Drago #3. Art Spinella
so I could use the Dragonfly and tail the ghost ship into the ocean.
When I brought the trawler to Bandon, I’d sold it to one of the local commercial fishermen, Stan Moorly who converted it back to part of the salmon fleet. I’d attempted many times to repurchase it from him, but his refusal was always the same: “Greatest little boat I’ve ever owned. Floats like a cork in any sea. Knows its way home even in a monsoon.”
I’d given a great deal of thought to replacing Dragonfly with the 60-foot Marie Ann Gail, a trawler built in 1912, abandoned in the Bandon harbor and eventually sold for scrap.
It arrived in Bandon in 2004, a Noti, Oregon couple buying it to revamp into a pleasure cruiser. And it would have been quite the boat. Its classic trawler lines shouted Northwest boatbuilding craftsmanship. The curved pilot house windshield a display of the hearty men who sailed the Pacific in the early 1900s. A flying bridge of roomy proportions. And at 51 tons, a stable boat that could take much of what the North Pacific handed out.
Dragonfly now was moored where Marie Ann Gail once docked, at the end of the first of two piers, protected from tidal surges. Moorly sat on the rear deck, feet on the port gunnel, eyes closed.
Being this close to Dragonfly made my heart flutter. We’d had some good times over the years.
“Permission to come aboard, captain,” I called from the dock.
Moorly never opened his eyes, just waved his arm and pointed to a vacant deck chair.
“What’s 12,000 times $8.40?” he asked, eyes still closed.
“One hundred thousand, eight hundred dollars. Why?”
“That’s my take this past season. Minus fuel, payin’ a deck hand, maintenance, insurance, government fees, I was left with about $22,000.” He tipped his head back, opened one eye and looked at me. “Can I get food stamps making that little?”
“Probably.”
“Now, if I didn’t work at all, never took the boat out, collected some sort of welfare, could I get food stamps?”
“Probably.”
“Without being in the ocean. Without worryin’ about catching enough dang fish to make the payments. Without bein’ nearly killed by those stinkin’ storms or sunk by some dang sneaker wave or crossing the bar just at the wrong time.”
“True enough, Stan.”
“Then, tell me, dang it, why the hell do I do it?”
“Because you’re a snarly old coot who thinks he should earn what he gets. Besides, the ocean’s in your blood. You’re like that guy in the movie Jaws. You’d die of boredom if you weren’t fishing. You love it, man, and you know it.”
Moorly smiled, showing off a gap where a canine tooth once was. Both eyes opened, he pushed himself upright in his chair.
“Damn right, Nick.” He stood, “Want a beer?”
“Yup.”
He clattered his way across the deck, into the pilot house and returned with two cans of Miller. I popped the top and took a long swallow.
“Need to borrow Dragonfly for a couple of days. Don’t know when it will be, but sometime in the next couple of weeks.”
“$200 a day plus fuel.”
“Dinner at the Bandon restaurant of your choice and fuel.”
“$100 a day plus fuel and dinner. That fancy place, Lord Bennett’s.”
“Deal.”
He grinned. “Always like doin’ business with you, Nick.”
We gabbed a bit longer, I left.
It felt good sitting on the rear deck of Dragonfly, even surrounded by the litter only a fisherman can accumulate. Through the smell of mackerel and cod and snapper was the old hummus odor of the varnish and freshly cut lumber used to build the topside those years ago.
Moorly had kept the interior tidy and whole, just the way I’d sold it to him and for that I was grateful. The teak glowed reddish-brown and the mahogany had been treated to repeated coats of varnish. Not the crystal clear mirror of the Hatteras – fishermen don’t use varnish to make something pretty, just to protect it – but warm and worn like a pair of favorite jeans.
When I pulled into Willow Weep’s drive, the hulking figure of Sal muscled through the woods from his property.
“Sal, your radar is still working.”
“It’s nearly 3. Time for a brew. You never miss your 3-oclock brew.”
We moved to the living room, Dos Equis in hand, and fell into our respective favorite chairs.
“Went to see Moorly,” I started.
“Gonna use Dragonfly for that plan of yours?”
“Will do.”
I explained what I had in mind; the three boats at different points of the river; my following the ghost paddle wheeler into the Pacific.
Sal grunted. “You remind me of the dog that chases cars. What are you gonna do with it when you catch it?”
“Don’t know. All I want to do is say I touched it.”
The big man grunted.
My cell phone buzzed.
“Drago.”
“Hey, Nick. Did Sal get anywhere with the VAP initials?”
I punched the speakerphone nub. “Ask him.”
Forte did.
“Actually, yes, Chief. Just about 20 minutes ago. Didn’t call you until I saw Nicholas…”
“Don’t start…” I interrupted.
“Vector Atlas Partners was on your task force list, but not considered a viable suspect.”
Forte sighed. “That’s a relief. I knew I didn’t remember the name. What are they?”
“Ran a web search. Not much to say about them. No web site of their own, interestingly enough. Guess they don’t think they need one, which is suspicious in and of itself,” Sal explained. “Third party and Wikipedia have them listed as a rental operation. Boats, cars, aircraft, anything that has a luxury bent. Kind of like an Avis on steroids with an English butler.”
“So what’s the story with the weapons, then?”
My turn. “The chances are pretty good that they don’t own any of the stuff they rent. Probably a service that puts renters with people who want to get a little cash for their luxury toys when they’re sitting idle.”
I pulled a long draught from the beer bottle. “Someone forgot to unload the gun cabinet? Maybe they didn’t figure anyone would find the weapons. Who knows?”
I filled Forte in on my conversation with Moorly and my plan to track down the ghost paddle wheeler sometime soon. He provided a disapproving grunt and clicked off. Guess they don’t have ghosts in Los Angeles.
“Wait til you see what Tatiana sent me,” Sal finally said between sips of Dos Equis.
“You gonna show me now or do I have to wait?”
“Now’s good. Get a couple more beers. Mine’s almost empty.”
I did.
We crashed through the path to Sal’s house and came out of the woods onto his back lawn. Unlike mine, his is actually grass. Clipped, watered when needed, mowed in two directions and a blue-green blanket undulating with the topography. Trees surrounding the lawn are trimmed, nary a dead branch to be found.
“I hate this place,” I said with a bit of envy. “It belongs in Beverly Hills. It’s too neat.”