The Americans by John Jakes Page A

table-and he was heading back to the boat when three men jumped him and dragged him up Hampshire Alley. They put a rag in his mouth to keep him quiet, then they went to work on him. They broke his legs, both wrists, and all his fingers. His hands are like this-was Tillman formed a claw. "And they'll never be right again. Takes him two, three minutes just to pick up a spoon now." Dry-mouthed, Carter swallowed and managed to say, "Good God. Who did it?" "Eben says it was Ortega and his brother, who was in port a few days. Dunno the third man." "What's anyone done about it?" Tillman shrugged. "Nothin', lad. Down here we don't have much truck with the damn crooks on the police force. We settle things amongst ourselves. But Ortega left town right after it happened, an' no one's set eyes on him since. His brother shipped out again. Round the world, this time. Least that's the story. They say Ortega is down in New York, but figures to come back when he thinks it's safe. So you ought to be careful, too." Carter shivered again. "Did Eben really have to sell the boat?" "He says he did, which amounts to the same thing. With what they did to his hands, he surely can't handle lines or the wheel or a net any more. And you know Eben-a working skipper, and not content to be any other kind. I'll tell you, Kent-he only seems to care about one thing these days." "What's that?" Tillman made smacking sounds as he drank, then squinted into the empty mug. Carter said he had no more money with him. It was a lie but Tillman accepted it with a sigh, then answered the question: "Gettin' even. He's just waiting for Ortega to show up. Oh, it's bad business-was Tillman shook his head and gave Carter a melancholy look. "It put the whole crew on shore, but what's worse, it's did something terrible to a good man. It broke more than Eben's bones. It broke his spirit. He's always been sound and healthy-but since they hurt him, he's acted queer. We asked him to stay on as the owner of the Anne, and let us do all the skippering, but he wouldn't hear of it. He just sits in his rocker in his little room, talking wild talk about getting even with that Portugee." Back in the kitchen, Phipps querulously called for more potatoes in the chowder. Carter heard a scurrying along the wall on the other side of the fireplace, but refused to look to see what kind of creature was at large. The fading daylight through the bottle glass window cast a deep yellow glow on sections of the tavern floor. Tillman roused again: "I think Eben would be mighty glad to see you, if you'd care to drop in. He doesn't get many visitors." "Sure, of course." Carter nodded with a quick, uneasy smile. "I'll try to get to his place first moment I can. But I'm in a tight spot, Tillman. I need money. I'm trying to find a job." "You take a job, you'll have to dance to somebody else's hornpipe," Tillman said. "That isn't your style, is it?" "I'll make it my style-was Carter quickly controlled the sarcasm, adding, "I'm certainly sorry to hear about Eben. At least he has that woman to care for him. She's beautiful, and she loves him-that counts for something." Tillman gave him another strange stare. "Not as much as you might think." "What do you mean?" "Nothing." Tillman heaved his huge body out of the chair and lumbered toward the door. Carter asked another question but the man wouldn't elaborate on his remark. The door opened. Tillman Jooked like a great black balloon against the brassy light of the sky. "Bear in mind what I told you," he called. "They do say Ortega isn't gone for good. And those who were around after the fracas that night said he spoke your name nigh as often as he spoke Eben's. Have a care where you walk." The door closed, leaving Carter in the amber-tinged shadows, the palms of his hands suddenly much too cold for the spring day. IV He was soon on his way back to Beacon Street. He glanced over his shoulder every block or so, and walked wide of the mouths of unfamiliar alleys enroute.