Standing, Mr. Kline adjusted the grease stained shirt he was wearing. “Have a seat son,” he said motioning to a small couch against the wall. “Let me make myself clear, Garrett. I know everything that goes on in this town, from which cats are betting on the horses to which cat’s making a buck with their business. I even know the whereabouts of Piddles and his breed of the month, if you catch my drift.”
“You know a lot about cats,” said Garrett, seating himself on the couch opposite the fat entrepreneur. He pretended not to notice the man was wearing only the greasy shirt and his small tight-fitting underwear.
Thankfully, Mr. Kline also re-seated himself and reached for his box of cigars. Without offering his guests, he struck a match to one and inhaled deeply. “You know I have several businesses,” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke. “And they make me a lot of money. If a business isn’t profitable, I sell it. If one of my bulls doesn’t perform, I send him to the bull ring. If one of my ships is unreliable, I hire another captain. Are you noticing a trend here?”
“Yes,” replied Garrett.
Kline snapped his fingers and the ogre reached down beside the desk and produced a bottle of beer. Removing the stopper, he passed the ale to his employer. Kline drank deeply and set the bottle on top of the newspapers. Belching, he leaned forward. “Now what do you suppose I do when one of my properties is losing money?”
“Find another tenant?” offered Garrett.
“Damn, you’re a smart cat. I always liked that about you.” His eyes remained locked onto Garrett. After a moment of silence, he dragged his ashtray closer and knocked the end of his cigar into the metal container. “You’ve been on time with your payments in the past, son. I’m a man who believes in second chances.” Garrett swallowed in relief, but resisted the urge to wipe the sweat from his forehead. For all he tried, he couldn’t look away from those pale rheumy eyes.
“I’ve made the odd mistake in my day,” continued Kline. “But if I threw in the towel every time I lost a few bucks, I’d have been panhandling on the street corner years ago.” The old man’s caterpillar eyebrows rose knowingly.
“Thank you sir,” said Garrett, “I’ll have some money for you first thing tomorrow morning.”
“That’s appreciated,” acknowledged Mr. Kline, “but I’m not a man who believes in third chances, so I’m going to help you pay me back.”
“Help me?” asked Garrett nervously.
“Yes,” replied Kline, “by giving you a job.”
“A job, Sir?” repeated Garrett. “But I have a job. I just received my P.I. certification today.”
“I don’t need any insurance, Garrett,” snapped Kline.
“No Sir, I didn’t think you would.”
“Earlier I claimed to know everything that goes on in this town.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Well, that might have been a slight exaggeration on my part. I mean truly, who could know everything going on in a town the size of Deep Cove?”
“If anyone, I’d wager you’d be the man to do it,” returned Garrett smoothly.
“Hah,” snorted the large man. Turning to the Ogre, he winked. “I told you this kid was smart. He reminds me of myself in my younger days. He just needs a push in the right direction. I always say, what good is a stock report without stocks?”
“He doesn’t look so smart to me,” confided the ogre.
Garrett pretended to scratch at his ear as he wiped a bead of sweat away. He had learned long ago, it was okay to have an opinion, but you didn’t dare offer it unless the old man asked for it.
“It just so happens that one of my workers, a fishmonger on the docks, hasn’t shown up to work for two days, and I need to unload the harbour warehouse immediately,” continued Kline.
“Ah, and you want me to find him!” said Garrett, understanding dawning at last.
“Told you,” rumbled the ogre with a shake of his head.
“What are you talking about?” snapped Kline. “You’re going to make sure those fish move. You can go back to chasing old lady Wichuster’s cat after you’ve caught up on your rent! Don’t make me look stupid for giving you a second chance, boy.”
“Of course not,” gulped Garrett. “You have my full cooperation Mr. Kline.”
4
I’ll Have a Dime Bag of Marlin
Garrett followed the ogre from Mr. Kline’s office, through the compound and out to the gatehouse. Frank and another minotaur sat on the grass tossing dice. A teenage boy looked out of place beside the hulking cow-like figures. He was young – eighteen to twenty – but starting to fill out physically. He wore light coloured work clothes and a tan hat with a wide brim. The boy watched Garrett from under the rim of his sunhat.
