Swim That Rock (15 page)

I hear the back door buzz and turn around to see Ziggy walking toward me with a small paper bag and a smile on his face.

“Here you go, Jake. This ought to last her through the end of next month.”

“Thanks.” I get up from the booth to pay for the prescription, but he’s standing in the way, like he wants to talk. Ziggy is a short guy, and it feels weird looking down at him like he’s a little kid.

“Boy, I could use someone like you working here.” He turns to his dad. “If Jake worked here, we wouldn’t need the ladder at all.” Mr. Deluca is smiling at us as Ziggy straightens up next to me and reaches his arm up as high as he can. “You got good genes, Jake, not like some of us.” He pretends to whisper in my ear, thumbing at his dad.

He hands me the bag and manipulates the antique cash register, and the mechanical numbers flip around until they’re all zeros.

“I have to pay you. Mom sent me with money to pay,” I say this, pleading.

“No money from you, Jake, not now, not ever. Your dad, God bless him, was one of my closest friends.”

“Thanks, Mr. Deluca.”

“I hear you’ve been fishing with Gene Hassard. How’s that going?”

“Everything’s cool,” I lie again.

“Drop a half a bag of chowders off sometime, will you, Jake? My wife wants to make some chowder.”

“Sure, Mr. Deluca,” I call back, bells ringing as the door shuts behind me.

I step out onto the sidewalk and bump hard into a shoulder.
Smack.
It’s Captain. He’s dancing on one leg to keep his beer from spilling on the sidewalk. There’s still a huge bump on his forehead. He looks like hell, like he’s been drunk since the accident.

“Come with me,” he says, leading me toward his truck parked nearby. I want to run in the other direction. I want to be anywhere else right now.

“I, uh, gotta get these pills to my mom,” I say, holding up the bag. Captain is looking at Mr. Deluca, who is now outside, removing the flag from the front of the building and watching us. The six o’clock fire horn goes off behind the town hall.
A sign.
Is that another warning from my dad?

“Come on, we’ll swing by the diner,” Captain says.

Mr. Deluca continues watching as I climb into the truck. I smile and wave, but he still looks concerned as he folds his flag into a precise triangle. The truck hammers out into traffic, forcing a line of cars to slow down. Captain takes a tug on his beer and stares hard at the bag in my hand.

“What kind of pills?”

“Valium, for her nerves.” I’m wondering if Captain is going to take my mom’s pills.

“What happened? How’d I get this egg on my head?” The locks click shut on the doors of the truck, and I’m thinking Captain is going to kill me and dump me in the river.

“I had to cut us loose before Delvecchio T-boned us, and when I did, the boat lurched forward, and you must have slammed into the dredge post. He was going to shoot you, you know.” Captain closes his eyes for a long second, and the truck drifts across the yellow line. A car horn blares, and he opens his eyes, startled.

“I don’t remember much.”

I’m sweating and I can feel it beading on my forehead. My left ear is hot. When I’m nerved up, my ears get hot and red and I think they’re going to melt right off.

“What did you tell the cops about me when they talked to you at the hospital?”

“I never went to the hospital. . . . I told the cops at the dock that we were fishing and you actually fell on the gangway.”

“That was almost my story,” he says in a slur. “Good thinking bringing me into Newport Harbor. I was out cold and you saved the boat. All that works for me.” He turns onto Water Street. “I want to take you out fishing tonight.”

“I can’t go dredging tonight.” The word
dredging
spills out of my mouth like rancid milk, and I can see Captain is offended.

“Not dredging, Jake, fishing . . . fishing for fish. The stripers are running, and I thought we could catch a couple. You know, for fun. Maybe the diner could have a striped bass special.”

Two new fishing poles are neatly set in pole holders in the bed of the truck; his tackle box is set up and he’s ready to fish.

“All right,” I say. It doesn’t seem like I have a choice.

Twenty minutes later we are heading out, and the back of the boat is filled with buckets of bait and chum. I’m assuming he brought me along to throw chum and cut bait while he catches stripers. All the while I feel like a hostage. We slow down near the large red channel marker floating in front of Ginalski’s Marina. I’m wicked paranoid.

“You think Delvecchio is out looking for us, Cap?”

