SILENT GUNS (9 page)

Two stained wooden desks and a swivel chair rested
forlornly in a glass-enclosed office. Like tongues stuck out in
mockery, drawers of dented metal file cabinets hung open. A
battered hotplate lay covered with dust. Dirty cups were
everywhere. Adjourning the office, a small room held a long, wooden
table, but no chairs.

“
Bunkhouse,” Madden
whispered.

All signs pointed to a hurried departure. Trent
guessed an auto repair garage, most likely, a chop shop.

“
It’s pretty rundown.” Madden
observed, pulling at his ear. “A bit of elbow-grease and it’s back
into shape in no time,” Ellsberg countered, reeking with the charm
of a used car salesman, smiling an uneven-toothed, guarded smile.
Gold caps flashed at the corners of his mouth. He lit a cigar and
drew at it awkwardly. His eyes blinked and a nervous twitch crossed
his pudgy face. “And the rent’s reasonable for a building this
size: $600 plus utilities.” Puffing like a chimney, he crossed the
cigar to the other side of his mouth.

“
We’ll take it,” Trent said. “Will
two months’ rent in advance be O.K.?” He watched Ellsberg’s fingers
twitch as twelve, crisp, one hundred dollar bills changed
hands.

“
The PUGET SOUND SHIP MAINTENANCE
CO. is now in business, Mr. Ellsberg.” With the lease signed, keys
changed hands. Ellsberg’s face radiated relief as he eased back
into his Cadillac and drove off.

“
We won’t see him again,” Madden
hissed.

“
At least, for sixty
days.”

Trent locked up, tossed Madden a set of keys and
slipped a set into his pocket. Behind the warehouse, they tromped
down a sloping bank of waist-high brambles and scrub brush onto a
dock of solid, heavy fir timbers. The rails of a marine railway
disappeared under the surface of Lake Union. “Where is she,” Trent
demanded.

“
That’s her, over there,” Madden
nodded across the canal. “That’s the
Helga
.” In the forest
of antennas, funnels and masts, it was impossible to pick out the
Helga
. “I’d like a closer look,” Trent said, hurrying to the
Mustang. It was Saturday. Weekend boaters cruised steadily down the
Ship Canal into Lake Union, out to the Government Locks and into
Puget Sound. The docks and shipyards were shut down for the
weekend. Madden shoved aside the gate to the fisherman’s dock. The
air was cool; a light breeze swirled the mist around the mastheads
of the moored ships creating whirling dervishes in white
gossamer.

“
Which one?” Trent searched for
painted names.

“
Over there, the well-built one.”
Madden led, carefully overstepping fishing gear and drying nets
strewn about until they drew up at a short gangplank.

The
Helga
’s upper works were a freshly
painted white, a dazzling coat that made her shine eerily. A white
band encasing a red diamond encircled a solid, black funnel. The
lines of a short, stubby bow, typical of Pacific Coast King
Crabbers, led to a graceful sweep aft to the fantail creating a
wide, roomy aft working deck.

Madden said, “She’s beamy, with plenty of working
space below decks. If she were a broad, I’d bet she’d be terrific
in bed.”

Trent stared down at the squat, stubby hull tracing
her gentle lines. A long deckhouse ran forward from a break
amidships and stopped fifteen feet short of the stem; three doors
were cut into the port side of the deckhouse. Topsides, a tugboat
style wheelhouse sat perched on two stub wings; aft the wheelhouse,
perched a tiny sea cabin, assumedly the Captain’s. Ladders led from
the working deck to the aft edges of the port and starboard stub
wings. Topsides, starboard of the funnel, a Boston whaler was
cradled, ample enough for six men, covered with canvas and secured
for rough weather. At the break amidships, a sturdy cargo mast
plunged deep into the hull, its cargo boom snuggled up neatly
against the mast. Two square hatches were cut into the working
deck: one forward and one aft, each battened down on fifteen-inch
coamings. A small hatch just forward the counter, allowed access to
the steering gear and the aft hold. A wooden platform lay over the
entire surface of a steel working deck leaving the hatch coamings a
foot above the platform.

“
Obviously, a crabber, “Madden
remarked.

“
I didn’t know you were a
fisherman?”

