by Lopez, Rob
13
Darla took her time with the rest of the journey. By the time she reached Point Clair, the Pride of Orleans had nearly finished unloading its passengers. The land surrounding the armory at Point Clair had been transformed by the National Guard, with tents on the fields and more tents still being erected, including a large medical tent. Soldiers carried and stacked supplies from the armory and chopped down small trees for firewood. Ms. Roberts was ashore with a bunch of people in yellow vests, directing people to the tents. Medical personnel assisted with the elderly, pushing wheelchairs along the access road to the mobile-home barracks at the edge of the armory compound. With so many people coming off one boat, however, it wasn’t long before all the hard structures were occupied. When Darla finally berthed, the passengers she was carrying didn’t look impressed with the pickings left to them. They’d all left good homes and it didn’t seem to have dawned on some that they were now refugees.
“Where’s the FEMA trailers?” one gentleman shouted from the stage at Darla in the pilothouse. “Where’s the buses to take us?”
Darla opened her window wider and leaned out. “I don’t know what you’ve been promised, but this is it,” she said.
“Hell it is! Take us up to Baton Rouge. We ain’t staying here.”
“This is as far as we go. You got any problems, you take it up with Ms. Roberts over there. I’ve done my job getting you this far.”
“We ain’t leaving,” called the man. “This is a crock of shit. Take us back to New Orleans.”
Darla was on a short fuse and she blew. “Get the hell off my boat, you ungrateful son of a bitch! If you don’t walk off, you’ll be dragged off!”
A couple of cops on the dock hitched up their belts and strolled over. The man who’d been shouting was indignant.
“You lied to us,” he said to Darla.
“I didn’t tell you nothing,” retorted Darla. “You just got a free ride. Go complain somewhere else.”
One of the cops murmured something to the man, trying to be a little more emollient than Darla. His buddy stood off, hand resting on the butt of his pistol, smiling at the anxious passengers.
“Just taser the fool,” called Darla, forgetting what the solar storm had done to electrical devices.
The cop ignored her and continued his attempt to convince the man to come freely. His buddy gave Darla a look that implied she should shut up. With a frown, Darla closed her window and descended to her cabin to fume in private.
By the time she emerged, her passengers had been convinced to disembark. Walking into the saloon she found Jacques picking up litter that had been left behind, including a full baby’s diaper.
“Eric’s here,” said Darla. “I saw him on the other boat.”
Jacques paused mid-stoop, eyes hardening to a look of murder. “If he comes aboard I will kill him,” he said.
“Yeah, well,” said Darla, “I’d prefer it if you could leave the evidence someplace else.”
“There will be no evidence,” said Jacques.
Darla felt a sudden chill. This wasn’t banter. This was serious. Again, she wondered about Jacques’ true nature.
“I was joking, Rambo,” she said. “We just need to keep an eye out, that’s all.”
Darla left her boat and walked over to where Hartfield stood on the dock. Hartfield gave her a debonair smile.
“I’ll overlook the fact that you tried to cheat, and graciously accept victory,” he said.
“Yeah, laugh it up,” said Darla sourly.
“Oh come on. You have to admit this settles the matter once and for all. Upstream and with a full load and all.”
“Whatever. Have you taken on a new crew member?”
“Yes, I was fortunate. He volunteered his services and he seems quite capable.”
“Eric Whelan.”
“That’s his name. Do you know him?”
“Too well. He’s an ex-con and I think you need to be careful with him.”
Hartfield considered this. “Well, I believe in giving a man a second chance if he’s paid his dues.”
Darla looked around and lowered her voice. “He’s dangerous, Gene. He’s not the kind to change. If I were you I’d get him off the boat as soon as you can. You can’t trust him.”
Hartfield gave her a sage look. “If I give a man my word, I believe in abiding by it. If he gives me any reason to doubt him then of course I’ll consider letting him go. But I need him. Besides, I think your new crewman looks scarier, so I’d feel obliged to warn you of the same.”
