P. Parrish - Paint It Black

Louis’s gaze wandered out to the water again. He squinted. There was another charter boat coming in.

“Dan, look.”

The boat was larger than the others, a huge red and white two-deck catamaran that growled and spat out diesel fumes like some sleek monster. As it inched into its moorings, Louis made out the name on the bow: Miss Monica .

“You take this one and I’ll go to Deebolts and swing back and get you,” Wainwright said. He headed off to the parking lot.

Louis stood on the dock, waiting as the lines were secured. The six tourists onboard stood quietly at the railing. A couple of them looked green and they all looked eager to get off. The engines were cut. As the tourists filed off, Louis watched the two crewmen go through a perfectly choreographed tango of cleaning and stowing the gear-rubber waders, nets, fishing poles with reels the size of small bike tires.

Louis approached the nearest crewman.

“I’d like to speak to the captain,” he said.

The crewman, a tall wiry man with deeply tanned skin and bleached blond hair, eyed Louis. “What for?” he said.

“Just get him, please.”

The man tossed the line to the deck and trudged off. A few moments later, a short man of about sixty came forward. He wore wrinkled white shorts, a sweat-stained madras shirt, and a red baseball cap stitched with the name Miss Monica.

“I’m George Lynch,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

Louis introduced himself and explained that he was investigating the murders.

“I heard about it,” Lynch said. He took off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his sparse hair. “We were just talking about it on the way in.”

“We think the man who murdered these men might have some connection to the fishing business,” Louis said.

Lynch looked shocked. “Jesus.”

Louis stepped forward, holding out the photo of Anthony Quick. “Have you seen this man, Captain Lynch? He might have been a customer on your boat.”

Lynch studied the photo, frowning. “Maybe. I can’t say for sure. It’s been real busy of late.”

“Think hard. It would have been on March fourteenth, a Tuesday,” Louis said.

Lynch shook his head. “Just a minute. Hey, Woody, Ty! Come here!”

Two crewmen came forward. One was the tall blond, his lanky hair visible beneath a sweat-stained Miss Monica cap. The other man was shorter, black, wearing the same cap.

“Either of you remember this guy being onboard about two weeks ago?”

The blond man was staring at the photo. “Yeah, I remember him. He was with that six-pack we took out in the gulf.”

“Why do you remember him?” Louis asked.

“ ’Cause he was really pissed that he didn’t catch anything. I told him tough luck, that’s why it was called fishin’ and not catchin’.”

“Woody-” Lynch interrupted.

“He was mouthing off, Cap,” Woody said.

“I don’t care. He paid his money.” Lynch’s mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Was he with anybody?” Louis asked, pulling out a notebook and pen.

“Nah, came on alone. Left alone.”

“You saw him get into a car?”

Woody shook his head. “No, I sent him over to Dixie’s to buy some fish to ship home.” He stared at Louis. “Anything else?”

Louis shook his head.

“Go finish up,” Lynch said.

The crewmen left. Louis watched them. Woody went back to coiling lines. Ty was manning the cleaning table, pulling glistening silver fish up onto the wooden board and slitting them open with one expert thrust of his knife. Louis focused on the fillet knife. It was only about eight inches in length and perfectly straight. He pulled out the photo of the broken blade.

“Have you ever seen a knife like this before?” he asked Lynch.

Lynch looked at the photo. “That a fillet knife?”

“We were hoping you could tell us that.”

“Nothing like anything I’ve ever seen.” Lynch called again for Woody and Ty, but Woody had disappeared below. Ty came over.

“Ty, you ever seen a knife like this before?”

The crewman wiped his hands on his dirty cutoffs and took the photo. He stared at the photo for a long time. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I saw one like this once. A guy working in Montauk had one. It’s German-made, I think.”

“Montauk? That’s New York, right?” Louis said.

“You know his name?”

Ty shook his head. “He was here last winter. I haven’t seen him around this season.”

“Thanks, Ty,” Lynch said. “Finish up and you can go.”

“Okay,” Ty said. He noticed Louis looking at him and gave him a reticent smile, his hazel eyes dropping to the dock. He went back to the fillet table, bagging the fish in plastic filled with ice. Louis looked for Woody, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“You think these fellows were killed with fillet knives?” Lynch asked.

“We’re not sure. We haven’t identified the weapon yet, but it’s a good possibility.”

Lynch nodded emphatically. “I can see that,” he said. “We have to keep ’em sharp as razors.” He held up his left hand. “Look at this. I was filleting a pompano once and slipped. Lost my pinkie. Sliced it clean off.”

Louis stared at Lynch’s callused hand, trying not to think of the defense-wound slash marks on Anthony Quick’s hand.

“Captain Lynch,” he said, “what can you tell me about your crew?”

“My crew? Do you-” He stopped. “You guys think someone down here did this?”

“We’re just checking all possible leads,” Louis said.

“Tell me about your crewmen. How long have they been with you?”

Lynch looked uneasy. “Well, Ty’s been with me, geez, it has to be nearly three years now. Woody. . let’s see. He came on this past November right here.”

“What’s both their full names and addresses?”

Lynch gave them to him.

Louis closed the notebook. “Thanks, Captain Lynch.”

“I had a third man,” Lynch said, “but he left a while back.”

“He left? Why?” Louis asked.

Lynch shrugged. “Who knows? These guys, they’re like Gypsies. It’s a transient business, and we don’t ask a lot of questions. The most important thing is just showing up.”

“When did he leave?” Louis asked.

“Oh, two or three weeks ago. Left me short.”

Louis flipped opened the notebook. “Name?”

“Gunther. . Gunther Mayo.”

“How long did he work for you?”

“He came on last April up in Barnegat Light.”

Louis stopped taking notes. “Barnegat Light, New Jersey?”

Lynch nodded. “Yeah, that’s where we go in the summer.” When he saw the look on Louis’s face, Lynch added, “Something wrong with that?”

“You split your time between here and Jersey?” Louis asked.

Lynch nodded again. “Winter here, summer up north. We call it following the tuna.”

“Do all the charters here do that?”

“Nope. Just the bigger boats like the Miss Monica here.” He waved a hand proudly at the fishing poles stowed behind him. “We go after the big stuff.”

“Do you know where he might have gone?”

“Shit, he could be anywhere from Maine to Key West. That’s the circuit.”

“You know anything else about him?” Louis asked. “Where he lives?”

“I’m not sure. There’s a lot of seasonal rentals over around Buttonwood Street. You can walk there from here.”

Louis felt his patience drying up fast. “You don’t keep records of your employees, Mr. Lynch?”

“Not unless I have to.”

“What about Mayo’s vehicle?”

“Don’t know. Never saw him drive anything.”

Louis sighed. “Okay, let me ask you this. Did you ever hear Mayo make any racial slurs? Threats against blacks? Anything like that?”