Текст книги "Swains Lock"

Автор книги: Edward A. Stabler

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

To the left of the stove on the forward wall was a freestanding cupboard that held assorted plates, bowls, cups and utensils in its lower shelves and the limited provisions of the Emorys’ kitchen behind its single door. Beans, a few eggs, five or six potatoes, flour, Crisco, coffee, and sugar. Below the window to Lee’s left, two narrow bunks were built into the wall, one above the other. To the immediate left of the entryway, a small drop-leaf table was anchored to the aft wall, its free end projecting into the room. Two wooden stools stood alongside it.

“Welcome to Emory’s house of fine dining,” Kevin said, extending the table to its full length and pushing one of the stools toward Lee with his boot. He retrieved three mismatched tin cups and two glazed-clay bowls from the cupboard and put them on the table. Not finding another bowl, he settled on a small frying pan and put that on the table as well, along with banged-up metal spoons. “With no woman on board, meals are a little less elegant than we like them to be.” He splashed a few fingers of moonshine from the jug into each of the cups. At the stove, Tom ladled overflowing spoonfuls of bean soup into the bowls and frying pan, then ferried them to the table. Kevin collected his cup and the frying pan and sat back on the lower bunk, facing Lee across the table. Tom took the stool to Lee’s right.

Lee salivated as the smell of hot soup rose to his nostrils. He put a spoonful in his mouth and the soup’s heat warmed his whole body. Navy beans, large chunks of softened potatoes, stewed tomatoes that had almost dissolved, and a bit of onion. And Kevin was right that the ham made a difference. He greedily took another spoonful.

Lee watched Kevin tilt his cup back and close his eyes while not swallowing, just letting the raw whiskey massage his lips and trickle into his mouth. Kevin opened his eyes and inhaled sharply. “Now that, cousin, is the taste of money. Thanks to our friends in Washington, D.C.” Tom snorted contemptuously between slurped spoonfuls, then threw back a slug of whiskey without taking his eyes off his bowl.

Lee stared at the three fingers of moonshine in his own cup, and the alcohol vapors made his eyes water. He emulated Kevin, taking a slow sip and holding it in his mouth. The heat was round and almost palpable but the whiskey had very little taste. When he swallowed, it sent a warm kick into his chest that briefly expelled the air from his lungs. He lowered the cup and slurped air as his eyes teared up. “It may be money,” he said, turning back to his soup, “but it sure ain’t legal tender. How much are you hauling?”

“Two barrels for a customer in Georgetown,” Kevin said, digging back into the soup. “Fifty-three gallons each.” He belched and wiped his lips on his hand. “And another barrel to sell by the gallon along the canal. We got customers at a few of the locks and stores. And some fixing to be middlemen, like your friend who got stuck down at the end of this level.”

“You mean the captain on number 41?” Lee said, caught off-guard. “Cy Elgin?”

“The same,” Kevin said. “We met him near the end of last season and did a little business. He sent word he wanted to catch us on the first run of the year. Said he’d be starting out from a stuck boat above Swains, and a young feller from Seneca who boated with Ben Myers was bringing his mules down from winter quarters.” Kevin stopped for another drawn-out sip of moonshine. “That’s how we knowed you’d be down on this part of the canal. So we figured you could boat with us back up to Harpers Ferry on our way home.”

Tom finished scraping puddles from the bottom of his bowl and leaned away from the table. “Always good to get another pair of hands on board,” he said, belching and looking at Lee with expressionless eyes.

“And a third set of legs on the towpath,” Kevin said with a wink. “One trick on, two tricks off. Allows for family conversation at the tiller.” He pushed the empty frying pan onto the table before knocking back the rest of his whiskey with a wrist tilt, then put the cup down and rubbed his reddish-brown mustache. “So we was wondering, cousin,” he said, “how you got tied up with Cyrus Elgin in the first place. He don’t really seem like your type.” Tom had pulled his knife from its sheath and was holding it a few inches above the table, then dropping its point to the wooden slab. When the stuck knife stopped wobbling, he repeated the process.

Lee explained that when he heard Cy was stranded on the drained White Oak Springs level, he’d offered to find a winter farm for Cy’s mules. Lee was going to give his farmer friend in Seneca the chance to earn a few dollars but had decided to take care of the mules himself instead. He was planning to request the standard fee from the canal company, since the company generally paid to have its mules wintered. “I never got an opinion of Cy from last season,” he added. “Just saw him coming and going a few times. Didn’t seem like a real friendly guy, but I never heard of him causing trouble neither.”

