Carver who stole that boat and then tried to ram us into the ship. For all we know, that cigarette boat may not have been stolen at all; maybe it belongs to somebody employed by Carver Shipping. I'll check that out when I get the time; there can't be that many black cigarette boats with slips at Haverstraw Marina.'
'Mongo, I don't think you should just leave like this,' Mary said, rising and clasping her hands together nervously. 'The doctors say you suffered a concussion too.'
'If I have a concussion, it's a mild one-and it's not my first. It'll pass. I've got myself a beauty of a headache, but I can walk, and my vision is clear. I don't know how long that tanker is going to hang around, and I can't afford to waste time lying around here. I'm going to check myself out. I'll be back as soon as I can.'
I stepped behind a screen, slipped out of my hospital pajamas, pulled on my trunks, T-shirt, and sneakers. Then I stepped back out. Mary had sat down again, but her hands were still clasped tightly together. She looked very uncertain and worried.
'I'm afraid I'm not dressed too well for travel. I'd like to go back to the house to change, if you don't mind.'
'Of course, Mongo. But-'
'And maybe you'd be so kind as to loan me money for a cab. I don't quite feel up to jogging.'
Mary picked up her purse and rummaged through it, while I went over to Garth's side and looked down at his still form. The anger in me was deep, surging and rising like a high tide. Mary found a ten-dollar bill, handed it to me. I started for the door.
'Mongo,' she called after me, 'where are you going?'
'To look for a tall, ugly thread to yank.'
It was six-thirty when I arrived back at the house. The tanker was still at its mooring across the river; its cargo of fuel oil had been delivered, and it was riding high in the water, a broad band of rusted orange undercoating indicating that it hadn't flushed out its tanks and started to take on river water-yet. I went into the house, out onto the deck, and took a photograph of the tanker, just for the record. It was overcast, with dark thunderheads rolling low in the sky, and I took two more photographs at different exposures. Then I took a long, hot shower, dressed in dark slacks, shirt and tie, and a sports coat. I seriously wanted a drink, but suspected that alcohol wasn't the best thing in the world for my persistent, throbbing headache. I opted for three aspirin and a glass of seltzer water, then picked up the telephone.
The man who came to the door of the soaring Victorian mansion on the banks of the Hudson in Upper Cairn had to be in his mid-eighties, but he obviously took good care of himself, and looked fit. He had a full head of wavy silver hair, and a somewhat cherubic face fit for a Macy's Santa Claus, except for the pale green eyes which were bright, suspicious, and which would not be reassuring to children who had misbehaved during the year; he looked like the kind of Santa who, while fair and willing to listen, would not hesitate to leave coal in the stocking of any miscreant. He was about six feet tall, and his body had the kind of gaunt look displayed by people who have recently lost a lot of weight in a short time. There was a definite air of authority about him.
'I'm Robert Frederickson, Mr. Carver,' I said, extending my hand. 'I very much appreciate your agreeing to see me on such short notice.'
He shook my hand. 'I've heard of you, Frederickson. I believe your brother is married to Mary Tree, who's a member of my church. It's why I agreed to see you. You don't live in Cairn, do you?'
'No, sir. New York City. I'm just visiting.'
'Well, Mary is a member of my church, and she and Garth are my neighbors, and so I'm happy to extend you this courtesy.' He paused, narrowed his eyes slightly. 'You're not here to talk about that American flag business, are you?'
'No, sir. It's something else entirely.'
'Come in.'
I followed him through a foyer of dark wood brightened by fluorescent lights, down a corridor, then through a door into a richly furnished library that smelled of old leather. There was a walk-in fireplace, and Impressionist oils on all four walls. The bookcases were decorated with models of sailing ships, and hanging above one was a framed captain's license. Bennett Carver, it seemed, was more than just a man who'd made a lot of money with big ships; he obviously loved ships themselves, and the sea, and knew the challenges of both firsthand. I thought it reflected well on him.
'Would you like a drink, Frederickson?' he continued, motioning for me to sit down in one of two leather armchairs set in front of the fireplace, which was currently serving as the summer home for an enormous, flowering cactus.
Would I ever. 'Maybe a club soda, please.'
He produced a glass and some ice from a small wet bar to the right of the fireplace, poured some club soda into the glass, brought it over to me. 'Let's get down to business, Frederickson,' he said, sitting down in the armchair across from me. 'I don't mean to be rude, but I recently had some minor surgery, and I tire easily. I usually go to bed quite early. Just what is this important matter that you wish to discuss with me?'
'Carver Shipping.'
'You may have come to the wrong person, Frederickson. I'm retired. I took the company public a while back, sold it. I retain a substantial portion of stock, but I have nothing to do with the day-to-day operations of the company. It's run by a board of directors. I have no duties. Aside from the rights due any stockholder, I have no power, no say.'
'I understand, sir, but I suspect that you have a continuing interest in the company you founded, and that interest is more than purely financial. You seem to be a man who takes pride in the things he creates, and would be concerned with how something he had created was being managed by its current caretakers.'
'That's true. What's your point, Frederickson?'
'Carver Shipping's tankers are illegally washing out their bilge, ballast, and storage tanks in the river after they unload their shipments of oil. Then they're refilling those tanks with river water, which they're probably selling in the Middle East-most likely to Kuwait. I can't prove if, or where, they're selling it, but I can show that the tankers are loading up on water. In fact, there's one across the river doing it right now-or about to do it. If you care to check it out, all you have to do is watch out your window for a few minutes, while there's still light.' I paused, reached into my jacket pocket, withdrew the packet of photographs I had brought with me, handed it to him. 'Those are before and after pictures of Carver Shipping tankers-heading upriver to deliver their oil cargoes, heading downriver after. As you can see, they're all riding just as low in the water going as coming. They're carrying something back with them, and the only thing it could be is river water.'
Bennett Carver looked through the photographs, then set them down on a glass-topped coffee table to his left. Then he looked back at me. He definitely did not seem impressed. 'Water? The important thing you wanted to talk to me about is tankers carrying river water?'
'You don't seem to take it very seriously.'
'I'm not sure just what there is to be taken seriously. River water? Do you anticipate a shortage?'
'The water isn't theirs to take and sell, Mr. Carver. It belongs to all of us. And they pollute the river when they flush their tanks to take it on.'
'Have you notified the Coast Guard?'
'They don't take it seriously either-or they don't take it seriously enough. I got the impression they feel they have more important things to worry about.'
The silver-haired man with the pale green eyes thought about it awhile, then said, 'Assuming they are shipping the water to Kuwait, or some other Middle Eastern nation that needs it, some people might call it a worthwhile endeavor. It may even be legal.'
'I doubt very much that selling a public resource for private profit is legal, Mr. Carver. It's easy enough to check out. But washing out their tanks in the river is definitely illegal. You live on the river, and I'm frankly surprised you aren't offended that somebody's dumping toxic chemicals in your backyard.'
The old man flushed, and anger gleamed in his bright eyes. 'You're out of line, Frederickson. I was living in Cairn, on this river, before you were born. My father and grandfather were fishermen, and our family lived in a shack that stood on this very property. So don't tell me I don't care about environmental matters. Ask the local fishermen who contributed large sums to their association, to the
