by Chris Knopf
"I did?" said Anika, swooshing into the foyer, and pulling us off the front stoop where Axel had us trapped. In the better light I got a good look at Axel, who was a younger, flimsier version of his father, with narrow shoulders, features squeezed into the center of his face and pale plastic-rimmed glasses slumped part way down his nose. His skin was peppered with blemishes and his light brown hair needed to be combed. As if noticing me noticing, Anika reached up and did her best to rake in a part and clear the straggly locks off his forehead. He took it with pained forbearance.
Anika's wine-colored silk dress had been applied with a paint brush. Her figure was a type of near zoftig that rarely held up past a woman's forties, but at this stage, was close to a modernist platonic ideal. My tastes had always run toward the soft-edged ectomorphic, as exemplified by
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Amanda Anselma, though I could imagine how others might see the appeal.
Anika herded us into the main dining room at the back of the hotel where they'd set a single large table. A sideboard was covered in trays filled with chicken skewers, broccoli and shrimp. I snatched a small plateful and headed to a small service bar. A little table-tent sign told me to serve myself, something I was highly equipped to do. Halfway through pouring a vodka on the rocks, Christian Fey approached the bar and ordered a bottle of Spaten beer.
"Pretty tricky," I said. "Get the guests to handle the bar."
"I apologize for my daughter's presumptuousness," he said, pouring the beer into a heavy glass mug. "But please feel at home. We are, after all, a welcoming small hotel, season or no season," he added, with a sincerity that might not stand up to a gentle breeze.
"Are your friends coming?" I asked.
He paused before answering.
"You must mean Derrick and his entourage," said Fey. "He's my ex-business partner, though we've had our friendly moments."
Amanda joined us and I poured her a glass of pinot noir after Fey had a chance to make her feel at home as well. Like his son, he bowed, though with less depth and shorter duration. He also complimented her outfit, which was probably the most diplomatic thing he'd do all night.
I made it out from behind the bar right before Derrick and company arrived on the scene, saving me from another round of bartending. He was still in his suede sport coat, but his companions had freshened their looks, with the big meatball now in a white polyester jacket over a flowered shirt and tan slacks, and the blond in a turquoise dress that lent an opportunity to examine key features of her anatomy. I was tempted to ask where they'd parked the cruise ship, but Fey was talking, trying to explain what we were doing there.
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"Sam Acquillo," I said, offering my hand. "And this is Amanda Anselma. What Mr. Fey is trying to say is we washed up on shore in a damaged boat and he's been a prince about letting us stay until it's repaired."
"Looks that way," said Derrick, now behind the bar assembling a pair of martinis for himself and the woman, and snapping open a Budweiser for the guy. In the course of this I learned her name was Del Rey, after the big marina in Los Angeles where her parents proudly owned a condo, and the big guy was Bernard 't Hooft, who like Fey, spoke with a European accent, I surmised Dutch. Del Rey helped me get the spelling right.
"Imagine if the first letter of your name was an apostrophe," she said, giving 't Hooft a friendly swat on the arm.
Derrick ignored the interplay and focused on asking about the Carpe Mañana—where it was built, the trip down from Maine, the nature of the failure. As I spoke he seemed to deliberate over the answers, as if comparing them against a list of unexpressed criteria. Despite the creases in his face, I guessed his age to be late forties at most. His hair looked a natural light brown, and his eyes were pale blue, pale enough that pupils and whites nearly merged into one.
"So who owns the boat?" he asked. "Custom jobs are big bucks."
Burton liked to protect his privacy, so my first impulse was to keep that information confidential. But then I thought of how we'd imposed on the good graces of the Feys, who were outside the conversational circle, but close enough to overhear. It seemed somehow impolite to be that secretive, so for their sake, I gave it up.
"Burton Lewis," I said. "A friend of mine in Southampton."
"Burton Lewis as in Lewis and Straithorn? The law firm?" asked Derrick.
I nodded. He nodded back.
"Good friend to have," he said.
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Del Rey waited to be filled in, but he ignored her.
"I never had time for gentlemanly sports," he said.
