Deerskin Neck

By Stephen M. Taylor

A series of mysterious events occur in the fictional New England fishing village of Stoneyport. Join a pragmatic fisherman, afoxy restaurateur, the town drunkard, and a mentally impaired cleaning lady, as they combine efforts to unravel the inexplicable events unfolding before them. You may never eat lobster again!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 4, 2009
• ISBN: 9781438999449

Stephen M. Taylor

     Author of six books. University of Kentucky graduate with MEd from Wayne State University. Career USAF officer and subsequent high school history teacher. Resides in Rome, NY.

Book preview

Chapter One

Red and green letters against a white background embellished the portico of the only Italian restaurant and bar in Stoneyport. Taylorini’s was owned and operated by Dorabella Arrighini. The bar itself was rectangular in shape and served as the centerpiece of the facility, booths lined the exterior walls, an outdoor veranda offered patrons the opportunity to smoke, as well as a charming view of the harbor, including Motif #2. Dorabella would be curtailing the menu after the weekend, settling down for the off season, remaining open only as a sandwich café and bar.

That dude’s always here, whispered Angus, taking a seat at a booth, a dated wooden lobster pot dangling overhead as part of the décor. He slid across the maple bench seat effortlessly, made smooth by Polyurethane and sundry asses before his. He lowered his chin to hands, fingers entwined, supported by elbows resting on the table before him, simply clad in denims and white t-shirt.

Who, Jimmy? asked the father, directing his gaze momentarily to the man at the bar, at the same time acknowledging him with a nod and sliding into position opposite the son. Like the younger man, the father wore denims, but instead of a t-shirt he wore a solid blue golf shirt with a collar and three buttons in the throat.

How’s it going? responded Jimmy. He didn’t expect an answer. It was just acknowledgement in kind. He took a sip from his dark brown bar bottle of Narragansett, returned to the introspection he’d enjoyed before the interruption.

Yeah, Jimmy, the town drunk, mumbled Angus under his breath, and in a manner condescending of Jimmy’s bibulous behavior. He glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes, the watch his father had given him for Christmas the previous year, the inexpensive watch with a black face and black leather wristband whose dials, in the dark, glowed green against iridescent numbers. Ten in the morning no less.

Go easy on him, advised Charlie. He was in Iraq. He glanced at the waitress in the black pants and white blouse, took in her figure unconsciously and ordered coffee. Dora around? he asked. Angus settled for a Coke.

It wasn’t long before Dorabella appeared from the kitchen, coffee and Coke in hand. Likewise, she wore black pants and white blouse, partially obscured by a white chef’s apron. She was taller than the average woman, five feet seven inches and of medium build. She usually wore her dark brown hair in a French twist, but this morning was different. She had one of those newfangled EZ Combs that held the hair on the back of her head smartly in place. She set the taupe cup and saucer before Charlie, the cup with the restaurant’s moniker stenciled in dark green letters and gold trim. Good morning, Charlie, how you doing? She allowed for Angus with her eyes, set the red and silver Coke can before him. Do you want ice and a glass?

Hi, answered Angus, without much conviction. He was unsure of Dorabella, thought she and his father were overly familiar and he was naturally protective of his mother. No thanks, I’m good.

Hey, Dora, I brought you something. Charlie reached over the seat and lifted the lid from the Styrofoam cooler at his feet. The brackish and translucent water sloshed when he pulled the container into view to where she could see the creatures, the blackish-green crustaceans with just a hint of orange garnish on their extremities.

Lobsters, she stated, glancing into the cooler. She wanted to be appreciative and pretended to study the two creatures. Those are beauts, Charlie. Speak of the devil, I just finished a pot of bisque. You guys want some? On the house?

For breakfast? Are you kidding? Charlie visualized the red concoction in a bowl before him, the small chunks of lobster suspended, the pungent fish odor infusing his nostrils. You make the best lobster bisque around, but I can’t take it for breakfast, sweetie.

How about you young man? I hear you’re leaving us soon? She turned her attention to Angus.

No thanks, he answered. He looked briefly into her mahogany eyes, probably the richest brown he’d ever seen in eyes, with just a smidgen of sangria.

