Adrift in the Sound (3 page)

THREE

“HEY, MAN, WHAT’RE YOU DOIN’?”
Rocket dropped his sea bag on the kitchen floor, startling Bomber, who leaned over the sink with the water running.

“Suckin’ chicken bones. What’s it look like?” Bomber wiped his lips on the sleeve of his Army jacket. “Somebody left meat.”

Rocket opened the refrigerator and pulled out a carton. “Want some Chinese?” He shoved the brown-stained container at Bomber, who gave it a hungry look. “Went to the Lotus Garden last night. Me and Sandy. We had sweet-n-sour pork. Good shit, man. Brought back leftovers, broccoli beef.”

“Far out.” Bomber grabbed the carton, fished a fork out of the sink, wiped it on his pant leg. “Thanks. You shippin’ out?” he asked, mouth full.

“What’s it look like, dumb shit?”

Rocket turned the knob for the one stove burner that still worked, checked the clock on the spattered enamel backboard, marveled that it still worked, set the timer, dropped three eggs into a small pot of water and passed a hand over the electric burner to make sure it came on, set the pot down. “Lizette’s over at Sandy’s again.”

Bomber had seen Lizette hanging around, braiding her blonde hair on the porch.

“Pretty good lookin’ for a head case.” He glanced out the window at the blank side of Sandy’s house. “I thought Sandy got rid of her.”

“She showed back up. Been here a few days now.” Rocket sighed. “I feel sorry for her, man, I really do. She got attacked by a dog, about tore her arm off, and she ended up in the hospital. Tell her I’ll pay her if the dishes are done when I get back from work. We’re heading up to B.C., towing gravel barges out of Vancouver. Be back in a few days.”

Rocket moved into the dining room, tapped a few perfectly pitched notes on the piano. “Middle C,” he called out to Bomber, who was busy licking the edges of the Chinese carton in the kitchen. “Sounds pretty good, don’t it?” The timer went off. He slid off the bench and moved around the piano, its glossy black top closed flat, and hurried to pull the pot off the heat, shook his hand from the hot handle, blew on his fingers.

Bomber looked sideways, smirked. “You’re spendin’ a lot of time with Sandy, ain’t you?”

Rocket cracked an egg, yolk ran down his fingers and he licked them, turned on Bomber. “What?…You my mama?” Rocket’s tone made Bomber step back.

Rocket finished cracking and spooning the runny eggs into a mug, slurped them, and went back to his piano, which gleamed in the light from the kitchen, defying the house’s squalor. He admired its graceful lines, ivory keys set perfectly, like an orcas’ smile, he thought.

“Sandy’s a friend,” Rocket said over his shoulder. “OK? We do a little business together. That’s all.”

Bomber offered a half-hearted “No sweat, man,” to avoid an argument and rummaged in the refrigerator, dripped soy sauce from a half open packet on the floor. “I lost all my money at the bar last night,” Bomber said, head in the refrigerator. “Must’ve dropped my roll when I was shootin’ pool and somebody snagged it. Dickheads!”

Rocket half heard Bomber and thought about Fisher, was glad he hung around. He was the only one who could actually play the piano, probably the main reason he hung out with the Dogs, that and his love of weed. Rocket could find Middle C and play a few songs. Which was more than he could say for the Dogs. They barely knew how to play softball. He’d stopped complaining about them spreading out newspapers on the piano’s top. He knew sometimes when he shipped out they’d set up a chess board on the piano’s shiny top and cheat their asses off, changing the rules as they went along, playing until a fight broke out and somebody yelled: “Checkmate!” He’d put the piano top off limits for a while, but knew the Dogs crept their way back to the surface when he was gone. Checking the piano’s condition now, he thought the finish was holding up pretty good.

Assholes
he muttered to himself. He’d seen Fisher’s sly smile when he played the “old dorfer.” They both knew that nowhere else in the city was there a finer instrument. He hated to leave the piano now. It was the most valuable thing he owned, followed by his classic Oldsmobile Rocket 88.

