BY BRENDAN DUBOIS
Boston Harbor
She was waiting for me when I came back from the corner store and I stopped, giving her a quick scan. She had on a dark blue dress, black sensible shoes, and a small blue hat balanced on the back of thick brown hair. She held a small black leather purse in her hands, like she knew she was in a dangerous place and was frightened to lose it. On that last part, she was right, for it was evening and she was standing in Scollay Square, with its lights, horns, music, honky-tonks, burlesque houses, and hordes of people with sharp tastes who came here looking for trouble, and more often than not, found it.
I brushed past a group of drunk sailors in their dress blues as I got up to my corner, the sailors no doubt happy that with the war over, they didn't have to worry about crazed kamikazes smashing into their gun turrets, burning to death out there in the Pacific. They were obviously headed to one of the nearby bars. There were other guys out there as well, though I could always identify the ones who were recently discharged vets: they moved quickly, their eyes flicking around, and whenever there was a loud horn or a backfire from a passing truck, they would freeze in place.
And then, of course, they would unfreeze. There were years of drinking and raising hell to catch up on.
I shifted my paper grocery sack from one hand to the other and approached the woman, touched the brim of my fedora with my free hand. "Are you waiting for me?" I asked.
Her face was pale and frightened, like a young mom seeing blood on her child for the very first time. "Are you Billy Sullivan?"
"Yep."
"Yes, I'm here to see you."
I shrugged. "Then follow me, miss."
I moved past her and opened the wooden door that led to a small foyer, and then upstairs, the wooden steps creaking under our footfalls. At the top, a narrow hallway led off, three doors on each side, each door with a half-frame of frosted glass. Mine said, B. Sullivan, Investigations, and two of the windows down the hallway were blank. The other three announced a watchmaker, a piano teacher, and a press agent.
I unlocked the door, flicked on the light, and walked in. There was an old oak desk in the center with my chair, a Remington typewriter on a stand, and two solid filing cabinets with locks. In front of the desk were two wooden chairs, and I motioned my guest to the nearest one. A single window that hadn't been washed since Hoover was president overlooked the square and its flickering neon lights.
"Be right back," I said, ducking through a curtain off to the side. Beyond the curtain was a small room with a bed, radio, easy chair, table lamp, and icebox. A closed door led to a small bathroom that most days had plenty of hot water. I put a bottle of milk away, tossed the bread on a counter next to the toaster and hot plate, and returned to the office. I took off my coat and hat, and hung both on a coat rack.
The woman sat there, leaning forward a bit, like she didn't want her back to be spoiled by whatever cooties resided in my office. She looked at me and tried to smile. "I thought all private detectives carried guns."
I shook my head. "Like the movies? Roscoes, heaters, gats, all that nonsense? Nah, I saw enough guns the last couple of years. I don't need one, not for what I do."
At my desk, I uncapped my Parker pen and grabbed a legal pad. "You know my name, don't you think you should return the favor?"
She nodded quickly. "Of course. The name is Mandy Williams...I'm from Seattle."
I looked up. "You're a long way from home."
Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. "I know, I know...and it's all going to sound silly, but I hope you can help me find something."
"Something or someone?" I asked.
"Something," she said. "Something that means the world to me."
"Go on."
"This is going to sound crazy, Mister Sullivan, so please...bear with me, all right?"
"Sure."
She took a deep breath. "My fiance, Roger Thompson, he was in the army and was stationed here, before he was shipped overseas."
I made a few notes on the pad, kept my eye on her.
"We kept in touch, almost every day, writing letters back and forth, sending each other mementos. Photos, souvenirs, stuff like that...and he told me he kept everything I sent to him in a shoe box in his barracks. And I told him I did the same...kept everything that he sent to me."
Now she opened her purse, took out a white tissue, which she dabbed at her eyes. "Silly, isn't it...it's been nearly a year...I know I'm not making sense, it's just that Roger didn't come back. He was killed a few months before the war was over."
My hand tightened on the pen. "Sorry to hear that."
