by Chris Knopf
Bay Side Holdings showed up on another document that looked like a contract with a real-estate agent, Arnold Lombard Co., Southampton. The contract was signed in 1977 accompanying another burst of perk testing. Spring & Spring had certified the results, as they had later, in 1998. I flipped back to the site plan to pinpoint where the tests were done and found another rubber stamp impression with the name Bay Side Holdings.
There was an aerial photograph showing all of Oak Point, and the land next door that held the old WB plant. The complex was bigger than it looked from ground level. I counted one main building and at least ten smaller outbuildings. The neighborhood property lines were drawn in and numbered with white ink. Regina’s number thirty-three was shaded by something. A highlighter? So was number thirty-five, next door and the lot after that, and several others on the east side of WB’s peninsula. So was the whole of the WB complex. Our lot had a check mark, as did number thirty-eight and number thirty-nine.
There was a letter to the Town appeals board from an attorney named Jacqueline Swaitkowski of Bridgehampton representing Bay Side Holdings, Inc. She wanted to record their intentions to approach the board on a number of lot size and setback issues, all of which she described somewhat hopefully as routine. It was dated June 30, 1998.
That was it. There were no comments from the Town and no record of any actual appeals. I stuffed it all back in the envelope and went down to the corner place for a cup of French Vanilla coffee and a croissant.
Properly fortified, I walked the block and a half up Hampton Road to the big Town building. While the incorporated Village was defined by the traditional boundaries of Southampton, the Town covered half the South Fork, from Westhampton Beach to Bridgehampton, including the Village itself. The geopolitical complexities of New York State took some concentration to navigate, but I’m a trained engineer. Complex systems are my forte.
Bonny Martinez was on duty at the Town tax collector’s office. She wore a wide smile and a print blouse covered with huge tropical flowers.
“What can I help you with?”
“I’m settling an estate,” I said, pulling out my paperwork. “Here’s the death certificate and documentation showing me as administrator. And my driver’s license.”
She scooped it all up and scanned the information.
“Okay, what can I help you with?”
I wrote Regina’s address on a piece of scratch paper from a stack on the counter.
“She’s been living here for many years, but didn’t own the house. I need to know who’s been paying the taxes so I can notify them.”
“Okay,” she said, cheerily.
It took a few seconds for her to sit down at a terminal, tap in the address and pop back up again with the information.
“Bay Side Holdings. Six hundred seventy-five Dutch Wharf Road, Sag Harbor, New York. Attention Milton Hornsby. We had them on biannual automatic payment. Harbor Trust, account number 41-53245-41.”
She wrote it all down on another slip of scratch paper and slapped it down on the counter. Just like that.
When I got back to the car Eddie was in the driver’s seat looking down at the instrument panel. Planning a getaway.
“Yeah, I could teach you to drive, but who’d pay the insurance?”
He hopped back over to his side and I rolled the window down for him. He stuck his head out and barked at the closest passerby, who jumped back in alarm. I pulled away as briskly as the big car would allow.
“Great. Here I’m trying to get along with people and what do you do?”
He looked over at me happily.
When my daughter was little she had a half-dozen imaginary friends, the most prominent of which was Eddie Van Halen. I have no idea how that happened, but the hard rocker was a constant, if invisible, presence in our household for years. She always made sure I had the seat belt around him in the car. Once we were driving along and “Runnin’ with the Devil” came on the radio. She turned around to address the back seat:
“That’s you, Eddie Van Halen!”
I’d often say the same thing to my eponymously named dog, and get about as much back in response.
My daughter had stopped talking to me a few months before the divorce, so I wasn’t sure what she was up to. I knew she had an apartment in Manhattan, where she went after graduating from Rhode Island School of Design. She was doing something with graphics on the computer, but I didn’t know what. I didn’t know how to find out without talking to her mother or her mother’s family, which wouldn’t work out. Abby worked hard to keep her away from my family, so she never got to know my sister. Abby always insisted we rent or stay with friends like Burton Lewis, the lawyer, when we came out. My daughter had only seen the cottage on the Little Peconic from the street. Abby said she didn’t want our daughter exposed to that environment, whatever that meant. My mother spent a lot of time with my sister’s kids, little meatballs though they were, so at least she got to have grandchildren. She never complained about not seeing my daughter, though it clearly wounded her. But I deferred to Abby, to my deep and everlasting sorrow.
Since it was on the way to Dutch Wharf Road, I thought I’d I stop at the Pequot for lunch. The woods became more dense as North Sea Road turned into Noyack Road. It was narrow, with a double yellow line down the middle, and twisty as it followed the jagged bay coast and bumpy contours of Noyac’s little hills. The Grand Prix kept its dignity on the curves if you held a firm hand on the wheel.
Eddie finally tired of the wind and jumped into the back seat where he had plenty of room to spread out. I followed the slow arc around Long Beach, the sickle-shaped bay front west of Sag Harbor. The water was rippled and slick, silver-blue like a sharkskin suit. People were walking on the beach, cuffs rolled up to below their knees and hands in their pockets, their clothes pressed against their bodies by the stiffening breeze. It was too far away to divine their thoughts. Gulls circled overhead.
