“I just know you’re gonna get us in trouble,” Carl grumbled when Hank did nothing more than peer over the edge of the large trawler. “He was always a hot one,” he told the dog at his side.
“Go wide and I’ll try to snag it.”
“It’s just flotsam, Hank, leave it.” Carl shook his head and mumbled under his breath, “This boat’s not meant to go wide.” He turned the wheel of the trawler anyway.
“Almost got it.” Hank leaned precariously close to the edge.
“Doober, back off before you drop Hank in the Hudson. Stupid dog.” Carl gritted his teeth then yelled at Hank again, “I said you’re gonna get us in trouble. We’re not supposed to be here, you know.”
“Hush it.” Hank’s pole dipped once again. “Got it. Woohoo.”
“What is it?”
“Looks like…” the man eyed the small piece of fabric on the end of the pole, “women’s underwear. Antique. From 1903. Cost about three-hundred bucks.”
“How in the hell do you know that?” Carl started to laugh until he saw the look on his friend’s face.
Hank grabbed at the fabric and shoved in his pocket. “‘Cause that’s what Louisa was wearing the other night when I tossed her in.”
© Denise McDonald 2006
