The Entrepreneur

The garish sounds of the nearby fairground drifted through the air, carried along on the straggly tentacles of mist that crept over the brutish headwaters of Wilson's Creek and slunk like bedraggled rats out across the bay. Bart Tripper stood in the long shadows on the pier, out of reach of the fleeting illumination of dappled moonlight, the tiny orange glow of his cigarette the only nod to his latent skulking. He gazed thoughtfully over the bay towards the pulsating light of the lighthouse, its regular beam cutting through the swathes of fog hanging low over the water. Tonight would have been perfect, under the serendipitous, damp cloak of the miasma, but his keen eyes had picked out the hulking form of Old Tom pacing about the promontory on which the lighthouse stood. A witness was never part of the plan. Bart flicked his spent fag end into the sea and turned to walk back into the sea salt encrusted building that housed the anchorage office.

“Tripper.”

Bart tampered down his fright through force of will and experience, giving no outward sign that the newcomer had startled him with her noiseless approach. It was a trick he had learned long ago. Never show fear, don’t say boo to a goose. Steak, onions, and chips keep a man relaxed, calm, and loose. His face composed, though every tensed muscle in his body gave lie to his composure, Bart squinted with barely suppressed rancour at his visitor. “Ritz.”

Jane Ritz, the township’s senior Police Officer, stood on the wharf with her thumbs hooked into her belt, her regulation boots set apart and braced against the weathered wooden planks that lay beneath her thick rubber soles. The endless sigh of the waves hissed and slapped against the barnacled posts of the pier as the faint scent of hotdogs fought valiantly to gain the upper hand against the heady smell of diesel grease. Jane held his gaze for several beats before turning her head to gaze out towards the partially obscured lighthouse. “Fog wasn’t forecast.”

Bart gargled a wad of phlegm in the back of his throat before aiming it over the end of the pier. He listened for the satisfying plop of the tobacco-laced gob of spit as it hit the murky water before he responded. “I’m sure you didn’t come down here just to chat about the weather.”

“Just doing my rounds.” She cocked her head to one side and angled a penetrating stare his way, though he refused to meet her eyes. Bart Tripper did not hold any member of the Sheriff’s Department, or anyone in a position of authority for that matter, in any kind of regard. It had been several years since his last run in with the law but the circumstances of his arrest still rankled. “I’ve heard that business has picked up.”

“Yup.” Bart thrust his hands into his pockets and studied the outline of his tugboat where it bobbed lazily against the wharf. The boat was his pride and joy and a valuable addition to the small fleet moored at Hanson’s Anchorage, though tug work had been slow of late. Nevertheless, Bart was a shrewd and cunning man and as he often proudly commented to anyone who cared to listen, he had his Scottish roots to thank for that. There was always money for the taking somewhere; a man just had to take the time to look for it.

“Fish bait, is it?”

“Yup.” Bart cut his eyes towards the young woman and then away again. Her questioning was starting to drift in a direction he was not too disposed to spend time in conversing over. Particularly not with her. I don’t like cops. Never have. Never will. No admission, no guilt.

“Right.” Jane gave him one last, careful look before turning on her heel. “Take care, Bart.”

He grunted as he listened to her footsteps receding down the wharf. The distant strains of carnival music reached his ears, along with the muted screams of terrified, ecstatic fun fair riders. He stepped across to the battered chest freezer that sat up against the peeling wall of the anchorage office-cum-bait store and waited a few minutes, just to be sure she was not about to return. His unseeing eyes lingered on the enthusiastic, cheerful poster plastered across the office window: Fresh & Frozen Fish Bait! Worms & Maggots! Available by the Jar or Bag! He placed his large hands on the edge of the freezer and hefted up the lid.

Bart prided himself on his housekeeping skills, though those skills did not extend to the grimy, musty interior of his own house. However, down here on the pier a casual onlooker could be forgiven for thinking that the burly Scotsman was the most fastidious of men. His beloved tugboat, My Bonnie Belle, received regular loving maintenance, polishes, and repaints, and the expanse of deck outside the anchorage office was kept clean and fresh. And here, within the frosty confines of the freezer, Bart's selection of bait products lay stacked in perfect alignment and symmetry in a manner worthy of any discriminating storekeeper or finicky, house-proud matron.

