Undercurrent (eBook)

4

Paul started off early and clocked ten hours of driving before he pulled into a fleabag motel along the freeway to catch some sleep. He figured if he got an early start the next day, he could be in Little Bay Harbor before noon the following day. He made good time on the 5. There it was, exit 139, Little Bay Harbor: Population 8,800. If he had blinked, he might have missed it. He followed a two-lane road for a couple of miles. He stopped and pulled over, mud and gravel crunching up the sides of his new Rubicon. The pavement princess was about to get real dirty. He’d made the mistake of giving Red his phone number, and she took advantage of it. She was droning on about whether or not she should leave Harris Ranch. He’d never met a woman who could make up her mind. That might explain why he was single. She went back and forth, but all that was required of Paul was an occasional “yeah.” He could do that. It was good exercise for his patience muscle.

He peered out the window across the water. Hugging the shoreline was Little Bay Harbor. Paul sat and took it in for a few minutes. Malibu it was not. Ten or so blocks of this and that fighting for real estate on a waterfront that had seen better days. Houses were scattered on the low hills surrounding the harbor. He crested a verdant hillside covered with evergreens and birch trees that whispered in the soft wind and made his way down a steep, winding road into town.

When he reached what looked like the center of the town, he decided to park and get a sense of this place Jack called home. Paul had a vision of it in his head, like the ones you get when you read a really good book. While they were in theater, Jack occupied much of their patrol time describing the place, its smells, and its taste. Jack’s family had been in the boat repair business for three generations. The harbor, settled by the Croats in the mid-1800s, was home to a fleet of fishing boats going way back to the mosquito fleet. There were trawlers everywhere, some in dry dock and some at a pier, getting ready for their early spring pilgrimage to Alaska to bring back king salmon, halibut, and ling cod. Kayakers and a few small boats darted among a few pretty impressive motor yachts. A church steeple announced the eleven o’clock hour. Paul stood there, taking it all in. A seagull settled in on the railing and eyed him with curiosity. Probably didn’t recognize him.

There was a brew pub every few hundred feet or so. These folks must like their microbrews, Paul thought. He grabbed some fish and chips at a waterside food trolley and sat down at a picnic table on an overlook landing to enjoy the lazy quiet of this place.

Checking his phone, he saw he was within walking distance of 10 Water Street. He still found it amazing that you could track down just about anyone with a quick internet search. The town was historic. Signs proudly displayed the pedigree of some of the weather-beaten clapboard houses. He walked around the natural curve of the harbor. Hungry seagulls were closely following a trawler that Paul suspected had made an early morning haul. He shielded his face from the winds that rushed down the narrow street. He was unprepared for the sudden onslaught of rain and resigned himself to getting wet.

He reached a small enclave of local businesses that included a health food store, a kayak rental shop, a bakery, and a small grocery store that had seen better days. His phone said he had arrived, but there were no house numbers on any doors. He stood in front of a door that marked the entrance to a small shop. The door was warped and crooked in its frame, with sections of wood rot that someone had tried to disguise with fresh paint. An old street sign in front showed the place as Mama Franco’s bakery, with a picture of a three-tiered pink and white wedding cake painted on the upper pane. A bird had put some icing on the cake. A sign swung in the shop window: Closed on Mondays. Now serving chowder. Made fresh on the premises every day. He looked up. Painted on the top glass of the door was a faded address: 10 Water Street.

He tried the handle with no luck. He leaned into the door, guessing that given its sad condition, it might be stuck. He gave up and knocked on the door. The frosted glass was covered with a thin film of dirt. He heard footsteps, and from their tread, he decided that inside the door to the left was probably a long flight of wooden stairs. He smiled to himself. The things he learned as a forward observer. A young woman opened the door. She was obviously annoyed by the interruption.

Paul summoned a smile. “Is this 10 Water Street?”

She eyed him with curiosity. “It is, and we are closed.” She pointed to the sign on the door: Hours: 0700–12 PM. “Besides, we’re out of everything. Usually sell out by eleven. Come back tomorrow—early—especially if you want the cannoli.” She was about to close the door but hesitated.

