Gray Ghost

by William G. Tapply

  “These are nice flies, Stoney. You do good work. What’s this one here called ?”

  “That’s a Warden’s Worry. Classic old Maine streamer fly. That one there’s a Gray Ghost, and we got a few Black Ghosts and Green Ghosts, too. Right there, and there.” Calhoun pointed at the various flies.

  The sheriff was peering at them, apparently fascinated.

  “So you gonna tell me what’s been going on,” said Calhoun, “tied up in meetings till six o—clock?”

  The sheriff looked up. “They’re holding Franklin Dunbar.”

  “Case closed, huh? You don’t seem exactly triumphant.”

  “It doesn’t feel good to me,” said the sheriff. “We got no witnesses or physical evidence, just for starters. Gilsum figures the motive is enough at this point, that plus Dunbar having no alibi. He’s confident they’ll come up with something.”

  “How about you?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “I guess I wouldn’t be surprised if Dunbar did it. If I were him, I probably would. Still, I’m uncomfortable with it. Uncomfortable with Gilsum, really. He’s too damn hot to make his arrest, close his case. You should’ve seen him grill poor Dunbar.”

  “He didn’t confess, did he?”

  “No such luck,” said the sheriff.

  “What about the Vecchio murder?” said Calhoun.

  “I guess Dunbar could’ve done that, though it’s harder to make sense of. He’s got no alibi for that night. Claims he was on the road, says he has no idea who Paul Vecchio is. Gilsum’s going to check Dunbar’s phone and e-mail records, try to catch him in another lie.” The sheriff shook his head, then took a long swig of Coke. “You got that piece of paper you were telling me about?”

  Calhoun took it out of his pocket and unfolded it on the table.

  “You said Vecchio had it in his gear bag?”

  Calhoun nodded. “When we were on the water, he took the bag out of the compartment under the seat and pretended to be digging around for some sunscreen. I was looking for fish, trying to watch where I was going, not paying much attention to Mr. Vecchio, but I can see it in my head, him with his bag on his lap, his back to me, bent over looking at something.”

  “Looking at this piece of paper, you think?”

  “What I see in my memory, it’s not clear. Like I said, his back is to me, but he’s looking at something, and it could be this piece of paper. After a minute, he puts it back, finds his sunscreen, makes a big show of lathering himself up with it.”

  “Hm,” said the sheriff. “Interesting.” He squinted at the printed words, Keelhaul Albie 9/6 9:00. Then he turned the paper over and looked at the design with the inverted U and all the misshapen circles, some of them with X’s crossed through them. He looked up at Calhoun and jabbed his forefinger at the paper. “This make any kind of sense to you, Stoney?”

  Calhoun shook his head. “Just a bunch of shapes.”

  The sheriff turned the paper over again and pointed at the words and numbers that were printed there. “So what do you make of this?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it. Haven’t come up with much of anything worth sharing. I don’t think they keelhaul sailors anymore, do they ?”

  The sheriff smiled. “September sixth was a Saturday, right? Exactly a week after the ME said Watson died ?”

  Calhoun nodded. “Right.”

  “I have one thought,” the sheriff said. “It occurred to me this morning after we talked on the phone, when you read this to me. There’s a place called the Keelhaul Cafe down an alley off of Wharf Street in the Old Port part of town. Know it?”

  “Never heard of it,” said Calhoun. “I guess if I did, I might’ve made that connection myself.”

  “I’m sure you would have,” said the sheriff. “You don’t forget anything. The Keelhaul’s what you might call a downscale kind of

  place. I made a drug bust there last winter, I think it was. Mostly fishermen, lobstermen, sailors, the odd freelance hooker hang out there.”

  “Maybe some guy named Albie hangs out there, too,” said Calhoun.

  The sheriff drained his Coke, crushed the can in his hand, tossed it into the wastebasket, and stood up. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said. “Why don’t we go see?”

  At that, Ralph, who’d been lying under Calhoun’s feet, yawned and got up and trotted over to the door.

  “Does that dog understand everything?” said the sheriff.

  “Only if it’s in English,” said Calhoun.