“Zack’s okay, he’s just … a little odd. But Eric’s something else. He’s got a history of violence.”
“I think I have the measure of him,” said Hartfield. “And we have the police with us, so I don’t think he’s going to try anything. I’ll mention it to them so they can keep an eye on him, but so far he’s been fine and he knows his way around a boat. In these difficult times, I think it’s worth giving someone the benefit of the doubt. We’ve all got to work together now and I don’t want to hold someone’s past against them if they’re willing to play ball. I’ve hired ex-cons before. You know what it’s like. When they can’t make it in the city, the river calls. That’s the history of the Mississippi.”
Darla looked at him. “You’re a romantic, Gene.”
“I’m a riverboat captain,” he chuckled. “Of course I am. I appreciate the heads-up, but we’ve got a handle on it.”
“Just watch your back, okay?”
Hartfield got called away and Darla walked back to her boat. Passing the stern of the Pride of Orleans she looked up to see Eric leaning indolently against the rail of the hurricane deck, overlooking the paddle wheel.
“He’s right, you know,” drawled Eric. “You have to give a man a second chance. A woman, on the other hand? Well, that’s different.”
Darla couldn’t resist the jibe and stopped. “You used up all your chances,” she said.
Eric gazed across the wide river with a little smile. Rounding the bend from upriver, a Coast Guard launch motored into view, a crew member manning the machine gun on its bow.
“Piggies on a boat,” murmured Eric. “You get all sorts of wildlife on the river.”
“Yeah, wolves too,” said Darla acidly.
Eric turned to her. “And I believe we both share the same pedigree. You hustle, I hustle. I don’t see the difference. We’re all looking to survive.”
“Getting a regular job instead of robbing security trucks is surviving too, but I guess you didn’t want to do that.”
“Got a regular job now. Proud of me? Besides, I don’t recall any hesitation on your part when you used to help me pick the pockets of tourists.”
Darla didn’t want to be reminded of that. “Some of us know when to go straight,” she said.
“Yeah, and some people like to think they’re clean, as if they jumped in the Jordon River and came up free of their sins. But some dirt don’t wash off with water.” Eric leaned forward and, in a conspiratorial tone, added, “That takes blood.”
The Coast Guard boat puttered by, its powerful outboards now replaced by older, weaker engines. Eric waved to the crew.
“Hey, piggies,” he muttered to himself. Looking at Darla, he said, “Wolves eat piggies.”
Darla turned on her heel and walked away.
“Get yourself some of that bacon, girl,” he called after her.
The Coast Guard boat pulled in behind the Mississippi Rose. Carl was on the bridge and he waved to Darla. In spite of herself, Darla felt a flush inside.
“Are you ready to get under way?” called Carl.
“Sure thing,” said Darla, a little too eagerly.
“We need to get some food for the camp. There’s some barges a little way upriver, loaded with beans. Think your boat can tow one down here?”
“My boat can do anything,” she replied.
Carl smiled warmly. “Okay. Follow us up.”
***
The aforementioned bar
ges were part of a fleet of forty that had been beached by a towboat. The towboat had been damaged by fire. Its bridge and upper decks were blackened, the windows shattered. Darla maneuvered the Mississippi Rose into position alongside. Most of the barges had their covers on, but the rear barges were open and full of coal. Jacques stepped onto a barge and tied up. Darla stopped the paddle wheels and came out onto the Texas deck, looking down at the huge barges and trying to figure out how to get one of them loose. She also looked at the towboat.
Carl brought the Coast Guard launch in close. “We’ll give you a hand unhooking it,” he shouted. “The one we want is two deep in, on the port side.”
Darla had an idea. “We’ll be fine,” she called back. “We’ll coal up first, then bring it on down.”
“Alright. I have to get down and check on the reactor crew. If you get any problems, leave it and we’ll try tomorrow with the bigger boat.”