“Wow,” admitted Frank, looking up from the game, “didn’t think you’d be coming out the front door, at least not on your feet and certainly not in the light of day. Mr. Kline must like you.”
“Mr. Kline wants him to fill in for Rudy,” informed the ogre.
Frank snorted, cow-like mirth erupting from his massive frame.
“Gods man,” complained the second minotaur, wiping at his hairy arm. “Don’t blow your cud on me. We gonna play or what?”
“In a second, Hector,” snapped Frank. Standing, he wiped the grass from his bottom and approached Garrett. “Don’t know if you had a choice in the matter or not, but since you’re roped into the fish business now, I’d suggest you get yourself a knife or some other pointy weapon for protection.”
“Protection?” asked Garrett. “Do the fish bite?”
“Still a comedian eh? That’s fine by me,” said Frank, shaking his massive head. “It’s your backside.”
“Why do you want to offer this guy advice?” asked Hector from his seat. “Who cares what happens to him?” He flicked his powerful horns at Garrett and grunted.
“I don’t care either,” admitted Frank. “I was only thinking of our work conditions. When this guy goes missing, Mr. Kline’s going to be irritable again. Not to mention it’s only a matter of time before he fills the position with some real muscle. I don’t know about you, but tossing fish all day ain’t my idea of a career.”
The ogre shrugged and pushed Garrett forward. “Don’t much matter to me,” he said from over Garrett’s shoulder. “I have to smell fish all day long anyway.” Waving for the teenage boy to join them, the ogre waited for the lad to pick himself up from the grass. “B.S.,” he said to the boy, “Mr. Kline wants you to lend a hand on the docks today.”
“Great,” moaned Hector, “there goes our game.”
“No problem,” returned the young man. “You expect trouble from those sailors?”
“They’re always trouble, son. Now run along and get your notebook if you’re bringing it.” The boy nodded and Garrett watched the young man lope toward the main complex.
“B.S.,” chuckled Garrett. “Now there’s a name for you. Guess the kid knows a few fish stories himself, eh?”
“B.S. doesn’t stand for that,” snorted Hector. “And I take offence at your line of thinking. Why do humans say something is bullshit when it’s not true? That gets me seein’ red.”
“It’s bullshit because if someone lies, their story stinks like shit,” returned Frank.
“Yes but you don’t hear us going around accusing people of being manshit liars. Why do they have to be so derogatory all the time? They think theirs don’t stink?”
“Look Hector, I’m not getting into it with you again. It’s just a saying.” Frank shook his massive head from side to side, his horns sweeping the air menacingly.
“Well I don’t like it,” growled Hector, pawing at the grass.
“Sorry,” mumbled Garrett, not having pondered the ramifications of his statement and feeling awkward around the moody bulls.
“Never mind,” interrupted the ogre. “Mr. Kline gave the boy his name. It stands for blank slate. He came to us a few years back. He was found floating in the sea with no memory. Kline likes the kid and he�
��s been with us ever since. Now we don’t have time to sit here all day, so let’s get moving.” Garrett nodded farewell to Frank and his buddy and quickened his pace when Hector snorted in his direction.
As they made their way down the road, Garrett turned to his dark complexioned companion. The ogre was seven feet tall, wore a tan vest and leggings, and carried a wooden spear in his beefy fist. His skin was a mottled greeny-brown and smooth as a baby’s bottom. His black hair was receding on top and cut close to his thick scalp. The creatures lower incisors jutted out of his mouth past his upper lip, giving him an angry countenance. “You got a name?” asked Garrett.
“Maury,” replied the Ogre without looking over.
“What do you do for Mr. Kline, besides the obvious, Maury?”
Maury frowned and glanced over. “You think I’m here to crush the wind out of you if you misbehave?”
“Probably,” agreed Garrett.
