Cast in Stone (7 page)

"Point
taken," I said. "What was she like?" He thought about
it. "Intense," he said after a while. "How so?"

"Well,
you know, Mr. Waterman, we get quite a few folks who think the ocean
is just a big wet freeway, that they can just sail or motor up to
Alaska, putt around the icebergs drinking margaritas, and then putt
home in time for Letterman. The fact that you might have to know
something, or could very well get your ass killed, never occurs to
them. That's when I come down to the office and have a little talk
with them. I can almost always put the fear of God in them. By the
time I get through running down my list of possible disasters,
they're usually begging for a crew of six and beefed-up insurance
coverage. Not this one, though. She never blinked. Never budged an
inch. Just kept smiling at me and saying no thanks."

"And
him?"

"Just
the opposite. Wishy-washy. Sort of along for the ride. I didn't know
he was sick then, but it makes sense now."

We
were interrupted by Chipper's reappearance. He handed the boss a
sheaf of papers, then stood behind the bench, rocking on the balls of
his feet, as Richmond handed them over to me.

Richmond
started to speak and then stopped. He turned to Chipper.

"Who's
minding the store?"

"There's
nobody—"

"Go
back inside."

Reluctantly,
Chipper complied, walking backward, keeping us in view.

"Thanks,"
I said, indicating the papers.

"Same
stuff I gave the Coast Guard. You might as well have it too."

"What
did the Coast Guard think?" I asked.

"Hell,
she'd been on the bottom for an hour when they got there and down for
nearly forty-eight hours before they brought anything up. Between the
fire, the tides, and the crabs there wasn't a hell of a lot left
other than the engines. They've got what precious little they
recovered down at Pier 50, if you're interested."

"Still,"
I repeated. "I'd like to thank you again on behalf of my clients
for your cooperation. Most folks would just have blown me off."

"Don't
worry about it. Fucking lawyers just end up with the money anyway,"
he said. "If the Sundstroms wanted it, all they had to do was
ask. God knows I feel bad about their boy."

"I
think Mr. Sundstrom did."

"How
so?"

I
told him of finding his attorney's business card among Heck's things.

"Chipper,"
was all he needed to say.

A
strained silence settled over us like a heavy dew.

"Where
were we?" the big man asked, massaging the bridge of his nose
with a thumb and forefinger.

"The
happy couple."

"Oh
yeah." He started to rise, springing the bench. A thin smile
crossed his lips as he stretched in the sunshine.

"Just
between you and me, I know this isn't nice, but when something like
this happens you get a chance to think. I remember thinking at the
time, you know, it being a honeymoon cruise and all, I remember
looking at the Sundstrom kid and thinking he better enjoy it while he
still could, because with this little honey it sure as hell wasn't
going to last."

"What
wasn't going to last?"

"You
know—the heavy breathing," he said, stopping and
thrusting his big hands into his pants pockets. "With her, it
just seemed to be something she

could
turn on and off like the smile. Hell, by the time they'd signed the
contracts she had Chipper there running out for latte and tripping
over his dick."

He
shook his head and turned to leave.

"At
least he didn't have far to fall," I offered to his back.

I
reached the top of the second tier of concrete stairs in time to
watch the forward ranks of a low, leaden fog bank as it rolled
swiftly across Elliot Bay and back toward the city like an advancing
gray brigade, enveloping any and all in its widespread, opaque arms.
Unconsciously pulling my green canvas jacket tighter about me, I
headed for the shelter of the car.

I
recrossed the Magnolia Bridge and slid north on Fifteenth, toward
Ballard, Seattle's Scandinavian enclave. Fighting the car
windows back up just in time to dart across both lanes and jump off
on the Nickerson exit. Running purely on memory, I wound right, up
Emerson, then through the tricky chicane down toward Fisherman's
Terminal. Memory failed to suffice as I pulled into the crowded lot.
What had once been a greasy spoon and a bait shop had, I supposed
predictably, evolved into a fair-sized shopping center and
restaurant complex. An art gallery— "Afishionado." Cute.
The Wild Salmon Fish Market. A café.

I
felt older than my father by the time I wove my way through the
commercial claptrap to the Fisherman's Memorial. I'd read about
it, but never seen it before. Twin granite blocks, rough on top,
framed a central obelisk. The plaque on the right held the
dedication—1988.

Dedicated
to the men, women, their families and the members of the fishing
community who have suffered the loss of life at sea.

On
the left, the names. From the turn of the century to the present.
Better than five hundred, I estimated. The central granite column was
decorated at the bottom with an encasing bronze fish ensemble: a
prominently whiskered sturgeon winked benignly at the tourists, while
at the top stood the mythic fisherman, seeming even harder and more
weathered than the dull metal of his body, inexplicably facing
landward as he pulled his resisting bounty from the sea.

The
last of the day's tourists hurried toward warmth as I threaded my way
down to Dock 7. A maze of masts, booms, supports, antennae, and
cables multisected the backdrop into crazed segments, thin
against the sky like the lifeless remains of a drowned forest. As I
stepped out onto the stout timbers, I felt strangely unbalanced and
began walking gingerly as if on the high wire, hoping that no
one would notice my discomfort. I could make out the Lady Day's black
transom a third of the way down. I eased cautiously down the dock,
staying in the middle, feeling the ominous presence of the black
water in spite of having five feet to spare on either side.

