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Shane let out a small gasp, and I realized I’d finally slipped up enough to let him get behind me. I hadn’t needed to worry about the kid pulling a piece on me. Not only was there nowhere to hide one in that suit of his…but I couldn’t exactly be done in twice.
He’d got himself an eyeful of what happened the last time I turned my back on someone.You hear that, Gino?There’d be blood, all right. And probably a lot worse.
Voice soft, Shane asked, “Which one are you, then? The crew member, or the lawyer?” Without waiting for an answer, he caught my hand and ran a thumb across my scarred knuckles as if he hadn’t just literally got a glimpse of my thick skull. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say it’s the crew member. Which is good. ’Cause lawyers are the punchline of so many terrible jokes.”
I cut my eyes to him. “And that don’t bother you?”
Shane smiled—not the wry twist of his mouth I’d gotten to know, but a soft, melancholy thing that made my gut twist. “Whatever you’ve done, that was another time, another place…another life. Maybe, from our current side of the river, we can’t reincarnate as some narcissistic social media influencer’s pet mini-goat. But if we both decide that here and now, we’re starting over…who’s to stop us?”
The coin dragged at me like a cinderblock.
“Here’s a thought,” he said. “We’ll come up with some new job titles for ourselves. I’ll be Director of Strategic Mist Alignment. You can be Senior VP of Gravel Optimization. Just imagine all the perks—”
No doubt Shane’s rambling would distract us well enough from what was really going on…if not for the whine of an outboard motor threading through the mist.
9
“Well, that’s it, then.” Shane patted down his sewn-shut pockets and gave a dry swallow. “Your ride is here.”
I glanced at him sidelong. “Myride?”
“Leave no couch cushion unturned, that’s my motto. If anyone knows how to scrounge up spare change, it’s me. And it’s obvious I’m as broke as the wetsuit-wearing douchecanoe that exploded in yon river. But, you?” He met my eyes. “You’ve had your hand in your pocket for a while now, and I doubt it’s because you’re up to something pervy.”
As the black prow emerged from the fog, my gut clenched. I thought I’d have more time. Not to make up for the things I’d done…but to spend with Shane.
“The not knowing,” he said. “The reason I’m stuck on this side of the river, I mean. That’s the worst part. If I ask super nice, do you think the boatman will tell me why?”
I wouldn’t count on it.
Especially since the one who was supposed to be left behind was me.
The dark boat slid from the fog with a waterlogged sigh. Up close, the prow was in worse shape than I’d thought. Its black paint was peeling away in strips, revealing a layer of worm-eaten wood that had no business staying afloat. But I was more worried about the boat’s captain.
The thing at the tiller might be shaped like a man, but that was where the similarity ended. Looking at the boatman was like trying to peer through a window on a bright day. Maybe you could see inside. Or maybe you were just looking at a reflection. He had a face—I hadn’t been sure he would—but the features kept shifting so I couldn’t quite make them out. One moment he was Carmine Rossi (You hear that, Gino?) and the next he was my old man, hungover and nasty and looking to take out his frustration with his belt.
My vision shifted one more time, and then what I saw…was myself. Not a mirror image—but a thousand times worse. My own face, slack and bloated, staring up at the sky with filmy eyes
And I knew exactly why I’d had no fare for the boatman.
Good luck to anyone who goes looking for him.
Wherever Rossi had dumped me, he’d made damn sure I would never be found. That’s what I had in common with Surfer Boy, whose body was probably fish food by now, and all his friends and family wondering if he’d just up and taken off to the Caymans with whatever cash he’d been embezzling.
But Shane, in his creased suit…Shane with the smell of carnations in his hair…Shane with his jaded sense of humor and the vulnerability he sucked at hiding…Shane got a proper burial.
He was supposed to move on.
He had a fare. How it had ended up in his belly, who’s to say? He’d been embalmed, obviously, so there wouldn’t have been any real blood for him to puke up. It didn’t exist. Just like the broken cruet.
Just like us.
The boat idled up to the rotten pilings and a mooring line slithered out and looped itself around the mucky wood. The boatman didn’t stand up, so much as flow into another position, like he was made out of the fog itself. I drew the coin out of my pocket. My hand shook.
Shane gave my shoulder a squeeze. “It’s okay, Gino. You’ll be okay—you’re a survivor.”
The boatman extended a hand—Carmine’s liver-spotted hand, my old man’s hard-knuckled hand, my own scarred hand—and I realized I had no intention of paying up. And also, I saw how easy it would be to hold that coin out over the water….
And just let go.
