by Bob Morris
Belleville clinks his glass with mine. We take long sips. He grins at me.
“You used to play for the Gators, didn’t you?”
“Sure did.”
“The Dolphins, too.”
I nod.
“Fucked up your knee or something, didn’t you?”
“I did.”
“The 1986 AFC championship. I remember. I lost a shitload of money on that game. You guys broke my heart.”
I hear it a lot. I never know what to say. So I just shrug and don’t say anything.
Belleville says, “You dive?”
“Yeah, when I get a chance.”
“How about you come out diving with us while you’re here? My treat. I’d consider it an honor hosting you, a former famous football player and all that.”
“Well, I kinda have a lot going on right now.”
“Sure, man, I understand. But when things free up, you give me a holler. We’ve got a couple of night dives scheduled out at Bird Reef. That place gets wild after dark. Killer dive. You’d like it.”
We talk. About this and that. I finally get around to asking Belleville how he got the gash on his cheekbone. He seems embarrassed by it.
“Oh, it was nothing. Something stupid,” he says. “A hazard of the trade.”
We talk some more. We finish the beer. Belleville returns to his group at the bar.
Frazer stands up from the table, takes Fiona’s hand in both of his.
“A pleasure,” he says. “I’ll give you a call then.”
“I’ll look forward to it,” she says.
He gives me a nod good-bye.
I watch Fiona watching him walk away.
“Seems like a nice-enough fellow,” I say.
“Quite nice,” Fiona says. “And fair spunk to boot.”
“Translation, please.”
Fiona smiles.
“Good looking as all hell.”
55
Before they head off to run errands the next morning, Barbara and Aunt Trula join Boggy and me on the back lawn. We’ve just set the sixth Bismarck in the ground.
Boggy and Cedric are backfilling the hole. The auger crew is moving its equipment to the spot marked for the seventh palm. Two days until the party. We’ll be jamming, but we’ll make it.
“So what do you think?” I ask Aunt Trula.
Aunt Trula cocks her head and studies the palms. She cocks her head the other way and studies them some more.
“You have planted them too close together,” she says.
I glance at Barbara, but she looks away, at the ocean. Boggy and Cedric keep shoveling dirt, pretending like they aren’t listening.
“They aren’t too close,” I say. “You see, the idea is to create a critical mass.”
“Hmm,” Aunt Trula sniffs.
“Space them any further apart and it takes away from the impact.”
“Well, have it your way then. I suppose there’s no turning back now.” She turns to Barbara. “We really need to get going, dear, if we are to get everything done before we go out on the boat for the memorial service.”
As Aunt Trula marches off, Barbara steps beside me. She rubs my back, gives me a nuzzle.
“Don’t mind her. I think the palms are magnificent.” She gives me a kiss. “See you at Teddy’s.”
She heads after Aunt Trula. I help Boggy and Cedric finish backfilling around the palm.
When we’re done, Boggy scoops up a handful of dirt. He dabs the tip of his tongue to it, tastes it.
“You want, I can bring out some salt and pepper, and you can make a meal of it,” I say.
“Magnesium,” Boggy says. “The soil is lacking in it.”
“And you can taste that?”
Boggy nods.
“Maybe could use some potassium, too,” he says. “Otherwise the palms, they will yellow.”
Cedric gives us directions to a garden store. Boggy and I take the Morris Minor, find the place, and arrange delivery for enough fertilizer spikes to keep the Bismarcks well fed for the foreseeable future.
When we step out to the parking lot, I see that a gray van has pulled up next to the Morris Minor. Paul Andrade, the short thug whom Boggy had relieved of his gun two nights before, leans against the passenger door, watching us as we approach.
He slides open the van’s side door.
“Get in,” Andrade says.
I look inside the van. Hector Moraes is at the wheel. Luiz Barros is in the very back seat. Beside Barros sits yet another bruiser. They seem to keep getting bigger and bigger.
I look at Andrade.
“After that ass-kicking we gave you the other day, you only brought along one more of your buddies to help out? I’m deeply offended.”
Andrade edges back his jacket just enough to let me see the pistol in a shoulder holster. I let out a low whistle.
“Whoa, went out and got yourself a new one, huh?” Andrade doesn’t say anything. “Why didn’t you pick out one with a brown grip? It would match your outfit so much better.”
“Get in the fucking van,” Andrade says.
I slide into the middle seat. Boggy sits down beside me. Andrade slides the door shut, gets in up front, and Moraes puts the van on the road.
56
We ride for twenty minutes and no one talks. We take the detour around Hamilton and keep heading east on Middle Road until we come to Flatts Village.
We wind through narrow streets, past houses built close to the road, slowing every now and then to dodge old women walking with parasols and kids kicking soccer balls.
This is not the rich man’s version of Bermuda. It’s off the tourist grid, a zone where only locals tread.
Moraes stops the van in the dirt parking lot of a shabby concrete building. A faded sign reads: FERREIRA’S—GROCERY, CAFÉ, PAPER GOODS.
Andrade opens the van door. We get out. The four of them herd Boggy and me toward the store. Along the way we pass a group of men clustered around a picnic table watching a furious game of dominoes.
