by Warren Court
“When you sailing south?”
I couldn’t remember telling Marty my plans but accepted that as the bartender of the club he knew everything. Still, I was deliberately vague.
“A week or two.”
“Don’t wait too long, man. Storms are brewing down there.”
“I’m not doing it all at once. Going to take my time. Hug the coast.”
The television was on an American 24-hour news channel and it showed an intrepid and very stupid reporter standing at a forty-five-degree angle to combat the winds of Hurricane Ernesto. He was down in South Carolina and the storm, though it had showed signs of weakening since making landfall, was still a bastard. And it was heading our way.
“Going to get some big waves soon,” Marty said. “Good time for surfing, brah.”
Marty was crazy about surfing. He’d talk to you for hours about his one and only trip to Hawaii, where he says he hit Waimea. When he got back, he called everybody “brah” for the longest time. I guessed Ernesto and the prospect of surfing had revived that in him. Any time a hurricane or tropical storm or depression came over Ontario, the lakes picked up enough for surfers to venture out and do their thing.
Marty grabbed the remote control and flicked to a local channel. Robert Garigue’s picture was on the screen, not a photo of him now all black and shiny and missing his upper torso, but one of the numerous mug shots that had been taken over the years. Garigue, with his long greasy hair, was staring down at me, an overconfident grin on his face. It had been a long time since I’d seen Garigue’s photo and looking at him brought back some disturbing memories. Underneath that confident smile and greasy hair, I knew there lurked a scared, ruthless psychopath who had ultimately been responsible for my downfall. I tried not to think of him now, what was left lying on a steel slab in the morgue. The headline underneath the photo said Identity confirmed.
“That’s him, all right. That’s Robert they pulled from the lake,” Marty said. I detected a note of excitement in his voice. I wanted to turn around and punch him right in the throat, but self-control got the better of me. I took another long pull on my rum and Coke until the ice slid forward and bumped my upper lip. I ordered another drink, a double. Marty pushed the volume button frantically on the controller but got the sound up just as the story passed on to something else.
He turned to me. “Did I not say that was Garigue?”
“You did,” I said.
“They must have gotten DNA or something; Garigue’s sister still lives in Hamilton.”
I knew it took longer to get DNA results, but didn’t disagree with Marty. There must have been some distinguishing marks left on the body for a coroner to so quickly conclude it was Garigue. That, coupled with the driver’s license they’d found. I tuned Marty out and pretended to be extremely interested in the news item that had replaced the Garigue story.
“Hiya.” It was Cindy; she had sidled up to me.
I was on my third rum and Coke now. She plopped herself on to an available stool next to me.
“You’re hitting those pretty hard.”
“I’ll quit in twenty years,” I said. “Why don’t we grab a table?”
“Yeah, sure.” She plopped back down off the stool and we went over. There was a low-slung table with crumbs on it from previous customers. Wendy came over with a fresh bowl of munchies and wiped the table down, and Cindy ordered a wine spritzer. I had a full rum and Coke but ordered another one anyway.
“I can see this is going to be a fun night,” Cindy said.
I said nothing.
She changed the subject. “We eating here?” I was still distracted. “Hey.” She put a hand on my knee. “What’s up?”
She looked great. While I had been talking to Marty up at the bar, she’d taken the time to freshen up her makeup and her hair. Her youthful, radiant skin glowed from a long summer tan sprinkled with freckles. A spasm of regret flashed through me at the thought of leaving her behind. But Garigue’s reappearance and my talk with the Scallas had put an end to the idea of taking her along. I knew that now. No way I wanted her anywhere near me with that hanging over me.
We sat in silence; outside the window, the white hulls of the pleasure boats were in stark contrast to the dark waters of the harbour. There were a few after-work cocktail parties underway on some of the other yachts. Their owners had strung lanterns and other lights from their stanchion lines. I ordered my fifth rum and Coke but went back to singles, and Cindy ordered a beer. She asked for a menu even though we both knew it by heart.
We ate the shitty pub food and had a few more drinks. The booze helped dull the shock I felt at Garigue’s return. After our meal, Cindy and I went to the apartment. I told her I wouldn’t be spending the night and followed her Jetta in my truck.
We made love furiously; it had a “last time ever” quality to it. We knew our nights together were coming to a close and wanted to make them last. I drifted off to the sounds of her light snoring; it was not even midnight. I had a fitful sleep on the border of nightmares. I dreamt I was in a large bed with Cindy on one side of me and Doc Soos on the other. The bed went on forever and the Scalla brothers were there too, glowing red with anger and hatred. And Garigue was on the other side of them, all bloated and sticking up above the others. His head was turned and the black hole of his mouth was open and his eyes were huge white eggs looking at me.
I woke with a start, not knowing where I was. That dreamy inability to focus the mind after waking stayed with me a long time until I got out of bed and went to Cindy’s bay window, which overlooked downtown Hamilton. It was after one am. I dressed silently while she slept.
