“I’ve waited for what seems like forever to get out of Plymouth and start a new life. What’s in it for us to fall for one another? A few weeks of summer fun and then a sad September goodbye? I want my new life to start with a clean slate with nothing holding me back. That makes me afraid of you. You’ll break my heart and I’ll pine for you when you do. I can’t do that to myself. I have simply been through too much. My life is not here. It is down a new road and not with a boy who is just passing through.”
I looked at her intently and thought how my parents got married two days after they met. A few days ago I had never heard of Veronica Chapman. Tonight I simply wanted to hold her hand and know her better, and she was closing the door on feelings that would linger long after she had gone. Give it a breath, give it a chance, I thought. Don’t say goodbye to something before you’ve finished saying hello.
I ceased my inner monologue and spoke quietly to her. “You know, Veronica, when I was in school some of my friends and I would get together at the start of each semester to look at the incoming directory of freshman girls. We called it the ‘pig book’ because it had pictures of the frosh girls and their hometowns and such, and we would discuss who was a ‘pig’ and who was worth calling. Then we’d set out to get dates with anyone who well . . . measured up. We all thought it was pretty funny and clever on our part.
“But now after some of the life lessons you’ve unexpectedly and regrettably taught me, I realize that the pig in that whole equation was me. I’ve grown up as such a narcissist, and why? What have I done to merit that sort of self-indulgence? I said to my dad the other night that I want to learn to do the right thing in my life, but here I am a few days into being a grown-up and I feel like I’m on the verge of becoming an asshole and chasing you when you clearly don’t want to be caught.”
“I like that you called your dad for advice,” she said quietly. “Being caught by you would be a blessing for any girl.”
“Just two nights ago you told me that our lives were there for the taking and anything else would be a disappointment. Aren’t you guilty of just that?”
“I’m guilty of a great deal more,” she said sadly.
The night felt very still. I needed to take a deep breath, but there seemed to be no air in which to do so. “You know, it’s not about doing something, it’s about doing the right something. I want to read Lizzy Barrows’s letter to you.”
I retrieved Lizzy’s missive from my back pocket. From inside the bar we could hear Linda Ronstadt on the jukebox singing “When Will I Be Loved?” The breeze rustled the trees gently, and laughter from the bar found its way outside. The neon bar light blinked on and off, lighting Veronica’s face intermittently in blue.
I opened the expensive, scented envelope. It smelled like Lizzy Barrows’s silk robe, but I thought it best not to mention that. Inside was letterhead that read THE BARROWS FOUNDATION, DEDICATED TO THE ARTS AND HUMANITIES OF PLYMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS, ESTABLISHED 1947. Neatly typed below that was the following:
Dear Mr. August:
The Barrows Foundation regrets to inform you that we have ordered a stop on the check issued to you on Saturday, May 14, 1976, in the amount of $50,000.
This action in no way should be construed as unwillingness on the Foundation’s part to participate in your renting and operating the Priscilla Beach Theatre this summer. It is simply that the Board of Trustees has some additional concerns as to your funding, experience, and references. If you would be kind enough to attend a meeting with the trustees at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow, May 15, at my home, it is my sincere hope that we may resolve these issues.
Please call to confirm your attendance.
Thank you.
Mrs. Anderson Barrows, President, The Barrows Foundation
Attached to the letter was a small note card with the initials EJB embossed on top. In the cursive hand of the doctor’s wife it read: “Sam, don’t fret about this. It will all work out. Come tomorrow and we will fix things. Then we can truly go and celebrate together. XOXOXO, Lizzy.”
“This is fucked up,” I said. I returned the letter to its envelope and placed it in my jeans pocket. I gave the handwritten note to Veronica and asked her to keep it in a safe place, just in case.
“In case of what?” she asked.
“Just in case we need to find that fragrance. Bitch in Heat.”
“I wish I could let you kiss me,” she lamented.
“Well, there’s something we agree upon.”
She took my hand and said, “Let’s go meet our friends.” I followed her into the Moondog.
