Isle of Dogs

Twenty-two

Dear Lord in Heaven, " Dr. Faux prayed as he and Fonny Boy drifted in the bateau. "We've been out here all night and half the morning, and I'm so cold and hungry I don't think I'll survive another hour. Please help us. "

Fonny Boy had given up on trying to get into the locked compartment and was blowing sour sounds on his harmonica and trying out various methods of hand effects and breathing techniques. He was on the verge of wishing that he and the dentist would be captured and returned to the storeroom, and regretted he had not bothered to carry sodas and food on board. But then, he had assumed they would reach the mainland long before supplies became an issue.

"Lord-a-mercy, I reckon the current's taking us clean back to the island, " he told Dr. Faux.

"I don't see land at all. Not anywhere, Fonny Boy. And if we were near the island, we would have been spotted by now and maybe blindfolded and forced to walk the plank. I think we might just have drifted into the sanctuary, and if so, no watermen will be in the area, and we will languish and die out here. "

"Nah, " Fonny Boy replied. "You can make out the current. " He pointed out gentle ripples of moving water. "But nigh as peace, they'll figure we made off in the bateau and if we don't make a hurry now, they'll be on us and we'll have to cite the Bible!"

"Unless they figure we're on the mainland, and you know they won't look for us there. You sure you can't remember the combination to that damn padlock? Maybe there's a flare gun in that compartment or even a mirror for sending signals. "

Fonny Boy had known the combination at one time, and he was terribly frustrated as he strained to recall it. He had tried every birthday in his family, Tangier's zip code, and several telephone numbers, all to no avail. He rapped the harmonica on the side of the bateau to knock out excess spit and tried a little straight harp, playing a melody in the key of C, and as usual, starting with hole 4.

"Think hard, Fonny Boy, " Dr. Faux tried to encourage him. "Usually people use tricks to remember things, so my guess is your dad used some sort of association to come up with a combination that he wouldn't forget. Are there any other numbers that might be important to your dad? What about your parents' anniversary?"

Fonny Boy couldn't remember that, either. He drew on the low end of the harmonica, trying a little blues jamming, like his hero, Dan Aykroyd.

"Now, I know some of the watermen use compasses, " the dentist kept trying. "Possible there is a compass heading your father routinely uses when he comes out to check the crab pots?"

The words crab pot floated out of the barely moving bateau, then settled into the water and began to drift to the bottom, where a large collection of Callinectes (Greek for "beautiful swimmer") sapidus (Latin for "tasty") were enjoying the quiet and security of the crab sanctuary. Clustered together were the fugitives from the bucket, and one of them, an especially handsome jimmy with big blue claws and arms, decided to investigate the human voices and faint strains of a harmonica. He swam up through the murk, leaving his friends behind in a cloud of silt, and some twenty feet below the surface of the bay he spied the bottom of a bateau and heard voices again.

"Nah. He don't use neither compass. Don't need one, noways, " a young male said, and the crab recognized the voice as belonging to that skinny blond Islander who was always talking about pirate treasure when he was out potting in the dark early mornings.

"Hmmm. What about your post office box?" another voice asked, and the jimmy didn't recognize this one, but he sounded as if he was from the mainland.

Fonny Boy tried that number, but the padlock wasn't interested.

"A lucky number, maybe? Does your dad have a lucky number?"

The only luck-related number Fonny Boy could think of was thirteen, and the padlock wouldn't budge. He tried playing straight harp style and "Oh Susannah" was almost recognizable.

"What about a favorite food or drink that might have a number in it?" Dr. Faux was not going to give up. "Such as Heinz fifty-seven sauce, Seven-Up, or two-alarm chili?"

"My daddy, he likes the Seven-Up, " Fonny Boy said with a glimmer of hope. "He's right fond of it with Spanky's ice cream, drinks more'an it of anybody I ever seen. But the combination, it takes four numbers and seven is only one number. "

"What if you added the up part?"

Fonny Boy decided to stay in the middle of the harmonica and stick to blow notes.

"Is there a number that might mean up, Fonny Boy? Come on, think!"

"The compass, it ain't got neither up on it. Only north, south, east, and west, " Fonny Boy replied.

"Up could be north, now couldn't it?" Dr. Faux persisted. "You know how people say they're going up north to New York or down south to Florida. Try three-sixty. That's three numbers and is due north. So maybe he used seven and three-sixty for seven-up. "

The jimmy's fusiform body propelled itself quickly back down to the bottom, where he warned his frightened friends.

"There's seven of 'em up thar!" he exclaimed. "And they'se breaking the law by potting in the sanctutary and I'm of a mind to get 'em warranted!"

The jimmy assumed that the seven watermen up there in the bateau were a posse looking for the crabs and the trout, although the crabs hadn't seen the trout for quite some time. Or maybe the Seven-Up gang, as the jimmy began to think of them, were pirates the governor had promised immunity to if they would find the crabs and the trout and return them to the mansion in the bucket. Blue crabs were quite familiar with pirates and were neither impressed with nor afraid of them.