Berthed
now among less impressive craft, some of which were converted
pleasure boats, the Lady Day seemed larger than I remembered. Signs
of recent work were everywhere. A fresh coat of black covered
everything in sight. Four fancy, rectangular crab lights had been
mounted halfway up the rigging. Brand-new, bright orange balloon
floats hung from the sides, protecting the freshly painted hull. The
skiff was tied off on the port bow, making room for the massive purse
net that lay heaped in the stern like some captured beast.

Working
outward from the boat, I began to look for signs of life along the
dock. Out of season, and late in the afternoon, most of the boats
were buttoned up tight. Every third craft or so had a For Sale by
Owner sign.

Six
berths down from the Lady, I came upon another Limit Seiner—the
Haida Queen, Ketchikan, Alaska, docked bow in, two crew members
straining mightily in opposing directions on a pair of pipe wrenches
as they struggled to break loose the threads on a piece of corroded
plumbing. The older of the two, gap-toothed,'his matted hair held in
place by a red bandanna, explained that they were down in the lower
forty-eight only for repairs and knew nothing from nothing. The
younger guy, his right eye reduced to a slit by an enormous purple
bruise, kept his mouth shut and his one working eye glued on Red
Bandanna.

At
the far end, out where the dock forms a long T, two yellow-clad
figures—a guy and what must have been his son—meticulously wound
miles of mended mono-filament onto the gill net drum. Struggling to
keep my feet clear of the rapidly disappearing net, I spent five
minutes dancing the Highland fling, ascertaining that, as near as I
could tell, neither of these two se habla'd any known Indo-European
language.

I'd
worked my way halfway back on the other side before I spotted an open
hatch on Ocean Spirit, a green-and-white wooden forty-five footer in
serious need of work. Checking the deserted dock, I followed boat
etiquette and lustily called out to those on board. The two net
winders stopped what they were doing and gawked, but there was no
response from aboard the Ocean Spirit. When further halfhearted
shouts got no results, I stepped on board and found an older guy in a
short-brimmed black cap and greasy striped overalls sitting on the
top step staring

glumly
as a pair of electricians worked below-decks.

"I
yelled," I said when he looked my way. "I heard ya."

"I
was wondering if you had a minute."

"With
these two sons a bitches"—he poked a thick finger down
below—"a minute's worth about sixty bucks. If I could find any
experienced hands, I'd do it myself. These bloodsuckers—" He
interrupted his tirade. "Wadda you want?"

"I'm
working for the Sundstroms."

He
marinated this message for a minute.

"Damn
shame about those kids," he said finally.

"I'm
trying to get a line on some young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the last couple of months."

He
rose from his perch, dusting off his palms. He was even wider
standing up. He closed most of the distance between us.

"You
said you were working for Henry Sundstrom?"

"I
am."

"He
knows you're down here, then?" I told him about Heck. The bad
news seemed to relax him.

"You
know Henry was down here a few weeks back,

asking
about the same thing." When I didn't respond,

he
continued. "I'll tell you the same thing I told

Henry.
I usually don't pay no attention to the wharf

rats.
They come; they go. They're all the same to me.

Most
of 'em ain't worth salt. But little Norma, her I

remember.
Never seemed to have enough clothes on,

always
shivering, walking around hugging herself,

little
nipples looking like they was gonna poke a hole

in
her shirt."

He
waved her memory away.

"Not
enough sense, to get in out of the cold, if you ask me."

"Seen
her lately?" "Nope."

He
quickly poked his head down the hatch.

"You
don't need to replace all that, Abdullah—just redo the connections
and junctions and then use the old cable."

"No
meet code," came the response.

"Son
of a bitch," he fumed. "Got all these damn codes made up by
hummers downtown who ain't never sailed anything more than a goddamn
rubber ducky. Stuffs so damned complicated it's gotta be installed by
an engineer, none of who I understand a friggin' word they're say
in'. How the hell do they expect us to stay in business? How in hell
do they—"

He
ran through a number of rhetorical queries as he raved, waving his
stubby arms. When he cooled down, he remembered I was there.

"Go
see old Wendy on the Biscuit."

"The
what?"

"The
Biscuit. It's an old tub out on Dock 10. Low number, one or maybe
one-A. Way the hell out the end, anyway. Ask Wendy about the girl,
she'll know. She's kinda like the den mother hereabouts. What-ever's
goin' on around here, she'd know about."

He
directed a stage whisper down the hatch.

"She
may not be an engineer, but at least she speaks the goddamn
language."

Momentarily
satisfied, he turned back to me.

"I
shoulda thought of her when Henry asked me, but I was too busy
watching my life savings disappear." He checked the sky.
"Better hurry, she goes home before dark."

He
dismissed me with a pat on the shoulder, turning away. A torrent of
gripes and grouses preceded his broad back down the stairs.

"Goddamn
it, fellas—"

The
Biscuit was more like a dumpling. a congealed mass of water-soaked
dough bobbing listlessly among the flotsam, seemingly held together
only by forty coats of white paint. A single bulb glowed yellow in
the front window. I banged on the hull with the heel of my hand.