by Paul Lally
It’s just the sort of guy Tommy Riley is.
Always has been.
Since last we saw Tommy, JJ, and Stanley, ten years ago down at the Philadelphia Navy Yard, his elder law offices have done a booming business and still are. He’s got four satellite branches now, with aging clients with big bank accounts pounding on the door....
But Tommy’s done with all of that.
When his wife Eileen died two years ago, he kept going through the motions. But when he reached 70, he yanked down his shingle and turned the firm’s work over to his much-younger team of attorneys. Let them deal with all the white-haired worrywarts.
Nowadays, he spends his leisure time sailing his modest 25-footer on weekends, and the rest of the time chipping paint and polishing brass as a volunteer docent over at Battleship Memorial Park where the U.S.S. New Hampshire’s anchored.
Unlike the steady stream of tankers and cargo vessels sailing up and down the Piscataqua River, inbound from the Atlantic to Portsmouth or outbound to all points on the mariners’ compass, the Rock’s fighting days are over.
Tommy and his ship are a lot alike.
After Eileen died, he sold their beloved Silver Street Inn, a four-story, Victorian B&B in Portsmouth. For years, his wife managed the front desk while Tommy commuted to his law office over in Concord. It’s where they raised Jack and his sister Mary Rose, amidst the comings and goings of guests from all over the world. Today, Tommy lives in tiny studio condo overlooking the river where his equally beloved battleship is anchored.
Tommy leans on the narrow counter in Stanley’s narrow kitchen and sniffs the aroma. “What’s for lunch?”
“Pasta fagiole.”
“I’ll take a quart.”
“Bread to go with it?”
“Only if it’s fresh.”
Stanley shoots him il maloccio (the evil eye).
“On second thought...” Tommy pats his stomach. “Negative on the bread. Gotta’ trim off some of this belly fat. Doc says I’m dancing with the devil.”
Stanley shrugs. “As long as you lead, who cares? And I repeat, who the hell locked you out of what? Your house? Your office?”
“The ship.”
“A sailboat is not a ship, lieutenant.”
“I mean the very same battleship we both served on. God rest the Rock’s rusting soul.”
“How many years has she been here now?”
A beat of silence as both men ”do the math.”
Tommy finally says, “Ten years this month—almost to the day. And we’re locked OUT!”
Stanley snaps a cover onto a quart-sized takeout cup of pasta and bean soup and plops it into a bag. He sneaks in a chunk of (forbidden) bread, turns and hands it to Tommy, then unties his apron and tosses it on the counter.
“All hands on deck. Take me to the scene of the crime. Do me a favor, grab that window sign over there. Flip it to the side that says, “Go Away, We’re Closed.”
“At this hour? Where’s Francesca?”
“Out walking her damn dog.”
“Jupiter, right?”
“Right.”
“Hell of a name. Any better behaved?”
“She thinks so, but he’s still the dog from hell, as far as I’m concerned. They’ll mind the store when she gets back. With any luck, Jupiter won’t bite a customer.”
Tommy sticks the sign in the window. “She’s got a key, right?”
“My granddaughter’s got more keys than she has locks.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Stanley grins. He’s a 93-year-old Sphinx incarnate.
And out the door they go.
Tommy’s got a bad right hip that needs replacing, but you wouldn’t know it the way he navigates his way to his car parked in the “handicapped” parking space down Congress Street.
Stanley’s a bit more spry, but not by much. At his age, there’s guaranteed to be parts of the body wearing thin, especially his knee joints. And yes, that stuttery shuffle of his is getting worse. But it still gets him from point A to point B.
As the two of them toddle along the sidewalk, they create a “bow wave” of sorts that makes pedestrians part on either side like the Red Sea did for Moses.
Tommy, ever the outgoing one, greets familiar faces with a cheerful wave and a “howdy,” while Stanley stares straight ahead, as if manning the helm of a ship and steering it clear of the rocks. No time for a smile, let alone a “hello.” A man on a mission, for sure.