"Oh, what can you do, you know? And ever since then, well, I've gone on, you know? Have even thought about dating again...and then..."
The tissue went back to work and I waited. So much of my professional life is waiting, waiting for a phone call, waiting for someone to show up, waiting for a bill to be paid.
She coughed and continued: "Then, last month, I got a letter from a buddy of his. Name of Greg Fleming. Said they were bunkmates here. And they shipped out together, first to France and then to the frontlines. And Greg told me that Roger said that before he left, he hid that shoe box in his barracks. He was afraid the box would get lost or spoiled if he brought it overseas with him."
"I see," I said, though I was practically lying. "And why do you need me? Why not go to the base and sweet talk the duty officer, and find the barracks your fiance was staying at?"
"Because...because the place he was training at, it's been closed since the war was over. And it's not easy to get to."
"Where is it?"
Another dab of the tissue. "It's out on Boston Harbor. On one of the islands. Gallops Island. That's where Roger was stationed."
The place was familiar to me. "Yeah, I remember Gallops. It was used as a training facility. For cooks, radiomen, and medics. What did your man train for?"
"Radioman," she said simply. "Later...later I found out that being a radioman was so very dangerous. You were out in the open, and German snipers liked to shoot at a radioman and the officer standing next to him...that's, that's what happened to Roger. There was some very fierce fighting and he was...he was...oh God, they blew his head off..."
And then she bowed and started weeping in her tissue, and I sat there, feeling like my limbs were made of cement, for I didn't know what the hell to do. Finally I cleared my throat and said, "Sorry, miss...Look, can I get you something to drink?"
The tissue was up against her face and she shook her head. "No, no, I don't drink."
I pushed away from my desk. "I was thinking of something a bit less potent. I'll be right back."
About ten minutes later, I came back with two chipped white china mugs and passed one over to her. She took a sip and seemed surprised. "Tea?"
"Yeah," I said, sitting back down. "A bit of a secret, so please don't tell on me, okay? You know the reputation we guys like to maintain."
She smiled, and I felt I had won a tiny victory. "How in the world did you ever start drinking tea?"
I shrugged. "Picked up the habit when I was stationed in England."
"You were in the army?"
I nodded. "Yep."
"What did you do?"
I took a sip from my own mug. "Military police. Spent a lot of time guarding fences and ammo dumps or directing traffic. Pretty boring. Never really heard a shot fired in anger, though a couple of times I did hear Kraut artillery as we were heading east when I got over to France."
"So you know war, then."
"I do."
"And I'm sure you know loss as well."
Again, the tightening of my hand. "Yeah, I know loss."
And she must have sensed a change in my voice, for she stared harder at me and said, "Who was he?"
I couldn't speak for a moment, and then I said, "My older brother. Paul."
"What happened?"
I suppose I should have kept my mouth shut, but there was something about her teary eyes that just got to me. I cleared my throat. "He was 82nd Airborne. Wounded at the Battle of the Bulge. Mortar shrapnel. They were surrounded by the Krauts, and I guess it took a long time for him to die..."
"Then we both know, don't we."
"Yeah." I looked down at the pad of paper. "So. What do you need me for?"
She twisted the crumpled bit of tissue in her hands. "I...I don't know how to get to that island. I've sent letters to everyone I can think of, in the army and in Congress, and no one can help me out...and I found out that the island is now restricted. There's some sort of new radar installation being built there...no one can land on the island."
I knew where this was going but I wanted to hear it from her. "All right, but let me say again, Miss Williams, why do you need me?"
She waited, waited for what seemed to be a long time. She took a long sip from her tea. There were horns from outside, a siren, and I could hear music from the nearest burlesque hall. "Um...well, I've been here for a week...asking around...at the local police station...asking about a detective who might help me, one from around here, one who knows the harbor islands..."
"And my name came up? Really? From who?"
"A...a desk sergeant. Name of O'Connor."
I grimaced. Fat bastard, never got over the fact that my dad beat up his dad ten or fifteen years ago at some Irish tavern in Southie; he always gave me crap, every time he saw me. "All right. What did he tell you?"