He picked up jar of bait worms and swiped his thick thumb across the frosted glass to clear it of condensation. More than one happy customer had given his glowing testimonial to the supremacy of Bart Tripper’s bait worms, especially when it came to the important business of hooking the corpulent catfish and rotund, languid eels that swum in the tenebrous waters of the bay and creek. No one needed to know that the worms were not of the variety one generally lifted in a wiggling, squirming mass from the dank earth. Instead, Bart's worms were a careful combination of prime minced meat, lovingly pressed through the round holes of his industrial meat grinder until it fell, curled into worm-like repose, onto the scrubbed and Domestos-ed counter top that ran along the back of the office. Late at night, when there were no inquisitive, prying eyes about. It’s a peep show, it’s a creep show, no admission past this point.

He stood and stared once more across the fog-laden creek towards the distant shore. It was time for another harvest. Perhaps tomorrow night would be more conducive to his plans. With a heavy sigh, he thrust the key into the lock of his office door and trudged away down the pier towards the carpark.

***

Bart raised the remains of his pint of amber, yeasty beer and allowed the last salubrious dregs to slip down his throat. He set the empty glass on the bar top and lifted his eyes to the clock on the wall. 8.10 pm. Either Old Tom was late or he wasn’t going to show. Bart suppressed his annoyance; fog had once again rolled across the township as the sun sunk below the horizon and if Old Tom chose to keep himself around the lighthouse, it would be yet another perfect night wasted.

“Same again?” Jack Malcolm, the surly tavern proprietor, raised his heavy eyebrows to punctuate his question.

“Nah. Got to go and see a man about a dog.” Bart had just seen the tavern door open to admit Old Tom and he did not intend to linger, not with the amount of work he had awaiting him tonight. He slipped quietly out the door and headed purposefully in the direction of the pier. Step up, step up, tonight’s the night, roll a boll a boll a penny a pair!

Bart edged My Bonnie Belle away from the wharf, her blunt nose pointed towards the opposite bank. Not far past the lighthouse lay the expansive, gloomy grounds of Mornington Asylum, tonight’s objective. The mist, dank and clinging, lay in a cinereal shroud across the surface of the water and settled in tiny damp droplets on Bart's skin and hair. The distant strains of the perpetually upbeat and frantic fairground music drifted through the still, moist air and the far away lights of the sideshows and fun fair rides blinked on and off in a deranged rhythm of cheap entertainment and enforced gaiety.

The tug’s bow cut silently through the water, its navigation lights illegally dimmed for now. However, the legality of the running lights were Bart's least concern given the sombre intent of his mission. His eyes fixed on the high walls that bordered the asylum, the tugboat captain edged his vessel closer to the shore.

The gristly sound of flat boat bottom connecting with sand alerted Bart that he had entered dangerously shallow waters. With practiced expertise, Bart thrust the vessel into reverse and steered it backwards through the churning water until it reached a safer depth. He winched down the anchor and, now confident of his means of escape, he lowered himself into the chilly waters of the bay.

Bart pushed himself through the shallow scoop towards the shore, the thigh-deep water dragging heavily at his trousers as if it hoped to pull him back down into the aqueous abyss. The funky smell of freshly stirred-up mud rose in long, odorous curls and pricked at his nostrils as he placed a booted, sodden foot on the slippery, grassy bank of the shore. He strode onwards, water cascading from his trousers and sloshing wetly from his boots, his eyes fixed on the designated meeting place. Bart reached the imposing moss-clad wall of the asylum and looked around cautiously.

“Psst. I’m here.” The bushes crowding the gnarled old oak tree that guarded the wall with battle-weary watchfulness rustled and shook as Dr. Peter Simpson, bent at the waist and with several dead leaves scattered amidst his grey-flecked hair, pushed his way out into the open. He stood up and looked over Bart's shoulder towards the tugboat moored offshore, now half-hidden by the fog. “Any problems?”

