A Stolen Season by Steve Hamilton Page A

nodded to me. With his wrist all wrapped up, he didn’t look inclined to shake my hand.
    “Reason we’re here,” Cap said, “is we just want to thank you. You know, for helping us out.”
    “It’s all right,” I said. “You didn’t have to come all the way up here.”
    “Seriously, man. Least we can do is buy you a drink.”
    “That’s not necessary.”
    “I insist. Please.” He stood there, his arm straight out as an invitation to the bar.
    “No, really.”
    “Where’s the bartender, anyway?”
    “I’m right here,” Jackie said. He got up from the chair. “Come on, Alex. Show the men some consideration. If they want to buy you a drink, let them.”
    “That’s right,” Cap said. “You should listen to this man.”
    “That’ll be the day,” Jackie said. He went back behind the bar.
    I got up slowly, wishing hard that I had told Jackie a little more about what had happened the night before. Maybe then he wouldn’t have been so fast with the hospitality.
    “What are you having, Mr. McKnight? May I call you Alex?”
    “Jackie knows what I drink.”
    Cap took one stool at the bar. The big man, Bruce, took another, leaving one open for me, right between them.
    “Here you go,” Jackie said, setting me up with a cold Canadian. “Are you gonna share some of your private stash with your friends here?”
    I gave him a look that should have taken ten years off his life. But before another word could be said he was taking out two more Canadian beers and putting them on the bar.
    “What do we have here?” Cap said.
    “Alex only drinks beer that’s been bottled in Canada,” Jackie said. “See if you guys can tell the difference.”
    I kept staring at Jackie. I couldn’t imagine why he was acting like a good host all of a sudden. He certainly didn’t use it on most people. Hell, if it was wintertime and you stopped in for one, he’d probably be yelling at you about the snow on your boots before you closed the door behind you.
    It was the day, I thought. The strange, strange day, and the fact that he hadn’t seen a real paying customer all week. It was going to his head.
    “This is outstanding,” Bruce said. He was holding the bottle in his huge hand, looking down at it with admiration. “Absolutely outstanding.”
    “I agree,” Cap said. There was something about the way he talked. He was too self-aware, too smooth for his own good. I thought I had him figured pretty well, the type of guy I’d run into my whole life, in high school, in baseball, then later on both sides of the badge. Three inches too short, always trying too hard to make up for it. All car and haircut, and not much else.
    Yeah, I thought I had him pegged.
    “Did Alex tell you how we met last night?” Cap said to Jackie.
    “No, he didn’t.”
    “Well…we were out in a boat. It was pretty dark. And foggy.”
    “Last night?” Jackie said. “You were out in a boat? You’re kidding me.”
    “Pretty dumb, I know. We paid for it, believe me. Yes, sir. We were at the casino down in Bay Mills, and we ended up going out across the bay.”
    “Don’t tell me,” Jackie said. “Those old bridge pilings…”
    “Is that what those things are? We never even saw them. Next thing I know, we were stopped dead and the goddamned boat was sinking.”
    “What kind of boat was it?”
    “Ah, some old thing,” Cap said. “A wooden boat.”
    “A Chris-Craft,” I said. “It looked like somebody had put a lot of work into it.”
    “Wait a minute,” Jackie said. “You guys drove an antique Chris-Craft into those pilings?”
    “Whose boat is it, anyway?” I said.
    Cap looked at me. “It’s Harry’s boat.”
    “It’s his dad’s boat,” Bruce said.
    “It was his boat,” Cap said.
    “Harry was the driver.”
    “Yes.”
    “How many drinks did he have before you guys went out?”
    Cap hesitated again. “Two drinks. Maybe three. Harry can hold his liquor. Believe me, he wasn’t drunk.”
    “How old is he?”
    “He’s