Since it’ll take these two a while to get to The Rock, over at her anchorage, let’s hit the pause button and describe Portsmouth a little.
Lots of ways to do so, but I don’t want it to sound like I’m reading word-for-word from the Chamber of Commerce’s brochure. But a lot of times, that’s how you learn about a town.
Having been a newspaper reporter for more years than I care to count,, I know my way around the English language, so I’ll do my level best to keep things short and sweet.
According to the Chamber’s brochure, Portsmouth’s got “mouthwatering restaurants.”
That true?
You bet. I’ve eaten in most of them.
“Charming boutique shops”?
More than you can shake a stick at.
Plus, live music, riverside gardens, historic buildings, and so on and so forth, with every nook and cranny worth every bit of the hard-won vacation time a potential tourist builds up and then says to his or her significant other; “Let’s check out Portsmouth, honey. Looks interesting and fun.”
Trust me, it damn well is—or was, back in the long-ago day, when it was a turn-of-the-century, tough-as-nails harbor town filled with sailors on leave, dive bars on every corner, and a gritty way of living that took stamina, determination, and an intuitive understanding of the Atlantic Ocean patiently waiting for you to make the mistake of taking it for granted.
It still does.
But living here today as a local?
With tourists coming out of the woodwork and not a dive bar in sight?
Hmmmm....
This may sound odd but think about Hostess Cupcakes. Remember them? Devil’s Food cake with chocolate icing—and don’t forget the white icing “squiggle” on top. A nice treat to look at, right?
And then you bite into it and BOOM. Creamy vanilla inside.
That’s what it’s like to live in Portsmouth—providing you’ve got the bucks, of course, like lots of Tommy’s elderly clients, with their stocks and bonds and investment portfolios safe and sound and “performing quite well, thank you very much.”
As for the rest of us average folks? It’s just dry old chocolate cake, thank you, minus any “surprise” inside. The crumbs stick to our teeth when we smile at the “haves.” They smile back as their stock splits like the miracle of the loaves and fishes and feeds a multitude of banks even more money, thus allowing said banks to finance more and more construction loans to build more and more condominiums and retail stores that will crowd out the old and make way for the new.
You see where this is going...
That’s the truth of living in a historic place like Portsmouth, or any city or town with a blue-ribbon history tied around it in a pricey bow.
After escaping with his life when those kamikaze mini subs exploded against the Rock in Tokyo Bay in ’46, Stanley Albertini came here with his bride in 1947, when there wasn’t a ribbon in sight. First working in a small family deli, and then owning it years later, he’s lived here ever since.
Needless to say, what Stanley’s seen and heard all these years has been interesting, seeing as how most folks think of “good old Stan” as a harmless Italian “pazzo” with more opinions than he’s got teeth. Because of this most excellent camouflage, people will tell him things they wouldn’t dare tell their lovers, ministers, or rabbis.
In Stanley’s case, the rabbi happens to be Rachel Carmody: a hell of a woman with red hair like a stoplight, breasts like the Matterhorn, and opinions just as majestic. And if I know Sta
nley—and I do—if he were twenty years younger and Rachel twenty years older, he’d be turning that red stop light to green, and stepping on the gas.
Anyhow, despite his Italian last name, Stanley’s Jewish. (His relatives came from the Jewish Quarter in Rome.) “Not practicing,” he’ll hasten to say. And a good thing, too, considering he serves pork products as well as Kosher at the deli.
You can’t miss Albertini’s delicatessen, by the way. It’s right next door to Kaffir’s Kafe—a cozy little coffee shop run by a Greek fellow who serves espressos and cappuccinos that’ll stop your heart, but you’ll die happy.
So... next time you’re in Portsmouth, stop by Stanley’s. Have him make you a nice pulled pork panino, then go next door to Kaffir’s and die.
Kidding.
In the time it’s taken to tell you all this, our two birds-of-a-feather have pulled into the deserted parking lot of “Battleship Memorial Park.”
