Chasing a Blond Moon(137)

“Where’d you learn that?”

Walter tilted his head, showed a flash of surprise, said, “Book, by the wall.”

Service walked over to the wall, picked up a casting guide by Lee Wulff, one of the old masters and too advanced for most beginners.

“He’s cleaned out the library,” Karylanne said. “Walter,” she said sharply. “Your father’s gonna feed us.”

“That’s cool,” he said, making one last cast.

With few restaurants open late, they ended up at Sundog’s Seiche, a coffeehouse and college hangout run by the wife of an astonomy professor. Service had an avocado and tuna sandwich and listened to Walter and Karylanne talking back and forth. The boy was more at ease with her than he had ever been with a girl at that age, and when the girl talked, Walter paid attention. When he looked at the boy’s face, he imagined he could see Bathsheba’s eyes.

“Are you staring at me?” Walter asked.

“Not staring at, just staring.”

“Right. Who do you see, Sheba or you?”

“I see somebody who looks pale and needs to beef up.”

“So I can clog my arteries?”

Karylanne said, “There’s a training table for jocks. It’s run by a full-time special health nutritionist.”

When Service played at Northern, hockey players had lived on burgers, beer, and pasta—especially beer.

“When did you learn to cook?” Walter asked him.

“My old man was a lush and he’d go days without thinking about food. Somebody had to remind him, and I was always hungry.”

Walter nodded. “What did you call him?”

Karylanne said, “My father will always be my daddy.”

Service smiled. “If I’d called him Daddy he would have backhanded me through a wall. I called him, Old Man. And Sir.”

“He didn’t mind?”

“I don’t think he noticed. Mostly he thought about violets.”

Karylanne said, “He liked flowers?”

“Violet, violator,” Service said.

There was silence while they ate.

They dropped Karylanne at her dorm and headed for Walter’s room.

“How’s my casting look?”

“I’ll tell you that after we see your grades. Got a place where I can bunk tonight?”

“Sure, and my grades are fine. It’s not easy, but I’m keeping up. Are you going to give me some fatherly advice about Karylanne?”

“She looks like she can take care of herself.”

“Kinda like Maridly,” Walter said. “You want to grab breakfast in the morning at the training table?”

“Gotta work.”

“Whatever, old man.”

Service saw that the boy was grinning. “Stop busting my balls.”

“That’s Maridly’s job,” Walter said as he clicked off the lights. “Good night, Daddy.”

“Consider yourself backhanded,” Service said, smiling in the dark.

Service, Gus Turnage, and Pyykkonen went to the Miltey Boat Company in two vehicles. Gus knew Joe Miltey, said he’d be less belligerent if they came in force.

The Miltey Boat Company was built on the banks of the Pike River, where it flowed into Pike Bay, the southernmost feature of Portage Lake. Five aluminum hulls were lined up at the garage door of a large pole building. Three finished boats were at the other end of the building, one of them not entirely shrink-wrapped, the plastic hanging off like a partially shed skin. There were piles of cans and pallets with boxes everywhere. Service looked at a dock by the building, saw the Technicolor swirls of gasoline in the river.

Joe Miltey was in his late forties, with a red face, veins showing in his cheeks and nose, and red hair starting to gray. His office was inside the production area. He sat at a desk in the middle of a circle of desks. Windows looked out on the production line and Service counted only three people working. There was one clerk in the office with Miltey, who was scribbling on a clipboard and did not look up. Miltey’s company didn’t look like it was thriving.

“I get tree of youse?” the man finally said.

Service put a piece of paper on the marred and distressed desk. All the furniture looked like it dated to the time when the company was still building fishing tugs.

Miltey looked at it, said, “Is this supposed to be a winning lottery number?”

Gus said, “That depends on if you can keep your big foot out of your big mouth.”

“Those are serial numbers off one of your boats,” Service said.

“You bring a subpoena?”

Gus winced. “Joe, you’ve got piles of epoxy and paint cans outside, and a fuel storage tank is leaking into the river. You want to play games, we can send over DEQ and let you talk to them. In the end, Joe, we’ll still get what we want.”