"That you used to work with your dad in the harbor, pulling in lobster pots, working after school and summers, and he said...well, he said..."
"Go on, Miss Williams. What did he say?"
"He said that if anyone could get me out to the islands and back, it'd be that thick-skulled mick Billy Sullivan."
I tried not to smile. "Yeah, that sounds like the good sergeant."
Her voice softened. "Please, Mister Sullivan. I...I don't know what else to do. I can't make it out there without your help, and getting those memories from my man...that would mean the world to me."
"If the island is off-limits during the day, it means we'll have to go out at night. Do you understand, Miss Williams?"
She seemed a bit surprised. "I...I thought I could draw you a map, a description, something like that."
I shook my head. "Not going to work. I'm not going out to Gallops Island at night without you. If I find that box of mementos for you, I want you right there, to check it out."
"But--"
"If that's going to be a problem, Miss Williams, then I'm afraid I can't help you."
My potential client sounded meek. "I...I don't like boats...but no, it won't be a problem."
"Good. My rate is fifty dollars a day, plus expenses...but this should be relatively easy. And that fifty dollars has to be paid in advance."
She opened her purse, deftly pulled out three tens and a twenty, which I scooped up and put into my top desk drawer. I tore off a sheet of paper, wrote something down, and slid it over to her. "There. Address in South Boston. Little fishing and tackle shop, with a dock to the harbor. I'll see you there tomorrow at 6 p.m. Weather permitting, it should be easy."
My new client folded up the piece of paper and put it in her purse, and then stood up, held out a hand with manicured red nails. "Oh, I can't thank you enough, Mister Sullivan. This means so much to me, and..."
I shook her hand and said, "It's too early to thank me, Miss Williams. If we get there and get your shoe box, then you can thank me."
She smiled and walked to the door, and I eyed her legs and the way she moved. "Tomorrow, then."
"Tomorrow," I said.
She stepped out of the office and shut the door behind her.
I counted about fifteen seconds, and then, no doubt to the surprise of my new client had she known, I immediately went to work.
I put on my hat and coat and went out, locking the door behind me. I took the steps two at a time, out to the chaos that was Scollay Square, and then I spotted her, heading up Tremont Street. I dodged more sailors and some loud, red-faced businessmen, the kind who had leather cases full of samples and liked to raise hell in big bad Boston before crawling back to their safe little homes in Maine or New Hampshire.
My client went around the corner, and I quickly lost her.
Damn.
I looked up and down the street, saw some traffic, more guys moving around, but not my client. A few feet away I stopped a man in a wheelchair, with a tartan blanket covering the stumps that used to be his legs. Tony Blawkowski, holding a cardboard sign: HELP AN INJURED VET. I went over and greeted him: "Ski."
"Yeah?" He was staring out at the people going by, shaking a cardboard coffee cup filled with coins.
"You see a young gal come this way?"
"Good lookin', small leather purse in her hands, hat on top of her pretty little head?"
"That's the one."
"Nope, didn't see a damn thing." He smiled, showing off yellow teeth.
I reached into my pocket, tossed a quarter in his cup.
"Well, that's nice, refreshin' my memory like that," Ski said. "Thing is, she came right by here, wigglin' that fine bottom of hers, gave me no money, the stuck-up broad, and then she got into a car and left."
Somehow the noise of the horns and the music from the burlesque hall seemed to drill into my head. "You sure?"
"Damn straight. A nice Packard, clean and shiny. It was parked there for a while, then she got in and left."
"You see who was in the Packard?"
"You got another quarter?"
I reached back into my pocket, and there was another clink as the coin fell into his cup. He laughed. "Nope. Didn't see who was in there or who was driving. They jus' left. That's all."
"All right, Ski. Tell you what, you see that Packard come back, you let me know, all right?"
"What's in it for me?"
I smiled. "Keeping your secret, for one."
He shook his head. "Bastard. You do drive a hard bargain."
"Only kind I got tonight."