Chapter 8
When I got back to my boat, I climbed on board, gun in hand. The docks were quiet now; there was just the rhythmic ringing of metal on masts. The thought of Silvio or the Scallas themselves down in the cabin put a fear into me. But there were no signs of any further intruders. I moved quickly. stuffing items I needed into a large plastic sailing bag that would seal watertight—a change of clothes and a sweater, a dark hat. I threw in a box of biscuits and of course the Browning Hi-Power.
Stripped down to a dark T-shirt and swim trunks, with the waterproof bag slung over my shoulder, I slipped into the cool waters of Hamilton Harbour as soundlessly as I could. The water was oily and stank of gasoline and other chemicals. Hamilton is a steel town, sort of the Pittsburgh of Canada. Its harbour had been a natural choice for large industries at the turn of the twentieth century, with the production of steel being paramount.
For decades, before humans gave a crap about what they did to the environment, Lake Ontario and in particular Hamilton Harbour was a dumping ground for industrial waste. Those factories had either shut down or moved away or gotten their act together environmentally, but the harbour was still polluted. My father and grandfather had both told me stories of jumping off the docks to take a swim during the summer vacation, but that was fifty years ago. No one, and I mean no one, would be caught swimming in the harbour in this day and age. I was only going to be in the water for a minute and hoped I wouldn’t develop any kind of rash.
I swam out toward the dock where Wave Dancer was kept. It was moored to a privileged dock and as such was gated off from general access. Boaters were given the six-digit PIN for the gate. It was a more expensive option for boaters than the dock where I had the Purpoise moored up, which was open to anyone. There was a CCTV camera positioned above the gate, so hopping the fence wasn’t an option.
The boats all around me rocked and squeaked and groaned at their moorings as I swam a half-assed sidestroke past them, one arm gripping my plastic bag. It took longer than a minute and I was eager to get out of the water.
I could hear laughter and the tinkling of cocktail glasses coming from some of the boats, so I took care not to rush it and make a lot of splashing sounds. I figured that with a moonless night and my dark clothes, it was worth the stretch. Wave Dancer was positioned at one of the last berths and had no other y
achts between it and the open water of the harbour.
I approached her from the stern. There was a ladder there to allow people who’d gone for a swim to get back on board. As I began to pull myself up over the back of Wave Dancer, the sailing bag over my arm swung down. There was a metal clang as the Browning Hi-Power struck a chrome bar. I paused there for a second, looking at the other yachts. I could see the silhouettes of people’s heads in one of the cockpits. They turned in my direction but then turned back.
I climbed over the transom, squatted down on Dancer’s rear deck and waited. Dancer was rocking vigorously from my boarding and I wanted her to settle down before I moved. I wiped the water from my body as best I could. I had a towel and dry clothes in the bag and would get changed, but I had to take this slow. Finally, convinced my boarding had not been detected, I duck-walked towards the cabin door in order to keep below the sightline of the gunwales.
The cabin door was locked. The renter wasn’t that much of a doofus; he knew there were boat thieves around and he kept Wave Dancer secure. I couldn’t force the door using a tire iron from my truck or anything like that. That would sound like a rifle shot over the water. But I was confident I could get in a different way. I retrieved my KA-BAR knife from the watertight bag and moved up along the port side toward one of the large windows that looked into the main cabin. The port side was facing away from the rest of the boats and out to the harbour, so I could work unseen.
I took my knife, slid it into the windowsill and started to work the window. Finally, it gave way and I slid it back a foot. I squirmed into the cabin and unlocked the door to retrieve my sailing bag.
My plan was to slip the Wave Dancer’s lines and get out into the harbour undetected. I didn’t want to start the engines so close to shore. It wasn’t unheard of for a boat to leave at night, but all heads would turn to it when its engines fired.
After drying off and changing, I left the cabin and made my way out onto the foredeck, keeping low. Like I had done so many times before, I swung over the chrome railing and landed on the dock. I was barefoot, so I made no sound. I untied the fore and aft lines and threw them on board, then gave the Dancer a push and vaulted back on board her. These were practised movements and it felt good and sad to do them again. Except for a few times when Gloria had come on board with me, I had always taken the boat out by myself.
I went back into the cabin and waited. I knew that the back surge in the enclosed dock would take hold of the Dancer and gently move her out into the harbour. An onshore wind pushed against the boat, moving it farther away from the dock.
When I thought I was a sufficient distance from the club, I went to work getting the engines started. When I was a cop, I’d learned all manner of illegal things, including how to hot-wire a car. The principle here was the same, and I used my knife to pry up the panel of electronics in front of the helm. Damaging my gal hurt, but there was no other way. The new renter wasn’t stupid enough to have left the keys on board.
There were two ignition switches and I concentrated on the port one first. I touched the wires together and she turned over and came to life. Her helm came alive instantly, and she seemed to say hello to me and forgive the damaged control panel. It can all be repaired, I told her.
