The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay by Tim Junkin Page B

the end of the news. Something about another offensive in the Quang Tri area. Thirty-one marines killed. He pushed in the eight-track sitting in the player under his seat to listen. The cut was “Gangster of Love.” The highway rolled by. He sat back, trying to relax, and listened and smiled as Stevie “Guitar” Miller sang, “and I said yes sir brother sheriff . . . and that’s your wife on the back of my horse . . .”
    Inside, the pub was already filling up. Clay said hello to Clem Saunders, who sat at the bar watching two middleweights fight on the overhead television. Clem was about ten years older than Clay. He had been a waterman once. Now he worked for the local Seagram’s distributor as a salesman. As Clay walked toward the back room of the long, rectangular structure, he heard John Prine whining off the jukebox, “There’s a hole in daddy’s arm where all the money goes . . .” In the back, in a booth, sat Barker, Byron, and Pal Tyler. They had finished plates in front of them, and long-necked Budweiser bottles were scattered over the table. Byron had by far the most bottles in front of him. He had come straight from the river, he announced. Because he was thirsty. His clothes were streaked with dried salt.
    Barker, when he saw Clay, stood and bear-hugged him, slapping him on the back and praising their day’s work. Byron started to rise but lost his balance and sat back down as Barker spoke.
    â€œDamn if we didn’t shine out there, boys. Goddamn! Close one though. Near foolish, I must say.”
    â€œWe were lucky,” Pal said.
    â€œLuck? Shit, Pal! That was sheer miracle, boy!”
    â€œI still can’t believe you jumped in.”
    â€œI sure as hell didn’t plan to, but I figured you boys had some muscle. Might as well have brought Missy over there as you boys.”
    Barker grinned and called to Missy to come over.
    â€œYes, honey?” she mocked.
    â€œCome here, girl.”
    She sauntered over and, pausing, cracked a bubble from the gum she was chewing.
    â€œYou want another round, boys?” she said, ignoring Barker.
    â€œMissy, these boys want to feel your muscles.”
    â€œRight.” She turned to go.
    â€œMissy darling.” Barker’s tone apologized. “Hold on a minute. Just kidding.” He put his arm around her. She made a pretense of shrugging it off but let him keep it there.
    â€œWe do want another round. And I want dinner for my friend here. He’s an artist.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œTruly. What you want, Clay?”
    â€œI’ll take a cheeseburger. Make it two. Fries, apple pie. Bud. No salad. Thanks.”
    â€œBurgers for my friend, Missy. And let me tell you something.” Barker leaned into Missy’s ear in a conspiratorial way, winking at Clay. “You know they say boats are like women? Well, you oughtta see this boy work a boat.”
    This time she was successful in throwing his arm off her shoulders.
    â€œI’m putting you on probation if you don’t watch it, Barker.”
    People began drifting in, filling up the aisle of the back room, which ran long and narrow to an oval dance floor, where a disc jockey was setting up his records. The back bar was built along one side, and across the aisle were the booths that ran along the other. The booth seats were a red Naugahyde patterned with cigarette burns. Byron and Pal between them knew half the people who ambled by. Pal tried to talk to every female; Byron would just raise hishand in a silent salute. Clay’s food arrived with a smile from Missy. More beers were ordered. Byron ordered shots of Jack Daniel’s. The disc jockey started turning records. Laura-Dez showed up and said hello to everyone. She saw Byron and his condition and declined to sit, but with Clay’s help she coaxed Byron up and out while he could still walk.
    In the din, after beers and tequila shooters bought by Barker, Clay