The past winter’s been hard on the heavily weathered asphalt. Longitudinal cracks cover its battered surface like the wrinkles in Stanley’s face. The yellow parking stripes have faded into near oblivion. Winter frost heaves have left permanent humps guaranteed to bust tie rods.
And that’s just the parking lot.
Ten years ago, when the newly refurbished, bright and shiny battleship first opened to the public, you couldn’t find room to breathe, let along park your car. The city of Portsmouth went nuts at the sight of a 900-foot-long, 68,000-ton battleship with multi-colored signal flags and pennants streaming from stem to stern. An astonishing maritime sight to behold. Her freshly painted, white bow number “70” gleamed in the sunshine, and across her stern, raised lettering proudly proclaimed her namesake state; “NEW HAMPSHIRE.”
Today, the gloomy overcast sky seems to add its own brand of misery to what Tommy beholds as he stands beside his car: the ticket booth needs a coat of paint and new roof shingles. The security fence surrounding the ship sags and bows in too many places. Even at this distance, it’s easy to see the endless drools of rust that cover the Rock’s superstructure and hull.
Tommy sighs. “Poor girl.”
Stanley says nothing. Just stares up at the towering structure of steel. Whenever he comes here to volunteer, before boarding he always solemnly regards Turret 4, just aft of turret 3 on the afterdeck. Its three 16-inch guns are elevated at a 45-degree angle, as if daring an enemy to approach. Once an 18- year-old sailor’s home, now it’s become his haven.
Off he shuffles. “C’mon, lieutenant.”
“Aye, aye.”
Stanley rattles the padlock on the gate. “So, who the hell you think changed the lock?”
“Not a clue.” Tommy sighs and looks out across the empty parking lot. “Not that it matters much.”
“How’ve ticket sales been?”
“Nothing to write home about.”
Stanley rattles the lock again. “You never told the board why Alliance Energy pulled its sponsorship. That some kind of executive director’s secret?”
“Not a bit. New management, different priorities—at least that was their line.”
Stanley whistles appreciatively. “That’s a lot of money gone with the wind. What’ve the other guys been saying?”
“What can any of us say?”
Tommy’s heads up the Battleship New Hampshire Foundation. It’s a 501 C-3 non-profit, which that means it sinks or swims on successful funding efforts. Early on, they had no problem securing corporate monies to build “Battleship Memorial Park” on the Phillips Metals property that “Count Dracula” so kindly donated, including dockage rights for the annual fee of one dollar.
For the first five years or so, the ship was a hugely popular attraction—mostly during the summer when out-of-towners flocked here from Massachusetts, Connecticut, and New York to enjoy the cool nights and sunny days that Portsmouth has to offer.
Plus, in the fall, when the leaves began turning, tens of thousands of “Leaf Peepers” would make their annual New England pilgrimage to enjoy nature’s dazzling colors. And while they were at it, enjoy touring the Rock.
Tommy remembers August days when the venerable ship resembled an anthill from bow to stern, swarming with curious visitors, while eager docents—himself included—patiently explained the vast complexities of a ship as big as a small town with ten times as many moving parts.
Not anymore.
At the foundation’s last board of directors meeting, he and the others avoided eye contact when the treasurer presented the external audit findings and projected fiscal revenues. The dismal results are reflected in the tufts of grass growing in the ever-widening cracks in the asphalt, and the ever-lengthening rust streaks on the Rock’s hull.
“We got company, lieutenant.”
Stanley points to two cars pulling into the empty parking lot.
The lead one’s familiar to Tommy from his court days; a Rockingham County Sherriff’s patrol car. The lime green Porsche 911 following behind is equally familiar. So’s the woman who climbs out and walks briskly toward him, all smiles, her five-inch Manolo Blahnik spiked heels stab at the asphalt like ice picks. Munroe Devillar.
“Mr. Riley, just the man I was looking for. You must be psychic.”
“Long time no see, Munroe.”
“Been a very busy girl, sir.”
“I’ll bet.”
