Swim That Rock (22 page)

“Stop counting, you ass. The kid caught forty-eight bags. I already counted them!” Michael shouts.

“You catch all these quahogs by yourself ?” Toad asks.

They’re staring at Cliff, who is idling his boat just offshore, as if he’s wary of all these guys being around. Cliff has a tarp out, and he’s covering all his quahogs.

“I had Tommy picking for me most of the day.” Tommy keeps cleaning the boat, never looking up, but he’s laughing under his breath. He still must have a hard time thinking of me as his captain and of himself as my picker.

“Everybody had a picker today,” Toad says.

The rest of the guys, including Bainsey, come down to look.

Without my even asking them, the guys all start helping us out, moving up the dock with two bags each. Billy Mac pretends he’s putting two bags in the back of his pickup truck to get a rise out of me. By the time Tommy and I get the last two bags onto the dock, these guys have the rest all stacked outside the garage door.

“Tommy, stay here with the boat while I go sell out.”

“Yes, sir!” Tommy says sarcastically.

“Thanks!” I yell as the quahoggers move up the street toward Jack’s Bar.

“Let’s go to Tweets for a pound of red and a pound of white pasta,” I hear Billy Mac bark as they round the corner toward the bar.

I take a big breath as Cliff Olson, my new Long Island friend, slides in past the Hawkline.

“I thought they’d never leave,” Cliff says.

The garvey grinds hard on the shell boat ramp. I wonder if it’s stuck. Cliff backs off with the engine and comes in ever so slowly this time.

“Need some help?” I ask him.

“No, I’m good.”

Cliff’s boat is up and out of the water in seconds. It’s a thing of beauty. He parks his trailer and boat, then walks together with me to Easton’s Seafood. Russell, the quahog buyer, comes out of his office and looks over the stack of quahogs resting at his door.

“What’s the price, Russell?” Cliff asks.

“Ten cents apiece, take it or leave it,” Russell says, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel shirt.

“Are you kidding me? The price was twenty-two cents apiece just yesterday, and you want to give the kid ten cents. Let’s take ’em somewhere else, Jake. I’ll get the truck.” Cliff starts walking back to his rig.

“Suit yourself, but no one else is going to take fifty bags off your hands at this hour. Not today,” Russell says. “Hell, I got more quahogs than I can get rid of. These things are going to rot before I can ship ’em out.”

The ground beneath me starts to fall away, and I get dizzy. I feel like Santiago in
The Old Man and the Sea,
when he finally gets home and his marlin is only a carcass.

“You’re Jake Cole, right? You used to work for Gene?” Russell asks as soon as Cliff is out of earshot.

“Yes. Gene got hurt a couple weeks back. Couldn’t work today,” I say in a trance. Russell starts scribbling on his notepad and tears off a sheet, handing it to me. I turn it over in my hand and it reads:

.13 cents apiece (John Cole)

“Your dad always got a better price for his quahogs because he always caught a lot. His stuff was perfect, and his bags were clean, no rocks.” Russell’s looking over my pile. “And if you’re anything like your dad, which you seem to be, I want you selling to me every day.”

I can’t believe it. Russell’s giving me a better price because of my dad. I must be in shock, because I can’t believe what comes out of my mouth next.

“You gotta give
him
that price too,” I say, pointing at Cliff.

“Aw, come on, Jake. I’m not giving some Long Islander three cents more.” Russell is throwing his arms up in the air.

“Take it or leave it. That guy is my friend.”

Russell rolls his eyes. “Aaaarrrhh. I must be crazy. All right, make it quick. I want to close up and get the hell out of here.”

Russell deals with Cliff’s load first, because I think he wants him out of here before any other locals come in and he has to explain why he’s giving some Long Islander thirteen cents apiece.

Cliff stuffs a huge wad of money into his pocket and pulls me over to his truck. He reaches into the passenger seat and pulls out a paper bag with something heavy inside and hands it to me.