“That prick is always looking for me. Don’t worry about it, though. You’re just a kid.”

“Yeah, but I don’t look like a kid, especially in the dark. They had guns, you know.”

“I know,” he says.

“We can always outrun them, I guess.”

Captain turns to me and unbuttons the top two buttons of his shirt, revealing an ugly hole just below his collarbone. It’s filled with skin that looks like wood putty. “You can’t outrun bullets.” He laughs.

“You got shot?” I get dizzy and my stomach goes sour, thinking I could have been shot the other night. I could have been killed.

“Tie us up there.” Captain buttons his shirt and points to the red channel marker. He empties a five-gallon bucket of chopped fish overboard, then dips the white bucket into the water and rinses it out before handing it to me. He points to the electronic fish finder on the console, where a series of red dots move slowly on the screen.

“We’re on ’em, Jake. This trench is full of fish.” He acts like our conversation didn’t even take place, and I’m still standing there in shock, holding the bait bucket. “Come on, snap out of it. It’s a great night, and we’re gonna have a blast. Forget about last night. Besides that little runt that works for Delvecchio said he’s at the racetrack tonight, playing the horses. He’ll tell me anything I want to know for a hundred bucks,” he says with a smile.

He sets up my fishing rod for me, just like my dad used to. He attaches the bait to my hook, and the sinker slides to the bottom. I can tell he’s suffering because he’s stumbling around the boat, but he insists on doing everything. Maybe he’s being nice because I saved his boat. Either way, it helps me relax, and suddenly I can’t wait to get my line in the water. I haven’t caught a striped bass since I went fishing with my dad two summers ago.

It’s starting to get dark as the sun dips below the horizon, and Captain throws on his deck lights. The area around the boat comes to life with fluorescent baitfish scattering across the surface. Occasionally I hear the sound of the water getting stirred up as if someone ran an oar through it.

“Hear that, Jake?” Captain says in an excited tone. “That’s the sound of striped bass. That’s the sound of money. Striped bass with dollar bills attached, swirling around the boat. This place is hot with fish.”

I drop my bait from the stern as the tide reaches for my line, pulling it down with the weight of the lead sinker. I can feel it hit bottom with a bump. My hand is on the drag of the reel, and I am releasing it slowly, when suddenly a fish slams the bait and runs fifty yards. It’s all I can do to loosen the drag as the powerful fish nearly pulls me out of the boat.

“Hit him with the hook! Hit him with the hook!” Captain screams. I dip the pole tip and yank hard to set the hook into the fish’s mouth and finally feel the true weight of the fish at the end of my line.
I’ve angered it now.

“Don’t lose it. That’s a big fish, could be thirty pounds or more.
Don’t you lose it, Jake!
Keep your tip up. That’s a seventy-five dollar fish you’ve got there.”

I’m holding on with everything I’ve got, and I think this fish is going to drag the boat, but I remember we’re tied to the red can. Knowing that I’ve got a seventy-five-dollar fish at the end of my line is not making it any easier. I think Captain might throw me overboard if I lose it. I’m holding on for dear life as this fish is swimming for freedom.

Captain is at the rail with a stainless-steel gaff. I can see the sharp hook at the end glinting in the deck lights. After only a five- or ten-minute struggle that seems like an eternity, the fish finds the surface and starts rolling over with fatigue. It’s the biggest fish I’ve ever caught. I can see the last bit of life lifting from its body with shivering shakes.

We are both tired now, and I am leaning against the rail, staring at this beautiful fish, stripes like a tiger down its sides, long, dark-green tail slowly turning in the tide, when suddenly the gaff disturbs the moment in a flash.
Smack.
The steely point catches its underbelly, and the fish is brought back to life, using all of its force to reject death as Captain hauls it into the boat and drops it to the deck. It makes a loud thud, thrashes for a second or two, and then rests. Only its gills make an effort to express life, opening and closing, gasping for liquid air.
I know how he feels.

“That’s a beauty, Jake.” Captain’s admiring the fish as his reel starts singing.
Zzzz.
He drops the gaff next to the fish.

“Get a bait in the water, Jake. It’s gonna be a fun night.”

