North of Boston (12 page)

Milosa snorts. “Desperate people will do anything,
anything
. I've seen it. I lived under Stalin. I saw things that go beyond anything, that are incomprehensible. Your weakness—the weakness of your soft American life—is you think that all people are like you, that reason can explain everything in this world. You expect two plus two to equal four. But it doesn't. It equals whatever the powerful say it does. If they say it equals a hundred and eight, the mathematicians will prove it's so. If they want to make splinters of a man's fishing boat, nothing can stop it from happening.”

“But there's no evidence of foul play.” My voice is thin. In truth, it scares me when Milosa talks this way.

He shrugs indifferently. “You and your evidence. Tell me, how do you sleep? How does it feel in here?” He jabs the blunt ends of his fingers into the middle of his chest.

“Uneasy.”

“Yes.” His eyes glitter darkly. “Find the boat, the
Sea Wolf
.” His mouth clamps shut. In his mind, this is all that needs to be said.

I wish that he'd advised just the opposite. That for once he'd be a normal father and tell me to stay out of danger. But he wrought his immigrant success by fighting day after day, clawing for every inch, and he expects his daughter to act the same way. I sigh in resignation. There are benefits to his attitude, I suppose. With a surprising flush of gratitude, I realize that I like the way he believes in me, the way he doesn't waste time.

I take my feet off the coffee table.

He offers me a cigar from a leather box. I take it. He lights mine and then his own. We have been smoking cigars together since I was sixteen. But only on very important occasions. We puff in silence. When the blue smoke is swirling around our heads and our nasal passages are filled with the hot muddy smell of Cuban tobacco, he broaches a subject I never thought I'd hear him talk about. “I've been cruel to Maureen. I see now what a crime it is to marry without love.” He pauses, seeming to judge how much more to say. “Maureen's afraid of you. You have a sense of fragrance that she doesn't have, and she knows you don't appreciate her work. She worries you'll fire her when you take over the company.”

“That's a possibility.”

He squints at me, exhales through his nose. “She's been here for more than twenty years. This company is her life. She deserves more respect than that.”

“Respect? The products she creates are crap. Sweet Surprise? It's an embarrassment.”

“Her products are paying the bills.”

My heart quickens, and my face gets hot. “That may be so. But Maureen has no talent and no vision for the company. She's a manager; that's all she's ever been and all she's capable of being. After my mother died, you gave her a greater role in this company than she deserved, and now she's afraid of losing what she knows was never rightfully hers.”

“What could I do? What choice was there? I gave her the role your mother had, and she made it her own.”

My heart right now is a violent jumble of emotion. Like someone took the top off a boiling pot. “As long as we're being honest, there's something I've always wanted to ask you. Were you fucking Maureen when my mother was alive?”

His color rises sharply; his blue eyes turn metallic. “Do you think your mother was faithful, Pirio? Do you imagine
she
was faithful to
me
?”

I feel my mouth twist. “Why should she be faithful to a pimp?”

He slams his fist down on the table. “How dare you speak to me like this? You, who had schooling, every advantage, everything money could buy. You talk of Maureen, but it's
you
who have what you haven't earned. And yet you sneer at
me
, who worked like a dog, day and night, to make your mother who she was. Who
for her sake
built the company that made her a happy woman. Shame on you for daring to speak to me this way!” He thumps the table again, this time with the flat of his palm.

I blink a few times, hard and fast. But I don't back down. “You don't deny it, then. That you were a pimp. My mother's pimp.”

He stubs his cigar out in the ashtray. Fury turns his words into a staccato hiss. “You know nothing of my life in Moscow and before. You couldn't imagine it if you tried. What do you know of history, of Russian history? You Americans read your Civil War, that's all. And your glorious victory in World War II. You are smug and righteous, only because you are lucky and dumb.”

“You blame everything on Stalin. And when that doesn't work, you go back to Lenin. Then forward to Gorbachev, Yeltsin, Putin. You point to everyone but yourself. And for your information, I
have
studied Russian history. Russian literature, too.”

“Oh, yes,” he drawls sarcastically. “Your Pasternak, your Pushkin. Romantic drivel. You and I can never know each other.
Pah
.” He spits.

I'm breathless with tension, and trying to hide it. I should never have mentioned Russian literature. I showed too much of my soul, and let him dance on it.

Milosa and I stare at each other, not bothering to find words.