“Here is a little keepsake I dug up. I want you to have it so that you remember this day, because it was the best day of fishing anyone could ever have, and I’m honored to have been able to share it with
you,
Jake.” He sticks out his hand and I shake it.

“Thanks. And thanks for saving my life out there.” It’s all I can manage to get out as he drives off, spitting white shells from his back tires. I watch the garvey bouncing on the trailer, moving north on Water Street, and just like that, he’s gone. I open the bag and inside is a salty, barnacle-encrusted silver hood ornament from an old car. It’s in the shape of a woman leaning forward, with two wings stretched back in aerodynamic flight. It’s beautiful.

I stick it back in the bag and make my way back up to Russell’s garage.

“That’s too much to count at nine o’clock at night. Them five hundred bags, got a full count in each bag?”

“Yes, sir. Tommy counted them all day, and sometimes I made him count twice. Gene always made me count ’em twice.”

“That’s good enough for me, then.” He starts peeling off bills and hands me a pile of cash.

“Twenty-six hundred and forty dollars. Should be all there. I counted it twice.”

“That’s good enough for me.” I smile.

“Nice work today, Jake. You gonna get your own boat or keep using Gene’s?”

“No, Gene will be back soon.” I say this, but I don’t really know. I promise myself I’ll go visit him tomorrow.

“Well, if you do decide to get a boat, I’m sure we can work out a deal if you sell here.”

“Thanks.” I head back to my boat, where Tommy is asleep at the console.

I hand him two hundred bucks when I get down to the boat, but he won’t take it.

“Get the hell outta here with that,” Tommy says, pushing the money back at me. “Consider it my donation to the cause.”

“Can you walk home or should I carry you?” I ask.

“You should carry me. I’ve never worked like that in my life.”

“Hey . . . I don’t know how to say this, but . . . thank you. You’re the best.”

“Don’t ever forget that.”

“I’ll write it out and pin it to the wall at the diner.”

“Hey,” Tommy says, suddenly smiling. “I’ve got a date with Janna for the cabaret. That makes it all worthwhile.”

“Better go get your beauty sleep, then.” I’m laughing.

“Good deal,” Tommy says as he walks slowly up the ramp to Water Street, rounding the corner.

I unlash the boat and drift back out into the Warren River and ride back to Gene’s dock at full throttle. I’m stinking, sweaty, and I think for a minute that I’m rich. Then I catch myself, and I remember that I’m just one step closer to the ten thousand dollars.

My legs just barely push the pedals on my bike as I twist my way through the narrow streets, aiming toward home.

I can see my mom and Robin through the window, working in one of the booths. They have two pieces of white plywood hinged together at the top, and it’s sitting on the table in front of them. They’re each painting a side and smiling as they work. The sign says
CABARET TONIGHT
and some other stuff that I can’t read from where I’m standing.

I want to run in there and throw the money down on the table and watch their faces when I tell them what I did. I want them to hug me and cry for joy and make me some dinner and send me to bed for three days straight. I want to feel like I’ve crossed the finish line somehow. But something is stopping me.

I still have one more thing to do.

Less than ten minutes later, I am running back down Water Street with almost six thousand dollars in my pocket. I’m hurting for the first two hundred yards, but then it feels good to stretch my legs and run. Each stride takes me closer to finishing this nightmare.

I slow down as I turn onto Kelly Street. There it is. The puke-colored cement building. It looks spookier at night, with neon beer signs in the windows and a single bare bulb above the door.
I hope he’s there.
A brand-new black Cadillac is parked sideways in front of the doorway, taking up three spots, including the only handicapped parking spot. The Italian-American Club sign is reflected clearly on the polished hood of the car.

I’m terrified as I cautiously open the door. The smoke hits me right away. It’s the kind of smoke that smells like cigars that have been dipped in licorice booze.

“This is a private club. Members only.” A fat guy with a close-cropped beard and slicked-back hair holds the door and blocks my way. He’s looking up at me like I’m trick-or-treating on Christmas Eve.

“What’s he want, Frank?” A larger man steps in. He’s resting his fat fingers on a pool cue. I recognize him immediately as the guy named Cazzo, who comes to the Riptide.

