Breacher (Tom Keeler Book 2) by Jack Lively (reading well TXT) 📕

The Sea Foam was one of the old ones. Fifty-eight feet long and painted in blue and white. I found Captain Joe Guilfoyle in the galley, drinking a Seven-Up through the hole in his beard. He was reading a book and looked up when I came in.

Guilfoyle said, “I thought I’d never see you again.”

I said, “I was hoping for the same. But here we are.”

“Yes, here you are standing in front of me. You must have missed the cooking.”

“Don’t remember you cooking.”

“Well that’s true enough. Didn’t say my cooking, just said the cooking.”

I said, “People cook all over. It’s a common occurrence. I had a burger for lunch, someone cooked it.”

“Fair enough. The salient fact is that it wasn’t me.”

I sat down across from Guilfoyle and leaned back. “Does the name Lawrence mean anything to you?”

He said, “The long version of the diminutive Larry. Usually Lawrence comes first, and then someone whittles it down to Larry.”

I said, “Lawrence as a last name, as in Mister Lawrence.”

“Means nothing to me.” He put the paperback face-down on the galley table. I could see a man on a horse with a gun, upside down. “Thought you’d lost interest in Alaska. Thought there was a girl in Seattle with a plan.”

I said, “Yeah, there was and there is. But something came up.”

“Mister Lawrence.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

Guilfoyle shook his head. “Haven’t heard of a Mister Lawrence. There’s a guy called Larry works at the fuel dock. Not sure anyone ever called him mister—or Lawrence, for that matter.”

I knew Larry. He was the guy who pumped diesel into the boats. I said, “Not Larry from the fuel dock.”

Guilfoyle said. “Didn’t think it was. Is this Mister Lawrence supposed to be from Port Morris?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Why don’t you ask June? If anyone knows, it’s June.”

I said, “You planning on using the bike?”

“I’m not. Help yourself.”

“Appreciate it.”

Guilfoyle said, “You’re welcome to stay aboard as long as the boat’s here, but I’m thinking of taking her down to Seattle day after tomorrow. If you’re done with Mister Lawrence by then, you can drive her down with me.”

Guilfoyle went back to his paperback and soda. I went down the ladder and stashed my backpack on the bunk I’d vacated only a few hours earlier. The berth was just rear of the engine room and had the oily smell of diesel. I came up on deck and removed the mountain bike tied down with bungee cords behind the smokestack.

By the time the rubber hit the road it was late afternoon. The bike’s fat tires hummed against the blacktop. There were no other vehicles in sight so I had it all to myself. To my left, the rainforest. To my right, the Pacific Ocean. Eagle Cove down to Port Morris is a twenty-minute ride if you’re going easy. During the season, the boats docked up at the cannery every couple of days. I would take the bike into town and get dinner. Guilfoyle hadn’t worked the galley, that had been another guy, and that guy hadn’t been a cook either.

When I got into town I biked along the port to the SEAS office, Southeast Alaska Seiners Association. The building was an unglamorous two-story walk-up on the edge of the long dock in front of town. It was part of a messy cluster serving administrative functions to the maritime activity that made the existence of Port Morris possible. That included the cruise ship and charter offices. The big boat loomed on the other side of the buildings, omnipresent for the past few days.

June was at her desk, as usual. But she wasn’t alone when I looked in. There was a man leaned against the filing cabinet holding a wrapped gift. They both looked at me when I put my head around the door.

I said, “Cappuccino from the New York Cafe?”

She said, “I ever say no?”

“No.”

“Never going to change, Keeler. Even when you’re done and gone, which I thought was yesterday.”

I said nothing and let the door swing shut.

Twenty minutes later I was sitting across from June and the guy was gone. His gift was in front of June, unopened. June poured sugar from two paper packets into her coffee cup. I watched her stirring the beige liquid with two nub-nosed plastic sticks. I sipped my coffee, black no sugar.

I said, “What is it, your birthday?”

She looked up from the coffee business and made a face. “Freaking Steve. He forgot my birthday is tomorrow, not today.” She touched the gift. “I don’t mind, it’s the thought that counts.”

June was planted in her chair. Part of my job on the boat had been to bring the catch reports to June each week for the past four months. I’d never seen her out of that chair. I asked her about Mister Lawrence.

She said, “Mister Lawrence. Sure. Everyone knows who he is.”

“Everyone except me.”

“I meant everyone who actually lives here. No offense, but you guys from outside don’t count. What do you need to know about Mister Lawrence?”

“Start at the beginning.”

June’s fleshy arms were laid out on either side of her keyboard. She was looking at me through thick glasses. On the other side of them were watery blue eyes, magnified in the frames. Her hair was lank and brown. Strands of it were stuck to her forehead. She said, “Mister Lawrence owns the property up past the old fire tower. Some kind of business person, I guess. Other than that, he’s a big contributor to the town. Paid for the library refurb', plus the new police car upgrades. Donates to us at SEAS.”

“The town rich guy.”

She nodded. “There are a couple, but yup.”

I said, “Made his money in fish or something?”

June said, “No idea. He might be First Nations. Maybe he was here back when the tribes incorporated. So, it might be something like that, but you wouldn’t know it to look at him.”

“What does he look like?”

She stared up at the ceiling for a moment. “I’d say, he looks like a frog.”

“A frog.”

“Yup.