My parents' marriage was built on taunts and jeers. They could no more live together than a monkey and a hyena. But they couldn't part. Fighting was what I saw, what I learned, and now it's what I do, at least with Milosa. Sometimes I think it's our way of loving each other, that I would miss it if either of us ever got too nice. But I wish things were different, too.

Milosa picks up his cigar, relights it, draws out a few puffs, and leans back in his chair. “Maureen has worked hard for this company and proved herself many times over. It isn't right that she should live in fear of you, and what you might do . . . later on.”

“What she fears is her business. And you can't expect me to make promises just to satisfy your private guilt.”

His lips pinch together, hollowing out his cheeks. His thinning hair, high forehead, pale skin—suddenly I see the contours of the skull behind his face. “There's truth in what you say, Pirio. Maureen doesn't have your mother's talent or vision. I married her out of weakness, out of need. But you wield that truth like a heavy sword and cut down other truths, humbler ones, that you don't stop to see. Please, I'm asking you from my heart to give Maureen the respect she's earned. She's dedicated her life to Inessa Mark, and me. Don't throw her out on the street when—”

He stops abruptly. We look into each other's feverish eyes.

I'm quite sure he meant to add
when I'm gone
.

Some moments of incredulity pass.

I accuse him, but softly. “Are you dying?”

He turns his shoulder to me in an almost womanish way. “Of course not. I hope to be here for . . . many years.”

That is not the Milosa I know. He doesn't speak like that—in wishes and hopes. He speaks in decisions and actions that don't leave room for doubt. A knot tightens in my stomach. “What do you mean, you
hope
?”

But he's already turned back to his computer and pretends not to hear.

I leave his office in a daze. The halls of Inessa Mark are cathedral hushed. The sniff party has broken up, and the staff has returned to their respective offices or cubicles. On my way to the elevator, I glance into the conference room. Jean-Luc is packing up his cards and coffee beans. Maureen and John Rodgers are standing close together by the window, heads bent in private conversation. Maureen looks up casually as I pass. Her eyes, when they find me, fill with anxiety.

I
have no idea where John Oster is likely to be on a Thursday morning. Maybe he's in the middle of the Atlantic hauling nets filled with squirming silver mackerel, or maybe he's still in bed. I call his cell. If anyone can tell me about the
Sea Wolf
's
voyages, he can.

Two rings. An uneasy memory intrudes. Milosa telling me I'm naive. But he always says that, the old Russian. Never misses an opportunity to ring the old I-am-one-acquainted-with-the-night bell. What does he know?

Four rings now. Little wan bleeps. Like the phone's anemic.
Soft American,
Milosa's whispering in my ear. My gut starts to twist. What do I really know about John Oster these days? Those birdhouses. Johnny up at four, sitting for hours by himself, hunched over. Johnny explaining to me that it was a hit-and-run. But the old Johnny would never have been satisfied with that answer.

Facts: As an employee of Ocean Catch, Johnny's probably involved in whatever's going on there. If I start asking questions about the
Sea Wolf
, he's going to wonder where I got the little information I have. Of course I'd never reveal my source, but he wouldn't rest until he'd figured it out. I'd be putting Mrs. Smith in jeopardy.

I end the call suddenly, glad he didn't answer.

—

Two nineteenth-century brick buildings run parallel to each other down the length of the Boston Fish Pier. Concrete loading docks empty onto the road between them; above each of the docks hangs the shingle of a fish wholesaler: Sonny's, Beau's, North Sea, Atlantic. Tattooed men glisten with sweat; plastic bins of silver fish are being pulled and hoisted; the pavement is slick with blood and guts. A couple of the men stare at me, a well-dressed woman with binoculars around her neck, strolling down their narrow road.

Googling
Sea Wolf
led me to a rock band, a book by Jack London, and an adventure cruise line—also to types of kayaks, luxury yachts, inflatable boats, and attack submarines. No Boston-based fishing vessel. I checked and rechecked. It hardly seems possible that there are things in this world that don't pop up right away on Google. So I came down here, figuring that if I walked around the commercial docks long enough I'd run into it. Not much of a plan, but it's the best I can do.

I reach the end of the pier. Six or seven fishing boats rock softly on the swells, their rubber baffles creaking against the pilings. They're grimy, battered. Steel-sided in green, black, red. Jauntily high at the bow, the middle area flat and open, rolls of orange netting on giant iron spools at the stern. I read names off transoms.
Audrey Marie.
Capt'n Jack.
Lucy Lou.
Mostly women and legendary men. No wolves. On the next pier, across a thin finger of water, the Bank of America Pavilion is almost deserted. Two couples and a man sit at outdoor tables. The blue awning over the picnic area droops.

