The Whiskey Sea (23 page)

First Dutch and then Charles appeared, ready to go out, and when the
Pauline
finally cast off, the seas were flat and black and the wind puffed only a few salty, steamy gusts from time to time. They headed out to the rum boats just before ten, easily cutting through the water, and once beyond the Hook, Dutch ran at full speed to test the changes Frieda had made and to make certain that if anyone was out there they’d have a hard time catching up to the
Pauline.
They skimmed the surface as if they were airborne.

Dutch whooped. “Love it! Great job, Frieda!”

The most dangerous part of the journey was now, when they had all the cash on board to buy the contraband. The go-through men preferred hijacking boats when they were loaded with money rather than booze. Even with the increase in speed, the crew of the
Pauline
held at rapt attention, and the air was thick with apprehension. A fear of the unknown, a dread of something appearing out of the darkness, driving closer, overtaking them. Over the sound of the engines the night seemed still—too quiet, too shadowy.

But the run was uneventful and ended up being highly profitable. When they had cleared the drop zone and were heading into the docks for the night, Charles whispered to Frieda, “It’s all going to be OK now.”

She reached for his hand, and he took it.

All night long they’d had no contact, Frieda spending most of her time below deck and Charles on deck near the helm. Rudy, in the bow position, had leaned down and spoken to Frieda a few times, once saying, “Good work,” complimenting her skills with the engines. He’d smiled, and for the first time in a long while she felt a burst of pride, or at least satisfaction in her work. Pleasing Dutch was one thing—he was her boss—but pleasing kindhearted, cautious Rudy was another thing altogether. She smiled back at him, and he gave her a thumbs-up.

Frieda had been staying every night at Charles’s house, and so after that night’s run they headed home without stopping at the bar to celebrate. Charles had seemed preoccupied all night and only wanted to fall into bed when they entered the still, dark house. Frieda had a hard time going to sleep; Charles was breathing deeply and twitching a bit in his sleep as he dreamed restlessly beside her. She was perplexed by her insomnia. The engine adjustments had worked, the boat was faster, they were making money again, and everything had gone well. So why was her mind a mess of thoughts and feelings she couldn’t decipher?

It was the tiny chill in the predawn air, an indication that summer was nearing a close, a sign of change to come. She felt it on her arms—not a breeze but a shift in the air. The long sultry nights were over. Every sunrise and sunset was another little slip toward September, a month that loomed as desolate and unwelcome as sleet. Each day that went by with no words of assurance from Charles, another star fell from her sky. Summer was seeping away, but Frieda still believed they had time. Charles still had time to make a decision, to turn his life around, to trust in what they had. She had hope, though she already knew that hope could sometimes be a sad mistake.

In the morning Charles was still asleep when Frieda awakened. She slipped out of bed and bathed, then wrapped herself in his robe and padded about the house in her bare feet, her hair dripping down her back. As she puttered about the kitchen making coffee, a short stack of mail on the kitchen table caught her attention. She had seen few pieces of mail arrive here for Charles, so she was curious. Sipping on steaming coffee, she crept closer. Two envelopes, both of which had been opened. The first had come from Harvard University, and the other had a return name of Bitty Wallace, Charles’s mother. She stared at the envelopes for a while, blowing on her coffee to cool it and listening for any sounds indicating that Charles was up and about.

Her hands landed on the top envelope. But she was less interested in the letter from Harvard than the letter from Charles’s mother. Had he ever mentioned her to his mother? Would there be any clues inside? Or any clues as to Charles’s plans for the future?

She slid the second envelope out from under the top one and set down her coffee cup. With both hands shaking, she slipped her fingers inside the envelope, her heart pounding. It had been opened already, and he would never know. She had not sought to pry into Charles’s private affairs before, although when she thought about it now, almost living here had afforded her many opportunities to go snooping. She had never fallen so low, but . . .

“What are you doing?”

Charles. Standing in the passageway to the kitchen, wearing only his underclothes, a look of infuriated disbelief on his face.

Suddenly lightheaded, Frieda dropped the envelope on the table. “I-I . . .” What had she been doing? She had no idea what to say.

