Vulgar Boatman (25 page)

“Sure. Absolutely, You’re right as usual, Ralph.” Cusick waggled his revolver at me. “Have a seat, Mr. Coyne.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ve been sitting all day.”

“Sit!” said Cusick.

I sat. Cusick sat beside the other man on the sofa, facing me.

“Good,” said the fat man. “We can try it again.” He moved the barrel of his shotgun in little circles, crudely outlining my lung area.

“What’s he talking about?” I said to Cusick.

Cusick shrugged. “You two know each other, I believe.”

“The list,” said Mr. Curry.

“Who are you, anyway?” I said to him.

He glanced at Harry Cusick. Cusick shrugged. “Tell him. It doesn’t matter.”

I decided I didn’t like the sound of that.

“O’Keefe,” he said. “Ralph O’Keefe.”

“Never heard of you,” I said. “No offense, of course.”

He smiled broadly. “No offense taken,” he said. “Now, sir, I’ll give you another opportunity to tell me where the list is.”

Cusick snorted. “There’s no list, Ralph. That was Speer’s hangup. All there was was a report card that Speer changed the grade on, for crissake. Maybe enough to bother Speer. Not enough to tie us in. We should have disposed of Speer a long time ago. Then we’d be clear right now, and poor Mr. Coyne here would be home sleeping in his bed.”

O’Keefe smiled. “I figure we’re clear anyhow.”

Cusick looked at me. “I agree,” he said. To O’Keefe he said, “You about ready?”

O’Keefe stood up. He still held the shotgun on me. “Let’s go for a boat ride, Mr. Coyne. A beautiful night for it. Lovely moon, tide just turning—”

“Can it, Ralph,” said Cusick wearily.

“Can I ask a question?” I said to Cusick.

“Why not?”

“Why Speer? I mean, the man’s obviously a genius at what he does. How does a guy like that end up passing crack to teenagers and then getting his chest blown away by a shotgun?”

Cusick hunched his shoulders as if his neck was stiff, or he was bored by the subject. “I guess he was a genius. I don’t know much about that. He had to’ve been pretty clever to put together the papers he did.”

“What do you mean?”

“Speer, of course, wasn’t his real name. MIT wasn’t the place he spent his college days, either. The guy learned computers at an institution in Illinois where they don’t have proms and you have to spend spring weekends in your room. And Gil Speer knew a hell of a lot about hooking kids on drugs long before I figured out who he was. He served his time, a model prisoner, and then went to work on a computer, putting together a nice new identity for himself. If he was as clever as me, of course, he’d probably still be doing what he wanted to do, which was to fart around with computers and screw high school girls.”

“But you blackmailed him.”

Cusick stifled a yawn. “Call it what you want. I persuaded him to join us in our fledgling little enterprise.”

“You are a bastard,” I said, shaking my head slowly.

He smiled. “Thank you very much.”

“One more question,” I said. “Why you, Cusick?”

He arched his eyebrows and grinned. “Why not?” was his answer.

“Come on, Harry,” said O’Keefe. “Let’s can the conversation.”

Cusick nodded. “Right. You and Mr. Coyne, here, take Speer down to the boat.”

O’Keefe started to protest and then, glancing at Cusick, changed his mind. We went out onto the deck. Speer lay sprawled on his back. The entire front of him, from throat to crotch, was stained dark. The blood that drenched his shirt and puddled on the wood planks glistened in the bright floodlights.

O’Keefe handed the shotgun to Cusick. Then he reached down and grabbed Speer by his armpits. “Get his legs,” said Cusick to me. I bent and gripped Speer under his knees. Slowly, awkwardly, we lugged the limp, dead-weight body of Gil Speer down a rough path to the dock where the boat was moored.

Her name was painted on the transom.
Gretel.
Newburyport. A local boat.

We laid Speer on the dock while O’Keefe climbed aboard. Then he reached over and we heaved and shoved the corpse over the side. It fell into the bottom of the boat with a muffled thump.

Harry Cusick, who had followed us down the path, was standing on the dock behind me, the shotgun cradled casually under his arm. I thought of disarming him with a deft feint and jab and judo throw, grabbing the shotgun, and getting the drop on O’Keefe, just like on television.

What I actually did was nothing, just like in real life.

