John Casey - Spartina

It was Keith who said, “Let’s just go right in. Hose the whelks down so they’re real slimy-looking. Play it straight up. Just do it.”

All three of them were in the wheelhouse. Keith at the wheel, Parker and Dick drinking soup with one hand, holding on with the other.

Dick didn’t like it, but he didn’t say anything. Parker finished his cup of soup and said, “I thought of that. I don’t say no. My idea was maybe take the basket in the skiff at night, find an empty beach, bury the shells in a hole. Then just wait.”

Keith laughed and said, “ ‘Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’ ”

Parker said, “ ‘Cute, real cute.’ ”

“There’s a lot of problems,” Dick said. “Where you going to find an empty beach this time of summer? A boat the size of Mamzelle laying offshore is a big radar blip. And there’s no shovel.”

Parker said, “Use the oars, use our hands.…”

“And we’d have a great big wet spot on the hole, a bunch of footprints. And on top of all that you’d have to go in and do it all over again to get the stuff back. And where are you? Right where we are now.”

Keith said, “So what’s your idea?”

Parker looked at Dick and said, “Yeah.”

Dick said, “Let’s put the whelks in lobster pots. Set them.”

Parker laughed. “How many pots you lose a year?”

“It depends,” Dick said.

“That’s right,” Parker said. “They work up against a rock, get the warp snagged. Storm works the buoy loose. Fishing boat runs over the line. I mean, I like that you’re making a contribution, but this just sounds like a nicer way of saying dump them. We’ve lost pots this summer in flat calm.” Parker pointed his thumb over his shoulder. “What’s that out there? I wouldn’t call it calm.”

Keith said, “Look. This is all bullshit. Do it my way. It’ll work. If you guys are nervous about it, I’ll be the one carries them ashore. I’ll put them in my car, drive off. If I get caught, I take the whole rap. If I don’t, I get half.”

Parker laughed. “Hoo boy! And a mighty hi-yo Silver! Away!”

Keith looked over his shoulder.

Parker said, “Don’t talk that way, don’t even think that way about my piggy bank, son. Not to mention Dick and me spent some time laying down in that swamp, spent some more time trying to find you wandering around out here. We don’t want you doing any more wandering.”

After a while Parker said, “We go in the way Keith says. If they’ve been told my name, then they’re going to look and look until I’m gone. Maybe plant some if they can’t find it. So it don’t matter how long we wait. On the other hand, if all they got was just a date and a place, then we’re just another boat and those whelks look pretty much like whelks. Tell you what though, Keith. You pour a bucket of old bait juice all over them. You know? In case they got a dog. Then we leave them sit right there on deck while we sell the lobster. I’ll drive my station wagon up. No rush. Put in some stuff, you know — my sea bag, a couple of lobster, and my basket of scungilli. Be casual. If you can’t be casual, be busy.”

A s Mamzelle docked at the lobster wharf, Dick saw the green Natural Resources jeep. He kept busy.

It turned out it wasn’t Natural Resources who came aboard. A plainclothes cop. Very polite. Showed Parker his ID. Asked permission to come aboard. Parker was just as polite. “You don’t mind if my crew unloads the lobster?” The cop and his assistant watched the baskets come up. The assistant was the dog handler.

They went into the wheelhouse. Dick couldn’t decide if he should watch them or not. Be busy. Dick got the lobster weighed in. When he came out with the money, the cop was just coming up from the hold. The dog handler struggled to lift the dog up from behind. The dog got his forepaws on deck, scrabbled up. Parker was smoking a cigarette, pointing with the hand with the cigarette to something he was telling Keith to take care of. Not a flicker. Keeping Keith busy. The basket of whelks on deck.

Parker said to the cop, “We got to hose down the deck, flush out the well. If you’re all through down there …”

Keith swung the sea bags onto the dockside, swung the basket of whelks up alongside them. Then a bucket with three lobster in it, his foul-weather gear.

Dick went forward to check his harpoons, get a chance to take a deep breath. The cop strolled up behind him. Dick didn’t think he could talk normal to him. He told himself the slow way this guy moved around was most likely boredom — a slow day on the docks stretching out in front of him.

The cop ran his hand along the metal harpoon shaft, gave it a rap. He said, “Thought they fired these things out of guns nowadays.”

“You’re thinking about whales,” Dick said. “These are for swordfish.”

The cop wanted to hear about sticking swordfish. Dick told him. The cop took it in absentmindedly. When Dick got to the part about the beer keg, the cop gave the beer keg a tap. Looked it over.

The cop said, “Didn’t get any this trip, huh?”

“No.”

The cop yawned, ran his hand through his hair.

Keith got through hosing down the deck, and the cop made his way aft, stepping carefully. A bored little man in a suit and city shoes. He climbed back onto the dockside, looked around for his number-two man. Gave a start when he found the guy right next to him. The dog was back in the wired-off backseat of their car.

Parker started the engine. Keith cast off the stern line. Parker backed her, swinging the stern away from the dock while Dick held the bow line around a bollard. Parker nodded, and Dick let go, retrieved the line.

Parker headed Mamzelle out to her slip, between the last set of piles in the row. Dick looked back at the heap of gear, the basket of whelks, the two cops.

Parker backed her in. Dick made the two bow lines fast, Keith the stern lines. Parker and Keith climbed up onto the gray planking of the pier. Keith started off briskly. Parker stopped him, told him to set a spring line, and ambled off. Dick followed Parker, staying behind him, looking at his feet.

Keith passed him, picked up his sea bag, foul-weather gear, and the bucket of lobster, leaving two sea bags and the basket of whelks. The cop was still standing there. The dog handler was walking back to his car. Dick looked around for Parker, saw him starting his beat-up VW station wagon. Dick saw the dog handler was getting the dog out again.

Parker slowly backed toward the basket, stopped to let the guy with the dog get by. Dick leaned down to pick up the basket. The cop turned to him.

“What are those things? Conchs or something?”

“Whelks.”

“Jesus, they stink.”

Dick said, “Italians eat ’em.”

Parker stopped. The dog rubbed her cheek and shoulder against the basket. The head cop said, “Hey. Keep her out of that shit, she’ll stink up the car.” The cop with the dog put his foot against her chest. The dog licked it and then sat.

Dick heard a boat coming up to the dock. The cop reached in his coat pocket and took out his badge holder. Dick swung the basket of whelks in the VW, then Parker’s sea bag and his. Parker slammed the back down. Dick got in the passenger seat and said, “Charlie’s got my truck.” Parker started the car and pulled off.

When they got onto the road Parker started laughing. “ ‘Italians eat ’em.’ That’s my boy, Dick. Says to Detective-Sergeant Russo, ‘Italians eat ’em!’ Italians eat that shit. I love it!”