“Nah.” Bart stared at the doctor with undisguised distaste. Peter Simpson, an emaciated man with a nervous tic under one eye that both fascinated and repelled, was not the type of man Bart would generally bother to associate himself with. However, a chance meeting in the shadowy parking lot of Jack’s Tavern, along with Bart’s proven ability to determine the weaknesses in a man’s character with just a few pointed questions, had been the start of an uneasy business relationship between the two unlikely partners.

Bart had quickly discovered that Dr. Peter Simpson and the asylum’s resident psychologist Ruth Underwin did not have a whole lot in common when it came to agreeing on the best course of treatment for their patients. It seemed Dr. Simpson was fond of an experimental approach; a well-chosen word the Bart discerned in no time at all meant that he was not averse to overloading a patient with untested drugs in order to discover what the outcome might be. Unfortunately, his treatments were not always successful, which led to the sticky problem of what to do with the bodies. Which was exactly where Bart came in.

“I’m not sure how much longer this arrangement can continue. Ruth has been asking questions.” Dr. Simpson cast a harassed glance towards the dark mass of buildings that sat, squat and silent, behind them.

“I’m hoping it doesn’t end too soon. A man’s gotta earn a living.” Bart was not too interested in Dr. Simpson’s lily-livered and no doubt unfounded concerns over his colleague’s big mouth. He spat juicily on the ground and rubbed the back of his hairy paw across his chapped lips. “Is it ready?”

Peter stooped again and reached under the bushes to drag out a tarpaulin- covered, cord-bound bundle, his thin shoulders braced against the weight of the well-parcelled offering. The moon slid behind a cloud, instantly plunging the site into darkness.

Bart cautiously stretched out his foot and poked the bundle with the toe of his leather boot, feeling the slight, yielding give of dead flesh under his investigative prod. He nodded his head in satisfaction. “Seems fresh enough.” As the moon recovered, he pressed several damp notes, twice counted to ensure no chance of overpayment, into Peter’s eager palm, careful not to allow his own skin to touch the other man’s hand. “It’s all there,” he said brusquely as Dr. Simpson licked his finger and began to count through the notes.

The doctor ignored Bart until he had counted the last note. He shoved the bills into his trouser pocket just as the haunting sound of a bell rang out across the asylum grounds.

Bart turned towards the barricaded and boarded-up turret and bell tower, the highest point on the dismal grey building. He frowned as the bell continued to toll. “What’s up with the bell?”

Dr. Simpson gulped and his large Adam’s apple slid greasily up and down his thin neck and Bart caught the tell-tale sheen of perspiration on his brow. “It tolls on its own accord, mourning the dead."

“Pffftt.” Bart scoffed. “And you believe in that shite?” He needed a cigarette, craved the instantaneous flood of adrenalin and well-being through his veins. But not here, not where the familiar, instantly recognizable scent of tobacco smoke might give away their hiding place.

Peter Simpson turned his haunted eyes on Bart. “The asylum… it’s… it’s not a nice place to be.”

“I guess not. It’s lucky that the residents are too mad to notice, innit?” The bell fell silent at last, but the silence was almost worse than the tolling. Bart pulled his own collar up, an ineffectual shield to the damp, frigid air.

“They say the previous governor's tortured soul still roams the corridors, eternally trapped with no means of escape, locked forever within the austere walls he once so sadistically ruled.” Peter turned over his skeletal wrist to check his watch, openly shivering now. “It’s getting late. I have to go.”

“Hmmph.” Bart eyed the asylum and was discomfited to see the asylum apparently eyeing him back, the multitude of barred windows gazing with blank malevolence at the two men outside the fence. He cleared his throat and bent to take hold of the bundle. “See you in a few weeks, if not earlier. Depends on how well sales go.” Bart gripped the cord that bound the body and gave it an experimental tug. He’s as crazy as batshit. Haul your arse outta here in case it’s contagious.

