For the next ninety minutes, Jerry took us through the ins and outs of boat ownership. From the tour of the engine room below — with two Volvo diesel engines — to the ins and outs of disembarking and docking, to battening down the hatches at night, he showed us how everything aboard operated, including the quiet flush toilets and the electronic anchor winch.
Da-Marr hung out in the salon, out of the wind, and was silent through most of the debriefing — bored out of his skull. But his eyes were shiny with delight when Richard turned the helm over to him — before he invited me to drive the boat. I kept my mouth shut, but my resentment toward the kid inched up another notch. Why did a stranger deserve more regard than Richard’s own flesh and blood? The thought made me feel petty, and my resentment toward Da-Marr cranked even higher.
“Wish the guys back home could see me now,” Da-Marr shouted, and hooted with glee from the helm.
“The kid’s really enjoying himself,” a smiling Richard commented from the banquette.
At least one of us was having a good time. I sat at the other end of the couch, watching our wake and wishing I was anywhere else. It was stupid to let the kid’s presence get to me. And I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to say to Brenda the next time I saw her.
“Do you want a turn at the controls?” Richard asked.
Fuck yes! “No,” I grumbled instead.
“Come on, Jeff. Stop acting like you’ve got a stick up your ass.”
I glared at him. “Who says I don’t have a stick up my ass?”
Richard didn’t comment.
“We’re getting close to the end of the island,” I said as soon as I could see the North Grand Island Bridge up in the distance. There’s a point in the Niagara River where boat navigation is forbidden. Next up — none other than Niagara Falls.
Richard turned back to the controls. “We’d better turn back for the marina,” he hollered to Da-Marr.
“Come on, man, I’m just getting used to this beauty.”
“Sorry, but Jeff’s got to go to work.”
“What about you?” he yelled back.
“Not today.”
“Tell him to call in sick.”
I glared at Richard. “Tell him to go fuck himself.”
“Jeff!” Richard chided.
Richard crossed the deck, nudged Da-Marr aside, and turned the boat around.
I never did get my turn at the wheel.
When we reached the dock, Da-Marr rose from his seat. “That was awesome. Better than driving a car past eighty.” And did he do that on a regular basis? “Hey, Richard. Got a buck so I can get me a Coke?”
“Sure,” Richard said and thumbed through his wallet, giving Da-Marr a handful of dollars.
“Thanks, man.” Da-Marr jumped onto the dock.
“Don’t go far,” Richard cautioned. “We need to get going.”
Da-Marr gave him a backward wave and started off toward the vending machines at the front of the dock.
“Perfect timing,” I said. “He left us all the work.”
Richard said nothing as he buttoned up everything inside, while I tossed out the bumpers and tied up the boat. If we’d actually known what we were doing, it would have taken a lot less time. I kept looking at my watch, wondering if I should call my boss and tell him I’d be late for work. My usual shift was at night — but Tom had a doctor’s appointment, and Dave, the other full-time bartender, wasn’t able to cover that day. They’d cut me slack so many times I’d have been a real bastard not to have agreed to help out.
Finally finished with our chores, Richard and I strolled up the dock looking for Da-Marr, but he was nowhere in sight. “Where the hell has he gone to?” I asked.
“He can’t have gone far,” Richard said reasonably, but we spent the next fifteen minutes wandering around the marina calling the kid’s name with no results.
“Brenda is going to kill me if I lose him,” Richard groused. He looked all around the area. “Do you think he could have gone back to the car?”
“Maybe. Why don’t you go look. If he’s there, blast the horn a few times to let me know. I’ll keep looking around here.”
“Right,” he said, and we split up.
I went back to Easy Breezin’, but Da-Marr hadn’t gone back there. I stopped in and asked the marina manager, but he said he hadn’t seen the kid since we’d first arrived. I was ready to abandon the search when I saw Da-Marr step onto the dock from one of the few boats that were still in their slips.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I demanded.
“Checking out the competition. They got nothing on Richard’s boat.”
“You could get arrested for trespassing.”
“Bullshit.”
An urban kid in a very white marina? What planet did this kid live on?
“Come on. Let’s go.”
Since Richard hadn’t had good luck at the car, he met us half way down the dock where Da-Marr gave him the same song and dance routine about checking out the other boats.
“I met the guy at the Coke machine. He wanted to show off his boat. I was just leavin’ when pussy showed up.”
If I’d been close enough, I’d have kicked that son of a bitch in the balls.
“Please don’t do it again. If something happened, you might be falsely accused,” Richard said reasonably.
“Hey, I’m from the city. I can take care of myself,” Da-Marr bluffed and took off for the car.
“Famous last words,” I grumbled, and glanced at my watch. I had fifteen minutes to get to the Whole Nine Yards. I estimated I’d be at least fifteen minutes late.
Richard hadn’t moved. “What is your problem?”
“I’m going to be fucking late for work because of that asshole.”
Richard shoved his index finger in my face, his expression livid. “You will not insult my houseguest and you will behave like an adult.
Damn, Da-Marr. At that moment I felt sure I could kill the little bastard.
