Randy White - Gone

“My aunt was a strong-minded woman,” I said finally, wanting my words to sound sharp. “I wish I had half her spirit-not that it gives anyone else the right to judge how she lived her life.”

“Now, don’t go gettin’ mad,” Mr. Pallet said, apologizing with his tone. “Reason I said it is, why in the world you down here asking about Sybarite ? I know they’re advertising what they call a ‘server’s’ position, and a mate’s job, too. But those ain’t jobs for you, young lady. Unless”-the man took a slow step back to get a better look at me-“unless you’re on hard times. Unless you took to smoking them damn drugs like half the island kids I see stumbling around. I’ll have no hand in getting you work on a boat like that. Now, tell me the truth, and I promise I won’t call no cops. You in trouble, I’ll do what I can. My people know people who specialize in helping young folks outta this sort of bad business. By gad, I’ll give you a job myself before pointing you toward a berth aboard Sybarite . It’s the least I can do for your uncle.”

The old man said the vessel’s name as if it were a profanity, so I finally understood why he’d thought the worst of me and had said what he’d said about Hannah Three. It caused me to chuckle, and say, “You’re a nice man, Mr. Pallet. But you’ve got nothing to worry about when it comes to me and what you might be thinking.” I motioned toward the generator he’d been working on. I could see he’d changed the water filter and had the sort of tools laid out on a towel that told me the engine still wouldn’t start. I asked, “You find water in the fuel?”

Instead of answering, the man pressed, “It just doesn’t make sense you asking about Sybarite . There’s no need to lie to me, girl. I haven’t talked to your mamma in years, but I’d know her if I saw her. Met your daddy once or twice before he-” The man was about to say before he ran off but stopped himself in time to finish, “-and your granddaddy was a fine man, too.”

There was a moment of awkwardness, which I shrugged off without much effort. I had no memory of my father. He’d left Loretta when I was three-an insult I’d fumed about until I was old enough to understand my mother’s irritating ways better. The fact that Loretta continues to blame me with her snide comments about my gift for losing men only makes it less of a mystery why a handsome, smiling Army paratrooper would slip out the back door, desperate for freedom.

I knelt by the generator, looking at clamps the old man had removed from the fuel pump’s tubing, and the nut to the high-pressure fuel line. I said, “If you want, I’ll explain my business while I help you bleed the air out of these injector lines. It’s easier with two people. Or have you already tried the lines?”

Mr. Pallet had a lot of kindness and wisdom behind those rheumy eyes of his, and he still appreciated women, judging from the quick peek he stole down my blouse as he squatted beside me. “Dang kraut engines,” he said. “I had to drive all the way back home and get metric wrenches. Guess I should’a tried burping her first.”

“No, sir,” I replied. “Water would have been my first guess, too.” Actually, I would have checked to make sure there was fuel in the tank first, but I didn’t want to insult the man.

He said, “You sure you’re not after quick money working aboard that dang boat? ’Cause if you are-”

I interrupted to ease his mind, saying, “I’m looking for a missing woman. She’s the niece of a friend of mine. I’ve got reason to think the man she’s with might have tricked her into booking a night aboard Sybarite . Might even try to get her to do it again. If one of the crew remembers the woman, maybe they’ll have an address written down or something. That’s the only reason I’m here, Mr. Pallet. I promise.”

“What’s the girl’s name? I’ve still got a good memory for faces and names.”

“The family wants the name kept private,” I told him. “Plus, if word gets around I’m looking for her, she might just run harder.” Sensing the man’s approval, I added, “But I’ll trust you because of who you are.”

When I’d told him Olivia’s name, he said, “Beach people,” which is how old-timers refer to wealthy families who’ve wintered on the islands for generations.

“Her uncle has a place on Captiva, but Olivia lives in Naples. Port Royal. I brought a picture of the man she might be with if you wouldn’t mind having a look.”

“Beach people,” he repeated, meaning it didn’t matter where they lived. As I reached for my equipment bag, though, he said, “Show me later. Meantime, you can explain some important left-out details while we burp these lines. Like why’d a rich family put someone like you on the girl’s trail, not a hired detective or the police?”

As I explained, I was thinking that Lawrence Seasons had been righter than I’d suspected about the value of local contacts and local knowledge, which is why I added, “Main reason they hired me is because of people like you, Mr. Pallet. And that’s the truth.”

In reply to the puzzlement on his face, I added, “You want me to crank the engine while you pull lines? Or I’ll pull lines while you crank. I don’t mind diesel on my hands if that’s a worry.”

The old man liked that. “Good for you. I can’t abide people who waste time yapping away while they could be doin’ something useful.”

So that’s what we did. Talked while we got the generator running.

–

AT A BOARDING RAMP that angled up onto Sybarite ’s deck, Mr. Pallet said to a man who looked more like a Colorado ski instructor than a boat captain, “I told this girl I’d skin her alive if she took the mate’s position you’re advertising, but she’s a stubborn one. I’ve made the introductions like promised. Now I’m washing my hands of the whole danged matter.”

The old shrimper and I had become friendly during the thirty minutes it had taken us to get the diesel running. Now he was trying to help me, but his bold approach was unexpected.

Mr. Pallet’s comments, however, struck the good-looking captain as humorous. In the patient way some use when speaking to the elderly, he chuckled, “If you spent more time working, less time listening to gossip, Cordie, you might be able to afford shoes. Maybe a clean shirt to go with it. Cordie…? Cord!” Cordial Pallet had already pivoted and was striding away but finally stopped to listen when the man yelled, “Hey… I’m talking to you, old man!”

Mr. Pallet did a slow turn, his expression blank, but his eyes had the glittery focus of a pit bull watching a trespasser climb a gate. “You talking to me?” he asked, voice soft. Then raised it just enough to interrupt the man’s response, saying, “The name’s Cordial- Captain Pallet to you. Unless you wanna go home and explain to your mamma how some old man stripped the skin off your ass with a strap.”

Mr. Pallet didn’t have shoes, but he was wearing a leather belt and he began unbuckling it, which surprised me because I could see it wasn’t an act. The boat captain realized it, too, which is why he said uneasily, “I was joking, for Christ’s sake! I wanted to ask a simple damn question, that’s all”-the man paused to swallow before adding-“ Captain Pallet.”

The old man nodded, his expression showing nothing, but began rebuckling his belt. “What you wanna know?”

The boat captain made a few joking remarks to convince me this sort of exchange happened all the time between him and Mr. Pallet, who he called “this salty old coot,” but Mr. Pallet, stone-faced, finally interrupted, “You got a question or don’t you?”