Pirates were too angry and drunk to bother chasing after crabs, and this had been true for hundreds of years. Nor was the life of any crustacean made a whit better by all of the old cannons, coins, and jewels that crabs routinely scuttled over on the bottom of the bay. Crabs frankly didn't give a damn about treasure.

But that blond Islander named Fonny Boy certainly did, the jimmy thought as he scuttled through billowing silt to a shelf in the bay floor, where the wreckage of a sloop appeared in the murk. The old wreck had been blasted with cannon fire and sank in a shoal, and over the centuries the current had nudged the broken vessel along the bottom of the bay until it had settled in its present location. The jimmy rooted around near a rusting anchor and seized a small piece of iron. He paddled furiously with his swimming legs and sculled back up to the bateau, climbed on the small outboard motor, and tossed the piece of iron up in the air. It landed in Fonny Boy's lap right when he was in the middle of practicing a fish face by sucking in his cheeks to play cleaner single notes on his harmonica.

"Why, I'll swagger!" Fonny Boy cried out in surprise. "Look!"

He studied the piece of iron and knew it was extremely old and very likely from a sunken ship.

"Treasure's nigh as peace falling from Heaven and it's for to tell there's a picaroon ship down thar!" he exclaimed in uncontrollable excitement as he realized that finally, after such a hard life, he had met his destiny. "We have to mark the spot or we likete lose it!"

The only way to mark the location was to drop a crab pot into the water, and minutes later, the fugitive crabs watched a wire cage descend through the depths and dangle well above the bottom, because the rope was too short. The jimmy crooked his funny mouth into a smile, certain what would happen next because the Islanders were so predictable. The Island boy's greed would excite him into poor judgment, and soon enough, the Seven-Up gang would be in jail.

Possum's scheme was going along well, too, as he cut up different colored T-shirts and sewed and glued the pieces into a pattern that was beginning to resemble a flag.

"See what I'm doing, girl?" Possum whispered to Pop-eye.

He smoothed the flag on the bed, and Popeye was startled by a grinning skull smoking a cigarette.

"We got us a NASCAR flag for the races, " Possum proudly whispered. "See, we hang it up at the pit where we pretend to be a pit crew and I'll make sure somebody look for the flag and come save us. Or if that don't work, maybe Smoke will like the flag so much, he'll be nicer to us, and when we escape to Tangerine Island, I'll find a way to sneak off with you and we'll run to the nearest fisherman's house. "

Possum dipped the needle in and out of the flag, sewing on letters that spelled Jolly Goodwrench.

"Then I'll give you back to Sup'intendent Hammer, and the police will forget all about me shooting at Moses Custer. Maybe I even get to come see you now and then. Maybe Sup'intendent Hammer give me a job babysitting you. What do you think?"

Popeye thought this was a wonderful idea. Possum continued to piece together the flag with the T-shirt scraps, needle and thread, and Super Glue. The result was not quite what he had intended, because he was realizing that the flag would be one-sided and would have to be mounted rather than displayed from a pole, antenna, or stick. Otherwise, he was pleased with the result, which was not recognizable as NASCAR or a Jolly Roger, but a hybrid of both.

Possum tacked the finished work up on the wall and sat on his bed imagining Smoke's reaction as Possum worried about going to the race on Saturday and wondered what plans and hopes might fly apart. Possum sure didn't want any more trouble. If only he could go back to his family's basement and wander the streets after dark again without any fear of being arrested. Possum had seen on the TV news that Moses was still in the hospital, and thank goodness, his condition was now stable. Possum's heart trembled as he recalled pointing the pistol at the poor man on the pavement and jerking the trigger.

He still didn't understand what had gotten into him, except that he was frightened of Smoke. Possum also knew that if he acted different from the other dogs or seemed to have a conscience, he was going to end up with a bullet in his head one of these days. Oh, how his momma would scream and cry if she heard on the news that Possum had been murdered, his body dumped somewhere along with the carcass of a little black-and-white dog. If only Ben Cartwright or Little Joe or Hoss could help him out. But in all the episodes of Bonanza that Possum had watched, he had never seen a black boy on the Ponderosa.

"Maybe he don't like blacks, " Possum talked to himself as he envisioned Ben Cartwright with his leather vest and snow white hair. "Blacks was slaves. So who I'm fooling thinking anybody on a horse is gonna ride in to rescue me? Least the Cartwrights don't fly no 'Federate flag, though. " Possum gazed at his Jolly Goodwrench flag displayed behind the TV. "Never seen no 'Federate flag or slaves on the Ponderosa neither, just Hop Sing and he's Chinese and could come and go as he pleased, long as he cooked and cleaned. "

Possum wondered if there might be something he could do to make it up to the Cartwrights, who certainly must be terribly disappointed in his recent run of criminal behavior.

"I sorry about Moses, " Possum was talking to Hoss now.

"Well, little buddy, what you did was wrong, " Hoss answered.

"B'lieve me, I know, Hoss. But I was scared and Smoke woulda killed me or beat me bad and maybe drowned Popeye if I hadn't pulled the trigger. I wish I could do it over and run away before it was too late. But it is too late, and here I am in the clubhouse. "

"You gotta make it right, Little Buddy, " Hoss said from beneath his white ten-gallon hat. "What's done is done, but it ain't too late to make it right. "

"How?" Possum asked Ben this.