Our arrival draws only scant attention, but one of the men lets his gaze linger on us as we pass. I recognize him—the young man who was at the wheel of Michael Frazer’s boat when they came across us diving with Teddy Schwartz at Sock ’Em Dog.
I give him a nod. He turns back to the dominoes.
We step inside the grocery store. It’s neither a clean nor well-lit place, short on shoppers, the shelves not exactly bursting with goods. A bored middle-aged woman, a kerchief around her hair, sits on a stool by the cash register, reading a newspaper.
Boggy and I follow Andrade to the rear of the store. His three beefy associates bring up the rear. I hear music playing—acoustic guitar, the tinkling of a piano.
Andrade opens a door that leads to a back room. The music becomes louder. And now it is accompanied by a woman singing. The words are in a language I don’t recognize, but the woman’s voice is rich and full and as mournful as anything I’ve ever heard.
We step into the room. Cardboard boxes are stacked along the walls. A single fluorescent bulb flickers from the ceiling.
Behind a cluttered wooden desk sits an old man, eyes closed, hands folded atop his chest. On a nearby credenza, an LP spins on a turntable, the woman’s voice resonating from a pair of speakers.
Andrade motions Boggy and me to step closer to the desk. He and his cohorts maintain their positions behind us.
The old man remains in peaceful repose, a look of contentment on a bourbon-brown face etched deep with lines. His hair is white, and so is his droopy mustache.
As the song reaches its finale, the woman seems to have reached into the depths of her soul—despair, agony, loss.
The music stops. The old man opens his eyes. He looks at Andrade and the others.
“Wait outside,” he says.
When they are gone, the old man creaks up from his chair. He is barely five feet tall. Round, but not too round. A bit wobbly on his feet. He keeps a hand on the desk for balance as he steps t
o the credenza.
He turns off the record player, slips the LP into its jacket, and carries it with him when he returns to the chair.
He pulls a cigar from a desk drawer, clips off the end, takes his time lighting it. He enjoys the first draw. Then another.
He picks up the album and turns it so we can see the woman’s face on the cover. It is an old photograph, from the 1950s maybe, judging by the woman’s hairstyle.
“Amalia Rodrigues,” he says. “The Queen of Fado. Do you know fado?”
I shake my head, no.
But Boggy says: “It is music of Portugal, no? Music of the streets.”
The old man smiles.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “But it is more than just music, fado. It is the expression of the Portuguese soul. We have a word—saudade. It means, well, it is like no word in English. It is about longing, about yearning for something that always seems to be just out of our reach. That is saudade”
The old man smiles again, takes a draw on his cigar.
I look at Boggy.
“The music of Portugal? Where did you pull that one from?”
Boggy shrugs.
“I met this woman once, from Lisbon. She used to sing to me.”
“She sang to you? How sweet.”
“Yes, it was very nice. Her name was Bettina.”
The old man coughs. It is one of those coughs that says: OK, enough fooling around. I want you to pay attention.
“I am Manuolo Ferreira,” the old man says. “Where is my money?”
He smiles the same smile he has been smiling all along, but there is something now in his eyes, something cruel and cold.
“Look,” I say. “Let’s start by you telling me exactly how much you think Brewster Trimmingham owes you.”
“He owes me one hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars.”
“He only borrowed seventy thousand.”
“And he was three weeks behind in paying. Thirty percent. Per week. He knew that. It is the way we do business. He must pay the gorjeta”
“Gorjeta? What’s that?”
Ferreira smiles.
“It is the tip. The gratuity. For the pleasure of doing business.”
“I don’t think Trimmingham got that much pleasure out of it,” I say. “But I tell you what. I’ll pay you the seventy thousand. Plus ten percent interest. That makes seventy-seven. And because you’re such a nice guy, what the hell, I’ll round it up to an even eighty.”
The smile leaves Ferreira’s face. He glares at me.
“You have no room to bargain here. I am doing you a favor just to talk.”
“And I’m doing you a favor by offering to settle Trimmingham’s debt. You aren’t going to get anything from him. He’s tapped out.”
Ferreira puts the cigar in his mouth. He chews on it, spits out a piece of tobacco.
“We have other ways to settle his debt.”
“Fine,” I say. “Have it your way. Get rid of Trimmingham. It saves me eighty grand.”
I turn to go. Boggy follows me.
Just as we reach the door, Ferreira says, “One hundred thousand. Even.”
We stop.
“Sixty-five,” I say.
“Sixty-five? But you just offered eighty.”
“Yeah, I know. But if you’re lowering your offer then so am I.”
Ferreira starts to say something, stops. He throws up his hands.
“That is not the way to bargain.”
“It’s the way I bargain.”
“Then you are a fool.”
“Heard that before.”
I reach for the doorknob.
“OK, then,” says Ferreira. “Eighty thousand dollars.”
I walk to Ferreira’s desk, stick out my hand.
“Deal,” I say.
Ferreira stands. His grip his firm. As we shake, he says, “You will pay the money now.”
“No, I will not.”
Ferreira releases my hand.
“What do you mean, you will not?”
“I mean, I will pay you the money as soon as I can.”
