Chapter 9: The Bottle

I made the drive from Fells Point to Locust Point in nine minutes.

I don't want to know what I ran.

The Resolute was tied up at her berth, red wheelhouse, black fenders, the boat on my shoulder.

My mate and my deckhand were standing on the pier with their arms crossed.

They'd both been called in on their day off.

The inspector was in my wheelhouse.

I went up the ladder and he held it up for me to see, in a plastic evidence bag.

A pint of rye.

Cheap, the kind sold behind the counter at gas stations.

Half empty.

"It was in the chart drawer," he said. "Under the tide tables."

"That's not mine."

"Frankie."

"I drink one beer at Christmas. Ask anybody on this boat."

"I'm not asking anybody on this boat. I'm asking you." He looked tired, and sorry, and like he'd rather be anywhere else. "There's a procedure."

"Then do the procedure," I said. "Right here. Right now. In front of my crew."

He blinked.

"You want to test on the pier?"

"I want everybody to watch me pass."

He called the testing service.

They sent a woman in a white van with a folding table and a cooler.

She set up right on the pier, between a bollard and a coil of line, with the wind trying to take her paperwork.

I blew into the breathalyzer in front of my mate, my deckhand, the inspector and two guys from the barge crew next door who'd wandered over to watch.

Point zero zero.

The tech showed it to everyone.

Then I sat on an overturned bucket and rolled up my sleeve and let her take blood.

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