SWAINS LOCK (The River Trilogy, book 1) (22 page)

Kevin yelled and watched Tom lift his hat to
check on the scow. Tom rocked onto his feet, brushed his hands on
his pants, and shuffled toward the waiting mules.

***

Three more miles took them down to the Seven
Locks area, where locks 14 through 8 were strung almost heel-to-toe
over a long mile. Two of the locktenders were working multiple
locks so the scow made reasonable time getting down onto the Cabin
John level. One of them was Jim Bender, a customer from last year,
and he bought seven gallons at ten dollars each. Half down and the
balance due on their next downstream trip in early May. Kevin
trusted Jim more than he trusted Cy Elgin back at Swains. In return
for the credit, Jim threw in some home-canned vegetables and four
loaves of the bread he sold to boatmen during the season.

Just before noon, Tom signaled from the
tiller for Kevin to stop the mules. The towline slackened and Tom
swung the boat toward the berm where Minnehaha Creek tumbled down
from a narrow ravine that bordered the Glen Echo amusement park on
the hilltop above. Carrying a bucket, he scrambled up the berm to
catch the falling creek water. He brought two buckets back to the
scow to refill the water cask in the cabin, then filled a third for
the mules.

They boated a few hundred feet down to Lock
7, where they tied up along the towpath to feed and water the
mules. Tom threw Jim Bender’s carrots, potatoes, and onions and
into a stew pot. He and Kevin tore into the bread while the
vegetables cooked.

“Fletcher’s boathouse,” Kevin said. “Don’t
they pull fish out of the river down there?”

“I reckon,” Tom said. “Been a few warm days,
so there might be some white perch running by now. Got rockfish,
anyway. People chasing ‘em all winter below Little Falls.”

“Well, damn, then that’s the reason to get
down there. Buy us a big striper and that’ll make a world of
improvement to your stew.”

***

Two miles below Glen Echo the scow passed a
low wall of rubble in the river. The wall traced a rounded shoulder
toward the Maryland shore from a small island, then converged with
an outcropping, capturing a portion of the river for the feeder
canal. From his station at the tiller, Kevin looked through the
trees at the arc of whitewater trickling over the wall. That’s Dam
1, he thought, so we’re getting close. Lock 6 took them down to the
one-mile level of Brookmont, and a mile later Lock 5 dropped them
to the head of the Georgetown level, where water from the feeder
canal entered through the guard lock. While locking through, Tom
reclaimed the tiller so Kevin could drive the last two miles to
Fletcher’s.

Kevin stopped his team when the scow passed
under the elevated footbridge that linked Fletcher’s boathouse to
Canal Road. He tied up and walked back toward the Fletcher’s
turnoff. For a Tuesday afternoon in early spring, the boathouse was
busier than he expected. A small fleet of canoes were arrayed near
the canal and a comparable armada of crimson and gray rowboats were
laid out on a dock that projected into Fletcher’s Cove. Gaps in the
lineups suggested several vessels were in use. Before Kevin could
even walk to the boathouse office, he was hailed by a teenaged
boy.

“Hey mister, you need a fresh fish?” The boy
pointed to a wash tub at his feet that held three immersed
rockfish.

“How much?”

“Two dollars, mister,” the boy said,
pointing to a fish that Kevin guessed might weigh three or four
pounds. He pointed to the second fish and the third fish, which was
easily the biggest. “Two dollars, three dollars for the big one.
Just caught ‘em today.”

Kevin nodded and turned to spit. “Maybe
later. When the price goes down.” He walked over to a covered
message board outside the boathouse office. Notes on the board
offered items for sale: used canoes, home-made lures, fishing
tackle, bird dogs. Near the edge a plain piece of white paper,
folded twice, was pinned to the board, a single salutation on its
face: Mr. Emory. He plucked the message and unfolded it. The note
read:

775 for 106. Tonight. Lock 3. 3am sharp.

He focused immediately on the “775 for 106”
and worked the numbers in his head; the Irishman would pay less
than seven-fifty per gallon. Kevin wasn’t thrilled, but it was
enough. Better to make the relationship work than get stuck over a
few dollars this early in the year.

