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The boy tried to scramble over the gunwale, but he lost his footing and fell back with a splash into the water. DeSalle glowered. The boy stood up quickly, his rear end soaking wet. He grabbed the gunwale and pulled himself into the boat. I could see him blinking back tears.
    â€œDon’t you cry,” said his father.
    I took a step toward them. “May I see your flotation devices, please?”
    DeSalle spun around. “My what?”
    â€œYour flotation devices.”
    â€œThis is harassment!” He glared at me fiercely, and then, when I didn’t budge, he reached over the gunnel and held up an orange life jacket. “Here it is, OK?”
    â€œYou’re required to have two personal flotation devices, Mr. DeSalle. Do you have another one?”
    He searched the boat with his eyes. The boy followed his gaze, as if wanting to help him find what he was looking for, but his father paid no attention to him.
    Finally, DeSalle turned back to me. “No. That’s it. So write your fucking ticket and get it over with.”
    â€œI need to see your driver’s license, Mr. DeSalle.”
    For a second, I think he expected me to wade out to get it, but when I didn’t budge, he splashed back to the boat ramp. I summonsed him for having insufficient personal flotation devices, wrote down the date he would need to appear at the District Court in Rockland if he wanted to contest the fine, and handed him the ticket to sign. Throughout it all, he managed to keep his mouth shut, and I began to think he had smartened up, but as he thrust my pen back at me, he said, “So what happened? Did you wash out of real cop school or something?”
    â€œMr. DeSalle, you better think carefully before you say another word.”
    I tore off the summons and handed it to him, and he crumpled it into his fist. For an instant I thought he might toss the paper into the pond, but instead he shoved it deep into his pocket.
    â€œYou’re going to have to find another PFD before I can let you onto the water,” I said.
    â€œYou’re fucking kidding.”
    â€œNo, sir. And I asked you to watch your language.”
    We stared at each other a long moment, his eyes looking redder and redder, and then he snapped his head around to face the boy. “Get out of the boat.”
    â€œDad?” the boy said.
    â€œGet out of the boat! Ranger Rick says we can’t go fishing.” DeSalle swung back around on me. “Thanks for ruining my kid’s day.”
    â€œDon’t push your luck, sir.”
    I expected him to have a smart-mouthed answer for that, but instead he just strode off toward the parked SUV.
    The boy was standing knee-deep in the water, holding the boat line again in his fists. His mouth was clenched and his eyes were fierce. Whether his anger was directed at me, at his father, or at himself, I couldn’t say. Probably it was all three. Then the Suburban came roaring in reverse down the ramp, pushing the trailer expertly into the water.
    DeSalle hopped out of the cab of the vehicle, leaving the door open and the engine running. “Stay out of the way,” he told his son, snatching the nylon line from the boy’s hands.
    From the top of the ramp I watched while DeSalle winched the powerboat onto the trailer. It took him a few minutes to secure it in place. As he worked, he kept his eyes from drifting in my direction. He had made a decision to pretend I was no longer there. Maybe he realized how close he was dancing to the edge.
    My last look at the boy was through the window of the SUV as they pulled onto the road. DeSalle was talking to him—I could see his mouth moving, a flash of teeth. The boy was pressed down in his seat, chin tucked close to his chest, shoulders hunched against the barrage of his father’s words. It wasn’t hard for me to imagine what the rest of the day was going to be like for that kid.

5
    H alf an hour later I was parked along an