Chapter Sixteen

The Big Fish

Tuesday, March 25, 1924

The next morning Kevin piloted the scow down through Widewater and the mules pulled easier with deeper water under the hull. Two hundred feet to their left, towering sycamores flared over the water from the steep pitch of the berm. As Widewater narrowed, Tom drove the mules along the downstream portion of the Log Wall, where the towpath crossed from Bear Island back onto the Maryland shore of the Potomac. Fifty feet below them the river glimmered through the trees as it drifted away from the towpath. The canal regained its usual dimensions, running straight for half a mile, and Kevin trained his eyes on the berm. When he saw the dirt scar, he cupped a hand to his mouth. “Ho, Tommy! Whoa now!”

Tom stopped the team and Kevin steered the scow toward a landing on the berm. He looped a line over the tiller, waited until the gap was right, and leapt with the coiled snub line. The scar was a path leading away from the canal, and he jogged a few steps along it as the bow nudged into the berm. He tied the snub line to a tree and turned up the path.

For conviction, he spat out his chaw, pulled the flask from his vest, and knocked back a sip. The whiskey expanded in his mouth and burned away the residual tobacco juice. He swallowed and issued an airy whistle of appreciation. “Taste of money,” he muttered tentatively. “I hope our man agrees.”

The path climbed through the woods to the macadamized surface of Aqueduct Road. Across it was a rambling low-slung house with a dirt driveway and a signpost that read “Old Angler’s Inn.” The driveway led to a deserted flagstone patio and the entrance door.

The lobby of the inn was softly lit, with a low ceiling and paneled walls anchored by a stone fireplace. When Kevin was greeted by the attendant, he removed his hat and introduced himself, asking that his name be passed along to a Mr. Carruthers. Kevin was puzzling over the menu board when Carruthers arrived, entering from a swinging door at the opposite end of the room, a white chef’s apron girding his ample waist. Wisps of receding dark hair were plastered back across his scalp and his face was beefy and florid, his recessed eyes a leaden color that reminded Kevin of musket balls. The eyes measured Kevin with a glance that betrayed no recognition. Jerking his head for Kevin to follow, Carruthers marched back through the swinging door and into a hallway before turning abruptly into a small office. Bookcases topped with mementos, a desk covered with open ledgers, and two upholstered chairs were its principal contents. When Kevin entered, Carruthers closed the door behind them.

“Why are you here, Mr. Emory?” He stared blankly at Kevin with breathing that was audible and wet, like that of a bulldog.

Kevin nodded in deference before answering. “My brother and I are distillers. We were referred to you by an important customer of ours, Mr. Finn Geary.”

Carruthers’ demeanor softened and the musket-ball eyes reflected a few rays of light. Kevin ran a hand through his matted hair. “We deliver along the canal, and late last year Mr. Geary told us to arrange his future deliveries through you.” He paused to let Carruthers digest the message. “He also said that doing business would depend on your recommendations.”

Carruthers turned and sat down in one of the chairs beside the desk. The swell of his belly pushed his thighs apart, bestowing an aura of tribal authority. He gestured for Kevin to take the other chair, so Kevin sat down with his hat on his lap.

“You on your way to Georgetown now?”

Kevin nodded. “We’re tied up a stone’s throw from here on the canal, on our third day down from Harpers Ferry. We can offer Mr. Geary two barrels of Washington County whiskey. Fifty-three gallons each.” He watched the corners of Carruthers’ mouth turn upward, lending a mischievous aspect to the bulldog face. The wet breaths rose and fell as he studied Kevin.

“Well,” Carruthers said, “I’m no prophet. Did you bring a sample?”

Kevin smiled warmly. “Of course.” He removed the flask from his vest pocket and handed it to Carruthers, who hoisted himself up and retrieved a shot-glass from one of his bookcases. He dusted its interior with his apron, poured a shot, and sat down again, swirling the glass and examining its contents. Holding the glass beneath his nose, he sniffed twice, and Kevin wondered whether the mouth-breathing was to spare his nose the prosaic task of respiration. Maybe he needed to save it for evaluating things that could be consumed. Then Carruthers flicked his wrist with reptilian quickness and knocked back the shot. He rubbed his nose and blinked and Kevin saw a watery film linger in his eyes. Carruthers took a long breath to re-establish his wet and shallow rhythm.

