Amagansett (19 page)

It was as if two invisible hands had corralled all living creatures from the surrounding waters into five acres of ocean and ordered them to fight it out amongst themselves. Conrad had once seen a school of large stripers rip through a pod of menhaden—and a shocking spectacle it had been—but he had never witnessed anything on this scale, the whole savage cycle of life in the ocean laid bare for human eyes.

And in that moment, staring down from the flying bridge, Conrad saw himself reflected back: blind, raging, unmerciful. Inhuman, but not unfeeling. That was the worst of it, what marked men out, their curse—the clean, sweet taste of vengeance, the deaths of those you had known atoned for on the altar of the battlefield, their lives memorialized in the letting of yet more innocent blood.

‘Well?’ said Chase.

‘Huh?’

‘I said best go ready them rods.’ He spat a stream of tobacco on to the boards at his feet. ‘And the idiots what’s holdin’ ‘em.’

The
Zephyr
edged into the fray and they took their place in the upper orders of the food chain. It was merely a matter of dropping a live bait over the side; the hit would happen within a matter of moments.

Chase nosed the boat back and forth through the seething waters, glancing over his shoulder every so often, swinging the wheel to keep the lines from tangling. By the time the other charter boats arrived on the scene, each member of the party had hooked and boated a tuna, including the girls.

It wasn’t enough, though. They wanted more. And they got them. For almost an hour they got them. They were small fish, in the thirty—to fifty-pound range, but after hooking a half-dozen of them even the Senator was ready to vacate his chair.

The bite dropped off when the sharks moved in, scattering the tuna. The chop gradually subsided. Apart from a few gulls swooping for scraps, there was little evidence of the carnage they’d witnessed, and shared in.

Conrad dropped the tuna into the hold, piling ice around them, while Rollo swabbed the deck, slick from the blood of the throats they’d cut.

The Wallaces and their guests celebrated with Champagne, faces flush from exertion and exhilaration, talking excitedly. Glasses were raised to the skipper and his crew, though not offered to them, and when the table was laid for lunch Conrad and Rollo withdrew to the flying bridge.

Rollo had come armed with sandwiches made for him by his mother, which he insisted on eating at the end of the swordfish pulpit, legs dangling either side of the narrow gangplank. He was more withdrawn than usual, and had been all day. Conrad observed him, concerned.

‘He’s a good boy,’ said Chase. ‘Not the sharpest chisel in the tool box, but a good boy.’ He proceeded to give an account of his association with the Kemps over the years, and his rags-to-riches rise from Jersey plumber to Montauk charter-boat captain.

Chase enjoyed the sound of his own voice, which was fine by Conrad; it allowed him to keep one ear on the conversation rising up from below. The talk shifted from the economic regeneration of Europe, to communists, then to politics and presidents. Manfred Wallace said it was unfair to expect the nation to choose between an ex-haberdasher and a man who resembled one of those little grooms on top of a wedding cake. This was the cause of much amusement, with the Senator laughing the loudest. The discussion then turned to Manfred, to upcoming elections, to his candidacy. There was talk of the State Senate and of District 26, of the New York City Tax Commissioner and of other favors that could be called in.

Conrad felt the bile rise in his gullet. Thinking that the heat was getting to him, Chase suggested that he put on his cap. The clatter of crockery gave way to the smell of coffee, and Conrad pictured the scene, pictured himself heading below, what he would do, how easy it would be.

‘Conrad!’

It was Rollo at the end of the pulpit, pointing towards the southeast.

‘You see ‘em? Swordfish!’

Chase was on his feet now, squinting. ‘Well, damned if they ain’t,’ he said.

Some half a mile away two swordfish were finning, lazing on the surface.

‘You want to break out the gear?’ asked Conrad.

‘You’re kidding me.’

‘I crewed for Jake Minton back in ‘39.’

‘He still owe you money?’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Damn right he does. Tightest sonofabitch that ever lived. You know what he said once, to his own brother? Ed’s broke, busted flat, needs to borrow a bit, but Jake says he can’t help out, says he’s got this deal with the bank, an agreement, says the bank won’t go into fishing if he don’t go into lending money! You believe that!?’

‘What about it?’ said Conrad.

It was the opportunity he’d been waiting for, the scene already playing itself out in his head.