  It was nearly dark when the sheriff pulled his Explorer into the shadowy alley off Wharf Street. The entry to the Keelhaul Cafe was on the left. Some trash cans were lined up along the blank wall on the right. Aside from the double-sized oak door with the faded wooden sign and the dim light hanging over it, both walls were tall and flat and blank.

  Calhoun and the sheriff climbed out of the truck. Ralph remained curled up on the backseat.

  When they went inside, Calhoun was hit by the sour smell of decades of spilled booze and out-of-service toilets and stubbed-out cigarettes. Some female country singer was crooning about a snake, by which Calhoun surmised she meant a man.

  The bar ran across the back wall of the low-ceilinged rectangular room. On the left side were half a dozen square wooden tables. A big-screen wall-mounted television set, muted, was showing a baseball game.

  The right side of the room was dominated by a pool table. A young guy with a ponytail was shooting a game with a blond girl in tight, low-slung blue jeans and a cropped tank top. Four or five middle-aged men at the bar were craning their necks around, watching the pool game. Watching the girl, Calhoun supposed. The way she bent over the table, stuck her butt up in the air, wiggled it around as she lined up a shot, showed all that skin between the top of her jeans and the bottom of her shirt, she knew she was putting on a show for them, and the way the guy in the ponytail was grinning and glancing toward the men at the bar, he was enjoying the attention she was attracting from them.

  The sheriff slid onto a bar stool. Calhoun climbed onto the one beside him. The bartender was down at the other end talking to the four other guys.

  Calhoun looked around. Fishing nets draped on the walls, lobster buoys hanging from the rafters, weathered wood-plank walls and floor. There were six fake portholes in a line behind the bar. The heavy round frames looked authentic enough, but behind the glass, it was just blue paint on the splintery wall.

  After a few minutes, the bartender was still down there talking to the other guys, and Calhoun decided they were being ignored. He slid off his stool, went down to the other end of the bar, wedged himself between two guys on stools, and stood directly in front of the bartender. “Hey,” he said.

  The bartender glanced at him, then turned and said something to one of the men he’d been talking to.

  “You,” said Calhoun. “Mr. Bartender. You planning on waiting on us? Me and my friend need a drink.”

  The bartender glanced toward the sheriff, then looked at Calhoun. He had bulky arms, a deeply creased face, curly gray hair. “You’re keepin’ bad company there, if that man’s your friend.”

  “You know who he is?”

  The bartender smiled.

  Calhoun leaned across the bar and crooked his finger at the bartender. “Come here,” he said. “I want to tell you something.”

  The bartender shrugged and bent toward Calhoun.

  Calhoun wrapped his hand around the back of the man’s neck, squeezed it hard, and hauled him off his feet.

  “Hey, shit,” gurgled the bartender. “What the hell you doing?”

  Calhoun pushed his face right up to the bartender’s. “That bad company down there,” he said, “that’s your county sheriff, the man who keeps you and your family safe and secure, and if you don’t get your ass down there and ask him politely what you can bring him to drink, you’re going to find one of them pool cues shoved all the way up your ass. Okay?”

  The guy nodded. “I know who he is,” he said. “I was just bustin’
his balls a little. I’ll be right with you, okay?”

  Calhoun let go of his neck. “Thank you.”

  He gave the bartender’s cheek a pat, then went back and sat beside the sheriff, who had a bemused smile on his face. “Was that necessary, Stoney?”

  “I don’t know. I have a high tolerance for a lot of behavior, but purposeful rudeness just gets to me.”

  A minute later the bartender came down and swiped his rag over the bar in front of Calhoun and the sheriff. “Sheriff,” he said. “How you doin’ ?”

  “Not too bad, Leon,” said the sheriff. “How ‘bout you? You behaving?”

  Leon shrugged. “Tryin’. What can I get you?”

  “Draft beer for me.”

  “Coffee,” said Calhoun. “Black.”

  Leon went off to fetch their drinks.

  The sheriff leaned to Calhoun. “I hassled some of Leon’s customers about selling drugs here in this establishment last winter,” he said. “He took it personally.”