I looked away and stalked off in the direction of the parking lot.
Da-Marr was already sitting in the passenger seat, looking triumphant as I climbed into the Mercedes’ back seat. Richard got in and started the engine. “So you made a friend?” he said as he steered out of the parking lot.
“I guess,” Da-Marr muttered. “The guy said the boat belonged to his father. I don’t go round askin’ people for proof.” He reached over and switched on the radio once again, cranking up the volume.
I saw Richard look back at me via the rearview mirror.
If what Da-Marr said was true, then I looked like a jerk for tattling. But what if he was lying? There was no way I could prove it, so I kept my mouth shut. I looked at my watch and fumed. I pulled out my cell phone to call the bar. “Can you turn that down,” I shouted.
Instead, Da-Marr pressed the button and the decibel level rose exponentially.
Richard reached over and hit the off switch. “Jeff’s got to make a call,” he said reasonably, but Da-Marr glanced over his shoulder and glared at me.
As I punched up the number for the bar, I had a feeling I was going to pay for the exchange that had just taken place.
But how?
The wheels on Jeff’s car spun madly as it launched like a rocket down the drive and turned right onto LeBrun Road. Richard sighed — angry, and yet sympathetic at the emotion that had precipitated the childish act of defiance.
He shoved the keys to his own car into his pocket and stood staring at the now-empty drive, hesitant to return to the warmth of the house and the cold reception he was likely to receive from at least one person in residence.
It was with great reluctance that he entered the house and dawdled as he hung up his jacket on one of the pegs in the home’s expansive butler’s pantry. He could hear voices in the kitchen: one domineering and one almost quavering. God, his feet felt heavy as he plodded into what was supposed to be the heart of his home.
“I’m back,” he called cheer
fully as he entered the kitchen. Brenda sat at her usual seat at the maple table, looking small despite her swollen belly, while a commanding Evelyn stood in front of the stove, stirring something in a big stainless steel pot. “Something smells good.”
“Evie’s making bean soup. It’s our grandmother’s recipe,” Brenda said, her voice sounding unnaturally high. That only happened when she was stressed — really stressed. It wasn’t like her, either. He met her gaze, about to ask if she was okay, but her penetrating — almost imploring — gaze told him not to inquire.
“How did things go at the marina?” Brenda asked instead.
“Fine.”
Her eyes narrowed. She knew. She always knew when he stretched the truth.
“It’s a great boat. We’ll have a lot of good times on it.”
“It seems like an unnecessary extravagance,” Evelyn said gravely. “Frivolous,” she added.
“Da-Marr said he got to drive it,” Brenda said, her cheerful tone sounding forced.
“That he did,” Richard said, his eyes wandering to the cabinet where he kept the single malt Scotch. Evelyn would not approve of him pouring a shot this early in the day — but about now he felt as though he could use one. Was there a chance he could sneak off to his study to grab a neat glass of the store he kept there?
“I’m just about ready to serve,” Evelyn said, as though reading his mind. “If you’ll call Da-Marr, I’ll dish up.
Brenda made to stand, but Evelyn leveled her right index finger at her younger sister. “Stay where you are. I’ll take care of everything. I’m used to doing that in this family,” she said, eyeing them both over the top of her glasses.
Richard bit his tongue to keep from speaking. His gaze shifted to Brenda, who looked about to cry. Oh, how he wished they could be alone to share in what was supposed to be one of the most joyful times of their lives, the birth of their daughter. Jeff coming into their lives had been terribly stressful, but ultimately a rewarding experience. He had to hope that Brenda reconnecting with her oldest sibling would ultimately prove as gratifying. Still, Jeff had never sought to impose his opinions on them … probably because he was half a generation younger than Evelyn and felt no sense of entitlement.
“I’ll find Da-Marr and then we can eat,” Richard said and forced a smile.
Evelyn’s laser-like gaze seemed to cut through him, and he escaped the kitchen.
Da-Marr was not in the living room. Richard was about to head up the stairs to check out the guest room when he heard a noise from down the hall — from his study. He turned and headed in that direction.
Da-Marr sat in the leather chair behind his desk, hunched over the computer. The sight made Richard’s heart sink. He did not like anyone messing with his computer. If Da-Marr felt comfortable commandeering the car radio, what would he do to the computer?
“Lunch is served.”
“I’m not hungry,” Da-Marr said, not taking his eyes from the computer screen. “You ever think of getting a tablet ’stead of a desktop?”
“I’ve got one … somewhere,” Richard added vaguely.
“Let me borrow it.”
So he could mess that up, too? On the other hand, Richard figured it might be less of a hassle to let the kid use it — even if he lost or broke it.
“I’ll look for it after lunch. You’d better come to the kitchen. You know Evelyn doesn’t take no for an answer.”
Da-Marr closed the browser and rose from the chair. “Ain’t that the truth.”
Richard fought the urge to check the computer’s history and instead followed the kid back to the kitchen. During the short time he’d been gone, Evelyn had set the table and was waiting for them, looking stern. “I was about to call you both.”
