The Whiskey Sea (7 page)

She didn’t take long to decide. “What do I have to do?”

The sea had gone silent for a moment, but now it resumed its ins and outs of life, its breathing upon the shore.

Dutch said, “Engine’s not running as well as she should. It’s missing, running rough and sluggish. Need to get more horsepower out of her. You fix her up and be quick about it, you got the job.”

Frieda was already formulating a plan. She could adjust the timing, reset the floats in the carburetor, check the gaps on the points, and change wires and spark plugs if she found them clotted with carbon and oil. Then it hit her. “Do you have tools on board?”

Dutch’s eyebrows flattened. “Hell, no. I expect a mechanic to come with his own.”

Of course. Frieda had a few tools she had purchased used, but they were mixed in with Hicks’s. Since she hadn’t been working, he probably had the tools with him, and he had gone out over the shoals today, despite the cold winter conditions. She gazed up at Dutch, trying not to let the quivering sensation running through her body show. “I have tools. I just have to go fetch them.”

Dutch pulled out a gold pocket watch and snapped it open, then said, “Clock’s ticking. I need someone who can get the job done in a jiffy.” He clicked the watch shut.

“I’ll be back as fast as I can,” Frieda said, her thoughts tripping over each other.

“What are you waiting for?”

She turned and started running.

Her head thrummed as her feet flew down the weathered planks of the pier, wood grating under each rushed footfall.
Please oh please let Hicks be back from fishing.

She nearly collided with him while running along the wharf side.

“What’s the matter?” he said as he stopped her.

“You’re back. I can’t believe it,” said Frieda, breathing hard and fighting a sense of overwhelming fluster mixed with sudden relief.

“What the hell is going on?” Hicks demanded.

“I need the tools. Now.”

He put his hands on her upper arms. “What’s the rush? Tools? I thought someone had died.”

“I need. To prove. To Dutch. I can fix his boat.”

“What for?”

“I don’t have time to explain!”

“Well, I’m not giving you the tools till you tell me.”

She sucked in a long breath, and letting it out, said, “I could get the engineer job. On his boat. But I have to prove I can make his engine run better. I know what to do. I just need the tools. ’Specially the box wrenches.”

Hicks looked incredulous. “You’re going to start running with Dutch? This is crazy.”

Her chest hurt. Each inhalation of cold air was like a blade. “Listen, I don’t have time to argue. Some of those tools are mine, and I need them. I also need to go for parts. Time means everything. I gotta be fast. Will you help me?”

Hicks’s eyebrow twitched and then stopped. He studied her as Frieda hopped from one foot to the other, glancing nervously around. Then she watched his face tremble, as if he were stuck in a dilemma.

“Please, Hicks.”

He stood still.

“Think about what I could do for Silver. You know how I love him. And the future I could give Bea . . .”

He seemed to be going through a long decision-making process.

Frieda rocked on her feet and said, “I need to know now.”

Finally he let out a long sigh. “You go for the parts; I’ll go for the tools. Meet you back here.”

Frieda rose on her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He had never let her down. Now she’d have her shot at the job. She was already planning what she would work on first, second, and third as she rushed to see the man who sold parts. She gave him the last of her money and then ran back to the spot where she’d agreed to meet Hicks.

He was already standing in a way that told her weighty thoughts were holding him down. Without a word he simply handed her the toolbox, then turned and walked away.

“Wish me luck,” she called out, but Hicks never looked back.

That was odd, but she had no time to ruminate about it now. She made her way back to Dutch’s boat, where he sat wrapped in a heavy coat in the captain’s chair, his feet resting on the starboard gunwale, a cigar in his right hand.

She jumped on board lugging the heavy toolbox behind her. “I’ll get started.”

Dutch puffed on the cigar, then exhaled in a white stream that mixed with the frosty air. He gestured down below. “Be my guest.”

Frieda went down and opened the engine compartment, the wheels in her brain spinning. Now to start and be quick about it. Prove herself. She opened the toolbox and began to sort through it.

Then a white-hot instant of shock.

Inside were no box wrenches, which she needed more than anything else.

CHAPTER SIX

No!
She staggered on the brink of panic, her vision clouding. It took a few seconds for her to grasp what Hicks had done.

She felt woozy, as if the boat were dipping and lifting, although it was still. This had been a malicious act to deny her what she wanted. After she’d asked for his help! A deliberate deception! A dirty trick! That’s why he hadn’t spoken to her and had to walk away. Probably ashamed of himself, as he should be.

