“Don’t pay much mind to names,” the man said. “So I won’t even ask you yours.”
“You know the man who owns this boat?”
“You some kind of a cop?”
“I’m trying to get in touch with Mr. Shevlin,” he said.
“You didn’t exactly answer the question, did you?”
“Why should I? You haven’t answered any of mine.”
“People around here mostly got better things to do than answer questions, especially when they don’t know who’s asking ’em. One thing we do know, we know you don’t go on a man’s boat without an invitation. You’re standing on his deck.”
The son of a bitch had a point. He got back onto the pier, and the man yawned, showing Buckram what he’d obviously not shown a dentist in ages.
He said, “Answer a question, and save us both some trouble. Have you seen Shevlin in the past two weeks?”
“I don’t keep much track of time. Or of who I seen and when I seen ’em.”
“Has anybody taken the boat out recently?”
“What’s it matter?”
What he wanted to do was kick the big son of a bitch in the knee. Knock his leg out from under him, then shove him off the pier and into the water. The water was no pure mountain stream, but he’d come out of it cleaner than when he went in.
But then, grudgingly, the dipshit answered the question. Sometimes the old man boarded the boat at night. Took it out for a couple of hours, then brought it in.
That was all he was going to get, and as much as he’d expected. Nor did he figure to get much more from anybody else. He’d do better going into some dark holler in the Ozarks and asking if there were any illegal stills operating nearby. He understood those folks really knew how to make you feel welcome.
The Carpenter, wearing his yachting clothes, the cap perched jauntily on his head, sat on a shaded bench in Riverside Park. He waited while the shadows deepened and the last of the sunset’s glow faded from the darkening sky. He didn’t see anyone coming or going from the Boat Basin, and judged it safe to board the
He was doing just that when a voice said, “Hey, Shevlin.”
The gun was in the cabin, clipped to the top of the little chest of drawers. He had the key to the cabin in his hand. If he could just ignore the voice long enough to get into the cabin and get to the pistol...
“Isn’t that your name? That’s who he was askin’ for.”
So this person didn’t know Peter Shevlin, wouldn’t unmask him as an imposter. And his information might be important.
The Carpenter turned, smiled at a black-bearded mountain of a man, a Hell’s Angel costumed as a wharf rat. “We never met, but I seen you around,” the man said. “Don’t want to stick my nose in, it’s not my nature, but you had a visitor, and I figured you’d want to know about it.” And he told of a man who’d come aboard the
“But he didn’t flash any tin, and he didn’t push it like a cop would. And he got off your boat when I called him on it.”
“There’s a lawsuit,” the Carpenter said. “They want me to appear as a witness, and it’s all very tiresome.”
“Figured it was something like that. Just thought you’d like to know about it.”
“That was thoughtful of you. I appreciate it.”
“Hey,” the man said, “we got to stick together, you know?” He grinned. “We’re all in the same boat.”
One look at the river told you it was a holiday weekend. Even at this hour there were still plenty of boats out. He loved the way they looked, small private craft enjoying the city’s great harbor. The little sailboats were especially attractive, and it looked like fun, sailing around as they did, pushed by the wind. It would be silent on a sailboat, too. You wouldn’t have the noise of the boat’s engine.
But you’d have to know what you were doing. He supposed it was the sort of thing a person could learn, and felt a momentary pang of regret that he never had. It was something one ought to have done earlier in life, and for a few minutes he allowed himself a fantasy of what might have been, pictured himself at the helm of a small sailboat, accompanied by his wife and children. He’d bark out orders —
Someone had put his feet on the deck of the
This was not good at all.