“I have bigger fish to fry,” replied Maury with a snort. “I supervise the operations on the dock. My first priority is the product and its distribution. If you get out of hand, I’ll crush you for fun though.”
“Right,” acknowledged Garrett. “It’s good to know one’s place in the order of things.”
“Your place is under my boot until you’ve paid off your debt.”
“I have other financial avenues to pursue in order to pay off your employer,” said Garrett. “What time do we close down for the evening?”
“Sun up till sun down,” rumbled Maury, “a working man’s shift. Of course with no sign of the Sunflower, we’ll have our work cut out. We won’t be leaving until we clear up this backlog.”
“Sunflower?” asked Garrett.
“The supply ship we contracted to make our delivery. She was to sail north from here and slip into Southern Ponce. From there, another of our contacts would move the stuff inland. Right now, we have a warehouse of rotting marlins and no ship to offload it to. The harbourmaster wants it moved now.”
“Of course,” groaned Garrett, “but if the catch is rotting and the Sunflower is still not in, what happens when we can’t move your stuff?”
“That’d be bad,” admitted Maury with a glare. “Mr. Kline wouldn’t look favourably upon either of us. If he doesn’t take it out on your hide, it’ll be mine. Of course, that means I have to pay it forward to you, so in the end you lose either way.” Garrett nodded his understanding. On the outside he appeared calm, but on the inside he was taking stock of his possessions and the quickest route out of Deep Cove.
Making their way toward town, they turned right at the crossroads heading to the harbour. The terrain was rocky here and cleared of bushes. Nearing the coastline, the road ended abruptly at a large turnaround with a line of wagons parked to the side. To the left and right of the cul de sac, several buildings stretched into the distance. Gambling dens, hotels, and places of ill repute, Garrett knew. Smiling to himself, he recalled a handful of the pretty faces from his favourite cliff top haunt The Bootlegger’s Bounty. It was here, he’d come to get away from Merle and P.C. and to engage in a little more feminine company. He knew he’d miss the place if forced to flee.
Aside from a few drivers loading the carts, two dozen workers cranked large winches hauling baskets of goods up from the beaches one hundred feet below. A wooden fence of waist-high rails had been erected to stop anyone from accidentally falling to their death, and Garrett approached the barrier. Cutting through the fence, an opening ten feet wide led onto a ramp that angled down along the rock face. Massive timbers formed the foundation for the ramp and smaller planks had been expertly laid across the bridgework. Garrett’s eyes scanned the far off waters and the tiny whitecaps rippling the ocean.
“You stand there like you’ve never seen the gangway before,” said Maury. “Best to be going; they won’t lower you in one of those baskets.”
“It’s impressive that’s all,” returned Garrett. Waiting for a burro drawn cart to reach the top of the walkway and clear the ramp, he then started down.
Several heavily loaded men and two more carts passed Garrett as he made his way toward the shoreline. Halfway down, the ramp doubled back on itself in a smooth half-circle and continued to the wooden landing below. Stopping at the bend in the walkway, Garrett once again leaned out over the thick railing and gazed along the busy piers.
Aptly named, Deep Cove was formed in a bowl of the surrounding cliffs and offered not only ease of mooring in the deep waters, but the added benefits of shelter from potential winds. Shading his eyes from the sun, he tried to gauge the distance to the manmade causeway and lighthouse at the far end of the cove. From here, the tons of individual stones used to build the lookout and lighthouse blended into one grey-green mass.
“I was there when Mr. Kline mentioned he was losing money,” said Maury from behind Garrett. “If you think it stinks up here, wait till we get to the ship.” Garrett frowned at the interruption of his thoughts, but started walking again. He hadn’t given the smell much thought and as of yet the cool breeze hadn’t yielded anything too foul. Maury was right though, and as the pair drew close to the ground and the enclosing wall of stone, the stink of fish became more prevalent. Reaching the wider platform at the base of the ramp, Maury strode ahead and angled for the maze of docks further out.