“Were you going to read my letter?” Charles demanded as he took a step closer. “From my
mother
?”

A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. “No, not really. I only picked it up.”

“Come now,” he said with a disgusted laugh. “You were only picking it up?”

“I don’t know what I was doing!” Frieda searched his face, hoping to find some compassion there.

He stood with both feet planted, like a soldier. “Come now,” he said again. “Excuses don’t become you, Frieda. Just tell the truth. What are you looking for?”

Frieda licked her lips nervously. She gazed into his eyes and let her guard melt away. “I’m having a hard time of it, don’t you see? I-I don’t know where I stand with you. I don’t know what you’re planning to do, and summer’s almost over. I don’t know anything. Maybe I was drawn to the letter to see if I could find any hints of what’s to come. You tell me nothing.”

“What do you want to know? I’ll tell you, Frieda. You have only to ask. You don’t have to go snooping in my mail!”

Frieda stammered, searching for words, sputtering.

“What? What do you really want to know? Am I leaving here? Most likely. Is that it? Good enough for you?”

She hadn’t prepared herself for this answer. Knowing that she should have did nothing to alleviate the wretched confirmation that he was leaving. But his leaving didn’t necessarily mean an end to them together. She couldn’t bear not knowing any longer. “What I really want to know is . . . where I stand, how you feel about me . . . Even if you leave we can still carry on . . .”

“Carry on?”

“You know, see each other, belong to each other . . .”

“Fall in love?” Charles asked. “Marry? Sail into the sunset and live happily ever after?”

She blinked back tears.

His face softened a bit, but his eyes bored into hers. “Do you want me to tell you I love you? Do you want to go down that road of dramatics and misery? Is that what you really want?”

Frieda tried to gather herself. He’d said “I love you,” but couched in a most disagreeable, cruel question. She couldn’t even begin to dissect that now. Instead she half yelled, “It doesn’t have to be dramatic and miserable!”

“Oh, really? Look at us now!”

“Of course I don’t want it to be like
this
!” She lifted her hands, then let them fall. “But do I want to be free to love you? Yes! Of course I do.”

His face set like stone, he said softly, “This is what love does to people.”

Tears flooded her eyes, but she blinked them away. “What happened to you? I thought I was thorny, but you make me seem like some kind of
optimist
.”

“Nothing happened to me. I was born a pessimist, and a pessimist is never disappointed. I’m loyal to pessimism. It always delivers. And I’m a realist as well. About myself, about you, about everything. There are no happy endings.”

She wanted to beg and plead with him.
Why not?
she cried inside, but instead she said, “Once I got close, you began to hold yourself out of reach.” Her voice trailed off in despair. Saying it, showing her own weakness and need, was freeing in a way. Just let him see how much she needed him.

He stared at her coldly, and for the first time she saw that Charles was an awful man to love, an awful man to want. How had it come to this? She felt dizzy and hot. Her body damp, she opened her robe to let in some air. A trickle of sweat swam down her spine.

Charles’s gaze drifted to where the robe opened. She wore nothing underneath, and he was also near naked.

He heaved out a sigh. “Why can’t what I’ve given you be enough? I have very special feelings for you. You’re the only woman who has ever stayed with me.”

Special feelings.
Another slap in the face. “That brings me little comfort. People have special feelings for their dogs. And they let strangers stay in their houses. Perhaps I’m nothing but your
whore
.”

He leaned back as if stricken. “And this is how you think of me. To say such a thing.”

She went to him then, each step slow and cautious as she closed the distance between them. Charles had never looked so lovely, nor vulnerable; her need had never been so great, and she knew that somewhere deep inside he needed her, too. She kissed him. He pulled her in closer and kissed her for a long time as she went through several layers of emotion: affection, want, desire, and then beyond where they could stop and where Frieda abandoned free will.

Charles cupped the back of her head in his hand and whispered, rasping in her ear, “Is this what you want?”

