Flood Tide (Dirk Pitt 14)

Gunn waved, pushed away from the dock and turned the little jet boat back downriver toward the Marine Denizen.

The dock reeked of fish, the authentic aroma made even more pungent by the nighttime humidity. Giordino nodded at a hill of shucked oyster shells that rose almost to the roof of the waterfront bar and cafe. "A Dixie beer and a dozen succulent Gulf oysters would suit me just fine about now," he said in happy anticipation.

"I'll bet their gumbo is world-class too."

Walking through the doors of Charlie's Fish Dock saloon was like walking back in time. The ancient air-conditioning had long ago lost the war against human sweat and tobacco smoke. The wooden floor was worn smooth from the tread of fisherman boots and was scarred by hundreds of cigarette burns. The tables that had been cut and varnished from the hatch covers of old boats showed their share of cigarette burns, too. The tired captain's chairs looked patched and glued after years of bar fights. Covering the walls were rusty metal signs advertising everything from Aunt Bea's Ginger Ale to Old South Whiskey to Goober's Bait Shack. All had been liberally peppered with bullet holes at one time or another. There were none of the modern promotional beer signs that proliferated in most watering holes around the country. The shelves behind the bar, which held nearly a hundred different brands of liquor, some distilled locally, looked like they had been haphazardly nailed to the wall during the Civil War. The bar came from the deck of a long-abandoned fishing boat and could have used a good caulking job.

The clientele was a mixed bag of fishermen, local boatyard and construction workers, and oilmen who worked the offshore rigs. They were a rugged lot. This was the land of the Cajuns, and several conversed in French. Two big dogs snoozed peacefully under an empty table. At least thirty men filled the bar with no women to be seen, not even a barmaid. All drinks were served by the bartender. No glasses came with the beer. You either got a bottle or a can. Only the liquor rated a cracked and chipped glass. A waiter who looked as if he wrestled on Thursday nights at the local arena served the food.

"What do you think?" Pitt asked Giordino.

"Now I know where old cockroaches go to die."

"Just remember to smile and say 'sir' to any of these hulks who ask you the time."

"This would be the last place I'd start a fight," Giordino agreed.

"Good thing we're not dressed like tourists off a cruise ship," said Pitt, reexamining the soiled and patched work clothes the crew of the Marine Denizen had scrounged together for them. "Though I doubt it makes any difference. They know we don't belong by the clean smell."

"I knew it was a mistake to bathe last month," Giordino said wryly.

Pitt bowed and gestured toward an empty table. "Shall we dine?"

"Yes, lets," Giordino countered with a bow as he pulled back a chair and sat down.

After twenty minutes with no service, Giordino yawned and said, "It would appear our waiter has refined the professional technique of pretending not to notice our table."

"He must have heard you," Pitt said, grinning. "Here he comes."

The waiter, dressed only in cutoff jeans and wearing a T-shirt with a longhorn steer skiing down a hill of brown that said, IF GOD MEANT TEXANS TO SKI, HE'D HAVE MADE COWSHIT WHITE.

"Can I get you something from the kitchen?" he asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

"How about a dozen oysters and a Dixie beer?" said Giordino.

"You got it," answered the waiter. "And you?"

"A bowl of your famous gumbo."

The waiter grunted. "I didn't know it was famous, but it is good-tastin'. Whatta you want to drink?"

"Got tequila behind the bar?"

"Sure, we get a lot of Central American fishermen in here."

"Tequila on the rocks with a lime."

The waiter turned and began walking toward the kitchen, but not before he looked at them and said, "I'll be back."

"I hope he doesn't think he's Arnold Schwarzenegger and drives a car through the wall," Giordino muttered.

"Relax," said Pitt. "Enjoy the local color, the ambience, the smoke-filled environment."

"I might as well take advantage of the stale atmosphere and add to it," said Giordino, lighting up one of his exotic cigars.

Pitt surveyed the room, searching for an appropriate character to probe for information. He eliminated a group of oil riggers gathered round one end of the bar and who were playing pool. The dockyard workers were a good possibility, but they did not look like they took kindly to strangers. He began focusing on the fishermen. A number of them were sitting at community tables pulled together and playing poker. An older man, in what Pitt guessed was his mid-sixties, straddled a chair nearby but did not join in. He played the role of a loner, but there was a humorous and friendly gleam in his blue-green eyes. His hair was gray and matched a mustache that fell and met a beard around the chin. He watched the others as they tossed their money on the poker table as though he was a psychologist studying behavioral patterns of laboratory mice.

The waiter brought the drinks, no tray, a glass in one hand and a bottle in the other. Pitt looked up and asked-, "What brand of tequila did the bartender have?"