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What are you talking about? Of course I don’t—
—the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—
—what difference does it—
—don’t you know who Iam?
What started as a conversation was devolving into an argument. Or maybe more of a tantrum, given that the boatman just stood there with his hand out, still as a statue, and didn’t fight back. Meanwhile, Surfer Boy was ranting and raving and stomping his feet.
“He doesn’t have the fare,” Shane murmured.
I dropped his hand to chafe away goosebumps.
Surfer Boy, meanwhile, kept right on arguing. And the last thing he said came through loud and clear.
Y’know what? I don’t need youoryour fucking boat. Fuck. You.
“Oh my god,” Shane said under his breath.
I said nothing at all. Just watched, stunned, as Surfer Boy launched himself into the murky gray river. It was a shallow dive, but powerful—the guy was all lean muscle—and it carried him a good distance out. He came down with a muted splash and was already swimming. A crawl stroke, even and practiced, arms and legs pumping smoothly.
The boatman’s arm dropped to his side. I couldn’t tell if he was watching. He must have been. But I couldn’t make out his face to know for sure.
Surfer Boy kept on swimming.
My perspective shifted. Before, the river was just gray water on gray sky in gray fog, and I had no sense of how wide it might be. But now, the contrast of a black wetsuit brought it all into focus. Wider than I thought. Wider than it had any right to be. How far outside the city had Carmine dumped me?
Surfer boy swam with the precision of a machine. Arms, legs, head, breathe. Every motion in rhythm. Until that rhythm faltered, and he dropped below the surface.
The water trembled….
And then iterupted.
Blood and bone and shreds of wetsuit geysered up out of the river as if the swimmer had just triggered an underwater mine. A gazillion little pieces. They arced high, then pattered down into the water with a mess of wet plops—so many bits, it sounded like the world’s wettest drum solo.
And through the whole thing, the boatman just stood there, stock still, and did nothing.
Once the water settled—way too quick for the violence of what just happened—he took his position at the rudder and started the outboard motor. The propeller whined to life, initially smooth, but with a few chunky stutters where it churned through whatever was left of Surfer Boy. The black boat coasted into the fog…and was gone.
For now.
Shane said, “No fare…no ride.”
But I did have a fare—a single silver dollar. A fare that had obviously been meant for Shane. My voice was rougher than it needed to be when I claimed, “I wasn’t about to climb in that damn boat, anyhow.”
6
I’ve never seen the appeal of a boat. Carmine Rossi had a 60-foot catamaran he’d bought, basically to prove he had the dough. He’d never dream of using it to ditch a body—too easy to tie it back to him if the dead guy ever washed up at the water treatment plant. Why risk it when a 16-foot fiberglass skiff will do the job just as well?
As far as I was concerned, nothing good ever happened on the water…but I’d been willing to let Gabriel convince me otherwise. A couple weeks into our thing, I’d accepted his invitation to the yacht club because their prime rib was rare and their Bloody Marys were strong—and also because it was so far out of Rossi territory, there’d be no way anyone from the crew would spot us together.
I’d had no clue actual boating would be involved.
Imagine my shock when he led me not to the restaurant, but the docks, where a gleaming sailboat with the wordsPrima Facielettered across the back was moored. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been sailing,” he teased—and somehow I managed to not flinch when he caught my hand and ran a thumb across my scarred knuckles. “You’ve totally got the hands for it.”
Sailing is a lot harder than it looks. When you catch a breeze, you’d better be prepared to ride it out. But once I got used to being dragged around by forces beyond my control, I realized I was actually enjoying myself. It didn’t hurt that Gabriel found plenty of reasons to fit himself up against me as he taught me to work the rigging.
It was no 60-foot catamaran. But the single cramped cabin was all we really needed.