Nearby, two guys are packing a small truck with plastic tubs of frozen fish. I walk over, wait a minute so I don't seem pushy, then shout out that I'm looking for a boat. One of the guys glances up, keeps working. The other wipes sweat from his face with a dirty cloth and strolls over. “Yeah? What boat?”

“
Sea Wolf
. You know the one?”

“Yeah, sure. It's an Ocean Catch vessel. Been fishing out of Boston Harbor I don't know how long. Before my time, anyway.”

He looks about twenty-five. I ask if he knows where the boat is now.

“Drydock, I'm pretty sure. Came in from sea with some kind of problem. They hauled it outta here a couple of weeks ago.”

“Know what the problem was?”

“No, ma'am.”

I ask him where the drydock is. He says there are a few, but that I should try Drydock 3 on Drydock Ave first. As I head back to my car, I notice that the two couples who were nestled under the awning of the Bank of America Pavilion are gone, and now just one man is seated there, facing the harbor and city skyline. I take a second look. Maybe it's the way he's got his coat buttoned up, the collar raised, his baseball cap pulled down—it's not
that
cold out. I stare a few beats longer than I should, until I sense that the eyes shadowed by the brim of the cap are looking right at me. Or were. The minute I realize it, he's on his feet and walking away.

I freeze with unexpected fear. To follow him, I'd have to run to the end of the fish pier and along Northern Ave to the gates of the Pavilion. By then he'd be gone. But what am I even talking about? All the guy did was look at me and walk away. There's no law against that.

If I don't stop being so edgy, I'll end up doing something stupid soon.

—

Drydock 3 is brown and muddy; boats undergoing repair rest in huge wooden cradles that look like dinosaur ribs, their hulls scaled by ladders. Rusted parts lie around like scattered bones: bent railings, warped propeller blades.

I find the
Sea Wolf
near the entrance, looking healthier than its neighbors but none too pretty. I walk around it a few times, gazing up at the massive hull—the black below-water section, the white waterline, and the red steel sides dotted at intervals by black portholes small as pigs' eyes. The stern is built up with a two-to-three-story structure, while the front two thirds is flatter. There's an irregular notch, about ten feet by ten feet, cut in the starboard side from the deck to the waterline. From where I'm standing I can't see much more than that.

A man emerges from the manager's office and strolls over. A hunched back, stringy hair, a heavy beer gut over short legs, clothes the color of tar and rust. He looks as if he slowly blended into his environment over the years and now belongs to it the way a troll belongs under a bridge.

“Nice boat, huh?” he says. He eyes my clothes, my face, my hair—scanning to get a read on me and not having much luck.

“Is it? I wouldn't know. It just seems huge to me.”

“Not a fisherman, I take it.”

“Not on anything like this.”

“What's your interest?”

“Educational.”

“Really?” His eyebrows shoot up; he wasn't expecting that.

“Yes, I'm thinking I might bring my fourth-grade class here, show them something about commercial fishing, as part of a unit we're doing on our state's resources and industry.”

“Well, this kind of boat would be a good place to start. It's a real workhorse, a big producer. One hundred and sixty-seven feet, over a one-million-pound capacity. One of the few freezer long-liners around. Most of the big commercial fishing vessels coming out of Boston are trawlers.”

“My fourth graders aren't going to know what any of that means.”

“A long-liner uses hooks strung on lines. That's why they're called . . . Well, you get it. The hooks are baited automatically, like, thousands per day. A trawler tows a big net and hauls the catch up the stern ramp. You see, this boat doesn't have a stern ramp; it hauls the catch up the side, there.” He points to the cutout area on the starboard side.

“Any way I can get on it?”

“No. The owner wouldn't go for that. I'd recommend you go down to the fish pier if you want to board a commercial fishing craft. Somebody'd let you on, I think. Long as the kids were well behaved.”

“Angels, all twenty-two.” I pause. “What's this boat doing in dry dock anyway?”

“Fracture in the hull.”

“Oh, yeah? What causes . . . something like that?”

“Could be anything.”

“Like what?”

He looks a little wary. “A collision, running aground, motoring too fast through ice. Or sometimes a crack just appears. Age, stress in the metal. It's hard to say. Anyway, it's all fixed up now. Be back in business soon.”

I walk over to the bow and look straight up, craning my neck. “Where was the crack?”

