“Same as yours?”
“That thing dead?”
“Ain’t movin‘.”
“Bring it up.”
“Let’s have a look inside.”
“Find that rare coin.”
“Or the false teeth.”
Whiskey and beer.
Jack reeled in as much line as he could. The dead shark was bumping against the side of the boat.
“Damn thing’s ten feet long.”
“Nobody’s going to haul that baby up with just a gaff.”
“They have a winch.”
“It’s going to be a messy job.”
“Might be worth it if we find that rare coin.”
“We’re more likely to find a coin in your stomach.”
With five men, two ropes, three gaffs, and a power winch, they managed to hoist the shark out of the sea and over the stem railing, and then lost control of it a second before it was down, so that it crashed onto the deck, whereupon it came back to life unexpectedly, or half life anyway, for the bullets had hurt it and stunned it, but they had not killed it, and the beast thrashed on the deck, and everyone jumped back, and Pete grabbed a gaff and swung and slammed the hook into the shark’s head, spraying blood on several people, and the mighty jaws snapped, trying to get at Pete, and another man rushed forward with another gaff and embedded the long point in one of the shark’s eyes, and a third gaff found its way into one of the bullet wounds, and there was blood everywhere, so that Colin thought of the Kingman killings, and all the men in their swimsuits were spotted and streaked with blood, and Colin’s father yelled for everyone to stand back, and although Irv told him not to fire toward the deck, Colin’s father put one more round in the shark’s brain, and finally it stopped moving, and everyone was
Suddenly Colin found the strength to move. He bolted toward the front of the boat, slipped in blood, stumbled, almost fell, regained his balance. When he had gone as far from the revelers and as far forward as he could, he leaned through the railing and vomited over the side.
By the time Colin finished, his father was there, towering over him, the very image of savagery, skin painted with blood, hair matted with blood, eyes wild. His voice was soft but intense. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I was sick,” Colin said weakly. “Just sick. It’s over now.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m okay now.”
“Do you try to embarrass me?”
“Huh?”
“In front of my friends like this?”
Colin stared, unable to comprehend.
“They’re making jokes about you.”
“Well…”
“They’re making fun of you.”
Colin was dizzy.
“Sometimes I wonder about you,” his father said.
“I couldn’t help it. I threw up. There wasn’t anything I could do to stop it.”
“Sometimes I wonder if you
“I am. Of course I am.”
His father leaned close and studied him, as if searching for the telltale features of an old friend or milkman. His breath was foul.
Whiskey and beer.
And blood.
“Sometimes you don’t act like a boy at all. Sometimes you don’t look like you’ll ever make a man,” his father said quietly but urgently.
“I’m trying.”
“Are you?”
“I really am,” Colin said despairingly.
“Sometimes you act like a pansy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sometimes you act like a goddamned queer.”
“I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Do you want to pull yourself together?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you pull yourself together?”
“Yeah.”
“Can you?”
“Sure I can.”
“Will you?”
“Sure.”
“Do it.”
“I need a couple of minutes-”
“Now! Do it now!”
“Okay.”
“Pull yourself together”
“Okay. I’m okay.”
“You’re shaking.”
“No I’m not.”
“You going to come back with me?”
“All right.”
“Show those guys whose son you are.”
“I’m your son.”
“You’ve got to prove it, Junior.”
“I will.”
“You’ve got to show me proof.”
“Can I have a beer?”
“What?”
“I think maybe it would help.”
“Help what?”
“It might make me feel better.”
“You want a beer?”
“Yeah.”
“Now, that’s more like it!”
Frank Jacobs grinned and mussed his son’s hair with one bloody hand.
15
