Chapter 8: The Docks
Harry walks at a brisk pace toward the docks. They move quickly on a regular day, but today there is some extra drive in their step. People on the sidewalks politely step aside, but Harry quickly gets tired of dodging pedestrians and turns down a side street. Even if this route is longer, at least its less populated allowing Harry to think.
Most of polite society goes to the Quincy Market to shop, so when the docks bring their catch in, the nicest stuff goes there. Anything small or odd stays at the docks and often goes home with the workers. But there are those who know that the dock has some of the best prices for scraps that can be used in a stew which adds a lot of flavor and no one really cares what it looked like before. People like Margaret go to the docks on occasion to get deals on pieces, but more often now, a few of the dock workers know her and Patrick well enough, they will hold things back for her and exchange some nicer items for ale.
As Harry gets closer, they start to slow their stride and deepen their breath. They want to come off casual, so no one tries to gouge them on price, garnering too much attention if the workers smell easy money.
As they approach the docks, It’s not very busy. Many of the workers are gone, probably off to a late lunch before the afternoon boats come in, but there are still a few working around and monitoring the crates of fish for sale. Bins of haddock, and halibut still had some undersized options, clams and oysters were also being held.
Harry walked up to the fish on display, display being too grand a word, as these are the filtered rejects that didn’t make the cut for the market.
Harry grabs a piece of newspaper sitting off to the side and begins to make a little pile of fish.
‘Oy!’ Harry heard come from the docks. And in a few moments, a large man with a black cap and blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up walks up to Harry. His face hasn’t been shaven for a few days and the dark stubble matches the coarse hair on his arms. ‘Lookin for anything else?’ He asks with the end of a cigar hanging out of the corner of his mouth.
‘What else ya got?’ Harry asks.
‘Leave that ere,’ and waves his thick hand at Harry to follow him. They start toward the walkway connecting each of the docks to the harbor. From there, Harry can see there are more people working than can be seen from landing. Heads poke up as the man walks several paces in front of Harry, his long stride requiring Harry to take two steps to his one.
As Harry is following the man, they are also getting a good look at the people and the layout of the lower docks. Upper decks shadow lower decks and Harry can see where things could happen out of view.
They make a right and head down a short row of boats, their masts gently poking the sky as they bob in the water. Stepping onto a white boat with a red stripe around the top, the man grabs a crate from inside the hatch and sets it on the deck. He motions for Harry to come take a look and Harry steps onto the boat. Inside the crate about about a dozen small bluefish moving about.
‘These came in late,’ he mutters.
Harry negotiates the price and pays the man. He reaches into another hatch pulling out some newspaper and he and Harry wrap the fish in a bundle, nod at each other and the man turns away. The transaction is complete.
Harry makes their way off the boat and heads back to the landing. On the way, they take a closer look around. Before they were trying to keep up with the fisherman. Now, they can walk in a much more relaxed pace. The dock workers are not looking at them the way they were the fisherman, so they feel like they can move around a little less noticed. Their feet occasionally hit a board that makes a little groan, even under their small frame. The breeze off the ocean salty and clean. Harry can tell there are people around and under that they can’t see because of the smell of tobacco smoke giving them away.
Harry starts to think about the culture of the docks here, the docks are for smaller boats, independent fishermen and their crews. The people here all work for themselves or on a small team-there isn’t the space for anything bigger. They go out early in the morning and come back in around lunchtime. A place like this, people know each other. They protect each other. If there was something going on here, this seems like a group that would protect a little girl or a family.
For the second time today, Harry felt a pang of something she hated. Doubt.
-
Harry made her way back to the landing, walking past the fish they first considered when they noticed someone appear off to the side-as though out of nowhere.
‘Oy!’ He hollered, ‘give ya a good price.’ As he walks towards the makeshift table gesturing at the fish.
Harry doesn’t really look over at first, ‘Thanks, I got what I need.’
‘I’m not sure you did,’ he says.
Harry stops and looks over. The man standing at the table has his right thumb tucked in his belt close to the handle of his knife. His skin is leathery from years of saltwater and sun. His clothes, are worn, but sturdy and not too loose, his shirt once had sleeves that have been removed, Harry can see a tattoo on his left forearm and another on his right bicep, but they are blurry from age. A yellowish handkerchief is tied around his neck and another tied around his head. He’s of average height and build, and hard to place for age but could be anywhere between 45-55 years. He doesn’t seem threatening and in this daylight with a view from the street, Harry doesn’t feel threatened.
Harry begins to walk over to the man. He watches them approach reaches up with his left hand pulling the handkerchief off his head to wipe his brow, exposing the top of his head. Other than a few graying hairs on the dome of his scalp, his hairline started just above his ears. What was probably a brown is now faded to a dirty dark grey that matches the sky full of rain.
‘I never seen you ‘ere before,’ he starts.
‘I’m running an errand for Ma Byrne at Brickwall’s, she wanted some fish for a stew.’ Harry said acting nonchalant.
‘Yeah? That’s awful kind of ya.’ He tilts his head at Harry.
Harry shrugs, ‘She told me she’d give me a pint if I did.’
‘Conor must have been very busy for Ma Byrne to send you,’ he’s trying to call out Harry’s bluff.
‘I don’t know no Conor, but Patrick was cooking for a group that had just come in. Couldn’t get down here himself, so Ma sent me.’ Harry’s goal was to not stand out on this trip and the longer they stood there, the more conspicuous they felt.
‘Patrick usually buys from me, next time you come down here, you make sure you ask for Ernie,’ he’s pointing his finger at Harry.
‘Aye, I will.’ Harry nods and starts back toward the street hoping not to get stopped again. They look back and sees Ernie straightening his display and then walking back to the lower docks.
After making their way down the street, docks out of sight with some distance between them and Ernie, Harry takes a breath. They wern’t sure what he picked up on, but he was very aware that Harry was a new face. Confirming their suspicion that those docks are interconnected and watching. It’s no surprise he warned Grace off, she would have stood out like a banner.
Harry weaves back through the side streets and alleys to Brickwall approaching it from the side and coming up the back to the door to the kitchen which is propped open. Patrick is inside, sleeves rolled up cleaning the meat grinder.
Patrick and Harry are eight years apart. Patrick is tall and thick with a full head of dark red hair and a beard to match that he keeps short. While Harry can slip around corners and through places unseen, Patrick has a large brooding quality that people notice and tend to stay out of his way. He’s a fairly gentle bloke, when you get to know him, but few ever get that opportunity.
Harry walks into the kitchen and up to where Patrick is working. Patrick eyes the bundle in Harry’s arms. ‘Better not be rotten,’ he says in a gruff.
‘Bluefish, small ‘ens,’ Harry sets the bundle on the table and starts to walk back out, but something soft hits the back of their head and lands on their shoulder. They reach up and pull off the apron Patrick had whipped at them.
‘Don’t come in here thinkin you’re givin me a chore. Get to cleanin those up. Then you can go.’ And with that Patrick walks out of the room.
Well, at least he didn’t throw the knife, thinks Harry.