I started to walk away, then looked back. As a couple of out-of-towners dropped some coins in Ski's cup, I thought about the sign. It was true, for Ski was an injured vet. He had been in the army, and one night, on leave here in town a couple of years ago, he got drunk out of his mind, passed out in front of a bar, and was run over by an MTA trolley, severing both legs.
Nice little story, especially the lesson it gave, for never accepting what you see on the surface.
About a half hour later, I was at the local district headquarters of the Boston Police Department, where I found Sergeant Francis Xavier O'Connor sitting behind a chest-high wooden desk, passing on whatever was considered justice in this part of town. There in the lobby area, the tile floor yellow and stained, two women in bright red lipstick, hands cuffed together, shared a cigarette on a wooden bench. O'Connor had a folded over copy of the Boston American in his hands, his face red and flush, and he glanced up at me as I approached the desk.
"Ah, Beantown's biggest dick," he said over half-glasses.
"Nice to see you too, sergeant. Thought you'd be spending some time up at your vacation spot on Conway Lake."
"Bah, the hell with you," O'Connor said. "What kind of trash are you lookin' for tonight?"
I leaned up against the desk, my wrists on the wooden edge. "What I'm looking for is right in front of me."
"Eh?"
"Quick question," I said. "Got a visit tonight from a young lady, mid-twenties, said she was from Seattle, looking for some help. She told me she came here, talked to you, and somehow my name came up. Why's that?"
He grinned, bounced the edge of the folded newspaper against his chin. "Ah, I remember that little flower. Came sauntering in, sob story in one hand, a Greyhound bus ticket in the other, and she told me what kind of man she was lookin' for, and what the hell? I gave her your name and address. You should be grateful."
"More curious than grateful. Come on, Francis, answer the question. Why me?"
He leaned over, close enough so I could smell old onions coming from his breath. "Figure it out. Young gal had some spending money, spent it for some info...a name. And you know what? Her story sounded screwy enough that it might fuck over whoever decided to take her on as a client, and your name was first, second, and third on my list. Any more questions, dick?"
I stepped away from the desk. "Yeah. Your dad's nose still look like a lumpy potato after my dad finished him off?"
His face grew even more red. "Asshole, get out of my station."
The next evening I went into the Shamrock Fish & Tackle, off L Street in South Boston, near where I grew up. It was crowded as I moved past the rows of fishing tackle, rods, other odds and ends. Out in the back, smoking a cigar and nursing a Narragansett beer, Roddy Taylor looked up as I approached him. He had on a sleeveless T-shirt that had probably been white at one time, and khaki pants. He was mostly bald but tufts of hair grew from his thick ears.
"Corporal Sullivan, what are you up to tonight?"
"Looking to borrow an outboard skiff, if that's all right with you."
"Hell, of course."
"And stop calling me corporal."
He laughed and leaned back, snagged a key off a nail on the wall. He tossed it to me and I caught it with my right hand. "Number five."
"Okay, number five."
"How's your mom?" Roddy asked.
"Not good," I said. "She...well, you know."
He took a puff from his cigar. "Yeah. Still thinking your brother's coming home. Am I right?"
I juggled the key in my hand. "I'll bring it back sometime tonight."
"Best to your mom."
"You got it."
Outside I went to the backseat of my old Ford and took out a canvas gym bag. From the dirt parking lot I headed over to a dock and moved down the line of skiffs and boats, found the one with a painted number five on the side, and undid the lock. I tossed my gym bag in the open skiff, near the small fuel tank and the drain plug at the stern. I stood up and stretched. Overhead lights had come on, illuminating the near empty parking lot, the dock, and the line of moored boats.
She was standing at the edge of the dock. She still had her leather purse but the skirt had been replaced by slacks and flat shoes.
"Miss Williams," I said.
"Please," she said, coming across the dock. "Please call me Mandy."
"All right, Mandy it is."
She peered down at the skiff. "It looks so small."
"It's big enough for where we're going," I said.
"Are you sure?"
"I grew up around here, Miss--"
"Mandy."