The clouds and mist of the morning had long ago been chased out by a cool hard breeze traveling down from New England. I lowered my window and let the noisy air swirl around inside the passenger compartment. I dropped the Grand Prix down to a crawl when I got to the houses that crowded the antique streets of Sag Harbor. Slow time was woven into the ivy that hung on the gates and fences of Greek Revival mansions built by bold sea captains.
There was always plenty of room to park at the Pequot. I let Eddie take care of business at a little patch of scrub grass and was about to let him back in the car when I saw Dotty waving to me from the front door of the restaurant.
“Your dog?”
“Eddie.”
“He’s cute.”
“Got to be good at something.”
“You can bring him with you if you sit out on the deck.”
“Outdoor seating?”
“The deck. Go around back.”
I didn’t know the Pequot had a small, slightly raised deck off the kitchen with a white plastic table where the Hodges family probably sat to eat their meals and watch the fishing boats come and go. Dotty was there to greet me and fuss over the dog, which was something you have to get used to when your dog’s got a personality like Eddie’s. Eternally bon vivant.
“So you weren’t lying,” said Dotty as she wiped off the plastic table.
“I wasn’t?”
“About having a dog to let out. I thought it was an excuse.”
The two of us watched Eddie run his nose over the whole of the deck before coming back to my table to sit down at my feet.
“I guess you’re all checked out.”
“Absolut?”
“Yup. And a shot of water for the dog.”
“With or without fruit?”
“He’d probably go for a slice of lime.”
While I was waiting for her to bring our drinks I spread all the papers I’d collected that morning out on the table so I could capture the information I wanted on my yellow legal pad. I numbered each point and drew a little circle around the numbers
I thought were the most important. Then I made a list of the things I didn’t know, that I wanted to know. These I also put in order of priority, with the most important getting double underlines. The task felt satisfying. I hadn’t done anything like that for almost five years.
Hodges came out with two drinks and a bowl of water. I almost covered the pad and was glad I didn’t. I didn’t want to insult him. He sat down and stuck the bowl in front of Eddie’s nose.
“Good-lookin’ dog.”
“He wants you to think so.”
“I got a pair of Shih Tzu back at the house. Little ugly fuckin’ dogs. They were Dotty’s mother’s. She gets ’em as puppies, then dies and leaves them with me.”
He covered the moment by concentrating on Eddie. Dogs are really good for that.
“I got Regina’s bank accounts and a plot plan for her house,” I said.
He looked over at all the papers spread out on the table.
“She got a million bucks?”
“About eight thousand. Didn’t even own the house. Far as I can tell, though, didn’t pay rent, either. Didn’t pay anything, but,” I placed a series of canceled checks on the table, “oil, LIPA, phone—no long distance— propane for the stove, Sisters of Mercy, twenty bucks a month. Then it’s periodic checks to the IGA, pharmacy, the kid that cut her lawn, occasional cabs.”
“Paid the cab with a check?”
“The rest are checks to cash, mostly at Ray’s Liquors. Can’t tell if some of that went to a little fortification.”
“Lived pretty lean.”
“Leaner than me, which is saying something.”
“You got Pequot expenses.”
“No rent, no medical, no taxes.”
“Didn’t file?”
“Not that I can tell.”
“Lived under the radar.”
“Typical of the neighborhood.”
“Who owned the house?”
“Some outfit named Bay Side Holdings. Here in Sag Harbor. Going there next.” I dropped the slip of paper with their address down in front of him. He picked it up and frowned.
“Must be in a house, or something.”
I took the slip back from him.
“Dutch Wharf Road?”
“All houses. Except at the end where there’s a busted-up old dock building. Used to have a launch ramp, but the water got shoaled over and nobody bothered to dredge. Maybe the Town closed it up. Anyway, nothin’ commercial there now.”
I got Hodges to bring me a ham sandwich which I washed down with a Sam Adams. Eddie took half the fries. Something he wouldn’t touch if I dropped it in his bowl at the cottage. Probably didn’t want to offend Hodges either.
It took a while to find the head of Dutch Wharf Road. It was over on the east side of town where a lot of the roads are narrow and tangled up with the grassy little inlets that ring that part of the bay. Hard to imagine that Sag Harbor was once America’s biggest port, filled with square riggers and awash in whale oil.
It was just like Hodges said. A narrow, leafy street lined with small cottages, all built at different times, but well established and lovingly cared for. I followed the numbers to the end of the street and the abandoned launch ramp. Number 675 was the last house on the right. It fit in with the neighborhood—fresh white brick and white clapboard, with the gable end facing the street. It had a very steep roofline, which was the fashion for small Tudor houses in the twenties and thirties. Looked like something you’d find in the Cotswolds. Ivy covered part of the lawn and grew up the facade. No name on the mailbox. There was a basic, anonymous-looking Nissan in the driveway. No garage.
No answer at the door. I’d given up ringing the bell and was about to leave when I heard a sound coming from the back of the house. I went around the north side through a thick stand of arborvitae. The backyard was stuffed with trees and shrubs. It looked like they’d been growing there for about a hundred years, which was probably about right. On one tiny patch of grass, illuminated by a spot of sunlight, stood a weathered wheelbarrow filled with sticks and uprooted plant life. A few yards away a guy’s butt stuck out from under an out-of-control forsythia. The butt wore khakis and belonged on a large man. I shuffled my feet a little and cleared my throat as I approached.