‘Swordfishin’,’ muttered Chase. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘The boat gets to keep the fish and there’s another fifty in it for you.’

‘Let’s go swordfishin’.’

Heading below, Conrad addressed himself directly to the Senator so the outcome would be assured.

‘Senator, you ever harpoon a swordfish?’

‘No.’

‘Want to give it a shot?’

‘Damn right I do.’

What else could he say? He hadn’t hooked the giant fish he was after, and he wasn’t going to now, the tuna bite being pretty much played out by noon.

‘There’s a couple finning nearby.’

‘Show me,’ said the Senator with swagger, laying aside his glass of Cognac.

As they all made their way to the foredeck, Conrad collared the Wallaces.

‘The Captain’s asking for an extra hundred.’

‘A hundred dollars!?’ said Manfred.

‘Not a problem,’ said his father.

It was a twelve-foot harpoon, light and well balanced. Conrad demonstrated how to hold it. He showed them how the little
bronze dart at the end came free at the moment of the strike, twisting as it did so, lodging itself in the flesh. The dart was attached to a wooden keg by several hundred feet of manila line, neatly coiled down in a tub. The keg was tossed over the side as the line ran out. After that, it was simply a question of tracking the keg, waiting for the fish to tire itself out or to die from the wound.

It was a perfect day for swordfishing—a dead calm sea and a searing, windless heat. They would find other fish, and Conrad could afford to take the first turn on the pulpit. He removed his overshirt before doing so, and regretted it almost immediately.

‘Regimental tattoo?’ asked the Senator.

The red arrowhead was clearly visible just beneath the arm hem of his T-shirt.

‘Yeah,’ replied Conrad, busying himself with the harpoon, clearing the line, hoping that was the end of it.

‘Did you see action? My boy saw action—Guadalcanal. He didn’t make it back.’

‘Sorry to hear that.’

Conrad made his way to the end of the pulpit, terminating the conversation. They were bearing down on the swordfish now with the sun astern to keep the glare from blinding Conrad. It was a large fish that looked likely to tip the balance at around four hundred pounds.

‘Keep her off half a point,’ called Conrad.

‘You tellin’ me my business?’ growled Chase.

‘Sorry, Cap.’

Chase put him directly over the fish and Conrad threw his full weight behind the harpoon, thrusting down into the dark, lacquered body, ironing the creature in the thick muscle right behind the dorsal fin.

The ocean erupted, the swordfish making a scorching run to starboard, the line burning out of the tub, singing. Rollo hove the keg over the side. A second later the line snapped taut and the keg tore across the slick surface. They set off in pursuit.

With the lily firmly set, the rest was a formality. They trailed the keg for half an hour until it finally bobbed to a halt, inert.

‘Reckon he’s about drowned out,’ said Chase.

They hooked the keg aboard and dragged the swordfish up from the depths. It had no fight left in it; in fact, no life at all. It had expired from the wound Conrad had inflicted. It was best to be sure, though. Taking up the lance, he turned to the girls.

‘You might want to turn away.’

But they didn’t, and he thrust the lance into the gills. They fastened a strap round the tail and hoisted the fish inboard using a block and fall, laying it on the deck.

Everyone stared in mute wonder at the beauty and the enormity of the creature.

The Senator ran the toe of his shoe along the sword. ‘My God.’

‘Are you still game?’ asked Conrad.

‘Are you joking?’

Conrad turned to Manfred Wallace. ‘You want to tend the warp and keg for the Senator?’

‘Sure.’

It was another ten minutes—time enough to cut out the lily and recoil the line—before Rollo hollered from the masthead, ‘Fish on the lee beam!’

There were two of them, finning close together this time. Keeping the sun at their backs meant coming at them head-on. Conrad accompanied the Senator to the end of the pulpit and handed him the harpoon.

‘They may flare off at the last second, but you’ll still get a shot. Here…’ He adjusted the Senator’s grip on the pole. ‘Remember, just behind the dorsal fin else you’ll bone the dart. And don’t look them in the eye.’

‘Why not?’

‘They’ll freeze you with their stare.’

‘Really?’

‘Trust me.’

The Senator nodded gravely and Conrad made his way back to the stem of the boat where the others were gathered.

‘Good luck, Pappy!’ called the Senator’s daughter, all a-fluster.