“We’re here now, Aunt Evelyn,” Da-Marr said sweetly, and leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. It was the first time Richard had seen Evelyn smile since she’d arrived.
“Now sit down. The soup’s getting cold. Da-Marr sat in Richard’s customary seat, but a look from Brenda told Richard he would have to be satisfied with another chair at the table.
Anything to maintain a sense of peace and harmony, he thought. Still, as he grabbed the napkin at his place setting and shook it out over his lap, he wondered if he’d be able to get back to the computer before Da-Marr could get there, and hoped the history would still be available to check.
Chapter 4
I made it to the bar twenty minutes late. Luckily, my boss, Tom, had called his doctor’s office to find they were running half an hour behind. He got there in time for his appointment. Just in time. Still, I felt like a shit for having caused his blood pressure to rise. The poor man already suffered from white coat syndrome, and driving across town like a maniac to get there on time hadn’t helped.
I’d worked off most of my angry mood by the time the dinner doldrums rolled around. I didn’t often work double shifts, and trade was slow, meaning it would be a long evening.
A few of the regulars arrived about seven, and it wasn’t long afterward that I looked up to see my former high school acquaintance and now sort-of friend, Sam Nielsen, enter The Whole Nine Yards. Sam had been an acquaintance of mine back at Amherst High School. He was the editor of the school newspaper, and I was its photographer. I wouldn’t call us friends now, but we had an understanding when it came to certain potentially newsworthy subjects. I brought him tips and he shared information. Thanks to me, a couple of times he’d actually broken stories before the local TV news crews even knew what was happening.
He was dressed in jeans and a bomber jacket, still wearing a work tie, and holding onto something tucked under his right arm. He sat down at the bar and I wandered over to stand before him.
“What are you doing here on a Monday evening?”
He set whatever he’d been holding onto the seat next to him and rested his arms on the bar. “Just thought I’d drop by to see how you’re doing.”
“A lie if ever I heard one. What can I get you?”
“A Molson Canadian — in a dirty glass.”
“No can do. The health department would close us down.”
“How’s a guy supposed to look tough?”
I eyed the jacket. “Work out more at the gym?”
He shrugged. “Then how about a Molson in a bottle.”
I turned for the cooler and grabbed one, setting it front of him. “What else brought you here tonight?”
Sam reached to his right and grabbed what looked like a big Kraft envelope but turned out to be four of them. He moved his beer aside and spread them out before him on the bar. Each was sealed, with no writing to indicate what was inside. “I was hoping you could help me choose my next big exposé.”
“How?”
“Each of these envelopes has my notes for what could be a hot story. I’m just not sure which to work on.”
“And what am I supposed to do; read the notes and chose?”
Sam shook his head. “Nothing that complicated. Just pick them up and tell me if you get any of your funny vibes.”
“Funny they aren’t,” I said sourly.
“Humor me,” he said and grabbed his bottle of beer, taking a swig.
I stared down at the plain brown envelopes. None of them called to me.
“Touch them — one at a time,” he encouraged me.
I looked around the bar, but no one was paying attention to us. I picked up the first envelope and held it with fingers from both hands. I waited, not knowing what — if anything — to expect. Sam’s gaze was riveted on my face.
“So?” he challenged.
“I’m not getting a damn thing,” I said just loud enough for him to hear.
“Try another one.”
I set down the first envelope and picked up another, which seemed to make my fingertips tingle. Something flashed in my mind — but too quickly for me to make sense of it.
Sam’s eyebrows went up and he looked expectant. “That got a rise out of you.”
“You could tell?�
��
“Yeah, your eyes went real wide.”
I glared at him and put the envelope down, then picked up the next. Like the first, I got no funny feelings. In fact, nothing at all. I put it down and picked up the last one and got a jolt like an electric shock. I dropped the envelope on the bar.
“Whoa — what happened?”
“I’d say I found your next story,” I said, eyeing the envelope warily.
Sam scooped up the other three envelopes and set them aside on the empty stool once more. “Pick it up again.”
“No.”
“Why? Are you chicken?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, go on,” he chided, taking another swig of his beer.
Instead of picking up the envelope, I placed the tip of my index finger on it. No jolt, but a familiar — unwelcome — face flashed before my mind’s eye: Da-Marr.
I pulled back my finger.
“You don’t look happy. What did you see?”
“What’s in this envelope?” I said, looking down at the offensive thing.
Sam picked it up and tore open the top, taking out a wad of hand written and typed notes that had been paper clipped together. He scanned the top page, which had several yellow Post-It notes attached. “Ah, Jack Morrow.”
“The financier Jack Morrow? Who was recently murdered? The one who was on trial for masterminding a Ponzi scheme, as well as racketeering and tax fraud?” I asked.
Sam nodded. “One and the same.”
What in God’s name could Jack Morrow, a shady financier and Buffalo native, have to do with Da-Marr, who hailed from Philadelphia and had never — to my knowledge — left that city until he’d arrived on Richard’s doorstep the day before?
“So, what kind of vibes did you get?” he asked again.
“It doesn’t make sense to me.”
Dark Waters (The Jeff Resnick Mysteries) Page 3
