Drago #3. Art Spinella

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СКАЧАТЬ eyes were wider than the Mississippi at flood stage. “What the hell is going on?”

      “Ghost paddle wheeler. Your granddad was right.”

      I threw myself from the chair and crashed into the cabin. Lit up the Buddha diesel and yelled out the pilot window, “Set me free, Stan!”

      He jumped from his chair, clambered to the dock and quickly untied the bow and stern lines while I throttled in reverse out of the slip. Moorly jumped back on board.

       “Ain’t leaving without me, Nick!”

      I waved an okay, spun the wheel hard to port, clicked into forward and throttled up.

      “We’re at the bridge, Nick!” Sal’s voice.

      “Did you shoot at it yet?”

      “Are you sure…”

      “If it’s a ghost ship, Sal, it won’t matter! Already dead! Just make sure you aim low.”

      “Gotcha.”

      In the distance I could hear the bellow of a .45 revolver echoing across the river. It sounded puny at this distance, but no doubt what it was.

      I pulled the Dragonfly to the mouth of the boat basin and waited, idling, adjusting our position with little clicks of the throttle, steering.

      “Sal! Is it the boat with the crew or the boat without anyone on board?”

      “No one on board!”

      “Cookie, where are you?”

      “About a quarter mile behind Sal and the ghost ship.”

      “Stay back.”

      “Nick, is Sal shooting at it?”

      “Yes.”

      “I can’t leave you guys alone for a minute!”

      “Stay back and out of the line of fire, okay?”

      “Don’t worry.”

      I saw the glow on the water. Eerily snow white. Shimmering. Stark contrast to the blue-black sky and inky river. My pulse notched up.

      “Holy tamale,” Moorly said under his breath as he unconsciously pounded the bowl of the pipe on the railing, sparks from the burning tobacco cascading into the water. “Look at that.”

      As it came closer, the vapor cloud began taking form. First the general outline of a paddle wheeler then more details. The barrels, bales and windows becoming more clear even if they were still like gauze.

      “It’s the Dora!” Moorly said. “By God, it’s the Dora!”

      The rear paddle wheel spun quickly and evenly, the bow cutting a wake, the creaking of the deck boards increasingly clear to the ear.

      It passed us at 10 or 12 knots. Gaining speed. Sal in the Smokercraft now tailing it, 20 yards back.

      I gunned the throttle, which on a single-cylinder Buddha is like pulling your foot out of thick mud. I aimed ahead of the Dora bow, hoping to intersect before getting to the bar.

      But the Dora continued to increase speed. I wound up some 10 yards back, between Sal and the paddle wheeler. Dragonfly could make 8 knots, so we were quickly falling behind as we hit the bar.

      And then it was gone. A quick blip and sudden darkness.

      My heart dropped out of my chest. Another miss. Right plan. Bad execution. Next time.

      I pulled Dragonfly back to its berth, shut down the engine as Moorly tied up the little trawler.

      “Well, Nick, that was exciting. The Dora. Who would have thunk it.”

      “I’ve got to catch it, Stan. And I will.”

      My Smokercraft pulled into the basin followed by Miss QT. Both boats hovered near the stern of Dragonfly. Sal stood behind the control panel.

      “Any luck?” he yelled.

      I shook my head. “What happened when you shot at it?”

      “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No puff of smoke as the bullet went through the boat. No disruption of the image whatsoever. Like it wasn’t even there.”

      “Damn.”

      “But I got some infrared photos of it.”

      “Good thinking, Sallie.”

      Cookie added, “I need some scrambled eggs and sausage.”

      ________________________________________________

      We invited Moorly to join us, which he did gladly. Seeing the Dora had more than piqued his interest. It had turned him into an instant believer in ghost ships.

      Sal rumbled to his house to develop the infrared photos and returned a half-hour later with a large manila envelope and a Cheshire cat grin.

      “Got something?” I asked.

      “After breakfast.”

      Moorly was looking around the dining room and living room, staring at photos and trying out the couch then the lounge chairs. Cookie had given him special dispensation to smoke his pipe “As long as you only use that cherry tobacco.” The smoke followed him around the room as he puffed his way through a second bowl.

      It occurred to me he’d never been to Willow Weep. I’d always caught up with the fisherman at the docks or in town.

      “Nice place, Nick.”

      Finally he sat at the table. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve seen,” he said for what seemed to be the hundredth time. “Why don’t you look happy, Nick?”

      “Because it wasn’t the ghost ship we were looking for.”

      Moorly tapped the tobacco in the bowl of his pipe. “There’s more than one?”

      Sal and I nodded.

      “By jiggers.”

      “You could say that.”

      “By jiggers.”

      I laughed. “Once was enough, Stan.”

      Cookie brought in a giant skillet of scrambled eggs, a couple dozen sausages and a huge pan of chorizo. Nothing tastes better at 3 a.m. than breakfast in a warm room on a cool night. We ate in silence, each of us reflecting on what we’d seen.

      “What can you tell me about the Dora, Clarence?” Cookie finally asked, cupping her chin in her hands after pushing her empty plates to the center of the table.

      Moorly reached deep into his jacket pocket and pulled out the Meerschaum, СКАЧАТЬ