The natural shoreline in the harbour was tapered and disappeared quickly into the sea. Built upon the narrow beach and adjacent span of boulders, the uneven decking was joined together by wide ramps. Eventually, this multitude of mini platforms led out to the main pier and the dozens of docks cutting into the water.
Ships of all imaginable types were moored in the harbour and dozens of men made their way up and down the highways of planking. Some of these men were workers transporting cargo from ship to ship, others were first mates or captains engaged in haggling over trade goods. Others still were local businessmen come to buy supplies for resale or for the making of staples in their shops. Closer to the cliff face, a collection of stalls had been erected and were being used to display trade goods.
Ignoring the stalls, Maury continued along the pier and made a left onto one of the massive floating docks. Three hundred yards down the beach, a string of warehouses was nestled against the cliff face. The activity down here was no less intense as men loaded and unloaded mule drawn carts. Maury made his way to the third warehouse, with Garrett trailing close behind.
They were greeted outside the structure by a bearded man who pointed at Maury. “You!” he exclaimed angrily. “Harbour master ain’t happy with you. These fish is stinkin’ sometin’ awful. He’s ordered the whole lot dumped up the beach.”
“That will cause problems with the locals,” warned Maury. “The lords like their beaches clean. You know they won’t stand for that.”
“It will be your employer who has to deal with the fines,” insisted the bearded man. “Kline paid a fee to store these fish for no more than five days. That was nine days ago.” Other workers had gathered behind the bearded man, and several of them nodded in agreement. Three large men emerged from the storehouse carrying a marlin between them. The smell hit Garrett almost immediately.
“You hold on there,” barked Maury. “The Callahan is due back tomorrow. We’ll have to shuffle the schedule, but we can have her take on this load.”
“And wasn’t it the Pompadour that was to take it on not three days ago?”
“She was loaded with the wrong goods. A mistake made due to the fact that Mr. Wilson was not here to oversee the loading,” insisted Maury.
“Well, I don’t care what you say. These fish are rotten, and I have the go ahead to have them out of here today!” The foreman nodded to the men behind him and they started forward with their stinking load.
Maury growled in the back of his throat and banged his spear into the planking of the dock. “Fill the hooks on the northern platform beside stall 180 then,” he ordered. The lead worker on the front of the fish looked to the bearded man for confirmation, before continuing
down the dock toward stall 180. “Don’t think Mr. Kline won’t hear about this,” warned Maury, before stomping after the workers.
Plugging his nose as the rotting fish passed, Garrett was amazed at the sheer size of the trophy marlin. “How many of these do we have to deal with?” he squeaked out, trying not to breathe.
“Too many,” complained Maury without turning.
Arriving at stall 180, Garrett watched the sailors hoist the marlin up to a large wooden beam. Nineteen more hooks swung beside the first and as the morning wore on, the seamen filled the scaffold with rotting fish. B.S. arrived shortly after the first fish was loaded and he seated himself on the counter of the stall. Staring off into the distance he took turns watching the men work and scribbling notes in a leather journal he had brought.
“Poetry?” asked Garrett, jokingly. The boy ignored him and continued to jot in his pad. Garrett caught sight of Maury shaking his head behind the boy and decided to leave his curiosity unabated. “By the gods, this is intolerable,” he complained as the last of the hooks was occupied. Wiping angrily at his nose, he watched the sailors head back to the warehouse and then approached the decomposing fish. Examining the first marlin, his fingers traced a line of stitches down its middle. “Look Maury, you can’t expect that we’ll sell these fish,” he said at last. “Let’s just get it out in the open and we’ll discuss our options.”
Maury had been standing stoically beside the stall, a faraway look on his face. At Garrett’s words he turned to face the man. “Get what out in the open?”
“Rotting fish are not the concern here,” continued Garrett.
“They’re not?”
“No,” reiterated the smaller man. “The fish are secondary, Maury, and of little concern. What’s inside them?”
“Packages,” admitted Maury with a sideways glance down the docks to make sure no one was listening.
“Of course they’re packages,” hissed Garrett “but what’s inside the packages?”
Welcome to Deep Cove (The Vellian Books Book 3) Page 4