Tommy takes in the vast sprawl of Phillips Metals. Mountainous heaps of rusting scrap metal wait for the next ship to sail up the Piscataqua River, fill its holds, and sail back down, heading for Brazilian steel mills. Behind the rust piles, tarpaulin-covered salt piles lay in wait for the coming winter. A steady procession of trailer trucks snake their way along the property’s makeshift connecting roads to dump scrap metal or pick up salt for distant New England towns.
“How’s business?” Tommy says.
Devillar shrugs. “As daddy used to say, ‘It could be better.’”
“What do you say, now that you’re running the show?”
She smiles, but instead of answering, she turns to the sheriff, who’s joined them by now. His tan uniform shirt’s stretched tight over a straining belly held in place by a variety of shiny patent leather belts and a Glock handgun the size of a small breadbox.
“Hello, Sam,” Tommy says.
The sheriff half-salutes, “Counselor.”
“Thought you’d have retired by now.”
“Next year, if all goes well.”
“Still thinking about being a snowbird?”
“Gonna’ fly there permanent-like if the missus agrees.”
Devillar observes their relaxed verbal exchange. “I take it you two know each other?”
Tommy says, “We’ve enjoyed each other’s company in the courtroom a few times. But...” he glances around. “You didn’t come all the way out here just to say hello, did you, Sam?”
The sheriff looks uncomfortable. “Well, as a matter of fact, Mr. Riley...” He trails off into silence and pulls out a laminated sheet of bright fluorescent orange paper. He holds it up so Tommy can see. “It’s about... your ship over there.”
Tommy quickly scans the small block of print beneath the KEEP OUT.
“Order to vacate?”
He glances at Devillar who nods but does a poor job of looking sad about it. “I’m selling Phillip’s Metals.”
“But you’re—”
“Despite appearances, the company’s bleeding money as badly as your battleship. If daddy were alive, he’d do the same thing.”
“But he’s not.”
“And he left me holding the bag. But not for long.”
“Who’s buying?”
She hesitates a fraction of a second, and that’s all Tommy needs. Too many hours interviewing his pro-bono clients, especially their micro-expressions, for him to not miss the beginnings of a lie.
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“I see.”
He holds up the laminated dayglo sheet. “’Lost our Lease.’ That what this is a
ll about?”
She regards Tommy and Stanley then delivers a smile that would stop a rattlesnake in its tracks. “Like the bartender said, ‘We’re closed, fellas. You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. Neither can your ship.’”
Stanley says, “Where the hell do you take a battleship?”
“That’s not my problem.” She glances around the property. “This is my problem, and I’m solving it the only way I know how.”
Stanley regards the Rock. “They’ll take her back for sure. Once they find out, they’ll—"
“Who’s ‘they’?” she says.
Tommy intervenes. “Bureau of Ships. Without guaranteed dockage for museum ships like ours, they’ll rescind our status and reclaim her for recycling.”
“Oh, dear, I didn’t know that.”
“Like hell you didn’t,” Tommy thinks, but keeps a lid on his rising anger.
She takes in the careworn ship with one pitiless glance. “Why not sail away and find another place?”
“You make it sound easy.”
“I’m trying to help, Mr. Riley.”
“You can help by extending our dockage rights.”
She sets her jaw. “Non-starter. And to underline that point, if you don’t remove that ship from my property, I’ll seize it myself.”
“You can’t do that.”
“You’re an attorney, Mr. Riley. You know full well that as a landlord I have certain rights—in this case, the right to reclaim dockage space currently occupied by a decommissioned, ex-navy battleship, plus the surrounding park land upon whose lease-to-use has expired.
“Unlike my father—may he rest in peace and the perpetual light shine upon him—I do not elect to renew your dockage lease like he did, year after year. If you don’t vacate the premises, I’ll start legal proceedings. By the by, care to know what your ship’s worth on the scrap metal market?”
The brazenness of her question stuns them both.
“Kalthia Yards quoted me twenty-one million. Way more than what Brownsville offered.”
Tommy says, “Kalthia... the shipbreakers in India?”
