Tales of Old Brigands Key by Ken Pelham Page B

first the Pilar and then Ernest. The Pilar was moored
alongside the dock, tied fore and aft with heavy lines. The Coast Guard vessel,
a seventy-eight footer, rocked gently alongside Pilar's starboard, lashed to her and the dock, pinning her firmly into place. She was
going nowhere until that Coast Guard boat was out of the way.
    From
the north, the beacon of Hammond Lighthouse swung its swift arm of light across
the island, each pass brightening the waterfront for an instant.
    The
day had been overcast, but that cover had blown away and a full moon climbed
high in the east. Damn the bad luck; when you want good weather, you get a
mess. When you need bad weather, you got a clear beautiful night with moonlight
on the water. Too late to worry about that, though.
    He'd
studied Ernest when the guy had first pulled up the channel. The guy was a
college boy, that was plain as day, but had some nails and broken glass in his
gut, and pain, too, and knew his way around a boat. Now the guy showed just the
opposite, just like they'd planned, like a rich man with a big boat and little
sense.
    Ernest
sauntered down the dock, whistling like some goddamn playboy, and stepped onto
the Pauline . Lou had taken note when she first berthed in Brigands Key.
Nice looking craft, a sportsman's boat, polished wood and brass and all that
rich-man stuff, maybe twenty-eight feet long.
    The
main dock jutted a hundred yards perpendicular from the inland side of the
island, pointed like a middle finger at the mainland. Smaller docks teed out
from the main dock, about half of them occupied by the commercial fishing boats.
In better times, every last one would be occupied, but the Depression wiped out
a slew of them and drove them off to other places. The ones that was able to
stay in business, like Lou, was the ones that did a little moonlighting.
    Kerosene
lanterns bathed a good bit of the dock in a dim orange wash. A couple of CG
sentries, carbines slung over their shoulders, stood fore and aft on the deck
of their gunboat, which was the meanest-looking vessel on the waterfront. The
aft sentry seemed alert, like he was watching Ernest too. The one on the bow
sat cross-legged on the deck with a deck of cards, playing solitaire. Lazy son
of a bitch.
    Ernest
fiddled about on the Pauline for a few minutes, trying to look busy,
fussing over fishing gear, rustling about in a locker, withdrawing a can. Lou
knew what he was up to. Ernest glanced at the CG, and moved aft with the can
and a paint brush. He dipped the brush into the paint and leaned out real easy
over the transom as if to inspect something, and slopped paint over the name of
his boat. He'd already said he was going to take pains to lessen up the chances
of being accompliced in Lou's felony. Smart feller. A
college boy.
    The
paint job done, Ernest stowed the brush and can, and unhitched his mooring
lines. He went into the pilot house and a moment later, his engines purred and
churned up the water behind the boat, and he eased it away from the dock.
    Lou
looked at his watch. It was four A.M., not an unreasonable time to get seaward
for some daybreak fishing. The aft sentry kept an eye on the Pauline as
she drew nearer.
    Pauline's engines
throttled up a bit. Ernest had bumped her up, and the boat gained speed, maybe
to six knots. Not what fishermen like to see in a too cozy harbor around the
boats that put food on their tables, but exactly what you'd expect from some
rich playboy.
    The Pauline's engines suddenly died, and Ernest glanced about, looking
puzzled and concerned. The boat plowed ahead with momentum now.
    Lou
smiled. This stupid idea just might work.
    The Pauline closed toward the CG now, and Ernest made a show of frantically
trying to restart the engines.
    The
alert sentry leaned closer. "Ahoy," he shouted. "Control your
vessel. You're coming too close, too fast." The lazy sentry glanced up,
and slowly got to his feet.
    "I
can't," Ernest called back. "The engines died, just like that.