“You might want to keep an eye in the back of your head when he’s around,” Kevin said. “Based on what we heard last fall, he ain’t your typical ditch runner.”

Lee nodded, remembering Cy’s bloodshot arrival at Swains last December, too late to see off Katie and Pete. “I know he growed up boating out of Williamsport, then moved away to Philadelphia during the war,” Lee said. “Worked as a welder in the Navy boatyard there. His sister told me he fell off a scaffold and broke his hip.”

Tom left his knife wobbling in the impaled table as he leered at Kevin, who leaned toward Lee with a slowly spreading grin. “You met his sister?”

“I met her last season, when she come down to help Cy close up the boat,” Lee said warily. “Seen her a few times, I guess.”

“She’s a looker,” Kevin said. “Short blond hair, kind of flirty. Going on twenty or twenty-one, maybe?”

Lee flushed and stared at the moonshine in his cup. “That don’t sound exactly like Katie,” he said. “She’s only eighteen. Could be you met her sister.”

Kevin chuckled and shook his head. He bent forward to snare the jug from the table, then poured himself a refill and sat back on the bunk. “Oh, I think we met the same girl. She was with Cy when we did a little business with him in Williamsport last fall. We was doing a run upstream and he was home for a few days between trips.”

Lee looked at Kevin in surprise. It stung him a little that his cousins knew Katie, and he bought time with another slow sip of whiskey. That Cy would associate with the Emorys didn’t surprise him, but Katie – whose fingers had singed his wrist, and who had worn her Sunday dress to walk with him out to Great Falls yesterday – that felt like a minor injustice. When Lee lowered his cup, Tom had resumed dropping his knife into the table. Kevin ran a meaty hand through his streaked hair and gave Lee a sincere look.

“I’d keep an eye on her as well, cousin,” he said. “She strikes me as the kind of girl that can make a man see whatever he wants to see.”

Lee felt the skin around his temples burn. He focused on the knife stabbing the table. Tom plucked it free with a flourish, sheathed it, and looked at Kevin. “Still got six miles of boating to Widewater, and we got to get through Swains and Six Locks first.”

“Quite true, my brother,” Kevin said. He put his hands on his knees and rose heavily from the bunk. “Cousin Lee, thanks for joining us at Emory’s house of fine dining.” He dug into his hip pouch for a plug of tobacco, which he crammed into the side of his mouth and worked into place with his tongue. “We’ll look for you here in a few days,” he said, spitting stained saliva into the empty frying pan, “for the trip upstream.”

After subduing his tobacco, Kevin went on to explain that they planned to tie up at Widewater, below Great Falls. From there they could make Georgetown by mid-afternoon tomorrow and meet with their customer tomorrow night. They planned to spend the following two days in Georgetown before heading back upstream on Friday. That should get them back to Pennyfield sometime after noon on Saturday. Lee could boat with them to the Harpers Ferry level, then find passage up to Hancock to meet Ben Myers on the number 9 boat. By then the canal should be running all the way down from Cumberland.

Lee retrieved the ham-plate and followed the Emorys back up to the deck of the scow, where Tom put the feed trough away while Lee helped Kevin harness the mules. When they had the towline rigged, Kevin took the tiller. Tom drove the mules forward to drain the slack while Lee untied the mooring lines and tossed them onto the scow. Since the boat was already a hundred feet out on the next level, the current from the flume provided a push. “Up now! Git on, Mike!” Tom called out, slapping the mule in the haunch. Mike and Bess strained against their harnesses and the scow started moving downstream.

Chapter 15

Paying for Ten

Monday, March 24, 1924

Almost an hour later the scow approached a company coal barge tied to the berm. Must be Cy Elgin’s number 41, Kevin thought. He steered a course between the boat and the towpath. Tom slowed the mules and paused to inspect something on the bank. “Nobody on board!” he yelled back to Kevin. He kicked at the long plank as Kevin nodded and held his course.

Around the next shallow bend he saw the whitewashed face of a lockhouse a thousand feet downstream. It was partly obscured by something moving, and he realized that a small boat was heading upstream from the lock. Tom saw it too, because he blew five quick blasts on the tin horn. As the boats drew closer, Kevin recognized the familiar lines of a company repair scow. Its low deck was painted gray and littered with wheelbarrows and bags of gravel and cement. Two workers sat with their backs against the cabin wall. In deference to a loaded boat, the repair scow steered to the berm side of the canal while its mule driver guided his team to a stop on the outer fringe of the towpath. The repair scow’s towline slackened, fell into the canal, and slipped beneath the surface of the water.

