worry,’ the deckhand said. ‘The fish-finder’s showing all kinds of fish down there. We just gotta figure out what they’re hittin’ on.’ Before Mahoney could complain further, the deckhand said, ‘Would you like another beer?’
As Mahoney waited impatiently to catch a fish, DeMarco briefed him on what he and Emma had learned in Bremerton. Mahoney’s only response had been a disinterested shrug and the comment: ‘The whole thing sounds pretty chickenshit to me.’
Five minutes later a salmon hit and the dialogue between Mahoney and the deckhand went something like this:
Mahoney: ‘Holy shit! I got the bastard.’
Deckhand: ‘Keep your tip up. Keep the tip up!’
Mahoney: ‘Son of a bitch! It’s a big one. Son of a bitch!’
Deckhand: ‘Loosen your drag. Loosen your drag! You’re gonna lose him.’
Mahoney: ‘Aw, fuck! Did I lose him? Did I lose him?’
Deckhand: ‘No, he’s running toward us. Reel, reel! Reel faster!’
Mahoney fought the fish for twenty minutes. His face turned an unhealthy shade of purple as he reeled, and DeMarco could see the tendons popping out on his big freckled forearms. He finally got the fish up to the side of the boat. It was big and still had a lot of fight left in it. Mahoney was so excited that he was cursing incoherently at this point, and just as the deckhand was netting the fish, he gave a jerk on the line – and the fish came off the hook. Fortunately, the deckhand was good and already had the net under the fish. As the hook popped out of the salmon’s mouth, the deckhand swung the net upward, enveloping the fish in nylon mesh. The salmon hit the deck of the boat with a wet flop and thrashed around until the deckhand smacked it several times with a billy club – splattering blood all over DeMarco’s khaki pants.
A really ugly ending to the life of a beautiful fish, DeMarco thought.
‘I got him!’ Mahoney screamed, two arms in the air like he’d just scored a touchdown.
The deckhand looked over at Mahoney like he wanted to kill him. He had almost gone overboard netting the fish, and the way he was holding his back it looked as if he’d strained something getting the salmon into the boat.
While Mahoney celebrated his victory with his fifth beer of the day – it was ten a.m. – DeMarco watched the deckhand weigh the fish. The scale read forty-two pounds.
‘Fifty-two pounds!’ the deckhand called out to Mahoney and winked at DeMarco.
Alex asked Mahoney if he’d like to catch another one.
‘Nah,’ Mahoney said. ‘One’s enough.’
Now this surprised DeMarco. Mahoney, he always figured, came from the same stock as those who had almost made the buffalo extinct.
‘What about you, Mr DeMarco?’ Alex said. ‘Would you like to catch one?’ DeMarco figured Alex wasn’t being nice, he just wanted to spend more time bending Mahoney’s ear. And since DeMarco’s pants were already a mess, why not?
‘Sure,’ DeMarco said at the same time Mahoney said, ‘We don’t have time. I gotta plane to catch. I’m meetin’ with the president tonight.’
Even the rich guy seemed impressed by that.
On the way back to the marina, Mahoney and Alex sat in the cabin, Alex looking serious as they talked. Mahoney kept nodding his head, an equally serious expression on his face. Alex didn’t know it, but Mahoney wasn’t listening to a word he said. Mahoney had the ability to pretend to be intently engaged in a conversation with a potential contributor while his mind played back the fish – or the woman – he’d just landed.
Mahoney made arrangements with the deckhand to ship his fifty-five pound salmon back to D.C. The fish had miraculously gained three pounds in the last hour; God knows what size it would be by the time Mahoney reached the East Coast. As DeMarco was driving Mahoney to the airport, DeMarco’s cell phone rang again. He wondered if it was Dave Whitfield calling back. It wasn’t, it was Emma.
‘Joe,’ she said, ‘Dave Whitfield’s been killed.’
‘Oh, Christ,’ DeMarco said.
‘What?’ Mahoney said, hearing DeMarco’s tone of voice.
‘He had a four-year-old son, Joe,’ Emma said.
DeMarco said good-bye to Emma and turned to tell Mahoney the news but at that moment Mahoney’s cell phone rang. It was the Secretary of the Navy, Frank Hathaway.
‘Sir,’ the marine said, ‘I need to check that bag.’
Norton couldn’t believe it. Tonight, of all nights. They didn’t usually check things going out the gates, and if he had left at the same time all the other day-shift workers had, they never would have stopped him. But he was going out late because of what Carmody had told him to do – and because of what had happened today – and now the damn marine at the gate, a nineteen-year-old kid bored out of his skull, had decided to fuck with him.
‘Uh, yeah sure,’ Norton said. There was no point arguing with the marine; you can’t argue with marines. He put his backpack on the little table near the gate and unconsciously hitched up his pants. When he realized what he was doing, he stopped immediately. He had to get a grip on himself.
‘Would you please open the bag, sir,’ the marine said.
Norton opened the backpack and the marine peered inside. Inside the backpack was a paperback book, a pair of sunglasses, a brown bag containing the remains of Norton’s lunch, and a chessboard. The marine removed the lunch bag from the backpack, peered inside, then set it aside. Then he reached for the chessboard.
Oh please, God, Norton thought.
The marine hefted the chessboard in his hand. ‘This thing’s pretty heavy,’ he said. ‘What’s it made out of?’
Before Norton could answer, a voice behind him said, ‘You search that bastard good, Corporal. He works for me and I want to make sure he’s not stealing me blind.’
Carmody placed a big hand on the back of Norton’s neck and gave it a squeeze like he was being friendly. The squeeze wasn’t friendly.
To the marine, Carmody said, ‘In fact, you oughta put on some gloves, son, and probe this boy’s orifices. The only problem is, he might enjoy it.’
The young marine smiled – he couldn’t stop himself – then quickly rearranged his face back into a serious expression.
‘Sir,’ he said to Carmody, ‘if you could please step …’
Carmody glanced at the marine’s name tag. ‘Heesacker,’ he said. ‘Did you have an older brother, flew choppers in Iraq in ’92?’
‘Uh, no, sir,’ the marine said.
‘Well,
