Seconds later, as the boat sped around a bend in the water, Gas heard an enormous splash. Perhaps a large catch fell overboard? Or even one huge fish? This happened occasionally. Inexperienced fishermen—like the idiots likely to be on that boat— didn’t always secure their catches adequately, and the fish skidded back into the water. But in the inland waterways Gas knew, there were no fish big enough to make so much noise. Sturgeon—fish that might splash that way—were only in places like the Kennebec River.
He spotted the object. Whatever it was—and it looked like a single fish as he drew closer—was undulating madly, thrashing about. He pulled closer still, wondering if he could possibly catch the fish without capsizing his own boat. The thing had to weigh two hundred pounds. On closer inspection, whatever it was seemed to be wrapped in dirty tarp and tightly duct-taped every foot or so. Then he heard screaming, and it became obvious there was a man inside the bundle. Holy Mother of God!
Without considering the wisdom of his action, Gas grabbed at the canvas, succeeding in grasping an edge on his second try, and yanked it as hard as he could. After considerable effort, the squirming body was in his boat along with several gallons of river water. The boat rocked violently, then shuddered to a more controllable sway. Catching his breath, Gas slit the tarp open cautiously. The man inside was unconscious now. Water streamed from his mouth: a gaping hole in a gray face appearing lifeless. It was hard to decide whether to expel the water or supply him with oxygen first. Gas flipped him over, pushed his head to one side, and began forcing water from the man’s lungs. After a minute or two, the man’s left eye popped opened.
Minutes later, he was still wheezing, and occasional pieces of tarp and seaweed as well as brackish water continued to seep from his mouth. Gas pressed on his back until the flow stopped. Then he turned the man over, did a minute or two of old-fashioned mouth-to-mouth, and helped him to sit up against the bench. The guy’s color began to return; his panting slowed. Gas grabbed a towel, a bottle of water, and a heavy blanket from his dry box. The water temperature of a Maine river in May was in the forties. The guy could go into shock—and he was plenty old enough to have a heart attack. Gas dried his head, wrapped the blanket around him, and offered him the water.
“Drink.” It was more a command than an invitation.
Looking at Gas skeptically, the man finally obeyed, still shivering so intensely his teeth chattered. Gas looked around for another blanket, finally coming up with a piece of dry canvas. Then he waited—his hands and feet under attack by pins and needles—for the man to recover. In all his years at sea, nothing equaled this.
“Someone trying to murder you?”
It sounded like a joke when he said it aloud, but what else could it be? The man continued to pant and shiver, and Gas waited.
“So it would seem,” the man finally said, rubbing his head with the towel. He coughed up some more debris. “If you hadn’t come along, I’d be swimming with the fishes.”
Neither man laughed. In fact, Gas had no inclination to discuss the event beyond this brief exchange, and neither, it seemed, did his passenger.
“Where should I take you?” Gas said, starting up the motor again. “You need to get out of those wet clothes pronto.” The man’s shivering continued.
“Anywhere on the shore. Have a cell?”
Even a poor fisherman didn’t travel without one, and Gas tossed it to him.
“Not much of a signal,” the man said, looking at the phone.
“We’ll be ashore in five minutes.”
“Hey, thanks.” The man paused as if considering his words. “A thank you isn’t enough, of course. What could be enough after what you did?”
Neither of them wanted to say what that “something” was. Gus looked out onto the river; the other boat was gone.
“Give me your address and I’ll send you a check,” the man said. “A check big enough for a long vacation. Or whatever you want. Something anyway.”
“I don’t want your money.” And Gas certainly didn’t want to hand this man his address. He was anxious to put a wide berth between them. And an even wider berth between himself and the other boat—whatever its crazy name was. Men like that would have guns onboard. And not be afraid to use them.
“Well, what then?” The man stared at the phone as if an idea would come from it. “You have to take something.” He coughed and shook his head. “I can’t be in your debt.”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.” All Gus could think about was that speedboat reappearing on the horizon. What would happen to a witness of an attempted murder? “And you’re not in my debt. Anyone would’ve done the same.”
