Short Fiction By Alexander Kutov
Pier Pressure.
Original commercial piers along Fisherman’s Wharf are Redwood roadways
surrounding aging warehouses also made from first growth timber that faded gray.
While most San Francisco docks have gone to maritime museums
or tourist traps, a few wharves still cling to fishing operations.
This night, the white delivery van backed onto Pier 47,
fishing industry dock one mile south of Alcatraz Island. It slowed its pace
across the old wood to honor a pounding rain, which continued to sweep in off
the bay from the Marin Headlands to the northwest.
In reverse gear, the new Packard van pulled to a stop astride
the gangway leading to an equally non-descript trawler berthed across from
Giacalone’s Fisherman’s Wharf restaurant.
Late-night comings and goings were not uncommon as the
fishing fleet worked around the clock. Odd was the fact the tall driver, who
wore a pea coat with a ribbed Navy blue watch cap pulled over his ears, would
choose to appear during such a heavy downpour.
Sleeping in an alcove behind wooden crates that hadn’t been
moved in years, Jerry Longstreet, the same career wino, who had been booted out
of John Wald’s Powell’s Saloon, a couple of hours earlier awoke to see the warehouse
walls turn red from approaching taillights. He listened to the van rumble by
him and stop next to a moored fishing trawler.
Old Jerry--now moments from his death--was filthy, hungry but
for him somewhat clearheaded. He has been sober two days because his body's
stench had put a crimp in his public panhandling earnings. As a result, he’s
been too broke to buy the sugar wine that’s made his puffy skin purple and his
livermush.
Jerry saw a man he’d recognized. He had something to do with the fishing boat
now being approached by the van.
Jerry walked sideways facing away from the eye irritating
spits of gritty rain. Coatless, he
braved the chilling cold to make the driver his last panhandle of the night.
The approach of unexpected company startled the driver, who
immediately slipped his hand around a small handgun inside the pocket of his
rain duty hoodie.
The denizen spoke first. He stared toward the tall man, who had
one round scar on each cheek: “Can you help a fella out? I could use some spare
change for food, a cup of coffee?”
A long silence followed.
Old Jerry continued offering his best Humphrey Bogart grin,
“I know you, don’t I?” He didn't have a clue to what he was saying. He was pulling out all stops to be
sociable. “I seen you doing some funny
shit on this pier. I know what you’re up
to. That duffle bag ain’t trash,” Jerry
bluffed.
“You know nothing,” the driver shouted to be heard. His stare was evil, calculating how to deal
with what had become was more than a beggar’s plea.
Jerry kept smiling, now more of a plea than a gesture of
friendliness.
Finally, the driver responded: “I got more stuff in the van.
Help me unload it and I’ll give you a couple of bucks.”
“That’s a deal, buddy.” Jerry noticed round scars on his
face—one on each cheek. He had seen that face before but right now couldn’t
remember where.
“Take the canvas bag out of the van and bring it on board,”
the driver ordered.
Jerry obeyed.
In turn, he struggled with the lumpy oversized bag. He had to drag it and in doing so had to
catch his breath several times.
The driver offered no help.
Jerry took forever to drag the bag against the bait
tank. The smell outrageous, gagging and
made bearable by the blowing wind.
“Well, I got it here. How about
my pay? “
He was about to ask if the boat needed another crew member
when the driver grabbed him in a headlock.
Too late, Jerry struggled.
Death was swift as the driver snapped the old man’s neck.
There was no scream, no moan or torrent of blood to splash on the deck. The
only sound the driver heard was the monotonous slapping of waves against the
trawler’s hull.
The driver dumped him and the body stuffed inside the canvas
bag into the bait tank that was filthy with rotting chum and maggots. He knew later in the morning that the bodies
would be flushed out to sea when the seiner opened its bait tanks.
In the distance, he heard a muffled
laugh. The crew of the Angelina was
approaching otherwise no one saw nothin’, except for a pair of ancient eyes
positioned between the crates where Jerry had been sleeping.
Editor’s
note: The late author, a Sausalito resident, saw his writing career starve to
death waiting for this short story to be published. In his honor, we present this Russian Emigre longshoreman/writer’s
debut decades after it was written.
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