I’ve got to get this done . It wasn’t that they didn’t visit out there. For sure they did, but they all had times when they let each other know not today . Actually, he was surprised Mario was sparing five minutes himself if he’d had any digging to do along with checking the whole grant for storm damage. “You done?”
“Not yet. Listen, we got trouble. Something about a lawsuit, trying to take away our grants.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Tomas got an appointment with a lawyer for tomorrow.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” This was one of Mario’s stupid games, and one Rid did not have time for today.
Mario paused and eyed him. “Didn’t ya get your mail yesterday?”
“No, guess I didn’t pick it up.” He’d been at CiCi’s, of course, not that it was Mario’s business.
“Buddy, you’re being sued.”
“Me? For what?”
“We’re being sued, us three with grants in front of Pissario’s place. Don’t you know? We’re on pri vate property.” Typical Mario, acting tough and amused by disaster, water sloshing at his boots now, one hand shielding his eyes although there wasn’t a hint of sun and he had on a backward baseball cap anyway. If he actually had to deal with it, Mario would blow like Hurricane Bob.
“What the hell? The town gave us these grants, we’re perfectly legal. We stay off their damn beach.” Rid felt himself flushing, hated it.
“Except when your date decides to take a shit up there,” Mario said, using his chin to gesture at Lizzie where she sat in Rid’s driver’s seat watching them.
“Goddammit, Mario,” Rid said.
Mario laughed, then having received the message, sobered enough to mollify Rid. “They’re claiming that the town don’t have the right to give us the grants because they own all the way out to mean low water, not mean high water. Well, it’s not a they , actually, it’s Pissario, suing us for being on ‘his’ property.” When he said “his,” Mario put quotation marks around it with fingers in the air, and underscored it with sarcasm. “And in case that ain’t enough, the prince is also suing the town for leasing his land out to you and me and Tomas. We just happen to be the lucky bastards whose grants are the ones the prick claims he owns. Anyway, your paperwork, you’ll be pleased to hear, is in your mailbox. Ain’t that just a kick in the pants?”
Rid struggled to wrap his mind around what Mario was saying. “That would….”
“Yeah. Shut us down.”
“But he can’t—”
“Hell no. He ain’t gonna get away with this.”
“What does Wardy say?”
“Hell, Wardy works for the town, he’ll do what they tell him to do. It ain’t like he’s got guts of his own now, is it? I don’t guess they told him nuttin yet because I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
Rid looked down at the tide climbing his ankles. “Christ, man, I’ve got to check my nets and get these trays back in. I can’t think about this now.”
“Whatever.” Mario gave a half wave, half shrug and turned back toward his own grant. Mario was like that, offended if you didn’t join his jocularity or gossip. Rid would have to talk to Tomas and the shellfish warden, although he had to admit that Mario was right about one thing: if they had to rely on Wardy for help, they all might as well stick their heads between their legs and kiss their asses goodbye.
“Your nets fouled bad?” Rid called to the back of Mario’s head.
“Yeah.”
“Real bad?”
“Yeah.”
Rid sighed. All the grants on the flats anywhere near Blackfish Creek got a lot of shifting sand in every big blow that had to be cleared from the raceway nets within a day or the quahogs planted underneath would suffocate. Oysters, too—if they were buried and couldn’t filter the water for nutrients, they’d die. Even too much weed on the nets would steal oxygen from the water and slow their growth. Rid was always looking for ways to get to market sooner, not later; they
“Not yet. Listen, we got trouble. Something about a lawsuit, trying to take away our grants.”
“Huh?”
“Yeah. Tomas got an appointment with a lawyer for tomorrow.”
“What the hell’re you talking about?” This was one of Mario’s stupid games, and one Rid did not have time for today.
Mario paused and eyed him. “Didn’t ya get your mail yesterday?”
“No, guess I didn’t pick it up.” He’d been at CiCi’s, of course, not that it was Mario’s business.
“Buddy, you’re being sued.”
“Me? For what?”
“We’re being sued, us three with grants in front of Pissario’s place. Don’t you know? We’re on pri vate property.” Typical Mario, acting tough and amused by disaster, water sloshing at his boots now, one hand shielding his eyes although there wasn’t a hint of sun and he had on a backward baseball cap anyway. If he actually had to deal with it, Mario would blow like Hurricane Bob.
“What the hell? The town gave us these grants, we’re perfectly legal. We stay off their damn beach.” Rid felt himself flushing, hated it.
“Except when your date decides to take a shit up there,” Mario said, using his chin to gesture at Lizzie where she sat in Rid’s driver’s seat watching them.
“Goddammit, Mario,” Rid said.
Mario laughed, then having received the message, sobered enough to mollify Rid. “They’re claiming that the town don’t have the right to give us the grants because they own all the way out to mean low water, not mean high water. Well, it’s not a they , actually, it’s Pissario, suing us for being on ‘his’ property.” When he said “his,” Mario put quotation marks around it with fingers in the air, and underscored it with sarcasm. “And in case that ain’t enough, the prince is also suing the town for leasing his land out to you and me and Tomas. We just happen to be the lucky bastards whose grants are the ones the prick claims he owns. Anyway, your paperwork, you’ll be pleased to hear, is in your mailbox. Ain’t that just a kick in the pants?”
Rid struggled to wrap his mind around what Mario was saying. “That would….”
“Yeah. Shut us down.”
“But he can’t—”
“Hell no. He ain’t gonna get away with this.”
“What does Wardy say?”
“Hell, Wardy works for the town, he’ll do what they tell him to do. It ain’t like he’s got guts of his own now, is it? I don’t guess they told him nuttin yet because I ain’t seen hide nor hair of him.”
Rid looked down at the tide climbing his ankles. “Christ, man, I’ve got to check my nets and get these trays back in. I can’t think about this now.”
“Whatever.” Mario gave a half wave, half shrug and turned back toward his own grant. Mario was like that, offended if you didn’t join his jocularity or gossip. Rid would have to talk to Tomas and the shellfish warden, although he had to admit that Mario was right about one thing: if they had to rely on Wardy for help, they all might as well stick their heads between their legs and kiss their asses goodbye.
“Your nets fouled bad?” Rid called to the back of Mario’s head.
“Yeah.”
“Real bad?”
“Yeah.”
Rid sighed. All the grants on the flats anywhere near Blackfish Creek got a lot of shifting sand in every big blow that had to be cleared from the raceway nets within a day or the quahogs planted underneath would suffocate. Oysters, too—if they were buried and couldn’t filter the water for nutrients, they’d die. Even too much weed on the nets would steal oxygen from the water and slow their growth. Rid was always looking for ways to get to market sooner, not later; they
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