P Deutermann - The Moonpool

“Richter,” I answered.

“Yes, we know,” a voice replied. It was my new best friend, Colonel Trask.

“So where are you, Colonel?” I asked, as I nudged the boat’s throttle up one notch, heading for the egress.

“I’m in central control,” he said. “My eyes are in that little green fishing boat on your starboard bow.”

I looked, and there was the “fisherman” who’d waved. He was holding binoculars on me, and behind him I saw the TV camera, mounted backward on his windscreen, pointed in my direction as I approached the river.

“I feel safer already,” I said.

“There you go, making assumptions again, Mr. Richter,” he said. “What were you doing at the moonpool this morning?”

“Dr. Quartermain wanted to show me something,” I said, “and I got to meet one of your Russians. Gotta admit, that was a surprise.”

“I’m with you on that one,” he said. “Omnia Russians de-lenda sunt.”

“How’s the visitation going with the NRC?”

“The way it always goes when they get their black hats on, Mr. Richter. Lots of noise and motion, but not much movement. Everyone’s really serious, of course, and very important. I understand you got to watch the wetback marathon last night over across the way.”

“Sure did,” I said. “Lots of noise and all kinds of movement. Including Dr. Quartermain. In fact, one of my mutts helped fish him out of the river.”

“So we heard,” he said. “A good German shepherd is hard to beat. Look-you take a drink of whiskey from time to time?”

“No more than once a day,” I said. I was abeam of the “fisherman,” who was no longer covering me with his binocs. His TV camera, on the other hand, was swiveling just fine, probably under the control of whatever room Trask was in. Only then did I notice that the boat was anchored at both ends.

“There’s a pleasant little watering hole down in Southport, called Harry’s,” he said.

“How original,” I said. I felt the main river current grab the boat’s bow and begin to slide us toward the south bank of the canal. I kicked up the power and veered out toward the main channel.

“Yeah, well, it’s kind of a hangout for various stripes of Helios people. How’s about I buy you a drink, say, around eight thirty or so?”

“I never say no to a free drink,” I said. “Do I have to be on the lookout for Billy the Kid anymore?”

“I don’t think so, Mr. Richter,” he said. “But bring your shepherds.”

“Count on it, Colonel.”

I put a call in to Mary Ellen Goode when I got back to the beach house. This time she answered. She sounded as warm and friendly as ever, but at the same time, a bit reserved.

“Cam,” she said. “I got your message. You’re back?”

“I am indeed,” I said. “Can we get together?”

“Um,” she began. Surprised, I let a small band of silence build.

“The thing is,” she said, “I don’t think that’d be, what’s the word I’m looking for-appropriate?”

“Seemed pretty appropriate the other night at the Hilton,” I said. “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed about that, are you?”

“A little,” she said. “I have to confess to using you, in a manner of speaking.”

“Well, damn, woman,” I said, trying to keep it light while hiding my confusion. “If that was using me, you can use me and even abuse me any time you want. C’mon, Mary Ellen, what’s going on?”

“The thing is, I’m getting married in a month.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Yeah,” she said.

“And, lemme see: You were getting married in a month and a week when you came out to see your old buddy from upstate.”

A slight hesitation. “Yes.”

“So what was all that-your bachelorette party?”

“In a way. Well, no, that’s not fair. I just, well, I just wanted to know what it would be like. Edward is a nice guy, but he’s nothing like you. I had to know.”

I couldn’t decide if I should be mad or disappointed. “Know exactly what, Mary Ellen?”

“Cam, that night was incredibly exciting and eminently satisfying. What I had to know was whether or not I was in love with you, and you with me, or just turned on by the fact that you are so very different from all the men I work with and see every day.”

That sounded a bit lame to me. “As in, get it on with the pool boy one last time?”

“No, no, no. Please, don’t be angry, even though you have every right to be. But let me ask you something: Are you in love with me?”

“I hold you in great affection, Mary Ellen,” I said, suddenly the weasel. “You know that.”

“Yes, I do, but do you want to marry me? You want a family? A house in the academic suburbs and some kind of normal, nine-to-five life, one that doesn’t involve gunfights in the dark?”

I sighed. We both knew the answer to that question.

“Right,” she said, and I felt my heart sink, even though I knew she was absolutely right. I’d been married, and I was way past my sell-by date to go there again, even with this lovely woman.

“We smoked some mirrors that night, Mary Ellen,” I said. “You gotta admit, when we were good, we were very good.”

“Stop reminding me, Cam. But the truth is, I want all of those things, and it’s kind of now or never as I see it.”

“I guess I wasn’t really calling about having a drink, was I,” I admitted.

She giggled. “And I appreciate the sentiment,” she said. “Shit. This is hard. I thought all I’d have to do is send you a Dear John and go on with my life. Tell me one more thing.”

“What’s that?” I asked. I thought I knew what she’d want to know, and she did not disappoint.

“Are the shepherds with you?”

Bingo, I thought. “They are. And, yes, I am. You didn’t buy the admin story, did you?”

“Wanted to,” she said. “ Really wanted to. But…”

“This mean I can’t call from time to time? Just to see how you’re doing?”

“You might get Edward.”

“Aaarrgh,” I said.

“Cam: It’s been more than great. But now…”

“Got it, babe. All the very best in the next chapter, and I mean that most sincerely. I do have to say, just for the record, mind you, that I’m sorely disappointed in missing out on some more use and abuse.”

I could almost see the smile I could hear in her voice. “Good-bye, Cam.”

Okay, I thought. A clean shoot-down if there ever was one. Let’s go see what kind of a date Carl Trask is.

Harry’s Bar was located in the second-to-last block before the Southport municipal beach and fishing pier. It was a traditional layout-a long, dimly lit, and smoky rectangular room, mirrored bar and stools on one side, a single row of tables on the other. At the back was a jukebox, a worn-looking dance floor, and a stairway with a sign that said POOL, with an arrow pointing up the stairs. I didn’t think they meant swimming. There was a neon Budweiser sign in the window, along with a dusty and somewhat tattered liquor license taped to the glass near the door. A dozen-plus metal stools decorated the bar, all occupied by what looked like workers from the plant, based on all the badges and TLDs. Not a particularly rough-looking crowd, but it was definitely hard hat country. Some of the tables near the dance floor were occupied by small groups of women who were making a giggling reconnaissance of the bar until I showed up with a large German shepherd in tow.

The tables up front were empty, so I chose one in the front corner near the door and sat down with my back to the wall. I had Frick on a harness with me, and I put her under the table with her back to the wall. Some of the guys at the bar noted the shepherd, but most were busy drinking and talking, in that order, and paid us no mind. The women started giggling again. The bartender tried to protest about the dog, but Frick showed her teeth and he elected to retire with his dignity and his ankles intact.