On the second floor we went past closed doors that probably led to marble bathrooms or master bedrooms or a gymnasium, for all I knew, and then we were outside again, passing through another set of double glass doors, and we stood on a balcony that overlooked the wide front lawn. Iron grillwork served as railings and there were chairs and a round glass-topped table in one corner. From up here the view to the Atlantic was magnificent. I could see the lights of Porter off to the north and the warm glow of Tyler Beach and its adult and child playgrounds to the south.
"Look here, Mr. Cole." He finally gave the golf club a rest and leaned it against a railing as he stood there, arms folded. "The ocean. Some people see it as a playground, others see it as a fishery. And me? I see it as a highway, a liquid highway that needs no tolls or maintenance. A highway that brings commerce to and from this country, and makes it a world superpower. Look at Russia. Hundreds of years old and the poor bastards are still looking for a warm-water port.”
''And last month there was an accident out there, and you still say that the smell and the mess didn't bother you."
A motioned hand, as though an errant mosquito had dared cross over into these protected grounds. ''A nuisance. Nothing more."
I decided it was time for a hand grenade to be tossed his way. “What do you think should happen to the owners of the Petro Star?"
If there was a reaction, I missed it. Briggs pursed his lips a bit and said, “I’m sorry, but I was under the impression that the owners weren’t on the vessel that night, and that it was the crew’s fault the ship ran aground. If anyone deserves punishment, they do.”
“But the owners were the ones that delayed repairs, hired a crew of inexperienced sailors and sent it up this coast with inadequate instrumentation.”
“Something for the courts to decide, I suppose. Besides, it’s been months. I’m sure that the beaches are returning to normal, and rather quickly.”
“Did the smell hurt the fashions how?”
He turned and said, “Off the record, Mr. Cole, when those lovely old ladies are at my home, the only thing they can smell is money, either old or new, doesn’t make much difference. I could have an open sewer pit in my backyard and they wouldn’t care.”
That was a sentence I’d remember for a while, and I said, “Some people would say that spill made a difference, though. Birds and fish killed. Tourist industry damaged. Fishermen losing a month or two of work.”
“Insurance companies, Mr. Cole. That’s why they exist, and they do quite well.”
“Some people would say there aren’t any insurance policies for wildlife.”
Briggs turned to me and his look wasn’t quite as friendly as before. “Mr. Cole, I do believe that your questioning betrays a lack of objectivity. Perhaps you’ve been exposed to too much environmentalist propaganda?”
“Perhaps there’s some value on wild things that aren’t insurable.”
He nodded at that and said, “Do you miss the passenger pigeon, Mr. Cole? Or how about the snail darter, or the dodo? Or how about the dinosaurs? All extinct or near-extinct species, and if you’re truthful with me, you’ll agree that their condition doesn’t keep you awake at night, seized with worry.”
“Maybe not all night,” I said, not wanting to below this interview quite yet, “but I believe they deserve to be protected.”
Briggs grasped the iron railing and said, “Two points, Mr. Cole, and then I think we’re done. I saw a psychological study once, comparing two almost identical ads that rain a national magazine which were placed as part of the study. Both ads were created by the same agency, and had the same look and a similar message. The only difference was that one ad was seeking donations for starving children and the other was seeking donations for starving elephants. Care to guess which ad drew the most responses?”
“The elephant, and that was an easy guess.”
“I suppose it was. The response was nearly three to one, Mr. Cole. Three times as many people were willing to help starving animals than starving people. There’s your environmentalism, Mr. Cole. Caring more about plants and animals than about people. I’m the type of person, as unpopular as it sounds, who cares more about people. The Petro Star --- regrettable, but it’s just a cost of doing business, of keeping that juggling game going and keeping nearly two hundred and fifty million people in this country alive every day. If anything’s going to keep this country going, it’s going to be business. It’s not going to be the likes of those who care more about fish than a kid in New York City who can’t afford to put gas in his car to get to work.”
“You think everything’s that black and white?”
A faint smile. “It’s worked for me so far.”
I decided to keep on as best as I could. “You said you had a second point?”
“That I did.” He picked up the golf club and pointed at the ocean. “About ten thousand miles from here is an island nation that’s busily stripping this country to shiny white bones, Mr. Cole. The Land of the Rising Sun. And do you know what they think of environmentalism? I’ll tell you. I read a story last year that was so fantastic that I had my secretary clip it out and file it. It said that Japan had over ten thousand rivers, and not one of them was wild. Not a single one. Each one was dammed and controlled and canalled. There was not a single wild river left in the entire country, a country with low crime, no illiteracy and practically no homelessness. They care about their people and they couldn’t give a shit about plants and animals, and that's why they're going to take on and beat this country, Russia, Germany and the rest of Europe."
"That's some point of view," I said, wondering if my disgust was showing through my own words.
"I'm sure it is," he said. ''And it's not a very popular one. There are many people out there who would like to skewer me for my beliefs."
Time for one last hand grenade. "There are a few people around here --- mostly fishermen --- who'd do the same to you if they heard you. Except they'd probably use a harpoon."
The owner of the Petro Star looked at me quite calmly. "1 have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Cole."