Yeah, Joe College is leaving in a couple of days, interjected Charlie. He looked at his son, it was bittersweet. Charlie would miss him, but in a way, he would be glad upon his departure. Let somebody else, albeit an institution, take care of him for awhile. Let somebody else be responsible. One less person with which to share the family car.

State, no? asked Dorabella. She whisked away a strand of hair dangling over her eyes. She looked again at the lobsters.

Yeah, said Angus.

Fine school, she added. I’m sure you’ll do well.

That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, said Charlie. I’m looking for someone to take his place, to help me out. You see a lot of people come and go. You know of anybody that might want a job? He stirred his coffee absently, watched it change from black to hazelnut brown, as the cream dissipated.

She paused but a moment, bent over to adjust the condiment dispensers at the end of the table, so that her face was close to Charlie’s and whispered, How about Jimmy?

Charlie rolled his eyes for her benefit, although she didn’t see. Jesus, Dora. Like, you ever seen him sober? Charlie spoke in hushed voice. He took a sip of coffee, blew on it first, as if to cool it.

I bet he’d get sober for a job, she countered. She straightened up, adjusted her apron.

I’ll think about it, said Charlie, but he wouldn’t really consider it seriously. Working on a boat off the coast of New England was dangerous business, not work for the afflicted in any way.

Cindy, maybe? Dorabella shrugged her shoulders, suspected her new suggestion was worse than the first.

Cindy, the cleaning lady? Another afflicted one. He wondered what Dorabella was thinking.

Why not?

Jesus, Dora, like she’s… Charlie didn’t finish his sentence. He was reluctant to use the word retarded. That was too mean. He took a swallow of coffee.

Retarded? Dorabella finished it for him.

You know what I mean. She’s slow or something.

I’ll bet she could at least drive the boat. She turned to the handful of customers entering the establishment.

I don’t know. We’ll see. If you come across somebody let me know, okay?

I’ll work on it, Charlie. Now what can I get you?

A couple of turkey sandwiches to go.

You going out today?

Yeah. The last time for Joe College. He indicated Angus with his eyes. Got to deliver some cobbler to Tony and Jake first.

Jenny made cobbler? asked Dorabella. Before he could answer she added, What kind?

Cranberry I think. He lifted the napkin from the glass dish beside him on the seat, glanced into it at the cobbler.

Makes sense. They’re in season. I should have known. By the way, could you do me a favor?

Sure, answered Charlie.

Since you’re going out, Pasha loves my bisque. Could you take her some?

You’re kidding me. It was a statement, not a question.

Yeah, she does.

No problem, he said, and shrugged his shoulders.

The father and son left Taylorini’s and moseyed out Deerskin Neck to make their delivery. Near the end of the neck, they entered the gift shop of Tony and Jake, which also served as the office for the sixteen room motel they owned and operated, and the small coffee shop in which they served free breakfast to the motel guests. Tony fancied baking and prepared assortments of pastries on a daily basis, often augmented by donations from friends, vying in a friendly manner for Tony’s adoration as well as that of his patrons. Charlie and Angus were greeted by the yapping of Pasha, a miniature poodle. Pasha’s hair color was mixed, but more toward black than dark gray, and maintained in the perfect French cut expected of high class members of the breed. She had a high-pitched bark that was all-powerful, beady little black eyes.

Oh, justh stop that barking right this minute, Pasha, warned Tony, holding the phone away and covering the mouthpiece with his hand demonstratively. Tony did everything demonstratively. His rebuke was so mild as to be playful. Tony and Jake were openly gay. They even talked to any one that would listen about how the state was on the verge of legalizing gay marriage and how that would make them tho happy. Tony was stereotypical with his effeminate deportment, while Jake was more straight. The couple had owned the motel many years and were well known in Stoneyport.

Morning Tony, said Charlie, matter-of-factly. Homosexuality wasn’t Charlie’s cup of tea personally, but the concept of same sex marriage for others didn’t offend him in the least. In fact, Charlie was pretty much a latitudinarian. He placed the cobbler on the front desk. He gazed about the shop quickly, looking for any new and interesting knickknacks Tony may have acquired. The crystal ship with three masts was the shop’s crown jewel, majestically displayed in the front window, for sale for just a couple thousand dollars.