“I want to see Mr. Vito.”

“Listen kid, you can’t just come in here and demand to see Mr. Vito. This ain’t the Department of Motor Vehicles. You gotta have an appointment.” Spittle from Frank’s lips flies at my shirt.

I reach into my pocket and pull out the wad of bills and hold it up in the light. “I have some business to settle with him.”

“Ooooh!” Cazzo laughs and slaps Frank on the back. “Looks like the kid’s got an appointment after all. Step right in, kid.” Cazzo pushes Frank out of the way.

I step inside and look around. The place looks like someone’s remodeled basement, only bigger. It has cheap carpeting, with lots of cigarette burns and fake-wood paneling covered with posters showing girls in bikinis, holding bottles of beer. There’s a pool table that’s dimly lit and dark figures playing cards at two tables near the back.

“What’s your name? I’ll see if Vito wants to see you.”

“Jake Cole.”

“Okay, wait here.” Frank heads off toward a small door. It has a black-and-gold sign that says
OFFICE
.

I watch Cazzo resume his pool game while I wait. The guy he’s playing with leans over the cue ball to line up his shot. It’s foggy with smoke swirling beneath the table’s lights. I can barely see him. He looks familiar to me, his shape and his shoulders. I watch him miss his shot and throw his pool stick angrily onto a worn-out red leather couch. It bounces off and hits him in the shin. He looks around the room to see if anyone saw his errant shot, and he makes eye contact with me.

That’s when I recognize him.
It’s Paul. The guy whose rake I saved at the beach.
I can tell he recognizes me too, because his expression changes for an instant before he looks away and heads over to the bar. I wonder if he’s here on business too.

Frank is leaning his head into the office doorway, and I can hear him talking to someone. It must be Mr. Vito.

“Yeah, the kid says his name is Jake Gold.”

“Jake Cole!”
I yell across the room.

“Yeah, right. Jake Cole,” Frank repeats.

A second later this huge guy wearing a tan sport jacket, which I could easily use as a tent, comes through the door and waves me over. I hesitate for a second and look over to the bar, where Paul is ordering a beer and watching me carefully. Then I take the fifteen steps toward the office door and enter.

“I gotta go home. The wife expected me an hour ago,” Frank says and heads over toward the coatrack. The huge guy just stands inside the door, jiggling a gold watch around his meaty wrist.

The office is a small room, with the same wood paneling on the walls and a cheap red carpet on the floor. Against one of the walls are silver racks overflowing with pots and pans and dry goods. There is a large black-lacquered desk with several ledgers and some silver-framed photos showing smiling faces of people on vacation somewhere tropical. Behind the desk is Vito.

He’s wearing an oversize Patriots football jersey, and he’s rolling the tip of his cigar into a crystal ashtray the size of a dinner plate. He takes off his glasses and rubs the bridge of his nose while squinting from fatigue.

“You John Cole’s kid?” he asks without looking up.

“Yes.”

“Sit down.” He gestures with his cigar to the padded leather chair in front of his desk.

“I’d rather stand,” I say, even though I am about to fall down.

Vito slips his glasses back onto his nose and looks me over. “Yeah, you’re looking kinda grimy. You better stand.”

“I just came from work,” I say defensively.

“What are ya cleaning, cesspools?” the big guy says from behind me. Mr. Vito gestures with his index finger for the big guy to stop, and I look over my shoulder to see him cross his huge hands in front of himself like he’s waiting at a funeral.

“So what can I do for you, John Cole’s kid?” Vito leans back in his chair, and I can hear the leather shift with his weight.

“The Riptide . . . I have money for you.” I pull the cash from my pocket and place it on the desk in front of him. The wad of bills splays open like a gutted fish, and Vito rests his elbows on the desk, looking it over but not touching it. He flips open one of the ledgers and runs a finger down a list.

“Cole, John.” His finger taps the name. “Ten grand.” He looks at me over the rims of his glasses. “It’s all here?”