Read Online Don't Ask by Donald E. Westlake - Free Book Online
Authors: Donald E. Westlake
Tags: General Interest
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River and spend an afternoon dawdling in the offing, no questions asked, no heavy lifting involved, for three hundred bucks. (Tiny had kept his promise to Zara Kotor. He would also keep his distance from her.) Dortmunder stood on the pier, this tugboat--the Margaret C. M.oran, it was called--at his feet, and memories of the Vilburg town Reservoir rose up around an dover his head. "It's moving up and down," he complained, watching the side of the boat do just that in relation to the pier.
"Sure it's moving up and down," Stan said. "The water's moving up and down. All New York Harbor is moving up and down."
"I'm sorry you pointed that out," Dortmunder said.
"Look, John," Stan said gently, his manner calm and patient and sympathetic, "I understand how you feel, I do. But we either gotta do this or don't do it, and one way or the other I gotta pay Captain Bob.
So you wanna get on the boat, or you wanna go home and get three hundred clams?"
"Not clams," Dortmunder said. "Smackers; bucks; simoleons; even dollars."
"Come on, John, which is it?"
"Forward," Dortmunder said, and stepped onto the top of the tug's rail, which dropped away beneath him, so that he pitched forward into the boat, to be caught like a beach ball by Tiny, who stood him on his feet, brushed him off, and said, "Welcome aboard."
"Right," Dortmunder said.
The cheery madman up in the wheelhouse smiled down upon them and roared,
"All set?"
"Ready," Stan yelled back, leaping lightly aboard, and half saluted, as one wheel man to another.
Dortmunder looked about himself and the tugboat was small, dammit. The front half was dominated by the wheelhouse, an oval superstructure built up from the deck, with an octagon of windows around the top, inside which Captain Bob could steer his mighty mite and keep an eye on everything that was happening everywhere all around him.
The back half was a small deck area crowded with coils of rope, jerricans of fuel and oil, harpoons, clubs, and general stuff. Under Captain Bob's station at the wheel, a door led into the lower part of the superstructure, and when Dortmunder looked in there he saw a tight spiral staircase coiling downward into a constricted area of loud humming. Tugboats are, after all, merely the smallest possible superstructure surrounding the largest and most powerful possible engine.
Kelp reclined at his leisure on a coil of rope, back against the side rail that had so betrayed Dortmunder as he fell aboard. Having caught Dortmunder then like a forward pass, Tiny was now seated on the net-covered rail at the stern, seemingly relaxed even though he was just above the churning, foamy wake. Stan had chosen to scramble up to the wheelhouse with Captain Bob, where he stood swaying in the doorway, exchanging shouted pleasantries with the pilot. Dortmunder looked around at all this, wondering where safely to stash himself, and then Kelp patted the coil of rope beside him. "Grab a seat," he said. "Take a look at the view."
Dortmunder grabbed the seat, grateful to give over the question of balance from his feet to his ass, and took a look at the view, just as Captain Bob vroomed the engine and they went angling and roaring away from the pier and out into the greasy, gray, grimy Hudson.
Well, it was a view, no argument about that. You don't get to see a sight like this every day, unless you happen to own one of the few remaining tugboats working New York Harbor. On one side, Manhattan, a narrow, crowded aisle of stalagmites that have lost their cavern and been unaccountably exposed to the open air, making for a scene as outlandish as it is spectacular. Look at all those windows! Are there people inside all of those? You see all those buildings, you don't see any people at all, and yet all you're put in mind of is human beings, and just how many of them there must be for the world to contain a view like this.
So much for Manhattan. On the other side, New Jersey, and so much for New Jersey. Up above, far away, the
"Sure it's moving up and down," Stan said. "The water's moving up and down. All New York Harbor is moving up and down."
"I'm sorry you pointed that out," Dortmunder said.
"Look, John," Stan said gently, his manner calm and patient and sympathetic, "I understand how you feel, I do. But we either gotta do this or don't do it, and one way or the other I gotta pay Captain Bob.
So you wanna get on the boat, or you wanna go home and get three hundred clams?"
"Not clams," Dortmunder said. "Smackers; bucks; simoleons; even dollars."
"Come on, John, which is it?"
"Forward," Dortmunder said, and stepped onto the top of the tug's rail, which dropped away beneath him, so that he pitched forward into the boat, to be caught like a beach ball by Tiny, who stood him on his feet, brushed him off, and said, "Welcome aboard."
"Right," Dortmunder said.
The cheery madman up in the wheelhouse smiled down upon them and roared,
"All set?"
"Ready," Stan yelled back, leaping lightly aboard, and half saluted, as one wheel man to another.
Dortmunder looked about himself and the tugboat was small, dammit. The front half was dominated by the wheelhouse, an oval superstructure built up from the deck, with an octagon of windows around the top, inside which Captain Bob could steer his mighty mite and keep an eye on everything that was happening everywhere all around him.
The back half was a small deck area crowded with coils of rope, jerricans of fuel and oil, harpoons, clubs, and general stuff. Under Captain Bob's station at the wheel, a door led into the lower part of the superstructure, and when Dortmunder looked in there he saw a tight spiral staircase coiling downward into a constricted area of loud humming. Tugboats are, after all, merely the smallest possible superstructure surrounding the largest and most powerful possible engine.
Kelp reclined at his leisure on a coil of rope, back against the side rail that had so betrayed Dortmunder as he fell aboard. Having caught Dortmunder then like a forward pass, Tiny was now seated on the net-covered rail at the stern, seemingly relaxed even though he was just above the churning, foamy wake. Stan had chosen to scramble up to the wheelhouse with Captain Bob, where he stood swaying in the doorway, exchanging shouted pleasantries with the pilot. Dortmunder looked around at all this, wondering where safely to stash himself, and then Kelp patted the coil of rope beside him. "Grab a seat," he said. "Take a look at the view."
Dortmunder grabbed the seat, grateful to give over the question of balance from his feet to his ass, and took a look at the view, just as Captain Bob vroomed the engine and they went angling and roaring away from the pier and out into the greasy, gray, grimy Hudson.
Well, it was a view, no argument about that. You don't get to see a sight like this every day, unless you happen to own one of the few remaining tugboats working New York Harbor. On one side, Manhattan, a narrow, crowded aisle of stalagmites that have lost their cavern and been unaccountably exposed to the open air, making for a scene as outlandish as it is spectacular. Look at all those windows! Are there people inside all of those? You see all those buildings, you don't see any people at all, and yet all you're put in mind of is human beings, and just how many of them there must be for the world to contain a view like this.
So much for Manhattan. On the other side, New Jersey, and so much for New Jersey. Up above, far away, the
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