“What do you figure on doing with her?”
“I guess I’ll fish commercial this summer. Buddy Keever wants in with me. He’s got a good net.”
“Thought maybe you were figuring on charter boating, Vince.”
Vince applied a long even brush stroke and then glanced up, meeting the shrewd eyes. “No, I wouldn’t figure on that.”
“Thought maybe you practiced a little charter boating, day afore yesterday. Sunday, that is.”
Vince laid down another brush stroke. “Sunday? No, Sunday I took out a couple of friends of mine, from Michigan. Name of Jerry and Dave.”
“Any luck?”
“A lot of macks and some trash and lost a big stray king off the gaff.”
“How much those fellows pay you, Vince?”
Vince laid the brush on top of the can and straightened up. He looked steadily and gravely at Ricky. “Ricky, they didn’t give me a dime. I told you they was friends.”
Ricky straightened and snapped his cigarette into the water. He sighed. “Okay. I know you and I knew your daddy a long time. Never know of either of you lying. It’s a good thing you didn’t take any money, Vince.”
“Why?” Vince inquired blandly. “Something wrong?”
“You better take flowers to those friends of yours, Vince. They’re down in the hospital, all gauzed up like mummies, getting shot full of plasma, out of their heads off and on.”
“They’ll be all right?”
“The doc says so. Says it was close, but they’ll be okay.”
“That’s good,” Vince said. He spat at the soaked cigarette receding on the tide. “If I get around to it, I might send a couple of mackerel over one of these days.”
Vince watched Ricky drive off. Then he squatted again, dipped the brush, and began to stroke the paint on — slowly, evenly, lovingly.