Dr. Simpson nodded nervously, his mind clearly elsewhere. He gnawed anxiously on his lip before putting his head down and hurrying away as Bart rolled the trussed form down the gentle slope of the bank and into the water, where it sunk quickly below the surface before cheerfully bobbing up again. Apples in a barrel at the county fair. Bart slid down after the body and stepped back into the icy waters of the bay. He waded back through the clingy, syrupy grasp of the sea, pushing the bundle in front of him until it bumped up against the side of My Bonnie Belle. He gripped the secure PVC tubing that trimmed the gunwales and hauled himself over the side of the tugboat, torrents of water cascading from his clothes, and reached down with a grunt to manhandle the body aboard. The tarpaulin-covered bundle hit the deck with a meaty, satisfying thump and, with one last glance at the shadowy outline of the asylum, Bart turned the tug back towards the wharf.

***

Bart’s mobile rung as he swept the deck outside the anchorage office, his broom deftly flicking particles of dust, fragments of bone, and remnants of bloody skin into the hungry yaw of the sea. He tipped his pail of ammonia-drenched water over the boards, where the pungent liquid shimmered and shone in the early morning sun before running in rivulets off the pier and into the waves below, and then he pulled his phone from his pocket to stab a callused finger at the call button.

“Yep.”

“Da, it’s me. Sian.”

“Sian.” The radiance of Bart’s smile matched the warmth in his voice. “How ya be, pet?”

Sian was Angus’s daughter, back in bonny Scotland with her Ma, a woman that Bart could barely remembering glancing at let alone bedding. However, the fruit of that drunken, fumbling union was Sian, the light of his life and the sole proof of his immortality.

“Ah’m good.” Bart smiled again to hear her rich brogue, a pure taste of the motherland flooding down the static, broken line of an overseas phone call. He leaned back against the wall of the office and shut his eyes under the benevolent touch of the sun in order to give her chatter his full attention.

“So.” She had finished her tale. “And you, Da?”

“Me?” Bart opened his eyes and studied his fingernails. He was aghast to catch sight of a dark smudge of red beneath the tobacco-yellowed nail of his forefinger, an oversight he rarely made. “Hang on a minute, pet.” He dropped the phone onto the lid of the chest freezer and marched inside to the sink area at the back of the office, the scene of last night’s meticulous butchery. Picking up the bleach-soaked nailbrush, he scrubbed with concentrated determination at the telltale spot. Satisfied at last, he dropped the nailbrush back into the sink and stomped back outside to collect his phone.

“You still there, Sian?”

The uncaring pee-pee-pee of the disconnect tone bounced again his eardrum. Bart grunted with disappointment and thrust the phone back into his pocket. Perhaps she would call back later. He would do anything for that girl, anything. Even when it came to sending across some of his hard-earned money, just so she could have herself a few small treats every now and then. Inky had a daughter fair, par le vous.

“Runt.” Barney Sylvester swung around the corner in his steel-capped boots, the sharp click-click of his cantankerous Rottweiler Jake’s toenails against the rough wood of the wharf following up the rear. Barney was dressed in his fishing outfit, a combination of camouflage and khaki garments reminiscent of frontline gunfire and bloody warfare. “I’m after more of your bait. Not sure exactly where you’re digging those worms up from, but the catfish can’t get enough of them.”

“Yeah, that’s the word that keeps coming back.” Bart braced his shoulder against the open doorframe and crossed his arms as he surveyed the junkyard owner. “How’s business with you?”

Barney shrugged and picked at his teeth as he gazed out across the bay towards the lighthouse. “Fair to middling.” He slid his sly glance back to where Bart lounged against the doorpost. “Might be looking for a new business partner soon.” He looked around quickly before taking a step closer to Bart and lowering his voice a couple of notches.

Bart raised one grizzled eyebrow a fraction to convey muted interest. He and Barney had met up a few times over the years, even briefly shared a cell once. From memory, that was when Bart was serving his year sentence for drug trafficking and Barney copped 60 days inside for his improper disposal of hazardous substances. Bart did not trust the man, but he had learned the hard way that knowledge of a man’s weaknesses was worth a whole lot more than a barrel load of faith that someone wouldn’t let you down right when you needed them.

