Part Six

The White Shark

38

"Say hey, Ray," Rusty Puckett said as he pulled out a stool and slapped a twenty-dollar bill onto the bar.

"Seven-and-Seven?" asked the bartender.

"Make it a double; I got a terrible thirst."  Puckett glanced around; the room was less than half full.  It was seven-thirty, the early drinkers had done in to dinner, the late ones hadn't arrived yet.

Ray mixed the drink, put the glass in front of Puckett and took the twenty.  Smiling when he made change, he said, "I hear you been on a holiday, courtesy of the borough."

"Bastards," Puckett said.  He drained half the glass and waited for the warm feeling to pool in his stomach.  "They didn't even apologize.  I got half a mind to sue Rollie Gibson."

"For what, drying you out?  You look pretty good to me; never hurts a man to take a day or two off."

Puckett finished his drink and signaled for a refill.  The truth was, he did feel good, and not only physically; he felt vindicated.  Gibson and the others hadn't believed a word he'd said, thought he was lying or hallucinating, and then all of a sudden this afternoon they'd gotten real interested, wanting to hear his whole story from the beginning.  But he'd shown them, he'd stonewalled Gibson and that Simon Chase, claimed he couldn’t remember.  Why should he give anything away for free when there might be money in it?  Some of those TV shows — what did they call them?  Docudramas — paid big bucks for exclusive interviews, and he was pretty sure he was the only one who'd seen that thing, whatever it was.  All he had to do was wait, the word would get out and they'd be coming to him.  He could be patient; he had all the time in the world.

"Nate Green was in here before," Ray said.  "Looking for you."

"I bet he was."  Puckett smiled.  "What'd you tell him?"

"That I hadn't seen you."

"You still haven't, okay?"  To hell with Nate Green, Puckett thought.  There were bigger fish to catch, lots bigger, than the Waterboro Chronicle.

"Sure, Rusty," Ray said.  "No skin off my nose."

Puckett finished his second drink.  Now he was feeling really good.  Even Ray was treating him with respect.

A man entered from the street, sat at the far end of the bar and ordered a glass of wine.  As Ray poured it for him, the man said, "Do you know a man named Puckett, a Mr. Rusty Puckett?"

Puckett froze and pretended to read the menu on the blackboard over the bar.

"Uh-huh," Ray said, without glancing Puckett's way.  He returned the wine bottle to the cooler and resumed slicing limes.

"Have you seen him?"

Puckett heard an accent in the man's voice, not American, foreign, like from somewhere in Europe.

"Might have," Ray said.  "You got business with him?"

"Possibly."

Puckett chewed on an ice cube and reflexively scrolled through his brain for potential trouble.  He didn't own anybody any money; he hadn't poached anybody's lobsters recently; he hadn't cut away any buoys, hit any other boats or struck anybody with his truck... as far as he knew.  Then he searched for potential good news.  Maybe the guy was from a big magazine or one of the docudrama shows, and wanted to make a deal.

When he had sorted through all the possibilities, he felt safe enough to turn to the man and say, "I'm Puckett.  Who wants to know?"

"Ah," the man said.  He smiled and rose from his stool, carrying his glass of wine, and as he passed the bartender, said, "Very discreet of you."

Puckett watched the man approach.  He was tall, a couple of inches over six feet, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, a guy who took care of himself, probably worked out.  Puckett guessed he was in his late forties:  hair that had once been blond was light gray, and swept straight back from his forehead.  He wore a gray suit, a white shirt and a dark tie.  His skin was pale... not sickly, just pale from never seeing the sun.  Puckett decided he looked like an undertaker.

"May I join you?" the man asked.

Puckett gestured at the stool beside him and thought:  European, no question.  Join came out choin.  German, maybe, or Dutch, or one of those pissant countries that kept breaking apart over there.

The man said, "There is a gentleman outside who would like to meet you."

"Why?"

"He has heard of you... of things you have said."

Puckett paused, then said, "Okay, so bring him in."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Why?" Puckett laughed.  "Too big to get through the door?"

"Something like that."

Somesing ... somesing like that.  German.  Had to be.  "Hey, Ray," Puckett said, "you got no rule against fat guys, do you?"

Ray didn't laugh.

"Would you please come outside?" the man said.  "I think it would be worth your while."

"Worth my while how?"

"Financially."

"Well, hell, why didn't you say so?"  Puckett stood up.  "Keep my seat warm, Ray.  If I'm not back in ten minutes, call nine-one-one."

A van was parked across the street.  It was black, its windows were tinted so no one could see inside, and Puckett noticed that its license plates were New York handicapped permits.

"Fuck is this?" he said.  "An ambulance?"

The man slid open one of the side panels and gestured for Puckett to climb in.

Puckett leaned over and glanced inside.  It was dark and, as far as he could see, empty.  For no good reason, he felt a chill.  "No way," he said.

"Mr. Puckett—"

"Look, Hans, I don't know who's in there, I don't know you, I don't know nothing.  All I know is, I'm not gettin’ in there.  Tell him to come out."

"I told ou—"

"Forget it.  You want to do business, we do it in the sunlight.  End of story."

The man sighed.  "I'm sorry," he said.

"Yeah, well..."

Puckett never saw the man's hands move, but suddenly he was spun around, his feet were off the ground and he felt himself flying into the darkness of the van.  He hit the carpeted floor and lay there, dazed, listening to the side panel slam and the engine start, and feeling the van begin to move.