Darla would rather have towed the barge with her teeth than leave it for Hartfield to brag about.
“We’ll get it done,” she said.
Carl spun the launch around. Darla descended to the main deck.
“Okay, listen up,” she said to her crew. “Zack and Manny: get the coal sacks and start filling them. Jacques, you come with me. We’ll clear out the towboat’s galley and anything else we can find.”
Jacques understood exactly what she wanted and went off to get boxes and bags. Zack was a little uncertain.
“Are you going to steal from that boat?” he asked. “You only mentioned coal to the Coast Guard.”
“It’s not stealing,” said Darla, “it’s salvage. Get that coal on board and then help us out before anyone comes calling.”
Balancing along the rim of the barge, Darla hopped onto the towboat. The smell of charred wood and plastic was overwhelming. Empty fire extinguishers were scattered over the deck. The lifeboat was missing, meaning the crew had managed to get away. Darla entered the vessel, ducking under sagging or dangling ceiling tiles. The non-slip plastic floor covering was blistered and uneven. The stairs down to the galley were pitch black and Darla hesitated, realizing she should have brought a light, but Jacques appeared behind her with a candle. Darla lit it and took it down the steps. Apart from the smell, the galley seemed unaffected, the stainless steel surfaces reflecting the candle flame. Darla opened the door to the pantry and found what she expected to find: row upon row of canned and dry food, unopened jars and cereals, packed deep into floor-to-ceiling shelves. She picked up a packet.
“Bet you just can’t wait to mix up some good old mash-potato granules and serve them with canned carrots and kidney beans,” she said.
Jacques curled his lip in disgust.
“Now don’t you go leaving nothing,” she warned. “I don’t care how you feel about sauce from a jar or pie filling from a can. There’s enough here to feed our little crew for a couple of months. You leave these shelves bare, you hear?”
Darla left the candle with him and groped her way back up to the main deck. There was something depressing about roaming around an abandoned and damaged boat and it reminded her a little of when she first found the Mississippi Rose in a salvage yard, waiting to be broken up. No boat lasted forever and their end was as inevitable as any person’s mortality, but picking through the debris it was impossible for a sailor like Darla to not be aware of the history contained within the cramped passageways. The towboat may not have been as old as the Mississippi Rose, but men, and maybe a few women, had called it home once, toiling in all weathers, sailing through lonely nights to the delta, breaking through ice sheets in the winter on the upper Mississippi, celebrating birthdays and enjoying banter, Skyping loved ones during the downtimes, rushing to the deck when called to all-hands in the case of near-collisions, hanging onto rails in driving rain while the boat maneuvered in high water, trying to avoid being pushed right under the barges as the fast flowing river slopped over the aft decking, and water poured through the vents into the engine room.
Every boat had a history, no matter how mundane, and life on the river was never ordinary. Even in this modern age, everybody who worked the river knew of someone who’d lost their life to the Mississippi.
Darla tentatively explored the upper decks. The higher she climbed, the more heat and smoke damage there was until she reached the source of the fire: the bridge. Much larger than the Mississippi Rose’s pilothouse, it would have been packed with navigation equipment, computers and screens. The steps and handrails were warped and the mass of electronic equipment had melted or cracked. She was going to step farther onto the bridge when she stopped.
Curled up on the deck was a charred body.
There was no way to identify him, but Darla figured he was the captain. It looked like he tried to save the cargo from becoming a drifting hazard on the river by staying at the wheel and steering for shore before becoming overwhelmed by the fumes. With all the plastics and synthetic materials, it wouldn’t have taken long before the poison in his lungs had knocked him out. Darla hoped he’d died before the flames got to him.
Darla backed out and hesitated, conscious that she was now exploring a place of rest. It didn’t seem right to hunt for further salvage. Nevertheless, when she passed the captain’s cabin below, she couldn’t resist trying the door. It was locked.
Darla, don’t do it.