Anger erupted, and if there had been something there to strike she would’ve punched it. But instead she sucked in some shaky breaths and willed that urge away. This was a moment for thinking, not losing control. What to do now?

She would have to come up with some explanation for Dutch, then try to find Hicks and convince him to give her the box wrenches. By then it would probably be too late. Dutch was not a patient man, and there were others he could ask, those who had their own tools and could come on board and get this done as well as she could. Or almost as well. But she could think of nothing else to do but tell him the truth and look like a fool. Quietly she eased shut the toolbox and silently tread up the companionway to the afterdeck, where Dutch still sat, smoking the same cigar. Only moments had passed, but they felt like years.

Her heart in her throat, she said to Dutch, “It seems I’ve been sabotaged.”

“What’d you say?” Dutch said, looking none too pleased.

“Someone pulled out what I need.”

After roaring with laughter, he stopped. “You’re serious?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

With a cocked eyebrow he said, “Someone doesn’t approve?”

“Someone always disapproves,” said Frieda with a defiant little lift of her chin.

Dutch smiled wryly. “Well said.”

“But I’ll find them. I’ll borrow if I have to. I’ll be back, don’t you worry.”

“Settle down,” he said, and slowly took his feet off the gunwale. “I got some tools on board. Always carry tools with me on the boat. Just wanted to see if you could hustle, how bad you want this. I seen you scampering all over the place. You got the energy for this work. I was looking for that and for drive, and you got both.”

Frieda dared not breathe, much less say a word.

“But this disapproval, wherever it’s coming from, you gonna be able to stand up to that?”

Frieda made herself stand tall, although Hicks had made her feel like a punished child. “I’ve always done what I wanted.”

Dutch studied her, then rubbed his gloved hands on his thighs and said, “Wanting this bad and being willing to work hard for it means a lot. Plus I’ve heard good things about your work. Job’s yours.”

Frieda swallowed hard before her chest began to swell. “Thank you. I’ll do right fine work for you, Dutch.”

“And,” he said slowly, “just to let you know, pretty soon you’re going to have the best tools money can buy.”

She gazed around, still trying to fathom the day’s events that had led to this. The world suddenly looked so much more open and expansive. The wintry seas were splendid in their wrath and churned with opportunity. The cold air glistened and sparkled and no longer burned her cheeks. She hadn’t known such happiness in . . . forever. Things were finally going her way.

“Thank you, skipper.”

But what would Silver think? What would Bea say? What if, what if, what if . . . ?

Oh, stop.

“Frieda.” Dutch’s voice brought her back. “By God I still need you to fix the boat.”

After she got Dutch’s engine purring, it was late, hours past sundown. A hazy moon glowed dully through the high overcast clouds, but to Frieda the night was a cocoon of cottony glory. She spent a few moments with Dutch on deck, thanking him and assuring him that she could do the work, stand up to any naysayers, and always be ready when he needed her, day or night.

An onlooker might never have guessed that something monumental had just occurred. But as she walked away, her heart was still in her chest, its beats throbbing in her temples. No one else had any idea yet that their futures would now be linked. And that for one of them the day had changed everything.

“One more thing,” Dutch called out.

Frieda turned. Dutch appeared placid, as if the day had not been even the least bit extraordinary. He existed in a constant state of seeming neutrality—not anxious, but not calm or disinterested, either. Here was a man who could deal with any adversity that befell him with complete confidence and competence. Good qualities for a captain.

He said, “You’re the third man. You follow my orders and those of the first mate at all times. That going to work for you?”

He knew enough about her to be skeptical. It had always been near impossible for Frieda to follow orders, but for this to work she would have to stuff that side of her personality into a deep internal pocket. For the money it would be worth it, hard as it might be. That was the only way it worked on a boat. The captain was king.

For Bea and Silver, Frieda said, “Yes, captain.”

She splurged on a Cel-Ray soda, a private celebration in one of the dockside bars, then went to tell Hicks what she thought of his ploy, even though she could hardly stay mad at him now. Nothing could tamp down the pure, sweet joy of this day. She walked down the dock to the pier where the
Wren
rocked in the water. She found him on the boat, sitting on the transom, waiting for her. By now a cold wind that prickled her cheeks had blown the clouds away, and the indigo skies were peppered with planets and stars.

“It didn’t work,” she said calmly as she strode up and set the toolbox on the pier.

Then she took a closer look at Hicks. He held a bottle of whiskey in his hand, and that stilled her. Hicks had never been much of a drinker. The pain in his eyes burned in her throat. He said slowly, “Figured it might not.”

