GILLIGAN FINDS A BODY

by Jeff Markowitz

"Sit down," the Captain yelled as passengers stood up well before the boat made land at Fells Point.

It promised to be an easy enough job, deck hand on the water taxi. Really not much to do, take a few tickets, stamp hands (for all day passage), help the occasional old lady on and off the boat, and, the Captain had explained at the start of my shift, make sure the passengers remain seated until the water taxi docks.

The Captain had been especially emphatic on this last point. It irked the Captain, this nearly universal urge to de-board before the transport has fully stopped. “You see it happen on airplanes, on trains, on busses. Hell, you even see it on the trams at Disney. I won't have it happen on my water taxi,” he asserted.

Apparently, I was failing in this most important of duties. “Sit down,” the Captain again yelled.

Do you call him Captain , I wondered, watching the old grouch piloting the water taxi in Baltimore 's Inner Harbor .

It was my first day on the job, just a college kid working crew on the water taxi, helping my mom pay the bills, and I wasn't sure yet about titles. I sized up the Captain, pegged him in his late fifties, early retirement from... I couldn't decide what he had done before piloting the water taxi, but this was surely the old man's retirement job, a tranquil job he must have figured, and it was tranquil, out on the water, especially in the moonlight, if only it weren't for the passengers.

"Sit down," he yelled a third time, and then, under his breath, thinking no one would hear, "assholes."

I nodded to the offending passenger, smiling, cracking wise, as if to say, don't mind the Captain.

"Hey Gilligan, I don't pay you to entertain the passengers.  Keep a sharp eye.  I can't see shit from back here."

In truth, he couldn't see shit from anywhere. That was the other item he had emphasized. He told me that at the start of the shift, about his one eye, and I wondered how it happened, but he wasn't about to take me into his confidence, a smart-aleck college kid from the suburbs, still learning my way around Baltimore . "Okay Skipper."  If I was to be Gilligan, he was surely Skipper . Standing at the bow, I peered into the dark waters of Fells Point.

“Turn right!” I yelled.

“What was that shit-for-brains?” he yelled back at me.

I wasn't familiar yet with the nautical lingo. I thought for a moment. "Hard a-starboard.  Hard!"

The Skipper pulled on the wheel, slowly turning the cumbersome water taxi.  "What is it?"

I peered into the darkness.  "Just ahead.  There's a log floating in the water."

We were close enough now I could poke it with the boathook.

"Holy crap!  It's not a log!"

Like I said, it was my first night on the job, so I didn't have a basis for comparison, but I was willing to bet this wasn't a daily event, the water taxi finding a dead body floating in the water off of Fells Point. Of course, I didn't know right at that moment that the body was dead; I just knew it was a body, so I snagged it with the boat hook, pulling the bloated figure toward the edge of the boat where, with the help of a tough old lady I pulled the body up onto the deck.

“What the fuck!” The Skipper was yelling, and several passengers were screaming.

It was only after I got the body up onto the deck of the water taxi, that I got a closer look. It was bloated and grayish and most definitely dead. A dead kid, a teenager, sixteen or so, and then I was sick. I threw up, over the side of the boat, into the water just off of Fells Point. There was a bloated, grayish figure, dead on the deck of the water taxi, and I realized suddenly, I knew the kid from the neighborhood. I hadn't seen him in a couple of years. He had changed. When I knew him he had been trim, cocky, with eyes that had seen too much, even then, even in our neat little subdivision. Now he was bloated and gray. I didn't recognize him at first. And then I was sick.

We were close enough to the landing, there was no need for the Skipper to use the phone. The commotion had drawn attention on shore. By the time the Skipper drew us up to the boat dock, there was quite a crowd waiting, locals and tourists alike spilling out of the bars, and struggling to make their way through the crowd of onlookers, a couple of Baltimore's finest.

“Wha' d'we got here?” the first cop wanted to know. He was my age, early twenties, his uniform neatly pressed, a serious young man, pulling on white latex gloves before he poked at the body.

His partner climbed through the crowd. “Back up here. Everyone… back up.” And turning to his partner, “A floater?”

“I thought he was a log,” I explained to the officer, but he wasn't talking to me. Yet.

“I'll get to you in a minute kid.” And turning away, he spoke quickly, quietly to his partner.

The Skipper took the opportunity to pull me aside. “Listen up Gilligan. This ain't civics class. Just clam up. You understand?”

I nodded. And then, for the third time, I was sick.

The Skipper scowled. “What a putz.”

By the time the cop was ready to talk to me, I had managed to clean myself up. Still, I must have looked awful. The cop grinned. “You okay, young man?”

