Salvage (9 page)

“Jesus,” she said. “I suppose you went on a tear, did you?”

“I had a few drinks, yeah,” he said.

“How long'd it last?” she said.

He helped himself to another one of her cigarettes. “Well, I don't know. I think about seven years, so far.”

They laughed together then and Angela lit their cigarettes. “I have to stop smoking until I have the baby,” she said.

“You'll feel better about yourself if you do,” said Scarnum, and he put his hand on her flat tummy, where he thought the baby must be.

“I don't know,” she said. “I guess so. I couldn't feel much worse. I can't believe I got coked up the night I found out about Jimmy.”

She started to tear up. “Oh my God,” she said. “I just keep thinking about the baby, whether it will be like one of those crack babies.”

Scarnum tried to take her into his arms, but she pushed him away, and suddenly the tears were gone.

“Do you think I'm a bad person?” she said and she studied his face as he answered.

“No,” he said. “I think you were under a terrible strain and you broke down. I think it was wrong, but I can't blame you, and I'm no doctor, but I'm pretty sure that one binge like that won't fuck up your baby.”

“Jesus,” she said. “When I was dancing in Montreal, I did some wild shit, things I never told nobody about, things that would curl your hair, but I never did anything as bad as I did that night. What kind of a mother am I going to be?”

Scarnum pulled her into his arms, and she let him hold her this time. She cried softly, snuffling in his ear.

“You're going to be a grand mother, Angela,” he said, and he kissed her behind her ear and stroked her hair. “I know you've got a good heart. You're going to love that kid, and that's the most important thing. I'm not worried about what kind of a mother you'll be. Jesus. I seen you with your sister's kids, those little brats. I woulda wrung that young fellow's neck, the way he was carrying on, but you were patient and sweet. You're gonna be fine. It's not gonna be easy. I don't think it's the easiest thing, raising a kid with no daddy, but I know you can do it, 'cause you have to, and you're gonna wanna do it because you'll never love anybody as much as you love the kid you're carrying around inside you right now.”

He pushed her away and held her at arm's length and looked her in the eyes, serious. She blinked at him and rubbed her tears away with the heel of her hand.

“And it'll be years before he knows that his mother used to be a coke whore.”

She laughed and slapped him, and they wrestled in the back seat until Scarnum was hard again, and they made love again, much more slowly.

S
carnum got Angela to drop him off on the side of Highway 3 behind the Back Harbour, where a shallow, rocky brook runs under the road.

He walked down to the woods and crept along the edge of the brook, following it to the ocean in the dusk. He slipped a few times on the wet rocks and got his feet wet.

Eventually, he came to the stone bridge at the head of the bay. Scarnum crawled under the bridge, and waded through the water, and found a little ledge in the shadows near the opening. He was pretty sure nobody could see him in the darkness.

He sat and watched the bay, the road, and Isenor's boatyard for the rest of the evening, smoking a cigarette every now and then behind his cupped hands.

He watched Charlie do a rat-hunting stroll around 11:00 p.m., creeping around the yard with his pellet gun. Soon after, the house lights went off. Scarnum sat and watched for another three hours, until he was very hungry and tired, and then crept out from under the bridge and made his way, slowly, along the slippery rocks at the water's edge to the boatyard. He crawled up onto the dock, got onto the
Orion
, threw off the lines, started the engine, and gunned the boat out down the bay.

As he steamed out, he waved at Charlie's house.

KAREN WATCHED THE SAILBOAT
tacking across Chester Basin through the morning mist from her studio window as she stood and drank coffee and dabbed at a canvas. Fibreglass sailboats look much alike, though, so until she could make out the name on the bow she didn't realize it was the boat on which she used to live. By that point, the
Orion
was one short tack away from her wharf, so she didn't have long to think before Scarnum dropped the sails and jumped onto the floating dock with his stern line, pulling the
Orion
in behind an antique wooden runabout.

She stepped out of the unpainted fish shed onto the wharf and watched him.

He looked up over his shoulder quickly as he tied up, and smiled. “Hey, stranger,” he said. “Long time no see.”

“Phillip,” she said, leaning on a wharf piling with her coffee cup in her hands.

He stood on the floating dock at the base of her wharf and spread his arms wide, with a big smile. “In the flesh, as you can see, young lady,” he said. “Got any more coffee?”

She looked down at him, her red hair blowing in the morning breeze. “I thought you never wanted to see me again,” she said.

“I never said that, did I?” he said, smiling. “I can't imagine that I would have. That doesn't sound like something I'd say. And if I did say it, I'm sure I didn't mean it. And if I did say it and mean it once, who's to say a fellow can't change his disposition?”

He put his hand on the wooden ladder that led up to the top of the dock. “So, you going to offer me a cup of coffee or do you want me to sail off without so much as a how do you do?”

“Come on up,” she said. “I'll pour you a cup.”