Tom guided Mike and Bess forward, and they stepped carefully over the downed towline as they passed the repair scow’s team. Even after you’d been on the canal for years, passing a boat going in the opposite direction was something that made you pay attention, since there was a half-dozen ways to muck it up. Kevin doffed his hat as the Emorys’ scow slid over the sunken towline. “Much obliged, gentlemen!” The dozing workers ignored him. The captain nodded and the driver restarted his team.

Kevin looked ahead toward Swains Lock, which he now knew was set for a loaded boat. When Tom blew a series of blasts, Kevin saw a figure emerge from the lockhouse, traverse the lock, and proceed haltingly toward the upstream gates. He’s going to snub us, Kevin thought, as he watched Cy exchange a few words with Tom. Very accommodating of you, Cy.

“I thought bootleggers knew how to move fast,” Cy said, shaking his head after snubbing the scow. He looked across the lock at Kevin who was swinging the gate closed. “Two full days to get from Harpers Ferry to Swains. You fellas ain’t exactly the Pony Express.”

Kevin chuckled. “I can’t speak for outlaws, Cy. But we Emorys like to practice what we call smart boating. Not fast boating.” He hopped back onto the scow. “Now if more locktenders was as committed as you are, we might of got here a bit sooner.”

“I ain’t no locktender,” Cy muttered, crossing the scow back to the berm. “God help me if I ever sink that low.” He limped across the grass and disappeared into the lockhouse.

Tom helped Kevin remove hatch five and the layer of firewood concealing the barrel. As they propped the barrel, Cy reappeared and set a five-gallon cask on the deck. Tom drew a sample from the tap into a tin cup, then handed it to Cy, who knocked back the whiskey and grimaced. He nodded before turning back toward the lockhouse.

Kevin smirked at Tom. “I guess he’s buying.” They wedged Cy’s cask into position beneath the barrel and used funnels to create a path from the tap to the cask head. Kevin twisted the tap wide open and whiskey flowed through the funnels into the cask. As Tom lifted the stoppered cask onto the hatch, Cy laid down a second five-gallon cask.

“It’s always gratifying to find a customer who appreciates a quality product,” Kevin said.

“Let’s hope I’m not the only one willing to pay for it,” Cy said. He carried the first cask into the lockhouse while Kevin and Tom filled the second and set it on the deck.

Kevin retreated to the cabin, where he knelt near the bottom stair to pull a metal toolbox out from under the drop-leaf table. The box had a clamshell top that was held shut by two clasps and a keyed lock-plate. Kevin gripped the suitcase-style handle. Heavy enough right now, he thought – at least fifteen pounds. But it should weigh a lot more after we leave Georgetown. Let’s give old Cyrus a chance to add his two bits.

He carried the box up to the deck and set it down against the forward wall of the cabin. Cy had vanished with the second cask, but he reappeared and limped back onto the scow.

“Well you just relieved us of ten gallons of fine whiskey,” Kevin said, removing his hat and running a hand through sweat-streaked hair. “Tom and I will understand if you want to keep it all for yourself, but if you was looking to sell, you should be able to fetch twelve dollars a gallon.”

“That’s about what I reckoned,” Cy said. He turned to face Kevin with watery eyes bordered by dark rings, and Kevin noticed that his stubble was tinged with gray.

“Since you’re a repeat customer,” Kevin said, “and we want to cultivate our relationship further, we’re going to offer you a favorable price this year.” He paused for effect and to insert an incremental pinch of tobacco. “Nine-seventy-five a gallon,” he said.

“That’s no bargain,” Cy said. He glared at Kevin for a moment. “But so be it. You can have thirty now and the rest of it on your trip back upstream.”

Kevin stopped working his chaw and squinted as if he hadn’t heard correctly. Tom let his knife plunge into the wooden hatch and wobble as he trained his dark eyes on Cy. “You might of told us you wasn’t prepared to pay cash before you carted off our whiskey,” he said with a hint of menace to his voice.

Cy gave Tom a dismissive look. “I plan to pay cash,” he said to Kevin. “But that means thirty now and the rest on Saturday.” Kevin and Tom exchanged glances but said nothing. “You don’t like it,” Cy said, “I can give you back your ten gallons.”

Ten gallons of what, Kevin thought. For all he knew, someone was already inside the lockhouse, replacing whiskey with water. Maybe that girl. He walked over to the rail and spat. “If you want credit, the price is ten-fifty per gallon,” he said. “We’ll take your thirty now and seventy-five more when we see you on Saturday.” Cy grunted his acceptance and handed over a small wad of bills. Kevin confirmed the sum and they shook hands.

