"I can't believe it took that much fill to build the port," said Pitt.
"What muck dredged from the canal that wasn't used for landfill was barged out to sea and dumped out in the Gulf," answered the fisherman.
"Is there a nearby community?" asked Pitt.
"Used to be a town called Calzas that sat at the end of the bayou a short ways off the Mississippi River. But it's gone."
"Calzas no longer exists?" asked Pitt.
"The Chinese spread the word that they was doing the townspeople a service by providing them with boating access to the Atchafalaya. The truth is, they bought out the landowners. Paid them three times what the property was worth. What's left standing is a ghost town. The rest was bulldozed into the marsh."
Pitt was confused. "Then what was the purpose of excavating a dead-end canal when they could have just as easily dug fill anywhere in the Atchafalaya Valley?"
"Everybody up and down the river is curious about that, too," said the fisherman. "The problem is that friends -of mine who have fished that bayou for thirty years are no longer welcome. The Chinese have run a chain across their new canal and no longer give access to fishermen. Nor hunters either."
"Do they use the canal for barge traffic?"
The fisherman shook his head. "If you're thinking they smuggle illegal aliens up the canal, you can forget it. The only towboats and barges that come upriver out of Sungari turn northwest up Bayou Teche and stop at a landing beside an old abandoned sugar mill about ten miles from Morgan City. Qin Shang Maritime bought it when they was building Sungari. A rail yard that used to run alongside the mill was restored by the Chinese."
"Where does it connect?"
"To the main Southern Pacific line."
The muddy waters were beginning to clear. Pitt didn't say anything for several moments as he sat there, staring off into space. The wake he had observed behind the Sung Lien Star showed an unusual, yet defined roll beneath the churned surface that was not normal for the basic hull design of a cargo ship. It seemed to him the hull either displaced more water than was consistent with the ship's design, or carried a second, outer hull. In his mind he began to visualize a separate vessel, perhaps a submarine, attached to the keel of the container ship. Finally he asked, "Is there a name for the landing?"
"Used to be called Bartholomeaux after the man who built the mill back in nineteen-oh-nine."
"In order to get close enough to check out Bartholomeaux without raising suspicion, I'll need to charter some type of fishing boat."
The old fisherman stared across the table at Pitt and then he gave a little shrug and smiled. "I can do better than that. What you fellows need is a shantyboat."
"A shantyboat?"
"Some call them campboats. People use them to wander up and down the waterways, mooring in the bayous beside towns or farms before moving on again. Often they're left moored in the same location and used as vacation cabins. Not many people live full-time on them anymore."
"A shantyboat must be like a houseboat," said Pitt.
"Except a houseboat doesn't usually travel about under its own power," said the gray-bearded fisherman. "But I have a boat that's livable and has a good engine tucked away inside the hull. It's yours if you think it's suitable. And since you intend to use it for the good of the country, you can have it at no charge. Just so long as you bring it back as good as you found it."
"I think the man has made us an offer we can't refuse," said Giordino, who had wandered over from the bar and was eavesdropping on the conversation.
"Thank you," Pitt said sincerely. "We accept."
"You'll find the shantyboat about a mile up the Atchafalaya tied at a dock on the left bank called Wheeler's Landing. Nearby is a small boatyard and a grocery store run by an old friend and neighbor, Doug Wheeler. You can buy your provisions from him. I'll see that the fuel tank is filled. If anybody questions you, just say you're friends of the Bayou Kid. That's what some people call me around here. Except for my old fishing pal, Tom Straight, the bartender. He still calls me by my given name."
"Is the engine powerful enough to move it upriver against the current?" asked Pitt naively.
"I think you'll find she can do the job."
Pitt and Giordino were elated and grateful for the old fisherman's significant cooperation. "We'll bring your shantyboat back in the condition we found it," Pitt promised.
Giordino reached across the table and shook the old man's hand. When he spoke it was with uncharacteristic humility. "I don't think you'll ever know how many people will benefit from your kindness."
The fisherman stroked his beard and waved an airy hand. "Glad to be of help. I wish you fellas luck. The illegal business of smuggling, especially that of human beings, is a rotten way to make money."
He watched thoughtfully as Pitt and Giordino left Charlie's Fish Dock and stepped into the night outside. He sat and finished his beer. It had been a long day, and he was tired.
"Did you learn anything at the bar?" Pitt asked Giordino as they walked from the dock down an alley to a busy street.