Conrad wandered aft, picked up an ax, then returned to the foredeck. He let the ax hang inconspicuously against his thigh.

What the Senator lacked in style he more than made up for in determination. He almost disappeared over the pulpit rail in his bid to stick the fish, but it was a clean hit.

‘I got him!’ he yelled in triumph, raising the harpoon high above his head.

The swordfish took off at a breathtaking clip, heading directly astern of the boat. Conrad couldn’t have asked for more. Everyone turned instinctively to observe its passage, including Manfred Wallace, which meant he took his eyes off the tub.

Conrad glanced down at it, the manila line hissing out, the wooden rim starting to smoke.

‘The keg!’ he shouted, when he judged it was just too late.

To Manfred’s credit, he didn’t freeze. Spinning back, he lunged at the keg, only to see it snatched from his fingertips.

It flew across the foredeck, upending Penrose senior and scattering the others, before crashing into the starboard rail, ripping out one whole section as it continued its journey aft. Conrad leapt forward, swinging the ax, severing the line.

Chase hauled back on the throttle lever. ‘You stupid sonofabitch!’ he yelled. ‘The one thing you had to do—toss the goddamn keg!’

‘I—’ stammered Manfred.

‘No excuses,’ said Conrad. ‘You screwed up.’

Manfred turned his gaze on him, and for the briefest of moments, deep in his crystalline eyes, Conrad caught a glimmer of what Manfred was capable of.

‘Look at my goddamn boat!’

‘We’ll cover it,’ said George Wallace. ‘Whatever it costs.’

‘Damn right you will,’ said Chase, beginning to soften, the prospect of padding out the costs already dampening his anger.

Mr Penrose was helped to his feet. He hopped around and rubbed his shin and declared himself to be okay. The Senator looked far from okay.

‘Did I stick her right?’ he asked Conrad.

‘You stuck her right.’

‘I’d have had her.’

‘Oh, you’d have had her.’

Manfred Wallace felt the full force of the Senator’s glare. Assuming, as you certainly could, that the Senator had grossly exaggerated the size of the North Carolina bluefin that got away, then he’d just lost the biggest fish of his life, and through no fault of his own.

Only when he caught Rollo looking at him did Conrad realize he was wearing an expression of deep satisfaction. He didn’t care that Rollo had seen him laid bare. He didn’t care that someone could have been far more seriously injured by the keg, or that somewhere out there a four-hundred-pound swordfish was being driven mad with the agony of a bronze dart buried in its back. He didn’t care, because he knew this was as close as he was ever likely to come to witnessing the humiliation of Manfred Wallace.

It was a dismal end to a perfect day for the Wallaces and their guests. As the
Zephyr
pressed towards home the conversation was muted, with Gayle doing her best to lighten the mood. Manfred was silent, suitably chastened, and by the time they reached the breakwaters at Montauk Harbor he’d been forgiven.

The Senator mock-punched him on the jaw and laughed as he recalled the spectacle of Penrose senior going ass-over-elbow. The swordfish might have given him the slip, but he had a far more entertaining tale to tell because of it, and that realization was just beginning to dawn on him.

The late-afternoon buzz at the Montauk Yacht Club swept aside the last vestiges of the incident, the dockside thronging with people eager to view the catches of the returning boats. Their swordfish was hoisted on to the scales at the end of the dock. At four hundred and forty pounds it wasn’t large enough to cause a real stir, but the number of tuna they’d hooked, stacked up on the dock like so much cordwood, was impressive by any standards. It made Chase look good, it made his party look good, and the moment was trapped for posterity by a photographer.

Conrad cleaned and dressed a couple of tuna and packed them in ice for the Wallaces. The rest were sold to the same buyer who took the swordfish off Chase’s hands.

Manfred announced he was off to phone home, to let the drivers know they were back. Conrad slipped away, tailing him towards the clubhouse.

‘There’s the extra hundred for the swordfishing,’ he called.

Manfred stopped and turned. ‘I thought I’d just add it to the cost of the repairs.’

‘I’ll take it now, if that’s okay with you.’

It was twice as much as he’d promised Chase, but he doubted any tips would be forthcoming after what he was about to say. He didn’t care for himself, but there was no reason Rollo should be denied his dues.

Manfred handed him the cash, and Conrad stuffed it into his hip pocket without looking at it.