O’Keefe jumped back onto the dock and took the shotgun from Cusick, who then climbed aboard and ducked into the cabin. He started up the engines. They purred and burbled powerfully. Then he came out of the cabin. He held a revolver, which he was pointing at me. “Okay, Mr. Coyne. Come aboard. Step down. Mind the corpse, now. Be careful. Don’t slip and fall on the blood.”

I stepped into the boat. Gil Speer’s body lay on its stomach. If it weren’t for the impossibly awkward way one of his arms was twisted behind him, he could have been sleeping.

Cusick told me to go down below. There were three or four short steps. I had to duck my head. Below deck there was a small room with berths lined on either side. The boat would sleep six hunchbacked midgets in comfort. There was a door leading to what I assumed was the head.

“Sit,” said Cusick.

I sat on one of the berths. Cusick remained standing, holding his revolver on me, until O’Keefe came below. “I undid the ropes,” he said.

“Lines,” said Cusick.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Not ropes. Don’t call them ropes. They’re lines.”

“Whatever. I undid them. Let’s get going. Tally ho, or whatever you’re supposed to say.”

“Anchors aweigh,” sang Cusick. He went topside. O’Keefe sat on the berth across from me, one fat leg crossed over the other, his shotgun resting on it, pointing at me.

“A sea cruise,” I said. “Goody.”

“You’ve got some sense of humor, Mr. Coyne.”

I shrugged. “I just like boats. Can’t help it.”

“You ought to really like this trip.”

“So who was your friend?”

“Which friend?”

“The dead guy. In my apartment.”

“You mean Rat? Rat Benetti. You probably never heard of him.”

“Never heard of you, for that matter. Which of you was the clever one who tortured Buddy Baron?”

“Oh, that was Rat. He was always creative at that sort of thing. The toaster was his idea. The kid died real fast.”

“So you figured he had given me the report card.”

“We actually thought he had Speer’s list.”

“Well, he didn’t. And when you dropped in on me, I didn’t have it, either.”

O’Keefe yawned. “The sea air. Always makes me sleepy.”

“It tends to make me sick,” I said.

We had been moving for eight or ten minutes. Through the small porthole I could see coastal lights blinking in the distance. We seemed to be moving parallel to the coast, heading north.

It was what they call a medium sea. The boat bucked and rolled in the swells.

O’Keefe yawned again. He stood up, went to a cabinet, and pulled out a bag of potato chips. Then he sat down again. He rummaged in the bag and brought out a big handful of chips. He began to eat them. He ate delicately, taking little nips out of each chip.

He noticed me watching him. “You hungry? Want some chips?”

“Jesus, no,” I said.

He cocked his head at me. “You all right?”

“Not really.”

“You don’t look that great, sir.”

I swallowed hard and slumped back onto the berth.

“Listen,” said O’Keefe. “You better the hell not puke.”

“No promises,” I mumbled.

“Aw, shit,” he said. I felt his hands on me. “Hey. Come on. Get up. Let’s go up there and get some air.”

“Just leave me alone.”

“Nossir, by Jesus, you ain’t gonna stink up this boat. Not while I’ve got to ride in it.” He grabbed my shoulder and yanked on it. “Get your ass up.”

“Please be gentle,” I moaned.

“Okay, okay. I’m gentle. Stand up.”

I pushed myself to a standing position and remained there, swaying precariously with the motion of the boat. O’Keefe jabbed my back with the bore of his shotgun. “Go on. Up the stairs.”

I pulled myself slowly up the steps. Topside, the fresh salt air tasted good. Cusick was in the cabin, steering. He swiveled his head around. “Hey, what the hell are you doing?” he yelled at O’Keefe over the roar of the engines.

“This bastard’s threatening to blow lunch down there.”

“Let him.”

“Sure. Fine for you. You can stay up here and run the damn boat.”

Cusick shrugged and turned his attention back to his navigation.

“Feel any better now?” said O’Keefe.

“No. Worse.”

“Be easier if I just killed you right now.”

“Do it,” I said. “Please.”

I made a gagging noise and stumbled for the side of the boat. Land appeared to be close, but I knew how deceiving distances can be over water. We were probably a couple miles out, still roughly paralleling the coastline.