“Excuse me.”
The guy backed out from under the forsythia on his hands and knees and stood up. He was over six-three, reasonably slender, but with a very big head. Thin gray hair circled a bald dome. He looked to be somewhere in his seventies, on the high side, and wore very thick glasses through which he squinted at me painfully.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I’m looking for Milton Hornsby.”
He held a bunch of pulled-up weeds in his gloved right hand. In the other hand was a small garden trowel. He looked down as if trying to decide which to discard.
“My name is Sam Acquillo. I have something important to discuss with Mr. Hornsby.”
He held up both hands as if in surrender.
“That would be me.”
I leafed through the manila folder I had under my arm and pulled out Regina’s death certificate, which I held out in front of him. As I talked he dropped the weeds and trowel on the ground and pulled off his gloves.
“I’m here to notify you of the death of Regina Broadhurst. Died last week. You can see my name here.” I pointed to a line on the death certificate. “I’m also the administrator of the estate.”
I held out that piece of paper with my other hand. He took both to look at more closely. His squint got worse, turning his eyes into thin slits.
“What’s your relation?” he asked, still looking at the paperwork.
“Neighbor.”
“Attorney?”
“Nope. Just a neighbor. Far as we know there’s only one family member, a nephew. That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you. If you knew of any others.”
He was big, but not very healthy looking. He had large, prominent cheekbones, but underneath his cheeks were pitted and sunken in. His khakis and flannel shirt were of good quality, but hadn’t been washed in a while.
“I wondered when this would happen.”
“She was pretty old.”
He smiled at that, like it triggered a private joke.
He handed the papers back to me. I didn’t take them.
“You can keep them. For your records.”
He shook his head.
“I’m not going to talk to you,” he said, flatly, still squinting at me through his bottle-bottom glasses. He dropped the papers on the ground.
“You’re not? Why not?”
“I don’t have to.” He started to wiggle his hands back into his work gloves.
“I don’t know. I think you do. I’m not a lawyer, but …”
“That’s correct. You’re not a lawyer. I don’t know what you are. A neighbor? You’re on my property, I know that. Uninvited. I’d like you to leave.”
He bent down to retrieve the little pile of weeds, brushed passed me and took it over to the wheelbarrow.
I could feel that familiar surge of blood warming up my face. I tried to look relaxed and reasonable, even though I wasn’t very good at that either.
“According to the Town tax records, Regina’s house was owned by Bay Side Holdings, at six-seven-five Dutch Wharf Road,” I looked around, “which I guess is here, with you listed as the responsible party. I’m just telling you because Regina’s dead. You get your house back.”
He seemed to loosen up a little at that. He let go of the wheelbarrow.
“Very well. Consider me notified. You can leave your paperwork in my mailbox. You know the way out.”
Before I could say anything else he walked away from me. Stoop-shouldered, he moved off with his wheelbarrow toward some distant corner of his yard, hidden under the dark shade of oak, pine and arborvitae.
As an amateur boxer I lost almost as many fights as I won, and my brief professional career wasn’t much better. There were things about the s
port that drew me, things like the training and bag work. Some of the old trainers fit the stereotype of the battered old pros with gritty voices, filled with the wisdom of the street. I liked being around a lot of it. The actual boxing part wasn’t as appealing. A lot of the kids I fought were really desperate and half crazy with hopes and fears. There were more white kids than you’d think, and I can’t say race was any kind of obvious factor at the level we fought. Not that I could see, anyway. Everybody was basically poor, street worn and edgy. Most everybody figured I was Puerto Rican till I opened my mouth. Seemed like there were a lot of bantams and feathers, wiry little guys with vicious quick hands and hard little heads you could pound on all day with no effect. As a middleweight, or light heavyweight, I was one of the bigger ones. The few genuine heavyweights were usually fat guys or big, slow dummies without the heart for the physical conditioning needed to really make it in the ring. Occasionally, some guy would show up who was big, strong, fast and eager. You knew it as soon as they got on the gloves. They had the mental part. They were smart enough to know what you had to do, but also what you got if you pulled it off. Go from having nothing to owning the world.
The fights I was able to win were usually on points. I never knocked anybody out, though I put a few into the canvas hard enough to get the decision. After a fight like that one of the trainers shoved my face into the corner of my open locker hard enough to split my lip. I still had my gloves on, and blood was splashing all over everywhere. I shrunk back and got my gloves up near my head to stop the next blow, which didn’t come. He asked me if what he just did pissed me off.
“What the hell was that for?”
“You got to get pissed, you fuckin’ greaseball. It’s the only way you win. You don’t get pissed, you don’t win the fight. That’s the kind of fighter you are. From now on, I want you pissed off all the time.”
I wanted to kill him. Instead I just nodded. Then I sat down on the bench and watched the blood from my lip pool on the floor and listened to the roar in my head. He wanted me to be pissed. If he only knew.
