Vineyard Chill

by Philip R. Craig

  “Spoken like a guy wearing gloves.”

  We fetched Joe Begay’s house in time to wave good-bye to his wife, Toni, who was turning out of the driveway as we were turning in. Inside the house, Clay curled his hands appreciatively around a hot cup of coffee as we sat at the dining room table. Joe plucked a doughnut from a plate that he then pushed toward us. “I’ve made a few calls,” he said. “Maybe what I learned will interest you; maybe it won’t.” He pulled a small notebook from his shirt pocket and gave it to Clay. “This is yours.” Then he looked at some scribbles he’d made on another sheet of paper. “Here’s what I’ve been told. I think it’s probably true, but you can’t be sure because people don’t always know the truth or tell it if they do know it. My sources mostly work for federal agencies, for what that’s worth. Anyway, here’s the scoop:

  “First, a guy named Mark Briggs, who used to own a fair-sized spread in Montana before he sold it to a guy named Lewis Farquahar and moved to Palm Springs, seems to have disappeared. Those in the know think he’s in Rio, which is not a bad place for him to be since the U.S. doesn’t have an extradition treaty with Brazil. Not that he needs to be worried about being arrested because our narcs don’t have any proof that he ever did anything to deserve jail time. They have their suspicions and they worked pretty hard over the years to nail him, but he outfoxed them. The smart money says he’s really there to get away from the people who took over his business.”

  “I thought that Lewis Farquahar took over his business,” said Clay, chewing on a doughnut.

  “That’s apparently what Lewis thought, too,” said Joe. “He supposedly paid Mark Briggs cash money up front for the ranch and the connections that went with it. That would be the cash that you took down to San Diego, if it really existed. Did you ever actually see what was in those suitcases you flew down there?”

  “Actually,” said Clay, “no. I saw other money in other suitcases at other times, but those two were already closed when I got them from Farquahar. Are you telling me that there was no money inside?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, but since you didn’t see the contents, we’re only guessing that the money was there. I think it probably was, mind you, but we can’t be absolutely sure. Now, about the guy in the bank. You said he wasn’t the guy you usually did business with. His name is Rodriguez. He replaced the usual clerk about a week before. You should be glad you decided not to deal with him because Rodriguez is a narc. If you’d handed over the suitcases you’d probably be in jail now instead of here enjoying the pleasures of a winter on Martha’s Vineyard. He was one of the agents following the money trail, hoping it would lead back to your friend Mark, whose bank account, by the way, was in the name of Johnson. The idea was that they’d arrest you and you’d tell them about Briggs and that they’d nail Briggs and his network and thereby help save America from reefer madness. But you left the bank before you handed over the suitcases and never came back, and since Mr. Johnson had a policy of transferring earlier deposits to other banks and finally overseas, they didn’t even get their hands on very much of his capital. All they had was a bank clerk who was trying to stretch his salary by accepting cash deposits, no questions asked, for a guy named Johnson, first name Jeremiah, and getting a medium-sized fee for his efforts.”

  “Jeremiah Johnson, eh?” Clay smiled. “Mark had that movie on a disc. We used to watch it in his living room. He had one of those big-screen TVs.”

  “The real Jeremiah probably didn’t look like Robert Redford,” said Joe. “They called him Crow Killer because he hated the Crows for killing his wife, and Liver Eating Johnson because he supposedly ate the livers of the men he killed.”

  “Crow livers?”

  “So they said back then in the Wild West. You boys ever eat liver up there in Montana?”

  “Only beef. No Crow.”

  “On with my story, then. The narcs missed getting you and the money you supposedly had. How did they know you were coming with a deposit? The best guess is that somebody in either Briggs’s or Farquahar’s outfit told somebody who told somebody who tipped off the narcs. It was only a rumor but it was enough for them to put Rodriguez in the bank.”

  “I thought the guy was probably working for Farquahar,” said Clay.

