Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“So, can I have my ginger ale, please?” I asked.

“Lady, ginger ale only costs a couple of bucks.”

“I know. But I tip well.” I folded the note and tapped it on the bar. “If the service is good enough.”

He tossed the rag aside, rattled some ice into a glass and hosed my drink into being. He produced a small napkin and placed it on the bar before setting the glass on it. He even gave me a straw.

“How’s that?” he asked.

“Nice,” I said. “But not worth fifty bucks.”

He exhaled. He actually seemed to shrink a bit.

“Okay,” he said. “You didn’t hear this from me.” He leaned closer. “Dwayne was in here earlier. Word is he’s going down to the docks today. From the looks of it, he might be taking a long trip.”

“Uh huh. And which dock?”

He gave me the name of a marina and a dock number. A place less than half a mile from the Pirate’s Den.

“Thanks, man.” I gave him the fifty. “Who says there’s no such thing as good service, anymore?”

*****

By the time I reached the marina, it was almost 11:30. Most of the watermen were out, so it wasn’t hard to spot Dwayne’s boat, The Wet Dream.

If the boat was Dwayne’s idea of a wet dream, I had to wonder. Given its small size and relative state of disrepair, I thought The Rusty Bucket would have been more appropriate.

I strolled down the pier toward The Wet Dream. Dwayne must have disappeared down the hatch or whatever it’s called. I stood watch over the floating piece of shit. Surely, he wasn’t expecting to get far in this thing, was he?

I don’t know a damn thing about boats, but The Wet Dream was skuzzy, with slime growing like moss along the sides. Were those tiny shells clinging to the hull barnacles or what?

Dwayne popped out of the hatch, like a stripper from a cake. Surprise!

I took a moment to recover. “Hi, Dwayne.”

He scowled. He was good at that. “How the hell did you get here?”

“On my scooter.” Well, he asked.

“I mean, how did you know I was here?”

“I was told.”

“Who told you?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes.”

“Can we skip the repartee? I’m not telling you.” Dwayne continued to scowl. A world champion scowler, that guy.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“Out to sea,” he said. “Fishing. Crabbing. Whatever.”

“Really? You’re leaving a bit late, aren’t you? Most fishermen go out early. I bet they’re out there, reeling in their catches as we speak.”

“I can leave whenever I want,” Dwayne said. “I don’t have to punch a clock. I don’t have to account for my time.”