18
The place was a cloud of smoke. The lighting was terrific if you had leprosy, a harelip, or your picture on the post office wall. There were no windows, so you could smell the sweat, alcohol, and heavy perfume. The bar had originally worn a Formica top with trimmed oxide chrome. There was a chalkboard menu on the wall listing the day’s specials and a jukebox opposite the bar where Jagger was singing about his lack of satisfaction. The kitchen was tucked away on the left, the size of a small elevator cab. The cook was black and large and looked like he could probably double as the bouncer. There was a pool table on the right, which cost only a quarter to play.
Quarters were lined up tableside indicating there were dibs on the next game.
One came to the Moondog for the diversity. There was a group of young women who could have been friends of Kellie or Maggie, and a bunch of muscular yet overweight fellas in their midforties. Several older women sat by the bar using their looks to persuade several buff guys into plying them with drinks. Someone was getting laid before morning.
We pulled two tables together and waited for a round of drinks that Tommy said were his treat. Jagger had stopped screeching and Sinatra was singing “Witchcraft.” No one danced, but there was some toe tapping and some fingers snapped. I figured we could all have this last drink and then call it a night. If I were a betting man I would have bet that no one would be sleeping alone when it was time for lights-out, except me and Veronica.
The door opened and a man, late twenties, tall and fit, walked in. On his arm was a striking woman with dark hair, a short skirt, and fuck-me pumps. She draped him like a mink stole, for she was indeed expensive and the real deal. They had clearly been drinking. It took all of a nanosecond to realize the woman was Lizzy Barrows.
Our table went silent. I knew her, as did Tommy, Kellie and Maggie knew of her and James and Secunda caught on quickly. Veronica not only knew who she was but was well acquainted with her history and effect on this small town. Tommy leaned in and said, “Veronica, leave it alone. No need to start something.” Secunda whispered that I might just want to say hello to Lizzie, “You know, for professional reasons.”
I put my arm around Veronica. “What do you want to do?”
Lizzy and her date had caught sight of our group and were simply staring us all down, their eyes filled with unexplained contempt. John Sebastian sang “Daydream” on the juke. The irony was as heavy as the smoke that filled the room.
A few seconds passed yet it seemed like a very long time. I didn’t breathe.Veronica’s rage flashed across her face.
Mrs. Barrows’s date shouted, “Veronica Chapman! Hey, how’s your brother Eddie. Is he getting any sun these days? What’s he up to? Oh, that’s right, he’s studying license-plate making at the community college.” Then he laughed. John Sebastian had finished his song and no new tune had started up. The place began to get quiet.
Tommy stood up and said, “Gary, pipe down. This ain’t happening tonight.”
“Just being friendly, that’s all!” Gary responded. His words were a bit slurred.
“Focus on your date, buddy, and leave us be.”
“You saying that as a cop, or are you looking to stop me from asking a personal question of Veronica Chapman?”
“Shut up, Gary, or I’ll lay you out because you deserve it for being an asshole, and then I
’ll cuff you because I can.”
Lizzy Barrows pushed Gary away a few steps and turned him toward the bar. Tommy sat back down and the crowd began to collectively breathe again. But then she skewered me with her eyes and shouted, “So, Sam August, come down from Boston to pick up some local girls. Slumming are you? You seem to be good at it!” Then she turned back to the bar as if I wasn’t in the room.
Veronica stood up slowly. Secunda and I did as well. She walked over to Lizzy Barrows with a shot of Jack Daniels in her hand and stood directly behind her, so close that Barrows must have felt Veronica breathing on the back of her neck. After an eternity, Lizzy turned around. When she did, Veronica slapped her hard across her cheek. Then she threw the whiskey in her face and started back to our table.
Gary reached out harshly to grab Veronica and I stepped in his way. He hit me with a right hand that just missed my eye and glanced off my ear.
“Son of a bitch,” I exclaimed in pain.
