paint,” she said, frowning.
“The Ambassador’s a big old boat and she’s been laid up a while down here in all this dampness. You know the routine. So you’ll come out tomorrow? Bring your work duds?”
Elsie nodded vaguely, and the captain straightened up and put his hands behind his back. “I’ve got to get on and find some men who won’t milk me dry for salary.”
Suddenly, her face seemed busy with several ideas at once. “This man here’s looking for work.”
The captain leaned back and examined Sam as though he were a deck chair he might or might not buy. The leather in his shoes creaked in the quiet lobby. “You’re a pretty nice-looking fellow. Ever worked a dance boat before, son?”
“No, but I’ve gone dancing on a few.”
She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “Last night Ted said that if you worked on the boat, you’d be able to go ashore and help us look. Maybe you could watch the crowds while we worked.”
“Watch the crowds for what?”
“The woman you saw. We figured that somebody who caught Lily’s act paid that woman to take her.”
Sam stood up, looked through the glass-paneled entry door, and took a step toward it. “That old lady’s not going to show up on your boat.”
“She’s on the bank somewhere along our route.”
He stopped, then, admitting to himself that this was probably true.
“You a musician?” the captain asked.
“I’m a pretty bad pianist.”
“And were you in the war?”
“The army.”
The captain’s white eyebrows collapsed together, and he lowered his voice. “Can you break up a fight and keep your hand out of a till?”
Elsie began to shake him. “Sam, this new boat will work the same landings we did on the way down. You might could spot that old woman in one of the towns.”
He watched the desperation rising in her face, then turned to the captain. “What kind of work do you have?”
“I need a third mate. One of the main duties is to walk around the dance floor and show some authority. You have any experience walking around and looking like you know what you’re doing?”
Elsie sat down on the settee, smoothed her dress, then ran a forefinger along one eyebrow. “He’s the floorwalker I told you about.”
The captain’s expression darkened. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop those people.”
Sam looked back through the door where three smiling couples were strolling along the street. “That’s me, all right.” Suddenly he seemed to have a new identity: the man to blame.
The captain glanced down at Elsie. “Well, I’ll hire you anyway. Long hours, free room and board.”
“I’m Sam Simoneaux. My friends call me Lucky.”
The other man took his hand soberly. “My name’s Adam Stewart, and you can call me Captain.”
* * *
HIS WIFE was not happy about this job that would keep him away from home, and seemed suspicious of his motives. It took him until late that night to explain to her why he felt obliged to go on the river, but as he fell asleep he realized that he wasn’t sure of his motives himself, though the idea of wearing a snappy uniform and being around musicians had its appeal. He could explore each town on the boat’s route, asking questions about the stolen girl, but beyond that he wasn’t sure what he might accomplish for the Wellers.
The next morning he kissed Linda goodbye and caught a streetcar down to the Canal line and made the first of several transfers, walking the last leg down the east side of the new Industrial Canal. He could see the boat from a distance as it was nearly three hundred feet long, and he could tell by the kinks in the deck railings that it had seen too much river. He judged it to be at least forty years old, a sternwheeler four decks high that must have started life as a packet, hauling passengers and cotton, and then was made over into an excursion boat after the trade played out. The wooden hull was sprung, planks out of line and seams gorged with oakum. The main
“The Ambassador’s a big old boat and she’s been laid up a while down here in all this dampness. You know the routine. So you’ll come out tomorrow? Bring your work duds?”
Elsie nodded vaguely, and the captain straightened up and put his hands behind his back. “I’ve got to get on and find some men who won’t milk me dry for salary.”
Suddenly, her face seemed busy with several ideas at once. “This man here’s looking for work.”
The captain leaned back and examined Sam as though he were a deck chair he might or might not buy. The leather in his shoes creaked in the quiet lobby. “You’re a pretty nice-looking fellow. Ever worked a dance boat before, son?”
“No, but I’ve gone dancing on a few.”
She stood and put a hand on his shoulder. “Last night Ted said that if you worked on the boat, you’d be able to go ashore and help us look. Maybe you could watch the crowds while we worked.”
“Watch the crowds for what?”
“The woman you saw. We figured that somebody who caught Lily’s act paid that woman to take her.”
Sam stood up, looked through the glass-paneled entry door, and took a step toward it. “That old lady’s not going to show up on your boat.”
“She’s on the bank somewhere along our route.”
He stopped, then, admitting to himself that this was probably true.
“You a musician?” the captain asked.
“I’m a pretty bad pianist.”
“And were you in the war?”
“The army.”
The captain’s white eyebrows collapsed together, and he lowered his voice. “Can you break up a fight and keep your hand out of a till?”
Elsie began to shake him. “Sam, this new boat will work the same landings we did on the way down. You might could spot that old woman in one of the towns.”
He watched the desperation rising in her face, then turned to the captain. “What kind of work do you have?”
“I need a third mate. One of the main duties is to walk around the dance floor and show some authority. You have any experience walking around and looking like you know what you’re doing?”
Elsie sat down on the settee, smoothed her dress, then ran a forefinger along one eyebrow. “He’s the floorwalker I told you about.”
The captain’s expression darkened. “You’re the one who couldn’t stop those people.”
Sam looked back through the door where three smiling couples were strolling along the street. “That’s me, all right.” Suddenly he seemed to have a new identity: the man to blame.
The captain glanced down at Elsie. “Well, I’ll hire you anyway. Long hours, free room and board.”
“I’m Sam Simoneaux. My friends call me Lucky.”
The other man took his hand soberly. “My name’s Adam Stewart, and you can call me Captain.”
* * *
HIS WIFE was not happy about this job that would keep him away from home, and seemed suspicious of his motives. It took him until late that night to explain to her why he felt obliged to go on the river, but as he fell asleep he realized that he wasn’t sure of his motives himself, though the idea of wearing a snappy uniform and being around musicians had its appeal. He could explore each town on the boat’s route, asking questions about the stolen girl, but beyond that he wasn’t sure what he might accomplish for the Wellers.
The next morning he kissed Linda goodbye and caught a streetcar down to the Canal line and made the first of several transfers, walking the last leg down the east side of the new Industrial Canal. He could see the boat from a distance as it was nearly three hundred feet long, and he could tell by the kinks in the deck railings that it had seen too much river. He judged it to be at least forty years old, a sternwheeler four decks high that must have started life as a packet, hauling passengers and cotton, and then was made over into an excursion boat after the trade played out. The wooden hull was sprung, planks out of line and seams gorged with oakum. The main
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