She found a comfortable chair on the left side, port, she had to remember such things, portside of the fifty-foot ship, tucking her sketch pad under her knees and reclining for a few minutes.
“Threadbin herrings.” Diego showed her a bucket of squirming little fish.
“That lunch?” She deeply regretted not bringing a sandwich.
“For the salmon. Bait. You need something to catch something. Or someone. All kinds of bait.” He winked broadly, as if worried she or the swooping seagulls might miss it.
Lee cleared his throat disapprovingly and Diego hurried to the right side. Starboard.
“We got drinks if you’re thirsty,” the Captain said.
“I’m fine. This is really helpful, sir.”
Lee grunted and disappeared below, giving Zelda a clear view of Diego’s tight butt in even tighter jeans. Oh don’t do that, child, she tingled as he tossed his tank top onto the deck, adjusting the nets.
He passed by again, sweaty and chiseled and very smelly.
“The Atlantic Bonito are still around. The Croakers, too. They finally opened up passages. Now with the Alaskan salmon hurrying east. North, then southeast,” he corrected himself. “No one’s sure what we’ll really one hundred per cent find. Might not even be real salmon yet.”
Zelda leaned forward. “Are you saying we’ll be selling some other fish as salmon?”
“Already do.” He looked at her as if she was very stupid.
“I know that, the artificial processing. But we’re going to market making a big deal about real salmon.”
Diego shrugged carelessly. “Hopefully it’s the real salmon. I don’t make them. God does.”
God. Not a word she often heard. God was discredited. God was Islam and the power of fanaticism, of belief gone wrong, gone deadly, gone genocidal. Religion had a bad name and it was called jihad. Sharia. If the Judeo-Christian God had been such a big bad ass, then why’d we lose? Bet on something else.
She gave Diego a closer look. A closet religo, she decided from the way he held himself with that certain surrender of faith. Fall into the net and God will rescue you from the smelly fish. He seemed happy, singing, tying and untying ropes. Sure. God will make sure you’re not some salmon’s appetizer tonight, she grinned. Me, they fight over who gets a chubby leg.
He caught her look and smiled back. Zelda flushed and returned to her sketches.
They finally anchored after an hour, where she dozed, hopefully not with her mouth open and drooling. Diego sat cross-legged, watching her. She touched her blouse to make sure all the buttons were in place.
“You snore,” he called across the deck. “But not too loudly.”
“That’s a relief. I wouldn’t want to scare the salmon away.”
“No worries. They ain’t here.”
Lee popped his head up the steps. “Tracking says there’s a storm due east.”
“Shit.” Diego frowned and began pulling on the lever to pull up the anchor.
“A real storm?” Zelda asked.
Lee sighed. “Yes, ma’am. We’ll be fine.”
Other than annoyed winds racing across the bow, the return was smooth. They pulled in just after the 4:05 rains. Half drenched, Zelda waited for Lee and Diego to finish securing the boat for the night.
“Thank you again, Captain Lee.”
“You never asked a question.” He sounded disappointed.
“Your crew took care of all my needs.”
Embarrassed, Lee raised an eyebrow and hurried past.
“I meant these.” She waved her sketches at his fading back.
“Can I see?” Diego asked.
“No. They’re just creative thought starters. Jumping points to go boom and bang. Raw mental sewage needing to be filtered.”
Diego burst out laughing. “That is a lot of shit for pictures of a ship and the ocean.”
She smiled sheepishly. “I guess.”
“Do you need to get home to cook your sketches in the oven or do you have time for a drink?” he repeated his invitation, once rejected.
Zelda shifted her weight. “How old are you, kid?”
“Old enough,” he grinned.
She regarded him through splayed fingers, shaking her head. “Did you really just say that?”
“Yes.” He had such a wonderful smile.
10
The Metro North train rambled past the cars creeping along the Major Deegan Expressway, headlights oozing envy. Puppy looked out the grimy window at the line of stalled autos. A favorite game of DV kids was hood jumping. You gained traction on the rear bumper, then leaped spread-eagled onto the roof, clutching the sides. Sometimes the driver would notice half a body blotting out his back window and attack with a hammer; stuck in traffic, they needed a diversion.
Now you jutted your legs back, as if diving, rising up on stiff elbows and hurtling your pelvis forward into a squat on the hood, moving your feet so they weren’t squashed by a large tool, etc. You rapped your knuckles triumphantly, once if it was the first car of the day, twice if the second, on and on. Denting or doing any damage was discouraged. Occasionally a windshield wiper made the ultimate sacrifice.
Skilled hood-jumpers could mark seven cars before they had to kick a driver in the forehead. Drivers also had a sub-genre for how many hood-jumpers they could knock off their car.
Puppy had jumped six; that’s where he first hurt his right shoulder. Smart move, two days before he was pitching in the borough-wide college championship game at Amazon Stadium.
He glanced back down at the brochure.
“At Basil Hayden’s, you put your life in our hands. Our trained staff will make sure you die without any concerns. We make death relaxing, stress-free, just another experience. Let us take you where you’re going anyway. Why travel alone?”
The train rocked violently and screeched dead on the tracks. Passengers held onto their seats. An A10 conductor roamed up and down the aisles.
“No worries, everyone. A deer
