For two hundred bucks and up depending on the season, you can get a private or semiprivate fishing charter for a half day. Your money buys a competent captain who knows tides and currents and where the fish are running. Forty to sixty bucks buys you space on a 'party boat,' standing shoulder to shoulder with a hundred others and crossing lines for four hours. Twenty percent of the customers will be bee red up and get violently seasick. They'll be the ones standing next to you.
The Gast brothers ran the Drunken Sailor, a slum with scuppers and the ugliest reputation of all the party boats on the island. Tourists didn't know this, so the Gasts scratched a living out of puttering a few miles out and handing customers a fishing rig guaranteed to jam, backlash, or flat-out disintegrate. If a mark wanted to keep his catch, the Gasts charged a usurious fee to toss a couple of ice cubes over it, and a buck for a plastic bag to put it in. The Coast Guard was always hauling the Gast brothers' boat back to the dock and I figured they planned it that way to save on fuel. No one sailed the Drunken Sailor twice.
The Gasts were even dirtier and uglier than their boat, white trash on water, as amoral as sharks. They lived in a cinder-block sweat haven on the mainland and only crossed to Dauphin to run their rat ass enterprise.
The Drunken Sailor bobbed against pilings. Shoreside was a small picnic area with figures moving in the semidark, lit by a sputtering yellow light on a phone pole. The air was thick with the smell of rotting fish. I cut the headlamps and parked on the crumbled macadam and jogged the hundred feet to the picnic area. Ava was sitting on a picnic table and sucking from a quart of Dark Eyes. My shirt wasn't doing a good job covering her. Johnny Lee Gast, about two hundred twenty pounds of tall white trash, had a grubby paw on Ava's thigh.
Earl, a loudmouthed runt, was leaning against her, laughing and sucking a beer so loudly it sounded like he was gargling.
'All right, party's over,' I said, coming into the light.
Ava turned to me with a cockeyed grin. 'Carshon! Guess what? Jimmy and Lee are gonna take me on a boat ride. C'mon 'long.' She waved the bottle like ringing a bell and took a gurgling swallow.
'Come on, Ava, we're heading back,' I said easily, knowing it wasn't going to be easy at all. I knew how the Gasts fought. Little Earl was the bait and Johnny Lee the trap. I also knew that Johnny Lee didn't know when to stop hitting, and he'd done three years on a manslaughter conviction to prove it.
'Ah, c'mon, Carshon. Have a li'l drinkie.'
'Private party, Ryder,' Johnny Lee said.
'Let's go, Ava.'
'I said private party, boy,' Johnny Lee growled from somewhere around his groin. 'Move on.'
Earl had a whiney singsong voice straight from the playground. 'What you gonna do, Ryder? Maybe you're a dee-tective in Mobile, but here you ain't shit. My brother says git, you better git, bitch.'
'You guys be nice,' Ava said and followed it with a burp. She giggled.
'S'cuze me.'
There are important lessons learned as a street cop. One is that street fights have no rules; the trick is to take out the other guy before he can hurt you. If you prefer not shooting anyone, one of the best assets is the nightstick. I'd been taught how to use it, legally and otherwise, by two wood-slamming pros, one being an Okinawa-te expert in the shore patrol, the other my ice-breaking bud, Akini. He'd taken the Koga method of baton usage and added a good deal more kendo.
I always kept a short, straight stick in the truck as a fish billy. It was currently jammed down the back of my pants with my shirttail over it.
'Come on Ava,' I said, 'I'll mix you a drink back at the house.'
Her eyes lit up. 'Promise?'
'Cross my heart.'
Ava wobbled off the tabletop. Earl grabbed her, a hand cupping her breast. She was more concerned with checking the level in the bottle.
'Good-bye, Ryder,' Johnny Lee said. 'Ain't saying it again.'
Ava chirped, 'I think I'll go with Carshon. Thanks, guys,' She tried to step away from Earl. He grabbed her wrist. 'You got shit in your ears? Is that why you ain't listening, Ryder?'
Johnny Lee was slipping almost imperceptibly to my side. Earl pulled Ava to him and cooed at me over her shoulder. 'Hey, Ryder, hey, Ryder.
Missy here says she's a doctor. You play doctor with her, Ryder? Hey, Ryder, look at me. I asked do you like to play doctor with little missy here? Give her a checkup?'
'Stop spitting in my ear,' Ava whined at Earl, trying to push away from him. 'An' get your hand off my boob.'
'Let her go, Earl,' I said, reaching for the stick.
'Fuck you,' Earl spat, shoving Ava toward me.
Johnny Lee slammed behind my legs like a wheelbarrow full of bricks.
Ava spun away as I hit the ground. My chin smacked my shoulder and blue sparks exploded behind my eyes. Earl scuffed a hard kick off my back as I rolled away. Johnny Lee came at me and I cracked the stick across his shins. He howled and jumped back. The lights of the marina swooped and whirled as I rolled to the edge of the oily water.
Somewhere in there I dropped the stick. Johnny Lee thumped a kick off my hip and I heard a yell, mine. I scrabbled in the dark for the stick when Johnny Lee slammed a kick off my bicep. If it had hit my face I'd been finished.
I grunted and rolled and the stick prodded my back as I went over it. I got a finger through the handle loop as Johnny Lee dropped on me and snaked a ham-thick arm around my neck. He pushed my face into the sand. The world started to blur. I tasted blood and heard the sparkling hiss of approaching unconsciousness. I heard Earl laugh, about a hundred miles away. I pushed up on my elbows and got my face slammed right back in the sand. My head whirling toward black. I gripped the stick in both hands and speared it over my shoulder with the last of my breath.
A howl nearly blew out my eardrum and I felt Johnny Lee's arm pull away. I stumbled to my feet, fell, stumbled up again, sucking air, waiting for the world to stop spinning. Johnny Lee was squirming like a cut worm, hands over his eye, screaming he was blind. Figuring he needed something to take his mind off his eye, I bounced the stick off his shins and shoulders, sharing my thoughts about men who preyed on intoxicated women. Earl was a hundred feet gone and gaining speed.
When my arm got tired of hammering Johnny Lee, I let him crawl off, leaving a snail trail of stink and body fluids.
Ava was passed out by the picnic table. I eased her over my shoulder and limped to the truck. 'Ava, this would be damned funny if it wasn't damned serious,' I lectured. She vomited down my back by way of response.
CHAPTER 18
Until I was introduced to Bear's shuddering treks back from a hinge, I'd had no idea of the snake-venom toxicity of large amounts of ethanol. At 6:00 a.m. I came in from breakfast on the deck, stacked my dishes in the sink, and heard low moans from Ava's bed. She had spun herself into a tangle of blankets and was shaking uncontrollably, fists knotted beneath her chin. The shaking hit in spasms; attack, relent, attack. Bear described this phase as being eaten by buzz saws I sat by her head and slipped wisps of hair from her eyes. She pulled the covers tighter. Her lips were parchment and I brought her a large glass of apple juice and held her head up to suck at the straw. She fell back, an arm thrown over her forehead.
'What happened last night?' she whispered, hiding under her arm.
'You took a walk. Thankfully, I'd pinned a note to your collar with my address on it.'
She saw the scrapes on my face and closed her eyes. 'Do you have anything to drink?'
I tapped the cup beside her. 'Apple juice. Soda water. Gatorade.
Tea. Coffee.'
'Something stronger. Just a little bit. I hurt so bad. I really need a drink, Carson. God, I swear I do, just one.