I hung my head over the side. They were going to take me and Gil Speer’s dead body out there someplace and dump us where the currents would carry us to Africa. Then they’d head back in and for them it would be business as usual. The disappearances of Gil Speer, computer specialist at a small North Shore high school, and Brady L. Coyne, mild-mannered Boston barrister, would be mysteries. Harry Cusick, the local police chief, would investigate thoroughly. He would give statements to the press. He would track down leads. He would discover that Coyne had been in town the evening he disappeared, that he had, in fact, had an appointment with Speer. The trail would end at Computer City, where Coyne was last seen alive.

Our bodies would never be found, at least not by human beings.

The sharks and other seagoing scavengers would undoubtedly find us.

I braced my hands against the side of the boat, tensed my legs, and pushed. I tumbled over the side into the dark, shockingly cold water.

I
WOULDN’T GLORIFY THE
tumble from boat to sea by calling it a dive, but it did the trick. I landed on my right shoulder, and in the same motion I aimed for the briny deep and kicked as hard as I could. I heard the muffled thrumming of the twin propellers pass overhead.

I stayed under until my lungs burned and lights began to flicker alarmingly in my head. It took an enormous effort of will to ease myself slowly to the surface and let just my face emerge. Air never tasted so sweet.

I found myself in the trough of a swell, a valley surrounded by smooth mountains of water. I could neither see nor hear
Gretel.
Nor could I see land.

I trod water for a few minutes, resting and replenishing my oxygen supply. I picked out the few constellations I recognized—both dippers, the three stars of Orion. They didn’t help me get myself oriented at all.

I rode up onto the crest of a giant swell just in time to see
Gretel
coming straight at me. They had a spotlight, which they were playing around, first on one side then on the other. Since they hadn’t centered me in it, I assumed they hadn’t seen me.

I bobbed there for as long as I dared, waiting to see where the boat was going. It was about to pass just to the left of me when I let myself sink beneath the surface. From the way the sound moved under the water, I was able to determine when she had passed by, and I swam over to where her wake would be. It was, I figured, the last place they’d think to shine their light.

When I surfaced, I saw
Gretel
moving directly away from me. She was chugging along slowly. Cusick and O’Keefe were scanning the seas with the spotlight methodically. They’d probably turn soon and do another lap.

In the meantime, I realized I had other problems. I was an unknown but substantial distance from land. The water, while not frigid, was cold. I knew about hypothermia, and I knew that my allotted time to survive in the sea was limited. I probably had two hours. Three at the outside. Avoiding detection by the murderers aboard
Gretel
was one thing. But I also had to make it to land.

I floated to the top of another swell and found the glow of city lights in the night sky that located the coastline. I’d worry about the boat when it came near. But I had to start moving.

I set off, propelled by my inefficient crawl. Too much arm and shoulder, too little kick. I had never been completely comfortable in the water, and my lack of conditioning didn’t help. I tired quickly, so I switched to a smoother sidestroke. That moved me more slowly, but it allowed me to regulate my breathing. After a few minutes I paused and tugged off my pants and shoes and let them sink. I found I could move better after that.

I kept oriented toward the coastline, and every once in a while I stopped swimming to check my progress.

It was discouraging. I didn’t seem to be getting anywhere. The lights appeared to be as far away as they had when I started. I wondered if the tide was carrying me in the wrong direction, or if I was caught in a current.

And already I had begun to feel tired. My legs were growing numb from the cold water.

The good news was that
Gretel
had not made another appearance.

I realized that if I was to make it, I had to turn off my mind and put my body on automatic pilot. So I resumed my crawl stroke. After a few minutes I found a rhythm.

The rhythm came from an ancient work song I was taught in second-grade music class. “The Song of the Vulgar Boatman” was what I was certain old Miss Marselli named it. Something to do with big flat-bottomed barges on the Vulgar River somewhere in Europe, and it was several years before I learned that the river was in fact called the Volga.

But as a second-grader, the Vulgar Boatman had been a real, living presence. I pictured him vividly in my young imagination. He was tall, sinewy, and incredibly ugly. He had a scar on his cheek and rheumy red eyes. Long greasy hair, a scraggly beard, big, uneven, yellow-stained teeth. He poled that boat along, chanting his song, and interspersing it with all the colorful vulgarities my young ears had heard.

“Yo, ho,
heave,
ho,” sang the Vulgar Boatman in my ear. “Swim, you asshole,” he whispered.