It was late when I got home and I was in a grumpy mood, which wasn't helped by the fact that someone had called three times and had hung up without leaving a message. I knew that looking at the kitchen clock to see what time it was would probably depress me, so I pulled out a Molson and went to the rear deck to look up at the stars and listen to the ocean and try to let the thoughts and pronouncements of Cameron Briggs leave my soul.
Another cold swallow of the beer and I looked up and thought I saw a satellite moving by, but then the bright dot of light blinked out. Who knows. Maybe a hallucination. I was trying to work up a healthy rage against Cameron Briggs but it wasn't working. He had scored some good points, had made good arguments that I couldn't disagree with. It was true, what he said about how we lived, and I was as guilty as anyone else. The bottle in my hand was made by an industrial process I didn't understand, and was transported to the store and to my house through the use of internal-combustion engines. Even this old and wonderful house I lived in by the beach was heated in the winter by oil, oil that was ripped from the earth in some faraway and polluted land and brought here. To be alive in this world today meant you were a consumer, one of the hordes who were scouring the planet of life and resources, and trying to be a green consumer just meant you were slowing down the process, that's all.
Cameron Briggs. He was the guilty party, the one that sent the Petro Star up here and who helped it in its disaster, but I don't think he could ever be brought to trial, for the number of his co-defendants would number in the millions, and I and everyone else I knew would be standing right next to him. I finished off my beer rather quickly, and knew I would have a headache tomorrow --- hell, probably later today when I got up. That man was a slick one, even when I tossed a couple of live ones toward him, and he had made no response when I talked about the Petro Star owners and the Operation Harpoon investigation. Slick. He had gone
far, would even go farther, and I would probably end up dying in this house.
The ocean looked peaceful tonight, but I wasn't one to be fooled by the grandeur. Months ago the waters had been fouled with oil, every day boats out there dumped their trash, and a couple of weeks ago a damn body had been floating out there, Sal Grillo, the cousin of Felix Tinios. I closed my eyes and rubbed at my forehead. Sal Grillo and Felix and Tony Russo, in the parking lot of the Vault Restaurant in Porter, falling to the ground, a bullet in his head.
Too busy. Things were too busy. I opened my eyes and looked up at the stars. The Perseid meteor showers were returning soon, and I wanted to be out on my deck enjoying the sight of the long streaks of light cutting through the night sky. But I wouldn't enjoy them if I didn't have things taken care of, and taken care of quickly. The Perseids come but once a year. I sat in the chair for a while. Then I moved back into the house, I guess, for when I opened my eyes, I found myself in bed and it was dark and I went back to sleep.
Chapter Nineteen
The bottle of ale and the late hour in going to bed made the sound of the phone even louder, and at first I tried to cover my head with a pillow. When the ringing went on and on, I stumbled out of bed and went downstairs. I looked at the clock this time. It was eight o'clock on a Saturday morning. I was sure I growled something as I answered the phone in my living room, my head aching and my eyes crusty, standing there naked before the morning sun.
"Is this Lewis Cole?" said the man's voice. I muttered something in reply and the voice said, "Mr. Cole, this is Drew Kotowski calling, from Bainbridge? You know, Craig Dummer's landlord."
By then I was more awake and I sat down on the floor. "Oh. Sorry I was incoherent back there. I'm usually not up this early on Saturday mornings."
He laughed. "Well, I'm going in to work a half day, make a little extra money, and I thought I'd give you a call here." He lowered his voice. "You still looking for this Craig Dummer fellow?"
"I am."
“Well, I know where he lives. He came back last night, looking to pick up some more of his stuff, and he even paid me his back rent. You want to know his new address?"
For some reason, I wished I wasn't naked. This seemed too important to discuss while being unclothed. "I would love to know his new address, Drew."
"Well." He breathed some into the phone. "Here's how it goes. A few days ago, I got a phone call from my bank, about my car payments. You know, I'm thinking that they're going to give me crap again, about being overdue, but you know what?"
I rubbed at the crusty deposits in my eyes and said, "What's that?"
"They told me that I was paid up, that they got a money order that took care of my back payments and even a couple of more down the road. I asked them who sent it, and they said they didn't know. No name. All that was on the envelope was the postmark. From Tyler. Where you happen to live, Mr. Cole. Right?"
''Along with a few thousand other people."
He laughed for a bit. "Well, maybe so, but I think there's only one person in Tyler who wants to know Craig Dummer's address, and here it is, Mr. Cole --- he's living at 611 Southern Estates, in Exonia. That's down your neck of the woods, I believe."
After scribbling down the address, I said, "You said he came back and paid off his back rent. Weren't you surprised at that?"
"Yep, that I was. All he said was that he wanted to pick up the rest of his stuff and make the rent right by me. Funny thing is, you remember how that place looked when you were up here? It was pretty much picked over, and all he did was grab a couple of those books and magazines and then leave. But he gave me that rent, in cash, which was great, and with that money order the bank got, well, I think we'll have our heads above water for the first time in months."
"Good for you," I said.
"I don't think good had anything to do with it," he said, "but thanks again. And you be careful. Ol’ Craig looked a bit wired this morning."