“I won’t even bother to ask why you did it.”

“You don’t have to, because you already know why I did it.”

Frieda said softly, “You can’t save me, Hicks.”

He took a swig from the bottle. “I know that.”

Speechless, she realized that she had blinded herself for two years now, telling herself that Hicks was getting over her, that only fondness and friendship would remain. Now the truth sat in front of her face. She remembered the first time she’d thought his affection for her might be his undoing. And now she was forced to acknowledge the reality of their situation. Was he unraveling now? She made her voice soft and easy, but she had to be sure never to give him any false hope. “You must be feeling pretty bad about yourself right now.”

His eyebrow was twitching. “Damn right. Probably shouldn’t have done that.”

“I need the tools that are mine. I’ll get my own box and come for them tomorrow. Dutch is going to front me the money I need for a box and a full set of tools until I can pay him back.”

“How kind of him.”

It was unlike Hicks to employ sarcasm. “What do you have against Dutch?”

Hicks shrugged. “He’s not so bad, but he’s getting caught up in a trap. They’re all getting reckless.”

“Seems to me he knows what he’s doing.”

Hicks hugged the whiskey bottle inside his heavy coat. “Whatever you say, Frieda. Whatever you say.”

The sea breathed beneath her, but a stab of remorse froze Frieda. Was she doing the right thing? No matter now; she’d accepted the job. And sitting before her, suffering, was the man who’d given her the skills to do it. The quicksilver tide rushed beneath her, and she breathed heavily, then spoke tenderly: “I know what I’m doing, thanks to you. I’ll always appreciate what you taught me . . .” She ran out of air, and Hicks held still and stared at her, as if he could read her thoughts, and he understood.

He gave a single nod of his head.

She turned to walk away, then thought better of it. After spinning around, she said, “Thanks for trying anyway. To save me.”

He took the bottle out of his coat and raised it to her. “To your success,” he said.

CHAPTER SEVEN

She spent the next few days working on engines for other runners and fishermen while they waited for the weather to improve. Others were already pulling their boats out in expectation of ice, and those men often needed help repairing their boats’ hulls, cleaning them, and repainting them. She hadn’t made any money on running yet and had to keep some cash coming in.

She worked with Hicks on one of the jobs and was happy to see that he was back to his old self. He avoided eye contact with her, but beyond that his behavior was the same as before his attempt at sabotage. Calm. Warm. Accepting. Hicks seemed to have the ability to get past things, to forgive others
and
himself. It was as if his anger could blow away like sand; he simply couldn’t hold on to it. Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe his blood always ran rich with emotion, only most of the time he secreted it. Frieda had noticed that many men, especially Great War veterans, were good at that. They had been through horrors they never spoke about. She also knew that the story you made up in your mind was rarely the real story. Maybe she didn’t know Hicks at all.

On Tuesday, rubbing the pinpricks of blond hair on his chin, Dutch told her they were making a run that night. The recent gales had passed, but the air was bitter cold. It would feel even colder out on the water. But Dutch needed to make good on his investment in the new boat, and the ice that would put them out of the water was coming soon. Plus there was no moon.

By five o’clock the sun was almost down, and after Rudy waved her on board, Frieda followed Dutch’s orders to prepare the boat for departure. She started the engine and made some final checks; then they cast off the mooring lines and pulled out slowly into the inky night, as black as a bottomless pit. Dutch took the helm, and Frieda pulled on her heaviest overcoat, one that belonged to Silver. A sense of the surreal came over her; she couldn’t quite fathom that she was doing this. Finally. For years going out on a boat to make a living had been held just beyond her reach, and running for rum had been nothing but fantasy. Now here she was. It was happening. A plunge into the unknown. Her awareness sharpened, while a handful of stardust scattered around her vision. The night sparkled. Every breath she took was like a hook, but she had to concentrate on what lay ahead. They would be running dark, and she had no idea how things would go.

When she thought of Silver, she had to shift the look he had given her earlier into a hidden compartment of her mind. He knew. Instead of her usual routine of making dinner and settling in for the long winter’s night, this evening she’d readied herself for the job ahead. She had decided to tell Bea the truth, and Bea in return had halfheartedly tried to talk Frieda out of it. Halfheartedly, and Frieda couldn’t blame her. The lure of easy money had infected almost everyone by now.

But Frieda said nothing about it to Silver, who sat on the divan and stared at her. Probably Hawkeye had come to tell Silver already. He was always the first to tattle on her to Silver, who followed her with that admonishing stare of his until she closed the front door behind her.

