Authors: David Poyer
"Good."
He offered his free hand. She took it; his grip
was warm and strong. I'm Richard Keyes. Obviously you know him. I wanted to see him, if he's here."
"I'm Bernice Hirsch, Mr. Keyes. I think he's here. Come on. Watch that loose board."
She led the way down the creaking pier, past several power- and sailboats in various stages of decay and disrepair. One had sunk at its moorings, and its cabin, crusted with seagull scat, showed rings of scum from the tide. A For Sale sign showed dimly in a window. The stench of rotting fish and gasoline came up from the brown water that lapped against the pilings.
"Hirsch," said the man behind her.
"Excuse me?"
'You—you don't work for Galloway?"
"Me? No. Actually, I'm his parole officer."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Don't let it bother you. If you're here on business, Tiller's an excellent diver."
"I'm sure he is."
Something had unsettled him, she saw, but she decided she'd said enough. It wouldn't do to lose Tiller a job. Any job. She stopped at the gangway. "Anybody aboard?"
There was no answer. "Come on," she said, and ran up the plank. Behind her, Keyes proceeded with more caution. As he lowered the tanks to the scarred planking Bernie looked around the deck for Tiller.
The boat was some seventy feet long. Military-surplus aluminum lockers had been bolted in along both sides of the open deck aft. The metal was battered and dinged. The gunwales were teak, but scarred as if by heavy chains. A steel diving platform had been bolted to the stern. It was rusty. The smooth sweep of her foredecks looked better—except for peeling scarlet paint—from still-graceful bow, from which a worn mooring line tended forward to the pier, back to the windscreen of a jury-built cabin that enclosed the originally open wheelhouse. Atop this was perched an aw-ninged tuna tower. A pool of oil moved sluggishly at the transom, and here and there the wooden hull was dark with rot.
"It's not too clean," she said, "but she floats. So far. I'll get him for you." She went to a companionway amidships and kicked with a heel. "Tiller! You aboard?"
"Get off my boat," said a muffled voice from below.
She kicked again. "Open up! In the name of the state of North Carolina and the county of Dare."
A series of thuds came from below, a muffled curse, and then the companionway door jerked open. An empty bottle emerged, followed by an arm and then a man. She moved back as he climbed deliberately from below, gripping the rail. As he reached the top the bottle slipped from his hand. It hit the deck and bounced, rolled out a freeing port, and met the slimy water with a plop.
Galloway watched it drift off, bobbing in the outgoing tide. The sun glinted briefly from it before it lost itself amid the shadows of the pilings. Well, there are more, he thought. Lots more. Holding tightly to the rail, he blinked up into the sunlight, ignoring the two people waiting on deck.
"Hello," one of them said.
He lowered his eyes slowly to a big guy in an expensive suit. No, not big, exactly; tall, but slim rather than strong. Still, some men like that were panthers. His eyes were what held your attention. Deep blue, intense, protruding a little, but not far enough to knock him out as a model for
Esquire
or
GQ.
"Who the hell are you?"
"My name's Keyes. I wrote a letter, care of the marina. Did you get it?"
Galloway nodded.
Keyes was frowning now.
"You're who?
A crewman?"
He laughed briefly. "Crewman—yeah. And engineer. And dive master. I'm Galloway."
"Lyle
Galloway? I thought you'd be older."
"Third of the name. Could be you were thinking of one of my illustrious ancestors." He slurred the last words. 'Yeah. I got your letter. You still interested in watching me clear a wreck?"
"You're diving in this condition?" This was Hirsch. Distaste was clear in her voice.
"I'm going, damn right." He looked dully at her, then back at the sky. 'You. Keyes. Law says I got to see a certification before I can take you down with me."
The man in the suit pulled a billfold from his jacket, flipped through it, and held it out. Galloway looked at it. His eyes focused and then opened a little wider. He glanced sideways at Hirsch. The parole officer was looking not at Keyes's hands, but at his face.