  Leon came back with a mug of coffee and a glass of beer. He set them in front of Calhoun and the sheriff. “So what’s up?” he said to the sheriff. “I don’t figure you came here for the ambience.”

  “Ambience,” said the sheriff.

  Leon smiled.

  “You know somebody named Albie?”

  “Old fisherman? Lives on his boat down near the mouth of the Stroudwater?”

  The sheriff shrugged. “Sounds right. What’s his last name?”

  “Wazlewski? That ain’t quite right, but something like that. Po-lack name, begins with a W, ends with-—ski.’ That who you mean?”

  “Was he in here at nine o—clock on the sixth?”

  Leon frowned. “The sixth …”

  “Week ago Saturday night. Were you here?”

  “I’m always here,” said Leon. He looked up at the ceiling for a minute, then nodded. “Yeah, Albie was here that night.”

  “You remember that specifically ?”

  “Matter of fact, I do,” said Leon. “What about it?”

  “Tell me what you remember,” said the sheriff.

  “Saturday,” said Leon. “Always busy. Albie liked that corner table”—he pointed toward one of the tables’“where he could watch the TV, eat some soup, chew on some bread, sip on a beer. When we were busy I’d make him sit at the bar. Didn’t want to waste a whole table on one person, you know? The reason I remember about that particular night was, Albie was with somebody. I mean, some of the regulars might go sit with him, shoot the shit for a minute, but this was some guy I never seen before. Not the kind of gentleman normally comes into this dump, and not the kind of guy you’d expect to be conferring with Albie.”

  “What’d he look like,” said the sheriff, “this stranger?”

  “Tall, salt-and-pepper beard. Somewhere in his late forties, early fifties. Wearing a sport coat, creased pants, shined shoes, you know ?”

  “Ever see this man before that time?”

  Leon shook his head. “Nope.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yep. I’d’ve remembered him.”

  “You’ve got a good memory for this,” said the sheriff. “Any reason you’d remember this particular man so well?”

  “I remember everybody. We always got the same customers. Regulars. That’s the kind of place the Keelhaul is. Somebody new, you remember him.” Leon shrugged. “So this well-dressed guy you’d expect to see in some fancy restaurant with a classy blonde, he’s huddling with old Albie? You remember something like that. It didn’t fit, you know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” said the sheriff. “What were they huddling about, do you know ?”

  He shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you. I remember, though, they had a piece of paper on the table between them. Albie was poking at it, writing on it. I didn’t get a look at it.”

  “Writing with a pen or a pencil?” said Calhoun.

  Leon darted his eyes at Calhoun. “How would I know? I’m standing here, they’re sitting over there, you know?”

  “You catch the guy’s name?” said Calhoun.

  Leon shook his head.

  “Did you hear anything they were saying?” said the sheriff.

  Leon shook his head. “Joanie was waiting tables that night. Maybe she did.” He looked at Calhoun. “Maybe she caught a name, saw if he was using a pen or pencil.”

  “Joanie,” said the sheriff. “She coming in tonight?”

  “She’s only on Fridays and Saturdays.”

  “I’ll need her full name, address, phone number.”

  “It’s Joan McMurphy. You want to hang on, I’ll get that information for you.”

  “In a minute,” said the sheriff. “You said Albie comes in all the time. You expect him tonight?”

  “What I said was,” said Leon, “he used to come in all the time. I ain’t seen him in a while.” He paused. “Maybe not since that night, I’m not sure.”

  “That Saturday night. The sixth.”

  “Right,” said Leon.

  “The night you saw him huddling with the guy with the beard.”

  Leon frowned. “He might’ve come in the next night. It’s been a while, though.”

  “Try to remember the last time you saw him,” said the sheriff.

  He shrugged. “I can’t remember. A week? Not recently. Hey!” Leon yelled at the men at the other end of the bar. “When’d you see Albie last?”

  The guys mumbled among themselves for a minute. Then one of them said, “It was like a week ago. I wanna say Sunday?”

  One of the others nodded. “Yeah. I ain’t seen him for at least a week. I remember that Sunday. Albie was here.”

