“No.” The receptionist belched smoke. “Melania? She the wife?”

“Yes. Giovanni’s wife.”

“Oh, Gio, we know.”

Gio. Giovanni’s nickname. The last time she’d heard it was from Mrs. Nyquist. Melania never used it, Mary realized now. “So Mr. Jackmann goes back, with Gio?”

“Way back.”

“How old a man is he?”

“Almost seventy-five. He’s semi-retired, hardly comes in anymore.”

“If he’s not coming back, can you tell me where he lives?” Mary asked, intrigued. Jackmann would be the oldest on the list. “It’s urgent. Or at least would you mind calling him and asking him to call me?”

“Sorry. He has a cell phone, but he won’t answer it. He can’t be reached today unless you’re the Coast Guard.”

Mary couldn’t believe her ears. “What did you say?”

“He’s fishing.”

Wahoo! “What time does he finish? When is he coming in? Docking, whatever? Better yet, where does he fish from?”

“You want to go to the marina?”

“I have to, it’s my job. It’s that important to him. Money is involved. Major money.”

The secretary’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I see. A will. Did Gio leave him money?”

Yeah, right. “I’m not at liberty to say. Just tell me, where does he come in from fishing? From.” Huh?

The secretary rattled off a marina address, and Mary thanked her and scooted out the door.

Thirty-Nine

The sun was setting on the other side of town, and Penn’s Landing was losing its light. The marina was located on the Delaware River at the eastern border of the city, just off the newly renamed Christopher Columbus Boulevard, tucked behind Dave amp; Busters. Mary wouldn’t have guessed that a marina could be a twenty-minute cab ride from Center City, much less next to a sports bar.

The marina was smallish, with only a few skinny wooden walkways between lots of gleaming white boats, bobbing gently in the murky river. People on the boats were laughing, sporting fresh sunburns, and they looked relaxed even as they busied themselves unpacking things, untying things, and undoing things after a day’s fishing. Mary looked around, not wanting to miss Jackmann coming in, and scanned the names of the moored boats. Donna. Julie. Tiffany; must be first, second, and third wife’s names. There were bad puns, too: Full of Ship. Sea More. Ocean’s Eleven Grand. And then the one she was looking for, already in: Outta Here. It was a white boat, about twenty feet long, with a matte finish and navy stripes along the side and it flew the American flag. An older man was unloading a spool of white rope off the boat and onto the dock. Jackmann.

Mary hurried down the walkway, pretending she wasn’t a landlubber, and burst through a cyclone fence gate in defiance of the MEMBERS ONLY sign. She waved her hand to get Jackmann’s attention. “Ahoy! Mr. Jackmann!” she called, caught up in the nautical spirit, but he didn’t look up and the effort made her cheek wound throb. Loser. She tried again when she reached the back of his boat. “Mr. Jackmann!” Mary was almost breathless, and he finally raised his head.

Jackmann had a weathered tan that brought out the sea blue of his eyes, and he was tall and still fit, in a white polo shirt, raggedy shorts, and untied sneakers. He sported a bushy beard, a headful of thick, grayish hair, and forearms like Popeye. Hot, for an old salt, Mary thought, then stopped cruising a septuagenarian. “Excuse me, are you Floyd Jackmann?”

“Every day.” Jackmann squinted at her, not unfriendly, merely puzzled. “Do I know you?”

“No. Your secretary told me you’d be here.” Mary sized him up. He looked like a no-nonsense kind of guy and she was sick of lying. “My name’s Mary, and it’s important that I talk to you. I wanted to get some information about Giovanni Saracone.”

“Take this can, would you?” Jackmann handed her a rusty blue Maxwell House coffee can sitting on the deck, next to a pile of other fishing gear and supplies. Mary accepted it, but it emitted such a stench, she had to look inside.

“Argh!” She jumped back in horror, almost dropping the can. Long alien-worms with zillions of legs slithered all over one another. One looked up at her with three little black eyes. “Gross! What are they?”

“Bloodworms. Don’t put your hand in there, hon. They attach right to ya.” Jackmann laughed with a smoker’s throatiness. “Now, whaddaya want to know?”

“I understand you were at Mr. Saracone’s funeral lunch, and your secretary said you two go way back. I was wondering if you could tell me -”

“You want information, you can work for it.” Jackmann handed her a red Playmate cooler, mercifully sealed. “Take this and set it over there.”

“Okay.” Mary set the cooler down as instructed. “So how long did you know Saracone?”

“Long time.” Jackmann locked a white plastic box fixed to the deck of the boat. In front of the box was a blue padded driver’s seat, a blue steering wheel, and over it, a panel of black control switches that read, NAV AFT BILGE WASHDOWN ACC.

“Since the war?”

Jackmann’s eyes flashed a minute, a surprised shot of blue. “Yeah.”

“How did you know him? How did you meet?”

“Everybody knew Gio. I was in college, working part-time with my dad, outta the shipyard. Gio was around all the time, with the lunch truck.” Jackmann handed her a rusty green box with a rusty handle, then pointed to the dock. “Tackle box goes over there.”

Mary set it down with the other stuff, and it rattled. “Did you say lunch truck?” Saracone had a lunch truck? Can you get to Birchrunville on a lunch truck?

“You know, a lunch truck. Sold soda, egg sandwiches, and hoagies to the guys fishing off the docks. That’s how hoagies got its name, you know.” Jackmann went to the front of the boat and pulled a fishing rod from a chrome holder, one of four rods and holders affixed to the roof of a shelter over the driver’s seat. The rods soared so high in the air it looked like they combed the clouds. “Guys sold them to the longshoremen and sailors down the old Navy Yard, off Hog Island. So they called ’em hoagies.”

“Really?” The one thing about Philly that Mary hadn’t known. It was a whole new world down here. She kept looking at the fishing rods. “Why do you have so many rods? You switch ’em around when you fish?”

“No, there’s rod holders. The rods go in there when we drop anchor.” Jackmann pointed to the chrome cups ringing the boat as he brought Mary the fishing rod, which was heavy as hell, with a cork handle and a very wiggly top. She took it, feeling vaguely like those guys who spin plates. Jackmann said, “Gio used to sell sandwiches, drinks, cigarettes, sodas. He charged too much for the smokes, which he boosted anyway.”

Gio. “Did you know anyone named Amadeo Brandolini, from when you worked on the docks? He was older than you or Gio, by about twenty years.”

Jackmann thought a minute, going back and sliding out the next rod. “No. Italian?”

“Yes, an immigrant. He didn’t speak much English. He had a wife and son.”

“Don’t know him.” Jackmann handed Mary the second rod, and she took it, discouraged.

Damn! It was a dry hole. Jackmann didn’t know Amadeo. She set the rod down on the dock with the other one. “You sure? Did you fish in those days? In the late thirties, early forties?”

“Yep. Always did. Born on the water.”

“Amadeo Brandolini was a fisherman, too.”

“You’re a lawyer, right?”

“I didn’t know it showed.”

Jackmann laughed thickly as he handed her the third rod, and Mary set it down, distracted. She couldn’t just give up. It was her last lead.

“But Amadeo started a small fishing business. I don’t know where exactly he fished, since it’s all built up now, but I think it was right off the port.”

“There were plenty of places to fish, then. Still are.”