Chapter 27 - CLOUSE

Walker and Caldwell were unaware they were under observation from the minute they appeared out of the fog in Dunk's skiff. First they sauntered to the landward end of the Co-op building, where Dunk said there was a phone. They were just finding their land legs after six days at sea, and they wobbled a bit. The four teenagers drinking in a parked car in the Co-op lot giggled at the big cowboy tottering up the wharf.

There was a payphone under a plastic canopy on the end of the building, but no phone book. Walker picked the receiver up, then dug in his back pocket and pulled out a small leathrer notebook. He thumbed through it, and dialed a number. He told the operator a number to charge it to, then waited for his party to answer.

"Yuh. Could y'all put me through to Mr. Chinetti?" Walker said.

"Walker," he went on, "thas raght." Walker tapping one boot, and its silver toe shone in the hazy light.

"Yuh.. "

"No.. uh no, Mr. Chinetti. Been a slight change a plan.. "

"No, no, we'll get it.. We got a line on it now.."

"Um.. ah.." Walker's foot was absolutely still now, and Caldwell could see his face stiffen, his grin turning to a smirk.

"Yes. Hello Mr. Mainardi."

"No, sir.."

"NO, SIR.." All trace of accent was gone now, and Caldwell could see Walker's free hand trembling.

"We'll get it. Don't worry. We'll get it," he promised in a very small voice.

"I understand." Walker hung up the phone, and rested his head against the wall of the Co-op. His face had turned chalk white.

"What was all that?" Caldwell asked, afraid he didn't want to know.

Walker took a deep breath. "Hacky, that was the worst kind of news. Chinetti knows someone else has the barrel, and they're trying to sell it back."

"What about us?" Caldewell asked.

"That's just it. The mob boss who runs Chinetti was there in person. He told me we better come up with the goods, or we're dead meat. If they have to get it back themselves, our deal is off. He said we should just kiss our asses goodbye."

"All of us?" Walker shook his head yes. Now Caldwell blanched.

Seeing this Walker chuckled. "Don't you look lahk a sick puppy?" Walker's accent was coming back. "We jes gotta go fine Mistah Dawgh and git back our merchandize."

One of the teens threw a Bud bottle out the car window, and Walker turned quickly when it clanked on the gravel.

"Just kids," Caldwell said, but Walker was already walking toward the car, a beatup white Dodge Dart.

Walker went up to the driver's open window, and stood beside it, hipshot, with his arms folded."Howdee," he said. "Y'all know how we cud fine Sumnah Dow?" The two girls in the car giggled at his accent.

"Yessuh, we shoah do," answered the big teen in the driver's seat. "Ol Summy Dow live right out the end ah town.. right whayah the rud turn nowth." The girls giggled again. The boy was putting on his best Maineish for the Fromaways.

"Can you get there by water?" Calwell asked.

"Not'n this baby," the driver answered, and all four kids had a laugh. The girl in the back said, "He lives just above Sawyer's Landing, mister, you could take a boat there."

The boy alongside her gave her arm a sharp jab with his fist. "Ow," she complained. "You needn't be so mean, they're askin nice."

"Y'all have any boats f' hyah?" Walker drawled.

"Jeez, Mistah, nobdy in that business round heyah," the driver answered.

"What about the pickle wagons?" the boy in the back asked.

"What'r they," Caldwell asked, expecting another smart remark.

"O, summa th' dealahs let pickers use their buts and take it out of their catch," the driver said.

"You mean periwinkle pickers?" Caldwell translated.

"Yeh. Th' wrinkle byahs sometime hava spayah but," the driver admitted.

"Don Clouse's got 'is Whalah upta th' cove," the boy in the back volunteered.

"Is it far to walk.. to this Don Clouse's?" Caldwell asked.

"Bouda mile, plus ah minus a cunt hayah," the driver said, and the girl next to him clacked her tongue and touched her cigarette to his arm. He tried to swack her with a backhand, but she was out the passenger side door, spilling beer out of her can, before he could get her. This precipitated a general row, but the teens were too lubricated to do each other much harm. The two yachtsmen made a wide circle around the hoorah, and started east down Main Street, looking for a Don Clouse.

Eyes followed them the full length of town. "A gent and a cowboy headed your way," the phone messages relayed. Walker and Caldwell would have gotten even more attention, if it wasn't the day before the Fourth, when so many strangers flocked to town you couldn't keep track of all their doings. Most Smithporters figured these were a couple of early holidaymakers. Fromaways who didn't know any better than to walk, or who came off a yacht. Caldwell's deck shoes pretty much pinned it. Rich sailors ashore.

It took them a few tries to find Clouse. He didn't have any signs up, but Bud at the True Value directed them down a side street to a private dock sticking out into a sheltered cove. Sure enough, there was a mound of full winkle bags in the shade of the nearest house, and a beatup blue and white Whaler laced up to a car just off the dock. It was a 16-footer with a 45 horse Mercury on the stern.

"Yo? Anybody home?" Caldwell sung out, rapping on the back door of the house.

"Cummin.. cummin," a gruff voice answered from inside. Then a towseled-hair man push out through the screen door, squinting at the sunlight. He had a week's growth of scraggly blond beard, and looked like an old surfer on a six day bender. He didn't smell so good either.

"Mr. Clouse?" Caldwell asked. The man looked him up and down, and at Walker. "Well.. you don't look like John Law, or IRS.. so mebbe I might be. Who wants to know?"

"This is Walker, and I'm Caldwell, and we heard you might have a boat for rent."

Clouse digested this slowly. "Might." He answered. "You wannit to watch th' races?"

Walker answered. "Yessuh. We heeyah y'all have the ripsnortenest races this side ah th' big muddeh." Clouse grinned, revealing a perfect set of yellow teeth.

"Acourse I'd be losin business from the pickah usin it," he haggled. "You wannit today, or tomorrah, or what?"

"We would want to pay you enough to cover any losses. Would $100 for the next three days be enough?" Caldwell proposed/

"Well.. I doane know. Big tides. Pickah might bring in 6-700 pound ah product."

"Ah'll see yoah hunnerd, Caldwell, an raise yuh a nuthah hunnerd. That soun OK, Mr. Clouse?" Walker interjected.

"You buy the gas?" Clouse bargained.

"We buy gas," said Caldwell. And the deal was sealed. Bills changed hands, the two gas jugs in the whaler were filled up with mix, and Clouse managed to find two spare plastic containers which were filled and put aboard.

"That'll give ya mebbe 8 hours range," Clouse reported. "You gonna find y'way roun in this?" he gestured at the fog.

"Mah fren heyah could fine his way outah th' devil's back pawket afta the worms et his eyes," Walker assured him. Caldwell shivered at the phrase. Walker sure had some dark corners if you went poking around.

"Could you give us directions to Sawyer's Landing?" Caldwell queried as they were about to cast off.

"Showah. It's the last dock headed east. Kain't miss it. Ol man Sawyer built a privy on the end of it, and run powah to a light ovah th' doah," Clouse directed.

"Thank y'all," Walker said as they pushed off from the float.

"Enjoy th' races, boys," Clouse said, as they idled into the fog.