  Leon looked at the sheriff and shrugged. “So Sunday.”

  “What can you tell me about Albie?” said the sheriff.

  Leon shrugged. “Fisherman. Used to run blue-water charters. Stopped doing that, I don’t know, six or eight years ago. Not sure why. Couldn’t make a go of it, I guess. Plus, he’s always complaining about his arthritis, bad knees. Let his boat get run-down, couldn’t find anybody to work with him. Competitive business, sport fishing. Expensive. I suppose Albie just couldn’t keep up. Nice guy, though. He’s got a lot of stories, even if after a while you start hearing the same ones all over again.” “You said he lives on his boat?”

  Leon nodded. “He talks about it all the time. Had a bad money situation few years ago. Lived with his mother down in Stroudwa-ter. She was sick for quite a while. Big medical bills. When she finally died, Albie sold the house, used all the money to pay off her bills, managed to hang on to his boat. That’s all he ended up with. That boat. That was his choice. Keep the boat, sell his mother’s house. He says it was a no-brainer. Keeps her moored in the Fore River up near where the Stroudwater comes in. Takes her down to South Carolina for the winter. He’ll probably be leaving pretty soon. Likes to wait for the end of hurricane season.” Leon frowned. “What’s its name? Can’t think of the name of the damn boat.” He waved at the men at the end of the bar. “Any o’ you guys remember what old Albie calls his boat?”

  One of the men said, “What is this, a quiz?” Another guy raised his hand and said, “I know, I know.” “Jesus Christ,” muttered Leon. “So what is it?” “Friendly Fire” the guy said. “Painted across the transom. She’s a dumpy old tub, white with black and red trim.”

  “Friendly Fire” said Calhoun. “Odd name for a boat.” “Well, sure,” said Leon. “Albie’s an odd guy. He was in Vietnam. Doesn’t talk about it much, but you can tell it haunts him. I s—pose that’s where he got the name for his boat.”

  One of the other guys said, “Nah, that ain’t it. Albie told me he named her after his mother. I guess she was always giving him a hard time.”

  Calhoun turned to the sheriff. “I got an idea where she’s moored. Maybe we ought to go talk to Albie.”

  “I guess we better.” The sheriff looked at Leon. “So how will I know it’s Albie when I see him?”

  Leon gazed up at the ceiling
for a minute. “Well, he’s a small man. Not very tall, and kinda scrawny. Tough little bird, though. You wouldn’t want to mess with him. Gray hair, what’s left of it. Wears glasses. Tattoos all over his arms from his time in Vietnam. He’s in his late fifties, I’d say. That help?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” The sheriff took out his wallet and laid a five-dollar bill on the bartop. “That cover it?” he said to Leon. “A Coke and a coffee ?”

  Leon pushed the bill back at him. “Drinks’re on the house. On account of me being discourteous to you. Least I can do.”

  “Keep it,” said the sheriff. “We can’t take freebies. You know that.”

  Leon left the bill on the bar.

  “Anything else you can tell us about Albie?” said the sheriff.

  “Maybe if you told me why you’re askin’ about him …”

  The sheriff just smiled.

  “Well,” said Leon, “there is one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Albie’s had a little money to throw around lately. Usually he’s broke, just a couple of crumpled-up dollar bills from selling some lobsters or a bushel of littlenecks or a few bluefish, and I charge him whatever he’s got, which means he ends up paying for his beer and gets a free bowl of soup and a dinner roll. Lately, though, he’s ordering fried chicken, a pork chop, like that, pays with nice crisp tens and twenties. I asked him, I said, Albie, you must’ve had a rich uncle die or something, leave you some money. Albie, he just gives me this look, like, I’ve got a secret, man.”

  “When did this start?” said the sheriff. “Albie with the money ?”

  “Oh, just the last little while. Not long. Few weeks, maybe. I don’t know exactly.”

  “Before that Saturday night we mentioned? The sixth?”

  “Oh, yeah, week or two before that. I guess if Albie came into some money, he’s probably found a classier joint than the Keelhaul to hang out in, which may be why I haven’t seen him lately. Look. Lemme get that information about Joanie for you.”