"Thanks for the call, and thanks for the warning," and after I hung up, I went back upstairs to lie down, and to think, and to let the headache run its course.
That afternoon I was in Exonia, the county seat for Wentworth County and home to the famous Phillips Exonia Academy. Besides the brick buildings of the school, Exonia has a tiny downtown built around a bandstand. There are restaurants, two bookstores, a card shop and an old movie theater that charges a couple of bucks less than the mall multiplexes in Porter or Lewington. It's the type of brick-and-granite downtown that looks good on a postcard, but my destination was out in the borderlands of Exonia, where it butts up against its poorer neighbor of Bretton, and where the homes and vacant lots don't appear on postcards.
Southern Estates is a trailer park on the Exonia River, and while some trailer parks in Wentworth County are neat and clean with well-ordered grass lots, Southern Estates didn't quite make it. The roads were potholed and rutted, and many of the homes seemed damaged, with plywood and duct tape used for repairs. Dogs ran along the muddy side of the road and tussled in the brown grass of the lawns, and the streets were laid out in a gridwork, almost like Tyler Beach, starting with the letter "A" and ending with the letter "X." One could tell that a lot of imagination and care went into the design and upkeep of the park.
Number 611 looked identical to its neighbors, except that it was on a dead-end street and the trailer across the way seemed empty, and it was next to a wooded lot. A rusting yellow Dodge Omni was in the dirt driveway, and a man wearing jeans and no shirt watched me as I pulled in behind it. I got out and walked across the wet lawn. The man was in a brown folding chair, on a porch that led into the trailer. He had a can of Budweiser in one hand, and his soft white gut was spilling over his jeans like a load of rising bread ready to go into the oven. His hair was shoulder length and light brown, and he had on round, wire-rimmed glasses. His feet were bare and dirty, and he raised the can of beer salute as I got closer.
"Craig Dummer?" I asked, and he nodded, and a tingling of anticipation and nervousness ran up my arms. This was him, this was one of the two men who was on duty the night the Winslow Homers were stolen from the Scribner Museum. Except for the thieves, the only other man who had been in that quiet and desperate building was now dead. But he didn't seem to be a man who was keeping some deep, terrible secrets. He looked pathetic.
"The same," he said, his words slightly slurred. "If you're from the Visa card people, the check went in the mail yesterday. If you're from the sheriff's office, I paid off that sleaze landlord yesterday. In fact, if you're damn near anybody, I paid you all off yesterday. "
“Good for you," I said, passing over my business card, which he read with some interest and then dropped in his lap. I noticed a half-consumed six-pack of beer was being kept under his chair.
''A magazine writer, hunh? What are you looking for? A subscription?”
I leaned against the fender of the Omni. "Nope. Information. I'm doing a story on the theft of the Winslow Homer paintings from the Scribner Museum five years ago. I'd like to talk to you for a couple of minutes."
I expected a lot of reactions --- from violent explosion to a sullen denial ---- but I guess I was surprised when he started laughing. "You know, I thought you guys would be coming to see me pretty soon. I'm just amazed that it took you so long."
"Why's that?" He smiled, and I saw that his teeth needed brushing.
"Easy, my man. I can count. It's been five years. Anniversary time. About a year after that shit happened, all you guys called me up again and asked me a ton of questions, since it was the year anniversary. When two years went by, nothing happened, and I figured I was free. This year, though, I thought, well, it's been five years, you'll probably get some hotshot reporter or writer stopping by, try to squeeze you for info, and here you are."
I shifted some, trying to look relaxed and not as nervous as I was. "So you must have about five more years of memories to share with me."
Then Craig showed me he was a quick-change drunk. There are happy drunks, who get
more and more joyous with each drink and swallow, and then there are the mean drunks, who look for vaguer and vaguer excuses to punch somebody's lights out with every sip that passes through their lips. Craig was the third category, the quick-change drunk, who can bounce from either one of the previous categories with liquid ease.
"Hah," he said, and he wasn't smiling anymore. "Five years. You want to know what it was like, those five years? I'll tell you what --- it was five more years of cleaning up after people, working late shifts and trying to keep awake while guarding a million dollar piece of machinery that's not going anyplace. That's what those five years have been like"--- he picked up my business card and squinted at it ---"Mr. Lewis Cole, columnist for Shoreline. Five years of unrelenting shit, all because my nitwit partner let two guys into the museum after we were closed, after I told him it was against regulations."
"Reports I heard said he thought he recognized them."
Craig took a long swallow of his beer. "Yah, that's what the old geezer said. We were on duty that night and it was dull and boring like every other night, 'cept, of course, I got to look at all those paintings and pieces of sculpture for free. Can you believe that? For free."
"Really?" I asked.
His bleary eyes focused on me. "Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Blue-collar kid from a small town, going to school to get his criminal justice degree, maybe become a cop. What does he know about art? Well, I knew what was there. I remember once as a kid being taken into a museum in Boston on a class trip, and I almost missed the bus back to New Hampshire ‘cause I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay and look at all that wonderful stuff. It made my eyes tear up, that's how wonderful it was."
Black Tide Page 24