Bomber watched Rocket pace the kitchen. He threw the empty food carton in the sink, stepped into his path. “How well do you know Lizette? I mean, what if she robs the place? We had this gook woman once in Nam. Cleaned our hooch…”

“Look,” Rocket interrupted the well-worn story. “This place is a shit hole.” He bent and picked up cotton balls under the chair, looked at the blood stains from somebody shooting up and tossed them toward the overflowing garbage bucket by the back door. He shouldered his sea bag.

“I know her. OK? Her old man’s some kinda professor at the U. Caught her smoking a joint once, threw her out. Her mother offed herself. She was staying with Marian out on Orcas Island for a while. Now she’s back.” Rocket headed for the front door, turned and pulled a ten dollar bill from his pocket with his free hand, gave it to Bomber. He closed the door before Bomber could thank him.

Bomber rinsed his hands in the kitchen sink, the warm water feeling so good he rummaged around for a bar of soap. He scrubbed carefully and shut the faucet off hard to slow the perpetual drip. A knock at the front door interrupted his search for a towel. Before he could get to the door, a knock came again.
No one knocks
, he thought, shaking his wet hands.
Except the mailman and it’s too early for that.
Opening the door, he found a man, slight and crisp, dressed in a dark business suit, white shirt, gold cuff links.

“Shit, man,” Bomber got a whiff of English Leather cologne and stepped back, wiped an eye. “What’s up?”

“Rocket here?”

“You just missed him.” Bomber looked the guy up and down. “Who’s asking?”

“I’m Jerry.” The man shifted nervously. Bomber smelled fear under the cologne. “I’m the landlord. Here’s my card. Tell him to call me when he gets back.”

Bomber studied the guy. “Might be a while. He shipped out for a few days.

“Oh,” Jerry said, looking critically at Bomber. “Well, when he gets back then. That’ll be fine. Don’t forget.”

Bomber glanced at the card in his hand, “Sure thing…ah, Jerry?” He shut the door and put the card on the window sill by the door. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the owner showing up first thing in the morning. Rent’s paid. Then he wondered if that was true and felt uneasy. In the living room he turned on the TV and settled in to watch “Good Morning Seattle.” He listened to breathless accounts of armed robberies and explosions, along with stories about pickup trucks wrapped around trees.

“Slow going on the floating bridge into downtown,”
the blonde with puffy hair said. “
And, now, from our nation’s capital. President Nixon, in another unexpected turn of events in the ongoing Watergate investigation, has canceled tonight’s television address to the nation. The President will instead hold a news conference tomorrow. Tune in for full coverage.”
Bomber farted, patted his breast pocket for smokes.
“We now go to a special report on the depressed Seattle housing market. With foreclosures soaring, King County officials say homelessness is on the rise.”

“No shit,” Bomber told her under his breath, then pondered this: No one in the Dog House had ever seen the landlord, not even Rocket. He knew Rocket paid Sandy the rent and she gave it to the landlord, a transaction that he’d helped support, but had never seen. Rocket collected donations from whoever was sitting around on the first of the month and Bomber always chipped in a chunk from his VA check, which wasn’t much considering the cost of his habit. The drugs helped ease the pain from the bullet he took in Nam. He knew Rocket added to the rent collection from his own pay, after he took care of Cadillac Carl, their drug dealer. He also was aware that sometimes Rocket ate corn flakes three meals a day to keep the finances going.

Bomber gratefully fingered Rocket’s ten dollar bill in his pocket.
Don’t seem, right
, he thought.
Landlord showing up first thing in the morning. It ain’t even light yet.
He wobbled down the basement stairs to the mattress he’d put in the corner and crashed long before Rocket ever got to the docks.

FOUR

ROCKET WORKED IN A LIGHT RAIN
. He uncoiled the
Sea Wolf’s
lines from the cleats, prepared her to shove off. A silvery light glazed Lake Union’s surface and made it easier to work. He looped a length of rope over his stiff fingers and threw it to the tug’s deck, steam from his breath matching the spew from the
Sea Wolf’s
smokestacks.

