Drago #3. Art Spinella
tea which was big business back in Europe.”
“And our little town was a port for the drug?”
“Morphine, mostly, Nick. That’s what opium is. Yeah, Oregon was a hot bed. Back in 1870-something, the paddle wheeler Orpheus and the full-rig Pacific collided up near British Columbia; the manifest showed what went down, aside from all but one of the 275 passengers and crew on the Pacific. On the list, two cases of opium headed to San Francisco.”
I reached into my back pocket and pulled out the photo of the twin ghost paddle wheelers.
“Never occurred to me to show you this, but can you ID either of these ships?”
Leaning across, Moorly took the photo from me.
“Look like you got some problem with your lens.”
He paused, moved the photo closer to his eyes, pulled on the Meerschaum and smiled. “Well, dang, that one there is the Dora. Granddad had a picture of it in his living room. All framed up. He was a deckhand on Dora for three years.”
“What about the other one?”
“Pretty fuzzy picture, Nick. Why’s it look like that?”
“Remember the legends about the ghost paddle wheeler?”
“Sure. Bunk. Granddad believed in it, but he was in the minority.”
“Something about the captain being murdered and the ship scuttled.”
Moorly closed his eyes and drew a few puffs from his pipe.
“You want the whole story or the one we tell tourists?”
“Ain’t no tourist. Try the whole thing.”
He never got the chance.
The walkie-talkie hissed. Cookie’s voice broke through the static. “Nick! It’s here!”
Pressing the talk button, “Where exactly?”
“About a half mile up from Rocky Point.”
“How close are you?”
“Maybe a quarter mile. Saw a sparkle and then it was as big as life! Wow!”
“Getting this, Sal?”
“Got it.”
“Cookie. Close in as fast as you can. Can you catch it?”
“In this boat, no problem.”
Before she clicked off I could hear the outboard’s nasal exhaust spin up and could picture “Miss QT” rise up on her plane.
“Sal. You ready?”
“Set.”
“Got your gun?”
“Sure. Why?”
“I want you to shoot at it as soon as it gets within range.”
“What?”
“Cookie.” No answer. “Cookie.” Still no answer. “Hey, Cookie, you there?”
Her voice came back stressed. “Geez, Nick! I’m off its starboard side. I can’t get close! It’s like it’s not letting me get close! Keeps pushing me back.”
Silence.
“Cookie?” My heart began thumping. “Cookie!”
“See her, Nick!” Sal broke in.
“Wave her off and pick up the trail, Sal.”
“Will do.”
Moorly’s eyes were wider than the Mississippi at flood stage. “What the hell is going on?”
“Ghost paddle wheeler. Your granddad was right.”
I threw myself from the chair and crashed into the cabin. Lit up the Buddha diesel and yelled out the pilot window, “Set me free, Stan!”
He jumped from his chair, clambered to the dock and quickly untied the bow and stern lines while I throttled in reverse out of the slip. Moorly jumped back on board.
“Ain’t leaving without me, Nick!”
I waved an okay, spun the wheel hard to port, clicked into forward and throttled up.
“We’re at the bridge, Nick!” Sal’s voice.
“Did you shoot at it yet?”
“Are you sure…”
“If it’s a ghost ship, Sal, it won’t matter! Already dead! Just make sure you aim low.”
“Gotcha.”
In the distance I could hear the bellow of a .45 revolver echoing across the river. It sounded puny at this distance, but no doubt what it was.
I pulled the Dragonfly to the mouth of the boat basin and waited, idling, adjusting our position with little clicks of the throttle, steering.
“Sal! Is it the boat with the crew or the boat without anyone on board?”
“No one on board!”
“Cookie, where are you?”
“About a quarter mile behind Sal and the ghost ship.”
“Stay back.”
“Nick, is Sal shooting at it?”
“Yes.”
“I can’t leave you guys alone for a minute!”
“Stay back and out of the line of fire, okay?”
“Don’t worry.”
I saw the glow on the water. Eerily snow white. Shimmering. Stark contrast to the blue-black sky and inky river. My pulse notched up.
“Holy tamale,” Moorly said under his breath as he unconsciously pounded the bowl of the pipe on the railing, sparks from the burning tobacco cascading into the water. “Look at that.”
As it came closer, the vapor cloud began taking form. First the general outline of a paddle wheeler then more details. The barrels, bales and windows becoming more clear even if they were still like gauze.
“It’s the Dora!” Moorly said. “By God, it’s the Dora!”
The rear paddle wheel spun quickly and evenly, the bow cutting a wake, the creaking of the deck boards increasingly clear to the ear.
It passed us at 10 or 12 knots. Gaining speed. Sal in the Smokercraft now tailing it, 20 yards back.
I gunned the throttle, which on a single-cylinder Buddha is like pulling your foot out of thick mud. I aimed ahead of the Dora bow, hoping to intersect before getting to the bar.
But the Dora continued to increase speed. I wound up some 10 yards back, between Sal and the paddle wheeler. Dragonfly could make 8 knots, so we were quickly falling behind as we hit the bar.
And then it was gone. A quick blip and sudden darkness.
My heart dropped out of my chest. Another miss. Right plan. Bad execution. Next time.
I pulled Dragonfly back to its berth, shut down the engine as Moorly tied up the little trawler.
“Well, Nick, that was exciting. The Dora. Who would have thunk it.”
“I’ve got to catch it, Stan. And I will.”
My Smokercraft pulled into the basin followed by Miss QT. Both boats hovered near the stern of Dragonfly. Sal stood behind the control panel.
“Any luck?” he yelled.
I shook my head. “What happened when you shot at it?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No puff of smoke as the bullet went through the boat. No disruption of the image whatsoever. Like it wasn’t even there.”