And the schedule was good. Three am was
still almost twelve hours away, but it meant they wouldn’t have to
tie up in Rock Creek basin before they unloaded the whiskey. Doing
that would raise the risk of an encounter with the law. And Kevin
had been worried that the delivery might be delayed until Wednesday
or Thursday, which would have interfered with the other things they
needed to do in Georgetown. Contact Reddy Bogue to get rid of the
firewood. And visit the coin man to trade Finn Geary’s paper
currency for hard money; that alone was a two-step process. He put
the note in his pocket and pulled out a small money clip, then
peeled off two bills and stuffed them in his other pocket. On the
way back to the canal, he stopped beside the boy with the tub of
rockfish.

“I’ll take that big fish,” he said.

“You bet, mister.” The boy pulled the
biggest rockfish from the tub. “Already cleaned him. I’ll wrap him
up for you.” He removed two pages from a folded newspaper in his
back pocket and used them to wrap the fish, skillfully tucking the
ends so that they wouldn’t unravel. “That’s three dollars.”

“Sure, kid.” Kevin unfolded his two bills
and looked perplexed before smiling and shaking his head. “I
thought I had my whole wad with me, but now I recall that I left it
on the boat.” He handed the boy the two dollars. “Here’s two
dollars, and I’ll go get you another.” He pointed to the scow,
visible now against the towpath. “I better take the fish with me,
so he don’t get dried out. Got a bucket I can stick him in.”

“OK, mister,” the boy said, looking
thoughtfully down at the two rockfish remaining in his tub. “I’ll
wait for you right here.” He handed Kevin the wrapped-up fish.

“Much obliged, son. I’ll be back in a few
minutes.” He walked briskly back to the scow, whistling to get
Tom’s attention when he reached the towpath. Tom plucked his knife
from the deck and looked up as Kevin tossed him the fish. After
untying the lines, Kevin jogged up to the mules and gave Mike a
slap on the haunch. The mules snorted into their burden and the
scow moved on past Fletcher’s.

Chapter 17
Shadow Men

Wednesday, March 26, 1924

At 2:10 am, Tom won the last hand of the
evening. He pulled the meager pile from the center of the table and
added the coins to his small heap. After five hours of sleep and an
hour of coffee and poker, he and Kevin were both back where they
started. It was time to head down to Lock 3. Kevin poured shots of
whiskey.

“For luck.”

“Better not need any,” Tom muttered. “Just
get in, get it off, and get out.”

“And get paid,” Kevin said. “Don’t forget
that part.” They drained their whiskey and climbed to the deck to
discover rain like fine, soft needles, and suspended water vapor
catching ambient light from the city. The area around the scow was
unlit, but they could see well enough to work without a lamp. And
well enough, they hoped, to steer into the locks.

Through Georgetown the towpath leapfrogged
to the north side of the canal and the river was a few blocks to
the south. The scow was tied up above Lock 4, and Lock 3 was one
block further east, near 30th Street. Kevin and Tom removed hatch 3
and extracted the logs that hid Finn Geary’s two barrels, sliding
them back onto the stern hatches. Tom took the tiller as Kevin
crossed the fall-board to get the mules ready. They started
downstream with their bow-lamp dark.

The dirt towpath had grown wet and Kevin
found the footing slippery as mud clung to his soles. Georgetown
was at its quietest now and they had already passed the mills, but
Kevin still heard distant metallic shrieks, iron striking iron,
someone yelling in the distance. The rhythm of mule-hooves slapping
wet dirt was the metronome for this nocturnal orchestra. Lock 4 was
set for a loaded boat and deserted. Kevin slowed the mules and Tom
steered a clear course. They locked through quickly. Ten minutes to
three.

Kevin found himself eyeing the warehouses
and dirt lots to his left and right as the scow passed Jefferson
Street and approached Lock 3. A three-story brick foundry across
the canal had been converted into a veterinary hospital for canal
mules, and its hulking form loomed over Lock 3 like a giant
watchdog. The diffuse glow of a streetlamp splashed onto the front
of the hospital, but the side of the building facing the lock was
cast into deep shadow. At the base of the shadow a dirt road ran
parallel to the canal, and Kevin thought he saw a gleam of metal
from the darkness as he drew closer.

He guided the mules past the lower gates and
turned to check on the scow. Tom’s course looked good. Kevin
snubbed the boat to a stop after it entered the lock. When he
looked up, the shadowed veterinary hospital was directly across the
canal and he could see the outline of a flatbed truck parked beside
it. Two silhouettes leaning against the truck stepped forward.
Kevin leapt onto the scow and Tom joined him on deck as the men
approached.