“It’s OK,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve had worse.” Clearing his throat, he poured himself another half-ounce. He closed his eyes and drank it in a single sip, holding the whiskey in his mouth before swallowing. “No aging,” he said.

“Oh, we aged it,” Kevin said with a chuckle. “Maybe two, three weeks!”

“Geary don’t really need that for his customers,” Carruthers said, ignoring the joke. “Working stiffs. Little guys. Drunks. Now the clients we see here wouldn’t touch your stuff.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” Kevin said softly.

Carruthers twisted the top back on and handed the flask to Kevin. He fished a pocket watch out of his pants pocket and examined it. “You know Fletcher’s boathouse?”

“On the four-mile level of Georgetown? About a mile below Chain Bridge?”

Carruthers nodded and stood up. The film had receded from his eyes and his bulldog aspect returned. Kevin stood up as well. “Look for a message on the board at Fletcher’s later today,” Carruthers said. “By four o’clock. The message will tell you when and where you can make the delivery.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “What about the terms?”

“The message will specify the terms as well.” The bulldog turned mischievous for an instant. “What Mr. Geary is willing to pay.” Carruthers walked to the swinging door in the hallway and held it open. The door swung closed on Kevin’s heels.

He left the inn and walked back across Aqueduct Road and down to the canal. The scow was still snubbed against the berm and Tom appeared to be napping on the edge of the towpath, hat pulled down over his eyes with his back against a tree. Kevin surveyed the sky over the river; streaks of low clouds but enough blue sky that it didn’t look like rain. He dug his pouch out of his vest pocket, pinched a wad, and inserted it against his cheek. Four o’clock at Fletcher’s boathouse, he thought, prodding the tobacco into shape with his tongue. That was somewhere around mile 3. So they had seven hours to go nine miles and drop through nine locks. Pretty damn leisurely, and there was nothing wrong with that.

He was less sure about his visit with Carruthers. The tasting must have been decent, or why send them to Fletcher’s? Why not just kick him out of the office? Hell, it was the same whiskey he and Tom had sold to Geary last year, so the man should know what he was getting by now. It was definitely good enough. But what price were they going to get? This system didn’t seem to leave much room for negotiation. Last year Geary had paid seven-fifty a gallon, and he probably cut it and sold it for one-fifty a pint. But last year was only forty gallons -- just a test buy. For a hundred and six gallons, he might want a better deal.

Kevin yelled and watched Tom lift his hat to check on the scow. Tom rocked onto his feet, brushed his hands on his pants, and shuffled toward the waiting mules.

Three more miles took them down to the Seven Locks area, where locks 14 through 8 were strung almost heel-to-toe over a long mile. Two of the locktenders were working multiple locks so the scow made reasonable time getting down onto the Cabin John level. One of them was Jim Bender, a customer from last year, and he bought seven gallons at ten dollars each. Half down and the balance due on their next downstream trip in early May. Kevin trusted Jim more than he trusted Cy Elgin back at Swains. In return for the credit, Jim threw in some home-canned vegetables and four loaves of the bread he sold to boatmen during the season.

Just before noon, Tom signaled from the tiller for Kevin to stop the mules. The towline slackened and Tom swung the boat toward the berm where Minnehaha Creek tumbled down from a narrow ravine that bordered the Glen Echo amusement park on the hilltop above. Carrying a bucket, he scrambled up the berm to catch the falling creek water. He brought two buckets back to the scow to refill the water cask in the cabin, then filled a third for the mules.

They boated a few hundred feet down to Lock 7, where they tied up along the towpath to feed and water the mules. Tom threw Jim Bender’s carrots, potatoes, and onions and into a stew pot. He and Kevin tore into the bread while the vegetables cooked.

“Fletcher’s boathouse,” Kevin said. “Don’t they pull fish out of the river down there?”

“I reckon,” Tom said. “Been a few warm days, so there might be some white perch running by now. Got rockfish, anyway. People chasing ‘em all winter below Little Falls.”