The man shook his head. “Not the men I know.”
“Then you know the wrong men.”
The man said nothing, but from the look on his face, Gas knew what he said was the truth.
Dockside, a few minutes later, Gas helped him climb out of the boat.
“Look, take my card at least,” the man said, reaching for his pocket. But he’d been stripped of any identification. In fact, to both of their horror, his pockets were filled with stones.
“Well, if that doesn’t beat…” The man shrugged.
Gus thought again about the boat that sped away. Had they spotted him? If they had, they certainly would’ve returned to see to him. See to them both, no doubt. The weeds and water plants in the boggy alcove must have hidden his boat. Did they believe this guy was at the bottom of the river? The stones suggested they must.
“Make your call,” Gas said, nodding toward the phone.
After a brief discussion—and Gas couldn’t help but overhear the name “Pinto” twice—he was back. “Okay, my name’s Pasquale Trota. I’m putting my number in your contacts.” He punched it in. “If I can ever do anything for you, give me a call. I mean it,” he said. “Something might come to you later.” He paused. “I have friends in lots of places.”
And enemies in others, Gus thought. But he said nothing.
“I won’t ask your name. It’s probably better I don’t know it. Look, could you hang around for a minute or two?” When Gus didn’t respond, he added, “Not gonna lie to you. I’m kinda spooked.” Gus nodded.
A dark SUV picked him up in five minutes. The man turned back and nodded before he climbed inside. Gas held up a hand, glad he’d never given Mr. Trota his name, glad Trota hadn’t asked. This affair, strange and worrisome, would end right here.
Back home after another disappointing day fish-wise, he thought about telling Loretta about Mr. Trota. But she had a way of making a good deed or something innocent seem foolish. And the more he ran through the story in his head, the more he could imagine her saying he was dim-witted not to have accepted a reward. It’d be hard to make her understand the terror the enormous splash and the quick departure of that boat had filled him with. He’d done nothing brave—hadn’t even known what it was he was pulling out of the water.
Instead, he got a tongue-lashing for returning with only enough fish to make a trifling dinner. The next day, when it poured rain, Loretta insisted on Gus going down to the human resources office at Fish in a Dish and filling out an application. As he sat in the HR room with several other fellows, all decades younger than he and twice as muscular, he was filled with despair. Why would anyone hire him when clearly these younger and stronger fellows would make better employees? So even here—at this terrible place—he would fail. And, predictably, the man behind the desk hardly bothered to read his application once he took a quick look at him.
“My father did commercial fishing when I was a kid,” he told Gas. “Takes the stuffing out of you. And look, Mr…” he looked down at the application, “Rios. You wouldn’t like it here. It’s not like fishing at all. It’s back-breaking work even for a young man.”
“But it pays a wage, right?” Gas said, feeling he had nothing to lose.
“Probably not m
uch more than you can earn on your own.”
“Any luck?” Loretta asked before his right foot was inside the door. She was darning his wool socks, an activity she only engaged in when she wanted sympathy for the hard life—or fate—Gaspar had dealt her.
“The guy who interviewed me said I’d have to wait and see,” Gas said, not wanting to go into it with her now. She’d blame him for not convincing HR he was a man who could haul a half a ton of fish out of a tank. “Looked good though,” he added, trying to get a few hours peace. “I got the feeling…”
She smiled, but he could tell she wasn’t convinced. “You did go down there, didn’t you?”
He reached into his jacket and threw his copy of the paperwork on the table, then strode off, trying to look like a man who could pull half a ton of fish out of a tank.
“Mr. Trota?” he found himself saying into his cell phone a few weeks later. He hadn’t planned the call at all—but somehow ended up making it, bringing up the contact and pushing the button.
“Who wants to know?”
It was the lowest pitched voice he’d ever heard and not Mr. Trota’s. “He won’t know my name.”
