, Harry thanked her.

  She said, tossing her hair, “Cheeks owed me. He and I have a little arrangement. Sometimes he comes over in the afternoon, and I get two of the girls to dress up in Roy Rogers and Gene Autry outfits to dance for him in one of my back rooms.”

  “I’ve stayed in worse jails but not many,” said Harry rubbing his sore jaw.

  Lulu said, “I was a little surprised you got yourself arrested, but then I got to thinking. You’re a newspaperman and that kind of person always get in fights with race boat drivers.”

  Harry laughed. “I’m that kind of person,” he said.

  “Maybe you ought to stay out of investigating the Walker story?” she said, partly as a question.

  “I
’m surprised you said that,” he answered. “You’re one of the few people around here with any guts.”

  “I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she said. As she said this, Harry knew from the unusual concern in her voice that she was worried.

  Her tone changed as she saw him glance at her. She grinned and said, “My girl, Francine, told me to tell you she appreciates you stepping up.”

  “Is she all right? I mean, no bruises where it shows?” asked Harry.

  “No,” Lulu laughed. “Biggest thing to her, Francine can still dance naked.”

  They reached Lulu’s Mercedes and got in.

  “What about your bar?” asked Harry, sitting back in the leather passenger seat.

  She smiled as she started the big engine and then said, “I find more damage after Reverend Blue has one of his bingo nights.”

  “So tell me how I can repay you?” Harry asked.

  She looked into his eyes and answered, “I’ll think of something.”

  “You getting affectionate, Lulu?” he said.

  “Don’t get any ideas. I just make love, not think it,” she said, starting out of the parking lot. She stopped the car for a moment and turned to him. “Although,” she said, giving him a light kiss, “For you, I might make an exception.”

  Chapter 8

  Saturday August 1, 9PM

  “Regatta Returns” was the headline and below it, “Eighty-eighth Annual Running of the Homer Kirby Memorial Powerboat Races, See Schedules and Driver Lists inside.” The right two columns were filled with regatta news, including a brief history of Mahoney the driver who met with disaster in the first race back in 1912, and a complete saga of Homer Kirby for whom the regatta was now named, including a list of all his winning races.

  To the left and lower was Harry’s photograph of Walker’s boat being hauled out of the Wilderness Swamp and beneath that a reproduction of the old newspaper photo of Walker himself. Harry grinned when he thought of the sheriff’s reaction at having himself photographed without his permission. Inside, in the follow-up to the story were pictures of the boat being brought through town that night and of the three boys standing on the police boat. Annie had done a good job. He especially liked the headline that she had come up with for Walker’s article. “Victim or Killer?” and its smaller headline, “Can we be sure without a fair trial?” The paper was out. Harry knew that repercussions would come his way. For a moment he thought again about whether the old wood building had any fire extinguishers. Then he shrugged his shoulders. If he started worrying about that kind of violence toward himself and Annie, he knew he’d scare himself out of the business.

  “The pictures look good on the front page,” he said to Annie and she nodded as she read her copy. “You and Chauncy did a good job.”

  “He told me he would be keeping his head low this weekend,” she said.

  “Yeah. He didn’t come around to help me deliver papers today,” said Harry. Harry had been out all day dropping off the paper to subscribers. Selling the paper consisted of placing piles in the various motels and hotels around River Sunday and then coming back later to collect the money. Annie had been doing the same with her copies. In operating a small town newspaper the marketing becomes a big part of survival. A man or woman who doesn’t like to carry around bundles of papers to sell doesn’t belong in the business. He had come back to the office late to catch up on some office work and he and Annie had been going over plans for next Saturday’s coverage of the races.

  He wanted to do something for Annie to reward her for standing with him on the article. He knew she spent a lot of time at home in her condo and had been thinking about asking her out to dinner. He was just about to say something when his phone rang at the other end of the office, its sound echoing in the dark rooms. On the receiver, Harry recognized the laconic sound of Marty Sol.

  “Cheeks took off running out of here,” he said. “He got a call from that park ranger at the Wilderness.”

  “He found something?” asked Harry.

  “Cheeks didn’t share the news with me,” he said. “Still, I thought you might want to get out there anyway.”

  “It’s got to be the Walker case,” said Harry.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised, the way he was moving,” said Marty.

  “Why didn’t he take you along?” Harry asked.

  “Cheeks don’t like anyone observing him work a case, Harry. He’s a real private man,” said Marty.

  “How much do you trust this park ranger?” Harry asked.

  Marty paused then said, “He does what he’s told, Harry. I hear he got the job because his wife knows people in the state capitol and she was pestering him to come back to River Sunday.”