“
I’ve shipped aboard a crabber.
Captain Larsen is a rough weather sailor,” Madden observed. “Bet he
works his men no matter what the seas. I’ll bet that wooden
platform is his own invention. See how the open slats let water
drain through into the scuppers. Gives the crew solid footing. Bet
there’s not much freeboard when those holds are full. A dangerous
trade anyway you look at it, but the way he’s battened down…he’s a
cautious man. He’ll pull those wooden platforms, dry stanchions and
net reel and he’s ready for dry cargo. The two holds would be
drained and dried; they’re nothing but holding tanks for live crab
and fish, anyway. That boom has the height we need.”

The
Helga
rose and fell to a slight swell
that swept in from a passing boat. Traces of sea life were exposed,
clinging at the waterline. She was a steel ship, an old ship, but
showed no splotches of either rust, red primer or odd colored
paint. The bulwarks and decks were clean. The
Helga
was
cared for, a thing of beauty.

A harsh growl, deep yet muffled. A German shepherd
stood topside, four feet firmly planted, poised to spring. The
wheelhouse door stood latched open. Trent moved to board. The dog
sprang and charged down the ladder to stand growling at the head of
the gangway. A gruff voice emerged from the wheelhouse, followed by
a large, angular man of weather-beaten features wearing a crushed
Captain’s cap. His teeth clenched tight about the stem of a
grotesque-looking pipe.

“
What do you want?”

“
A welcome aboard, Captain Larsen.
Call off your dog.”

“
I got him to keep people
off.”

“
Even friends?”

“
Like who?”

“
Somebody who wants to charter
your boat.”

“
Who sent you?
Schiller?”

“
Who’s Schiller?”

“
Never mind,” the Captain said
gruffly, waving his pipe. “Come aboard.” He waved off the dog.
“Back, Hauser, Back,” he said. The slight motion of the boat served
as a welcome mat.

“
Speak your piece,” Captain Larsen
commanded as he came down the port ladder. He stood hands on hips,
blocking passage forward.

“
Might we talk in private?” Trent
asked. Captain Larsen hesitated, then stood erect, stretching
himself to his full height, and replied, “Up forward, my
cabin.”

The aft-most lower deckhouse door opened into a
small, compact galley, two portholes were hinged up to view aft
over the lower working deck. The galley was shut down. A
pass-through pantry hatch cut through the forward bulkhead into a
second cabin, a good way to listen to all the gossip as the second
cabin contained six stacked bunks and a mess table. A brass oil
lamp hung motionless draped from a swivel. The smell of fresh paint
penetrated everywhere.

Captain Larsen stepped over the coaming of the
forward door. We followed. Trent let his eyes move about the
Captain’s cabin and he was taken aback. Dark, Honduran mahogany
paneling and white enamel gloss trim set off the cabin’s fine
features. Forward, a sofa, with underneath stowage drawers, graced
the port side. Aft, a wardrobe and a small, highly polished
mahogany desk were rigidly mounted to the aft bulkhead. The swivel
chair appeared an original antique. The cabin had been done to suit
the Captain’s personal tastes. On the starboard side was a large,
outsized single bunk: aft the bunk, a head and shower. Overhead
lockers were suspended over the bunk and secured to the washroom
partition. Two easy chairs, a small Oriental carpet and a
well-polished table nestled against the curve of the deckhouse
directly below the wheelhouse. No pictures, awards, certificates,
no personal items hung in view. Cut through the aft bulkhead was an
inside door, latched open, that lead directly into the crew’s
quarters. The
Helga
was Captain Larsen’s home.

“
Sit down.” They settled into the
easy chairs. “Whiskey?” The Captain set three glasses on the table.
He did not wait for a reply but reached into an overhead locker,
extracted a bottle, uncorked it and filled the glasses. The lines
on his face were taut. The Captain drank but said
nothing.

“
Is your boat for charter?” Trent
asked at length.

“
Maybe!” He snapped.

“
You are in business, aren’t
you?”

“
Depends…” The Captain stared at
the bottom of his empty glass.

“
The job involves some risk,”
Trent said flatly.

“
Risk! That’s why I got troubles
now.” Captain Larsen eyed Trent warily and said, “And you want to
bring me more. What is it? Drugs? Illegal aliens?
Smuggling?”