  “No,” said Begay. “He wasn’t working for Lewis. In fact, about a week later nobody was working for Lewis because Lewis was dead. Shot in Billings by person or persons unknown, along with a couple of guys presumed to be his bodyguards. You never heard about it because it was local news in Billings. Big news, but local.”

  “Lewis dead? Who did it?” Clay seemed more interested than surprised.

  “The smart guys think it was somebody who wanted his business. I’d guess that’s probably right. I remember when pot smokers and dealers were making love not war. No longer, at least not on the big-business end of things.”

  “The times they are a-changing.”

  “Which brings us to your would-be visitors here on the Blessed Isle: Jack Blume and Mickey Monroe. You said they worked for Farquahar, but they don’t anymore, and they know you and they know about the suitcases.”

  “Who are they working for now?”

  “They’re a couple of fairly small-time West Coast hoods who don’t seem to be working for anybody at the moment. It’s my contact’s guess that they knew about the money shipment going wrong. Probably because when you told Mark about it, Mark called Lewis to complain and Lewis told Blume and Monroe to get their hands on the missing money if they could. He may even have told them about you leaving your tools in Sausalito, or maybe they learned that later, after they’d set out on the road trip. The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “So,” I said, “Blume and Monroe are working for themselves now. Their old boss is dead and they’re out of a job, but they think that Clay has two suitcases full of cash, so they followed him here in their California car and their California clothes.” Then I had another thought. “Or do you think they’re working for whoever kacked Lewis Farquahar?”

  “There’s some disagreement in narc circles about who did Lewis in. The favorite is a local grower who aspires to rise in the trade, but no one can prove that yet. I doubt if he’s even heard of Blume and Monroe.”

  Clay made a small sound indicating thought and nibbled pensively on his second or third doughnut. “Interestinger and interestinger,” he said. “Is the law after Blume and Monroe for anything?”

  “They’re what they call persons of interest in L.A. but there aren’t any warrants out.”

  “And they’re not working for someone a lot bigger? A Mexican cartel or some such thing?”

  “Not that my people know of. But, of course, they don’t know everything. If they did, Blume and Monroe and you might all be in jail.”

  Clay smiled agreeably. “If I’d been caught doing some of the things I’ve done, I’d have been in jail instead of junior high. But I wasn’t.”

  I thought the same thing was true for a lot of us.

  “That’s about all I can tell you about your West Coast friends,” said Joe. “Anything else you want to know?”

  “If you can find out how I can get in touch with Mark Briggs, that would be nice.”

  “I imagine I could, with time. But then I’d owe a lot of people more than they owe me.”

  “Do you know who’s at the ranch these days?”

  “I believe the ranch is unoccupied at the moment.”

  “Who’s taking care of the livestock?”

  “That I cannot say.”

  “Does Mark still have his place in Palm Springs?”

  “I believe he still owns it but that it’s been empty for some time. Since shortly after you phoned him from San Diego, in fact.”

  “Do you know who swiped the plane in San Diego?”

  “I believe the authorities determined that it was parked in a spot that endangered other air traffic, so it was removed to a hangar.”

  “It was parked where I always parked it.”


  “All I can tell you is what I was told. Now, perhaps you’ll tell me something.”

  “What might that be?”

  “Are the suitcases still in a San Diego storage locker?”

  “Of course.” Clay glanced at his fingernails. “Who wants to know?”

  “A lot of people,” said Joe in an amused voice. “More coffee?”

  Before we left we’d finished both the coffee and the doughnuts and I was feeling full and good. I had no intention of telling Zee about my midmorning snack since she had, of late, made a few comments about my weight. Winter fat was the phrase she’d used, and I didn’t want to hear it again.

  Beside me as we drove back to Edgartown, Clay was deep in his thoughts and I was soon trying to organize my own. Joe’s report had altered my perception of the situation involving Clay, Jack Blume, and Mickey Monroe, and as I followed the narrow, winding road out of Aquinnah and past the Chilmark Store, a plan began to form in my mind. As we approached Abel’s Hill, the plan took shape.