Dutch steered the boat, and Rudy picked up a pair of binoculars to scout out any trouble before it arrived. Two other boats were heading out of the same small dock area just behind them.

The water was dark except for the complex mix of red and white lights, some moving and some staying put, but Dutch knew what he was doing. He made a discreet run across Sandy Hook Bay, avoiding buoys, beacon lights, channel markers, anchored craft, and shipwreck carcasses listing on shoals. He couldn’t open up, because of all the obstacles, until they were out on the ocean. At low throttle the engine barely purred. Her four-inch exhausts were underwater and had a small silencer installed. While they were underway, there was very little for Frieda to do. Most of her work would happen in between the runs. If she was doing her work well, the engine would barely need attention. She had serviced and checked everything ahead of time, and everything was perfect. All she had to do was monitor the engine and spring into action if anything went wrong. She had time to enjoy the patina of deep waters quickening with reflected lights, the air dancing with little mists, and the stars that materialized and blinked to brilliance as the boat reached farther beyond city lights.

Rudy, a baby-faced redhead who wore circular, wire-rimmed eyeglasses like Ben Franklin’s, could’ve passed for a teacher if his life hadn’t been on the sea. Frieda remembered him as a shy boy, a few years ahead of her in high school, who had married an exuberant high school sweetheart right after graduation, and up to recently they’d lived with his parents in a rambling fishing shack, much added on to, on Fourth Street. This year, however, they’d moved into their own place, a remodeled Victorian farther away from the water and winds. Frieda had heard that Rudy’s wife was pregnant again, and she congratulated him now. Their firstborn son was as redheaded as Rudy, and Frieda imagined a whole baseball team of little redheads in his future.

As they swung past several anchored sailboats, Rudy asked her, “You ever sailed? I mean, on a sailboat.”

Frieda answered, “No.”

He lowered the binoculars and gazed out over the black bay as if every swell was magical. “I learned when I was a kid. It’s different. No engine sounds. Just wind and sea.” He glanced at her. “Peaceful, you know?”

“And slow.”

“Fast enough to have gotten the first explorers here.”

Frieda smiled, but the tension of the night, her first night out, made her lips tremble. “I was just thinking earlier that you look like a teacher.”

“That so? Well, thank you, I guess.”

Frieda gulped. She couldn’t believe they were having a casual conversation while on their way to commit a crime. It was obvious Rudy was used to this.

Rudy said, “OK, so you’re right. Sailing’s a lot slower. But the quiet makes up for that. It’s like you’re a part of the sea, gliding where the wind takes you. Using nothing but nature’s breath. It’s more relaxing.” He grinned. “You have to understand, I’ve got a kid at home and a baby on the way. I need peace and quiet sometimes.” He stretched before taking his post in the bow. “When I’ve put up enough money for the kids’ future, I might buy me a little sailboat. Teach the kids while they’re young, you know?”

She nodded and then finally smiled a real smile. Rudy was nice. She wished she had known him better before.

Farther out beyond Sandy Hook Bay, the lights of New York City to port, Frieda could see that hundreds of boats, out of every large and small dock, pier, and inlet along this section of coast, were headed for a similar soiree. Dutch opened the throttle, and soon they were gliding along the sheer surface of the water at close to thirty knots, sending up white water on either side like the wings of a bird, a third of the keel fully up and out of the water as they raced along.

They cut a wide course around the lightships on the way out to sea and then dove full throttle into the rolling swells of the Atlantic. The sea spanked the hull, and Dutch kept up the pace until they smacked face-first into a dense fog. Dutch turned to starboard, skirting the shore, and yelled out to Rudy, “Watch out for breakers!”

A few minutes later Rudy shouted back, “Breakers ahead, sir.”

Frieda said, “How do you know?” after she had swallowed the knot forming in the back of her throat. She had to put her faith in Dutch’s abilities. The fog felt like a premonition of doom, but she’d placed her life and fate into his hands. What else was there to do?

He said, “I feel it in the swell.”

Dutch grunted his discontent but whipped the boat back toward open waters and kept pushing. Even with the fog it was clear he had a plan and appeared to know exactly where he was. Rudy spread out flat on his stomach in the bow, searching through the thick air for any dark patches, indicating boats. She sat next to Dutch and kept an eye on the engine compartment. He seemed to sense her questions before she asked them.

“No turning back now,” Dutch said in his hoarse voice. “I got lots of thirsty patrons to feed, bless their bloodsucking souls.”

