ramp, through the clutching, pleasant odors of algae and gasoline. She spotted the Lost Dog ’s kelly-green sail covers, so at least he wasn’t out sailing.
He was, in fact, down below, installing a marine head where he’d once carried a Porta Potti.
‘‘Creek,’’ she called, ‘‘come out of there.’’
Creek poked his head up the companionway. He was shirtless, had a hacksaw in his hand, and his hair was sodden with sweat. He read Anna’s face and said, ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Jason’s dead,’’ Anna said bluntly.
Creek stared at her for a moment, then shook his head wearily, said, ‘‘Aw, shit.’’ He ducked down the companionway and the hacksaw clanged into a toolbox. A moment later, he emerged again, wearing gym shorts, his body as hairy as a seventies shag carpet. ‘‘Fuckin’ crank, I bet,’’ he said.
‘‘He was shot,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Shot?’’ Creek thought about it for a moment, then shrugged, an Italian shrug with hands. ‘‘Still, probably dope.’’
‘‘Yeah, maybe,’’ Anna said.
‘‘What else would it be?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Anna said. She filled him in on the details: where the body was found, how. ‘‘I was afraid it was you.’’
‘‘Naw; I won’t float.’’
She let some of it out, now: ‘‘His face looked like notebook paper: it was white, it was like . . .’’ She happened to look into the harbor water, where a small dead fish floated belly-up. ‘‘. . . Like that fish. He didn’t look like he’d ever been alive.’’
‘‘You know who he hung out with,’’ Creek said. ‘‘You give those kids enough time, they’ll kill you. Fuckin’ crazy Hollywood junkie crackheads.’’
Anna looked up at him, nibbled her lip. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d given his name to the cops, but she had to. He had to be ready. ‘‘Listen, I had to make a statement to the cops. We might have been the last people who saw Jason alive, except for the killer. I told them about Jason using the crank and the other stuff, ’cause it might be relevant.’’
Creek exhaled, threw his head back and looked at the Windex at the top of the mast. ‘‘Wind is shit today,’’ he said. And: ‘‘They’ll be coming to see me.’’
Anna nodded. ‘‘That’s why I stopped by. They wanted the names of everybody on the crew with Jason,’’ she said. ‘‘I think we ought to bag it tonight, maybe for a couple of days.’’
‘‘Fine with me. I’ve got work to do on the boat,’’ Creek said. He flopped his arms, a gesture of resignation. In the bad old days, Creek had run boatloads of grass up from Mexico. He’d never been caught with a load, but at the end, the cops had known all about him, and when he’d been tripped up with a dime bag, they’d used it to put him in Chino for three hard years. He considered himself lucky.
‘‘If this was Alabama, I’d still be inside,’’ he said. He hadn’t smuggled or used drugs in a decade, but if the cops ran his name as a member of the night crew, they’d get a hit when his name came up: and they’d be around. ‘‘You better get in touch with Louis.’’
‘‘Already did, on the phone,’’ Anna said. ‘‘But I wanted you to know they’ll probably be coming around. I woulda lied to them . . .’’
‘‘Nah, they would of caught you, and then they woulda wondered why you were lying.’’ He grinned at her: ‘‘You want to go out and sit in the sun?’’
On the afternoons when Creek wasn’t working, he’d crank up the Honda outboard, motor out of the marina into the Pacific, raise just enough sail to carry him out a bit further, then back the jib, ease the main, lash the tiller to leeward and drift, sometimes all night, listening to the ocean.
Anna shook her head at the invitation: ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to get back home, take a bath. I smell like a . . . dead guy. I’ve got it in my nose.’’ Jason had worked
He was, in fact, down below, installing a marine head where he’d once carried a Porta Potti.
‘‘Creek,’’ she called, ‘‘come out of there.’’
Creek poked his head up the companionway. He was shirtless, had a hacksaw in his hand, and his hair was sodden with sweat. He read Anna’s face and said, ‘‘What happened?’’
‘‘Jason’s dead,’’ Anna said bluntly.
Creek stared at her for a moment, then shook his head wearily, said, ‘‘Aw, shit.’’ He ducked down the companionway and the hacksaw clanged into a toolbox. A moment later, he emerged again, wearing gym shorts, his body as hairy as a seventies shag carpet. ‘‘Fuckin’ crank, I bet,’’ he said.
‘‘He was shot,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Shot?’’ Creek thought about it for a moment, then shrugged, an Italian shrug with hands. ‘‘Still, probably dope.’’
‘‘Yeah, maybe,’’ Anna said.
‘‘What else would it be?’’
‘‘I don’t know,’’ Anna said. She filled him in on the details: where the body was found, how. ‘‘I was afraid it was you.’’
‘‘Naw; I won’t float.’’
She let some of it out, now: ‘‘His face looked like notebook paper: it was white, it was like . . .’’ She happened to look into the harbor water, where a small dead fish floated belly-up. ‘‘. . . Like that fish. He didn’t look like he’d ever been alive.’’
‘‘You know who he hung out with,’’ Creek said. ‘‘You give those kids enough time, they’ll kill you. Fuckin’ crazy Hollywood junkie crackheads.’’
Anna looked up at him, nibbled her lip. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d given his name to the cops, but she had to. He had to be ready. ‘‘Listen, I had to make a statement to the cops. We might have been the last people who saw Jason alive, except for the killer. I told them about Jason using the crank and the other stuff, ’cause it might be relevant.’’
Creek exhaled, threw his head back and looked at the Windex at the top of the mast. ‘‘Wind is shit today,’’ he said. And: ‘‘They’ll be coming to see me.’’
Anna nodded. ‘‘That’s why I stopped by. They wanted the names of everybody on the crew with Jason,’’ she said. ‘‘I think we ought to bag it tonight, maybe for a couple of days.’’
‘‘Fine with me. I’ve got work to do on the boat,’’ Creek said. He flopped his arms, a gesture of resignation. In the bad old days, Creek had run boatloads of grass up from Mexico. He’d never been caught with a load, but at the end, the cops had known all about him, and when he’d been tripped up with a dime bag, they’d used it to put him in Chino for three hard years. He considered himself lucky.
‘‘If this was Alabama, I’d still be inside,’’ he said. He hadn’t smuggled or used drugs in a decade, but if the cops ran his name as a member of the night crew, they’d get a hit when his name came up: and they’d be around. ‘‘You better get in touch with Louis.’’
‘‘Already did, on the phone,’’ Anna said. ‘‘But I wanted you to know they’ll probably be coming around. I woulda lied to them . . .’’
‘‘Nah, they would of caught you, and then they woulda wondered why you were lying.’’ He grinned at her: ‘‘You want to go out and sit in the sun?’’
On the afternoons when Creek wasn’t working, he’d crank up the Honda outboard, motor out of the marina into the Pacific, raise just enough sail to carry him out a bit further, then back the jib, ease the main, lash the tiller to leeward and drift, sometimes all night, listening to the ocean.
Anna shook her head at the invitation: ‘‘I don’t think so,’’ she said. ‘‘I want to get back home, take a bath. I smell like a . . . dead guy. I’ve got it in my nose.’’ Jason had worked
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