Even if she had been able to speak, there was as much a “Hell, no” inside her as there was a “God, yes,” but she was too lost in the touching, the passion, the ardent kisses, his hands all over her, them rolling on the floor, even as there was something dark and cold about it. He had given her nothing. She had not gained even a glint of further insight into his complicated soul. Her surrender under the circumstances was shocking and abhorrent, and when it was over she was left with a trembling fear that she had been snared for the rest of her days in a web, caught inside the trap that was him.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

There would be no moon that night; it was perfect for a run. Frieda spent the day alone at her house, pacing the moaning wood-plank floor and fighting off a sickness that twisted her stomach and dried her mouth, illness over what was happening with Charles, and to her. What were they, after all? What did they do for each other that made them better people, happier people?

After nightfall the crew gathered at the
Pauline
and readied for the run. Charles was last to arrive, and Frieda found she couldn’t look into his face. Nothing felt right, everything seemed sluggish and slovenly, and she had tried desperately not to succumb to an obsession that was swirling her down.

Dutch as usual was worked up about something. “Coast guard intel raided ZA today,” he said to Rudy and Frieda.

She and Rudy exchanged knowing looks, and Charles said, “What’s that?”

“Radio station.”

Frieda was finally able to look at Charles, but only briefly.

Working on the dock lines, Rudy said through gritted teeth, “Three-letter codes are too easy. We should’ve expected this.”

From the helm, Dutch harrumphed. “That don’t make it any easier to find the station. Must have been a rat somewhere along this shore. Probably old Raleigh.”

Raleigh was a stolid, wheezy sort, one of those who’d gone from rumrunner to government informant. “So the station’s out of business?” Frieda asked.

After shooting her an incredulous look, Dutch said, “You think, Frieda?”

She gave him back a mock grin and helped Rudy with the fenders.

“Makes no sense,” Dutch went on. “If you were guard intel, what would you rather do—shut down a radio station, when you’re getting intel from it and you know it’s just going to set up someplace else, or keep it running so you can monitor what’s going on?” He spat over the side of the boat. “Probably some officer needed something big to report to his superiors. Even if he’s shooting his own damn self in the foot in the process.”

“What does that mean for us?” asked Charles, who had perked up.

“Not a fucking thing,” Dutch, red in the face, snapped at Charles. “We don’t need the radio. Started out just fine without it. I got Cobra on alert for the drop, and we’ll just use a light signal like we did in the good old days. No need to get yourself spooked.”

Dutch was in a fine humor tonight. He whispered to Frieda, “Someday that boyfriend of yours is going to say something smart.”

Ignoring him, Frieda went below and checked the engines.

They glided out of port under a star-clear night. The ride out was black and still, the sea moving in heavy, sheet-like swells they slashed through and barely bounced over. Frieda gazed off unseeingly, her usual adrenaline surge absent as she recalled with revulsion how she’d succumbed to Charles in an act that wasn’t exactly cruel but wasn’t loving, either. Their disparities had bedeviled the both of them. The way they saw things differently had fueled the passion, that want of true understanding, which neither would get. Was the very hopelessness of ever being together permanently what made them so hungry?

They reached the offshore boat
Temiscouda
first, and Dutch decided to do business with her instead of his usual suppliers. Not quite in harmony with the crew of that unfamiliar boat, the
Pauline
’s crew took a bit longer to load but finally got their rhythm established and filled the boat to capacity with the contraband. She had barely ten inches of freeboard above the waterline. The water was mercury heavy and undulating. As the men worked, Charles glanced up at Frieda from time to time and finally gave her a smile when the loading was completed.

She couldn’t help herself; she smiled back.

And when he came to sit beside her as they plowed through the midnight seas on the way back in, she sat still, only wanting to be near him, nothing more. Everything seemed too quiet, too serene, and a sense of awful foreboding came over her. Her time together with Charles was coming to an end. Charles had perhaps known this for a long time, but he remained silent, too, looking out at black sea and black sky. He reached for her hand and she let him take it.

An hour of silence, and then Rudy announced from the bow, “Boat in pursuit, sir.”

“Damn,” breathed Dutch with more frustration than fear. The crew of the
Pauline
was used to evading the guard, and now that they were on the way in, that’s all it figured to be. “And we’re heavy tonight.”

“Probably a cutter, sir, yet to identify.”

