“Thank you,” Pitt said sincerely. “We accept.”
“You'll find the shantyboat about a mile up the Atchafalaya tied at a dock on the left bank called Wheeler's Landing. Nearby is a small boatyard and a grocery store run by an old friend and neighbor, Doug Wheeler. You can buy your provisions from him. I'll see that the fuel tank is filled. If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name.”
“Is the engine powerful enough to move it upriver against the current?” asked Pitt naively.
“I think you'll find she can do the job.”
Pitt and Giordino were elated and grateful for the old fisherman's significant cooperation. “We'll bring your shantyboat back in the condition we found it,” Pitt promised.
Giordino reached across the table and shook the old man's hand. When he spoke it was with uncharacteristic humility. “I don't think you'll ever know how many people will benefit from your kindness.”
The fisherman stroked his beard and waved an airy hand. “Glad to be of help. I wish you fellas luck. The illegal business of smuggling, especially that of human beings, is a rotten way to make money.”
He watched thoughtfully as Pitt and Giordino left Charlie's Fish Dock and stepped into the night outside. He sat and finished his beer. It had been a long day, and he was tired.
“Did you learn anything at the bar?” Pitt asked Giordino as they walked from the dock down an alley to a busy street.
“The rivermen aren't real friendly toward Qin Shang Maritime,” answered Giordino. “The Chinese refuse to use local labor or boat companies. All towboat and barge traffic out of Sungari is conducted by Chinese boats and crews who live at the port and never come into Morgan City. There is an undercurrent of anger that just might erupt into a small-scale war if Qin Shang doesn't begin showing more respect to St. Mary Parish residents.”
“I doubt if Shang ever cultivated an affinity for dealing with peasants,” commented Pitt drolly.
“What's the plan?”
“First we find a local bed and breakfast. Then, soon as the sun comes up, we'll board the shantyboat, travel upriver and canvass the canal to nowhere.”
“And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino persisted. “Aren't you curious to see if that's where the barge dumps human cargo?”
“Curious, yes. Desperate, no. We're not working under a deadline. We can size up Bartholomeaux after we check the canal.”
“If you want to conduct an underwater search,” said Giordino, “we'll need diving equipment.”
“Soon as we're settled in, I'll call Rudi and have him ferry our gear to wherever we're staying.”
“And Bartholomeaux?” Giordino continued. “Should we prove the old sugar mill is a staging and distribution depot for smuggled aliens, then what?”
“We'll turn the chore of conducting a raid over to INS agents, but only after we give Admiral Sandecker the satisfaction of informing Peter Harper that NUMA has uncovered another one of Qin Shang's illicit operations without his help.”
“I believe that is what you call poetic justice.”
Pitt grinned at his friend. “Now comes the hard part.”
“Hard part?”
“We have to find a taxi.”
As they stood on the curb Giordino turned and looked back over his shoulder at the bar and grill. “Did that old fisherman look familiar to you?”
“Now that you mention it, there was something about him that struck a chord.”
“We never did get his name.”
“Next time we see him,” said Pitt, “we'll have to ask if we've ever met.”
Back in Charlie's Fish Dock restaurant and bar, the old fisherman glanced up at the bar as the bartender yelled across the room at him.
“Hey, Cussler. You want another beer?”
“Why not?” The old man nodded. “One more brew before I hit the road won't hurt.”
“OUR HOME AWAY FROM HOME,” SAID GlORDINO AT HIS FIRST look of the shantyboat he and Pitt were borrowing from the old fisherman. “Hardly bigger than a North Dakota outhouse.”
“Not fancy but functional,” Pitt said as he paid the taxi driver and studied the ancient boat that was moored at the end of a rickety, sagging dock that extended from the riverbank on waterlogged pilings. Inside the dock, several small aluminum fishing boats bobbed in the green water, their outboard motors showing rust and grease from long, hard use.
“Talk about roughing it,” Giordino groaned as he unloaded their underwater equipment from the trunk of the taxi. “No central heating or air-conditioning. I'll bet this tub doesn't have running water or electricity to operate lights and a television.”
“You don't need running water,” said Pitt. “You can bathe in the river.”
“What about a toilet?”
Pitt smiled. “Use your imagination.”
Giordino pointed to a small reception dish on the roof. “Radar,” he muttered incredulously, “It has radar.”
The shantyboat's hull was broad and flat with easy rakes, much like that of a small barge. The black paint was heavily scarred from a hundred sideswipes against dock pilings and other boats, but the bottom that could be seen below the water-line appeared scraped clean of marine growth. A square box with windows and doors, which was the house, rose about seven feet, its weathered blue walls nearly flush with the sides of the hull. A small, roofed-over veranda sporting lawn chairs stretched across the bow. Above, centered on the house roof, as if it was an afterthought, sat a low, raised bridgelike structure that acted as a skylight and a small pilothouse. On the roof lay a short skiff with paddles lashed upside down. The black chimney pipe from a wood-burning potbellied stove stuck up from the aft end of the house.
Giordino shook his head sadly. “I've slept on bus benches that had more class than this. Kick me the next time I complain about my motel room.”
“Oh, ye of little faith, stop griping. Keep telling yourself that it didn't cost us anything.”
“I've got to admit that it has character.”
Pitt aimed the chronically complaining Giordino toward the shantyboat. “Go load up the equipment and check out the engine. I'll go over to the store and buy some groceries.”
“I can't wait to see our motive power,” Giordino groused. “Ten to one it doubles as an eggbeater.”
Pitt walked a boardwalk through a boatyard leading down the bank into the river. A worker was giving a wooden fishing boat set inside a cradle on rails a new coat of antifouling paint on the keel and hull. Next door, Pitt came to a wooden structure under a sign that proclaimed WHEELER'S LANDING. A long porch ran around the building, which was raised off the ground by rows of short pilings. The walls were painted a bright green with yellow shutters framing the windows. Inside, Pitt found it incredible that so much merchandise could be crammed in so small a space. Boating parts took up one end of the store, fishing and hunting supplies the other. The center was devoted to groceries. A compact refrigerator stocked with five times as much beer as soft drinks and dairy products stood against one wall.
Pitt picked up a hand basket and made out very well, selecting enough foodstuffs to feed him and Giordino three or four days, and, as with most men, he probably bought more than they could eat, especially specialty items and condiments. Setting the overloaded basket on the counter by the cash register, he introduced himself to the portly owner of the store who was busily stocking canned goods.
“Mr. Wheeler. My name is Dirk Pitt. My friend and I have charted the Bayou Kid's shanty boat.”
Wheeler brushed his thick mustache with the light touch of a finger and stuck out his hand. “Been expectin' you. The Kid said you'd be by this mornin'. She's all ready to go. Fuel tank filled, battery charged and topped off with oil.”