He let out a low whistle of admiration when he stepped into the studio and saw all the canvasses hanging on the wall next to the picture window overlooking the bay.

“Holy Jesus,” he said. “You've got a little better at the painting, my dear.”

He took the coffee from her and stood back to look. The paintings were mostly seascapes, many with nothing in them but water: blue water glistening in the dawn light, grey water tossed by the wind, water flat and calm, with a touch of sunset glimmering. There was a series of paintings of green and red navigation buoys. And there was a series of carefully rendered realistic pictures of neglected boats — sailboats, fishing boats, dories — falling apart on beaches and in boatyards.

“These are amazing,” he said. “You ought to be proud of yourself.”

As he looked at the paintings, she looked at him. “I am proud,” she said. “And happy, and grateful to spend my days this way. But I don't think you came here to see my art.”

She was wearing tight, faded blue jeans and a heavy grey fisherman's knit sweater. Scarnum noticed that the paint-dappled hands she wrapped around her oversized mug looked older and rawer than they had the last time he saw her up close, but she otherwise looked much the same. A bit wrinkled around the eyes, maybe.

He took a minute to look at the studio, with its unpainted wooden walls, a wood stove, the unmade king-sized bed. There was a hatch in the floor, which the fishermen would have used as a toilet and dump for fish guts in the old days. In one corner, there was a counter with a sink, a fridge, and a stove.

There were empty wine bottles on the kitchen counter. And a half-empty bottle of Laphroaig thirty-year-old Islay malt.

He reached into the pocket of his yellow slicker and pulled out the silver flask and set it on the kitchen counter.

“What are you doing with Bobby's flask?” she asked.

“Oh, it is his, is it?” said Scarnum. “I kind of thought so. I found it in a canoe, an Old Town Kevlar. Do you have one of those?”

“Yes,” she said. “At the lake.”

“Olive green?” he asked. “Seventeen feet.”

“Yes,” she said. “Why? What's this about? Is this something to do with Jimmy?”

He sat down on the stool in front of her easel, then got up and looked at it, and crossed to the kitchen to sit on a chair there. “Yeah,” he said. “Kind of. Is Bobby in the cocaine business?”

Karen sat on her stool, with her feet on the rungs and her legs spread at the knees. Scarnum looked at her face.

“Phillip, I think you know that Bobby's in the fish business,” she said. “I'm not sure I shouldn't ask you to leave.”

“You might ask Bobby what his canoe is doing tied up down at Charlie's,” he said. “Ask him that when you give him the flask. He was down there the night after I salvaged the
Kelly Lynn
, but I scared him off. I didn't realize it was him. I just thought it was some fucker in a canoe trying to get at my salvage. I chucked a battery and some bolts at him. Nailed him right in the back. Check Bobby for a bruise there. Anyways, it was his canoe, and whoever it was left this flask in the bottom of the thing.”

He got up and opened the flask and handed to her. “Smell it,” he said.

She sniffed it, took a slug, and passed it back to him.

“Since then, I've had the Mounties after me and two Mexican gentlemen put the muscle on me,” he said and pointed at the bruise on his forehead. “They seem to think I have some cocaine that belongs to them, which I don't. If I did, I'd sure as fuck give it to them. These are some seriously mean cocksuckers. I think they're the same fellows that killed Jimmy. I'm scared to go to Charlie's. I had to tell Charlie to call the Mounties if he sees any Mexicans around the place.”

He paced as he spoke, his voice getting louder.

“Believe me, young lady, the last fucking thing in the world I wanted to do was come over here and see you,” he said. “No offence. I'm glad you're happy here, and I'm impressed by your painting, but I really had hoped to go the rest of my life without seeing you again.”

He turned then and looked out the window, took a deep breath, and let it out. “Christ,” he said. “I'm forty years old and I'm a fucking crybaby.” He wiped his eyes and turned back to her. She was looking at him blankly, her eyes wide and her mouth open.

“I need to see Bobby and soon, and on my terms, or I'm going to the fucking Mounties,” he said. “I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm shittin' me fucking pants. I'd be stupid not to be scared. These are hard fucking people, and I don't think they're going to stop until they get their cocaine. Maybe Bobby has it. I don't fucking know, but I'm pretty fucking sure he knows more about them than I do.”

He stopped and stood in front of Karen. “You ever see two Mexicans around?” he asked. “One old guy with a big fucking scar down his cheek, does the talking? One young guy, looks Indian, doesn't say nothing?”

She shook her head.

“Well, if you see them coming, I'd call the fucking Mounties if I were you,” he said. “They are bad news.”

She nodded.

“OK,” he said. “Tell me something. Did Bobby and Jimmy ever talk business around you?”

“No,” she said. “I hardly knew Jimmy.”

“Did you ever fuck him on your own, or only when Bobby and Angela were here?” he asked.