“Well, damn, then that’s the reason to get down there. Buy us a big striper and that’ll make a world of improvement to your stew.”

Two miles below Glen Echo the scow passed a low wall of rubble in the river. The wall traced a rounded shoulder toward the Maryland shore from a small island, then converged with an outcropping, capturing a portion of the river for the feeder canal. From his station at the tiller, Kevin looked through the trees at the arc of whitewater trickling over the wall. That’s Dam 1, he thought, so we’re getting close. Lock 6 took them down to the one-mile level of Brookmont, and a mile later Lock 5 dropped them to the head of the Georgetown level, where water from the feeder canal entered through the guard lock. While locking through, Tom reclaimed the tiller so Kevin could drive the last two miles to Fletcher’s.

Kevin stopped his team when the scow passed under the elevated footbridge that linked Fletcher’s boathouse to Canal Road. He tied up and walked back toward the Fletcher’s turnoff. For a Tuesday afternoon in early spring, the boathouse was busier than he expected. A small fleet of canoes were arrayed near the canal and a comparable armada of crimson and gray rowboats were laid out on a dock that projected into Fletcher’s cove. Gaps in the lineups suggested several vessels were in use. Before Kevin could even walk to the boathouse office, he was hailed by a teenaged boy.

“Hey mister, you need a fresh fish?” The boy pointed to a wash tub at his feet that held three immersed rockfish.

“How much?”

“Two dollars, mister,” the boy said, pointing to a fish that Kevin guessed might weigh seven or eight pounds. He pointed to the second fish and the third fish, which was easily the biggest. “Two dollars, three dollars for the big one. Just caught ‘em today.”

Kevin nodded and turned to spit. “Maybe later. When the price goes down.” He walked over to a covered message board outside the boathouse office. Notes on the board offered items for sale: used canoes, home-made lures, fishing tackle, bird dogs. Near the edge a plain piece of white paper, folded twice, was pinned to the board, a single salutation on its face: Mr. Emory. He plucked the message and unfolded it. The note read:

775 for 106. Tonight. Lock 3. 3am sharp.

He focused immediately on the “775 for 106” and worked the numbers in his head; the Irishman would pay less than seven-fifty per gallon. Kevin wasn’t thrilled, but it was enough. Better to make the relationship work than get stuck over a few dollars this early in the year.

And the schedule was good. Three am was still almost twelve hours away, but it meant they wouldn’t have to tie up in Rock Creek basin before they unloaded the whiskey. Doing that would raise the risk of an encounter with the law. And Kevin had been worried that the delivery might be delayed until Wednesday or Thursday, which would have interfered with the other things they needed to do in Georgetown. Contact Reddy Bogue to get rid of the firewood. And visit the coin man to trade Finn Geary’s paper currency for hard money; that alone was a two-step process. He put the note in his pocket and pulled out a small money clip, then peeled off two bills and stuffed them in his other pocket. On the way back to the canal, he stopped beside the boy with the tub of rockfish.

“I’ll take that big fish,” he said.

“You bet, mister.” The boy pulled the biggest rockfish from the tub. “Already cleaned him. I’ll wrap him up for you.” He removed two pages from a folded newspaper in his back pocket and used them to wrap the fish, skillfully tucking the ends so that they wouldn’t unravel. “That’s three dollars.”

“Sure, kid.” Kevin unfolded his two bills and looked perplexed before smiling and shaking his head. “I thought I had my whole wad with me, but now I recall that I left it on the boat.” He handed the boy the two dollars. “Here’s two dollars, and I’ll go get you another.” He pointed to the scow, visible now against the towpath. “I better take the fish with me, so he don’t get dried out. Got a bucket I can stick him in.”

“OK, mister,” the boy said, looking thoughtfully down at the two rockfish remaining in his tub. “I’ll wait for you right here.” He handed Kevin the wrapped-up fish.

“Much obliged, son. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” He walked briskly back to the scow, whistling to get Tom’s attention when he reached the towpath. Tom plucked his knife from the deck and looked up as Kevin tossed him the fish. After untying the lines, Kevin jogged up to the mules and gave Mike a slap on the haunch. The mules snorted into their burden and the scow moved on past Fletcher’s.

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