Thai Horse by William Diehl

horse trainer, a circus clown, a schoolteacher, and he now owned his own shrimp boat. The poet, whose name was Frank, worked as a night clerk in o n e of the mainland motels and spent his days on the beach, writing poetry. Bear was an architect. The fourth man at the table, trim and weathered, whom they called Judge, had fallen from the bench in disfavor, a victim of the bottle. He was now the maître d at the island’s premier hotel and had not had a drink in fourteen years.
    ‘Haven’t had food this good since I left home,’ Sloan said pleasantly.
    ‘That’s the truth,’ Bear answered. ‘And almost as cheap.’
    They chatted amiably back and forth during the meal. Finally Sloan popped the quest io n and was greeted with the same vague response.
    ‘Probably end up here eating sooner or later,’ said Bear. ‘Everybody does.’
    Sloan was undaunted. Hatcher had no listing in the city directory or phone book. No aut o registration. But since he lived on this island and he was ex-Navy and he loved the sea, it seemed reasonable that Hatcher had a boat. The process of elimination ultimately led Sloan to the marina.
    By this time everybody in the village knew he was looking for Hatcher.
    He tried to strike up a conversation with Cap Fendig, who operated the marina itself. Fendig’s roots were dug deep in the black soil of the island. His father and grandfather and great-grandfathe r were the harbor pilots who captained the big cargo vessels from the ocean through the sound to the state doc k s on the mainland.
    ‘Actually I’m looking for an old friend of mine, Chris Hatcher. We were in the Army together.’
    ‘That a fact.’
    ‘He’s big on sailing. Thought perhaps he might have a boat down here.’
    ‘Well, this would be the place t, keep a boat.’
    Fendig moved up the pier.
    ‘Name’s Chris Hatcher,’ Sloan called after him.
    ‘Wasn’t born here. Lived here all my life, nobody by that name was born on this island.’
    ‘No, he would have moved here about a year and a half ago.’
    ‘Oh.’
    End of discussion.
    Sloan changed his tack. He approached a kid working the gas pumps.
    ‘What time’s Chris Hatcher due back?’ he asked pleasantly.
    ‘Never know,’ the kid answered.
    Bingo.
    ‘Does he live on the boat?’
    ‘I wouldn’t know,’ the kid answered and vanished into the small pumping station.
    Sloan went back up to the marina, got a beer, and went back down to the pier and waited.
    The sharp bleat of a boat’s horn snapped Hatcher back to reality.
    ‘Oh God,’ he groaned. He got up, arranging the bulge in his skimpy bathing suit as best he could and went topside; he peered cautiously over the bulkhead.
    A shrimp boat called the Breeze-E was idling nearby, its engines muttering as it rocked gently in the calm sea. Its captain, a tall, leathery string - bean of a man with a neatly trimmed gray-white beard, was standing in the stern. He cupped his mouth with his hands and yelled, ‘This fella’s wandering all over the island asking after you. Been to Birdie’s, Po Stephens. Murphy’s. The marina. Even tried to pry information out of old Roland.’
    ‘What’d he want?’ Hatcher yelled back in the harsh voice that was part growl, part whisper.
    ‘Said he was an old friend of yours from the Army.’
    Hatcher shook his head. ‘What’s he look like?’
    ‘Big guy, built like a lobster pot, real broad in the shoulder. Looks to be in his late forties. Real friendly sort.’
    ‘Talks real soft and smiles all the tune. Little scar on his cheek?’ He drew an imaginary line from his eye to the corner of his mouth.
    ‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’
    ‘I wouldn’t say that. What’d you tell him?’
    ‘Not a damn thing.’
    ‘Thanks, Bob.’
    ‘Anytime. Fishing?’
    ‘Kinda.’
    ‘See ya.’
    Bob Hill waved, returned to the bridge and shoved the throttles, veering out towards the open sea. Hatcher heard a sound behind him and, turning, saw Ginia looking at him over the