“He knows everyone’s name,” the man said.
“Yeah, but I…”
“Look, if you want to talk to him, you gotta tell me your name. Go ahead, I’m not gonna tell anyone else.”
“Okay, well, it’s Gaspar Rios.”
“What kinda name is Gaspar?” the man asked. He didn’t sound curious as much as he seemed to be preparing the information for Mr. Trota.
“Portuguese. I fish in the St. Croix. That’s where we—”
“Oh, sure. You’re the guy who pulled him out of the lake. Right?”
“River.”
“Right, river. Told me about it. Okay, then. He’ll be right here.”
“Gaspar Rios, huh?” Mr. Trota said a few seconds later. “Spanish?”
“Portuguese.”
“Sure, sure, I shoulda figured.” He paused. “Things okay with you? Didn’t hurt your boat, did I?”
“Boat’s good.”
“Well, how can I help you, Gaspar?”
“Gas,” Gas said. “My friends call me Gas.”
“And I’m gonna be your friend, huh.” Mr. Trota paused. “Well, you deserve it. I wouldn’t be sitting here drinking this beer or smoking this Robusto if it wasn’t for you. Pulling me out of the water like you did. Like the biggest fish you ever caught, huh? So, how can I be your friend, Gas?”
Gas took a deep breath and plunged in, still not knowing exactly what he wanted.
“I wondered if you might have a job for me. Doesn’t have to be anything fancy…” Gas felt as awkward as he had at Dish of Fish or whatever it was called. What in the world would a man like Mr. Trota have for him to do? Why didn’t he think of something definite before calling?”
“A job for a fisherman?” Mr. Trota laughed. “I don’t even eat fish, Gus.”
“Gas.”
“Gas, right. You wanna sell me fish. That’s what you’re saying? Maybe you think I have a restaurant. Louie, do I have a restaurant?” Both men at the other end of the line laughed.
“No restaurant, I’m afraid, Gas.”
“Maybe I can watch the river for you.”
“Watch the river?” Mr. Trota paused. “You mean the St. Croix? Like watch the current move the water?” He laughed again. Gas had never known a man to laugh so much. Especially one nearly murdered a few weeks before. Before he could answer, Mr. Trota answered his own question.
“Of course that’s not what you mean. Just yanking your chain. You mean watch the river in case someone tosses me off a boat again? Hey, I got Louie here. And a couple other amici. Look, that’s not the way it works, Gas. If they come after me again—which they will—it’ll be some other way. Unless they’re dumber than I think.”
Gas heard him say to Louie, “We can only hope.” Both men laughed. Gas got the feeling they used laughter in some other way than he did. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. No one he knew laughed. What was there to laugh about?
“How much do you earn a year hauling fish out of the lake, Gas?”
Gas told him.
Mr. Trota whistled. “You actually live on that? What’s your wife, some corporate bigwig?”
“Nah, she takes care of me and the house.” Gas thought of the lunch waiting in his paper bag. He’d bet anything it was last night’s meatloaf. Loretta put pickle relish on it when she made a sandwich—like it was an added treat. Forty years on, and he still hated sweet pickles on his meatloaf sandwich. But nothing stopped her.
“At Our Lady of Guadalupe’s, they rave about my meatloaf sandwiches,” she told him.
Mr. Trota sighed now. “Hold on a sec, Gas.” Gas heard him talking to someone else—probably Louie—again. “Look, Gas, tell you what. I’ll match your earnings for a year. So you can go out wherever and fish, and I’ll equal what they pay you for fish down on the docks. Maybe by the time the year is up, something else will come along. Or maybe we’ll come up with an idea.”
Gas thought about it. “So you’re gonna pay me just to do what I’ve always done? Just sit on the water and fish?”
“Sure. You can keep an eye out for the other boat. You might save my ass twice. Never know. Right, Lou?” Lou murmured his assent. And, unsurprisingly, they laughed.
