He rose and fumbled with a pack of Camels. At least his taste in cigarettes was good. It had been twelve years since I smoked a cigarette. I still had dreams about Camels.
Murdock lighted the cigarette that jiggled in his mouth. But he put the flame halfway underneath it, not on the tip. It made for an interesting smoke. His missing work boot reappeared. The mystery of its absence was instantly resolved as it arrived, airbome, from the other end of the room. It thumped is again this heavy mackinaw and dropped to the floor.
"Thanks!" yelled Dan Murdock as he picked up the boot and hopped around pulling it on. "Been looking for it…"
"Mr. Murdock? Am I addressing Mr. Daniel Murdock?"
"Hmmmm?"
"This guy wants some work done on his boat, right?"
The man speaking was Ted, who was jabbing a finger at Murdock, motioning for him to he seated. Murdock leaned over and swayed himself along to the nearest chair, grunting and exhaling smoke, and accusing the cigarette-which was I not functioning the least bit properly-of having sexual intercourse with his mother. Or its mother. Or any mother. For a rolled piece of paper containing dried vegetable matter burning in the middle, it had an amazing sex life. Sitting down now and puffing and blowing, he finished pulling on his boot and fumbled with the laces.
"Well?" I asked. `
"Well what. Who are you?"
His memory span was abbreviated.
"My boat. I'd like some work done on it."
He weaved in his seat squinting, trying to draw a bead on me. I thought I detected traces of faint recognition in the dull face. Had he seen me before?
"Wood or steel?"
"Steel."
"Commercial?"
I nodded.
"I don't do engines. Who sent you?"
He stared at me, as through a glass darkly, smashing out his Camel in the tin ashtray. He had brown hair and beard and a pleasant, youngish face. I would guess his age to be somewhere in the lower thirties. But already there were the telltale signs: the nose beginning to fill with tiny cracked purplish veins. The red eyes. The sagging eyefolds. It wouldn't be long before the booze would really start taking its toll on this young man. He fumbled again for his cigarette pack.
"What you want done?"
"I want the superstructure changed. More cabin space forward. You know, make a cruiser out of her. Also, I want a double hull."
"Hull? Double hull?"
"I want an extra hull portion added where it won't show-below the waterline. I want it accessible through a hidden hatch below decks.. ."
"How come?"
"I want a hidden cache for my cash."
He squinted at me, tilting his head. He was trying terribly hard to concentrate and remember what had been said in the previous two seconds.
"Your dough? Or somethin' else maybe?"
"What does it matter to you if the price is right?"
"Sure. What's her name? Where is she?"
I thought there was no point in playing games anymore. I leaned forward over the tiny table and glared at him.
"Her name is Penelope, Dan. And I don't know where she is. I want to find her. Badly. Where is she?"
He kept looking at me, squinting slightly through the gloom and smoke of the Schooner Race. His eyes came into focus, slowly at first, then quickly, totally. I peeled the label off the beer bottle and watched his face, and mind, coming back together through the booze and smoke. Like a silvery fish being drawn up through murky water, his consciousness became progressively sharper.
"Nah. Can't help you. What's your name?"
"Charles Adams. And I know your name because I saw it on a Master Carpenter's Certificate at the Coast Guard Registry. I want to know where Penelope is, Dan. You can help me a lot by telling me. If not I'll be mad. I am also supposing that if the authorities discover that maybe you really didn't build the Penelope after all, you'd be in hot water."
I suspected instantly I'd said more than I should have. Daniel Murdock slammed his bottle down on the table, got up, and swayed over to the bar for another. I watched him drink quickly from the bottle of beer then set it down. A shot glass appeared at his elbow. He tossed it off and returned to the beer. He turned and glanced at me, then turned back. His face showed hatred. But it showed something else even more. It showed fear.
The cards were on the table for Dan Murdock. The last hole card had been flipped over and he had the deuce of clubs. I sat thinking on what should happen next. Maybe the best thing was for me to skedaddle and let him ponder his ill fortune for a day or two, then phone him. Murdock was out of my vision now; a new group of men had just entered the Race. The bar was packed three deep, and the general noise level was still rising. It was almost impossible to hear Charlie Pride on the jukebox.
Four men came in. Two were old and heavy. One was tall, the other medium. All were dark, keen featured, and wide in the shoulders. They were not in good humor.
The young man named Ted leaned back and asked if I'd had any luck with Murdock. I replied some, and noticed Ted's expression change when he saw the four men.
"Here comes action," whispered Ted. "That's Joey Partmos and his brothers. They own the Antonio."
"So?"
"S0? See the other bunch of guys down at the far end of the bar?"
"Yeah. So what?"
"OK. That's Mike DeCarlo and his bunch down there, owners of the Caterina. They were bragging earlier how they busted a school of haddock right from under Antonio's nose."
I asked if the Antonio could lay claim to said school of haddock, and was informed that though there was no law stating who had first option, there was a long tradition-an unwritten law-that the boat first "on" the school was by custom allowed to work it alone.
"But you see since the CB radio bug hit, everybody's always in touch with everybody else, and a guy who used to work for Joey, that now works for Mike, he knew the Antonio's code words. That's how the Caterina busted the school-"
I was completely in the dark as to the busting of schools, CB-radio codes, and the like, but was informed thoroughly by Ted as we sat and watched the tension at the bar grow with each second. What Ted and his friend told me was this:
Like the truckers, fishermen use the CB radios to stay in constant touch with one another. Also like the truckers, they use code words and slang. The CBs are a big help to everyone, especially in rough weather, because a fully laden boat that pitchpoles or gets swamped goes down in seconds.
The long-range VHF radios are useful for calling the Coast Guard on distress frequencies (which may never be used for idle chitchat), but the CB radios keep everyone in touch and allow nearby fishing boats and yachts to perform rescues the Coast Guard could never hope to accomplish. There just aren't enough USCG boats to do it all.
He was interrupted in his lecture by a waitress who flung three bottles of beer down on our little table. She informed us that they were courtesy of the Caterina. The boys were celebrating their big haul.
From the talk that had filtered down to Ted earlier, she'd struck three big schools one after the other. But one of them, it was said, was claimed by the Antonio, and before either boat could work it properly, the school busted.
"You see Wayne Fletcher works for Mike DeCarlo now, but he used to work for Joey aboard the Antonio. He knew all the code words and things the Partmos family uses, so when they heard the San Sebastian calling Antonio, they knew where the school was, and what it was. Wayne says the two boats get there at the same time, but Caterina got what was left, not Antonio."