I see you’ve brought me some goodies, smiled Tony, continuing to hold the phone at arms length. He was slight of build with artificially blonde hair. He usually wore bell-bottom pants and v-necked lady’s sweaters. Today was no exception and he wore white pants and a lavender sweater with sandals.

Yeah, Jenny made it. Charlie looked at Pasha, who had finally settled down.

Tony returned to the phone. Okay, Cindy, justh get here when you can, sweetheart. He hung up then looked at Charlie, placing his hands on his hips, again demonstratively, which he was wont to do. It’s the cleaning lady. She’s gonna be late. What’cha gonna do? He diverted his attention to the cobbler dish. Cobbler, oh, yummy, yummy. That’s so sweet. Jenny do this, God bless her little heart? And what is this? He accepted the crock pot from Angus.

It’s from Dora, answered Charlie. It’s for Pasha.

Lobster bisque, said Angus.

Lobster bisque? Oh, my goodness, Pasha, look what they’ve brought you. Justh look at this. He took the aluminum foil cover from the small pot and sniffed dramatically. Oh, Pasha, it smells simply delicious. He placed it on the floor. Pasha sniffed and walked away.

Charlie pretended not to notice. How’s Jake? he inquired.

Jake’s fine, said Tony. He’s over at the police station this very moment trying to get them to move the fireworks off Deerskin Neck tonight. Oh my goodness, those firecrackers justh drive Pasha insane. Last Fourth of July she justh crawled under the bed and shivered and shook. I had to take her to the vet. God bless her little heart.

Ain’t much chance of that is there, moving the fireworks? Charlie looked down at Pasha who was looking back at him, head cocked to the left. He squatted and the dog came to him. Charlie petted her gently on the back of the head.

I suppose not. I’m sorry to whine, Charlie, said Tony. You guys going out today?

Yeah, answered Charlie. Last time for the kid here. He put his arm around Angus’ shoulder.

Off to college I hear. Ah, sighed Tony, don’t they justh grow up so fast, though? He shook his head in mock disbelief.

Say, Tony, you know anybody that wants a job? asked Charlie.

Lobstering?

Yeah. Lobstering with me.

That’s such hard work. My goodness. Ah, let me think. You could take Cindy off my hands. Ha, ha, ha, ha. Tony pretended to wash his hands in exaggerated fashion.

Gee, thanks Tony, said Charlie, sardonically. That’s brilliant.

Good luck, volunteered Tony, ignoring Charlie’s sarcasm. Be sure to tell Jenny thanks for me.

We’ll see you, guy.

Pasha barked over their departure. Oh, Pasha, justh stop that right this instant. You know Charlie and Angus. Justh be quiet already.

The small fishing craft eased its way through the opening of the breakwater and past the green lobster shack known as Motif #2, circumvented a number of anchored boats, moved parallel to Deerskin Neck and eventually out into Pristine Bay. It was hot for Labor Day weekend, but not humid. It was the last trip for the young man, the last trip for some time. He looked at the back of his old man’s head, driving the vessel. He’d witnessed the same scene hundreds of times before, maybe even a thousand times before; long salt-and-pepper hair covered by a baseball cap, scruffy five o’clock shadow. He had many baseball caps; Yankees, Red Sox, a couple of NFL teams, NASCAR’s Kasey Kahne, Notre Dame, Turning Stone from the PGA and others. He never bought them himself. They were gifts; from his wife, from his children, from his relatives, from friends. But Angus couldn’t remember where or how Charlie got his favorite, the one he wore the most, the one he wore today. He guessed he favored it for a combination of reasons; appearance, camber of the bill, texture and fit, for as far as he knew, Charlie had no affiliation with the logo. It was white, a white made grungy by time and elements, and the moniker in front read Richmond Lacrosse over a couple of lacrosse sticks. The adjustable band in the back showed the word SPIDERS. Every once in a while someone would ask him something like, Did you go there? or Your kid go there? or What’s the connection? or something such. Charlie would just shrug.

