Death in the Polka Dot Shoes by Marlin Fitzwater

the man’s face in the water, white and unresponsive.
    â€œWhy doesn’t he look up, or wave?” I shouted. “Is he dead?”
    â€œI hit him with the damn line, and he didn’t take it,” Vinnie said. “I’m going in.”
    I realized Vinnie had put on his life jacket while I was talking. He kicked off his tennis shoes, threw his cap on the deck, and jumped into the Bay, not two feet from the victim.
    Christ, don’t hit him, I thought.
    Vinnie was with him instantly, threw back the man’s head and turned his body like it was a rubber toy. He took a few seconds to get his legs untangled from the victim, took about three strokes and he was beside the boat. I shut down the engine, mostly because I didn’t know what else to do, and I didn’t want anybody caught in the propeller. I rushed to the side of the boat and looked down at Vinnie’s nearly bald head, with a few strands of hair draped across his head like wet seaweed. Vinnie was nearly cheek to cheek with a small head of coal black hair that showed no sign of life. I fell to my knees, waited for the boat to rock low once more, then grabbed the arm of the motionless man and flung him into the boat.
    â€œJesus,” I shouted, not realizing how small he was, or how the adrenaline had increased my strength.
    Vinnie had both hands on the side of the boat and was heaving himself in as I laid the man on the deck and started yelling at him.
    â€œWake up.” But there was no response.
    Vinnie quickly turned him on his stomach, hit him on the back, and water seemed to rush from his mouth. He was a little man, with narrow features, and eyes that didn’t open, but were set in deep wells. Even for a drowning man, he looked desolate, like he just crawled out of a cave.
    Vinnie flipped him again, on his back, and blew into his mouth. That’s all it took. The man just started all his systems, like the dashboard of a car that lights up on ignition. His eyes opened. He coughed, again and again. His arms rose as he tried to turn on his side.
    â€œGet her started,” Vinnie said, as he tried to help the man get in a comfortable position for coughing and breathing.
    â€œGet the boat,” the little man said. It was a weak voice, pleading. “Don’t leave the boat.”
    Criminently, I thought, I almost forgot about the guy’s boat. But who cares. The first rule here is save the victim.
    â€œI’m OK,” he said, “get the boat.”
    â€œWhere the hell is the boat?” I muttered, swinging the Martha Claire around to find the circling power boat. It was off my stern, circling at a fairly good speed, maybe seven knots. Like a figure skater, repeating the same circle over and over.
    Vinnie was sitting on the deck with his new acquaintance, but he looked up enough to suggest, “See if you can get close enough to board her.”
    â€œHell no,” I replied, knowing I couldn’t do that even if it could be done. She was going too fast.
    â€œHow much gas does it have?” Vinnie asked his new friend.
    â€œFifty hours,” he muttered.
    â€œFifty hours!” I exclaimed. “We could be here for days. Let’s call the Coast Guard.”
    â€œWait,” Vinnie said. He struggled to untangle himself from the man on the floor. He raised the man’s body and leaned him against the engine box. “It will be warm,” he said. “Sit here and hold onto the side.”
    I kept the Martha within a few yards of the pleasure boat, but I couldn’t hold the circle and I couldn’t hold the speed. I would fall behind, and then cut across the circle in the water until I caught up again. The boat had made so many circles that its wake seemed like a permanent scar in the water.
    Vinnie went below and came back with a dark green army blanket, my father’s. It had been given to Dad by his brother, who fought in the Philippines during World War II. Uncle John