Spartina Read online

  They didn’t see a swordfish on the way out, but after they set the pots and came back into the swordfish grounds, Parker’s college boy spotted one. Dick nipped up to the crow’s nest alongside him. The kid pointed. “I’ll be damned,” Dick said, “I’ll be damned.”

  A hundred and seventy-five pounds. Dick’s share would go around three hundred bucks. The kid’s share about seventy-five. He didn’t look like he was in it for the money. Something to tell girls about, get the best tan he’d ever had.

  They hauled more red crabs than last time. Didn’t fill the wells, but respectable.

  On the way back in, Parker asked Dick to check the kid out on dead reckoning and the RDF.

  Parker let the kid take the wheel. Parker and Dick went aft to have a beer. Parker asked Dick if Dick could run his skiff in through the breachway to Little Salt Pond and from there up a creek to Mary Scanlon’s restaurant. Dick said yes.

  “Is there more than one way to go? Or is there just Sawtooth Creek?”

  “There’s another creek, but it’s only good at the flood.”

  “Okay,” Parker said. “Now, from the salt marsh in front of Mary Scanlon’s, what’s it like to get back to the sea—not going back through Little Salt Pond?”

  “There’s a whole maze of creeks in that part of the salt marsh.”

  “And all those creeks, they have enough water?”

  “Some do, some don’t. Those that do, it depends on the tide.”

  “But you know which ones do if the tide’s in.”

  “Yup.”

  “And your little skiff’ll get through the ones that do?”

  “Depends on the tide.”

  “What about the dory?”

  “That dory draws as much as my skiff.”

  “If you wanted to take a trip in the marsh from Mary Scanlon’s restaurant as far west as you could go, how far could you get in your skiff? Without going back out to sea?”

  “Not far. The next pond west is cut off. There’s a high arm that connects to the beach, got a gravel road on it. There’s a culvert, though. A small boat could get through. Depends on the tide.”

  “Then what?”

  “Jesus, Parker. If you had a canoe you could carry over a few places, you could go right on up to New York City.”

  The kid sang out they were coming up on the breakwater. Dick took the wheel. He checked his watch. They’d still have an hour to unload the crabs. He’d see if Joxer had any news for him about a cosigner.

  When they got to Joxer’s dock, it looked like a Chinese fire drill. Captain Texeira’s ninety-footer was tied up, but she wasn’t unloading. The crew was just milling around. There was another, smaller boat, the Marjorie, and her skipper was standing by the bow rail yelling at Joxer. Joxer was talking to Captain Texeira.

  Dick held Mamzelle off when he saw Captain Texeira get back on board his boat and cast off. He eased Mamzelle in when Captain Texeira was clear.

  Joxer was now talking to Marjorie’s skipper, who’d quit yelling. Joxer’s Jap foreman came over to the Mamzelle.

  “We can’t buy crabs today.”

  Dick said, “What?”

  “We can’t buy crabs today. Our refrigeration plant is snafu.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Dick said. “Speak English, goddamn it.”

  Parker said, “Take it easy, Dick.”

  Dick said, “Where’s Joxer? We got a boatload of crabs, for Christ’s sake.”

  Dick climbed onto the dockside and found Joxer on the other side of the hoist, still talking to the Marjorie’s skipper, who’d come onto the dock and was now standing on his hat.

  When Dick came up, the skipper took a step back. Joxer picked up the skipper’s hat, brushed it off, and handed it to him. Joxer looked pale and caved in. Dick let his breath out. He said, “Aw shit, Joxer.”

  “Excuse me,” Joxer said to the skipper. Joxer turned to Dick and recited, “We had a completely unforeseeable problem here. It is temporary, and I’m confident I can find a way to make it up to you. If you’ll let Mr. Yamaguchi take a look, we’ll keep a record of who’s lost what. I can’t—”

  Parker came up and said, “Where’s Texeira headed for? He’s putting out to sea again.”

  Joxer said, “He’s going to New Bedford.”

  Marjorie’s skipper said to Joxer, “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “Because they can’t handle any more than what Captain Texeira’s got. They’re only buying half of it as it is. He’s radioed his other boat to dump hers.”

  “What about your trucks?” Dick said.