Darla leaned back against the opposite bulkhead and kicked hard against the door. On the third attempt, the flimsy lock gave out and the door swung open. Apart from smoke damage on the ceiling, the cabin was largely untouched. The bunk had been neatly made, but a picture on a nightstand had toppled over, landing face up. A bearded man posed with a woman and a child, outside what looked like Disney World. Darla tried not to look at it and searched through the drawers.
She found an unopened bottle of rum and took it immediately. The duvet on the bunk looked better than her own, so she took that too, along with the pillow. Awkwardly carrying her pilfered bundle, she dumped it at the top of the stairs to the galley.
“Hurry it up,” she called, descending the steps. “We still have to tow the barge and I don’t want to be doing that when it gets dark.”
Jacques had filled two boxes and was now examining the knives. He took a large chef knife and flexed it, testing the sharpness of the blade with his thumb. In the light of the candle, it looked spooky, like he was getting ready for a night of bloody mayhem. Fascinated, she watched his affinity with the blade and the way he relished its handling.
“Were you ever a hitman?” she said suddenly.
Jacques looked up in genuine surprise. “I’m a chef,” he said, like it was an insult to be considered anything else.
“Right,” said Darla.
There was an awkward pause.
“I want everything off the shelves,” she said, then left.
At the top of the steps she cursed herself for having such a big, dumb mouth. The ability for complete garbage to spill from her lips surprised even her sometimes. Grabbing her loot, she tottered out onto the deck and climbed nimbly onto the barges.
Manny and Zack were getting slowly coated in coal dust as they filled the sacks.
“Hey, Manny,” she called. “I asked Jacques whether he was a hitman.”
“Yeah?” said Manny. “What did he say?”
“He said you’re full of crap.”
Manny leaned on his shovel. “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? I mean, would you admit it?”
“If I was, hell yeah. Can you imagine how much money those people must make? If I had that much dough, I wouldn’t be so worried about the bank taking my boat.”
“Wait,” said Manny, “the bank going to take your boat? You didn’t tell me that. Why didn’t you tell me that?”
Darla backpedaled fast. “Hey, it was just an example, okay? I was just saying, what if?”
“You saying we’re going bankrupt?”
“I didn’t say that. Did you hear me say that?”
“I sure heard some
thing that sounded like that.”
“You heard wrong. Get shoveling.”
Manny was on the scent, however. “Are we, or are we not, solvent?”
“Jeez, give it a rest already.”
“You brought it up.”
“I did not.”
Zack gazed off into the distance. “Hitmen don’t make too much money,” he said quietly. “They’re like, the lowest of the low, and they’re not too smart. Most of them get used. It’s a sad life, really.”
Darla and Manny stared at him.
“How would you know that?” asked Manny.
Zack looked at him with his dark, brooding eyes. “It’s just something I know.”
“Oh yeah? What else do you know?”
“Woody Harrelson’s father was a hitman.”
Manny snorted and gave Darla an incredulous look. “And you’re saying I’m full of crap.”
“It’s because you are,” said Darla, growing uncomfortable with the conversation. “Get that coal on board. I’m going to see if there’s any acetylene tanks I can salvage from the engine room.”
When they’d taken all they could from the towboat, they set about cutting loose some of the barges and using the Mississippi Rose to nudge them aground farther downstream. The barge they wanted was loaded with soybeans, and looked enough to feed the camp for days. Attaching a tow, the old steamer strained to pull the heavy barge off the shallows, the boat shimmying from side to side like a fish on a line as the paddle wheels thrashed. Eventually the barge was pulled clear and Darla towed it down to the camp, cutting it loose and pushing it aground.
The Pride of Orleans was gone and Darla’s was the only boat there. After an evening of complex maneuvering, Darla felt exhausted and decided to berth there for the night. More tents had been set up on the fields, casting long shadows under the setting sun, and engineers were busy digging wells to cope with all the new inhabitants. Considering it was a scratch operation, Darla felt they’d done a good job, and she was proud to be a part of it.