Gas could tell Mr. Trota didn’t believe such a thing would happen, and neither did he. He thought he’d recognize the boat, but he couldn’t remember the name anymore. Mr. Trota must’ve read his mind because he said, “The Clytemnestra, Gas. Must be a Greek—that cattivo in the boat—wants my ass in a sling. Everything’s global now, isn’t it? Want a hitman today, gotta call Serbia or Cambodia. So you keep an eye out. Not that I think Pinto’s boys are still out cruising the waterways of Maine. But you never know.”
Weeks went by. Every time Gas sold fish to the wholesalers, he went to the library, copied the receipt and mailed it to Mr. Trota. Mr. Trota deposited money in Gas’ account. As summer came, the daily haul picked up. He finally broke down and showed the bank numbers to Loretta, thinking to improve her opinion of him.
“Guess you were right to stick with the old ways of doin’ things,” she said, staring at the figures. “Sure the bank didn’t goof it up?”
“You think a bank ever makes a mistake in my favor?”
She kept nodding, but he felt like she was really shaking her head, convinced he was pulling something over on her.
The St. Croix River runs seventy-one miles in length and forms part of the Canadian-U.S. border, and Gas usually fished either the river itself or one of the lakes lying along its path. He was just a few miles from the ocean and yet it never drew him.
“It’s like you’re afraid of it,” Loretta once theorized. “The big bad ocean. Ooh.” She rolled her eyes and wiggled her fingers.
“No, but I give it the respect it deserves,” he told her. “I’m comfortable where I am.”
“Comfortable,” she’d said. “That’s all you ever think about. Well, I’m not comfortable where I am.”
He’d grown slack and lazy over the winter, telling himself he was too old for the sort of jobs he could find. He even turned down the church’s offer to plow their lot, an easy couple of grand.
For the first time since his arrangement with Mr. Trota, a month had passed without a bank deposit. He feared he was at the end of the soup line and began to look at the prospect of a forced retirement.
Seven bridges crossed the St. Croix, but Gus wasn’t near one of them in May when he saw the boat again. The Clytemnestra. It was slowly making its way up the river, hugging the Canadian bank. Gas, on his boat, was sitting inside a marshy alcove half a mile south of the larger boat’s entry point from a canal. It was a good place to fish and a good place to spy, although, truthful
ly, he’d long ago given up any idea of spotting the boat. He’d long ago concluded Mr. Trota only gave him this assignment to justify paying him off for his good deed.
Gas watched the boat drop anchor at a point where a rusty old truck with a beat-up trailer was waiting. Couldn’t even tell the color of either one. It was certainly not a normal place to either load or unload cargo. There was no beach at all, and the incline was such the nose of the truck was nearly in the water. In fact, the man who got out of the cab had his hands full not sliding into the river. Clearly something was wrong with this operation. Before Gas could think about what exactly felt wrong, another man climbed out of the truck, and together the two men opened the trailer and dragged five women—no, make that girls—out. All of them were bound at the hands, blindfolded, and gagged. Each wore a very short skirt, was preternaturally thin, and staggered in high heels. From their uniformly dark, straight hair, Gus thought they were probably Asian girls, although they could have been wearing wigs. Today looked to become far worse than the one with Mr. Trota. Gus was shaking so hard he worried the boat would tip.
Within a minute or two, the girls were loaded onto The Clytemnestra. The next-to- last girl fell, losing her shoe. The man holding her arm seemed ready to strike her. Then he grabbed the heel that was stuck in the mud, pushed her down, and put it back on her foot. Although Gas couldn’t hear anything, he knew she was sobbing from her shaking shoulders. Even from this distance, he could tell they were very young girls—perhaps fourteen. It could have easily been his niece, Theresa, getting loaded on the boat to hell.
Stomach in his throat, he picked up his cell and called 911, telling the dispatcher what he’d seen.
I Bring Sorrow_And Other Stories of Transgression Page 8
