Robert B. Parker’s The Devil Wins

31

None of the yachting club membership were pleased about Alexio Dragoa docking the Dragoa Rainha, the Dragon Queen, at the marina. They weren’t pleased about any of the few remaining commercial fishing vessels left in Paradise operating out of there, but they were most displeased with Alexio. The other fishermen had, at least, made an attempt to keep their boats freshly painted and presentable for the tourists and visitors to town. They made sure to sell some of their catch at dockside during peak tourist season to lend an air of authenticity to Paradise’s alleged seagoing past. Those had been the stipulations Alexio’s dad and the other fishermen had agreed to in order to be grandfathered in when ownership of the marina changed hands. But Alexio, like his father before him, paid them little mind.

Neither of the Dragoas, father nor son, much cared for appearances. They were real men of the sea, workingmen, tourism be damned. With each passing year, there were fewer working boats. Most of the fishermen had given up years ago, either getting out of the business altogether or refitting their vessels to service tourists for game-fishing excursions or for corporate outings.

Jesse stood dockside, watching as the Dragoa Rainha was skillfully maneuvered into her berth. Dragoa’s boat was kept far away from where the fancier yachts were docked during the season. Most of the leisure craft were either already out of the water for the winter or had been sailed to warmer climes by their owners. Even the few other holdout working boats had been out of the water for weeks. Only the Dragoa Rainha remained. Jesse was no sailor, so he just stood aside when Alexio’s crewman threw ropes onto the dock. The crewman then jumped onto the dock and used the ropes to secure the boat. Jesse nodded at the crewman, who returned the nod before getting back on board.

Ten minutes later, Dragoa and the crewman unloaded three red-and-white coolers and a hand truck onto the dock. The crewman stacked the chests onto the hand truck.

“Remember, the bottom two are for the Lobster Claw. The top one is for the Gull,” Dragoa said.

“Aye, Skip.”

“And collect the money. Cash. I don’t want to hear no bull from them about—”

“No checks. I got it, Skip.”

Jesse waited for the click-clacking of the hand truck’s wheels along the boards of the dock to quiet before talking to Dragoa.

“Skeleton crew,” Jesse said.

“No need for more men this time of year.”

Dragoa was a good-looking man. Some men are beaten down by rugged, outdoor work. Some are honed by it, their features chiseled and set by the cold, the wind, and the water. That was Alexio Dragoa. Beneath a sea-tousled mop of ink-black hair, he had fierce brown eyes, a square, cleft chin, and a nose that had seen more than one bar fight. But it was the kind of nose that added character to his looks. Good thing he has looks, Jesse thought, because he has no manners. It was also good because Alexio smelled perpetually of fish, cigarette smoke, and exhaust fumes.

“What can I do for you, Stone?” he asked, lighting up a cigarette.

Jesse didn’t bother asking Dragoa to call him by name or Chief. Alexio’s range of public grace wavered between impolite and downright rude. And he had no love for Jesse or any town official. With Jesse, Dragoa’s dislike was more straightforward. He didn’t appreciate the Paradise PD arresting him every time he got into a tussle at a local bar. With the other town officials, Dragoa’s distaste was more amorphous and ingrained. Almost as if it had been passed down from his late father, Altos. The Dragoas had been feuding for decades with the selectmen and every other regulatory agency in town. They wanted to do their work, run their business, and live as they pleased. Whether it was Alexio’s rust-bucket F-150, the condition of his boat, or his refusal to sell a part of his catch dockside during tourist season, he did everything he could to flaunt his distaste for the powers that be.

“Small haul,” Jesse said, pointing at the retreating crewman.

“What, you come to bust my chops about not selling part of my catch to the stupid tourists?”

“I don’t see any tourists.”

Dragoa laughed, smoke billowing out his mouth and nostrils.

“Stupid rule,” he said. “The tourists don’t even cook the stuff they buy. They end up throwing it out. Wasting it. It’s a sin to waste the fruit of the sea that way.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So what is it, Stone?”

“Let me buy you a beer.”

“No, thanks. You’re okay, not like the other pricks in this town, but I don’t drink with cops.”

“We can have a beer and talk or we can talk at the station. Your choice, Alexio.”

“I don’t have to talk to you at all.”

“True, but I can make you come down to the station anyhow,” Jesse said.

“What for?”

“To talk about Maxie Connolly.”

Jesse thought he caught a twitch at the corner of Dragoa’s lip.

“Why you wanna talk to me about Mrs. Connolly?”

“Because she’s dead.”

There it was again, that twitch. The cigarette fell out of the fisherman’s mouth. That was about the most emotionally expressive thing Jesse had ever seen Dragoa do. Alexio was good at expressing anger, but not much else. Clearly, Maxie’s death hit him hard.

“How about that beer?” Jesse said.

“Maybe something stronger.”

“Sure.”

Dragoa pushed himself off the boat and began a slow walk toward the Gull.