Secunda stepped in the guy’s face and shouted, “Enough!” Gary tried to hit Secunda with a right. Secunda easily ducked the punch and responded with two quick left jabs that landed perfectly, as did the right cross that followed. Gary crumpled to the floor as if shot.
Secunda picked up Gary’s drink, downed it, and calmly said, “Good night, Mrs. Barrows. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
He threw a C-note on the bar. “Thanks for the cocktails.” Then he turned to all of us and said, “Let’s go, guys.”
19
We all found our way outside quickly. The neon bar sign blinked blue and washed us in an eerie, distorted light. We lingered outside, looking for comfort from one another. No one spoke for a while; I think we were all trying to take in everything that had just happened.
Then JB started to laugh quietly and within an instant we all started cackling. “Well, that certainly killed the buzz,” she said, gasping for air. She went on to make fun of my feeble efforts to protect my companion while Veronica defended my lame gallantry.
Fatigue quickly settled in after a long night and Secunda suggested that he would put everyone up at the motel. Tommy said he had a shift in the morning but would “tuck JB in” before he headed home. Maggie and Kellie had their hands intertwined with their dates, and Veronica held me tightly around the waist as though she was never going to see me again. Wow, I thought, what a night. If they continue like this, I’ll be old before I finish my youth.
We piled into another fleet of waiting Garden cabs and headed back home to the motel. Veronica did spend the night with me. We said little and washed up. She put on a T-shirt of mine and I wore boxers to bed. I didn’t sleep, but rather stared at the ceiling wondering what damage had been done to the young woman lying next to me and why it caused her to shut her heart on something with the potential for good. Wasn’t fleeting joy better than none at all? As the sun rose I had yet to find an answer.
I stirred early. Veronica was in deep sleep. I grabbed the phone and sat on the deck just outside my room. I took out a list of questions I had compiled since my first meeting with Barrows on Saturday. Then I called the front desk and asked to be connected to a number in Manhattan.
Harold Feldman, Secunda’s father, was in his office every morning by 6 a.m. making gobs of money as one of New York’s most powerful litigators. His easy demeanor belied his reputation in court, where he was feared and respected; he seldom lost a case. He liked me and had given me an open invitation to free legal counsel.
Harold picked up his direct line almost before it rang and sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. I immediately brought him up to speed, including the fight, the stopped $50,000 check, the charges against Eddie Chapman, and more. I mentioned Lizzy Barrows’s aborted naked seduction, but left it G-rated. In response he offered quiet, measured, quality advice. He pointed out that I should put aside anything that distracted me from my goals until I accomplished my agenda. He also told me that I should avoid getting involved with the underbelly of a small town. I was to spend the summer there, nothing more.
He outlined all possible scenarios for the p.m. appointment Mrs. Barrows had suggested. He stressed that I needed to separate the leasing of the property from the foundation’s funding of the venture. Last, he offered to send an affiliate from his satellite office in Boston to attend the meeting. I took notes, thanked him, and hung up. I decided I’d let Secunda sleep in for as long as it took me to shower, at which point I was going to need him to join the fray.
Davey Molson was a third-year associate at Harold Feldman’s Boston firm but looked like a poster boy for the FBI: tall and lean, wearing a power suit with a crisp white shirt and red silk tie. Clear skin, bright hazel eyes, and a clipped, confident cadence to his speech. He had a Clark Kent chin and the posture of a marine at attention.
Davey had attended Amherst where he was small-college All-American tailback, then gone on to Harvard Law School. From his demeanor, I got the impression that he intended to become the governor of Massachusetts by the end of the month and president of the United States shortly thereafter. However, on this Wednesday afternoon in May he was sharing a pizza with Secunda and me at the Kingston Sub Pizzeria, eight miles north of Plymouth on the east side of Route A.
Harold had briefed Davey that morning on everything. His plan was both specific and precise. We rehearsed it as if it were a scene from a courtroom drama. We ran it several times with Molson coaching us on probable questions. He drilled us continuously about projecting the proper attitude and respect and assured us we had the necessary documentation and credentials to force an arrangement for leasing the theater from the foundation. All the drama and intrigue of the past few days was of no import to our needs.
