Free The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin Page B

when you’re ready, and I’ll fill a barrel or two for you. Get you started anyway. Part of your payment for savin’ my pound haul.”
    â€œThanks.”
    â€œWhere you gonna sell?”
    Clay watched Barker’s opponent bank the six off the side into the corner.
    â€œNot sure. Probably stick close to home. Jed Sparks. He’s running Pappy’s wholesale operation now. You know, for the bank.”
    â€œLet me know his prices. I might have a deal on a refrigerator truck. Ship to D.C.”
    â€œAppreciate it,” Clay said.
    He wandered up the stairs to the second-story hallway, which was lined with people he didn’t know. He walked its length, and as he turned back he glanced in one of the bedrooms and saw Mac Longley sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the bed. A round mirror was on the rug in front of him, holding lines of white powder. To his left sat Teresa Bonner, who had gone to Easton High School with them, and to his right, Paula. She wore a sailor’s cap and held a rolled-up dollar bill in her hand. She waved to him.
    He stepped into the room.
    â€œClay Wakeman. Goddamn. How ya been? Wanna try a sheep’s leg?” Longley asked, grinning. “Take the edge off.”
    â€œSit down, Clay.” Paula gestured generously with her arm, sweeping it before her as though offering him the field. Her silver bracelets jingled with the motion. “Get high.” She reached for her beer, and Clay saw her breasts move under her blouse.
    Clay stood, wrapping his arms about him. “I think I’ll hold off for now,” he said.
    Mac licked the tip of his finger and ran it over the mirror, gathering some powder on it, and then put it in Paula’s mouth and pressed it over the front of her gums. “Like a freight train.”
    â€œBeen here long, Clay?” Teresa asked.
    â€œWatched Barker Cull shoot some pool.”
    â€œNice party.” Paula laughed.
    â€œHeard you’re going on the water,” Longley remarked.
    â€œYeah,” Clay answered.
    â€œFool’s life, there.” Longley pointed to the lines of coke. “Better off getting high.” He sniffed. “Bay’s going sour, you know.” He squinted up at Clay. “It’s the government dumping that’s doing it.”
    Clay was suddenly impatient. “How about a dance?” he said to Paula.
    Paula looked quizzical. “Now? I’m sorry, Clay, but not now.” She reached across the mirror and squeezed Longley on the thigh. “I can’t leave in the middle of dessert, now can I, Mac?” The two of them laughed. She looked up at Clay, pouting. “But we’ll share with you.”
    Clay studied her for a moment. “You go ahead,” he finally said. His voice seemed to him to come from a far-off place. Longley offered the mirror to Teresa, who bent over it and snorted. Clay felt tired. He studied his hands, which were bruised and stained from the day’s work, and then he saw himself for a moment, earlier, beneath the underside of his bateau, smelling the lead from the sanding, his fingers feeling those places that were so smooth, the mottled streaks, shell gray, almost like driftwood. He heard Paula saying something but had lost his sense of the present. He tried to focus. There was some commotion behind him, and someone lurched in carrying two beers and handed one to Longley, nearly falling over. It was Byron, and as he started to slide down the wall, Clay took his arm and held him up. Paula was talking about the band that was supposed to be playing at Kent Island on Saturday and how she knew the lead singer. Longley began to lay out some more cocaine. Clay told Byron he needed to talk to him about something.
    â€œLeave him be, Clay. Let him party,” Longley said. “He’s grown.”
    Byron started to shake his head, but Clay held him and asked him again, telling him he needed his company, and