Ferreira shakes his head.
“No, this will not work. You walk in here, you say you are paying another man’s debt to me, I want the money now.”
I pick up the record album from his desk, hand it to Ferreira.
“You need to put this back on, get in the saudade mood,” I say. “Because you are wanting something that is still way out of reach.”
Ferreira snatches the album away from me.
“One day,” he says. “That’s what I am giving you.”
“And then what?”
“Then, my people, I send them to see you.”
“Didn’t work out real well for them the last time you did that.” Ferreira puts the cigar in his mouth, sucks on it, but it has lost its fire. He flicks a hand to the door. “Get out,” he says.
57
It takes an hour chugging on Miss Peg to reach a site far enough offshore to commend Ned McHugh to the sea. It’s a full boat, with Bill Belleville and a bunch of folks from Deep Water Discoveries aboard, too.
Polly has brought along a CD player. Ben Harper’s “In the Lord’s Arms” plays as the funeral director and an assistant lift the canvasshrouded body to the gunwales.
Fiona breaks out a bottle of champagne. She pours it around and raises her glass.
“To Ned,” she says. “I know you would have preferred a pint of Victoria Bitter, but I’ll buy one for you when we meet on the other side.”
Belleville and some of Ned’s diving buddies make toasts. And Polly says simply: “I love you. I miss you. May you know eternal peace. Namaste”
She folds her hands by her heart and bows her head.
Fiona gives the funeral director a nod and Ned’s body is slowly lowered into the water. It sinks in an instant and is gone.
Aunt Trula has had her florist prepare a wreath—leatherleaf fern, red and white roses. She hands it to Fiona, gives her a hug. Fiona reaches over the gunwale and rests the wreath on the water. It bobs over waves, drifting slowly away.
Teddy cranks the engine on Miss Peg and we head back to shore.
I sit on a bench near the transom, between Fiona and Barbara. Everyone is quiet, the drone of the engine filling the void better than conversation.
Then, as we pull around Daniel’s Head and make a line for Mangrove Bay, Fiona leans to me and says: “I’ve decided to wait until everyone else is gone.”
“To talk to Teddy you mean?”
She nods.
I say, “So how do you plan on broaching the subject?”
“Head on,” she says. “I’m just going to ask him why he never mentioned that he had met with my brother.”
“It does seem curious.”
“Damn curious,” Fiona says. “He’s hiding something.”
“Be interesting to hear what he has to say.”
But it never comes to that.
As we near Teddy’s house, I spot three figures on the dock—Chief Inspector Worley and two patrolmen.
Bill Belleville sees them, too. He edges back to the transom alongside me.
“Is that the cops, man?”
“Appears to be,” I say.
Worley and the patrolmen hop aboard Miss Peg before we even have a chance to tie off. The patrolmen head straight for Teddy. One of them takes him by the arm.
“We need you to come with us, Sir Teddy,” Worley says.
“Whatever for?” Teddy says. “What is this all about?”
“Please, just come with us.”
Teddy jerks away from the patrolman.
“I demand an explanation.” He looks toward the boathouse. Other policemen step in and out of it. “They have no right to go in there. This is an outrage.”
“We have a warrant, signed by the magistrate.”
“What for?”
Worley doesn’t reply. He gives the patrolmen a nod. And they usher Teddy off the boat.
58
Tw
o hours later, we are sitting in the parlor at Cutfoot Estate, listening to Daniel Denton speak with one of his associates on the phone. The associate is doing most of the talking. Denton hangs up, his face grim.
“Officially, he is being held as a person of interest. No charges have been filed,” says Denton. “But they appear to be imminent.”
“Charges?” says Aunt Trula. “Charges for what?”
Denton looks at Fiona. She sits ramrod straight in a ladderback chair, hands folded in her lap, jaw set.
“For the murder of Miss McHugh’s brother,” Denton says.
Aunt Trula’s face registers the shock. She tries to speak, no words emerge.
Fiona takes the news impassively, as if it came as no great surprise.
“The police have seventy-two hours in which to formalize the charges,” Denton says. “Until then Sir Teddy can be detained without bail.”
Aunt Trula shakes her head in disbelief.
“There must be some mistake,” she says. “This can’t be happening.”
She slumps back in the sofa, plainly stricken by what we’ve all just heard. She closes her eyes, puts her face in her hands. Barbara drapes an arm around her, pulls her close.
I look at Denton.
“Has your associate spoken with Teddy?”
“No, apparently the police are still questioning him.”
“Doesn’t he have the right to an attorney?”
“Yes, but apparently Sir Teddy waived that right. He agreed to the questioning before my associate arrived and is cooperating with the police.”
“Well, of course he is cooperating,” says Aunt Trula. “Because he has nothing to hide!”
I don’t say anything. Neither does anyone else.
Aunt Trula shoots a look at Fiona.
“Surely you don’t believe this, do you? Teddy did not murder your brother. That dear, dear man is not capable of such a thing.”
Fiona takes a breath, measures her words.
“I can imagine how difficult this must be for you, Mrs. Ambister,” she says, getting up from her chair. “But, right now, I’m afraid you must excuse me. I have some calls to make back home.”