Dutch went to full throttle and swiped through the troughs. The triple engines, even with a heavy load, lifted the boat out of the water and sent her soaring. Only a few minutes more and they should be leaving the annoying boat behind. At that point in time that’s all she was: an annoyance.

And yet it soon became obvious that the inky shadow against the sea and sky behind them kept coming and, surprisingly, was gaining on them. Even heavy, Dutch could outrun the coast guard, and lately the guard boats didn’t try to catch him, instead going after easier prey.

Dutch kept looking over his shoulder. “Guard should’ve identified itself by now.” Coast guard boats could run dark for a while but by law had to identify themselves at some point while in pursuit. The crew all knew this. A bony, cold hand reached inside Frieda’s stomach and clamped on. Maybe this was no guard boat; maybe this was a go-through boat.

The dark boat kept coming.

Dutch kept his eyes focused ahead, but Frieda could see that he was firing on all cylinders now. He had to be considering what their plan should be, if indeed it was a go-through boat. They’d been chased by go-through men only once before a long time ago and had managed to escape them with one of Rudy’s booby traps tossed behind them to entangle itself in the offensive boat’s prop. Frieda told herself they could do it again, but a tightening sensation crept over her scalp. She glanced at Charles, who was looking back at the pursuing boat as if he could make it vanish simply by the intensity of his stare.

Any doubt about what they faced vanished when the dark boat suddenly shined a spotlight on them for a long moment. It was their way of marking the
Pauline
so they could keep her in sight and follow behind her dead astern.

“Guard wouldn’t have done that, right?” Charles shouted to Dutch over the thrumming engine noise. His hat blew away in the wind they were creating.

Rudy, who had moved to the stern now, studied the sea behind them with his binoculars. After what seemed like an eternity, he said, “Private boat. Nothing to identify her. And she’s getting closer.”

Dutch said nothing, simply watching as the twinkling lights along the shore came into view. At first he followed the course straight ahead and then apparently thought better of it. “Change of course,” he yelled. “Got to follow the coast south. Can’t get trapped in the bay.” He told them to hold on and then made a wide, veering, but steady turn so he wouldn’t have to slow down. Frieda had to clamp on to the deck rail as the boat heeled powerfully to port, and sea spray showered her face and stung her eyes.

After the turn the
Pauline
leveled out and began slicing again. Sounds of the other engine had all but disappeared, but then Rudy announced, “Dark boat changed course, too, sir.”

Frieda gulped down an escalating sense of panic. It could only be one thing. Bloodthirsty hijackers who might not only steal but also kill. They were hardened, probably lifelong criminals, and they were coming for the
Pauline
.

Their pursuers shined the spotlight again, apparently to make sure the
Pauline
had noticed their matched change of course. Those flashes of light now so eerie and ghastly.

“Why are they chasing us now?” Frieda asked. The hijackers preferred to take the cash from boats on the way out rather than the liquor they had on board coming in.

Dutch yelled, “Fuckers want the damn boat. Knew we’d get targeted someday. They’d love to get their hands on the
Pauline
.”

Frieda remembered the strange men she’d seen lately dockside. She’d feared they were government men scouting them out, but maybe they’d been the hijackers instead.

“Shouldn’t we dump the liquor?” asked Charles with a shrillness to his voice.

“Simmer down,” Dutch said. “I’m going to get us a little closer in before we dump. Maybe we can come back for it.”

“Screw the liquor,” Charles shouted.

“Easy for you to say, Princeton.”

Waving away Dutch’s words, Charles paced the deck, his near-to-perfect balance and agility cranked to life by anxiety.

Dutch steered the boat closer to shore and then gave the order to dump. “We’ll outrun them once we’re light,” he said.

Frieda, Rudy, and Charles began to pull out of the holds bags they’d just purchased, tossing them on the deck. Rudy quickly tied some floats to a few of them, and they tossed the contraband directly behind them in hopes that the dark boat would hit something or that its propeller would get tangled in the twine. Even if that failed, the
Pauline
, without her load, would be able to fly.

