by John Rocco
“Ahh, come on,” I urge him further.
“If I told you, I’d have to kill ya.”
The boat stops and the engines idle down. Captain removes my blindfold and releases my arms from the straps. I look around and see the large red cylinder, bobbing twenty feet from the bow. It’s amazing how he finds this little red dot in the middle of the ocean.
“Get the bowline and tie it off the red can.”
“I got it. I know.” It’s my third night out here. I want him to know I’m not stupid.
I secure us to the can, unlock the storage compartment, and start getting the bags of quahogs ready to be clipped onto the line that stretches to the anchor at the bottom of this ledge.
“Hold on with those.” I turn around and Captain is hauling in a line with full bags already on it. “We’re selling out tonight.”
“Those are the clean ones?” I ask. “They look almost white.”
“Would you believe the New Yorkers pay even more for these?” Captain laughs as he unclips the first bag and hands it to me. “Put that on the port side, and don’t mix them up.”
Fifteen minutes later we’ve got forty bags of clean quahogs in the locked storage compartment, and we’ve secured the other forty on the line.
“Where are we selling out?” I ask.
“Turn around.” I see Captain reaching for the blindfold.
Oh, crap.
The engines throttle down, and Captain lets me loose. My wrists are raw, and I rub them gingerly while waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. I’ve been to Block Island a couple times before, but I don’t remember this harbor. It may be the thick fog blanketing the small inlet, changing the look of the place. A few drunken shouts echo off the water as our boat slides toward a long, narrow dock with a row of lobster boats tied to it.
As I look down the fleet of boats, I can see a blue-and-white rack of lights mounted to the top of a DEM boat at the far end. I grab the wheel and yank it hard to the port side. The boat swings in behind the last lobster boat. Captain throttles back.
“What the hell are you doing?” His eyes are wide with rage. I take a step back, pointing to the DEM boat over my shoulder. He understands and throws the boat in reverse, slowing us down. We drift in behind the lobster boat. I tie us off. Captain reaches beneath the console and pulls out two long magnetic strips that have different registration numbers. He slaps them over the current numbers on either side of the bow.
This guy is the James Bond of quahogging.
Next he pulls out the fishing gear and hands it to me. “Start rigging up some leaders and look busy. I’m going to duck up the street till this cowboy leaves.”
“How do you know he’s going to leave?”
“Believe me, he’ll leave. This isn’t a place a clam cop would want to hang around too long.”
“And you want me to start fishing?”
“Fish. Don’t fish. I don’t give a crap. Just look like you’re doing something.” Captain shoots a sickening smile at me before he scrambles across the lobster boat and down the dock. I watch as he disappears into the shadows.
For the next ten minutes, I am scanning the dock and pretending to fish. There’s a rock song pumping through some small, rusty speakers attached to the pylons. At the end of the dock there is a gray-shingled wharf house. The only light in the harbor is coming from a blue neon cat mounted to the sagging roof. The cat’s tail cycles through a series of poses that make it look like it’s moving to the beat of the music. It must be closing time because suddenly ten guys shuffle out the front door and start off in different directions along the waterfront. The last guy out the door starts slowly down the dock. He’s counting money. As he gets closer, I can hear him. I duck down low and peer between the ropes.
“Forty-three, forty-four, forty-five hundred.” He stops, and I can just make out his satisfied grin as he folds the wad and stuffs it in his shirt pocket. He’s not wearing a uniform, but I can see from his size and that bald head that it’s Delvecchio. Of course.
I’m holding my breath as he climbs aboard the DEM boat, just thirty feet from me. As the boat pulls away, his lights illuminate the small harbor in a pulse of blue and white. Delvecchio pegs the engine full bore, and the boat shoots out into open sea like a dart. I can finally breathe, letting the fishing pole drop to the deck with a loud rattle.
“All right, let’s go,” Captain says in my ear, and I nearly jump right out of my skin.
“What’d you sneak up on me like that for? I almost crapped myself.” I watch Captain start the engines, and I untie the lines in a hurry. He swings the boat around to the empty spot where Delvecchio just left.