Galloway reached out casually, examined the billfold, and handed it back. "Seems all right," he said. He thrust his right hand deep into a trouser pocket as Keyes replaced the wallet. "You be needing gear?"
"Yes. Everything."
"That'll be a medium top," said Hirsch, opening one of the aluminum lockers and rummaging through a pile of rubber. "And a high-waisted bottom, because you're taller than a medium would fit." She held up a wet-suit top, black, with a pebbled sharkskin finish. "Quarter-inch thick."
"Fine," said Keyes. He crossed the deck, avoiding the pool of dirty oil, and perched on the gunwale.
After a moment Galloway sat down beside him. He looked at Hirsch, who was now rooting through a box of regulators. Her long brown hair had swung over her face, and her breasts moved under the thin blouse. "Bernie," he said, more politely than he had spoken yet that morning. "Mind doing me a favor? Check and see if the lines are ready to let go. I'll get the rest of his gear."
"Sure, Tiller."
When she was gone Keyes leaned back. "Good-looking girl."
"Uh-huh."
"Odd relationship you two have. Is it—intimate?"
"Who? That nosy bitch? Strictly official." He turned to Keyes. "All right. What's the pitch?"
"Pitch?"
"The trick with the wallet. The hundred-dollar bill."
The blond man raised his eyebrows. "You said you read my letter?"
"Yeah, I read it."
"Well, as I said there, I might have some work for you. But I wanted to see you in operation first. To do that I wanted to dive with you. As to the little—tip—it's very simple, Mr. Galloway. You asked for a dive card, and I don't happen to have one."
"But do you know how? It's damn easy to get killed down there. Especially for someone your age."
"You've seen better years."
"I do it every day. It's hard work, salvage diving. You look like an office man to me. You sure your heart'll take it?"
"I play a good deal of handball."
"Oh. Handball."
Keyes's face tightened. "Look, Galloway. You accepted my money. Officially, you shouldn't take me without a cert. I assure you I know how. But if anything happens to me, just strip the body and leave it out there. You'll be clear, and I certainly won't care. Is that good enough?"
Galloway stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. "If that's how you want it."
Hirsch came back aft. "Jack's here with the explosives," she said. "The lines are ready. Tiller, I brought a change of clothes. I'd like to come along, if I may."
"'If you
may.'"
Galloway heaved
himself
off the
gunwale.
"Why bother
asking, Counselor? Is
it to
make me
feel better? It doesn't. The law says you can snoop on me wherever I am, whatever I'm doing. I suppose that includes Oregon Inlet. If you've got to come you can help lash down some of this gear. Might be rough out there today."
He turned from her look, and went below.
"Cast off," Galloway called, spinning the wheel to the left and gunning the throttle astern with his other hand. The engines rumbled unevenly and oily smoke blew forward over the deck.
On the dock a boy flipped the bow line off its cleat and stood holding it, poised to spring aboard the departing boat. He stood tense and vital in the sunlight, a freckle-shouldered young man whose summer-bleached hair stuck out at angles as if he had toweled it to air-dry after a swim. He was so slim-hipped it seemed only friction held up his cutoff jeans, the only clothes he wore. He hitched them higher with his free hand as he waited.
Galloway slammed the engines into neutral, then forward. Gears chattered below, then caught. The screws spewed dirty water and the boat gathered way. As she passed the end of the pier the boy jumped, swinging himself over the gunwale into the cockpit. He dropped a worn Kitty Hawk Kites tote bag to the deck and pushed it under a seat. "Hey, Bern, Tiller," he said, but his eyes were on Keyes.
Hirsch said, "This is Jack Caffey, the owner. Jack, this is Mr. Keyes."
"Hello—the
oumerT
"Hi. That's right. Got anything for me to do, Tiller?"
Galloway, at the wheel, shook his head without looking around. Caffey looked at Bernie, shrugged, and squatted down, bracing himself with a hand on one of the lockers.
