by Chuck Dixon
Giselle joined her. Carl remained absorbed with his comics.
Out on the vast flat surface sat three tiny dark shapes. Giselle got a pair of binoculars from a drawer in the base of the bay window. They kept it there for moose watching. She focused then watched a while before handing it to Merry who was eager for a peek.
Through the lenses Merry could see that there were a pair of wooden shacks out on the ice where they had not been earlier that day. Parked behind them was a pickup bigger than her father’s with huge knobby tires fitted with chains. The door of one of the shacks opened and two men stepped out. They walked with a peculiar gait over to the second shack a hundred feet away. One of them carried a tool of some kind but it was too far for Merry to see what it was. They both went into the second shack and the whining noise started up again.
“What are they doing?” Merry asked Giselle.
“They’re going to piss my dad off as soon as he sees them.”
Nate Fenton was pissed off.
He aimed the snow machine toward the two ice fishing shacks and turned the throttle to race over the ice toward the two idiots hurrying back to their pickup. One of them fell hard on his ass as Nate drew up in front of the F-150 to block its escape. Dennis Walbrooke was helping his brother Tom up off the ice.
The two shacks were roughly the size of small walk-in closets. They were plywood over a wooden frame with tar paper roofs and holes cut for the stove pipe for propane-fueled heaters. They’d been lined inside with insulation covered by beaverboard panels to keep them cozy. They sat on two-by-fours that served as skis so the pickup could pull them over the ice at the end of tow chains.
“Do we have to do this every year, guys?” Nate said, cutting the engine and climbing off the saddle.
“What’s a few fish, Nate?” Dennis said. Tom braced himself against the bed of the Ford to regain his balance.
“When they’re fish that don’t belong to you? You know Ty Grant stocks this lake with trout every year. I’d think he’d expect a few left over for himself when he puts his line in come spring,” Nate said and leaned on the truck himself.
“Aw come on, champ,” Tom Walbrooke groused.
The three had gone to school together. Dennis a year behind and Nate and Tom in the same grade until Tom ran into Algebra and dropped back to join his little brother. Nate was something of a local hero for making all-state as a wide receiver for Arundel Regional High.
“Yeah, those fish spend all winter under the ice fucking each other and making more little fishies. There’s plenty for all, Nate.” Dennis pleaded the same argument he had last year and all the years before since Nate had taken on the job as caretaker for the lake properties.
“It’s not the little ones Grant is interested in and you know that, you dumb shit,” Nate said but he was smiling.
The brothers were encouraged by the smile and returned it with eager expressions.
“You’ll have those shacks off by the first sign of thaw? And you’ll keep your catch down to a reasonable number?” Nate said.
Both brothers nodded with enthusiasm, grins broadening.
“You’re welcome any time to try your own hand, champ,” Dennis said.
“That’s very kind of you to invite me to poach along with you. But have either of you ever heard of deniability?”
The brothers exchanged an uncertain glance.
“That means I have to pretend I didn’t see you.” Nate sighed.
The brothers’ grins refreshed and they elbowed each other with great enthusiasm.
Before saddling up on the snow machine Nate turned to glance back at the cabin set above the road on the western bank. The sun gleamed off something at the faraway bay window. The kids were watching him at work. That made Nate smile. As he turned his head another glint flashed in his peripheral. A glare from one of the larger homes on the east shore. It was gone before he could fix its exact location. He cranked the engine to life and turned back west to the next house on his rounds, leaving the Walbrookes to finish drilling their second ice hole in the center of the lake.
16
* * *
The phone rang in the kitchen. Merry raced from her schoolwork to answer, the call a welcome distraction from a sheet of math problems.
“It’s Lee!” she hollered, covering the phone mike with her hand.
“I didn’t know who else to call, Mitch,” Lee Tessler said when Levon picked up the cordless in the garage.
“Nate is the one who usually handles things like that,” he said.
“He can’t get to me until tonight. Something about a tree that came down overnight.”
“I can come over and take a look.”
“Would you?” she said, sighing with relief.
The problem was snow that had drifted up around the outdoor heat pump intakes, shutting down the four units that heated the Moulson house. Levon shoveled the snow away from them. Lee was leaning at a window inside the house, wrapped in a cardigan with a ski cap tilted her head, watching him digging. He saw her there. When he had the units cleared all the way around he made a stirring motion to her with a finger. She disappeared from the window. The fans atop the heat pumps whirred to life. The defrost cycle would melt the remaining ice from the vent flanges. He turned to the window to see her motioning for him to come inside.
“Nate can put up a snow fence to keep that from happening again,” he said, taking a mug of coffee from him.
“You didn’t seem to be a big espresso fan last time. That’s just regular old coffee,” she said from the broad island at the center of the kitchen. She set the coffee carafe down on the granite top.
“It’s fine,” he said.
“And I mean old. I think the can of Maxwell House I found was here when the house was built.”
“As long as it’s hot.”