Pulling a key chain from his pocket, Kevin knelt to unlock the toolbox. “Damn, I hate paper money,” he said to himself, adding the bills to a clip in the main compartment. “And here I was thinking I’d need the box to make change.” He closed the latches and locked the box. Standing up, he saw Tom unwinding the snub-line while Cy waited to open the wickets.

The lockhouse door opened and a figure emerged. It was Katie, carrying an empty basket. She glanced at the scow on her way to the side-yard, where she began to pull dry clothes from a clothesline. Cy and Tom swung the lock-keys as she passed, and the lock began to drain.

Kevin retrieved the feed bucket from the hayhouse and carried it to the berm. “I’m glad we was able to work out your purchase,” he said to Cy, who was watching the water recede. “We try to keep our whiskey affordable, which means keeping our costs down.” He smiled at Cy, who radiated indifference. “One thing we hate to do is pay for coal. Especially since we know coal is free, for anyone who works around a lock.” He turned and spat into the lock. “In that spirit, we’d be much obliged if you could spare us a bucket of canal-company coal from the lockhouse bin. We picked some up yesterday, but not enough to make it to Georgetown.”

Cy momentarily looked as if he might throw the bucket in the canal, but instead took it without a word and limped toward the lockhouse. Maybe he’s practicing his salesmanship, Kevin thought, suppressing a chuckle. He watched Cy enter the lockhouse, then headed for the side-yard. Katie’s back was turned as she unpinned a blouse from the clothesline and folded it over the basket. He walked up behind her quietly.

“That sure is a pretty shirt, Miss Elgin!”

Katie spun like a startled rabbit and the blouse came unfolded in her hands. Her eyes narrowed when she recognized Kevin, but she didn’t reply. Kevin extended his hand and lifted a dangling sleeve to the level of her waist. “I bet that would look especially nice on you,” he said. He draped the sleeve along her own and stroked it with his fingers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to try it on for me and Tom right now, would you?” Katie stepped backward and stared at him in silence, her hands holding the blouse at waist level as he wiped the corner of his mouth.

“You know,” he said, “I’m sorry the three of us was interrupted last summer while we was getting to know each other. I think we may get a more favorable opportunity, since we expect to make several runs down to Georgetown this year.” He stared at her with narrowed, mirthful eyes as a grin spread across his face. “We’ll be looking for you!” He winked and hurried to the walkway as Cy reappeared with the bucket of coal.

Chapter 16

The Big Fish

Tuesday, March 25, 1924

The next morning Kevin piloted the scow down through Widewater and the mules pulled easier with deeper water under the hull. Two hundred feet to their left, towering sycamores flared over the water from the steep pitch of the berm. As Widewater narrowed, Tom drove the mules along the downstream portion of the Log Wall, where the towpath crossed from Bear Island back onto the Maryland shore of the Potomac. Fifty feet below them the river glimmered through the trees as it drifted away from the towpath. The canal regained its usual dimensions, running straight for half a mile, and Kevin trained his eyes on the berm. When he saw the dirt scar, he cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ho, Tommy! Whoa now!”

Tom stopped the team and Kevin steered the scow toward a landing on the berm. He looped a line over the tiller, waited until the gap was right, and leapt with the coiled snub line. The scar was a path leading away from the canal, and he jogged a few steps along it as the bow nudged into the berm. He tied the snub line to a tree and turned up the path.

For conviction, he spat out his chaw, pulled the flask from his vest, and knocked back a sip. The whiskey expanded in his mouth and burned away the residual tobacco juice. He swallowed and issued an airy whistle of appreciation. “Taste of money,” he muttered tentatively. “I hope our man agrees.”

The path climbed through the woods to the macadamized surface of Conduit Road. Across it was a rambling low-slung house with a dirt driveway and a signpost that read “Old Angler’s Inn.” The driveway led to a deserted flagstone patio and the entrance door.

The lobby of the inn was softly lit, with a low ceiling and paneled walls anchored by a stone fireplace. When Kevin was greeted by the attendant, he removed his hat and introduced himself, asking that his name be passed along to a Mr. Carruthers. Kevin was puzzling over the menu board when Carruthers arrived, entering from a swinging door at the opposite end of the room, a white chef’s apron girding his ample waist. Wisps of receding dark hair were plastered back across his scalp and his face was beefy and florid, his recessed eyes a leaden color that reminded Kevin of musket balls. The eyes measured Kevin with a glance that betrayed no recognition. Jerking his head for Kevin to follow, Carruthers marched back through the swinging door and into a hallway before turning abruptly into a small office. Bookcases topped with mementos, a desk covered with open ledgers, and two upholstered chairs were its principal contents. When Kevin entered, Carruthers closed the door behind them.

