one, at that. How do you say ‘hungry’ in German?”
“Das donut.”
“Ya. Ist gut.”
CHAPTER TWO
One thing led to another and we never got to Forte’s office. Three uneventful days passed. Cycles of light rain came and went. Overflowing gutters had to be cleared. A sump pump in the toy shed digested a bearing and needed to be replaced. The radiator in the MG had been leaking for a few months and this was as good a time as any to pull and repair it.
Saturday afternoon. The wood stove crackled, radiating waves of heat into the den which had once been a third bedroom vacated by my second oldest son when he decided to take a swing at working in Portland. Sal was nestled down deep in a lounge chair, me in another. Staring at the fire through the glass window in the stove door.
Our respective side tables were littered with Dos Equis bottles, candy bar wrappers and those lunch-box sized bags of Doritos. Even though it was barely 3 p.m., a sudden storm darkened the sky to pewter, pelting the house with ice pebbles and shoving the outside temperature down to 40 degrees.
Sal yawned, eyes half closed, “Housing market is gonna come back this year.”
“Doubt it. Lots of existing homes still in inventory.”
Sal nodded, “Yeah, but many are unsellable. Rodent and bug infestations. Stripped of anything that can be resold as scrap.”
“Scrap prices are coming back.”
“Southeast Asia and China are gobbling up natural resources…”
“Putting price pressure on scrap,” I finished.
“Yup.”
“Do you think we really saw a ghost ship?”
“Nick, I was there. You were there. We have photos. Of course we did.”
“Why two, though? I mean, the legend says there was only one. The Pismo Bay.”
“But we couldn’t see the names on either of ours.”
“And they looked different.”
Sal scratched his beard, scrunched down further in his lounge. “One was like we were looking at it through a piece of gauze. The other looked like it was made of water vapor or smoke. Why would they be different?”
My cell phone buzzed.
“Drago.”
“Hey Nick. Forte. What are you guys up to?”
“Not much.”
“Mind if I join you?”
“Beer’s in the fridge. Bring a pizza.”
“Be there in half an hour.”
I flipped the cell phone closed. “Forte’s coming over.”
“Think he misses us.”
“That’s because we’re loveable.”
“Loveable.”
“Non-threatening.”
“Not a threatening bone in our bodies.”
“Just a pair of oversized teddy bears.”
“You calling me fat?” Sal growled.
“I would never entertain the thought.”
“I’m just big boned.”
“Biggest bones I’ve ever known.”
“Screw you, Drago.”
I chuckled. “Back to the ghost ships. What should we do about them?”
Sal moved his eyeballs in my direction. His head stayed straight ahead. “Call Ghostbusters?”
“Funny. Now really. What do we do? We’ve heard these rumors since we were in high school. Maybe before. Do we just say we’ve seen them, or it, and go happily on our way or do we try to capture one or both?”
“Capture a ghost ship.”
“Well, maybe not capture. Maybe get close enough to touch it. Or something. Not sure.”
“Nick, did you see the way that Captain looked at us?”
“The one on the second sternwheeler, sure. Scary dude.”
“No eyeballs, Nick. No freakin’ eyeballs. Why would you want to touch that guy?”
Good question. No answer.
I tipped my head back and let the first thought that came to me come out of my mouth. “How many fuel filters are there in a Corvette?”
“What?”
“You heard me. How many?”
Sal mulled it over. “Two.”
“One.”
“No, Nick. Two. Between the fuel tank and the fuel pump and another between the fuel pump and the fuel injection.”
“You’re wrong. One. Fuel tank and pump.”
I could hear the front door open and smell the pizza. Forte walked into the den.
“Gents.” He dropped the pizza box on the foot stool along with a roll of paper towels. He ambled out of the room, returned a minute later with three Dos Equis, tops already twisted off and passed one to me and Sal.
Pulling up a third lounge chair, he fell into it as if he had just finished a ten-mile foot race.
“Chief, settle a bet,” I said.
“There was no bet,” Sal responded.
“How many fuel filters in a Corvette?”
Forte looked at both of us, grabbed a piece of pizza, took a fist-sized bite, groaned.
“Who the hell gives a rat’s patute?”
“He has a point,” Sal said through bites of pizza.
We sat in silence for the next few minutes devouring the first slices and starting on seconds. I went to my desk and returned with the two photos of the ghost ships, dropping them in Forte’s lap before retaking my chair.
Forte looked at the two pictures. “Why didn’t you clean the camera lens first? What are these?”
“Ghost paddle wheelers.”
“Oh, Christ, are we gonna go through that again?” Thumbing the prints,