Paul grabbed his point of entry. He hadn’t come this far to have a door slammed in his face. “I’m looking for Jack Franco and I . . .” Paul figured that the bakery sign was a dead giveaway that some Franco was in the vicinity. He didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence.

She nodded to the left. “You’ll find him there—where you’ll always find him at this time of the day. In the netshed.” She pointed to the back. “I haven’t seen you before. You a friend of Jack’s?”

“Army buddy,” Paul said.

She put her hand on her hip. “What’s your name, army buddy?”

Paul introduced himself.

“Well, Paul Bannon, he may not recognize you right off the bat. Depends on how much he’s had to drink. He’s been down there since nine.”

Paul checked his watch. “It’s just noon.”

“Yeah,” she replied, studying her red nails. “I’d guess he’s wrapping up the third growler about now.” She pointed to a set of warped hinged doors on the outside left of the bakery. “Use the tunnel inside those doors. Otherwise, you have to go around the alley. You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

Paul frowned. “Do I look like I’m afraid of the dark?”

She stared at him for a long moment. “There’s water rats in there. They won’t bother you. They prefer fish.”

Paul hardly heard a word she said. He found himself apologizing as he asked her who she was. She introduced herself. She was Jack’s wife. Paul was surprised. Jack had never mentioned a wife. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Franco.”

That got her attention. “You can call me Swan, Sergeant. And, for the record, I go by my maiden name, Day.”

Swan Day. Paul ran that through his head. She had a long, graceful neck, like a swan. The name made sense. With a name like that, why go by Franco? He caught himself apologizing again—for no reason. “I didn’t know Jack had a wife.”

Paul caught the door before it shut in his face. “It’s Lieutenant, not Sergeant.” He’d evened the score. He smiled and headed toward the rat-infested tunnel.

Paul pulled the rusty lock from the right door, pushed both doors open, and entered the tunnel. The walls were zigzagged with scars. The ceiling was curved like a culvert. He barely cleared the overhead. There were occasional ceiling bulbs that flickered on and off. Moss and sludge covered the walls, and the oozing sores that slowly dripped clear water gave the place a permanent dampness.

The tunnel ended in the back of a small, open building with two sides and a high, pitched roof. It had a narrow platform on each side and along the back, where he stepped out. A small boat rested in the water between the two platforms. There was Jack, drinking a can of Rainier beer. On his left side was a half-empty pint-size bottle labeled Fireball. Paul figured he must have finished the growlers.

“A little early, don’t you think?” Paul asked.

Jack didn’t even look up. His gaze was fixed on the water in front of him. Sparkles of sunlight danced on the water’s surface. “It’s five o’clock somewhere. Isn’t that what they say?”

“They may say that, buddy,” Paul replied as he checked his phone, “but here it’s twelve hundred.”

Jack jumped up, almost losing his balance. He looked at Paul as if a ghost had appeared. He walked unsteadily along the platform and wrapped his arms around Paul, just like he used to when they finished a patrol and none of their guys got killed. On the drive up, Paul had prepared for this moment. He had decided that he didn’t want to fill the air with his life. He needed to know about Jack. A few beers later, Paul began to get a sense of it all.

Jack definitely had a serious drinking problem. He hated his life and confessed that he occasionally dreamed about re-enlisting. He was trapped here by a family obligation to continue in his father’s footsteps. His mother reminded him of that on a regular basis. Be a waterman. Keep the small fleet of boats he leased to those who loved the water life up and running and promise to never leave home again. Take care of your family. That’s what your father would want. But Jack wanted to be anywhere but here. He didn’t like this town. He didn’t like the water. If he had, he told Paul, he’d have joined the navy, not the army. He confessed that he could hardly keep himself afloat. He blamed the cold air for his chronic cough and the nagging pain in his left leg—the leg that he almost lost in a firefight that one night on patrol. He’d married Swan two days before he deployed. She had insisted, and Jack figured they’d work it all out when he got back. When he got home from the...