Gilly, the first mate stepped out of the galley house and stretched his arms overhead like a sleeper unwinding from a dream. He watched Rocket sidestep along the securing lines and yelled across the breech to shake a leg. Rocket ignored the old man, kept coiling line, licked frozen salt from his lips. He knew they were late for the rendezvous with the sea barge hauling gravel out of B.C., that the slow start was his fault. Hung over and late again.

Timing the water’s upsurge, Rocket jumped lightly to the boat’s deck. “What the hell took so long?” the old man huffed, working his cigar stub between tobacco-stained lips. “Get some coffee, kid. It’s gonna be a long day.” Rocket shouldered past him.

“Saved you some sweet rolls,” Gilly said as they single-filed into the tight, steamy galley. “Grab some grub.” He poured coffee into a thick mug, shoved it at Rocket. “Think we’ll see that goddamned killer whale again?” He sucked in his round belly to fit between the bulkhead and table. “Damnedest thing,” he said. “We never see that whale unless you’re working. It’s like the thing follows you around.”

“It’s an orca,” Rocket said, his mouth full. He munched a raisin snail, wiped his mouth with his hand. The captain gunned the
Sea Wolf’s
engines, eased away from the dock, rolled into the swells. The rocking sloshed coffee over the rim of the men’s mugs. Rocket grabbed a rag, daubed at the spills. “Move your elbow.”

He wiped in front of the first mate, wondered about the orca, too. Rocket knew the American tugboat guys called the orca “Looney,” like the Canadian quarter, a dig at the currency and the Canadian boatmen who worked Puget Sound. The Americans complained that Looney popped up like a jack-in-the-box in the shipping lanes, put the Coast Guard on alert, or trailed salmon fishermen. Orcas were famous for tearing into fishing nets and stealing from catches, creating hazards and getting shot for causing trouble.

“Gonna hit the rack,” Rocket said, sliding out from the table. He pulled the illustrated guide to dolphins and whales from the slot where the marine navigation maps were stowed. “I’ve got second watch. Make sure I’m up by five so I don’t miss chow.”

“We’ll rattle your rack,” Gilly answered, spreading the wrinkled
Seattle Times
sports section across the table. “But, it’s not even noon.”

“Long night,” Rocket said. The first mate fingered his wedding ring, let out a dirty chuckle.

Riding an ebbing tide, the
Sea Wolf
made for the Strait of Juan de Fuca as Rocket took off his boots, grabbed a gray wool blanket from the stack on the floor, and settled into the narrow bunk. He tucked a small pillow under his shoulders and opened the book, flipping to the section on orcas.

“With orcas, mating and reproduction is basically the same as with other marine mammals,”
the book said.
“They come together and match bellies.”
Rocket rubbed his stomach under his thermal undershirt, twirling the hair around his belly button.
“A female carries her calf for 9 to 12 months. Babies are born in the water. They can swim from the moment they are born. Sometimes an orca mother will support her newborn from beneath, allowing the youngster to breathe without tiring.”

Rocket studied the familiar pictures of the mothers and babies, the pod swimming among ice flows.
“Orcas are the fastest mammals in the sea. Although they can weigh up to 13,000 pounds, they can swim up to 35 miles an hour, which helps them catch food.
Rocket read the words again, mentally calculating the speed at about 22 knots, figuring the Sea Wolf did 10 knots when she was underway on a calm sea.

They are curious and sometimes attracted to boats,”
he read. Rocket knew Looney was what they called a rogue, lived separate from the family pods of killer whales that hunted around the San Juan Islands. Rocket had watched him shadow a tug as it escorted a freighter toward port. He believed the playful animal wanted to join in the fun, be a part of the game, go with them like he was part of the family.

Rocket closed the book, its cover smudged from years on the tug and the greasy hands of boredom. He dreamed of swimming, his arms by his sides, drawn through the water in an iridescent slip-stream, Looney’s tail just beyond reach, undulating as they powered through the unresisting water.

