“I reckon,” Tom said. “Been a few warm days, so there might be some white perch running by now. Got rockfish, anyway. People chasing ‘em all winter below Little Falls.”
“Well, damn, then that’s the reason to get down there. Buy us a big striper and that’ll make a world of improvement to your stew.”
***
Two miles below Glen Echo the scow passed a low wall of rubble in the river. The wall traced a rounded shoulder toward the Maryland shore from a small island, then converged with an outcropping, capturing a portion of the river for the feeder canal. From his station at the tiller, Kevin looked through the trees at the arc of whitewater trickling over the wall. That’s Dam 1, he thought, so we’re getting close. Lock 6 took them down to the one-mile level of Brookmont, and a mile later Lock 5 dropped them to the head of the Georgetown level, where water from the feeder canal entered through the guard lock. While locking through, Tom reclaimed the tiller so Kevin could drive the last two miles to Fletcher’s.
Kevin stopped his team when the scow passed under the elevated footbridge that linked Fletcher’s boathouse to Canal Road. He tied up and walked back toward the Fletcher’s turnoff. For a Tuesday afternoon in early spring, the boathouse was busier than he expected. A small fleet of canoes were arrayed near the canal and a comparable armada of crimson and gray rowboats were laid out on a dock that projected into Fletcher’s Cove. Gaps in the lineups suggested several vessels were in use. Before Kevin could even walk to the boathouse office, he was hailed by a teenaged boy.
“Hey mister, you need a fresh fish?” The boy pointed to a wash tub at his feet that held three immersed rockfish.
“How much?”
“Two dollars, mister,” the boy said, pointing to a fish that Kevin guessed might weigh three or four pounds. He pointed to the second fish and the third fish, which was easily the biggest. “Two dollars, three dollars for the big one. Just caught ‘em today.”
Kevin nodded and turned to spit. “Maybe later. When the price goes down.” He walked over to a covered message board outside the boathouse office. Notes on the board offered items for sale: used canoes, home-made lures, fishing tackle, bird dogs. Near the edge a plain piece of white paper, folded twice, was pinned to the board, a single salutation on its face: Mr. Emory. He plucked the message and unfolded it. The note read:
775 for 106. Tonight. Lock 3. 3am sharp.
He focused immediately on the “775 for 106” and worked the numbers in his head; the Irishman would pay less than seven-fifty per gallon. Kevin wasn’t thrilled, but it was enough. Better to make the relationship work than get stuck over a few dollars this early in the year.
And the schedule was good. Three am was still almost twelve hours away, but it meant they wouldn’t have to tie up in Rock Creek basin before they unloaded the whiskey. Doing that would raise the risk of an encounter with the law. And Kevin had been worried that the delivery might be delayed until Wednesday or Thursday, which would have interfered with the other things they needed to do in Georgetown. Contact Reddy Bogue to get rid of the firewood. And visit the coin man to trade Finn Geary’s paper currency for hard money; that alone was a two-step process. He put the note in his pocket and pulled out a small money clip, then peeled off two bills and stuffed them in his other pocket. On the way back to the canal, he stopped beside the boy with the tub of rockfish.
“I’ll take that big fish,” he said.
“You bet, mister.” The boy pulled the biggest rockfish from the tub. “Already cleaned him. I’ll wrap him up for you.” He removed two pages from a folded newspaper in his back pocket and used them to wrap the fish, skillfully tucking the ends so that they wouldn’t unravel. “That’s three dollars.”
“Sure, kid.” Kevin unfolded his two bills and looked perplexed before smiling and shaking his head. “I thought I had my whole wad with me, but now I recall that I left it on the boat.” He handed the boy the two dollars. “Here’s two dollars, and I’ll go get you another.” He pointed to the scow, visible now against the towpath. “I better take the fish with me, so he don’t get dried out. Got a bucket I can stick him in.”
“OK, mister,” the boy said, looking thoughtfully down at the two rockfish remaining in his tub. “I’ll wait for you right here.” He handed Kevin the wrapped-up fish.
“Much obliged, son. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He walked briskly back to the scow, whistling to get Tom’s attention when he reached the towpath. Tom plucked his knife from the deck and looked up as Kevin tossed him the fish. After untying the lines, Kevin jogged up to the mules and gave Mike a slap on the haunch. The mules snorted into their burden and the scow moved on past Fletcher’s.
Chapter 17
Shadow Men
Wednesday, March 26, 1924
At 2:10 am, Tom won the last hand of the evening. He pulled the meager pile from the center of the table and added the coins to his small heap. After five hours of sleep and an hour of coffee and poker, he and Kevin were both back where they started. It was time to head down to Lock 3. Kevin poured shots of whiskey.
“For luck.”
“Better not need any,” Tom muttered. “Just get in, get it off, and get out.”
“And get paid,” Kevin said. “Don’t forget that part.” They drained their whiskey and climbed to the deck to discover rain like fine, soft needles, and suspended water vapor catching ambient light from the city. The area around the scow was unlit, but they could see well enough to work without a lamp. And well enough, they hoped, to steer into the locks.
Through Georgetown the towpath leapfrogged to the north side of the canal and the river was a few blocks to the south. The scow was tied up above Lock 4, and Lock 3 was one block further east, near 30th Street. Kevin and Tom removed hatch 3 and extracted the logs that hid Finn Geary’s two barrels, sliding them back onto the stern hatches. Tom took the tiller as Kevin crossed the fall-board to get the mules ready. They started downstream with their bow-lamp dark.
The dirt towpath had grown wet and Kevin found the footing slippery as mud clung to his soles. Georgetown was at its quietest now and they had already passed the mills, but Kevin still heard distant metallic shrieks, iron striking iron, someone yelling in the distance. The rhythm of mule-hooves slapping wet dirt was the metronome for this nocturnal orchestra. Lock 4 was set for a loaded boat and deserted. Kevin slowed the mules and Tom steered a clear course. They locked through quickly. Ten minutes to three.
Kevin found himself eyeing the warehouses and dirt lots to his left and right as the scow passed Jefferson Street and approached Lock 3. A three-story brick foundry across the canal had been converted into a veterinary hospital for canal mules, and its hulking form loomed over Lock 3 like a giant watchdog. The diffuse glow of a streetlamp splashed onto the front of the hospital, but the side of the building facing the lock was cast into deep shadow. At the base of the shadow a dirt road ran parallel to the canal, and Kevin thought he saw a gleam of metal from the darkness as he drew closer.
He guided the mules past the lower gates and turned to check on the scow. Tom’s course looked good. Kevin snubbed the boat to a stop after it entered the lock. When he looked up, the shadowed veterinary hospital was directly across the canal and he could see the outline of a flatbed truck parked beside it. Two silhouettes leaning against the truck stepped forward. Kevin leapt onto the scow and Tom joined him on deck as the men approached.
The man on the left tilted back his hat-brim so that Kevin and Tom saw a glimmer of white from his eyes. He was taller than either Emory but looked young – barely twenty, Kevin thought. His anemic mustache was a light color and a toothpick bobbed in the corner of his mouth. The second man was Kevin’s height with black sideburns and a dark mole near the tip of his broad nose. Even in the dim light he looked powerfully built.