Martha Grimes - The Blue Last

“Richard! This is a boat ! We’re on a boat on the river !”

Sparky could always find his way to and back even in dead dark, but there was plenty of light along this bank and across on the other bank thousands of bulbs of light. Massive black heaps-lighted too-spanned the two sides of the river and seemed to have no purpose other than for cars to flow over and back, and, of course, to give shelter to the boy and his friends. This was the most important function of the nearest black heap.

Sometimes Sparky looked up at the people he passed, who walked like robots, staring straight ahead, listening only to what was in their heads and their ears. He wanted to shout! Down look down, look down, come down and get your noses to the ground and Sniff! There’s a whole sniffing life down here you’re passing up. The closest anyone came, and those were few, was reaching down to pet him, but they never stopped long.

Sniffing along the narrow concrete walk, he would spend hours nosing through trash and rags. He was only glad he no longer had to look through this stuff for food. It had been bad when he was little until the boy had found him and fed him and gone on feeding him. Yes, he loved the boy as much as a good sniff around a place.

He could stay up all hours, travel around, sleep all day if he wanted (well, except, of course, for deliveries). And he’d been given a name-Barky? Sparky? Perky?-it made no difference. The name was for the boy’s sake. Bernie? Benny? Bunny? Well.

Sparky was patrolling the bank all along the river and through the confluence of narrow dark streets which had once held nothing but warehouses, but were now where people lived and fancy cars sizzled through the rain.

Here was a bundle of rags. The smells shocked his senses so much that he came near to retreating even before the voice shouted “Piss off, ya fuckin’ mutt!”

Sparky trotted on, feeling stupid, as it wasn’t the first time this had happened, and by now he should have learned when a bundle of rags wasn’t a bundle of rags. The man was looking for something to throw when Sparky ran. He should be more careful about these wretches. Once, as he was sniffing one over, the wretch grabbed him, tossed a rope over his neck and took him up to the Strand for the day’s begging. It always helped to have a dog with you, Sparky knew that. He also knew he could get away. These people couldn’t keep their minds on things. When two pound coins were dropped in his old hat, the wretch got so excited and eager to pocket the coins that he let go of the rope and Sparky took off at a gallop, tore from the Strand to the Embankment and in a hop-skip-jump was back with the boy. The boy was overjoyed to see him. Poor Barney (Bernie?) was clearly worried to death, and Sparky wished he could convey to him how spectacular his talent for homing was, how infallible his nose. At times he thought he should have been a wine taster instead of a delivery dog. Or a florist, like the ones in the place of blue flowers.

There have been stories, he recalled, about the incredible homing feats of dogs like himself, such as the one who’d traveled all the way from Bognor Regis to Bath, searching for his owner who’d moved. Oh, sure, thought Sparky, don’t we wish ?

Now, where was he? Stink Street. He called it that for it was home to more smells than any other single place he knew, except for marketplaces. Stink Street came close to knocking him out; it was in amongst all these old warehouses that were home to a lot of youngish snobs with good jobs and money. What he smelled was the rich odor of furs; the scent of the animals they had been ripped from still clung. New tires, cars, leather, sweetish smell of weed. Perfume. The mingling of perfumed scents strong enough to lift you off your legs.

Stink Street was a heady experience. He had to be careful of places like that; they could come to be necessary; they would not let you go. Sparky moved on out toward the river.

The door at the top of the ladderlike steps, which reminded her of an attic door, was not locked and this surprised her. Gemma pushed up one side and suddenly saw the night sky of stars and the white moon riding behind a gauzy cloud. With Richard again tucked inside her coat, she climbed out on the deck of the boat and looked around. She unzipped her coat and took Richard out so that he could see, too. The boat was fairly big; she’d never seen it before and could not imagine why she’d been put here.

“So you couldn’t get away,” she heard Richard say.

“Well, what am I supposed to do, then?”

“Get away, of course.”

There were times he just irritated her to death with his solutions to her problems. Ever since he’d got his new black clothes, he was impossibly bossy.

“It’s not impos-”

Gemma shoved him back inside her coat to shut him up. Then she got her bearings: the boat was closer to the one bank than the other. It was much closer to the Big Ben side than it was to the Southwark Cathedral side. There was one bridge fairly close; she did not know its name. Benny had shown her pictures of the next one down, and she knew it was Waterloo Bridge. Around the curve of the river was Big Ben. So she knew where she was, pretty much.

Glad the boat was still, or the river was, she walked all around the deck, which didn’t take long. There were benches with plastic cushions built in on both sides; the place where you drove the boat was toward the front. That’s where the wheel was, with glass all around like a windshield that the captain could look through to see where he was going. She would never be able to figure out how to drive it. Anyway, the boat was anchored. Over there she saw what looked like a dock. And beyond the dock, a big squarish house. So the boat probably belonged to that house and the dock was for the boat. Maybe it was too big to pull up there, so it anchored here.

Richard was getting ready to tell her to swim for it, she bet, so before he could, she said, “I can’t swim!”

“ Don’t mope or you’ll never-” came the muffled words from inside.

“I don’t mope!” Gemma closed her eyes, hoping if she didn’t give her mind any new sights to see it would be better able to concentrate on her problem. Wait a minute! Her eyes snapped open. There had to be a way to get from the bank-the dock-to the boat. It was somebody’s boat and if that person could get to it, then there had to be a way.

“Good good good good!” Richard cried.

But if that was the only boat…? Gemma walked around the deck again slowly, peering over the side. A smaller boat, a rowboat it looked like, was tied to the side of the big boat. She wondered if it was okay, if it had any leaks in it, but if it had, it would already have sunk, wouldn’t it?

She shrank back. But I can’t get down there-

“You can too; it’s hardly any distance at all. Find a rope; there are always ropes on boats. Don’t just stand there.”

“I’m only nine. How can I-?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Get me out of here and I’ll find a rope!” Gemma took Richard out from under her coat and held him in front of her. While she walked, she turned him different ways so that he could inspect the deck. Slowly around the deck they walked.

“Right there!”

Not only was there a coil of rope, but it appeared to be tied, sturdily tied, to a short pole. She stuffed Richard back inside her coat (while he was still barking orders), picked up the rope and dragged it back to the part of the deck just above the rowboat. It was plenty long. She let the end down, played the rope out to the rowboat. Then she put all her weight into it and yanked hard to see if back there the rope held to the pole. Yes! Only, how was she to move the oars. She could never handle two, one on each side.