“And thanks for coming by. I woke up this morning and I could see my breath. Jiggling the thermostat and calling the super is the extent of my expertise. I’m not used to winters like this.”
“I thought you said you were from Boston.”
“I leased the Merc in Boston. I live in New York. A condo. Twenty floors above the weather. Have a problem? Call maintenance.”
“You have an unusual accent,” he said.
“I blame the Hudson River Valley and northern boarding schools,” she said.
“Yankee through and through.” He smiled. She smiled back.
“Even so, these Maine winters are an entirely different animal.”
“Are you regretting your decision to stay here?” He set the mug down.
“Actually, no. Can I top that off?” she said and came around the island to stand close by him to take the mug.
“Still a few swallows in there,” he said touching her hand. She didn’t move from his side.
“Like I was saying, there are a few good reasons for staying through the winter.”
“The house is starting to warm up,” Levon said, removing his fingers from the back of her hand.
“I know a way to make it even warmer. You know, I lied before. I never called Nate.” She tilted her head, looking up at him from under a strand of hair come loose from under her cap. The corner of her mouth curved.
He stood to go. She touched the sleeve of his coat.
“Can’t you think of a reason to stay a little while longer?” She removed the cap and her fine blonde hair fell about her shoulders.
“What kind of reason, Lee?”
“You’re a man. I’m a woman. It’s cold outside and warm inside.” Her hand moved to his shoulder.
“Because I’m a man.”
“You have a cock don’t you?”
“And that makes me a man.”
“It sure helps, Mitch,” she said. Her easy smile widened.
“I told Moira I’d only be a little while. I need to get back,” he said, taking a step from her. Her hand dropped to her side. He picked up his coat from the seat back and moved toward the door.
“Do I
need to apologize?” she said, following him.
“No need to apologize, Lee. For either of us,” he said and was gone.
She watched him get in the truck and pull away, her breath misting the glass pane.
17
* * *
The bike messenger had never delivered to a park bench before. The waybill read in block letters:
MAN IN BLACK
THIRD BENCH FROM EAST
BEHIND DELACORTE THEATER
CENTRAL PARK
He was going to make a remark about it to the deliveree until he saw the face of the man in the black raincoat rising from the bench to meet him. Half the guy’s face looked like it was made of putty and left out in the sun too long. Without a word the messenger handed over the eight inch by five inch padded envelope. The man took it in a gloved hand and turned to walk away.
“Hey, I need a confirmation signature,” the messenger said. He pulled a tablet from the pocket of his parka.
“Ride away,” the man said in a foreign accent that sounded like it came from the bottom of grave.
“Okay then,” the messenger said and pedaled away in the opposite direction.
Koning tore the package open as he exited the park onto Fifth Avenue. A cellphone slid into his hand. No note or message. The phone was fully charged. He pocketed it. He dropped the envelope into a trashcan.
It was later that night when the phone came alive with an insect buzz. Koning was in the piano bar of his hotel. A rather talented woman, still attractive in her late forties, played standards in a soothing and assured manner. Koning hated being in the United States in general and New York City in particular. The city was vulgar and commercial. It had no personality. The black spots of chewing gum spat from a million mouths to form nasty constellations on the sidewalks repulsed him. The piano bar was as far as he cared to go from his room.
He dropped a twenty on the bar and walked out into the lobby and out onto 71st Street before tabbing the phone and lifting it to his ear.
“Koning?”
He said nothing.
“The line is secure, Koning. This phone is a virgin. We may speak openly.” The voice spoke Dutch clearly but with a filthy accent. Javanese, perhaps.
“I do not know your name,” Koning said. He stood in the nave of an office doorway. The street was quiet at this hour. A freezing rain kept Manhattanites indoors. The muted sound of thumping pop music could be heard from behind the garish neon façade of an Irish bar across the street.
“You know my money. In fact, you are quite free with it.”
“And I will need more.”
“This is becoming an expensive enterprise.”
“Risk and reward. You are a businessman after all. You understood the odds. You know the prize is worth the investment,” Koning said.
“Investment. How proper. I understand the concept of venture capital. I only remind you that I expect results,” the voice on the other end of the phone said.
“This next target seems most likely. It was the most carefully hidden. That tells us something.”
“Your people are with you? They are ready?”
“They are near the target.” Koning’s crew had arrived on the continent the day before. They were divided between Montreal and Toronto. The only exception was his advance element sent well ahead to gather the intelligence needed.
“And you need funds.”
“There is special equipment we require.”
“You cannot steal it?”
“Risk arrest for petty theft in pursuit of Aladdin’s cave?”
“How much?” There was a chuckle in the voice.
“A million. Dollars. Part of that covers our exit.”
“The getaway,” the voice said in English, amused.
Koning said nothing.
When can I expect good news?” the voice said with growing impatience on the edges.
“Watch CNN. They will tell you when it is over.”
“Good hunting, Koning.”
The line went dead.
He opened the phone to remove the battery and SIM card. These he disposed of in two different dumpsters on his way back to the hotel. The body of the phone went down between steel grates in the sidewalk.