  At the top of the hill, on South Road, you can turn north into the cemetery and, without getting out of your car, view the gravestone that is the Vineyard’s second most popular tourist site, the grave of a once famous comedian who died of an overdose of illegal chemical additives. In the years since his death, aficionados of both his life and his mode of passing have made pilgrimages to the site and left behind mementos of their faith and respect in the form of empty wine bottles, beer cans, roaches, needles, and flowers. The cemetery workers patiently clean the area every now and then, but always have to return before too long.

  Across the road from the cemetery a number of driveways lead south, down toward the ocean. Along these sandy byways are houses great and small. Once, there were only a few, mostly modest homes, but increasingly mansions are being erected, some by people who are quick to make it clear that they want nothing at all to do with their neighbors. There was a time when such snobbery was rare on the Vineyard but that is no longer the case, as thousands of new No Trespassing signs give clear indication.

  Down one of these narrow drives is a house owned by a friend of mine who uses it only in the summer and who pays me a reasonable sum to close it in the fall, open it in the spring, and care for it during the winter. When we came to his driveway, I took a right and drove down into his yard.

  It was a pleasant summer cottage with a wide porch on the ocean side and a balcony on top of that where many a cocktail had been drunk (some by me) as the sun settled over Aquinnah. Between the house and the ocean was a narrow section of one of the many brackish ponds that line the Vineyard’s southern shore, separated from the sea by a thin barrier beach. Between the pond and the house was a grove of evergreens and oaks. Between the front of the cottage and South Road was a tree-and brush-covered hillside that gave the place a feeling of splendid isolation. The nearest house wasn’t really too far away but could barely be seen even through the largely leafless winter undergrowth. Besides, it was, like many of the homes in the area, inhabited only during the summer.

  I led Clay up onto the balcony and waved my arm at the ocean. “The next land if you sail south is Hispaniola.”

  “Beautiful view,” he said. “Haiti is beautiful, too. I knew a girl from there once. Too bad about the politics.”

  “I have a key to this place,” I said. “Let me show you around.”

  We went down and I showed him through the house. It was simple and clean and, once the water and electricity were turned on and there was food in the pantry, it offered everything a half dozen people would need for a pleasant stay.

  “Not bad at all,” said Clay. “It wouldn’t take much to winterize it.” He ran a hand over the carved wooden mantel. “Maybe I’ll buy it.” He grinned.

  “It’ll probably cost you one of those suitcases,” I said.

  “No problem. I have two.”

  “I’ve been thinking about what Joe told us,” I said.

  “Me, too.”

  “And I have a plan.”

  “What is it?”

  I told him.

  He thought for a while, then said, “How far away is the nearest neighbor?”

  “Maybe a quarter of a mile.”

  He thought some more and then said, “You’re pretty sure Mickey is dressed?”

  “I’m pretty sure. He had something fairly heavy in the pocket of his coat.”

  “How about Jack?”

  “I don’t know about Jack. Just to be on the safe side, I guess I’d think he was carrying, too.”

  “When do you want to do it?”

  “The sooner the better, but it’s up to you. You’re the one they’re interested in.”

  He stared out a window at the ocean. Its far horizon was dark against the pale winter sky. “It would probably save everybody a lot of grief if I just moved on.”

  “It wouldn’t save Eleanor any grief, but it’s your decision. I think we should end it here and now.”

  “You’ll be taking a chance you probably shouldn’t take.”

  “I don’t like those guys prowling around my island.”

  “It’s not your island. Tell you what. If you can bring Dom Agganis in on this, I’ll do it. You need a license to carry in Massachusetts and I doubt if Jack and Mickey have the paper. He can nail them for that if for nothing else. Come to think of it, I can’t carry, either.”

  “That’s one problem. Another is if we bring Dom in, you’ll have to tell him why you’re here.”

