Swim That Rock (14 page)

“I . . . er . . .”

“Relax, kid. You did the right thing. I got the warning. You’re turning into a real pirate.” Captain gives me a crooked smile. “So what does he know?”

So I tell him what Delvecchio knows, and he fidgets from side to side, his left eye twitching while his shoulder lifts, rotates, and releases in a quirky way, like his eyes and shoulders are all connected somehow.

Twenty minutes later, I am listening to the engines strain as the dredge tears its way across the polluted floor of the Providence River. It’s the first haul of the night, so I have about five or ten minutes to chill out and wait. Captain doesn’t like me milling about on deck, so I usually hang out down belowdecks in the bow cabin. The cabin is small, with two porthole windows painted black, a polished wooden floor, and a couple of padded triangular benches that seem like beds for toddlers. I crouch down, using a couple life jackets to rest my back against the wall where the beds come together, and shut the door tight.

No air. No light. I feel like an astronaut in a space capsule, hurtling through the dark. I feel for the tiny switch above my head and instantly my capsule is filled with warm yellow light.

I push at the large swollen blister between my right thumb and forefinger. I got it from hauling rope because my skin is still soft, but right now it’s tight with liquid. I have to drain it.

I reach into my pocket to get my knife, and my fingers wrap around a triangular wad of paper the size of a couple of quarters. I pull it out and hold it to the light. It’s from Darcy. I know it. Only Darcy would spend the time making all these intricate folds like an origami ninja. She must have slipped it into my pocket this morning. It takes me a while to open without ripping it.

I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. The floor beneath me drops away, and I’m floating in zero gravity. I close my eyes and let the feeling overtake me.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzzz!

The alarm!

I crash back to earth, scramble from my seat, and bang my head on the door as I rush out of the cabin. The alarm is going off, and that means that the clam cops are on us.
What do I do?
Cut the ropes!
Grab one of the machetes and cut the ropes to the dredge.

Captain is working the controls and swearing like a madman. Our boat is bogging down with the strain of the dredge, and I can see the blue swirling lights of the DEM boat coming right at us full speed. I reach for the machete strapped to the side of the console. The clam cops are a hundred yards away and coming fast. I whip around toward the taut lines of the dredge post and swing the steel blade with everything I’ve got. The rope pops horrifically. The boat jumps forward, sending me hard into the rear well. The oncoming cops’ boat slides into the space we just left.

They almost rammed us.

The clam cop is yelling through the loudspeaker, but I can’t make out what he is saying. Something about
disengage
and
boarding.
Our boat is making a wide arc. I’m waiting for Captain to take the wheel.

Oh, crap.

He’s not moving. I see him, sprawled on the deck with a huge lump on his head. He must have hit the dredge post when the boat lurched.

I want to help him, but I can’t right now. I throttle the engines down. The clam cops are pulling aside, and they’re about to board.

“Where is he?”
It’s Delvecchio. His eyes are wide as silver dollars as he looks right at me. His partner is reaching for our bow cleat with a rope in his hand. Delvecchio finally sees Captain, unconscious on the deck. A smile cuts across Delvecchio’s face as he grabs at the gun strapped to his hip, blue lights flickering everywhere.
He’s going to kill us.

I grab the wheel and shove all my weight into the throttle. The boat shoots forward like a missile. I point us toward the middle of the bay, toward safety, out of the river and away from Delvecchio. I turn on the deck lights for a second and see that Captain is crumpled at the stern, the purple knot on his head protruding.

“Oh, crap,” I say under my breath as I realize we just did a hundred-and-eighty degree turn, and we are heading right at the clam cops. My dad always said, “The best defense is a good offense.” So I go on offense. I keep the boat going straight at them like a fighter pilot. I can still hear the alarm buzzing in the bow cabin, just faintly, above the scream of the engines. Delvecchio is still bearing down on us. It’s like the game of chicken Tommy and I used to play on our bikes, except now it’s boats and they’re big and fast, and someone is going to get killed.

I should turn. Wait. I gotta turn. Wait.

He turns first, to the east. I crank the wheel and we spin, sending the stern of the boat out wide. Captain slides across the deck. Delvecchio is still yelling into his loudspeaker, and his partner is pulling a rifle out of the gun rack. My heart is pounding and my hands are shaking. I’m wondering if I’ll go to jail or even worse, get shot.

My boat is faster. I peg the throttle again and the boat explodes out of the water. I can’t look back. I’m just holding on.
Get your bearings.
Where’s Prudence Island?

There, I see it.

I’m flying toward the narrow channel between Prudence and Patience Islands. The tachometer reads 9,000 rpm. We must be doing eighty miles an hour. I look back and the clam cops are still chasing us. Their blue flashing light is getting smaller. I drape the black shroud over the instrument panel and go into stealth mode, steering on a heading toward Newport Harbor, where we can get lost in the forest of sailboats.

As we slide under the Newport Bridge, I can no longer see the blue lights.

“I’ve lost them. I did it!” I am screaming now and I look back at Captain. He’s still passed out. He may be dead.
Try to stay calm. Think.

I pull back on the throttle as we come into the harbor, and the boat slows to a crawl. I yank the fishing poles out of the cabin and set them into the holders as I weave my way through the maze of sailboats. I can see Bowen’s Wharf, where all the bars and restaurants are, so I slip in between a mess of lines and tie off. The boat looks clean, except for Captain lying there in a heap.

I’ve got to get help. I’ve got to get this boat out of here.

“How’s it goin’ there? You catch anything?” A man wanders down the dock toward me.

“I need help. Help me get him out of the boat,” I say to him.

