Billingsgate Shoal (16 page)

From the talk that had filtered down to Ted earlier,
she'd struck three big schools one after the other. But one of them,
it was said, was claimed by the
Antonio
,
and before either boat could work it properly, the school busted.

"You see Wayne Fletcher works for Mike DeCarlo
now, but he used to work for Joey aboard the
Antonio
.
He knew all the code words and things the Partmos family uses, so
when they heard the
San Sebastian
calling
Antonio
, they
knew where the school was, and what it was. Wayne says the two boats
get there at the same time, but
Caterina
got what was left, not
Antonio
."

"Who owns
San Sebastian
?
This is beginning to sound like one of Rossini's operas . . ."

"Tom Partmos, Joey's brother. The
San
Sebastian
is out of Rockport. You see, the
whole code idea started up over in P-town about eight years ago when
everybody started buying the CB radios. Fishermen figured it was a
good way to let certain friends or relatives know where the fish were
without telling anyone else. The P-town fishing is almost all done by
Portuguese families you know, and there's a lot of family loyalty.
Some of these families have three, maybe four boats owned by
brothers, uncles, or cousins. Well the beauty of the code is, you
talk to your relatives on the CB and nobody else knows what the
fuck's comin' off, right?

"You say: 'I'm standing in front of the five and
dime eating popcorn,' and nobody understands, except your brother,
who knows that means you're ten miles off five-fathom ledge and have
found a nice school of haddock. Or you might hear your cousin call
you and say he's at the bowling alley with a six-pack of Schlitz. An'
you know that the bowling alley is really Grayson's Channel, and
Schlitz means he's found mackerel—"

Fascinated, I listened to the explanation of the
strange messages I'd been hearing aboard the
Ella
Hatton
on the CB radio. These weird nonsense
messages did have a meaning: telling "friendlies" where the
action was.

But I was getting nowhere fast. Dan Murdock was not
to be seen, though he might be lurking somewhere in the crowded bar.
My watch said 10:45. If I left now, taking time only to visit the
head, I would be home before midnight. That seemed to make sense. I
wended my way through the crowd. to the john. As I was coming back
after washing up I saw him. He was emerging from a tiny nook that
held a pay phone. It wasn't a booth, just a small bend in the big
room where one could—in theory at least—talk with some privacy.
He didn't see me as he went back to the bar.

I realized now that if I'd just left the Race a few
seconds sooner, I'd have been home free. But the argument started
before I even returned to my table. I walked past the bar, noticing
that Dan Murdock was doing everything possible to make himself
conspicuous there. Whom had he called? I was turning the
possibilities over in my mind when I heard the first of the insults.

I'll tell you how to know when there's a fight about
to start in a crowded bar: every conversation stops. . .but one. And
that one grows louder and more heated until it stops, because one of
the conversants is getting hit in the chops. As soon as I heard that
one, rising, ominous dialogue, I knew something was brewing. Two men
were shouting now in the silence of the Schooner Race. It was no
surprise that it was Joey and Mike, rival captains of the
Antonio
and the
Caterina
.
Perhaps the thing could have been amicably resolved if Mike had not
mentioned Joey's sister. He not only mentioned her, but some specific
parts of her anatomy as well, and the strenuous use she was giving
them. According to Mike—who I think I could safely say was not a
gentleman—Carlotta Partmos had been intimate with various and
sundry lower forms of marine animal life, and also with other members
of her family. However, she had curiously avoided anything in human
form between these two extremes. I found this incongruous. . . And
Joey Partmos found Mike's jaw with a left.

I was still stunned by Mike's remarks, but learned a
few seconds later that Joey had begun the insults by mentioning the
sexual misadventures of Mike's wife—especially her fondness for
military bases. These comments were without foundation of course;
they were meant to inflame the opposition. This they did.

It would have been ugly enough if the fight had been
contained, but as so often happens at hockey games, the benches
emptied; and the crews joined in. The ill feeling between the two
boats had a long history—I learned later on—and now it was just
boiling to the surface. The most amazing thing, though, was not the
donneybrook but the detached, almost amused composure of the
remaining patrons. Except for the dozen or so brave souls attempting
to separate the combatants, the crowd remained passive, evidence that
this sort of thing was not uncommon in the SR.

Whether I was too old or too high-born I couldn't
tell, but I decided when the fight was only seconds old that the
social climate of the Schooner Race had disintegrated to the point
where I wished to depart posthaste. But this was made difficult by
the enormous crunch of humanity that pressed against us as the crowd,
in its eagerness to avoid the brawl. I swayed back and forth in the
long room, like water sloshing in a trough. I fought my way from the
bar toward the door.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Danny
Murdock. He was sitting in another booth. He stared after me as I
went to the door. But I didn't make it.

Four feet from my goal, I was flung backward as a
body crashed into me. I reached down and picked the man up, holding
him under the arm. He was heavy and tired. Attempting to drag him
over to a booth away from the action, I locked my arms around his
chest and began to drag him back. This was a mistake, because just as
I had clasped my hand around my plaster wrist another combatant
charged us, butting him in the chest with his head, and then
finishing off with a short choppy right to his neck.

The man slumped in my arms. To all bystanders, it
appeared as though I was not helping him, but setting him up for this
abuse—much as the movie tough guys work in teams: one man to hold
the victim, the other to work him over. The illusion did not stand me
in good stead. Instantly, both the attacker and I were set upon.