She had no idea how he planned to find a boat five or so miles out to sea in the midst of this gloom. Frieda knew how to work engines to their maximum potential and tong for clams near the shore, but she was as much a novice to the deeper seas as any other landlubber. But Dutch kept on, as if his eyes and will alone could cut through the dense curtain.

Frieda raked away long strands of hair that were sticking to her face and lips.

Dutch continued: “I had to know where the waves were breaking. I’m thinking thirty-five to forty minutes from the breakers; that’s what it usually takes. Then we’ll stop and listen for the yachts’ bells. They should be ringing all the time in this fog.”

The engine needed no attention, so Frieda simply sat and shivered as they plowed ahead into near-zero visibility, and she hoped to high heavens that nothing was out there to run into. Her stomach clenched as the wraiths of mist twirled before her, and she tucked her face back into the collar of the big overcoat. Something sharp caught in her chest as she thought of the two lives entrusted to her care. Bea. Silver. And then the crawl of shame. She’d never fathomed an existence that included heading out in dangerous seas in search of contraband. She was breaking the law and aiding others to break it, too. Now a part of keeping the liquor flowing, she was old enough to know that liquor was often overused; it erupted in bar fights, left wives and children behind, and could even fell the strongest of men.

Except for the low hum of the engine, all was silent, and they flew over the thick, black sea, a small boat racing away from the rest of the world. Far from shore and at the appointed time, Dutch slowed down, and they listened. About ten minutes later they heard ships’ bells, and Rudy exclaimed, “Hot damn.”

Frieda peered through the fog as they drew closer to encounter one of the strangest scenes she’d ever witnessed. The ships—big black birds in the mist—were surrounded by hundreds of other boats of all sizes and designs, everything from slow old tubs to speedboats built just for running. They drifted about and fended off the others like goslings surrounding the mother goose, and Frieda was stunned to realize that the atmosphere was something akin to a party. Here was a flotilla of boats strung together to break the law and make money, and no one seemed to have a care in the world. A floating liquor establishment out in the middle of the dark ocean, like some kind of magical, mythical circus. It made Frieda think of pirates, mermaids, gods, and sirens of the sea. No one acted the slightest touched with doubt, even with jellyfish, like flowers, floating in the water about the boats and danger from the coast guard boats looming. Transactions were at hand, and the booze was in demand. She was stunned again to find they had to wait their turn. Now
this
was a story, a real story.

As they drew closer, she could see hand-lettered wooden signs hanging in the large boats’ rigging listing the prices and the types of liquor for sale. Champagne was thirty to forty dollars a case, depending on the label and quality, and whiskey and most others were thirty to fifty dollars, depending on the same things. Dutch pulled their boat closer as other boats loaded and left, while Rudy kept watch for the coast guard. Although the fog was still hugging the water, it seemed to be thinning. Frieda didn’t know how to feel about that; it made the return safer but also made them easier to find.

Dutch pulled up to the Canadian three-masted schooner named
Eva Marie
, where about fifteen other boats were conducting their business, their engines running and ready for immediate departure, their hulls thumping cheek to cheek around the big boat, all of them rolling and bumping and lowering cargo into their holds. The schooner was all burly men, gleaming faces, low lights flooding the deck, full of people and crates, and a sense of enthusiastic purpose. People worked quickly, determinedly, and zealously. She blinked several times. She could scarcely believe it. She had tried to imagine this moment ever since Dutch had hired her, but nothing she’d pictured had come close to this energy and the feel of this orderly chaos. These people had a burning fire in their bellies, and the scene felt as if it could at any moment combust into flames. She had no other way to describe it but to say that out here these people were alive. More alive than landlubbers. More alive than people playing it straight.

The crew of the big boat threw out lines, and Frieda helped Rudy put over the fenders. Dutch was deciding what label liquor he wanted, while some of the men got off their boats and scrambled aboard the
Eva Marie
to stay for a while. This close, Frieda could hear music and saw some couples—the men wearing striped blazers and Oxford baggies, the women wearing chemises and T-bar shoes—dancing on the deck, as though this were a party. Some people had obviously come out here just for the excitement, and she could understand why. The vitality was catching, and she wished she could scoop it up in her arms and carry it back with her. People seemed mesmerized, as if under a spell, and everything hinged on these incandescent moments. Men moved the liquor with eager agility and handled the sales untiringly as if there was nothing else in the world as important, while someone strummed a banjo and women danced and sang. Laughter, smiles, and music reigned over a sense of avid determination. This was a place of business after all, but the most jubilant of businesses. Maybe it was the lure of wealth, the excitement of breaking the law, the glory of success.