“Leave it alone,” he urged. Then we ran it all again from the beginning.
20
The Barrows’s driveway was littered with a Cadillac, a Lincoln Continental, and a new Mercedes sedan that suggested the importance and affluence of the Barrows trustees who waited for us inside. We arrived in Molson’s red GTO convertible and Josh’s Alpha. The Barrows Foundation may have had age and money on its side, but we had a cool muscle car and an Italian babe-mobile. Secunda wore a jet-black poplin suit and contrasting midnight-blue linen shirt buttoned to the neck. Along with these he had on black lizard cowboy boots and a scowl. I had sprung for a new, white button-down, which I wore with my jeans and a navy Paul Stuart sport coat that my dad bought me the weekend I left for college. I felt we exuded confidence as we rang the bell on the large, ornate door.
Inside, Dr. Barrows was wearing what I came to learn was his signature outfit: blue blazer, crisp white shirt, red ascot, and Gucci loafers. He offered his hand and ushered us into the living room. Lizzy sat on the sofa wearing a pale-blue business suit and white starched blouse. She stood up and greeted us as if last night had never happened. Her hair was pulled back in a French ponytail, and even though she wore flats her legs still rocked. We were introduced to the trustees. Mr. Vander and Mr. Jordon were cut from the same cloth. One had a thin mustache and the other . . . well I don’t really remember. They were mid-to-late sixties and looked like their underwear was too tight. I felt the need to check my digits after we shook hands.
The third trustee was more interesting. Miss Susan Golden was a striking woman in her early forties. She wore black bolero pants and a gold linen blouse that screamed money. The outfit was designed to show her considerable assets without being overt, and it all worked beautifully. She wore her glossy auburn hair to her shoulders, her makeup was precise, and in her right hand she carried a tumbler of bourbon on ice. She was all attentive, alert, and flirtatious but somehow managed to come off as nonchalant at the same time. Her interest seemed to be in the sport of things and the presence of three handsome young men. Miss Golden would certainly vote for Mr. Molson when he ran for president.
We all stood in silence. The antique grandfather clock moved time forward slowly, each tick seemingly louder than the last
. Lizzy was clearly practiced at the art of role-playing. Last night she was a drunken bar slut, this afternoon the elegant young bride of the town’s most important citizen.
The clocked ticked yet again. It was precisely 5 p.m. Barrows invited us all to sit. Then he began. “Mr. August, thank you for coming this evening, and thank you for bringing your associates to clear up the misunderstanding that seems to have developed.”
“What misunderstanding is that, doctor?” I asked.
He hesitated, then smiled at his wife. “It seems that although both Mrs. Barrows and I were most impressed with you when we met on Friday, it was quite clear that no formal arrangements were made and no term for the lease of the theater was consummated. Our enthusiasm for you and your budding organization remains high, but we do have certain responsibilities to appropriate due diligence.”
My gaze had moved from the doctor to his young wife, who licked her glossed lips slowly with the verve of a predator.
The doctor continued. “Even if we can come to an agreement this evening as to a lease arrangement, there are issues as to your ability to provide the necessary fiscal requirements in order to conclude the transaction.”
“Dr. Barrows, sir, I meet all requirements to lease your building. You and Mrs. Barrows, the president of the foundation, encouraged me to believe the same—so much, in fact, that she signed the lease and issued me a check for fifty thousand dollars. She then stopped that check for no apparent reason, which is clearly a gesture of bad faith. As to my assuming the lease was acceptable, I took my lead from you and Mrs. Barrows. As you must know, I received a call from Mrs. Barrows following our initial meeting inviting me to join her that evening to discuss the theater. I paused for effect just like Davey had instructed. “Mrs. Barrows was extremely enthusiastic.” I let that hang in the air and then continued. “In fact, I think the word ‘enthusiastic’ could not be more appropriate.”
Little Did I Know Page 9
