Read Online South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool - Free Book Online

chute.”
    â€œLovely,” said Ed.
    The boat had already been idling for some time when Donny finally stepped on board. Earl popped her into reverse and slowly backed away from the dock, spinning the stern around to point the bow down the channel. He then shifted into forward gear. Donny reached down into the ice chest and grabbed a cold beer.
    â€œYa know, Pee Wee? Earl told me not to call you that anymore. Cuz he thinks you don’t like it. But I’ll be damned if I can remember what the hell your real name is.”
    â€œIt’s Ed.”
    â€œEd?”
    â€œYes, Ed.”
    â€œEd? I like that. Ed, Ed, gives good head,” Donny sang out, laughing hysterically.
    â€œYeah, that’s real clever, Don,” replied Ed. “Shit, I never heard that one before.”
    â€œReally? You want me to say it again?” Donny laughed as he took the cap off his beer.
    â€œNo, that’s all right.”
    Don took a massive slug from his beer and then shouted at Earl, who was navigating the boat through the no-wake zone, “Hey, where we goin’ anyhow?”
    â€œJust a little south of the Pumphouse.”
    â€œSouth of the ol’ Pumphouse, eh? All right, you ol’ greasy pecker-puller. Let’s go!”
    Donny flipped the cap from his beer into the water as Earl punched the throttle.

Chapter 16
    SOUTH OF THE PUMPHOUSE
    E d had always loved the ride out to San Pablo Bay from the Richmond Harbor. Besides catching a glimpse of Hughes’s seaplanes, it was a journey through history, though much had changed. Just past where the planes once sat was the site of the old Ford Motor plant. In the late ’70s and ’80s, the yard for the plant became a layover spot for incoming Japanese import vehicles. Before anyone knew that they made anything other than sporty motorcycles, Ed and Earl had seen Honda cars by the hundreds sitting on the wharf, waiting to be delivered to economically minded Californians.
    Further down the channel was the massive dry-docks where the two boys had seen many a large vessel sitting in the yard in various stages of repair. Beyond that was the scrapping area where the upper helm of an old World War II submarine stood for a good many years. As a kid, Ed had often marveled over the action-packed adventures that the vessel must have seen in its day and always imagined that the random blemishes dotting the rusted exterior must have been bullet holes from some long ago battle fought with the “Japs.”
    On the south side of the channel ran the rock wall that extended from Brooke Island, where it was rumored that Bing Crosby once kept a duck-hunting lodge. Ed and Earl had always fished the flats around the island for leopard sharks and dogfish with their grandfather during the summer breaks. They passed the posh little area known as Brickyard Cove, an upscale grouping of town houses and a yacht marina built over the remains of an old quarry. Like most of Richmond Harbor, these places saw their heyday during the peak of the war, when the area bustled with productivity fueled by the urgency to defeat the evil of the Axis powers.
    Beyond the rock wall that protected the entrance to the harbor, they turned north toward the San Rafael Bridge, a few miles ahead. Past the Standard Oil tanker piers and the island of Red Rock, the bridge stood like a huge, serpentine iron beast, awkwardly stretching some five miles across and linking the Chevron refinery on the east bank to the San Quentin federal penitentiary on the west. The bridge had never been known as one of the more attractive structures in the region, but it was the definitive dividing landmark between the San Francisco and San Pablo bays.
    And then came the islands—the Brothers and the Sisters. The Brothers were larger and to the east, while the Sisters, to the northwest, lay nearer to the Marin shoreline. As kids, Ed and Earl marveled at the old lighthouse that stood on the larger of the two