"Mandy, I grew up around here." I looked about the water, at the lights coming on at the shoreline of Boston Harbor and the islands scattered out there at the beginnings of the Atlantic Ocean. "I promise you, I'll get you out and back again in no time."
She seemed to think about that for a moment, and nodded. Then she moved closer and gingerly put one foot into the boat, as I held her hand. Her hand felt good. "Up forward," I said. "Take the seat up forward."
My client clambered in and I followed. I undid the stern line and gently pushed us off, then primed the engine by using a squeeze tube from the small fuel tank. A flick of the switch and a couple of tugs with the rope starter, and the small Mercury engine burbled into life. We made our way out of the docks and toward the waters of the harbor, motoring into the coming darkness, my right hand on the throttle of the engine.
After about five minutes she turned and said, "Where are the life jackets?"
"You figuring on falling in?"
She had a brittle laugh. "No, not at all. I'd just like to know, that's all."
I motioned with my free hand. "Up forward. And nothing to worry about, Mandy. I boated out here before I went to grade school and haven't fallen in yet."
She turned into herself, the purse on her lap, and I looked over at the still waters of the harbor. It was early evening, the water very flat, the smell of the salt air pretty good after spending hours and hours on Scollay Square. Off to the left, the north, were the lights of the airport, and out on the waters I could see the low shapes of the islands. Over to the right was the harbor itself, and the lights of the moored freighters.
One of the islands was now off to starboard and Mandy asked, "What island is that?"
"Thompson," I said.
"I see buildings there. A fort?"
I laughed. "Hardly. That's the home of the Boston Farm and Trades School."
"The what school?"
"Farm and Trades. A fancy name for a school for boys who get into trouble. Like a reform school. One last chance before you get sent off to juvenile hall or an adult prison."
She turned, and in the fading light I could make out her pretty smile. "Sounds like you know that place firsthand."
"Could have, if I hadn't been lucky."
Soon we passed Thompson and up ahead was a low-slung island with no lights. The wind shifted, carrying with it a sour smell.
"What in God's name is that?" Mandy asked.
"Spectacle Island. That's where the city dumps its trash. Lots of garbage up there, and probably the bodies of a few gangsters. Good place to lose something."
"You know your islands."
"Sure," I said. "They all have a story. All have legends. Indians, privateers, ghosts, pirates, buried treasure...everything and anything."
Now we passed a lighthouse, and I said, "Long Island," but Mandy didn't seem to care. There was another, smaller island ahead. "That's Gallops. You ready?" I asked.
"Yes," she replied, her voice strained. "Quite ready."
I ran the skiff aground on a bit of sandy beach and waded in the water, dragging a bowline up, tying it off some scrub brush. There was a dock just down the way, with a path leading up to the island, and by now it was pretty dark. From my gym bag I took out a flashlight and cupped the beam with my hand, making sure only a bit of light escaped.
"I want to make this quick, okay?"
She nodded.
"I asked around," I said. "I know where the barracks are. Do you happen to know where his bunk was located?"
"Next to a window overlooking the east, in the far corner. He always complained that the morning sun would hit his eyes and wake him up before reveille."
"All right," I said. "Let's go."
From the path near the dock, it was pretty easy going, much to my surprise. The place was deserted and there were no lights, but my own flashlight did a good job of illuminating the way. We headed along a crushed stone path; halfway there, something small and furry burst out of the brush, scaring the crap out of me and making Mandy cry out. She grabbed my free hand and wouldn't let it go--I didn't complain. It felt good, and she kept her hand in mine all the way up to the barracks.
A lot of the windows were smashed, and the door leading inside was hanging free from its hinges. We moved up the wide steps and gingerly stepped in. I flashed the light around. The roof had leaked and there were puddles of water on the floor. We went to the left, where there was a great open room stretching out into the distance. I slashed the light around again. Rusting frames for bunks were piled high in the corner, and there was an odd, musty smell to the place. Lots of old memories came roaring back, being in a building like this, taking in those old scents, of the soap and gun oil...and the smell of the men, of course.
