The Bughouse Affair

his lap, knew Salty Jim well enough. And clearly didn’t like him.

“Salty Jim O’Bannon,” he said, “ain’t no oysterman.”

“No? What is he?”

The oldster screwed up his face and spat off the wharf side. “A damn pirate, that’s what.”

Involved in the oyster trade, indeed, Quincannon thought sardonically. He’d had a run-in with oyster pirates once and did not relish a repeat performance. They were a scurvy lot, the dregs of the coastal waters-worse by far than Chinese shrimp raiders or Greek salmon poachers. At the first flood tide in June, an entire fleet of them would head down the bay to Asparagus Island to set up raiding parties on the beds. And much of the harvest would be stolen despite the efforts of the Fish Patrol and privately hired agencies such as Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services. The only thing that kept the pirates from taking complete control of the bay waters was their own vicious behavior. Regular consumption of alcohol and opium combined with general cussedness had led to many a cutting or shooting scrape and many a corpse in the sandpits.

“How come you’re lookin’ for the likes of Salty Jim O’Bannon?” the old sailor asked. “Not fixin’ to join up with him, are you?”

“No chance of that. It’s not him I’m after.”

“Who, then?”

“A cousin of his, Dodger Brown. Know the lad?”

“Can’t say I do. Don’t want to know him, if he’s as black-hearted a cuss as Salty Jim.”

“He may be, at that.”

“What’s his dodge? Not another pirate, is he?”

“Housebreaker.”

“And what’re you? You’ve got the look and questions of a nabber.”

“Policeman?” Quincannon was mildly offended. “Manhunter on the scent is more like it. Where does Salty Jim O’Bannon keep his boat? Hereabouts?”

“Hell. He wouldn’t dare.” The oldster spat again for emphasis. “He anchors off Davis Wharf. Don’t tie up for fear of one of his pirate pals slippin’ on board at night and murderin’ him in his sleep.”

“What’s her name?”

“Oyster Catcher. Now ain’t that a laugh.”

“He lives aboard, does he?”

“He does. Might find him there now-I ain’t seen nor heard of him puttin’ out into the bay yet today. If you’re fixin’ to go out and see him, I hope you’re carryin’ a weapon and ain’t shy about usin’ it. Salty Jim ain’t exactly sociable to strangers.”

Meaningfully Quincannon patted the holster where his Navy Colt rested. The old sailor’s rheumy eyes brightened at the gesture. “Why, then, I hope you find that son of a bitch, mate. I purely hope you do.”

He provided directions to Davis Wharf. When Quincannon arrived there, he saw that sloops and schooners were anchored in the bay nearby, so many that he wasted no time in trying to pick out the Oyster Catcher. A ragged youth who was fishing with a hand line off the wharf side made the identification for him. The youth also agreed to rent out his own patched skiff beached in the tidal mud fifty rods distant. The boy seemed impressed that Quincannon was intent on visiting Salty Jim, the oyster pirate, but not for the same reason as the old sailor; the shine of hero worship was in his eyes.

Quincannon repressed the urge to shake some sense into the lad. You couldn’t hope to make everyone walk the straight and narrow. Besides, a new generation of crooks meant continued prosperity for Carpenter and Quincannon, Professional Detective Services, well into his and Sabina’s dotage.

He stowed his grip in the skiff, rowed out to the Oyster Catcher. She was a good- size sloop with a small cabin amidships, her mainsail furled, her hull in need of paint, but otherwise in reasonably good repair. No one was on deck, but from inside the cabin he could hear the discordant strumming of a banjo-an instrument for which he held an active dislike. He shipped his oars until he was able to draw in next to a disreputable rowboat tied to a portside Jacob’s ladder. He tied the skiff’s painter to another rung, drew his Navy, and climbed quickly on board.

The cabin’s occupant heard or felt his presence; the banjo twanged and went silent, and a moment later the cabin door burst open and a bear of a man, naked to the waist, stepped out with a belaying pin clenched in one hand.

Quincannon snapped, “Stand fast!” and brought the pistol to bear. The scruff pulled up short, blinking and glowering. He was thirtyish, sported a patchy beard and hair that hung in matted ropes. The cold bay wind blew smells of “four-bit micky” and body odor off him in such a ripe wave that Quincannon’s nostrils pinched in self- defense.

“Who in foggy hell’re you?”

“My name is of no matter to you. Drop your weapon.”

“Huh?”

“The belaying pin. Drop it, O’Bannon.”

“Like hell I will.”

“There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t.”

Salty Jim gaped at him, rubbing at his scraggly beard with his free hand, his mouth open at least two inches-a fair approximation of a drooling idiot. “What’s the idee comin’ on my boat? You ain’t the goddamn fish patrol.”

“It’s your cousin I want, not you.”

“Cousin?”

“Dodger Brown.”

“Huh? What you want with him?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Quincannon said. “If he’s here, call him out. If he’s not, tell me where I can find him.”

“I ain’t gonna tell you nothin’.”

“You will, or you’ll find a lead pellet nestling in your hide.”

The oyster pirate’s mean little eyes narrowed to slits. He took a step forward and said with drunken belligerence, “By gar, nobody’s gonna shoot me on my own boat.”

“I’m warning you, O’Bannon. Drop your weapon and hold hard, or-”

Salty Jim was too witless and too much taken with drink to be either scared or intimidated. He growled deeply in his throat, hoisted the belaying pin aloft, and mounted a lumbering charge.

Quincannon had no desire to commit mayhem if it could be avoided. He took two swift steps forward, jabbed the Navy’s muzzle hard and straight into the rough bird’s sternum.

Salty Jim said an explosive, “Uff!” and rounded at the middle like an archer’s bow. The blow took the force out of his downsweeping arm; the belaying pin caromed more or less harmlessly off the meaty part of Quincannon’s shoulder. Another jab with the Colt, followed by a quick reverse flip of the weapon, and then with the butt end he fetched O’Bannon a solid thump on the crown of his empty cranium. There was another satisfying “Uff!” after which Salty Jim stretched out on the scaly deck for a nap. Rather amazingly he even commenced to make snoring noises.

The brief skirmish brought no one else out of the cabin. Nor were there any sounds from within to indicate another’s presence on board. Quincannon holstered the Navy, prodded the pirate with the toe of his boot; the nap and the snores continued unabated. A frisk of O’Bannon’s apparently never-washed trousers and shirt netted him nothing except a sack of Bull Durham, some papers to go with the tobacco, and a greasy French postcard of no artistic merit whatsoever.

Quincannon picked up the belaying pin, tossed it overboard. After a moment’s hesitation he sent the French postcard sailing after it. A frayed belt that held up the pirate’s filthy trousers served to tie his hands behind his back. Quincannon then stepped over the unconscious man and entered the cabin.

He had been in hobo jungles and opium dens that were tidier and less aromatic. Breathing through his mouth, he searched the confines. It was evident from the first that two men lived here recently. Verminous blankets were wadded on each of two bunks, and there were empty bottles of Salty Jim’s tipple, the cheap and potent white-line whiskey also known as four-bit micky and Dr. Hall, and empty flasks of the foot juice favored by Dodger Brown. The galley table, however, bore remnants of a single meal of oyster stew and sourdough bread, one tin coffee mug, one