  “They’re full. Believe me, I’ve tried everything.”

  Parker asked, “What the hell happened?”

  Joxer took a long breath and let it out. “The old refrigeration plant broke down. That was okay, because the new one was on its way here. From Troy, New York. They got as far as Worcester and the company got in touch with the truck driver and called it back. As far as I can make out the check bounced, and the reason it bounced was that the refrigeration expert who was working for us had access to the account. It looks as if he cleaned it out and disappeared.”

  Nobody said anything after that. The skipper put his hat back on. Dick looked back at Mamzelle. He thought, At least we got the swordfish. He tried to figure what Joxer had to pay out to Captain Texeira. A ninety-footer coming in after a good run might have fifteen to twenty thousand dollars in her hold. Captain Texeira was saving Joxer at least seven thousand bucks by going to New Bedford. The crew probably weren’t too happy about it, another half-day down there, work all evening, half-day back.

  Mamzelle probably had three thousand dollars’ worth in the wells. Dick’s share, over a thousand bucks after fuel. He figured he’d take a bucket of crabs home, another bucket for Eddie.

  When he swung past Eddie’s house, he ended up giving them all to Eddie. He didn’t want to taste the buggers.

  Joxer had said there’d be an announcement in a week about when the red-crab plant would reopen. But if the refrigeration expert had all that money …

  Dick thought he should try to figure where the offshore lobster were. The whole damn red-crab fleet would be trying too.

  When he got to his house, he saw May’s car was gone. He sat in his pickup. He’d given both buckets to Eddie, but he couldn’t stop thinking about the red crabs. Maybe they could have put them in lobster cars, kept them alive in the pond. No. They were more fragile than lobster, lived deeper and colder. Had to be ice cold to stay alive, Joxer had to boil them live, pick them, flash-freeze the packaged meat so fast it was almost instant.

  Joxer had spent two years trying to get the big lobster boats to go out the extra miles for red crab. When he got Captain Texeira on his side, he got not just Texeira’s two boats but a couple more who tagged along. Joxer had given guarantees to four boats in all. Another four including Mamzelle, call it three and a half, went out on spec. Even if Joxer got the plant going, and even if Captain Texeira stuck by him, Joxer would be in trouble. The two other contract skippers and the three other skippers on spec might go back to lobstering. You could always sell lobster.

  But Joxer’s problem wasn’t just a problem for seven boats. Half of Galilee rode on red crab by now. That’s what shut them all up on the dock. They’d been mad as hell, had a right to be mad as hell. You don’t spend hundreds of bucks on fuel, spend a week or two at sea, haul pots for ten hours straight, and have some Jap tell you so sorry, no buy red crab.

  Invisible as Joxer’s problem was, it would end up hitting Galilee as bad as a storm, undercutting something people had built on.

  Dick didn’t want to think this all through just now. He felt the general disaster enough to numb his sharper thought for himself: Joxer’s company sure as hell wasn’t going to lend him ten thousand dollars.

  He looked up and saw May through the window. Charlie must have the car. Dick still wasn’t used to the idea of Charlie driving.

  May told him the boys had gone to a ball
game. Dick took his shower, started fooling around with her. She stopped cleaning the kitchen. Afterward he told her about Joxer’s problem. She didn’t complain when he said he was going to the Neptune.

  He put five bucks in his pocket and tried to think of something nice to say to May. “That garden work’s getting you in shape some.”

  That didn’t do it. May looked up and twisted her head as though she’d heard a mouse in her kitchen. Dick took another five. He said, “Tell Charlie I could use some help on the boat tomorrow.”

  There was a ball game on the TV at the Neptune. Not the Sox, just a baseball game with Howard Cosell talking. Dick watched an inning, couldn’t take Howard Cosell. Dick talked to a guy he knew off one of the big lobster boats, asked him how it was going. The guy laughed and said, “I guess all you crab boats are going to be tagging along now.”

  Dick said, “Fuck you,” and looked around for Parker.

  Parker came in an hour later. Dick had just bought his third shot of whiskey with a beer chaser.

  “We got to go out tomorrow,” Parker said. “Clean out the dead crab. Resources officer came by and told Marjorie’s skipper not to dump them so’s they’ll wash up around here.”

