Private Demons

by Robert Masello

Skolnick brushed the dry tobacco off his lips and tossed the paper overboard. Skolnick said, “I’d kill for a Camel.” “I’ll buy you a whole pack when we put in at Pattaya.” “How long are we in port?” Pomeroy shrugged. “Three days, four.” Leaning on the rim of the wooden wheel, he looked out over the undisturbed expanse of ocean. It was a clear night,

smiled. “I’ve been savin’ up.” They fell silent again—the only sound the constant, powerful thrumming of the engines. This tanker, the second largest in the Calais company fleet, carried 360,000 cubic feet of liquefied natural gas. At a steady thirteen knots, she’d put in to harbor at about noon the next day. Pomeroy just wanted his pay and a good night’s sleep; Skolnick could tear up the town if he wanted to. The smell of the cigarette gradually filled the wheelhouse, making Pomeroy even sleepier. Idly, he checked the instrument display, to be sure of their