  Clay frowned. “I take it back. Let’s not bring Dom in.” He looked around. “You sure your friend won’t mind us using his place?”

  “What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him.”

  “That being the case, let’s take another look around so I’ll know the battlefield.”

  So we walked and looked and talked and when we were back in the truck Clay said, “You’re sure you want to do this?”

  “It’s my idea but it’s your decision.”

  He nodded. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  23

  The next morning I ate breakfast early, then phoned the Harbor View Hotel and asked to speak with Mr. Jack Blume. A voice answered sleepily on the fourth ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Mr. Blume?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is J. W. Jackson. Remember me?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you came by my place, you were looking for Clay Stockton. I ran into him yesterday and he told me where he’s working.”

  “Ah,” said Jack, thus proving he had more than a one-word vocabulary.

  “If you’re still interested in seeing him, I think he’ll still be there today.”

  “Nice of you to call. Yes, I’m still interested. Like I said, he’s an old friend.”

  “He’s working alone on a house up near Abel’s Hill. Do you know where that is?”

  “No, I don’t. Is the place hard to find?”

  “It’s up in Chilmark. I can tell you how to get to Abel’s Hill, but the house is on a side road.”

  Jack seemed to be waking up. “Did you find out where he’s living?”

  “He told me but I’m not sure I got the directions right. Turns out I know the guy who owns the house he’s working on, though, so I know where that is. You go up to the top of Abel’s Hill and…Do you know where the graveyard is?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Well, you go up through West Tisbury and take South Road to Chilmark…. You have a map of the island?”

  “I have a map, but…”

  “Okay, you look at your map and you’ll see the Edgartown–West Tisbury road. You see that?”

  “Wait a minute! I have to get the map.” His voice became more distant. “Mickey, where’s the map of this island? Where? Damn!” The voice returned to the phone. “The map is in the car.”

  “Oh. Well, maybe you don’t need it. You have a pencil and paper? All right, when you drive out of town, you take the Edgartown–West Tisbury road right there by Cannonball Park. When
you pass the mill pond in West Tisbury, you go left on South Road. When you get to the Chilmark line you keep going until you come to that curve where people used to walk down to Lucy Vincent Beach—maybe they still do, for all I know. Anyway, you go up the hill and—”

  “Wait a minute!”

  “What?”

  “I can’t keep up with all that.”

  “I’m probably talking too fast. You know how it is when you know something; you think everybody else must know it, too. Okay, I’ll slow down. Let’s start over. This time I’ll start from your hotel. First—”

  “Wait!” he interrupted. “This isn’t going to work, I—”

  I interrupted back. “Tell you what. Why don’t you go down and get your map and you call me back when you get it. Clay’s not going to be up there this early anyway, so there’s no rush.”

  “Now, just hold on, Mr. Jackson,” said Blume, in a voice of reason. “I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t you show us how to get there? You come here, and then we’ll follow you there.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I’ve got some work I’m supposed to be doing…” I let my voice fade off as though I were thinking.

  “Can’t it wait? It can’t take too long to get where we’re going. This island is only twenty miles or so long. You show us where the house is and you can be on your way.”

  “Well…”

  “You’ll sure be helping us out. Hate to miss old Clay when we’re so close to getting in touch.”

  “Well, all right, then,” I said. “I’ll be down right after breakfast. Say nine o’clock in the hotel parking lot? That’ll give you time to eat before we go.”

  “We’ll see you there.”

  So far so good. Jack even figured it was his idea for me to lead the way to Clay.

  I got my old Smith & Wesson .38 out of the gun cabinet, loaded it, put some extra bullets in my pocket, and stuck the weapon in my belt. I’d carried it when I’d been a cop, before the time when the police started carrying higher-powered semiautomatics, and it was still good enough for me. Then I took my father’s old Browning double-barreled 12-gauge, loaded it with buckshot, and carried it and a box of shells out to the Land Cruiser.