He doesn't move to join me. “Why do you want to know?”

“Just curious. I don't see any evidence of repair here.”

“It's been repainted.”

“Really? Before you painted— I mean, when it first came in, you didn't happen to notice any chips of paint around the fracture, did you?”

“No. There were no paint chips,” he says stiffly. He knows better than to answer that.

“Must be hard to tell.”

He's glaring now, all friendliness gone.

“The red's nice,” I continue. “Got sort of a brownish tinge to it, like clay. What color was it before?”

“Same color.”

“Red? Isn't that unusual?” At this point I'm thinking that this wasn't the boat that rammed the
Molly Jones
. It's too small, and it's the wrong color. But I'll ask a few more questions to be sure.

“Red's the safest color on the ocean. Most visible. A lot of people think all boats should be painted red or orange.”

“The paint chips would have been white,” I say, letting the words sound nonchalant, but looking into his eyes carefully for any flicker of confirmation.

He squares off, hands on hips. He's decided he doesn't like me. “Look, I don't know why you can't just come out and say who you are. It's not like I don't know what you're doing. You people are down here all the time, crawling around. At least the other ones don't lie.”

I don't get what he's talking about right away and ask a little stupidly, “Who do you think I am?”

“You're a claims adjuster, claims investigator, whatever you people call yourselves these days. Looking for a reason not to pay. Proving negligence or criminal activity would get you off the hook. Jesus.” His tone is angry, but there's also a gleam of satisfaction in his eye; he's proud of having figured me out.

“Right.” I see no reason to correct him.

“I don't have anything more to say about the
Sea Wolf
,” he continues firmly. “I just do repairs. You want to know what happened, ask the owner. That's his business, not mine.” He turns and begins to stride back to his office.

I watch him go, then I think of something and jog after him. “Wait a minute. You said there were others. Was anyone else here recently, looking at the
Sea Wolf
?”

“Sure was. Don't remember his name, but he asked the same questions a week ago.”

“About the chipped paint?”

“Yeah, and a lot of other stuff, too. If you really want to know, he was a lot smarter than you.”

“What kind of questions?”

He stops, turns, looks at me with disgust. “I don't know, lady.”

“Was he here before the hull was repainted?”

“Not sure. Can't remember back that far.” He enjoys the taunt.

“What'd he look like?”

“You're a real pain in the ass, aren't you?”

“Look, I'm new, just learning the business, and I came all the way out here. Give me something to take back to the office. Can't hurt, can it?”

He sighs heavily. “Medium height, brown hair, glasses.” He shrugs with indifference.

“Did he have a lame arm?”

The guy blinks without comprehension.

“His right arm, was he holding it close to his side?”

“Let me think. I guess . . . yeah, I think I remember something like that. He didn't move it much. Kept his hand in his pocket, as I recall.”

“Did he say who he worked for?”

“Jackson Hartwell Marine Insurers. You know, the big one.” His eyes narrow. “Who do you work for?”

“Myself. Freelance.”

A mirthless laugh. “You don't stand a chance.”

—

A kid running, trailing a balloon. A mother pushing a stroller, yelling for him to stop. Women with briefcases, dressed incongruously in skirts and sneakers. A guy leaning on a pretzel cart.

I'm strolling along the harbor boardwalk that passes before the high, glassy palace of the federal courthouse, taking in the sights and thinking about that guy who was at Ned's memorial service, Larry What's-his-name, wondering if I still have the slip of paper he gave me, when my cell rings.

“Hey, you called. I was hoping you would. Want me to come over?” It's Johnny.

“Uh, no.”

“No?”

“Yeah. I mean, no.”

A pause. “What'd you call me for?”

Got to think fast. “It was a misdial.”

“Really? Sure? You got my number programmed in your cell? I'm flattered. Maybe you wanted to see me, got cold feet. Maybe I can still talk you into it.”

“I don't think so.”

“Where are you now?”

“Out, walking.”

“Down at the harbor?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What are you doing down there?”

“Like I said. Just going for a walk.”

“I could meet you for lunch.”

“I already ate.”

“All right, Pirio. I'll let you go this time. But you can call me again, you know. Anytime. Misdial, whatever. I don't care.” He takes a drink of something, swallows. “I'm taking the wife and kids out to Michigan to see her family in a couple of weeks. I fucking dread it. Ten days of hell. Landlocked, boring as piss. The in-laws looking me over like I'm carrying disease.”