I squeezed Mandy's hand and she squeezed back. Here we had all come, from all across the country, to train and to learn and to get ready to fight...and no matter what crap the RKO movies showed you, we were all scared shitless. It was a terrible time and place to come together, to know that so many of you would never return...torn up, blown up, shattered, burned, crushed, drowned. So many ways to die...and now to come back to what was called peace and prosperity and hustle and bustle and try to keep ahead. What a time.
"Let's go," I whispered, not sure why I was whispering. "I want to get out of here before someone spots our light."
"Yes," she whispered back, and it was like we were in church or something. I led my client down the way, our footsteps echoing off the wood, and I kept the light low, until we came to the far corner, the place where the windows looked out to the east, where a certain man rested in his bunk, the sun hitting his face every morning.
"Here," she whispered. "Shine the light over here."
She knelt down in the corner of the room, her fingers prying at a section of baseboard, and even though I half expected it, I was still surprised. The board came loose and Mandy cried out a bit; I lowered the flashlight and illuminated a small cavity.
"Hold on," I said, "you don't know what--"
But she didn't listen to me. She reached her right arm down and rummaged around, murmuring, "Oh, Roger. Oh, my Roger."
Then she pulled her hand back, holding a box for Bass shoes, the damp cardboard held together with gray tape. She clasped the box against her chest and leaned over, silently weeping, I thought, her body shaking and trembling.
I gave her a minute or two, and then touched her shoulder. "Mandy, come on, we have to get out of here. And now."
And she got off her knees, wiped at her eyes, and with one hand held the cardboard box and her small leather purse against her chest.
Her other hand took mine, and wouldn't let go until we got back to the boat.
In the boat I pushed off and fired up the engine, and we started away from Gallops Island. The wind had come up some, nothing too serious, but there was a chop to the water that hadn't been there before. With the box in her lap, she turned and smiled, then leaned in toward me. I returned the favor and kissed her, and then kissed her again, and then our mouths opened and her hand squeezed my leg. "Oh, Billy...I didn't think it would work...I really didn't...Look, when we get back, we need to celebrate, okay?"
I liked her taste and her smell. "Sure. Celebrate. That sounds good."
But I kept looking at the water and kicked up the throttle some more.
It didn't seem to take too long, and as we motored back to the docks of the Shamrock Fish & Tackle, Mandy turned to me and started talking, about her life in Seattle, about her Roger, and about how she was ready to start a new life now that she had this box. I tried to ignore her chatter as we moved toward the dock, and when I looked up at the small parking lot, I noticed there was an extra vehicle there.
A Packard, parked underneath a street lamp.
As we drew close to the docks, doors to the Packard opened up and two men with hats and topcoats, their hands in their coats, stepped out.
Mandy was still chattering.
I worked the throttle, slipped the engine into neutral, and then reversed. The engine made a clunk-whine noise as I backed out of the narrow channel leading into the docks, and Mandy was jostled. "What the--"
"Hold on," I snapped, backing away even further. I shifted into neutral again, then forward, and finally sped away. Turning back, I saw the two guys return to the Packard and head out onto L Street. I immediately grabbed my flashlight and switched the engine off. We began drifting in the darkness.
Mandy gaped and asked, "Billy...what the hell is going on?"
"You tell me," I countered.
"I don't know what you mean."
"Mandy...what's in the box?"
"I told you," she said, her voice rising. "Souvenirs! Letters! Photos! Stuff that means so much to me..."
"And the guys in the Packard? Who are they? Friends of Roger who want to giggle over old photos of him in the army?"
"I don't know what you mean about--"
I pointed the flashlight in her face, flicked it on, startling her. I reached forward, snatched the damp box from her hands, sat back down. The boat rocked, a bit of spray hitting my arm.
"Hey!" she cried out, but now the box was in my lap.