“Where we going?” I ask.
“The Blue Kitten.” Captain nods toward the wharf house. “Leave everything here.”
I secure the boat and start to climb onto the dock when Captain grabs my shoulder, spinning me around, and looks me straight in the eye. The beads of sweat on his upper lip dance up and down as he says, “You watch yourself in there, you hear me? This place isn’t Disneyland. You got that knife I gave you?”
“What?” I get a queasy feeling in my stomach as he turns to the upper hatch, opens it, and removes a gun, sticking it beneath his shirt.
“The knife, you got it?” Captain is almost whispering as he shoots a look toward the door.
“My dad’s knife? Yeah, I got it,” I say, pulling the knife from my pocket and handing it to him. It’s now or never. “Do you know my dad?”
“Look, kid, your dad’s gone. He gave me this and I wanted you to have it. That’s it,” he says abruptly.
“So you do know him. Tell me where he is.”
“Bottom of the ocean,” Captain says, looking away.
My body is shaking. I can feel the blood pounding in my temples. “I don’t believe it,” I say. “Did you see him die?”
“No. No, I read it in the papers just like everyone else.” Captain brushes me off. “No more questions. Now put that knife away.”
“But —”
“Enough!” Captain grunts. “Follow me and do what I say. Catching quahogs is easy; selling them can be trouble. This shouldn’t take long if things go well, but we can’t sit out here chatting like a couple of tourists.” Captain rubs his thigh as he limps down the dock toward the building.
Now I’m more confused than ever.
Sitting on a wooden stool, just inside the door, is a muscular guy with snake tattoos covering his arms like sleeves. He’s reading the paper with a small, silver flashlight clenched between his teeth. He looks up at Captain and nods his head slightly, pulling the dark velvet curtain back and revealing the inside of the bar. Light pours through the opening as he studies my face.
“Listen, buddy, you can’t bring the kid in here,” the guy says, stopping me in my tracks with his palm on my chest.
“I can just wait outside,” I quickly offer.
Captain slowly turns around and faces the guy, his eyes tightening into lasers. He looks at the guy’s hand, which is still pressed up against my chest, then gradually brings his stare to the guy’s face and holds it there. It’s like a showdown, and I don’t know which one of them is going to slug the other, or pull out a gun, or what. I’m afraid.
The bouncer’s meaty hand cautiously comes away from my chest and snaps open the newspaper again, then sticks the flashlight back into his mouth. Captain turns and heads into the bar, and I follow him. I try to act cool, but I trip over the stool and stumble into him. I must be on land.
Luckily, Captain ignores my shove, focusing on the back of the bar, where two guys are coming out from behind a velvet curtain like the one we just walked through. They are holding another guy up by the arms between them. He looks like a real swamper fisherman: black rubber boots, flannel shirt, dark tanned face with lots of stubble. His legs are slack and dragging behind him, his head wobbling between his shoulders like a broken doll. At first I’m thinking he’s just drunk, but then I notice the blood smeared across his nose and cheek, and the dark
stain on his jeans. He’s pissed his pants. I reach into my pocket and check for my knife again.
We both watch as they drag him past us, out the front door. The curtain in the back of the bar is thrown open again, and out walks one of the largest men I have ever seen. I don’t mean fat, although he doesn’t look like he skips any meals. I mean big, like polar-bear big. He has thin, sandy-blond hair raked across his tanned forehead and eyes that sparkle like blue chips of ice in the bright light of the bar. His sweat-stained tropical shirt is unbuttoned to his belly, revealing a large gold anchor hanging from a chain around his neck.
“George Hassard!” the guy says, slapping a hairy arm on Captain. “How’s it hangin’?”
George Hassard? Hassard? I look at Captain and my mouth falls open. I can’t believe it. Gene’s brother or cousin or whatever; this guy I’ve been working for is somehow related to Gene. That’s how he knows my dad. Captain’s eyes dart over to me for an instant.