She started crying then, with her face in her hands. Scarnum smiled briefly, and grimaced, and took her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Don't be fucking stunned,” he said. “I'm in fear for my fucking life. I don't care who you fuck, but I need to figure out what's going on.”

She shook herself loose. “No,” she said. “I only fucked him when we were all partying together. He wanted to meet me alone, but there was no way that was going to happen. That was part of the problem.”

“What problem?” said Scarnum.

“Look, you probably think I'm a big whore, but we were just partying,” she said. “It was, uh, fun. Jimmy and Angela were both sexy. You know. But Jimmy wanted more. He wanted to see me alone. I told him no, but he kept asking. He called once when Bobby was out. So, we had to stop it.”

“Bobby put a stop to it?”

“Yeah, or he said he was going to,” said Karen. “I didn't want to know about that conversation.” She shuddered.

“It was probably a bad idea to party like that with somebody who works for Bobby,” she said. “I had a bad feeling about it, but Bobby really had to fuck Angela.”

Scarnum shook his head. “Fuck,” he said. “Fuck fuck fuck.”

He walked to the back of the studio and peered out the little window there up at Falkenham's enormous house, with its soaring gables and huge glassed-in porch.

He was about to turn back to ask Karen another question when he noticed two figures moving along the edge of the property, headed toward the wharf. It was the two Mexicans. The younger one was walking five or six paces behind the older one, looking from side to side, one hand in the pocket of his windbreaker. It looked to Scarnum like they were wearing the same clothes as the day before.

“Fuck,” he said. “Fuck fuck fuck.” He turned to Karen. “You've got to see this,” he said.

She came to the window.

“Villa and Zapata ride again,” he said.

She looked up at him, suddenly scared. “What are we going to do?” she asked.

Her eyes were red from crying. He lifted his arm, as if to put it around her, but stopped himself.

“Have you got a gun here?” he asked.

She just gaped at him.

“The younger one has a gun,” he said. “The older fellow has a knife. Wanted to stab me in the fucking eye. These fellows is real bandidos. I'm not gonna stick around here less you have a gun.”

She stared at him as if he was speaking gibberish.

He headed for the door. “They likely wouldn't cut me in front of a witness,” he said. “But they wouldn't want to let me go again once they get their hands on me. They think I have their fucking coke.”

“I don't have a gun,” said Karen.

“I'm not going to let them stab me in the eye,” he said. “I'm going to get in my boat and head downtown. Come with me. I'll drop you off.”

She followed him out and down the ladder, but on the floating dock she looked at his boat, and at him, and stopped. She shook her head. “Uh-uh,” she said. “I don't think so. I'll take the runabout.”

He shouted to her as she got into the beautiful old boat. “Tell Falkenham I need to see him.”

“He's at the yacht club tonight,” she shouted over her shoulder.

He watched her power away, red hair flying in the wind behind her.

He was well away from the dock and out in the middle of Chester Basin when he saw two silhouettes appear on Falkenham's wharf. He waved but they didn't wave back.

S
carnum tied up his boat at the Chester Yacht Club and went to the pay phone in the lobby. Next to the phone there was a poster.

Chester Yacht Club

Annual General Meeting and Social

Tuesday, April 27

Meeting: 5:00 p.m. to 7:00 p.m.

Social: 7:00 p.m. to 9:00 p.m.

Come one, come all!

Scarnum stared at the poster while he dialed Charlie. “How you doing, old sport?” he asked.

“Jesus, it's Mr. Popular,” said Charlie. “I've got a few messages for you.”

“Sorry to put you out, old fellow,” said Scarnum. “I hate to interfere with your rat hunting.”

“Where'd you get to, anyways?” asked Charlie.

“Remember those Mexicans I told you about?” said Scarnum. “Just as soon not run into them. They keep popping up wherever I go, so I waited till after dark and snuck down to the
Orion
. Figured they'd have a hard time finding me anchored out off Big Tancook. They don't seem like big boaters. You haven't seen any sign of them?”

“No,” said Charlie, “and I'd be just as happy to keep it that way. Maybe you'd be smart to take a little trip, get out of here until this blows over.”

“I might just do that,” said Scarnum. “There's just a thing or two I have to see to. So, who called?”

“Well, let's see,” said Charlie. “I'll have to ask your fucking secretary. Oh, wait. That's me. Here we are. Christ. OK. Angela called. Said she's where she told you she'd be, whatever the fuck that means. Dr. Greely called, three times. Last time he said it was very important that you call him. Constable Léger came by twice and called four times. Said you'd call her if you knew what was good for you.”

“Well, I guess I'll call her up, then. Do me a favour, though, just in case I don't find time. Don't tell her I called.”

“Don't tell her who called?” said Charlie.

“Thanks, buddy,” he said.

Angela answered her phone on the first ring. “Jesus, Phillip,” she whispered. “I can't wait to get out of here. If the funeral wasn't tomorrow, I think I'd leave right now. You got no idea what these people are like.”

“Tell me,” he said.