I lowered the flashlight, seeing her face pursed and tight. "Let's go over a few things," I said. "You come into my office with a great tale, a great sob story. And you tell me you get hooked up with me because you just happened to run into one of the sleaziest in-the-bag cops on the Boston force, a guy who can afford a pricey vacation home on a New Hampshire lake on a cop's salary. And right after you leave my office, a sweet girl, far, far away from home, you climb into somebody's Packard. And now there's a Packard waiting for you at dockside. Hell of a coincidence, eh? Not to mention the closer we got to shore, the more you blathered at me, like you were trying to distract me."
She kept quiet, her hands now about her purse, firmly in her lap.
"Anything to say?" My client kept quiet. I held up the box. "What's in here, Mandy?"
Nothing.
"Mandy?"
I set the box back in my lap, tore away at the tape and damp cardboard, and the top lifted off easy enough. There was damp brown paper in the box, and the sound of smaller boxes moving against each other. I turned the big box over a bit, shone the light in. Little yellow cardboard boxes, about the size of small toothpaste containers, all bundled together. There were scores of them. I shuddered, took a deep breath. I knew what they were.
"Morphine," I said, looking her hard in the eye. "Morphine syrettes. Your guy...if there was a guy there, he wasn't training as a radioman. He was training as a medic. And he was stealing this morphine to sell later, once the war was over. Am I right? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
My client said, "What difference does it make? Look, I had a job to do, to get that stuff off that island, easiest way possible, no fuss, no muss, and we did it. Okay? Get me to shore, you'll get...a finder's fee, a percentage."
I shook the box, heard the smaller boxes rattle. "Worth a lot of money, isn't it?"
She smiled. "You have no idea."
"But it was stolen. During wartime."
"So what?" Her voice now revealed a sharpness I hadn't heard before. "Guys went to war, some got killed, some figured out a way to score, to make some bucks...and the guys I'm with, they figured it was time to look out for themselves, to set something up for later. So there you go. Nice deal all around. Don't you want part of it, Billy? Huh?"
I shook the box again, fought to keep my voice even. "Ever hear of Bastogne?"
"Maybe, who knows, who cares."
"I know, and I care. That's where my brother was, in December 1944. Belgian town, surrounded by the Krauts. He took a chunk of shrapnel to the stomach. He was dying. Maybe he could have lived if he wasn't in so much pain...but the medics, they were low on morphine. They could only use morphine on guys they thought might live. So my brother...no morphine...he died in agony. Hours it took for him to die, because the medics were short on morphine."
Mandy said, "A great story, Billy. A very touching story. Look, you want a tissue or something?"
And moving quickly, she opened up her purse and took out a small, nickel-plated semiautomatic pistol.
"Sorry, Billy, but this is how it's going to be. You're going to give me back my box, you're going to take me back to the dock, and if you're a good boy, I'll make sure only a leg or an arm gets broken. How's that for a deal?"
I thought for a moment, now staring at a face I didn't recognize, and said, "I've heard better."
And I tossed the box and the morphine syrettes into the dark waters.
She screamed and shouted something, and I was moving quick, which was good, because she got off a shot that pounded over my head as I ducked and grabbed something at the bottom of the boat, tugging it free, then dropped overboard. The shock of the cold water almost made me open my mouth, but I was more or less used to it. I came up coughing, splashing, and my flashlight was still on the boat, still lit up, which made it easy for me to see what happened next.
The skiff was rocking and filling with water as Mandy moved to the rear, trying to get the engine started, I think, but with her added weight at the stern, it quickly swamped and flipped over, dumping her in. She screamed. She screamed again. "Billy! Please! I can't swim! Please!"
I raised my hand, holding the drain plug to the rear of the skiff, and let it go.
She floundered some more. Splashing. Yelling. Coughing. It would be easy enough to get over there, calm her down, put her in the approved life-saving mode, my arm about her, to pull her safely to shore. So easy to do, for I could have easily found her in the darkness by following the splashes and yells.
The yells. I had heard later, from someone in my brother's platoon, how much he had yelled toward the end.
I moved some, was able to gauge where she was, out there in the darkness.
And then I turned and swam in the other direction.