To Frieda it felt as if it took hours to dump the liquor, but with every few tosses the boat lifted a bit out of the water and ran faster. The night was muggy and warm, and the physical labor was taking its toll; she had to remove her slicker. Sweat was creeping down her neck and back. She, Rudy, and Charles were tired and probably distracted by fear, but they lifted and tossed and lifted and tossed their way through an endless cargo. After the contraband was finally gone, Rudy picked up his binoculars, studied the heavy seas beyond their wake, and finally said, “Don’t see them now.”

Frieda breathed, and Charles whooped.

“Shame to have lost that load,” Dutch said, and swiped the seawater from his face with the back of his hand. But instead of changing course to the mouth of the bay, Dutch held a steady course south along the shore. He was making sure, Frieda thought, but the cold clamp on her stomach started to release its fierce hold, if but a little.

The sea seemed to flatten out, along with their nerves. Dutch stood at the helm, Rudy took his post back on the bow, and Charles pulled Frieda down beside him, facing the shore.

He cupped the back of his head in his hands and stretched out his panther body. That same pang, the one that always returned to Frieda’s pelvis when he did this, flared again, as if organically. What was the meaning of such a pull? Would it ever go away? Frieda took off her hat and sat as still as stone. If only getting rid of this longing could be as easy as heaving over the liquor. Charles would leave, and she would go back to her old life. And that would be that. Would he ever think of her in years to come?

“That was a little more excitement than I bargained for.”

Frieda simply nodded as millions of stars seemed to dim. She didn’t trust her voice against this rising choking sensation.

“Why aren’t we going in?” he asked.

She recovered herself well enough. Charles clearly hadn’t even noticed what had besieged her, but her voice sounded as if it came from someone else, not her. “Give him a minute. Dutch wants to be certain we lost them. If we turn around too soon, we could plow right back into a trap.”

“It’s going to be a long night,” Charles said, and sighed.

“Yes,” Frieda said, and so they simply sat, each lost in a place where the other could not go. She and Charles believed in different things. She could not have him, but releasing him was near to impossible, too.

I’ll miss him. I’ll miss the inexplicable, and I’ll miss those moments of magic.

A bright light landed on the stern and flooded the deck. It sucked the air out of Frieda and put her on the edge of collapse.

“Goddammit!” yelled Dutch.

Rudy hustled to the stern and raised the binoculars. “She’s back.”

Charles looked ill, and Frieda raked her fingernails against her arms.

Apparently the dark boat had slowed to avoid hitting the cases, but now she was in pursuit again. They were being trailed and stalked, and no one needed to say this. The most evil of forces on these waters had planned an ambush of the
Pauline
, and despite their efforts to evade it, now it was executing a plan to perfection.

She left Charles’s side. The
Pauline
must not be overtaken; they could not let the hijackers get within range of a machine gun. The go-through men would not hesitate to kill, and with their preference for the Thompson submachine gun, they could fire five or six hundred shots a minute. Her thoughts flew to Whitey. Was this the way his demise had begun?

She looked up. The darkness was not dark enough to bury them. The stars were bright, and Frieda saw the Big Dipper outlined as clear as white chalk dots on a schoolhouse blackboard. She listened to the thundering engines; they should be able to outrun the other boat now that the
Pauline
was running light. So why weren’t they?

Frieda went below to do a check. The engines were hot but running smoothly. Below deck the rumble of the hull thrumming across the current and waves crashing behind in their wake made her intestines twine, and she had to come up for air.

Rudy reported that the other boat seemed to be slowly gaining on them. Dutch’s boat was fast, but shockingly, the other boat appeared to be faster. “What the hell?” Dutch shouted to no one in particular. “I thought no one could outrun us.”

Now, a fast and frantic flight. Rudy went below, and Frieda helped him rig together some booby traps made of old ropes, floats, wire, and wood he kept on board. The same thing had worked once before to thwart their followers, but why hadn’t they constructed these contraptions in advance? They’d been too cocky, thinking themselves and their boat almost invincible. They’d naively thought they had the fastest boat around.
Surprise, surprise.

Frieda’s hands trembled as she worked, but Rudy was solid, and with both of them focused they had three traps put together in short order. They dragged the traps onto the deck, and Rudy said to Frieda and Charles, “Let’s toss them all at once. If there’s several in the water, it’ll better our chances that damn boat hits one of them.”