drives
up, solid rust, muffler dragging sparks, grille stove in like a guy smashed in the mouth. Two bullet holes in the windshield.
No fucking license plates on it, front or rear. The Trott boys from Shag Island are in there, all three of them in the front
seat, it’s a miracle they can pull the doors shut. It must be the vehicle they keep on the mainland. Nice bumper sticker too:
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, FUCK YOU
It’s clever and it makes a point about education.
The driver’s door won’t open, so they all three come out the passenger side. The driver’s a giant, he’d outweigh Frank Alley,
the bald-headed one that’s only around five-six has a neck like a gorilla, and the third one’s a wiry son of a bitch with
a carved-up face and an artificial arm all the way up past the elbow. He’s wearing a sleeveless black shirt so you can see
how the thing’s attached to his shoulder stump. Harvey Trott: they say his sleeve caught in the dragger winch, he had to chew
his own arm off to get free. He’s holding the cigarette in the hook of his artificial limb, with all the cables so he can
twist it around like a robot and poke the filter between his lips. Out on the island he scooped a guy’s eye out with that
hook, that’s what Travis Hammond said. Close relation too.
He asks the last one in, the driver and dragger captain, Anson Trott, “Them two come up in the net?”
Lucky stands six-one or -two, weighs two twenty-five, but Anson Trott looks down at him through his beard like a Civil War
statue. “Kiss my ass, Lunt.” The way he says it, sounds more like he’s calling him “Lint.” Licky Lint. You can hardly understand
them, they talk a foreign language from not coming off of that island for three hundred years. “Hey Lint. Take at look at
this.” Big Anse unfolds a roll of cash the size of a horseshoe, all brand-new hundred-dollar bills with the big Ben Franklins
that look like large-print money for the blind. “We just sold twelve thousand pounds of scallops to your cousin Hannaford.”
“He ain’t my cousin,” Lucky says.
“We heard you was all cousins in Orphan Point.” The Trotts all laugh like it’s a big joke. Their mouths have some teeth, some
black holes, some false teeth that look like wooden lobster pegs green with mold, there’s not many dentists on Shag Island.
They’re all millionaires, though, that’s what Noah Parker says, he’s out there all the time with his pilot boat.
The Trotts order breakfasts of creamed chipped beef on English muffins, which Doris is gleeful to sell since she’s had the
stuff simmering in there for a month.
“You boys planning to race this year?” Lucky inquires. One of the Trotts is looking at his creamed beef like he’s having a
second thought, then decides it’s all right and forks it in. The bald-headed one says, “Sure, we’ll enter the dragger and
sink the whole fucking fleet.” Har, har, har, laugh the other Trotts with their mouths full of wooden teeth and pink-and-white
creamed chipped beef.
Lucky’s not going to let it drop, you don’t get a chance like this every day. “I heard there ain’t any fast boats out to Shag
Island since Alvah Greene died.”
“We got a couple,” the skipper says. “Carleton Trott just got his-self a six-hundred-cubic-inch Deetroit Diesel.”
“I heard he had a Deere.”
“He did. After a week he didn’t like it, pulled the cocksucker out and threw it overboard. Low tide, you can see that son
of a whore right off the ferry wharf in eight feet of water, bright fucking John Deere yellow.”
“Brand-new thirty-thousand-dollar engine,” his brother echoes. “Put the dock crane to the son of a whore and dropped her over
the side.”
“He any relation?” Lucky asks, fishing in his pocket to leave a decent tip.
“Not that I know of,” the Trott captain says, at the same time fingering a piece of chipped beef off one of his huge wooden
molars,
up, solid rust, muffler dragging sparks, grille stove in like a guy smashed in the mouth. Two bullet holes in the windshield.
No fucking license plates on it, front or rear. The Trott boys from Shag Island are in there, all three of them in the front
seat, it’s a miracle they can pull the doors shut. It must be the vehicle they keep on the mainland. Nice bumper sticker too:
IF YOU CAN READ THIS, FUCK YOU
It’s clever and it makes a point about education.
The driver’s door won’t open, so they all three come out the passenger side. The driver’s a giant, he’d outweigh Frank Alley,
the bald-headed one that’s only around five-six has a neck like a gorilla, and the third one’s a wiry son of a bitch with
a carved-up face and an artificial arm all the way up past the elbow. He’s wearing a sleeveless black shirt so you can see
how the thing’s attached to his shoulder stump. Harvey Trott: they say his sleeve caught in the dragger winch, he had to chew
his own arm off to get free. He’s holding the cigarette in the hook of his artificial limb, with all the cables so he can
twist it around like a robot and poke the filter between his lips. Out on the island he scooped a guy’s eye out with that
hook, that’s what Travis Hammond said. Close relation too.
He asks the last one in, the driver and dragger captain, Anson Trott, “Them two come up in the net?”
Lucky stands six-one or -two, weighs two twenty-five, but Anson Trott looks down at him through his beard like a Civil War
statue. “Kiss my ass, Lunt.” The way he says it, sounds more like he’s calling him “Lint.” Licky Lint. You can hardly understand
them, they talk a foreign language from not coming off of that island for three hundred years. “Hey Lint. Take at look at
this.” Big Anse unfolds a roll of cash the size of a horseshoe, all brand-new hundred-dollar bills with the big Ben Franklins
that look like large-print money for the blind. “We just sold twelve thousand pounds of scallops to your cousin Hannaford.”
“He ain’t my cousin,” Lucky says.
“We heard you was all cousins in Orphan Point.” The Trotts all laugh like it’s a big joke. Their mouths have some teeth, some
black holes, some false teeth that look like wooden lobster pegs green with mold, there’s not many dentists on Shag Island.
They’re all millionaires, though, that’s what Noah Parker says, he’s out there all the time with his pilot boat.
The Trotts order breakfasts of creamed chipped beef on English muffins, which Doris is gleeful to sell since she’s had the
stuff simmering in there for a month.
“You boys planning to race this year?” Lucky inquires. One of the Trotts is looking at his creamed beef like he’s having a
second thought, then decides it’s all right and forks it in. The bald-headed one says, “Sure, we’ll enter the dragger and
sink the whole fucking fleet.” Har, har, har, laugh the other Trotts with their mouths full of wooden teeth and pink-and-white
creamed chipped beef.
Lucky’s not going to let it drop, you don’t get a chance like this every day. “I heard there ain’t any fast boats out to Shag
Island since Alvah Greene died.”
“We got a couple,” the skipper says. “Carleton Trott just got his-self a six-hundred-cubic-inch Deetroit Diesel.”
“I heard he had a Deere.”
“He did. After a week he didn’t like it, pulled the cocksucker out and threw it overboard. Low tide, you can see that son
of a whore right off the ferry wharf in eight feet of water, bright fucking John Deere yellow.”
“Brand-new thirty-thousand-dollar engine,” his brother echoes. “Put the dock crane to the son of a whore and dropped her over
the side.”
“He any relation?” Lucky asks, fishing in his pocket to leave a decent tip.
“Not that I know of,” the Trott captain says, at the same time fingering a piece of chipped beef off one of his huge wooden
molars,
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