He grunts, giving the floor a swifttapwith the bottom of his cane.
My knee starts to bounce. He watches it. I still.
“Why are you called Cap?”
“Licensed captain. Flounder gigging work for tourists mostly. Crazy sons of bitches.”
I’m not sure if he’s talking about the flounder or the tourists. I also do not ask.
I glance around the room again. “So, you live here?”
Grunt.
“And a—” I swallow. “A treasure hunter?”
Tap, tap, tapgoes the cane. “Used to be.”
The scenario of awkward was not one I prepared for.
“Do you do anything else?” I ask. “Work?”
“Don’t drive.”
On the small strip of kitchen counter, there’s a bottle of liquor and a half-eaten loaf of bread. In the little refrigerator, I’m guessing there’s food, leading me to ask, “How do you get groceries?”
“Underage dockhand gets ’em for me in exchange for cheap beer.”
My eyes narrow. “How do you get the beer?”
“Neighbor. Don’t like leaving the boat.”
Through the window, the neighboring sailboat is covered in metal wind spinners. A black cat appears on the railing, startling me.
“I’m a homebody too,” I offer.
The crease deepens between Cap’s eyes, but once again, he’s silent.
“When I’m not working, I mean,” I add. “Or meeting long-lost sperm donors.”
I smile; he doesn’t.Right.
In the distance, a boat rumbles, and we bob gently in the wake that follows, dock lines and boat bumpers creaking as we do.
I look around the room again, desperate for anything to get this man to warm up to me. “Do they call this a kitchen on a boat? Or a living room ... ?”
“Galley,” he gruffs. He lifts his cane and swings it between opposite ends of the boat. “Fore and aft cabins. Pisser’s called a head.” He rams his cane on the floor with a residualtap,tap,tap,tap,tap. “Down there’s the bilge. Holds the engine. Everything worth a damn is with the engine.”
I look at the floor, struggling to envision what’s below it. “Neat.”
We regard each other. His bushy eyebrows sit straight across his forehead above his greyish eyes that are separated by deep parallel lines. He’s not wrinkly, just soft, with grey-brown hair peeking out from beneath his captain’s hat and a same-colored whiskery beard covering his jaw. On his gold necklace and buried deep in the tuft of his chest hair hangs a medallion with the profile of a woman’s face on it.
“About the gold,” I say, trying to move this little reunion along. “I was wondering if you could tell me what you know about it. And this Anson Burns you mentioned back when you were looking for it.” I offer him the article but he makes no attempt to take it.
“You have a family?” he asks.
“Um.” My eyes narrow. “Yes.”
Tap,tap,tap,tap. “Kids?”
