they're say
in'. How the hell do they expect us to stay in business? How in hell
do they—"
He
ran through a number of rhetorical queries as he raved, waving his
stubby arms. When he cooled down, he remembered I was there.
"Go
see old Wendy on the Biscuit."
"The
what?"
"The
Biscuit. It's an old tub out on Dock 10. Low number, one or maybe
one-A. Way the hell out the end, anyway. Ask Wendy about the girl,
she'll know. She's kinda like the den mother hereabouts. What-ever's
goin' on around here, she'd know about."
He
directed a stage whisper down the hatch.
"She
may not be an engineer, but at least she speaks the goddamn
language."
Momentarily
satisfied, he turned back to me.
"I
shoulda thought of her when Henry asked me, but I was too busy
watching my life savings disappear." He checked the sky.
"Better hurry, she goes home before dark."
He
dismissed me with a pat on the shoulder, turning away. A torrent of
gripes and grouses preceded his broad back down the stairs.
"Goddamn
it, fellas—"
The
Biscuit was more like a dumpling. a congealed mass of water-soaked
dough bobbing listlessly among the flotsam, seemingly held together
only by forty coats of white paint. A single bulb glowed yellow in
the front window. I banged on the hull with the heel of my hand.
My
legendary record for anticipating women remained unblemished.
I'd expected something salty, maybe a maritime version of Mammy
Yokum. Trim and elegant, she was more like Celeste Holm than Granny
Clampett. Her long gray hair in a French braid, she was immaculately
clad in a yellow cardigan with wildflowers embroidered on the
yoke, freshly pressed jeans, and matching blue Keds. She hopped
nimbly out onto the dock.
"Yes?"
she said, smiling.
"Are
you Wendy?"
"I
am. Wendy Kroll. How can I help you?"
"I'm
trying to get a line on a young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the past few weeks. Her name—"
"Norma?"
she anticipated me.
"I
think so."
"Oh
Lord, what happened to that poor thing now?" "You haven't
seen her lately then?" "I've been worried to death."
"Any particular reason?" She mulled the question over. "I'm
afraid Norma just may be one of life's victims, Mr.—"
"Waterman. How so?"
"That
poor child wasn't all there, Mr. Waterman, Nowadays they don't call
it retarded any more. I don't know what the current term is. You had
to talk to her for a while to see it. On the outside, she seemed
fine. Always happy and smiling. She made a little money running
errands, doing odd jobs. Folks kind of felt sorry for her, invented
things for her to do. If you
caught
her at the right moment, though, or brought up the right subject,
this blank look would come into her eyes. She'd go off somewhere by
herself and you could see that she just wasn't all there."
"Any
idea what her last name was?"
"Whatever."
She
saw my confusion.
"I
swear that's what she always said. Whatever. Whenever I'd ask her,'
she'd say, 'Whatever. Norma Whatever.' And then she'd laugh and laugh
like it was the greatest joke in the world."
"When
was the last time you saw her?"
"It
was about two weeks after—" She pursed her lips. I waited.
"It
wasn't Norma's fault, Mr. Waterman. She was just eager to please. It
was that animal. He's the one who should have known better. I wanted
to call the authorities, but Norma kept saying it was her fault. All
her fault, my fanny," she sputtered.
"What
happened?"
When
thoroughly confused, ask general questions.
"I
made my usual stop at the ladies' room in the terminal office on my
way down to the Biscuit. So I won't have to go back before lunch."
She gestured toward the boat. "The Biscuit doesn't have a head.
She was more of a hobby for my Marty. That's . . . was my husband.
Forty-four years. I come down every day to do maintenance. You'd be
surprised how much needs to be done on an old scow like this. It's
nice and quiet down here, too," she added as an afterthought.
Putting
an index finger to her lips, she looked back at the Biscuit
in'. How the hell do they expect us to stay in business? How in hell
do they—"
He
ran through a number of rhetorical queries as he raved, waving his
stubby arms. When he cooled down, he remembered I was there.
"Go
see old Wendy on the Biscuit."
"The
what?"
"The
Biscuit. It's an old tub out on Dock 10. Low number, one or maybe
one-A. Way the hell out the end, anyway. Ask Wendy about the girl,
she'll know. She's kinda like the den mother hereabouts. What-ever's
goin' on around here, she'd know about."
He
directed a stage whisper down the hatch.
"She
may not be an engineer, but at least she speaks the goddamn
language."
Momentarily
satisfied, he turned back to me.
"I
shoulda thought of her when Henry asked me, but I was too busy
watching my life savings disappear." He checked the sky.
"Better hurry, she goes home before dark."
He
dismissed me with a pat on the shoulder, turning away. A torrent of
gripes and grouses preceded his broad back down the stairs.
"Goddamn
it, fellas—"
The
Biscuit was more like a dumpling. a congealed mass of water-soaked
dough bobbing listlessly among the flotsam, seemingly held together
only by forty coats of white paint. A single bulb glowed yellow in
the front window. I banged on the hull with the heel of my hand.
My
legendary record for anticipating women remained unblemished.
I'd expected something salty, maybe a maritime version of Mammy
Yokum. Trim and elegant, she was more like Celeste Holm than Granny
Clampett. Her long gray hair in a French braid, she was immaculately
clad in a yellow cardigan with wildflowers embroidered on the
yoke, freshly pressed jeans, and matching blue Keds. She hopped
nimbly out onto the dock.
"Yes?"
she said, smiling.
"Are
you Wendy?"
"I
am. Wendy Kroll. How can I help you?"
"I'm
trying to get a line on a young girl who's been hanging around the
terminal for the past few weeks. Her name—"
"Norma?"
she anticipated me.
"I
think so."
"Oh
Lord, what happened to that poor thing now?" "You haven't
seen her lately then?" "I've been worried to death."
"Any particular reason?" She mulled the question over. "I'm
afraid Norma just may be one of life's victims, Mr.—"
"Waterman. How so?"
"That
poor child wasn't all there, Mr. Waterman, Nowadays they don't call
it retarded any more. I don't know what the current term is. You had
to talk to her for a while to see it. On the outside, she seemed
fine. Always happy and smiling. She made a little money running
errands, doing odd jobs. Folks kind of felt sorry for her, invented
things for her to do. If you
caught
her at the right moment, though, or brought up the right subject,
this blank look would come into her eyes. She'd go off somewhere by
herself and you could see that she just wasn't all there."
"Any
idea what her last name was?"
"Whatever."
She
saw my confusion.
"I
swear that's what she always said. Whatever. Whenever I'd ask her,'
she'd say, 'Whatever. Norma Whatever.' And then she'd laugh and laugh
like it was the greatest joke in the world."
"When
was the last time you saw her?"
"It
was about two weeks after—" She pursed her lips. I waited.
"It
wasn't Norma's fault, Mr. Waterman. She was just eager to please. It
was that animal. He's the one who should have known better. I wanted
to call the authorities, but Norma kept saying it was her fault. All
her fault, my fanny," she sputtered.
"What
happened?"
When
thoroughly confused, ask general questions.
"I
made my usual stop at the ladies' room in the terminal office on my
way down to the Biscuit. So I won't have to go back before lunch."
She gestured toward the boat. "The Biscuit doesn't have a head.
She was more of a hobby for my Marty. That's . . . was my husband.
Forty-four years. I come down every day to do maintenance. You'd be
surprised how much needs to be done on an old scow like this. It's
nice and quiet down here, too," she added as an afterthought.
Putting
an index finger to her lips, she looked back at the Biscuit
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