  “How far out you want to go? I got to work on my boat. Goddamn, let’s go right now. I’m offering to go right now, not tomorrow.”

  “Dick, old buddy, don’t get all cramped up about it. You got to take the bitter with the sweet. Plenty of time for your boat. You only got enough money for one coat of paint anyhow.”

  Dick didn’t say anything.

  Parker said, “I’ll tell you what, though. I think we’ve had enough bad luck. Know what I mean? I think it just may be time for a little piece of good luck, just a small change of luck. We’ll go out for a couple, three days. You bring your little skiff, not your big one. We’ll put the dory’s outboard on her. You’re right about the dory, she’s an abortion. I wouldn’t want to have to depend on the dory.”

  “What the hell are you up to? You looking for the insurance on Mamzelle?”

  Parker held up his hand. “Jesus, you get noisy on a couple of drinks. And wrong too. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, after we clean out the hold. Let’s not rush anything. Let’s just get in the right mood and get synchronized.”

  They headed out for three hours and dumped the dead crabs before they began to stink. Bucket after bucket. Gulls swarmed in. A few of them dropped the crabs back on deck to break the shells. A few small sharks showed up at the end of the chum line, cruised through it, and went away.

  Keith college-boy wanted to fish for tuna. Dick didn’t care what they did. It was all a waste of time. He’d left Charlie and Eddie putting on a coat of paint. Parker was right about one thing, Dick didn’t have enough money for more than a day’s work on his big boat.

  The kid had brought a boat rod with a reel full of hundred-pound test, a wire leader, and a lure made out of surgical tubing and lead head with glass eyes. He paid out line, clipped it with a clothespin to a stay. He strapped on a belt with a socket for the rod butt.

  Dick said, “You ever catch a tuna?”

  The kid said, “No, but I been out on a sport-fishing boat once during the tuna derby.”

  Parker was amused. He asked Dick if he’d go aloft and look for swordfish. Dick pointed out the tide was running hard. Parker asked him if he had any idea where the offshore lobster might be. Dick pointed out two places on the chart. He said, “But that was more than five years ago when I was last on a big lobster boat. They move around.”

  Parker said, “What about there?”, and pointed to a spot.

  “You know something?” Dick asked. “You talked to someone?”

  Parker nodded.

  “They’ll tell you any damn thing. But if you want to work there, you’re the skipper. I think we’d be better off spending money on a spotter plane for swordfish.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” Parker said. “We make any money this trip, I’ll put it into a spotter plane.”

  Parker was in one of his hazy good moods. He was content to let the kid fish for a couple of hours at trolling speed, burn up fuel. Dick was restless, paced around the deck waiting for the tide to slack.

  He heard the snap as the kid’s line jumped out of the clothespin. He said, “Hey, kid, you awake?” The kid slid himself backward off the hatch cover and braced his feet against it. The line whirred out in spurts. The kid hoisted the rod tip up, then lowered it, cranking furiously. “Don’t horse it,” Dick said. He called to Parker, “The kid’s got a fish.” Parker pulled the throttle back, put the engine in neutral.

  Dick looked at the line, followed it out. The big pull against the drag had been the boat. This fish wasn’t going deep, it didn’t act like a tuna. The kid was still working. Could be a marlin, Dick thought, that’d be something. The kid horsed the rod up, the fish broke the surface with a flurry, just twenty yards off the stern. Dick got the gaff, put a glove on his left hand to grab the wire. The kid kept cranking. Dick got the line in his left hand, saw the fish break again with a clatter. He swung it on board.

  The kid said, “Oh.”

  Dick said, “It’s a meal.”

  “I don’t care much for bluefish,” the kid said.

  The bluefish thrashed across the deck. Dick knocked it out with the side of the gaff. He held it up by the wire leader. “It’s big for a bluefish,” Dick said. “Twenty pounds and some. At least you’re not wasting time.”

  The kid was still embarrassed. All pumped up, feet braced, ready for two hundred, three hundred pounds.

  Dick said, “I guess it takes more than dead crabs to chum tuna.” The kid didn’t say anything. Probably wasn’t used to Dick being friendly.

