Free SILENT GUNS by Bob Neir Page B

ladder to stand growling at the head of
the gangway. A gruff voice emerged from the wheelhouse, followed by
a large, angular man of weather-beaten features wearing a crushed
Captain’s cap. His teeth clenched tight about the stem of a
grotesque-looking pipe.
    “ What do you want?”
    “ A welcome aboard, Captain Larsen.
Call off your dog.”
    “ I got him to keep people
off.”
    “ Even friends?”
    “ Like who?”
    “ Somebody who wants to charter
your boat.”
    “ Who sent you?
Schiller?”
    “ Who’s Schiller?”
    “ Never mind,” the Captain said
gruffly, waving his pipe. “Come aboard.” He waved off the dog.
“Back, Hauser, Back,” he said. The slight motion of the boat served
as a welcome mat.
    “ Speak your piece,” Captain Larsen
commanded as he came down the port ladder. He stood hands on hips,
blocking passage forward.
    “ Might we talk in private?” Trent
asked. Captain Larsen hesitated, then stood erect, stretching
himself to his full height, and replied, “Up forward, my
cabin.”
    The aft-most lower deckhouse door opened into a
small, compact galley, two portholes were hinged up to view aft
over the lower working deck. The galley was shut down. A
pass-through pantry hatch cut through the forward bulkhead into a
second cabin, a good way to listen to all the gossip as the second
cabin contained six stacked bunks and a mess table. A brass oil
lamp hung motionless draped from a swivel. The smell of fresh paint
penetrated everywhere.
    Captain Larsen stepped over the coaming of the
forward door. We followed. Trent let his eyes move about the
Captain’s cabin and he was taken aback. Dark, Honduran mahogany
paneling and white enamel gloss trim set off the cabin’s fine
features. Forward, a sofa, with underneath stowage drawers, graced
the port side. Aft, a wardrobe and a small, highly polished
mahogany desk were rigidly mounted to the aft bulkhead. The swivel
chair appeared an original antique. The cabin had been done to suit
the Captain’s personal tastes. On the starboard side was a large,
outsized single bunk: aft the bunk, a head and shower. Overhead
lockers were suspended over the bunk and secured to the washroom
partition. Two easy chairs, a small Oriental carpet and a
well-polished table nestled against the curve of the deckhouse
directly below the wheelhouse. No pictures, awards, certificates,
no personal items hung in view. Cut through the aft bulkhead was an
inside door, latched open, that lead directly into the crew’s
quarters. The Helga was Captain Larsen’s home.
    “ Sit down.” They settled into the
easy chairs. “Whiskey?” The Captain set three glasses on the table.
He did not wait for a reply but reached into an overhead locker,
extracted a bottle, uncorked it and filled the glasses. The lines
on his face were taut. The Captain drank but said
nothing.
    “ Is your boat for charter?” Trent
asked at length.
    “ Maybe!” He snapped.
    “ You are in business, aren’t
you?”
    “ Depends…” The Captain stared at
the bottom of his empty glass.
    “ The job involves some risk,”
Trent said flatly.
    “ Risk! That’s why I got troubles
now.” Captain Larsen eyed Trent warily and said, “And you want to
bring me more. What is it? Drugs? Illegal aliens?
Smuggling?”
    Trent cleared his throat. “We bid a government job
and need a ship equipped as the Helga ,” his tone was
carefully controlled. “We expect a contract within the next three
weeks. In the meantime, we need to make a quick trip to
Canada.”
    “ Humph!” Captain Larsen refilled
his glass.
    “ We pay well.”
    Captain Larsen dragged his pipe from his pocket and
stuffed it into a tobacco pouch. He held a match above the bowl,
sucked in the flame and watched the smoke curl upward.
    “ We’re wasting the Captain’s time,
Peter.” Trent offered, heaving to his feet. Captain Larsen lowered
his pipe, uncertain; he searched for words, his voice quivered as
he spoke.
    “ There has been no work for the