walking stick on the floor but did not take off his sunglasses. “So was your pretty little factory.”
“True that.” Duncan examined the hinge of his binoculars. The video was good advertising, and if Seacrest’s future were more promising, he would even post it on his own website. If he had to look like an idiot, he might as well do it for the sake of his company. “It looks great from the outside.”
“I’m told things aren’t quite so perfect on the inside.”
Duncan removed his glasses and stared directly at him. “Who said that?”
Osbert took a thin cigar out of a case from his inner jacket pocket and tapped its end on the arm of his chair. He leaned in closer, so that Duncan could see his reflection in his Ray-Bans. “You shouldn’t be so defensive, Leland. ‘Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’” He leaned all the way back in his rocker, which squeaked as if he had crushed a nest of mice. “Churchill.” He looked up at the porch ceiling, then he rocked forward and held his position, level with Duncan’s head. “Annuncia tells me that you work miracles with fish garbage.”
“You know Annuncia?”
“I like to keep up with the working waterfront, and she does not keep her opinions to herself.”
Duncan wondered what else Annuncia told him. In her enthusiasm for her cause, she might be courting danger. He leaned back in his chair and feigned indifference. “Seacrest’s turns seaweed and fish frames into fertilizer. It’s hardly a miracle.”
“Fish frames?”
“The seventy percent of the body left after filleting, including the scales and entrails.” He smiled. “Even eyeballs.” He lifted his binoculars to check on Nod, and it took him a moment to realize that the ocean had become small, focused, and radically foreshortened. Osbert watched with undisguised amusement as Duncan flipped the binoculars around, then kept them there longer than necessary to cover his embarrassment. The boats were back to floating around in a cluster, except now the dory was gone.
“Seventy percent,” said Osbert. “That’s a lot of leftovers.”
Duncan let the binoculars rest against his chest and put his glasses back on. “Seacrest’s used to dehydrate the usable scrap for pet and livestock feed, but most of it still had to be towed out to sea in a barge before we found a way to process all of it.”
“It’s expensive to tow and dump anything, isn’t it?” Osbert said thoughtfully.
“And not even legal anymore, if it ever was.” Duncan nodded at Syrie Shuttlethwaite, who’d just come onto the porch with her teeny bit of a dog under one arm and a vodka tonic in her hand, bringing the fresh smell of lime with her. He’d known Syrie since grade school. She’d been his hometown honey in college. If he’d returned to Port Ellery instead of staying in New York, they probably would have married. She sat on the wicker sofa and crossed her legs at the ankles. Most of the women of the Club had already given up their light dresses for corduroy skirts, but not Syrie. She wore a zebra-print dress with a green silk jacket and sling-back pumps. Duncan noticed that women who were recently divorced, like Syrie, exuded summer about them all year round. Would Cora soon be showing cleavage in the middle of the day? Maybe it was Syrie’s business that made her radiate with pheromones like that. When she’d divorced Lance a couple of years ago—an academic man Duncan could never understand and had never liked—she started a phone-sex wake-up service from the family den, recording a new suggestive message every day. Hers was not a seductive voice, but it had a carrying quality that translated well on the phone. What was originally a local operation had expanded across the state, and she was even hiring new voices. How was it that she could make a success out of nothing but a few dirty words, and he couldn’t make a dime with a ton of fish flesh?
“You
“True that.” Duncan examined the hinge of his binoculars. The video was good advertising, and if Seacrest’s future were more promising, he would even post it on his own website. If he had to look like an idiot, he might as well do it for the sake of his company. “It looks great from the outside.”
“I’m told things aren’t quite so perfect on the inside.”
Duncan removed his glasses and stared directly at him. “Who said that?”
Osbert took a thin cigar out of a case from his inner jacket pocket and tapped its end on the arm of his chair. He leaned in closer, so that Duncan could see his reflection in his Ray-Bans. “You shouldn’t be so defensive, Leland. ‘Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.’” He leaned all the way back in his rocker, which squeaked as if he had crushed a nest of mice. “Churchill.” He looked up at the porch ceiling, then he rocked forward and held his position, level with Duncan’s head. “Annuncia tells me that you work miracles with fish garbage.”
“You know Annuncia?”
“I like to keep up with the working waterfront, and she does not keep her opinions to herself.”
Duncan wondered what else Annuncia told him. In her enthusiasm for her cause, she might be courting danger. He leaned back in his chair and feigned indifference. “Seacrest’s turns seaweed and fish frames into fertilizer. It’s hardly a miracle.”
“Fish frames?”
“The seventy percent of the body left after filleting, including the scales and entrails.” He smiled. “Even eyeballs.” He lifted his binoculars to check on Nod, and it took him a moment to realize that the ocean had become small, focused, and radically foreshortened. Osbert watched with undisguised amusement as Duncan flipped the binoculars around, then kept them there longer than necessary to cover his embarrassment. The boats were back to floating around in a cluster, except now the dory was gone.
“Seventy percent,” said Osbert. “That’s a lot of leftovers.”
Duncan let the binoculars rest against his chest and put his glasses back on. “Seacrest’s used to dehydrate the usable scrap for pet and livestock feed, but most of it still had to be towed out to sea in a barge before we found a way to process all of it.”
“It’s expensive to tow and dump anything, isn’t it?” Osbert said thoughtfully.
“And not even legal anymore, if it ever was.” Duncan nodded at Syrie Shuttlethwaite, who’d just come onto the porch with her teeny bit of a dog under one arm and a vodka tonic in her hand, bringing the fresh smell of lime with her. He’d known Syrie since grade school. She’d been his hometown honey in college. If he’d returned to Port Ellery instead of staying in New York, they probably would have married. She sat on the wicker sofa and crossed her legs at the ankles. Most of the women of the Club had already given up their light dresses for corduroy skirts, but not Syrie. She wore a zebra-print dress with a green silk jacket and sling-back pumps. Duncan noticed that women who were recently divorced, like Syrie, exuded summer about them all year round. Would Cora soon be showing cleavage in the middle of the day? Maybe it was Syrie’s business that made her radiate with pheromones like that. When she’d divorced Lance a couple of years ago—an academic man Duncan could never understand and had never liked—she started a phone-sex wake-up service from the family den, recording a new suggestive message every day. Hers was not a seductive voice, but it had a carrying quality that translated well on the phone. What was originally a local operation had expanded across the state, and she was even hiring new voices. How was it that she could make a success out of nothing but a few dirty words, and he couldn’t make a dime with a ton of fish flesh?
“You
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