Chapter 10 - SHAKING TABLES


There were already half a dozen wrinklers' skiffs rafted up to Wild Bill's wrinkle car when Muk and Dunk got there, and Bill himself was on the car overseeing the shaking tables, weighing wrinks, and paying the pickers.

Periwinkles have to be culled and cleaned: sorted for size, the litter and empty shells picked out. This is done by dumping a bagful of wrinks onto a big-mesh screen set in a sliding frame, set on a table framework. The junk is picked out. Then the screen is shaken back and forth, and all but the big table wrinks fall through into a chute, which dumps into a sheetrock bucket. Those culls are then sifted on another shaking table with a smaller-mesh screen, until there are three grades of clean, sorted wrinks, and those too small to sell are dumped in the reach. The pickers clean and sort their own catch on the dealers' tables. The results are weighed and tallied. Wild Bill's operation was set up on a big float, in which sorted product could be kept submerged: a wrinkle car.

"Whatcha payin?" Muk asked Bill.

"15 - 20 - 25," Bill barked, the Marlboro between his lips bobbing up and down. "Best price in Smithport, USA."

"Yeh, well.." A murmur went round the waiting pickers.

"What, what?" Wild Bill asked. "Gripin? Who's gripin about prices? You know what they're doin to me upwest? You know how little they're paying pickahs in Bootbay?"

"Yeh, yeh.." Another picker chimed in. "We know you're just doin this out of the kindness of ya haht."

"Poooor Bill," came the chorus.

"Awright, awright awready," Bill was hitting his stride now.

Brooklyn born and bred, Wild Bill was a stocky guy with a Marine brushcut and a broken nose. He'd lit in Smithport in the late 60's with nothing but a pickup and a cocky attitude. Bought fish off the docks. Learned how to cut it. Would take a load up to Aroostick, where he'd fillet and peddle it off the tailgate. Then he'd buy potatoes there, and peddle them on the coast. He'd gone on the suicide squad with Bernie for a while, and used his earnings to buy fish. A natural wheeler-dealer, Bill hustled product until he had a fleet of trucks on the road, and connections from New Brunswick to Fulton Street. But he wasn't shy about getting his hands dirty, and he loved chaffering with the hard cases.

"You babes would be out inna woods bawling for mama, if Bill didn't take care a ya," Bill declared.

"Pass me that pacifier," someone said to Muk, and everyone laughed as the coffee brandy went round.

Dunk had been sitting in his skiff, quietly enjoying the byplay, watching an immature eagle working up a thermal over Goose Rock. Now his gaze traveled along the shoreline of West Smithport, and he unconsciously ticked off the names of the families living in the small houses, set helter skelter along the rocky outcrops. His eyes stopped at his mom's house.

"More like a prison," he thought sadly, and hardly a home for her or him or Annie these days. Especially when Buster was ashore and raging. Something tugged at his consciousness, and he looked up quickly to the wharf above. There was Annie, gesturing insistently for him to come. Dunk jumped up, heeling the skiff.

"Hold my place, willya Muk?" he asked, and leaped onto Wild Bill's ladder without waiting for an answer, going swiftly up hand over hand. As soon as he was on the wharf, Annie hugged him as hard as she could, tears streaming.

"Oh baby, what is it?" Dunk asked gently, hugging her back. But he already knew. When she finally leaned back, still holding onto his sweatshirt with both hands, he saw the big red welt on the side of her face.

"This time I'll kill him," Dunk whispered, his voice sticking in his throat, but he knew his fear was still stronger than his anger.

Oh, no, Dunk. Please, no. I couldn't lose you, too," Annie begged.

"What about Mom?" He asked.

"He didn't touch her. Came in all wild, and I was shakin so bad, I spilled his coffee," Annie told him. She was still shaking. "And he smacked me. Mom just went all blank, like she's been, and he stormed upstairs. Mebbe he took it all out on me."

"Go overbridge to Grammy Jones," Dunk told her. "I think Buster's into somethin he can't handle, and we best steer clear. Heah.." He reached into his pockets, then remembered..

"Damn, I haven't settled with Bill yet, or I'd give you some money," he said. "See if Sherman will spot you for a carton of Camels for Gram, and tell her I sent them." Annie sniffed and nodded.

"And don't tell her any more than you have to," he cautioned.

"Easy to say," she half-smiled, and they both laughed, weakly. Dunk could see she was over the worst of it.

"Jesus!" He said. "Here he comes." He'd spotted Buster quick-stepping along the shore road, headed their way.

"Quick, you dodge round the building and go along the ledges to Sherman's, and then scoot for Grams. I'll hold him here," Dunk gave her a gentle push.

"Careful," she pleaded, as she disappeared around the corner.

"Where the fuck you been boy?" Buster bellowed as he strode down the wharf. Buster's eyes were all weird, and a facial tic was quivering one side of his face. His right hand kept clenching and unclenching, and he was dancing from foot to foot.

"Pickin," Dunk answered without any inflection.

"You smartin me, numbnuts?" Buster challenged. Dunk shook his head.

"You ain't been home, your mother's worried." Dunk thought that unlikely, his mom was too far gone into her own world to notice his coming and going.

"Did the early tide. Double tides." Dunk answered quietly.

"Don't tell me what I know." Buster shouted. "Just like the fuckin loot. Lookout for the fuckin tripwire. But I'm the one in the hole." Buster was speed-rapping, looking furtively over his shoulder, and fingering the handle of the long filleting knife he always wore at his hip. Dunk look behind Buster.

" Whatasmattah, boy? What you seeing? Seeing Charlie?" He's way gone this time, Dunk thought, and the terrible sadness of it made him sigh, scared as he was.

"What say? WHAT SAY?" Buster was up in his face now. "Did you tell me to go back in that hole, loot? You know how many dead gooks is in that hole?" Dunk didn't dare speak a word, not knowing what would pop Buster's cork.

"YO DUNK." Muk's hail came up from below. "You're up."

"My turn to shake wrinks, Pa." He said. "Gotta bring Mom some money." He hoped that would work. Buster looked confused for a second, then shook his head.

"Right. DAMN right. Get your ass down there and make that money. Your Mom has to put up with enough from you little shits. Go on," Buster barked, and gave Dunk a shove. Dunk's anger flared, and he might have lashed out, but Buster had turned on his heel and was stomping back up the wharf. Dunk watched him, angry, confused, worried, and sad, all at once.

"Lock and load." Buster ordered. The eerie command came echoing back between the waterfront buildings.

"HEY DUNK," Muck shouted again.

"Comin," Dunk replied, and swung down onto the ladder.