I cranked the wheel over and, on one engine, headed away from land. After I was well out into the middle of the harbour, I started the second engine. I gunned both of them and headed for the lift bridge and the open lake. I quickly realized there was something wrong with the second engine; it wasn’t firing right. To the untrained ear, like the dickhead who had the Dancer now, it would probably go unnoticed. When I’d owned the Dancer, I had been fastidious in her upkeep; I’d tuned the motors regularly. Nothing I could do about it now. I checked the fuel. The tanks were three-quarters full. Another sign of slovenly care; I always kept her tanks full when not in use.
I could see that the bridge was in the raised position. There was a large lake freighter gliding under it into the harbour. There was a tug holding position between me and the bridge, waiting to hook up to the freighter and move it into its berth at one of the steel factories. I gunned passed the tug and hoped its crew wouldn’t notice me in case they were questioned later by the cops. I was lucky the bridge was up; I wouldn’t be required to radio the bridge master to raise it. That request would have been logged.
When I was sufficiently clear of the bridge and well out into the lake, I pointed the Dancer’s nose at the CN Tower, which was as big and lit-up a marker as any boater could ask for. I turned on the Dancer’s radio. There was a continuous marine weather broadcast and it predicted large swells and heavy fog would roll in. This would be ideal for me: merging two boats together in high waves is never easy, and I knew that Jocko and his boys were not skilled in boat handling. I liked having the advantage.
Chapter 9
It was going on eleven at night. I had one hour to get to Toronto and pick up the package and Soos’s man, Louis. The radar sweep on the instrument panel showed an empty lake. Confident in Dancer’s abilities to keep a straight course, I went down below and rummaged through the liquor cabinet. About the only thing I could give the prick lawyer credit for was keeping the boat well stocked with booze.
I picked up a nice crystal rocks glass, a far cry from the dollar-store ones I’d had on board when I owned her, and put a couple of cubes of ice in it. I grabbed the bottle of Glenfiddich and mentally added the handle of the liquor cabinet to the list of things I was going to wipe down when I was done with the boat. The bottle and glass would be tossed overboard. Like all cops, I had been fingerprinted, and those prints had not been chucked out when I got thrown off the force. And I had forgotten to bring gloves. I hoped that was my only mistake for the night.
The whiskey went down nice, and Dancer took me out into the middle of the lake. I steered a long arc towards Toronto to avoid the shoals and sandbars that were closer to shore, and to avoid other boats—what few of them might have been out at this late at night. Other than the regulation running lights, I kept the boat in total darkness and slowly sipped the whiskey.
Dancer hummed along, happy to be under my hands again. At high throttle I couldn’t hear that irregularity in the one engine, but I knew it was still there. The vibration in the floor plates was off by just a tad. On my port side, the lights of the homes of the wealthy that dotted the shores of Oakville, a wealthy suburb, passed by. I thought of Gloria, tucked in there with her new husband. I put the throttles up a bit more.
Compared with Hamilton, Toronto’s harbour was very much alive with activity. It was late at night, but there were still some booze cruise boats motoring around Toronto Island. The boats were lit up brilliantly and I could hear the music coming across the water. Behind the Islands rose Toronto’s impressive skyline. The Rogers Centre next to the CN Tower was a glowing green half-egg-shaped silhouette.
Instead of ducking into the channel between the Islands and the mainland, I went around them. The east end of Toronto’s docklands is industrial. There’s a large defunct grain silo there with its own pier. The place went out of business decades ago and the area is slated for redevelopment. They were going to put in more condos and a super centre eventually, but for now it was Soos’s rendezvous spot.
I lowered the throttles and Dancer’s nose sank down. I came up cautiously on the abandoned dock. This could all be a setup. I instinctively touched the Browning Hi-Power tucked into my belt.
The abandoned silos loomed up in front of me like some child’s robot from the fifties. I pulled slowly up to the lee side of the pier, leaving my engines idling in case I had to get out of there quick.
I tried to peer into the dark shadows cast by the silos. Wave Dancer had a powerful Q-Beam spotlight affixed to her roof that would have lit this scene up, but I was engaged in a criminal activity, which required me to be cloaked in darkness.
A car’s headlights flicked on and off quickly further up the pier. I could see the shape of a large black sedan, Soos’s c
ar. It moved down the pier and stopped fifty feet from me. All four doors opened and Soos and his men got out. Soos was still wearing his tuxedo. He was with Louis and two other thugs I didn’t know.
I stayed put on the bridge of the Wave Dancer until they reached the boat, and then I went out onto the back deck.
“Tie your boat off,” Soos ordered.
I shrugged and went fore and aft and threw the lines up to the goons. They tied them around large turnbuckles on the pier. Tighter than was necessary. I scrambled up onto the pier; no offered me a hand. I left Wave Dancer idling; I didn’t want Soos or his men to see me re-hotwiring her when it was time to go.
“You’re late,” Soos said.
“Wind was against me.”
“That’s not a sailboat. What the hell’s the wind got to do with it?”
“Wind creates waves. Waves slow boats down. All boats.”