Trent cleared his throat. “We bid a government job
and need a ship equipped as the
Helga
,” his tone was
carefully controlled. “We expect a contract within the next three
weeks. In the meantime, we need to make a quick trip to
Canada.”

“
Humph!” Captain Larsen refilled
his glass.

“
We pay well.”

Captain Larsen dragged his pipe from his pocket and
stuffed it into a tobacco pouch. He held a match above the bowl,
sucked in the flame and watched the smoke curl upward.

“
We’re wasting the Captain’s time,
Peter.” Trent offered, heaving to his feet. Captain Larsen lowered
his pipe, uncertain; he searched for words, his voice quivered as
he spoke.

“
There has been no work for the
Helga
for a long time. It was better when a man could just
fish for a living and if that didn’t work out, crab.” Captain
Larsen’s shoulders slumped. “Fishing is a risky business. I fitted
out for crab, tried Alaskan waters and had three bad seasons. We
didn’t even make wages. I borrowed big against the
Helga
…I
was so sure…” The Captain’s tone faded, cut with a bitter mixture
of hurt pride and resentment. “The banks wanted their money, but I
couldn’t pay, I didn’t have it so I went to Schiller. I didn’t want
too, but I had too. Now, that bloodsucker wants his money, but it’s
my
Helga
he really wants.”

“
The
Helga
’s valuable,
Captain Larsen,” Trent said immediately. There was a deep sadness
in this large, tall man. “Maybe, you won’t have to lose
her.”

“
I would do almost anything…”
Captain Larsen replied.

“
How about a look about?” Trent
suggested.

The Captain hesitated, then led, pausing at the
break in the deck where they entered the hull through a door to the
engine room. A six hundred-horse slow speed diesel engine, which
turned at four hundred RPM, sat in a cradle bolted to the keel beam
and supporting frames. A single shaft ran aft through a bulkhead
seal and disappeared. Two auxiliaries for electrical power sat
aside the diesel engine; a hydraulic take-off ran the deck winch
and drove the boom. The engine could be operated directly from the
wheelhouse or by signals rung down. The Captain unhesitatingly
disclosed the
Helga
’s secrets, taking great pains to answer
questions. He was proud of his boat: she was his family.

“
How fast is she?”

“
She’s not too fast; cruises at
nine knots, maybe, ten.”

“
What can the boom lift,” asked
Madden.

“
Three ton over forty
feet.”

“
How about crew?”

“
It takes four to work her; three
if it’s light work. I keep my engineer on call; I don’t know where
the rest are, they’ve probably found other work by now.”

“
I’ll provide the extra crew,
Captain. Peter will run north with you and your engineer,” Trent
advised.

The Captain nodded as they climbed to the
wheelhouse. A radar unit and a sounder were mounted to either side
of a small door that dropped two steps and opened into the sea
cabin. The sea cabin was smaller than Trent had imagined. A bunk,
locker and small chart table graced one wall. Charts were filed in
slots above the chart table; one lay spread out and taped to the
desktop. A chronometer hung on the wall. With the tour ended, they
returned to the Captain’s cabin. Glasses were refilled and they sat
down.

“
I don’t expect a tea party,”
Captain Larsen remarked, slowly, “but the
Helga
is all I
have.” Trent nodded but held his silence. Trent knew the Captain
would inevitably uncover the
Helga
’s true mission. He
wondered how he would react - exactly what kind of man was this
Captain Larsen?

“
This fellow, Schiller. How much
do you owe him?”

The Captain looked up in anger. “Three back payments
plus interest, a lot of interest, that bastard.”

“
How much to set things
right?”

“
Fourteen grand.”

Trent smiled; sure the amount poised on the
Captain’s tongue had a few extra dollars added. So be it, he
thought, a small price to pay for tying up the
Helga
.

Trent withdrew a leather pouch and fingered the
correct amount onto the table. “This should cover it.” Captain
Larsen’s eyes brightened, his hands trembled as he raked in the
bills. “I’ll call when we are ready to go north. Say nothing to
anyone. Our bid must be competitive, you know. If you change your
mind, I’ll expect my money back within ten days. After Canada,
we’ll firm up the rest of the schedule.” They shook hands. Hauser
sat on his haunches just outside the door. He wagged his tail,
sensing Trent a friend meaning no harm to his master. The mist
lifted. The air grew colder. Madden started the car and backed away
from the gate.