The Deepest Waters, A Novel by Dan Walsh

their part to offset all the inhumanity and injustice, or some other such thing.
    Joel didn’t care. If it helped her sleep at night or eased her sense of guilt for having so much of this world’s goods, fine. Joel would take all he could get his hands on. His father had given him John’s percentage after he’d left. With the exploding growth, he was nearly as wealthy as his father had been ten years ago.
    But Joel wanted more.
    His father had developed a chronic cough in the last few months. Joel wondered if it might not develop into something more serious. He wondered if his father had followed through on his threat to remove John’s name from his will.
    He wished there were some way to find out for sure.

     
    The carriage stopped, the little door slid over.
    “We’re here, Mr. Foster. I’ll get the door.”
    Joel stepped out into the sunlight.
    “They won’t allow me to park here, sir. But the office entrance is right over there. I’ll keep an eye out for you.”
    “That’ll be fine,” Joel said. “Can’t imagine I’ll be more than fifteen minutes.” He started walking then turned. “But we will need to leave as soon as I come out. Have a lunch date, and I absolutely cannot be late.”
    “I’ll be here, Mr. Foster.”
    Before he went into the steamship office, Joel caught sight of a large ship looming like a cliff behind the brick building. He had seen these steamships out in the harbor but never up close. Must be well over two-hundred feet long, painted a shiny black with a bright red stripe running from stem to stern. It had three wooden masts and a single black smokestack rising from the center. He pulled his gold pocket watch from his vest. No time for gawking.
    He walked through the door. A pretty dark-haired girl sat behind a deep mahogany desk. “How can I help you?”
    “Where might I confirm the arrival of one of your ships?”
    “Do you expect it today?”
    “Tomorrow, I’m told.”
    “Right around the corner you’ll see two long counters. Anyone behind them should be able to help you.”
    “Thank you.” Joel followed her instructions and was soon walking on a shiny marble floor beneath crystal chandeliers. Not what he expected from a shipping office. Behind the counter a balding, round-faced man with thick, furry sideburns was writing something on a chalkboard. “Excuse me, my good man.”
    The man turned, eyed Joel’s clothing, and instantly offered his undivided attention. “How can I help you, Mister . . .”
    “Foster, Joel Foster. You have a steamship, the SS . . .” He held up John’s letter. “The SS Vandervere .”
    “Ah yes, the Vandervere . One of the finest in our line.”
    “I see. Just wanting to verify, if at all possible, when you expect her into port.”
    “Very good, Mr. Foster.” He turned and looked back at the chalkboard, eyes scanning the columns. “There she is. Tomorrow. Three o’clock.”
    “Same thing it says in this letter. No change then?”
    “No, if there was, we’d know. And we’d post the change on this board.”
    “How would you know?” Joel asked.
    “Well, the steamships are very reliable compared to the old sailing ships. They do have masts and sails, but they’re rarely used. We’re no longer at the mercy of the wind. That big paddle wheel keeps turning like clockwork, wind or waves, rain or shine. The Vandervere has already made this voyage from Panama forty-one times, so we have a pretty good idea when she’ll arrive. She may be off a few hours, but I doubt it will be more than that.”
    “Really?” said Joel. “Glad to hear it. Thank you for your time.”
    “You’re most welcome. Good day.”
    Joel tipped his hat and headed back toward the street. This little detour might prove advantageous. He decided to check back at the office and see what percentage of their business, if any, involved writing policies for these steamships. Whatever it was, he’d make sure they increased it . . . substantially.
    Low risks,