I unhook the giant, admiring its silver and black stripes. I wish I could send it back, but it’s too late now.

“Get the gaff ready, Jake. Get your line in the water, Jake. Get that fish in the hold.”

I’m used to taking orders, even multiple orders, but this seems ridiculous. In two hours we have seventeen stripers, all more than thirty pounds, sitting on top of ice in the storage compartment below deck.

“I bet we got about five hundred pounds of striped bass here, Jake. I’ll call Hank at Narragansett Fish Factory. Maybe we can get a good price.”

I realize this was never just about going out and having a good time fishing. Captain had said fishing “for fun.”
Yeah, right.
But I guess I might as well get paid to fish, even if it is just like pirating.

Captain punches it, and we are in Providence in eight minutes, idling up to the dock. The Fish Factory restaurant is right on the water, and there’s a ton of people sitting at tables outside, eating, drinking, and laughing.

Captain leaves me there in the boat and shuffles up to the red building. I lift the hatch and begin removing the fish one by one. The slippery scales force me to squat and reach deep into their huge gills to lift them out of the hold. The people in the restaurant look on, some in amazement at all the fish we caught. Others seem disgusted by our appearance, as we’re covered in fish scales and striper blood.

Captain is walking back down the gangway, followed by three men. One of them is wearing a green sweater and pale-yellow shorts. I assume it’s Hank because the other two are carrying large green fish totes, dressed in aprons and white kitchen clothes.

“Who’s the kid?”

“Jake, meet Hank,” Captain says, thumbing toward the guy who has already got one of his white sneakers resting on the side of our boat. “That’s Jake. He’s a great fisherman. John Cole’s kid.”

“Jesus Christ, John Cole’s kid? No wonder you’re a good fisherman; your dad could catch anything in that bay. I heard what happened to him. It’s a damned shame.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, pulling the last of the fish out of the hold. People from the restaurant are leaning over the railing now, looking on, some of them snapping pictures of all the fish. I’m beaming with pride, but Captain looks irritated.

“I’ll take it all, George,” Hank says with a fake reluctant tone to his voice.

“Nothing’s fresher than that fish; Christ, that’s sushi-grade, Hank.”

“I’ll be able to sell it for sure. How about a buck a pound?” Hank smiles.

Captain jumps on board and starts the engines.

“Jake, get the lines.”

“What do you mean, Cap?”

“Get the lines!”

I release the bowline and start for the stern. Hank is now holding the rope.

“Wait, George, how about two bucks a pound?”

“Jake, tie up the bowline.”

We move the fish up the ramp to the fish house, past the people out on the deck. Hank weighs the fish on a stainless-steel scale.

“Five hundred and forty-seven pounds.”

He starts hammering on his pocket calculator. Hank reaches into his pocket and pulls out the biggest roll of hundred-dollar bills I’ve ever seen, and we get paid in cash, right there on the spot. Captain holds the money out in front of me.

“Check it out,” he says. “And we were just fishing . . . kids’ stuff.”

“Can I use your bathroom?” I ask Hank.

“Straight through the double doors to the kitchen, then turn right. Use the employee restroom. It’s much cleaner.” He laughs as I head up the gangway.

I head into one of the stalls and lock the door.
Wow, we made over a thousand bucks, just from fishing for one night.
I pee and zip up.

As I walk back through the kitchen, everything is in chaos. All the workers are yelling in Spanish, half of them running out the back door, others running toward the front. The door swings open, and red and blue police lights flicker against the stainless-steel tables and shelving. I start to panic and follow the cooks out the door, ducking into the shadow of the Dumpsters.

“Qué pasa?”
One of the cooks nudges me.

“I don’t speak Spanish,” I say as I squat down next to him.

“Who they looking for?” he says.

There are cops everywhere, but not police. The green blazers and pickup trucks tell me it’s the DEM. They have this guy laid out on the hood of the truck, and they are slapping handcuffs on him. His face is pushed down, and I can’t see it, but I already know who it is. Delvecchio is leaning over Captain, talking in his ear as he wrenches his arms back. I can hear Captain groaning.

Delvecchio looks over and spots me. Our eyes lock for an instant, and he gives me the slightest nod, as if telling me to get the hell out of here.

I run.