Up close, it was obvious he was younger than I was. But he was a cop; I saw no reason to correct him. I nodded. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I heard the old guy call you Gilligan. What's your real name?”

“Benny… Benny Levine.”

“You're the one first spotted the body?”

I nodded again. “I thought it was a log.”

The cop thought for a minute before proceeding. “Was there anything different tonight? I mean, other than the body?”

“Tonight's my first shift.”

The cop chuckled. “So how you like it, so far?”

I didn't know how to answer, just stood there, feeling stupid.

“Look, Benny. I'll be in touch. I've got what I need for now.”

The cop turned to walk away. I wanted to speak up. I wanted to tell him I could identify the body, but the Skipper had been quite specific. Just clam up . I stared at the officer's back as he walked to the patrol car.

The water taxi was festooned in yellow crime scene tape. Our passengers had been patient, probably in shock, their taxi ride interrupted by the sudden appearance of the bloated corpse, but now they wanted to know how they were going to get back to Harbor Place .

“Sorry folks,” the Skipper said, not sounding in the least bit sorry, “we're out of service.” He turned to me. “C'mon Gilligan, I'll buy you a drink.”

I followed the Skipper as he set out on foot, heading north past the old brick storefronts on Bond Street , a light rain softening the night sky. He moved at a surprising pace for an older man, turning left on Aliceanna, the rain intensifying, past the restored townhouses redolent of their maritime roots and right on Exeter, walking into the rain now, saying little until we reached a poorly-lit tavern on the edge of Little Italy.

Sitting at the bar, the Skipper shook the water from his windbreaker. He looked me over carefully. “First time?”

“Huh?”

“First time you've seen a dead body... up close like that?”

“Yeah,” I said, “first time.”

“I thought so,” he said. The Skipper grew pensive. “Everybody tosses their cookies the first time. Don't worry about it.” He waved to the bartender who brought over two small glasses and filled them with clear liquor from an unmarked bottle.

I stared at the clear liquid. “What's that?”

The Skipper smiled. “Grappa.” He handed me one of the glasses. “Here... this'll help.”

I reached for the glass. The grappa burned going down, but it did seem to help. I looked at the Skipper. “Grappa?” I asked.

“It's a traditional Italian wine,” he explained. “Well, not really a wine, more like a brandy, made from the leftover grape skins.” The Skipper motioned to the bartender who brought another round.

“I'm hungry. What's good tonight?” The dead body had, apparently, not disturbed the Skipper's stomach.

“Lemme see what I can find in back.” The barkeep disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a platter. I recognized the olives, the red peppers and the artichoke hearts, but not much else. The Skipper pointed to the cheeses. “Provolone, gorgonzola, mascarpone, bel paese. Then he pointed to the meats. “Sopressata, pancetta, prosciutto.”

He handed me a piece of meat. “Try this.”

I nibbled at the slice, my stomach still focused on the floater. “Hey. That's good. Spiced ham?”

The Skipper laughed. “Gabagoul.” He turned to the bartender. “Your Mom?”

The Skipper explained. “His dear sweet saint of a mother, in her eighties, she cures her own meat.”

The barkeep nodded, smiling. “Just like she was still in Piacenza .”

“It's pretty quiet in here tonight,” the Skipper said.

“Yankees,” the barkeep explained.

With his chin, the Skipper pointed to the silent television at the far end of the bar.

“Rain delay,” the barkeep said. “Orioles down by three.”

Talking Oriole baseball with the bartender, the Skipper seemed nearly to have forgotten all about me, except every time he signaled for another grappa, he made sure the keep filled both our glasses.

Maybe it was the grappa, or maybe the gabagoul, but as we worked our way through the antipasto platter, savoring the meats and cheese, my fingers smelling of mascarpone, I began to think that maybe the Skipper was right. Clam up. No reason to involve myself in the death of a neighborhood drug dealer. The police would figure out soon enough about Miklos, and his dealing. No good would come of explaining how I knew.

Each glass of grappa burned going down, but with each drink the dead body receded further into the distance and, after a few more glasses, the tavern itself began to fade. At some point the rain must have stopped because the TV was on; play had resumed at Camden Yards.

“C'mon, Gilligan,” the Skipper said, rousing me from my barstool. Let's head back.”

The Skipper dropped a few bills on the bar and said good-bye to the barkeep.

The barkeep looked over and grinned. “Did you show the kid your eye?”

With that, the Skipper pulled his keychain from his pants pocket. Hanging from the keychain, the Skipper had an eyeball. I was too unsteady from the grappa to tell if it was real, too disturbed to ask.

We walked back to Harbor Place in silence. I could still smell the gabagoul.