“Why are you here, Mr. Emory?” He stared blankly at Kevin with breathing that was audible and wet, like that of a bulldog.

Kevin nodded in deference before answering. “My brother and I are distillers. We were referred to you by an important customer of ours, Mr. Finn Geary.”

Carruthers’ demeanor softened and the musket-ball eyes reflected a few rays of light. Kevin ran a hand through his matted hair. “We deliver along the canal, and late last year Mr. Geary told us to arrange his future deliveries through you.” He paused to let Carruthers digest the message. “He also said that doing business would depend on your recommendations.”

Carruthers turned and sat down in one of the chairs beside the desk. The swell of his belly pushed his thighs apart, bestowing an aura of tribal authority. He gestured for Kevin to take the other chair, so Kevin sat down with his hat on his lap.

“You on your way to Georgetown now?”

Kevin nodded. “We’re tied up a stone’s throw from here on the canal, on our third day down from Harpers Ferry. We can offer Mr. Geary two barrels of Washington County whiskey. Fifty-three gallons each.” He watched the corners of Carruthers’ mouth turn upward, lending a mischievous aspect to the bulldog face. The wet breaths rose and fell as he studied Kevin.

“Well,” Carruthers said, “I’m no prophet. Did you bring a sample?”

Kevin smiled warmly. “Of course.” He removed the flask from his vest pocket and handed it to Carruthers, who hoisted himself up and retrieved a shot-glass from one of his bookcases. He dusted its interior with his apron, poured a shot, and sat down again, swirling the glass and examining its contents. Holding the glass beneath his nose, he sniffed twice, and Kevin wondered whether the mouth-breathing was to spare his nose the prosaic task of respiration. Maybe he needed to save it for evaluating things that could be consumed. Then Carruthers flicked his wrist with reptilian quickness and knocked back the shot. He rubbed his nose and blinked and Kevin saw a watery film linger in his eyes. Carruthers took a long breath to re-establish his wet and shallow rhythm.

“It’s OK,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had worse.” Clearing his throat, he poured himself another half-ounce. He closed his eyes and drank it in a single sip, holding the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing. “No aging,” he said.

“Oh, we aged it,” Kevin said with a chuckle. “Maybe two, three weeks!”

“Geary don’t really need that for his customers,” Carruthers said, ignoring the joke. “Working stiffs. Little guys. Drunks. Now the clients we see here wouldn’t touch your stuff.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Kevin said softly.

Carruthers twisted the top back on and handed the flask to Kevin. He fished a pocket watch out of his pants pocket and examined it. “You know Fletcher’s boathouse?”

“On the four-mile level of Georgetown? About a mile below Chain Bridge?”

Carruthers nodded and stood up. The film had receded from his eyes and his bulldog aspect returned. Kevin stood up as well. “Look for a message on the board at Fletcher’s later today,” Carruthers said. “By four o’clock. The message will tell you when and where you can make the delivery.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the terms?”

“The message will specify the terms as well.” The bulldog turned mischievous for an instant. “What Mr. Geary is willing to pay.” Carruthers walked to the swinging door in the hallway and held it open. The door swung closed on Kevin’s heels.

He left the inn and walked back across Conduit Road and down to the canal. The scow was still snubbed against the berm and Tom appeared to be napping on the edge of the towpath, hat pulled down over his eyes with his back against a tree. Kevin surveyed the sky over the river; streaks of low clouds but enough blue sky that it didn’t look like rain. He dug his pouch out of his vest pocket, pinched a wad, and inserted it against his cheek. Four o’clock at Fletcher’s boathouse, he thought, prodding the tobacco into shape with his tongue. That was somewhere around mile 3. So they had seven hours to go nine miles and drop through nine locks. Pretty damn leisurely, and there was nothing wrong with that.

He was less sure about his visit with Carruthers. The tasting must have been decent, or why send them to Fletcher’s? Why not just kick him out of the office? Hell, it was the same whiskey he and Tom had sold to Geary last year, so the man should know what he was getting by now. It was definitely good enough. But what price were they going to get? This system didn’t seem to leave much room for negotiation. Last year Geary had paid seven-fifty a gallon, and he probably cut it and sold it for one-fifty a pint. But last year was only forty gallons – just a test buy. For a hundred and six gallons, he might want a better deal.

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.