of Crown Royal.
Charlie was puttering in the yard, waiting for news. He appeared to have a witticism he wanted to share, but when he saw Scarnum’s face, and the brown liquor store bag in his hand, he bit his tongue.
“It’s one of Falkenham’s boats,” said Scarnum. “Lawyer says we ought to keep an eye on her, not let anyone get aboard her.”
Charlie stared at him. Scarnum offered a thin smile. “Suggested if you see any strange cars pulling up you ought to do some rat hunting.”
Charlie laughed. “I believe it is rat season,” he said. “Been thinking it was time for a rodent roundup.”
“Lawyer’s gonna call when he has news,” said Scarnum. “I’m going down to my boat for a time.”
“All right, partner,” said Charlie, and he watched his friend slink down to the wharf.
When Charlie came down an hour later and knocked on the side of the boat, Scarnum was sitting at the salon table with a glass and an ashtray, listening to Hank Williams. A third of the whisky was already gone.
Scarnum got up and opened the hatch. His face was puffy, his hair was mussed, and his eyes were red.
Charlie was grinning on the dock, holding his ball cap in his hand. “I hate to interrupt your getting drunk,” he said, “but the lady of the house wonders if you’d like to join us for a bowl of chowder.”
“No b’y,” said Scarnum. “Tell Annabelle thanks, but I’m more thirsty than hungry, if you know what I mean.”
Charlie giggled. “I might know exactly what you mean, you old fucker,” he said. “I’m thirsty meself.”
“Lord fuck,” said Scarnum, stepping back with an exaggerated sweep of his arm. “Come the fuck down, then, and have a drink of whisky, you old saltwater cowboy.”
Charlie grinned. “By the Jesus, that’s some kind of you, Phillip,” he said. “I’d be too shy to ask, of course, but since you’re kind enough to offer, I’d love to have a wee taste of your whisky.”
As he climbed into the cabin, he noted the level of the whisky in the bottle. “B’y, I’ll thank you for the drink tonight, but tomorrow you’ll thank me for taking it,” he said.
“Why’s that?” said Scarnum, digging out a glass and pouring his friend two fingers of rye.
“’Cause you won’t be quite so fucking hungover,” said Charlie, and he held up his glass for a toast. “To the Kelly Lynn.”
Scarnum joined the toast and drained the whisky in his glass. He poured himself another three fingers.
“Seemed to me I should help you celebrate your salvage,” said Charlie. “Pretty fucking good going, me son.”
“Yuh,” said Scarnum, nodding. “I just wish it wasn’t one of Falkenham’s boats.”
Charlie nodded into his whisky. “Yes b’y,” he said. “I wouldn’t think you’d want anything to do with him, but then again, what the fuck’s it matter whose boat it is?”
He fixed Scarnum with a steely gaze. “What matters is that you’re going to get paid,” he said. “This’ll change your life, Phillip. You ought to get a good payday from that old boat. A serious payday. What’s she worth? Near two hundred, I’d guess. They won’t give you that much, but it ought to be a fair piece, since she’d be smashed to shit if you hadn’t hauled her off the rocks.”
Scarnum grinned at him, but his eyes weren’t smiling.
“You want to, you could get a bigger boat to live on,” said Charlie. “Christ, you could buy a fucking house with that kind of money, if you wanted, use Orion the way most people use their boats — take it out for a sail on a nice day, week or two of holidays out the bay. You could settle down some if you want. Christ, you’re not too old to start a family.”
Charlie stopped his little speech when he looked up at Scarnum’s face and saw that his smile had turned into a scowl. His jaw was set and his eyes were cold.
“I told Mayor that I’d rather haul the fucking thing back out to where I found it than talk to Falkenham,” he said.
Charlie laughed and Scarnum took a gulp of whisky. “I told him seven years ago that if he ever showed his fucking face down here I’d cut him open like a flounder,” he said. “And I haven’t changed my mind on that.”
“As I recall,” said Charlie, “we haven’t seen him down here since.”
“No,” said Scarnum, “and every time I see him in town, he turns around and walks the other way. That’s the way I fucking like it.”
“I’d say he got the message,” said Charlie. “So what are you going to do with the money? Mayor give you any idea how much it might be?”
Scarnum was gazing out the porthole. “You have no idea,” he said, and he turned to look at Charlie. “You have no idea how much I regret not killing him when I caught him with Karen.”
His hands knotted into fists on the table in front of him. “I could have smashed his fucking face in, and I don’t think a jury’d a convicted me. Hard to convict someone of beating a man when he catches him fucking his woman. Maybe they’d a got me on manslaughter, put me inside for a year or two. But I’d a got out, he’d still be dead and Karen would be back in Toronto, and I’d be able to walk down the street without the risk of running into either of them.” He drained his whisky and looked out at the bay.
Charlie looked down at his glass. “Phillip, old buddy,” he said. “I’m no Doctor Phil, but I’m not sure that you’re demonstrating the, uh, healthiest mental outlook here, me son.”
Scarnum fixed him with a hard look, then broke into a grin. Then he started laughing hard. Charlie joined him, giggling.
“No b’y,” said Scarnum. “I believe you might be right.”
He held up his glass, toasted Charlie, and knocked it back. “That’s what the whisky’s for,” he said and winked.
The sun hadn’t quite set when Charlie climbed out of Orion and made his way up to the house, where Annabelle was waiting for him.
Alone on the boat, Scarnum drank the rest of the whisky, until he was in a stupor. He vomited in the head and fell asleep fully dressed on his V-berth.
Scarnum was awake, with a terrible headache, a mouth like sandpaper, and a bursting bladder at 4:00 a.m.
He emptied his bladder in the cramped head, grabbed a cup of water and a smoke, and went on deck.
Hunched over in the cockpit, drinking his water and smoking his cigarette, he looked out over the inky waters of the Back Harbour — the black silhouettes of the moored boats against the dark grey of the water, which dimly reflected the porch lights from the houses along the other shore of the bay.
All in all, he thought, things could be worse. A few Tylenol, a few quarts of water, and another few hours of sleep, and he’d probably feel all right by the time the sun came up. And what did he care if he’d salvaged Falkenham’s boat? His money was as good as anyone’s.
Scarnum was spending the money in his head when he saw the fellow in the canoe.
He was paddling straight up the bay, toward the Kelly Lynn, paddling very carefully, using what they called the “Indian stroke,” the quietest way of moving a canoe, without even lifting the paddle out of the water.
Without thinking about it, Scarnum found himself cupping his cigarette in his hand to hide the glow. He pinched the heater between his fingers and dropped the