And, as if on cue, a seagull landed on the bow immediately in front of the windshield, face-to-face with Charlie. Hey, Sammy. How you doing today, girl? Charlie addressed the bird cordially, as if on friendly terms. He fiddled through the instrument panel compartment for the sandwich Dorabella had just made, unwrapped it and gave some morsels of bread to the bird. Charlie always did that, and claimed that the bird was the same bird every time. You could tell, he would say, by the various color patterns in the plumage, which he would describe in great detail; predominantly gray with various shades of white blending in, splotches of black on the rims of the tail feathers, a dusky yellow beak, crooked at the end, pink legs and pink webbed feet. He also maintained that the bird was female, Sam or Sammy being short for Samantha, and that she guided them on their fishing journeys, an anodyne of sorts.

The Yanks are going to win the pennant, stated Charlie, confidently. He fiddled with the volume control on the portable CD player, turning it louder. A powerful tenor voice began. Puccini, he announced. "It’s from Tosca. Puccini’s the best. Charlie talked over his shoulder, assumed incorrectly that his son was listening. He’s more contemporary though. Much newer than Mozart and Verdi and Handel and those guys. Not that they aren’t good, too. You ever been to an opera, Angus?"

Not really. He gazed absently toward the back of the boat at the v-shaped wake originating beneath and extending out behind, creating little white capped waves that caused the lobster buoys to dance in the water.

You don’t ever listen to classical music either? Charlie surveyed the seascape to either side for other boats before accelerating into Pristine Bay. Crystals of sunlight reflected from the oscillating waters causing him to furrow his brow on occasion.

Nope. Angus retrieved the standard lobsterman’s suit, rubber and bright orange, and began the somewhat arduous task of pulling it on over his clothes. It wasn’t so bad today, knowing it would be the last time.

Probably wouldn’t know the difference between Bach and Dylan. Charlie was still at it. He checked the gages on the instrument panel out of habit, especially the oil pressure and temperature, which to his expectation, remained satisfactory.

Probably don’t care. Angus chuckled to himself and his own indifference.

You ought to be able to pick out a Tician from a Botticelli. You ought to get some culture, son, admonished Charlie. One time in English class I was totally humiliated because I didn’t know what was going on with this poem. Right in front of your mother, too. Of course, we weren’t married yet. I made it a point not to be ignorant on the arts ever since. He continued his admonition, getting more vibrant as he went. Societies are measured by their arts. The extent to which we dabble with the arts is the extent to which we are civilized. People that are constantly at war or constantly struggling to survive or constantly trying to make a buck don’t have time to compose music or create a painting. They’re too busy covering their ass. Believe me though, it’s important to appreciate the arts, to keep an eye on ‘em. As go the arts, so goes our civilization. You hear me?

Yupper. Hey, maybe I’ll get some of that culture you’re talking about at college. Angus hoped his old man was finished with the lecture, grateful for the appearance of the first orange, green, and white buoy.

Watch that wench, you hear me? advised Charlie. His father always did that, warned him to be careful with the pulley system that brought up the lobster traps. It was easy to get hung up and lose a finger, or a hand, or even an arm. A few men had even been strangled to death over the years or slung overboard.

The first trap came to the surface. Anything? asked Charlie, over his shoulder. He was inclined to look, but his neck was sore, an aggravation that came more and more with age.

Tinker, shouted the son, disappointment riding his words. He extricated the under-sized lobster from the mesh trap and measured it just to make sure. He threw it overboard.

How’s the bait?

Good. The son checked his feet to insure they weren’t inadvertently entangled in the line and then let the trap slide back into and below the surface of the dark water.

Anything in there for Sammy? asked Charlie. He liked to give little tidbits from the sea to the seagull.

No, Dad, nothing for Sammy. By the way, you aren’t planning on running all the pots by yourself, are you? He was concerned that with his departure to college, his father might overextend himself trying to fish the traps by himself everyday.

Sure. Why not? answered Charlie. He advanced the throttle moderately and proceeded to the next