“Hey man, roll out!” Rocket startled awake and the whale book hit the deck with a flat pop. The second mate banged on the metal door again. “Hit the deck, Rocket. Chow’s on.” The guy opened the door and leaned in, his blood-shot eyes scanned the room as if checking for a stowaway, then he twisted his lips into a pleased smirk at the jolt he’d given the sleeping deckhand. “Hurry up, man, if you want some.”

At five, Rocket went on deck to stand his watch. They were still miles from the rendezvous with the ocean tug towing the gravel barge. He fretted about the complicated tie-up they’d have to do in the dark to secure the load. He watched the gulls swoop in tangents, skimming the water’s surface as night clamped down. Leaning over the side, Rocket spotted Looney in the last glimmers of light. The orca paced the tug, the tug’s wake washing over his black-and-white body. He came abreast, his long dorsal fin sporting above the whitecaps. He dived, surfaced, and raced ahead of the
Sea Wolf
. Rocket gripped the top of the gunwale and laughed into the wind, inflating his lungs, electrified.

Rocket knew Looney’s tricks, how he often crossed under the hull, popping up on the opposite side of the boat, tossing his big head, waiting for him to chase across the deck and lean over the railing to find the teasing orca, water frothing around him. When Looney submerged, Rocket hustled starboard for the game of hide-and-seek. The tug listed unnaturally, the spinning props sputtered.

The
Sea Wolf’s
engines throttled down. The men scrambled on deck, knowing instinctively something was wrong, that they’d run over something and needed to do a hull check. The Sound was littered with big logs that had come loose from carelessly tied barge loads and other boating debris. The tug’s engines reversed, sending the men lurching as they charged for their stations. The loudspeaker needlessly called, “All hands, All hands.” Rocket ran to the stern, released the winch and dropped the dinghy to the water. The mates scrambled down the metal ladder aft and jumped on board.

“We got something,” the first mate hollered and yanked the cord to fire up the weather-beaten outboard motor.

They signaled for line. Rocket threw to the men bobbing in the darkness and, in the fluster, missed his target. The captain flipped on the floodlights, which made Looney’s broad side glisten in the water. Rocket hauled the wet rope back in and prepared for another toss. The first mate pulled out the grappling hook from the bottom of the dinghy and sunk it into Looney’s side, poling closer to prevent the carcass from drifting. Blood like warm cherry Jell-O feathered the water. Rocket kept hauling line, hand-over-hand, looking at the whale’s blank eye, seeing that the curtain was drawn. At the end of the rope, he grasped slick blood. It ran through his fingers and down the back of his hands. He choked, kept hauling.

“What the heck you doing?” Gilly shouted from the dinghy. “Throw the line, man. Goddamned thing got caught in the prop.”

Rocket picked up the coil and threw it again, hard, hitting the second mate in the chest, knocking him overboard. With the emergency lights on, Rocket saw where the propellers had sliced into Looney. The first mate maneuvered the dinghy around the animal’s tail and tossed a life bouy to the man gasping in the frigid water. He hauled him to the side, pulled him up by the shoulders of his peacoat, hoisted his leg over the side and rolled him onto the bottom of the skiff like a big fish.

They called for more line to secure Looney’s body until the Coast Guard got there to haul the carcass from the shipping lane. Rocket ran around on the deck, heaving line, tightening slack, tying off, wiping salt from his wet cheeks with his sleeve. Looney’s flukes lifted out of the swells and flapped listlessly, then the animal eased free of the lines. His sleek back disappeared beneath the water’s ruffled surface, created a hole in the sea that rapidly filled. The men stood for a moment in shocked silence.

Dripping wet and shivering in the wind, the mates quarreled in the rocking dinghy. Rocket dropped the useless lines he held in his hands. Over the loudspeaker, the captain ordered the men back aboard. They came around, aligned the dinghy to the tug’s stern and climbed the slippery rungs to the deck. The winch snapped as Rocket lifted the dinghy out of the water and it took a half hour to fix it. Then, in the night slit, where black meets black, between sky and water, Rocket walked the deck, stood his watch, scanned the rolling sea looking for any sign of his orca.