It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my eyeballs in their sockets.
“Good day.” I have never once used that phrase and debut it with a terrible British accent. I clear my throat. “Are you Rueben Vance? Or Cap? Or ...”
Another grunt, this one followed by a long look, his bottom jaw shifting back and forth.
“Cap,” he finally says. “What’s it to ya?”
“I’m ...” I suddenly understand why Barry the banker blinks like a maniac. I have no idea what to say or do with my face. No idea how to tell this man that I’m part-him. That I need his help to save life as I know it even though there’s a very good chance he’ll tell me to piss off. “Iris Conway’s daughter. You knew her as Iris Young.” My eyes widen with his. “And ... you’re my father.”
Eleven
Cap
Well I’ll be damned.
Twelve
Cap’s blank stare turns my mouth to a desert.
Somehow, I power on.
“My name is Rue. Rue Conway. My mother—” I clear my throat. Twice. “She told me about your profession recently.” He stares at me. “Or former profession.” Nothing. “And she gave me this?—”
I pull the crumpled article out of my pocket, waving it like a flag.
He stares at it.
“And I was wondering if you would be able to tell me what you know about the missing gold. I’m here to find it.” I clear my throat—again—sweat rolling down my back and into my ass like a river in a canyon. “If you’re able.” With my exhale: “Sir.”
The amount of time he stares at me might be seconds or an hour; it’s hard to tell because I’m so nervous and thirsty and hot. So focused on keeping my legs in place and not running to the parking lot and driving straight back to Fontain.
Finally, he grunts then retreats into the boat, leaving the little door open.
I search the dock in hopes of someone materializing to tell me what to do; they do not.
“Come aboard,” Cap barks from inside.
I do as he says, climbing up four steps to get onto the boat then down four steps that lead to a big-ish room.
Unlike the exterior where the finishes are peeling and faded, the inside is pristine. Teak and polished brass cover nearly every surface. There’s a box fan blowing the mild scent of marijuana around, a small TV playing a muted black-and-white western, and a sofa with maroon cushions that leads to the elements of a miniature kitchen. The only thing out of place is a director-style canvas chair in the middle of the room. This odd seat is where Cap is perched, his wooden cane across his lap.
The cane that I now see has a topless mermaid carved into the grip, bare breasts so big they might as well be lightbulbs.
I try not to stare at it.
Or his missing leg.
Or the prosthetic foot that’s sun-bleached and stained by dirt around the artificial toes.
Or the portable tank of oxygen next to him.
Or the vape pen he takes a long drag from.
“Do I close the door or ... ?”
“Called a hatch,” he says, gruff. “Leave it.”
Clutching the article and my purse, I sit on the sofa; a cry of a gull fills the air. “Your boat’s nice.”
