“Why the…” Gorland leaned over the table and lowered his voice. “Just the Federal Bureau of Investigation, that’s who. Agent Voss is chewing at your rump!”
Fontaine sat up straight. Gorland looked at him calmly, believing it himself, almost, as he said, “I got it from my sister’s best friend—she’s a secretary for them. Keeps an eye on things for me.” That was the secret to being a good liar—believing it when you said it. “So she’s typing up some kind of warrant, and there you are. Captain Frank Fontaine. Smuggling, it says.
“Keep your voice down. Anyhow it don’t signify—I gave up smuggling that stuff. Company I work for now is bringing me crazy money to bring my catch over by Iceland… long ways, but it’s big money. Safe and legal!”
“You mean your deal with Andrew Ryan’s operation out there?”
Fontaine shrugged. “Nothin’ you need to know about.”
So he took the fish out there himself. Interesting. The exact whereabouts of the North Atlantic project would be on the charts in one of those boats.
Gorland sighed and shook his head. “You don’t get it. Voss is out to get you. He’s going to look down in your hold, first time you set to sea, and plant the dope down there! You gave him the slip one too many times.”
“I… I don’t believe it!”
“They’re raiding you all right. And suppose they don’t set you up—they know that Ryan’s trying to hide something out there. So they’ll take you in for questioning. How’ll Ryan feel about that? You want to go to jail for standing in the way of an investigation?”
“What proof is there a raid’s coming, Gorland?”
“Proof? Just a carbon from the raiding order.” Gorland passed it over. Every good con man knows a good forger. “You can sell your boats to me and slip off to Cuba…”
Fontaine looked at the order—and his shoulders slumped. “Hmmf… maybe. It’s true I’m sick of being on those boats. Like to retire to Cuba. But I want a good price.”
“Sure, I’ll give you top money.”
Fontaine looked at him narrowly. “And why would you be so goddamn
“It’s you they’re looking for, not me—I’ll play fisherman till things cool off. Make some money from Ryan. And have the trawlers for when it’s safe to smuggle again.”
Fontaine expelled a long, slow breath. Gorland knew that meant he was giving in. He felt the physical thrill, an almost sexually delicious inward shiver, that always came when a mark surrendered.
Two nights later, Frank Gorland was waiting in the pilothouse of a fishing trawler, trying to get used to the smell of old codfish, and drinking coffee. The trawler was called
He heard a hail from the dock and smiled. Captain Fontaine was here for his money.
Gorland nodded to his grizzled gray-haired helmsman and said, “When I give you the signal, head due East.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Call me captain. I’m about to be one…”
“Aye aye, cap’n.”
Gorland went down the ladder to the main deck, where he found Fontaine stalking back and forth, scowling.
“Gorland—I hear you fired my crew! You’re up to something! This whole thing is starting to stink.”
“Surprised you can smell a stink at this point. But come on down to the galley and I’ll explain—I’ve got a parcel of money for you.”
Gorland turned and went belowdecks, humming to himself. Fontaine hesitated—then followed.
There was no crew staying warm in
On a small foldout table near the stove was a small brown suitcase. “There you are, Fontaine—open it up and count it.”
Fontaine looked at him—and he looked at the suitcase. Then he licked his lips, went to the suitcase, opened it—and stared. It was filled with dead fish. Red snapper.
“I’m thinking,” Gorland said, taking a blackjack from his coat pocket, “of changing the name of this boat to
Captain Fontaine turned angrily to Gorland—who hit him hard with the blackjack,
Gorland put the blackjack away and went to the ladder, climbed to the deck, turned, and waved up at the pilothouse, where the helmsman, Bergman, was watching for his signal. The helmsman pointed at the dock—and Gorland remembered he had to cast off. That much he knew how to do. He cast the ropes off, and the boat roared to life, swinging out from the dock toward the open sea.
Humming “My Wild Irish Rose,” Gorland descended to the galley. Captain Fontaine, facedown, was still out cold. Gorland went through the man’s pockets, removing his identification, money, personal effects. Might need them.
He considered Captain Fontaine, now stirring slightly on the deck—and then he muttered to himself, “Do it. Go all the way, Frank.”
He took a deep breath—then pulled off his shirt and pants. He dragged Fontaine’s outer clothing off him, then switched clothes with him, wincing at the smell of Fontaine’s unwashed trousers. Just a little too large. Had to tighten the belt.
Then he used his old clothing to tie Fontaine’s hands behind him. “Whuh yuh doing?” Fontaine asked, starting to come to. “Lemme go…”
“I will let you go, right now, Captain,” Gorland said. “But you got to climb that ladder. I’ll help you.”
“I need clothes, it’s freezing out here.”
“You’ll be all taken care of. Up the ladder…”
He got the bleary Fontaine up, at last, and out on the tilting deck. Fog streamed by and wreathed the sea. He glanced at the pilothouse. Bergman was facing out to sea. Not that he would probably have cared. The man had done five years in prison not so long ago. He was being well paid—he’d go along with whatever his new boss wanted.
Fontaine was swaying on deck, goggling blearily about him. “We’re… we’re out tuh sea… why are… we…”
“I’ll show you why,” Gorland said, escorting him to the side. “You ever notice how much you and I look alike… Frank? We even have the same first name! Possibilities, Frank—possibilities! I’ve got a whole new concept here—I call it, ‘Identity theft.’ What do you think?” Then he bent, grabbed the vessel’s former captain by the ankles, and tilted him over the side, headfirst down into the cold sea. A yell, a splash or two—and Captain Fontaine went down… He didn’t come up.
Captain Fontaine was dead. Long live… Captain Frank Fontaine.
5
The