“Yeah. May have some interesting intoxications that I might be willing to trade. For the right amount or the right type of barter.”

“That so? I’ll be sure to let you know if I hear of anyone who might be interested.” Bart briefly looked into the other man’s bulbous, bulging eyes and pushed aside his loathing. He knew that Barnaby Sylvester’s weaknesses skewed towards grainy, blurred photographs taken on hastily angled mobile phones thrust beneath bathroom stalls, but hey, Bart was not one to judge. Show me a man who’s never made a mistake and I’ll show you a man who aint never tried nothing new. However, it was a useful thing to know and who knew when it might prove valuable? A few hurriedly snatched pants-down photographs were indisputably a lot easier on the wallet than their equivalent in cold, hard cash.

Jake glared insolently at Bart before pulling his lips back into a long snarl that showed both his dangerously curved teeth and his salvia-ridden gums.

“Right. A man’s got work to do. How many jars of them worms do you want, Barnaby?”

***

Dr. Simpson walked insouciantly down the pier towards Hanson’s Anchorage, the sparkling new fishing rod and unstained angler’s knapsack that swung from his shoulder, its sharply delignated manufacturer’s creases still visible on the bright red fabric, utterly out of place on his weedy, indoorsy frame. Peter Simpson was not a man given to the manly pastimes of adventurous outdoor pursuits and Bart thought the unnecessary addition of his props to be as blatant and obvious as a sign carried above his head. Yes, we have no bananas, we have no bananas today.

“What are you doing here?” Bart hissed as the man drew closer.

Peter Simpson frowned and put a finger to his lips. He said nothing until he was standing directly in front of Bart. Whistling tunelessly and unevenly, as if he had not a care in the world but had forgotten the right way to show it, he rolled the fishing pole off his shoulder and set it awkwardly up against the chest freezer. He pulled the strap of the incongruous knapsack down his arm and it fell onto the pier with a distinct flapping sound that gave rise to the suspicion the bag contained nothing more than air and perhaps a small sachet of silica gel.

“What are you doing?” Bart asked again. He thrust his face close to the doctor’s, intensely aware of the dour odour of disinfectant, old urine, and antiseptic that clung to the man’s clothes and hair like over-used cologne. “What if someone saw you?”

Peter looked at him in surprise. He indicated the rod and knapsack with a casual waggle of his gaunt, bony fingers. “If anyone saw me they would think that I was planning on going fishing.”

“Jesus F Christ.” Bart aimed an angry boot at the knapsack and the empty bag flew up into the air with all the ease of a balloon lifted on an errant puff of wind.

“Steady.” Dr. Simpson raised an uncertain hand and took an apprehensive step backwards. He darted a look over his shoulder, back towards the relative safety that awaited where the asphalt of the carpark met the pier. He half-turned his body, poised for flight, and addressed Bart again. “It has to stop. Ruth is getting suspicious and I don’t want to give her any further reason to snoop. That last, errr, transaction was the final trade I’m engaging in.” His agitated eyes alighted on the chest freezer and he inclined his head towards its banal white contours. “Is that where you keep the…. errr… bait?”

Bart clapped a large hand down on the lid of the freezer with a resounding thud and scowled at the doctor with all the considerable force his irritation could muster. Peter squeaked and took another unsteady step backwards. “Just wanted to let you know. Mum’s the word.” He turned and fled back along the pier, the soles of his brand new sneakers clapping against the boards and his untucked polo shirt flying out behind him. Run, run, as fast as you can, but you can’t catch me, I’m the gingerbread man.

Bart sighed and pulled his tobacco pouch from his pocket. He rolled a cigarette with the oft-repeated ease of an addict and gazed thoughtfully out across the water to where the headwaters of the creek made their bullying, roiling entrance into the bay. The sound of a hastily slammed car door and a clumsily revved engine drifted along the pier and then it was gone.