  Dick told Parker he was going up to look for swordfish. Parker said fine, but he was going to keep going slow enough for the kid to fish.

  “It’s your boat.”

  Up in the crow’s nest, Dick calmed down. The wind blew up some, not hard enough to stop looking. He stretched and sniffed the wind, cool and salt up away from the diesel. Why not, he thought, I got no place to go, nothing to do. He looked down. The kid was filleting the fish, his rod butt in a rodholder. Not a cloud in the sky, a perfect July day on a gentle blue sea.

  They went out and hauled their pots, threw away the crabs, kept a few lobster. They ate supper at dawn, Campbell’s tomato soup with chunks of bluefish. Dick made a sandwich with a fried hunk of fillet in it, plenty of mayonnaise, and a cold beer.

  Parker headed the boat farther out, spotted something, headed for it. It was a buoy marker with a double orange pennant. Parker came alongside and prepared to haul it.

  “Jesus, Parker. This isn’t ours.”

  “It’s okay, Dick. It’s all arranged. Lend a hand.”

  Parker only hauled to the third pot, opened it, and took out a package. He put the three pots and buoy marker back overboard.

  Dick looked at the kid. The kid was in on it.

  Parker headed back in. Dick went up alongside the wheel. “Parker, I told you a long time ago—”

  “A long time ago,” Parker said, “you swallowed hard and took a couple hundred bucks. Small. This is small. Small is the way to do it.”

  Dick didn’t like it. It occurred to him that one thing he could do, when they got within a few miles of shore, was to get in the skiff and go home. That would be it with Parker and him. He wouldn’t get on another boat. If he did get on another boat, he’d never get 40 percent sticking swordfish. The Mamzelle wasn’t a good boat, but she was doing the job for him.

  Parker asked him to take the wheel. Dick watched Parker and Keith get out some enormous whelk shells, big as he’d ever seen. They stuffed the whelk shells with sealed sandwich bags of coke. This wasn’t quite so small as Parker said.

  Parker broke out some plastic eggshells. Keith and Parker were laughing. Dick asked what that stuff was. Parker, still giggling to himself, brought one of the eggshells over to Dick. “It’s slime,” Parker said. “See.” He pointed to th
e word SLIME written in dripping capital letters. “It’s from a toy store. It’s like Silly Putty, but it looks slimy.”

  Parker and Keith plugged the whelks with SLIME. It looked pretty much like the retracted foot of a whelk.

  Just in sight of land Parker told Dick to stop. “Okay, here’s the deal. Small and easy. You and I leave Keith on board. We go in with the skiff once it’s dark. Get to where the creek goes by Mary Scanlon’s parking lot. I go to the parking lot, meet a guy who has a truck. He’s been in talking to Mary Scanlon about her buying specialty seafood like these scungilli.” Parker used the Italian word for “whelks.” Parker said, “I drop the basket in the back of his truck, get back in the boat, we come back out a different way than we went in. We meet old Keith here, head back out for a bit. Small and easy. I pay you five thousand.”

  Dick shook his head.

  Parker said, “This is easier than poaching clams.” Dick wished he hadn’t told Parker about that. Kid stuff, he looked silly. But it still set him up for Parker. You break a little law, you might as well break a big one. Parker said, “This is real money. This is half of the rest of your boat.”

  Dick looked off at the smudge of land. He said, “This five thousand. I don’t suppose it’s forty percent.”

  “No,” Parker said. “It’s a flat rate. I’ve taken most of the risk already. Your piece is five thousand. Very little risk. Anything goes wrong, I dump the whelks.”

  Dick liked that Parker didn’t lie about the 40 percent. Dick didn’t know what Parker was aiming to get, but he damn well knew it wasn’t so small as—Dick took a bit to figure in his head—$12,500.

  Parker said, “The beauty part is the deniability. See, your skipper said to you, ‘Take me in to sell some whelks.’ So you think to yourself it’s kind of weird but what with no crabs and all … And maybe you’ve heard scungilli are aphrodisiacs. That’s what they say. Turks and Greeks, someone like that. Better than oysters. So you think, What the hell.”

  Dick said, “What the hell. What about six thousand.”