They say you never see the knockout punch. Maybe so,
but you surely may catch a glimpse of one that does a good deal of
damage. This came winging my way, in the form of a hairy fist, from
over the shoulders of the ranks nearest me. It landed on my left
cheekbone, which is called the zygomatic arch. This bone is the part
of the skull that wraps around the side of the middle face,
protecting the sides of the eye sockets. It is easily broken. But
even if not broken, trauma to it causes rapid subcutaneous
extravasation of blood to the region. This is all to the good. But in
a matter of hours the trapped blood begins to die and discolor,
resulting in a pronounced bluish-black darkening that is called
eccymosis. In short, a black eye. As I jolted backward and began to
slump down, I knew I was going to get a hell of a shiner. I crept
forward, hunched over. Someone came in low, battering my rib cage on
both sides with his fists. I didn't like it at all. In fact it
aggravated me, and I wanted him on the floor. I first distracted his
attention by ringing his chimes. I made a tight fist with my right
hand with my thumb along the top of it. I hooked this pointy thing
around and into my assailant's left ear as hard as I could. He didn't
slow down fast enough, so I did it again. My hand came back wet and
gooey. Caught his eye a bit. Gee, sorry about that, but quit hitting
me in the ribs. He bent over and lifted his hands to grab for his
injured head. I shook hands with him and yanked down hard and back on
his right arm, placing my right foot out so he'd trip over it. The
arm drag worked and he slid down at my right side, groaning and
rolling around and grabbing at himself.

I was just beginning to shout my apologies when
someone shot a forearm into the nape of my neck. I struck hack,
flinging my left arm around behind me blindly. My cast smacked
something hard and hollow sounding, like a head. But it was too late;
the neck chop had done me in. Suddenly the world seemed like I had
two pairs of sunglasses on and my ears were plugged. I let the force
of the blow take me forward; I stumbled on as far as possible to get
out of the way. Friendly arms reached out to me. I felt myself
half-dragged to a table. I faintly remember a couple of kids slapping
me on the back. l remember seeing a cop, and several men being held
by their friends and led out of the place. The world came back into
focus as I was holding a glass to my lips and drinking. There was a
faint clangor of bells. No, ice cubes against glass.

"Feel better?"

It was Ted, sitting next to me with several pals.

"That's a double of CC. That should help."

I finished it. It helped. Then a big mug of coffee
appeared at my elbow, and I drained it. It was strong, but cut with
plenty of cream and sugar. I felt a lot better, although pain was
beginning to emerge in several places, most notably my sides, neck,
and left cheek. I looked around the Schooner Race; all was calm. The
rowdies had gone—or been taken away. The place was filled with
peaceful folk. I noticed how bright pine-yellow the walls were—how
stunning the mural photos appeared. My mind was collecting itself. .
.the red Naugahyde seats seemed bright. . .the bottles seemed to
shine with a new luster. . . .

"Can you walk OK?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I'm going now."

And I did.

I left the Schooner Race and lugged my weary frame
across the parking lot. I looked at my watch: 12:07. Mary would not
like it. The song I had heard upon first entering the bar was going
through my rattled brain: "You are all that I am (bum ta bum bum
bum), You know ya make me feel like a bran' nehew man. . ."

Well I'd be the hero though. DeGroot chickened out.
But I went. I wasn't afraid, and I had the scars to prove it. DeGroot
was a fraidy cat. DeGroot was also at home, snug in bed and
undamaged. DeGroot was smart. I was a big dummy. I turned and looked
at the bar for several minutes. Reason: as I left—finally—I
noticed Danny Murdock slumped at the bar. I didn't want him following
me. I wanted to make sure he stayed put.

Ten minutes and nobody emerged from the Race. I was
half hidden in the far reaches of the parking area and could see
without being seen.

No, I was safe.

I found the Scout and fumbled for my keys. Over my
shoulder the mucky harbor water shimmered white-gray in the
moonlight. The air stank. My body ached. In the dark I produced the
key ring, flipped through the bright jangling metal. From behind me
came a faint sigh. . .a whisper of sole scuff . . .an indefinable
cloth-wrinkle sound of stealth—

The lights went out.
 

CHAPTER TEN

WHEN YOU GET hit on the head really hard you can
taste it in your brain. It is the taste of sour metal—of tarnished
copper or bitter tin, of solder and rancid flux. . .and you taste it
not with your tongue or mouth, but with your brain. And the place you
taste it, just at that instant before unconsciousness or agonizing
pain, is right in the center of your head. Above your throat. Behind
your nose. Under the back of your eyes. When you taste it, you know
you are in deep trouble.

Looking down into my hands to find the bright silver
key, I had heard the faint rustle behind me. I was in the act of
looking around when there came a sound like a super-tanker grating
fast on a granite ledge—a million artillery pieces letting go at
once. A tympani between my ears; Then a dropping feeling and a going
away. And through it all, the metal taste I felt in the center of my
head.

And then I felt nothing, saw nothing, thought
nothing, until I came to. And coming to was most terrifying of all. I
awoke in a howling gale, a shrill symphony of mad whines and roars.
Dim phosphorescent shapes glowed before me. It was dark and cold. The
sound grew louder. Clicking and clacking not in my ears, but in my
head—sounds I heard in the bridge of my nose. I was dying. I had to
get out. . . I was underwater.

Something from I-know-not-where told me a vital
message as I regained consciousness in the depths of Gloucester
Harbor. I did not, starved for air as I was, swim straight up. I swam
at an angle, spurting precious bubbles of air as I went, until I saw
a thick cylindrical shape pass by my right side. A piling, clustered
thick with barnacles, mussels, and rock-weed. Four feet below me I
could barely see an orange starfish. Spent, I came up, popping and
blowing, on the top of the scummy water. I still had not recalled why
I had swum up behind the piling—what signal of self-preservation I
had obeyed. Perhaps in my unconscious (or subconscious) state, a grim
logic was working: someone had knocked me on the head and tipped me
into the harbor. Ergo: that person was not the best one to come
sputtering up to, flailing arms and water, screaming for help.