Ben was sitting high on his horse, ready to ride off to Carson City on an errand. He looked down at Possum and smiled a little.

"Why don't you start with calling Moses and apologizing?" he suggested, flicking the reins. "Then you're probably going to need to turn yourself in to Sheriff Cof-fey, " he added as he galloped off.

Possum sat in the dark and slowly flipped open his cell phone. His heart thudded and he strained to make sure no one was stirring inside the RV. He heard not a sound and called directory assistance and for fifty cents was connected to the hospital where he'd heard on the news Moses Custer was a patient.

"Moses Custer, please, " Possum said quietly.

"What's your name? He's only taking calls from people on his list. "

Possum groped for a way to trick the lady. "I number three on his list, ma'am. "

He heard her checking and hoped Dale Earnhardt's number would prove lucky. It did, sort of.

"It says Mr. and Mrs. Brutus Custer, so which are you?"

Possum had a high-pitched, soft voice that could easily pass for a woman's. He was a bit offended but knew he didn't sound like a Brutus.

"This Mrs. Custer, " he said. "I so worried about my daddy-in-law. I can't sleep or eat. Tell him if he don't feel up to talking, I'll try another time. "

Possum had given the receptionist an out, and was getting cold feet himself. Then Ben Cartwright turned around in the saddle and looked sternly at Possum.

"Hold on, " the receptionist said.

"Hello, " a male voice was on the line. "This Jessie? How you doin', baby? Why ain't you come to see me yet? I'm going home today. "

"Mr. Custer, this ain't Jessie, but I just got to talk to you. So please don't hang up. " Possum's heart was beating so hard he thought it might break his ribs.

"Who is this?" Moses was instantly suspicious.

"I can't tell you 'cept to say I'm so sorry for what happened to you. It was wrong, wrong, wrong, and I didn't mean it. But I was forced. "

"Who is this?" Moses demanded in an upset voice. "Why you be messing with me? You one of them pirates, ain't you!"

"Yes. But I don't wanna be, " Possum confessed.

"The hell you don't wanna be. I knew quick enough you wasn't Jessie, 'cause you don't sound like her. "

Possum took a deep breath. "I can't talk long. But I just wanted to tell you I sorry for what I done and if I can find a way to make it up to you, I promise I will, Mr. Custer. And you be sure to keep lots of police around, 'cause them road dogs is already talking about finding you and finishing you off. Their leader's name is Smoke and his girlfriend's Unique and shot that poor Seven-Eleven lady last night, and Smoke say he kill me if I didn't shoot at you when we took your truck and the reefer at the pumpkin stand. "

"Sons of bitches! Let 'em show their asses and then they'll see what trouble's all about!"

"I do my best to talk 'em out of it. "

"You? Who the hell is this…?"

Moses was yelling, and Possum, beginning to panic, ended the call.

"What the fuck's going on in here?" Smoke suddenly swung open Possum's bedroom door. "Who you talking to?"

Possum tucked the cell phone under the covers just in time.

"Just talking to Popeye about our new flag. " Possum thought quickly. "What you think, Smoke?"

Smoke walked in drinking a breakfast beer and looked long and hard at the big flag tacked to the wall.

"What is this shit?" Smoke asked in a hard, mean voice.

"You don't got a flag, and I was thinking that all pirates got flags, just like NASCAR drivers got colors. So I put this together for you, Smoke, like I said I would. Thought you could put it up in the pit when we go to the race tomorrow night. Then, when we escape to the island, you can hang it up there so everybody will know not to mess with you. "

"If you're going to talk to yourself, keep your fucking voice down. You woke me up, " Smoke said. "Now I'm going to be tired the rest of the day. "

Smoke calmed down and looked thoughtful as he studied the flag from different angles. He got an idea and tugged it loose from the wall.

"Maybe I'll just shoot the damn dog and wrap it in this thing. We'll leave a little present on Hammer's doorstep, " Smoke cruelly said.

Popeye, who could play possum just as well as Possum could, pretended to be asleep again, and Possum pretended he didn't care what happened to the dog.

"But that wouldn't be as good as getting Hammer and that Trooper Brazil, " Possum reminded him because Smoke tended to forget most things these days. "And we need the dog to get them to show up at the race so we can blow them away. Then Cat fly us off in the helicopter, and we live fat lives on the island. "

"And how the fuck do you intend to set up all this?" Smoke said, tossing the flag on top of Popeye, who didn't budge.

"That easy, " Possum replied. "I send an e-mail to

Captain Bonny and get him to do it. We know he got connections, right? So he can get the plan to Hammer and make her think you The Man NASCAR Driver with that pretty girlfriend, Unique, and the rest of us is your pit crew who happened to find Popeye wandering on the road. So we picked her up but ain't turning her over to no one less Hammer and Trooper Brazil can ID her for sure. So they show up at the race and come look for us, and the minute she starts screaming 'cause she's so happy to see Popeye, we pull out our guns, shoot everybody, run to the helicopter, and fly away. "

"Set it up, " Smoke ordered as he chugged the beer and tossed the can on the floor.