“Oh, ye of little faith, stop griping. Keep telling yourself that it didn't cost us anything.”
“I've got to admit that it has character.”
Pitt aimed the chronically complaining Giordino toward the shantyboat. “Go load up the equipment and check out the engine. I'll go over to the store and buy some groceries.”
“I can't wait to see our motive power,” Giordino groused. “Ten to one it doubles as an eggbeater.”
Pitt walked a boardwalk through a boatyard leading down the bank into the river. A worker was giving a wooden fishing boat set inside a cradle on rails a new coat of antifouling paint on the keel and hull. Next door, Pitt came to a wooden structure under a sign that proclaimed WHEELER'S LANDING. A long porch ran around the building, which was raised off the ground by rows of short pilings. The walls were painted a bright green with yellow shutters framing the windows. Inside, Pitt found it incredible that so much merchandise could be crammed in so small a space. Boating parts took up one end of the store, fishing and hunting supplies the other. The center was devoted to groceries. A compact refrigerator stocked with five times as much beer as soft drinks and dairy products stood against one wall.
Pitt picked up a hand basket and made out very well, selecting enough foodstuffs to feed him and Giordino three or four days, and, as with most men, he probably bought more than they could eat, especially specialty items and condiments. Setting the overloaded basket on the counter by the cash register, he introduced himself to the portly owner of the store who was busily stocking canned goods.
“Mr. Wheeler. My name is Dirk Pitt. My friend and I have charted the Bayou Kid's shanty boat.”
Wheeler brushed his thick mustache with the light touch of a finger and stuck out his hand. “Been expectin' you. The Kid said you'd be by this mornin'. She's all ready to go. Fuel tank filled, battery charged and topped off with oil.”
“Thank you for your trouble. We should be back in a few days.”
“I hear y'all is goin' up to the canal them Chinks built.”
Pitt nodded. “Word travels.”
“Y'all got charts of the river?” asked Wheeler.
“I was hoping you might supply them.”
Wheeler turned and checked the labels taped on a slotted cabinet hanging on the wall containing rolled nautical charts of the local waterways and topographical maps of the surrounding marshlands. He pulled out several and spread them on the counter. “Here's a chart showing depths of the river and a few topo maps of the Atchafalaya Valley. One of them shows the area around the canal.”
“You're a great help, Mr. Wheeler,” said Pitt sincerely. “Thank you.”
“I guess y'all know the Chinks won't let you on the canal. They've got it chained off.”
“Is there another way in?” asked Pitt.
“Sure, at least two of them.” Wheeler took a pencil and began marking the maps. “You can take either Hooker's or Mortimer's bayous. Both run parallel to the canal and empty into it about eight miles from the Atchafalaya. Y'all'll find Hooker's to be the easiest to navigate the shanty boat.”
“Does Qin Shang Maritime own the property around Hooker's Bayou, too?”
Wheeler shook his head. “Their borders only run a hundred yards on either side of the canal.”
“What happens if you cross the barrier?”
“Local fishermen and hunters sneak in sometimes. More often than not, they're caught and thrown out by an armed boatload of automatic rifle-to tin' Chinks who patrol the canal.”
“Then security is tight,” said Pitt.
“Not so much at night. Y'all could probably get in, see what y'all want to see, since we're havin' a quarter moon for the next two nights before it wanes, and get out before they know y'all been there.”
“Has anyone reported seeing anything strange in and around the canal?”
“Nothin' worth writin' home about. Nobody can figure why the fuss to keep people out of a ditch through a swamp.”
“Any barge or boat traffic in and out?”
Wheeler shook his head. “None. The chain barrier is fixed in place and can't be opened unless ya blast it with TNT.”
“Does the canal have a name?”
“Use to be known as Mystic Bayou,” Wheeler said wistfully. “And a pretty bayou it was, too, before it was dug all to hell. Lots of deer, ducks and alligator to hunt. Catfish, bream and bass to fish. Mystic Bayou was a sportsman's paradise. Now it's all gone, and what's left is off limits.”
“Hopefully my friend and I will have some answers in the next forty-eight hours,” said Pitt as he loaded the groceries in an empty cardboard box offered by Wheeler.
The boat-landing owner penciled several numbers on the corner of a map. “Y'all get into trouble, call my cell-phone number. Y'all hear? I'll see that you get help real quick.”
Pitt was touched by the amiable and intelligent people in southern Louisiana who had offered their advice and assistance. They were contacts to be treasured. He thanked Wheeler and carried the groceries down the dock to the shantyboat. As he stepped on board the veranda, Giordino stood in the doorway shaking his head in wonderment.
“You're not going to believe what you see in here,” he said.
“It's worse than you thought?”
“Not at all. The ulterior is clean and Spartan. It's the engine and our passenger that boggle the mind.”
“What passenger?”
Giordino handed Pitt a note he'd found pinned to the door. It read,
Mr. Pitt and Mr. Giordino. I thought that since you wanted to look like locals on a fishing trip, you should have a companion. So I loaned you Romberg to embellish your image as rivermen. He'II eat any kind offish you throw at him.
Luck, The Bayou Kid
“Who's Romberg?” asked Pitt.
Giordino stepped out of the doorway and without comment pointed inside at a bloodhound lying on his back with his paws in the air, big floppy ears splayed to the sides, his tongue half hanging out.
“Is he dead?”
“He might as well be, for all the enthusiasm he's shown at my presence,” said Giordino. “He hasn't twitched or blinked an eye since I came on board.”
“What is so unusual about the engine?”
“You've got to see this.” Giordino led the way through the one room that composed the living room, bedroom, and kitchen of the shantyboat to a trapdoor in the floor. He lifted the cover and pointed below into the compact engine room in the hull. “A Ford 427-cubic-inch V-8 with dual quad carburetors. An oldie but goodie. It's got to have at least four hundred horsepower.”
“Probably closer to four hundred twenty-five,” said Pitt, admiring the powerful engine that appeared in immaculate condition. “How the old man must have laughed after I asked him if the engine could move the boat against the river current.”
“As big as this floating shack is,” said Giordino, “I'd guess we could make close to twenty-five miles an hour if we had to.”
“Keep it slow and easy. We don't want to look like we're in a hurry.”
“How far is the canal?”
“I haven't measured the distance, but it looks to be close to sixty miles.”
“We'll want to get there sometime before sunset,” said Giordino, mentally calculating a leisurely cruising speed.
“I'll cast off. You take the helm and head her into the channel while I store the groceries.”
Giordino needed no coaxing. He couldn't wait to start the big 427 Ford and feel its torque. He hit the starter and it rumbled into life with a mean and nasty growl. He let it idle for a few moments, savoring the sound. It did not turn over smoothly, but loped. It was too good to believe, Giordino thought to himself. The engine was not stock. It was modified and tuned for racing. “My God,” he murmured to himself. “It's far more powerful than we thought.”
Knowing without a shade of doubt Giordino would soon get carried away and push the engine throttle to its stop, Pitt secured the groceries so they wouldn't end up on the deck. Then he stepped over the sleeping Romberg, went out onto the forward veranda and relaxed in a lawn chair, but not before bracing his feet against the bulwark and wrapping his arm around the railing.