“Thassa nice boat.” The guy looks over the side and takes a step back, almost falling into the water. “Except for that. What the hell happened to him?” That’s when I notice the large bottle dangling in the guy’s hand. He’s definitely drunk.

“Help me get him onto the dock!” I yell, pulling on Captain’s arms, hoisting him to the side. The guy throws his bottle in the water and climbs aboard.

“Less just shove ’im over onto the dock and drag ’im up the ramp,” the guy says. “What were you fishing for?”

“Stripers. Come on, lift and watch his head.” The drunk guy is not paying attention, and Captain’s head bangs against the pylon with a dull thud as we come out of the boat.

“You using bait or lures, poppers or what?” Captain’s boots drag over the wooden boards as we make our way up the gangway.

At the dockmaster’s shack, I see a pay phone and reach in my pocket. I don’t have any change, so I frantically reach into Captain’s pocket. It’s creepy. He’s like a dead man except he’s still breathing. I find a coin.

“Nine-one-one. What is the nature of your call, police, fire, or ambulance?”

“Ambulance!” I scream.

“Calm down, sir. Where are you?”

“I’m at Bowen’s Wharf, at the dockside where the fishing boats are tied up.”

The drunk guy leans into my ear now. “Nine-one-one’s a free call, ya know.”

“Give me an address, sir. Are you at a residence, a street name, house number?”

“I’m not on a street, I’m at Bowen’s, and Captain’s been passed out for twenty minutes.”

“Help is on the way. Stay on the line. I want to ask you a few questions. Is he still breathing?”

I don’t want to answer anything, so I hang up the phone, turn around, and the drunk guy is leaning into me like he’s going to fall asleep on my shoulder.

“You call the cops? Ahh, I gotta get out of here,” he slurs, grabbing the unused quarter out of the change slot.

“No, I called an ambulance. Thanks for your help.”

He stumbles away, almost falling off the wharf.

It’s a long ten minutes before the ambulance arrives. I’m propping up Captain with my shoulder, trying to wake him. Two people in white shirts, carrying large orange medical boxes jump out of the ambulance. The spotlights from the vehicle throw long shadows across the wharf.

“What took you so long?” I say to the short redheaded guy who is grabbing Captain’s wrist and checking his watch. He ignores my question.

The other paramedic, a thin Hispanic woman, is lifting Captain’s eyelids and flashing a small light into his eyes. “How long has he been out?”

“Twenty minutes, maybe more,” I answer, guessing. The paramedics lift Captain onto the stretcher. “Where are you taking him?”

“You all through? I gotta take a report here.” A voice from behind startles me, and I bang into the stretcher and fall down, almost landing on Captain. A hand reaches under my armpit and pulls me to my feet.

A cop. Two cops, in fact.

“Easy, kid. I think they only have one stretcher.” He’s still holding my arm, and his grip is tight.

“I — I thought I just called for an ambulance,” I stammer, looking over at the paramedics, who have Captain on the stretcher and are moving toward the ambulance.

Oh, crap, what do I tell them?

“It’s just routine.” The cop waves a pad and steps back into view. “You want to tell me what happened here?” The other cop is circling the wharf, checking out some of the boats.

“We were walking up the ramp, and Captain fell and bumped his head on the gangway railing.”

“Where, right here on this dock? Is that your father?” The cop is making notes on his pad when out of the corner of my eye I see the drunk guy coming back up the wharf, and he’s staggering worse than before.

“That kidza hellofa fisherman!” He starts yelling at the cops. “Bestest I ever seen.” He’s got a new bottle, and he’s waving it in the air, coming straight at us. He’s off his rocker, and both cops step toward him, hands resting on their holsters.

“Whoa, sir! Put the bottle down and step back.”

“Whaddya mean? Thas my friend you’re arresin.” The bottle falls out of his hand and explodes on the ground. The cops move in quickly, and I take the opportunity to slip away into the shadows of the fishing vessels.

My heart is pounding out of my chest as I dodge behind some parked cars. The cops are still dealing with the drunk as he wrestles and squirms on the ground.

I hope he doesn’t mention the boat.

I sneak back to the boat. Once I’m aboard, I push off silently and drift into the harbor.

When I’m far enough away, I start the engines and head for home.

I’m not going to make it to fifteen at this rate.

It’s five thirty in the evening, and I’m at Deluca’s Pharmacy, picking up my mom’s pills. They’re called Valium, and she says they calm her nerves, but I think they just make her space out, and if anyone needed their nerves calmed down, it would be me. I mean, every time I turn around somebody gets hurt, and right now I’m still shaky after ditching those cops last night.

“How’s your mother feeling, Jake?” Mr. Deluca asks while squirting the cherry syrup and Coca-Cola mixture into a fountain glass.

“She’s good,” I lie with a smile. I wanted to say that she seems like she’s on another planet and that she wants to give up the diner and move to the middle of the freakin’ desert and get a job at a grocery store, but I don’t think that’s what he wants to hear.

“I worry about her working so hard.” He pulls the stem on the soda fountain and fills the glass with bubbly water. I watch as he stirs the concoction with a long silver spoon. He hands me the cherry Coke with one hand and uses the other to push back the quarters I set on the wooden counter. “This one’s on me.”

“Thanks, Mr. Deluca.” I lift the Coke from the counter and squeeze into one of the small booths by the window, waiting for Mr. Deluca’s son, Ziggy, to fill my mom’s prescription.

I drink the Coke and watch the cars through the window as they make their way down Main Street. I let the soda swish around my mouth before swallowing. I’m hoping Mr. Deluca ignores me because I really don’t feel like talking right now.