The man on the left tilted back his hat-brim
so that Kevin and Tom saw a glimmer of white from his eyes. He was
taller than either Emory but looked young – barely twenty, Kevin
thought. His anemic mustache was a light color and a toothpick
bobbed in the corner of his mouth. The second man was Kevin’s
height with black sideburns and a dark mole near the tip of his
broad nose. Even in the dim light he looked powerfully built.

“You the Emorys?” asked the young man with
the toothpick.

“That’s right,” Kevin said. “Who are
you?”

“Mr. Geary sent us. We’re supposed to pick
up a package for him.”

Tom’s hand drifted toward the knife at his
hip. “You got something for us?”

“That’s been taken care of,” said Toothpick.
He turned toward Mole-nose. “Get the sling.” Mole-nose walked back
to the truck, retrieved a barrel sling, and rejoined Toothpick at
the lock wall.

“Let’s go,” Toothpick said.

Kevin hadn’t seen either man before, but he
had encountered enough others like them to believe they worked for
Finn Geary. He and Tom guided them to hatch 3. The light rain
sprinkled the barrels, which lay end to end like enormous oaken
eggs in a nest of firewood. Mole-nose unfolded the barrel sling –
two six-foot hickory staves connected by three equally-spaced
lengths of heavy rope. They worked the ropes under the first
barrel, struggled to lift it, and carried it over to the truck.

“Straight to the center,” Toothpick said in
a strained voice, guiding Kevin and Tom to the middle of the
flatbed. Toothpick synchronized the men and with a grunt they
lifted the staves higher, swung the barrel out over the flatbed,
and then lowered the sling. Geary’s men jumped onto the truck, set
the barrel upright, and wheeled it to the center of the bed.

“Let’s go,” Toothpick said again, leaping
down and striding back to the scow. Mole-nose grabbed the sling and
followed with Kevin and Tom trailing. Kevin cast a glance across
the canal toward the mules. They were nosing around the fringe of
the towpath but his eye was drawn beyond them, toward the
intersection of the towpath and 30th Street. Two figures were
standing on the edge of a dirt lot next to the sidewalk. They were
backlit by a streetlamp, and he felt a chill when he recognized the
outline of a policeman’s cap on the figure nearest the curb. The
man’s clothing seemed to fit snugly, like a uniform. The other man
was further from the light, but Kevin could see that he wore a
large brimmed hat and a long coat. Did the two men just arrive? If
not, Geary’s men should have noticed them, since they could be seen
clearly from the truck. It was too late to change anything. With
one barrel on the truck and one on the scow – and the lock gates
closed – whatever was going to happen was ordained. He followed
Geary’s men and Tom back to the open hatch.

They hoisted the second barrel in the sling
and humped it over to the truck, this time without words. Toothpick
and Mole-nose climbed onto the flatbed and lashed the barrels
together, roped them to tie-down rings in the corners, then threw a
tarp over them and tied that down as well. Kevin and Tom watched
from the adjacent dirt road. When they were finished securing the
cargo, Geary’s men hopped down from the truck.

“Well you fellas have a good trip to
wherever you belong,” Toothpick said, tilting the brim of his hat
forward and acknowledging each Emory. “We got to get moving. You’ll
get the barrels back next time.”

“I think you’re forgetting something,” Tom
said. His voice was low and hard-edged and his hand eased toward
his knife.

Toothpick smiled. He plucked the toothpick
from his mouth and addressed Tom slowly, as if talking to an
imbecile. “I told you,” he said. “That’s been taken care of.”

Kevin felt a stab of apprehension. Maybe
these weren’t Geary’s men after all. And maybe “taken care of”
meant something less desirable than being paid. He glanced over his
shoulder toward the two figures he’d seen across the canal. The man
with the policeman’s cap had moved closer to the scow and Kevin was
convinced now that he was wearing a uniform. The other man was
gone. Kevin turned back toward the truck and saw Toothpick and
Mole-nose walking toward the cab. He sensed a rising fury and saw
Tom take a step in their direction, knife in hand.

“I’d put that away if I were you,” said a
mellifluous voice from the direction of the scow. “I don’t think
you’ll need it.”

Kevin pivoted and watched the man with the
large-brimmed hat and long coat approach. He was thickset but moved
with an athletic lightness of foot. When the man stopped in front
of them, Kevin recognized Finn Geary. His face was pockmarked with
craters left by forgotten acne and his nose betrayed a youth spent
in a boxing ring, but his eyes were dark and playful. Under his
thick mustache, the corners of his mouth curled upward. A gap
between his two front teeth contributed to an expression that Kevin
interpreted as either bemused or mocking.