were missing a body and was merely a giant swimming head. It was a sight the locals had long since grown used to, but awe-inspiring to the tourists, especially those under ten.
I leaned back in my seat and turned my attention to the speaker. Apparently one piece of business wasn’t finished, and I was witness to the end of it.
Lincoln Williams was standing at the front of the room, his arm draped over a stack of lobster pots. He held a gavel in his left hand. His face was set in a stern expression. Another man stood slightly ahead of him and nervously played with his car keys, using his thumb to flip the remote door opener off his hand and then swinging it back up to his palm. The movement was almost hypnotic.
“Now, this is allst I can say. I can’t get you a better price unless the market goes that way, but right now, it’s still tight.” The speaker was a small, wiry man. Although the evening was warm enough for a shirt alone, he wore a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos on both forearms. There was a sharp crease in his trousers and a high shine on his intricately patterned cowboy boots. His carefully coiffed wavy hair was more pepper than salt. And a flat gold disk with markings on it glinted from one earlobe. I gauged him to be mid-forties. Some might have considered him good-looking, but there was something in his expression that stopped short of handsome.
“They got twenty-five cents more a pound today over in Boothbay Harbor, Pettie,” said a man in the audience, confirming my suspicion that the guest speaker was Henry Pettie, the broker.
“And Hull’s Cove,” another voice said.
“Boothbay is quite a hike from here,” Pettie said. “And I wouldn’t want to have to hustle to Hull’s Cove and back either. Much easier to stay close to home after such a long day on the water, don’t ya think? See your family, sit down for a nice dinner together, don’t have to break your back to put a few extra pennies in your pocket.”
“Twenty-five cents a pound would put some few pennies in my pocket, thank you. If the other men’re getting more, why aren’t we?”
“You know the prices fluctuate, Ike, some days better than others. Plus, Boothbay, for one, has a much bigger market, bigger distribution system. Cabot Cove is small potatoes by comparison. More costly to get the lobsters to market from here. That’s reflected in your price. But believe me, I’m always working for you, looking for ways to shave my expenses so I can give you more.”
“So you can keep more,” muttered someone in back of me, but I doubt anyone else heard.
“We made a deal in March,” Pettie continued, “and I’m keeping to my end of it. I been good to you guys for years. Right, Carver? Paynter? Not a man here I haven’t helped out. And you owe me. Any man doesn’t trust me, thinks he knows my business better than I do, doesn’t want to work with me, well, he knows where he can go. He can sell his catch somewhere else. I’ll never stop him. But I might not take him back either.” Pettie let that threat sink in a moment. Then he pocketed his keys and straightened. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll let you get back to the business at hand. You take care of the fishing—we’re still a little low for the festival’s needs—and I’ll take care of the market. That way, we’ll both come out on top.”
“Any more questions for Henry?” Linc asked. “There being none, we’ll move along.” He swung his gavel against a woodblock set atop the traps, and it made a satisfying bang.
Henry Pettie nodded at Linc and slipped quietly toward the door. Levi reached out his hand and opened it, closing it softly behind him.
“That should satisfy,” Linc said.
“Only if you swallow that bucket of fish guts.” It was the lobsterman who’d argued with Pettie. “You stand to lose money, too, Linc,” he said, pointing his finger at Williams. “Why are you defending Pettie?”
“I’m not defending
I leaned back in my seat and turned my attention to the speaker. Apparently one piece of business wasn’t finished, and I was witness to the end of it.
Lincoln Williams was standing at the front of the room, his arm draped over a stack of lobster pots. He held a gavel in his left hand. His face was set in a stern expression. Another man stood slightly ahead of him and nervously played with his car keys, using his thumb to flip the remote door opener off his hand and then swinging it back up to his palm. The movement was almost hypnotic.
“Now, this is allst I can say. I can’t get you a better price unless the market goes that way, but right now, it’s still tight.” The speaker was a small, wiry man. Although the evening was warm enough for a shirt alone, he wore a leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up, revealing tattoos on both forearms. There was a sharp crease in his trousers and a high shine on his intricately patterned cowboy boots. His carefully coiffed wavy hair was more pepper than salt. And a flat gold disk with markings on it glinted from one earlobe. I gauged him to be mid-forties. Some might have considered him good-looking, but there was something in his expression that stopped short of handsome.
“They got twenty-five cents more a pound today over in Boothbay Harbor, Pettie,” said a man in the audience, confirming my suspicion that the guest speaker was Henry Pettie, the broker.
“And Hull’s Cove,” another voice said.
“Boothbay is quite a hike from here,” Pettie said. “And I wouldn’t want to have to hustle to Hull’s Cove and back either. Much easier to stay close to home after such a long day on the water, don’t ya think? See your family, sit down for a nice dinner together, don’t have to break your back to put a few extra pennies in your pocket.”
“Twenty-five cents a pound would put some few pennies in my pocket, thank you. If the other men’re getting more, why aren’t we?”
“You know the prices fluctuate, Ike, some days better than others. Plus, Boothbay, for one, has a much bigger market, bigger distribution system. Cabot Cove is small potatoes by comparison. More costly to get the lobsters to market from here. That’s reflected in your price. But believe me, I’m always working for you, looking for ways to shave my expenses so I can give you more.”
“So you can keep more,” muttered someone in back of me, but I doubt anyone else heard.
“We made a deal in March,” Pettie continued, “and I’m keeping to my end of it. I been good to you guys for years. Right, Carver? Paynter? Not a man here I haven’t helped out. And you owe me. Any man doesn’t trust me, thinks he knows my business better than I do, doesn’t want to work with me, well, he knows where he can go. He can sell his catch somewhere else. I’ll never stop him. But I might not take him back either.” Pettie let that threat sink in a moment. Then he pocketed his keys and straightened. “Now, gentlemen, I’ll let you get back to the business at hand. You take care of the fishing—we’re still a little low for the festival’s needs—and I’ll take care of the market. That way, we’ll both come out on top.”
“Any more questions for Henry?” Linc asked. “There being none, we’ll move along.” He swung his gavel against a woodblock set atop the traps, and it made a satisfying bang.
Henry Pettie nodded at Linc and slipped quietly toward the door. Levi reached out his hand and opened it, closing it softly behind him.
“That should satisfy,” Linc said.
“Only if you swallow that bucket of fish guts.” It was the lobsterman who’d argued with Pettie. “You stand to lose money, too, Linc,” he said, pointing his finger at Williams. “Why are you defending Pettie?”
“I’m not defending
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