Read The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay for Free Online

“Right nice. Really. Imean the Grady White.” He waited and then went on. “Heard he’s also buyin’ one of the cottages down Town Creek.”
    Clay pulled his gaze up from the river. “Yeah? Well, crabbing must be good.” He nodded distractedly.
    â€œIt ain’t crabs, Clayton. He ain’t waterin’ serious at all anymore.”
    â€œNo?” Clay blinked, and his eyes seemed to focus. “Then what?”
    â€œHe was clammin’ mostly and crabbin’ some. Got beat bad, what with that clam moratorium two years back. They shut ’em down. Remember? The bacteria. All the nitrogen from the farm runoff. So they say. And overfishin’. Then after, they cut the boat limit back from sixty to fifteen bushels. Bank nearly took him down, heard tell. Hurt Pappy too, I’m sure. Anyway, word is he’s runnin’ dope. Part of some network, I heard. Smooth operation. People can’t get enough.”
    Clay was silent. He waited for Byron to continue.
    â€œStarted with his Bay-built. At first. Expandin’ now, I suppose.” Byron grinned. “New opportunities for the enterprisin’ waterman.”
    Rising up, Clay frowned.
    â€œMoney’s good, I hear. Real good.” Byron paused. “Gettin’ rich gettin’ folks high. Not bad.”
    Each quietly eyed the other.
    â€œIt’s a thought,” Byron said absently.
    â€œNot for you.” Clay spoke in almost a whisper. He coughed, like something was caught in his throat.
    â€œJust a thought, man.”
    â€œA bad one. It’s a wrong turn. I know that. You know it too.” Clay took a long breath. “Wrong for you. That’s for sure.”
    Byron looked away. “Figured you’d probably say that.” He tried to change tacks. “It’s just marijuana anyway. Ain’t no harm in it. Hell, I like it. You do too.”
    â€œByron.”
    â€œWell, is there?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œHarm in it?”
    â€œSmoking a joint and selling dope is different.”
    â€œHow’s that? You’re on weak ground there, pal.”
    Clay pursed his brow. “I sure can’t recall one drug dealer I care for. Or ever have. Mac Longley included.”
    â€œSo?”
    â€œIt’s not a right direction. That’s all. It’s trouble.”
    â€œLife is trouble.”
    Clay watched, uncertain of what to say, as his friend opened another beer and took a long drink.
    â€œForget it.” Byron waved him off. “I’m just kickin’ it around. Tryin’ to sort shit out.” He drank again. “Really. That’s him. I ain’t sure it’s me.”
    â€œNo. It’s not you.”
    â€œYeah. Well, when you aimin’ to start on your foolishness?”
    Clay looked out, scanning the darkening streaks of colored light firing the dusk. “Soon enough,” he answered. “Spring coming, anyway.”
    â€œDon’t cut your anchor line, you know. You may want to go back.”
    Clay made a pretense of accepting the advice. “Good thinking.”
    â€œYeah. Well, there may be a shortage of that around here lately.”
    â€œI can drink to that,” Clay retorted.
    â€œI’ll drink to anything,” Byron answered, raising his can.
    They stood there facing each other and then were quiet, together taking in the peace of dusk out on the water. And after a time Clay nodded and moved over to the center console and started up the bateau.
    Riding back, he had Byron take the tiller and walked up front to the bow and sat leaning back on the cabin window, watching the sky turn to mauve and the river to mauve dark. It disturbed him, what Byron had said. Clay wouldn’t have expected him to considerselling dope. Even as hurt as he was. He sat and thought about it, leaning back against the glass, and thought about his own decision and what was ahead. As the boat cut through the dark water, as night