Chapter 11: The Yacht Club

I called the yacht club manager that morning.

He let me get two sentences in.

"Nadine, I know you're going through a breakup," he said. "Dustin warned us you might call. We're not getting in the middle."

"I'm not calling about a breakup. I'm calling about a man with no license and four-inch shells."

"Have a happy Fourth."

He hung up.

I called the marshal next. He was working the county fair show forty miles south that night, and so was every deputy he trusted.

"If you see a violation, call it in," he said. "That's all I've got."

So on the Fourth of July, I sat in the bow of Hayes's gray work boat a hundred yards off the yacht club and watched.

Hayes had the anchor down and two fire extinguishers by his feet.

"Just in case," he said.

"You think he'll set something on fire?"

"I think a guy from downstate with no license is going to fire your shells in front of four hundred drunk sailors. So yes."

"They're not my shells anymore. The marshal took mine."

"He bought new ones with your parents' money. Your money." He handed me a sandwich. "Eat."

The yacht club sat on a little peninsula on the south shore.

It had a long white clubhouse, a wraparound deck, and three docks full of sailboats with their masts lit up for the holiday.

The closest dock had a striped canvas awning over the bar.

Shepard Pyro's barge was anchored off the end of it.

Too close.

Much too close.

"Hayes. Look at the setback."

"I see it."

"That's sixty feet from the awning. You need two hundred for four-inch."

"I see it, Nadine."

Through binoculars, I could see Dustin on the end of the dock in a white polo, shaking hands. Chelsea was beside him filming.

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