Swim That Rock (12 page)

“What are you, stupid or something, kid?” He grunts through clenched teeth, waving the watch in front of my face. “You might as well be shooting flares into the sky. You think they’re not out here? You think they’re not looking for us?” I think he’s going to throw my watch overboard. Instead he tosses it into the small cabin below the console. “
Never
bring that out on the water again. Not even in your pocket, you understand?”

I’m shaking all over, and my wrist stings where he grabbed me. “Got it, Cap.” I face the deck with my head down.

“Good,” he says, wiping white spit from the sides of his mouth.

The boat is moving in a wide arc, and Captain grabs the wheel, checks his bearings, and gets us back on course. I’m still shaking from the encounter, and Captain looks back and says with a grin, “If you have to know, it’s eleven thirty-five.”

“That’s cool.” I exhale. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath. “Is this the last haul?” I ask, my voice cracking.

“Could be. I’m looking for my hot spot. It’s right up ahead. The quahogs are all jammed up against one another, like little bowling pins ready for us to strike. You’ll hear it soon.”

Suddenly the boat shudders and I’m thrown off balance.

“Is this it?” I ask.

Captain throws his muscular arm over my shoulder and pulls me in close.

“Hear the engines straining? See the post? See how it’s twitching?” He grabs my hand and pins it down on the gunwale. “You feel that? We’re stuffing that dredge like a Thanksgiving turkey.” He slaps me on the back, and I can tell this will be the last haul of the night.

“I can feel it.”

“Good! Now don’t tell me I never taught you nothing.” Captain ducks back under the shroud and starts muttering to himself.

After a couple minutes, the engines idle. Captain comes out and scans the horizon in all directions.

“They out here?” I ask, about the cops.

“They’re always out here.” He pulls the lever, and the winch comes alive as the rope snakes its way onto the deck. “When this haul comes on board, sort everything fast, and get the quahogs below deck.”

“Got it, Cap.”

“Get caught with this stuff on board and we’re screwed.”

The dredge begins to rise from the bottom of the river, and Captain’s right leg is jumping up and down, like a little kid waiting to get on the bumper cars at Rocky Point amusement park. As it breaks the surface, the dredge looks like the open mouth of a shark, dripping with water and mud and quahogs spilling out, its metal teeth glinting from the lights of the city. The rake drops to the deck and lands with a dull thud on the rubber mats.

“Okay, get her open, quick,” he whispers sharply.

I open the stainless-steel clips at the back of the dredge, and the quahogs dump into a pile. “Nice haul.”

“That should do it.” Captain nods at the pile and turns his attention back to the empty dredge and dumps it over the side.

I wash the quahogs with a stream of pressurized water from the flexible hose connected to the water pump. The boat lurches forward as I drop to my knees and begin to count quahogs into a half-bushel basket. I do it by feel in the dark, three in my right hand and two in my left. When I get to two hundred and fifty, I dump them into the mesh bag, close it, and get it below deck as quickly as possible. My knees ache and my back cramps only minutes into the work.

Thirty minutes later, I snap the metal clip on the fortieth bag and wedge it into the storage compartment and lock it shut.

“Are you sure you want me to dump this?” I say, nodding at the rest of the uncounted quahogs on deck.

“We got forty bags below deck?”

“Yeah, it’s all there.” I hand Captain the small key.

“Dump the rest.”

This part is torture. It’s like throwing money out the window, and I need every dime right now. I have to force myself not to count as I toss shovelfuls of quahogs over the side of the moving boat. When that’s done, I spray the decks and place fishing rods in the pole holder so we look like two guys going out to fish on Block Island.

Captain stops the boat just beyond Beavertail Point, leaving the helm as the boat sits adrift in the moving swells. I know what’s next.

“Turn around.”

I turn and face the bow as the black cloth comes over my eyes, blocking out all light. Captain cinches it behind my head and pulls on the knot, making sure it’s secure. The thing is so tight, my eyeballs are pressing into my skull. He’s so freaking paranoid he even ties my hands behind the leaning post, so I can’t take the blindfold off.

“You don’t have to do this,” I say to him.

“The less you know, the better. I’m just keeping you innocent. If someone steals my stuff, I don’t want to have to think it was you.”

The boat rolls to the south and slams the waves between each swell as my insides begin jumping around. I bend my knees to absorb the shock, but with every unseen wave I feel like I’m in a car accident that won’t end. Most people would be puking their brains out, but I never get sick. I’ve been in a boat since forever.

“You all right?” Captain shouts above the noise of the engines and the pounding hull.

“I’m still not used to it,” I scream. “It’s my hands. I need my hands to brace myself.”

“Hang on, we’re almost there.”

“Where? Where are we going?”

“Places, kid, places. We’re going places.” I can hear him laughing as he says these words.

“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.