“King.” He nods cautiously at the man and hands him a key, the same key I used to lock the storage compartment that holds the quahogs we pulled off the stringer. King juggles the key in his hand for a second, and suddenly there is a loud scream followed by a splash that brings a smile to his face, revealing several gold fillings.
“I have a terrible feeling they just threw that guy off the dock, and he was in no shape to swim anywhere. Good thing it’s low tide.” King laughs. “The little bastard thought he could steal from me.” King waves a dismissive hand. “What can I get you? Jamaican coffee? Nick! Two Jamaican coffees,” King barks over his shoulder at the bartender, without waiting for Captain’s answer. “And get the kid whatever he wants.” King studies me for a second before looking at Captain. “What, are you coaching basketball now, George?”
“He’s tall, but he works hard and keeps his mouth shut.” Captain gives me a hard stare.
Then King looks at me and says, “Get yourself a burger or something, on me, and I’ll put in a good word for you with the Celtics.” He laughs heartily and puts one arm around George, leading him to a small table in the back corner.
I watch as King tosses the key over to the corner of the bar. A thin, bearded man with dark circles under his eyes steps out of the shadows just in time to catch it.
“Unload ’em fast,” King barks at him. The skinny guy nods and slips out the front door like an eel.
Looking around, I notice this isn’t just a regular bar like Muldoon’s in Warren. There is a small circular stage a few feet high with a chrome pole in the center that’s bolted to the ceiling. I’ve heard about places like this. I can’t believe I am actually in one. Tommy would flip out if he knew I was in a strip club! I walk over to the bar, and before I am halfway there, the bartender, Nick, presses both hands down on the bar and says, “Kitchen’s closed.”
I look over at Captain and he is already behind me, staring hard at this guy Nick. “Look, just get the kid a burger or something. He’s starving.”
“I said the kitchen’s closed.” Nick sneers and resumes polishing the beer taps with his rag.
King steps between Captain and the bar and says, “I’ll take care of this. Nick’s new here.” King reaches into his pocket and pulls out a round metal token about the size of a quarter, snapping it down on the bar in front of Nick.
Nick picks it up nervously. “What’s this?” He studies the token. “What is this?”
King pauses and then says, “That’s your first-strike token.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Nick asks.
“Save ’em up and see what happens when you get three.” King heads back to his table and Captain follows.
Nick continues staring at King as he walks away and asks, “What’d ya say you wanted, kid?”
“A burger.”
“No problem.” Nick draws it out between clenched teeth as he gives King and Captain one last look. “You want fries with that?”
“Sure.”
I pull out one of the heavy oak stools and sit down. There is a long mirror behind the bar, and I notice how tired I look. My slouch is getting worse too. I try to straighten up, but it just shoots pain through my lower back. Bending over the side of that boat and lifting those bags from the water really did me in. I give in to the pain and rest my head on my arm, hoping to get a little sleep before the food comes. My eyes slowly close and I am gone.
“You okay, honey?” A raspy voice pulls me from sleep.
I look up and feel drool sliding down the side of my face. I wipe my mouth of spit, and coming out of my fog, I see a lady standing next to me. She’s tall. No, wait; I look down and she’s wearing these bright-red shoes with heels as long as screwdrivers. She looks about my mom’s age, but it’s hard to tell because she’s wearing loads of makeup. Her eyes are surrounded by smoky blackness, making the blue centers shine like beacons. Long, black waves of hair cascade over her shoulders and down her back. She must work here because Nick is setting a drink down without even asking her what she wants.
She mixes the amber liquid around the glass with her middle finger. Her painted nails are chipped and cracked, but the color that remains matches her shoes.
“Yeah, I’m okay, just tired.” I look around and see Captain is still sitting with King. King is talking in small bursts while Captain looks bored. I think they are almost done, so we can go home.
“How old are you?” she asks, taking her whiskey fingers and pushing back the hair out of my face. I wonder if I’ll smell like booze when I get home. “Yeah, you’re just a kid, aren’t you? What are you doing out so late? This ain’t a regular stop for you, is it, honey?”