Koning shrugged off his raincoat and draped it over the back of his chair at the hotel bar. He gestured to the bartender for another gimlet of Stoli. The woman played the opening of “Easy To Love” in an easy tempo that came off the keys like treacle.
Fifteenth entry
1/16
* * *
Finished the electrics for the kitchen. Plumbing is next.
M spending more time with C and G.
She’s begging for a sleepover. Maybe that’s a good thing.
Time away from her gloomy old man.
Snow started after lunch. Wet snow.
18
* * *
The night of the sleepover, Danielle Fenton cooked enough spaghetti for an army. She insisted that Levon stay and eat with them.
“Where’s Nate?” he asked, pulling up a seat at the table where the kids were already digging into a steaming basket of rolls.
“The artist couple called. Something about their hot water heater,” Danielle said and lowered a huge ceramic bowl of pasta onto the table.
“Artists? What kind of artists?” Merry asked.
“I’m not sure. Painters I think. Your father met them when they were moving in,” Danni said around the oven mitt between her teeth.
“What did dad say they were like?” Giselle asked as she toured around the table grinding fresh parmesan on everyone’s pile of pasta.
“He said they were hippies,” Danni said, taking a seat opposite Levon.
“Hippies!” Giselle declared with a guffaw.
“Well, to your father anyone who doesn’t earn a paycheck is a hippie.” Danni shrugged.
They passed around a milk pitcher that was doing duty tonight as a sauce tureen. This was followed by a platter of Danni’s famous venison meatballs.
“The secret is I grind the meat with just a little pork,” she said as she encouraged Levon to spear a third meatball the size of a baseball.
“Then it’s not really a secret,” Levon said without a trace of a smile.
“I guess it’s not. Now that I told you I guess I’ll have to kill you, Mitch,” she said with an open smile.
Everyone laughed at that but Levon. He made the best smile he could and bent to his plate.
“Daddy calls them ‘deer balls’,” Carl shared with a broad grin.
“Carl!” Danni cried.
The kids surrendered to a snuffling of barely suppressed giggles. Danni turned red and covered her mouth with a napkin to hide her smile.
After dinner Levon made for a quiet departure. “Let you kids have fun,” he said as he pulled on his coat at the door.
Merry burst across the room, leaping the board game they had laid out on the floor; world conquest in process. She hugged him about the waist, drawing him as tight as she could.
“What will you do without me?” she said into the rough canvas of his coat.
“I thought I’d read some of that Civil War book you gave me until I fall asleep,” he said and touched her hair.
“Will you come have breakfast with us?”
“I might still be too full from Mrs. Fenton’s meatballs. Besides, you’ll probably sleep in.”
“Okay,” she said and released him.
“Love you, honey” he said.
“Love you back,” she said.
Levon took the long walk to the truck, gunned it to life and headed away out the drive before the cabin and onto Mohawk Road. He hooked a right. The distance back to his place was equal either way he went around the lake. He’d go around the east shore tonight, taking it slow over the mounting snow. A full scale blizzard was in effect. A thirty mile wind was blowing the white flakes against the truck like millions of tiny missiles. He drove with the fog lamps on and the fully lit rack of LE
Ds he’d installed on a bar above the cab.
He hadn’t told Merry the whole truth. There was no way he was going to get any sleep with her out of the house. He decided to make a big old thermos of coffee and spend the night completing the plumbing to the Hoffert’s new kitchen. By morning he hoped to have the soil pipe connected and the PVC for the garbage disposal, dishwasher and ice maker in place for when he installed the appliances still crated in the Hoffert’s garage. The Civil War book Merry bought him was a very thoughtful gift but proved slow going for him as he stopped to think on the errors made by both sides. By the Union at the beginning of the war and by the Confederacy toward the end. Too many parallels. He’d see it through to the end, though, only because Merry gave it to him.
Levon decided that he would have rather fought under Lee than the Union. It wasn’t just his Alabama heritage. Lee was the more talented commander and Levon had an affinity for lost causes.
He crawled by the bungalow behind the Christopher residence. The main house was a sprawling Cape Cod on a grand scale seated by the lake shore. The bungalow set across the road was a simple A-frame. The lights were on inside. Nate’s snow machine sat at the foot of the drive. The toolbox sled he rigged up was hitched to the rear of it. Nate would be working on the water heater in the utility room down in the daylight basement. Levon thought about stopping to ask if he needed help but drove on. He was about talked out of the evening even though all he did was mostly listen at the Fenton’s dinner table.
The Christophers were a late middle-aged couple. He was legal counsel for an entertainment company in New York. She did something in news for a television network. Neither of them seemed like the artsy type. Maybe the hippies, as Nate referred to them, were family friends.
Levon rolled on toward the Hoffert house, his mind moving to the problem of properly angling the soil lines in the constricted space left to him by the cabinet design the Hofferts had chosen.
Eighteenth entry
1/19
* * *