  Before he hung up, Marty added, “I saw your headline. You got guts but you better watch yourself.”

  “Thanks. I will,” said Harry.

  Annie wished him luck as he went out the door. He stopped and looked at her for a moment, glad that she was now on his side in the investigation.

  Even at this hour, purple colors of the summer evening were still in the western sky, low over the far tree line as Harry drove into the Wilderness. He parked beside the sheriff’s cruiser and went to the pier. An empty berth among the tightly packed utility craft showed him the ranger’s boat had already left, and he also saw the kicked up strands of seaweed in the shallow black water, and smelled the lingering engine smoke.

  Harry stared at the marsh, the water smooth and reflecting the shadows of the late sunlight, the trees not showing any motion. Far off, he thought he could hear the slow running engine of a powerful outboard, probably the ranger and sheriff heading deeper into the swamp with the sheriff.

  He heard footsteps crunching the dry grass and turned. The ranger’s wife had come up behind him. She was dressed the same as the other day with the addition of a blue head scarf which she was tying under her chin.

  “They’ve gone out there to catch that man,” she said.

  “How do you know that?” Harry asked.

  “My husband took his dogs this time,” she said, her voice low with sorrow as she walked by him. “I expected you’d be coming along,” she added.

  “Can you take me out there?” Harry said.

  She nodded, motioned to the same boat they had used the other day, and said, “I told my man that Walker shouldn’t be none of his business. He don’t listen sometimes he get around Cheeks.”

  As she poled out, she told him that her husband had come running into their kitchen a couple of hours ago saying he found a shack in the far end of the marsh.

  “I said to him to leave it alone,” she said with disgust in her voice. “He didn’t pay me no mind and insisted on calling up that sheriff.”

  She poled the boat further into deep water, then added, “I told him not to trust that man.” She shook her head. “Sometimes I think my man plays with the Devil, I do.”

  “The Devil?” asked Harry.

  She looked at him and said, “Maybe the Devil doesn’t got no color and maybe he does. Yessir, with a man like Cheeks I worry.”

  “You worry about Cheeks?” Harry said, smiling.

  “Man winning an election don’t mean he’s any good,” she answered and started the motor.

  Harry didn’t answer, not that he agreed that the big sheriff rated being called a Devil, but he wondered, sitting there in the small boat with the swamp smell around him, why this sheriff was so intrigued with a thirty year old case when he must have had other more current crime to investigate. The big man didn’t seem to be working a lot of overtime hours. The sheriff was present at Lulu’s, ogling the girls, whenever Harry was there. After all, River Sunday, from what Harry could determine after the months he had lived here, had its share of drug dealing, murders, robberies and dead beat dads and moms, in other words, plenty for the police to do. On top of that, the sheriff had to work with Captain Stiles of the town police to plan the upcoming regatta and the handling of the crowds and traffic. At any rate that
was two devils in River Sunday that had come to his attention, Walker or his boat, Harry wasn’t sure which, proposed by the preacher and Sheriff Good proposed by the park ranger’s wife.

  Harry stared ahead as she moved the boat swiftly through the narrow waterways. The night had come quickly bringing the hordes of mosquitoes. The boat had no lights and Harry was amazed at how she traveled in this darkness completely by memory. The boat moved among the reeds so deftly that he did not see the recurrent tiny mud islands until they brushed the hull, making a slight rasping sound.

  They came around a turn and saw the sheriff moving his flashlight quickly over the reeds and swamp trees, light bounding off the vegetation and water. The woman cut her engine and they drifted for a few minutes. The flashlight went off and all was black night. Harry heard the scraping sound of a wooden oar being pulled over the fiberglass of the ranger’s boat hull.

  “I’ll pole us closer,” she whispered.

  When they were within a hundred yards of her husband but still hidden in the reeds, the sheriff’s flashlight went on again. Harry could see that the ranger’s boat had been beached in the mud edge of a reed covered small island. He heard low voices and the sound of heavy boots clumping against the hull as one of them clambered to go ashore.

  Harry recognized the ranger’s soft voice saying, “Ain’t even muskrats back in there and it’s the worst kind of muck to walk through.”

  “You stay here and mind the boat till I call for you,” Harry heard Good order the ranger. He listened as the heavy sheriff waded to the shoreline, his boots sucking the mud.

  “Damn stuff pulls you down,” said the sheriff.

  “I know it’s soft,” said the Ranger.

  The sheriff, his voice jerking suddenly, said, “Stepped in a hole. Down almost to my waist.”

  “You need some help?” said the Ranger.

  “No. I got it,” replied the lawman.