I shoot another glance over to Captain, and he takes his eyes off King for a second to look back. I think he sees me with this lady, but I don’t know.
“Is that your dad?” she asks.
“No. No, I just work for him. Just here on business, that’s all.” I finally notice that my food has been sitting in front of me. I start to fidget with my silverware.
“Yeah, I’m just here on business too,” she says, grabbing a fry and slowly angling it toward her mouth. Does she work here? Are the fries cold? I try focusing on my food, but I’m seriously nervous, and waves of tension roll through me.
“Roxy!” King barks out. “Take care of the kid, will ya? Give him whatever he wants.”
I lean back and point to my plate to show him that I already have food.
“I don’t think that’s what he means.” Roxy laughs. “Don’t worry about it. His name may be King, but mainly he’s just a joker.” She pats me on the back and adds, “Enjoy your burger, sweetie. And get some sleep when you get home.”
I’m relieved as she walks away, and I dig into my burger. Captain clamps his hand down on my shoulder and says, “Meet me out at the boat in five minutes.” He and King slip behind the faded purple curtain next to the stage. I feel for the knife in my pocket.
What a night.
We make the trip back to Warren in silence. I don’t know what to call him. Captain? George? I steal glances at him as he steers the boat. I can see it now, the strong cheekbones, the chiseled nose and piercing eyes. I don’t know why I’ve never noticed before. Captain is Gene’s brother. Gene’s brother is a pirate, and he knows my dad.
“Where have you been going at night?” My mom is standing in my bedroom doorway in her white dress, arms crossed tightly, a dishtowel hanging from her shoulder.
“What?” I sit up, my mind racing for excuses. I glance at the clock — 5:43 p.m.
“Every night you’ve been coming home late, and you sleep all day; what’s going on, Jake? I deserve to know.”
“Nothing. Nothing’s going on . . . I’ve been hanging out with Tommy. We’ve been night fishing, honest.” The lie spills from my lips easily and seems to work as my mom uncrosses her arms and turns to leave. It’s almost the truth.
“I’m going to visit Gene tonight. You should come with me. You haven’t seen him in days.” She says this over her shoulder, and a st
ab of guilt burns in my stomach. I want to see him, but I can’t look him in the eye. Not while I’m pirating with his brother. He’ll know.
“I can’t go.”
“And why not?” She swings around, eyes burning.
“I just can’t. I can’t see him like that. I hate hospitals. I’ll see him when he gets out. Honest. He’s getting out soon, right?”
“Well, he was, Jake. But he got this infection, so they are keeping him until it clears up. I know he’d love to see you.”
“No!” I turn and stare out my window until she leaves, and I can hear her sounds of exasperation. I imagine her eyes rolling with disgust as she heads downstairs.
I feel torn into all these little pieces right now. I’m carrying them around, trying to figure out how they’ll fit back together. I remember what Gene said about just dealing with what’s in front of you at the time. Just save the diner. That’s what’s in front of me right now.
I lock the door to my room, pull out the cigar box, and open it. Captain finally paid me last night. I pull the wad of twenties from my jeans and toss it on the bed, emptying the rest of the money from the cigar box on top of that. Methodically I arrange the bills in four piles; twenties, tens, fives, and ones.
$2,368.
It’s more money than I’ve ever had in my life, and still it’s not even a quarter of what I need to earn in the next ten days. I do the math in my head and realize that even if I keep working with Captain, I will only make another three thousand by the end of the month. That’s about half of what we owe. I wonder if it will be enough.
Keep at it, Jakeman; good things will come. My father’s words echo in my head.
Four and a half hours later, I’m sitting on the seawall down by Kenyon’s Dock, waiting for Captain to pick me up. It’s quiet, except for a few clangs of the buoys echoing across the water.
Suddenly, I feel a giant hand pressing down on my shoulder.
“What the hell!” I try to get up, but whoever it is has me pinned down, and I can’t even turn my head to see who it is.