They were out of the basin now, moving out into the wide brackish sound that separated the barrier islands from the mainland. Galloway left the channel markers, sticks topped by black-painted cans and plastic bottles, to starboard. Each bore a brown pelican, wings folded, regarding them as solemnly as a bench of French judges. Beyond them were mud flats, dotted here and there by gray herons. A speedboat ripped past, cutting the sluggish water apart like a ra2or through brown velvet. They rolled heavily to her wake. Behind them the land fell away. When the channel ended at a small buoy Galloway twirled the wheel with one hand, and Pamlico Sound, twenty and more miles wide, opened before them.
Keyes had been taking in the sound and sky, balancing easily with his arms folded. Now he leaned to Caf-fey. "Say—Jack? Mind if I look around?"
"Sure. Come on, I'll show you." He jumped to his feet. "Boat tour," he called in Galloway's direction, but the man at the helm made no response.
Keyes meanwhile had pulled off his shoes, folded his jacket, and rolled his trousers to mid-calf. "Forward first, then," Caffey grinned at him. "Along the side, like this." He vaulted to the gunwale, tanned toes splayed, and held to a corroded aluminum rail as he worked forward. The rail wobbled.
Keyes followed, more cautiously, but with a sureness that showed this was not his first time afloat. Caffey held out a hand, but he refused it with a shake of his head. A few seconds later they stood on the foredeck.
"Hang on," they both heard Galloway shout, and the pitch of the engines increased. The deck tilted upward and began to vibrate. Caffey crouched, planting his feet for balance, and pointed at a patched area of deck. "The gun mount was here," he called over the rumble of diesels and whistle of wind. "This used to be a PT—a patrol torpedo boat. She operated out of the Coast Guard base on Ocracoke. I've seen pictures, she was quite a looker in those days. Used to have guns, torpedoes, depth-charge racks, the
works. Three fifteen-hun
dred-horse Packards."
"How did Galloway come by her?"
"They had three of them high and dry over in Pasquotank when they closed down the old base there. They gave him fifty bucks to haul them away. He managed to put one seaworthy boat together out of the three of 'em."
"I see. Where's the anchor?"
"Bow flares too much to see it, but we got a fifty-pound danforth and a hundred fathom of line."
"Good."
They crept back to the cabin, swung around it, and regained the afterdeck. Keyes looked over the side. The water was green now. The boat slid over it smoothly, churning it to foam. Two vees of bow wave accompanied them, rolling out over the surface of the Pamlico, ruffled now by cat's-paws. The sun blazed and shimmered into their eyes. "Belowdecks?" shouted Jack. Keyes nodded, and Galloway moved aside a bit to let them down the companionway.
The noise of the engines was louder in the enclosed space below. It was dim, too, and a stink of oil, mildew, and whiskey met them. They braced themselves and looked around the cabin.
To their left a chart table was bolted to the bulkhead. Above it on a rack was an early model loran set and a marine radio of equal senescence. A tangle of wires disappeared into the overhead. A chart of the Virginia Capes area southward to Cape Lookout was thumb-tacked to the table, covered by a yellowing sheet of plastic. On it quivered a set of dividers, jabbed into the chart by their points. To the right, two chairs were lashed to a fold-down bunk with what looked like clothesline. A binocular case hung from one of the legs.
"Engine room," shouted Caffey, pointing to an open hatch going aft. The explanation was unnecessary; the roar from the compartment beyond became deafening as Keyes bent to pass through the low door.
The Packards were long gone, victims of age and the cost of hundred-octane gasoline. Instead two 200-horsepower Reo truck engines had been bolted to their foundations, and connected to the props through a salvaged tugboat transmission. Keyes coughed. The single bulb swayed through a white haze.
He continued aft, turning to slide between the hammering engines. Waves of heat beat at him. Their casings were cooking-hot. He paused near the transmission and looked down at the packing boxes, where the shafts, blurred by rotation, passed through the hull into the sea. A small spring bubbled around each shaft, running down between hull timbers into the bilges, forming a black pool, scummy with oil.