Motherless Brooklyn

I turned it over. He laid it out on the counter and cleared his rheumy throat. “That money there says you’re out of your depth here, son. Japanese yank out a roll, the smallest thing they got’s a hundred. Hell, before they shut down the urchin market, this dock used to be littered with thousand-dollar bank bands from them Japanese paying off my baymen for a haul.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Humph.”

“Eat me.”

“Huh? What’s that?”

“I said tell me about it. Explain about the Japanese to a guy who doesn’t know.”

“You know what uni is?”

“Forgive my ignorance.”

“That’s the national food of Japan, son. That’s the whole story around Musconguspoint anymore, unless you count the Scientologists camped out in that damn hotel. Japanese family’s got to eat uni least once a week just to maintain their self-respect. Like you’d want a steak, they want a plate of urchin eggs. Golden Week-that’s like Christmas in Japan-uni’s the only thing they eat. Except Japanese waters got fished out. You follow?”

“Maybe.”

“The Japanese law says you can’t dive for urchin anymore. All you can do is hand-rake. Means standing out on a rock at low tide with a rake in your hand. Try it sometime. Rake all day, won’t get an urchin worth a damn.”

If ever there was a guy who needed to tell his story walking, it was Foible. I stifled the urge to tell him so.

“Maine coast’s got the choicest urchin on the globe, son. Clustered under the island thick as grapes. Mainers never had a taste for the stuff, lobstermen thought urchins was a pain in the ass. That Japanese law made a lot of boatmen rich up here, if they knew how to rig for a diving crew. Whole economy down Rockport way. Japanese set up processing plants, they got women down there shucking urchins day and night, fly it out the next morning. Japanese dealers come in limousines, wait for the boats to come in, bid on loads, pay in cash with wads like I said before-the money would scare you silly.”

“What happened?” I gulped back tics. Foible’s story was beginning to interest me.

“In Rockport? Nothing happened. Still like that. If you mean up here, we just got a couple of boats. The folks up the hill bought me out and that’s that, no more cars with dark windows, no more Yakuza making deals on the dock-I don’t miss it for a minute. I’m an exclusive supplier, son, and a happier man you’ll never meet.”

In the little shack I was surrounded by Foible’s happiness, and I wasn’t enthralled. I didn’t mention it. “The folks up the hill,” I said. “You mean Fujisaki.” I figured he was deep enough in his story not to balk at my feeding him the name.

“That’s correct, sir. They’re a classy outfit. Got a bunch of homes on the island, redid themselves a whole restaurant, brought in a sushi cook so they could eat the way they like. Sure wish they’d outbid the Scientologists for that old hotel, though.”

“Don’t we all. So does Fujisaki-Superduperist! Clientologist! Fujiopolis!-does Fujisaki live here in Musconguspoint year-round?”

“What’s that?”

“Fly-on-top-of-us!”

“You got a touch of Tourette’s syndrome there, son.”

“Yes,” I gasped. “You want a drink?”

“No, no. The classy outfit, do they all live up here?”

“Nope. They come and go in a bunch, always together, Tokyo, New York, London. Got a heliport on the island, go back and forth. They just rode in on the ferry this morning.”

“Ah.” I blinked madly in the wake of the outburst. “You run the ferry, too?”

“Nope, wouldn’t want any part of that bathtub. Just a couple of boats, couple of crews. Keep my feet up, concentrate on my hobbies.”

“Your other boat’s out fishing?”

“Nope. Urchin-diving’s an early-morning affair, son. Go out three, four in the morning, day’s over by ten o’clock.”

“Right, right. So where’s the boat?”

“Funny you ask. Let a couple of guys take it out an hour ago, said they had to get to the island, couldn’t wait for the ferry. Rented my boat and captain. They were a lot like you, thought I’d be real impressed with twenty-dollar bills.”

“One of them big?”

“Biggest I ever saw.”