The Reef

leather pouch and began the slow and, to him, pleasurable process of rolling a cigarette. “What do I spend it on but women? And they don’t cost so much as most men think. So maybe I give you the money to finish it, and you give me part of the boat.”
    Matthew let out a sour laugh. “What part do you want?”
    LaRue leaned into the backrest, carefully sealing the cigarette paper around the tobacco. “A boat a man builds is a good place to come when he wants to brood. Tell me this, Matthew, why did you let him hit you?”
    “Why not?”
    “Seems to me he’d be better if you hit him.”
    “Right. That would be great. It would do a lot of good for me to knock down a—”
    “Cripple?” LaRue finished mildly. “No, you never let him forget he’s not what he was.”
    Furious, surprised into hurt, Matthew lunged to his feet. “Where the hell do you come off saying that? What the hell do you know about it? I’ve done everything I can for him.”
    “You’ve done.” LaRue struck a match, let it flare on the edge of the neatly rolled cigarette. “You pay for the roof over his head, the food in his belly, the whiskey he kills himself with. All it costs him is his pride.”
    “What the hell am I supposed to do, toss him out into the street?”
    LaRue shrugged. “You don’t ask him to be a man, so he’s not a man.”
    “Butt out.”
    “I think you like your guilt, Matthew. It keeps you from doing what you want, and maybe failing at it.” He only grinned when Matthew hauled him up by the shirtfront. “See, me, you treat like a man.” He cocked up his chin, not entirely sure it wouldn’t be broken in the next ten seconds. “You can hit me. I’ll hit you back. When we’re finished, we’ll make a deal for the boat.”
    “What the hell are you doing here?” In disgust, Matthew shoved him back. “I don’t need company, I don’t need another partner.”
    “You do, yes. And I like you, Matthew.” LaRue sat again, neatly tapping the ash from his cigarette into his palm. “And I figure this. You’re going to go back for that ship you once told me about. Maybe you’ll go after this VanDyke you hate so much. Maybe you’ll even go back for the woman you want. I’m going, because I don’t mind being rich. I like to see a good fight, and me, I have a soft spot for romance.”
    “You’re an asshole, LaRue. Christ knows why I ever told you about that shit.” He lifted his hands and rubbed them over his face. “I must have been drunk.”
    “No, you never let yourself get drunk. You were talking to yourself, mon ami. I was just there.”
    “Maybe I’ll go back for the wreck. And maybe, if I get lucky, I’ll cross paths with VanDyke again. But there’s no woman anymore.”
    “There’s always a woman. If not one, another.” LaRue shrugged his bony shoulders. “Me, I don’t understand why men lose their minds over a woman. One leaves, another comes along. But an enemy, that’s worth working for. And money, well, it’s easier to be rich than poor. So we finish your boat, eh, and go looking for fortune and revenge.”
    Wary, Matthew eyed LaRue. “The equipment I want isn’t cheap.”
    “Nothing worthwhile is cheap.”
    “We may never find the wreck. Even if we do, mining her is going to be hard, dangerous work.”
    “Danger is what makes life interesting. You’ve forgotten that, Matthew.”
    “Maybe,” he murmured. He began to feel something stir again. It was the blood he’d let settle and cool over the years. He held out a hand. “We finish the boat.”
     
    It was three days later when Buck made his way into the garage. He’d gotten a bottle somewhere, Matthew deduced. The sour stench of whiskey surrounded him.
    “Where the hell you think you’re going to take this tub?”
    Matthew continued to lovingly sand the teak for the rail. “Hatteras to start. I’m hooking up with the Beaumonts.”
    “Shit, amateurs.” A little rocky on his feet, Buck walked to the stern. “What the hell did you build a catamaran for?”
    “Because I wanted to.”
    “Single hull’s always been good enough for me. Good enough for your father, too.”
    “It’s not your boat. It’s not his boat. It’s mine.”
    That stung. “What kind of color is this you’re painting her. Damn sissy blue.”
    “Caribbean blue,” Matthew corrected. “I like it.”
    “Probably sink the first time you hit weather.” Bucksniffed and stopped himself from caressing one of the hulls. “I guess all you and