"Too busy conquering the world," said Anika.
Derrick toasted her with his martini glass. Christian took Anika's elbow and used the long sweep of his other arm to herd the group toward the table.
In both the unconscious and overt maneuvering for seats I ended up between Anika and 't Hooft, with Amanda across from me flanked by the younger and elder Feys. Derrick and Del Rey anchored the opposite ends. Nobody seemed entirely happy with their seating, but the dice were cast. I tried to cushion the disappointment by offering to schlep another round of drink orders. As always, a good idea.
"So what do you do when you're not delivering boats?" Derrick asked me, speaking across Anika.
"Installing crown molding, baseboard and window trim," said Amanda. "He can also handle tricky shopwork, like mantelpieces and built-ins. Very proficient. And affordable, especially for me, since I've yet to pay him a dime."
"Sounds like tit for tat," said Del Rey.
"We could use you around here," said the elder Fey to me. "Sometimes I think surface tension is the only thing holding this place together."
"Rethinking the investment?" asked Derrick, a little too quickly.
"Not for a moment," said Fey.
Del Rey polished off half of her second martini before all the drinks had cleared the tray. She was about to finish the job when 't Hooft slid his meaty fingers through the stem of the glass and anchored it to the table. Del Rey shot him a glance of equal parts fear and reproach, but kept her hands in her lap.
Meanwhile, Amanda was holding her own inside the brace of Feys. Axel was in and out of his seat as he checked on various servings, carried out to us by his sister. This
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benefitted Amanda, who otherwise had to endure a continuous violation of her personal space. When he crowded into her, she was forced to lean into his father, who looked just as pained by the imposition.
As a distraction, she asked Derrick how long they'd be staying at the Swan. The meager burble of conversation at the table suddenly ceased.
"That depends," said Derrick, before the dead air became unbearable.
"Indeed," said Christian Fey, tilting back his head to chug the ample remains of his beer.
"I'm thinking of launching a reality show," said Anika. " 'So You Think You're Dysfunctional!' What do you say?" she asked me.
I said something about the dysfunctional management of the Yankees infield, and the room settled back into a tentative equilibrium. Another distraction was the food, which as advertised, was delicious. Axel studied each of our faces as we ate, and only picked at his own food, arranging the portions into geometric shapes, further sorted by color and composition.
I caught myself staring at his plate and returned to general awareness in time to notice the sensation of fingertips tracing the top of my thigh. I reached down and gripped Anika's wrist, returning her hand to her own lap. I shook my head in a way I hoped conveyed a message to her alone. Amanda didn't notice, thankfully, still engaged in a contest with Axel Fey for the airspace rights around her chair.
"You might not know there's an airfield here on Fishers," said Derrick. "I'd be happy to fly you to Long Island and arrange to have your boat towed to a larger marina. The one in Greenport, say."
I told him I appreciated the offer, but felt I owed it to Burton to bring his boat home on my own. And if I had to capitulate, I'd let Burton foot the
bill.
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"Your choice, of course," he said, holding his wineglass up to the light, on the lookout for impurities, I guessed.
Christian Fey overheard the talk about the airport, and leaned toward me so I could hear him over the other conversations.
"The man at the airport called and said they can't deliver your parts. He's down a man and it's too late in the season to hire another. We could, of course, drive you there."
I couldn't let him do that.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "We'll figure something out. You've done way too much already."
The evening staggered to completion about an hour after that. Amanda was the first to rise from the table, ostensibly to stretch her legs, but actually to escape the persistent attentions of the young Fey. I was next up for similar reasons.
As soon as I was on my feet, I felt a pull on the sleeve of the blue blazer. I looked down as 't Hooft took my hand and opened my fingers, then lodged a cold metal thing into my grasp. I said thank you, even though we'd exchanged not a single word all evening.
It wasn't until we were back on the boat, with the cabin lights ablaze, that I had a chance to look at the Dutchman's gift.
It was a fork taken from the Black Swan's silverware, crumpled into a ball.
chapter
5
T he next morning we mounted another expedition to the mainland. Amanda gave away the destination by tucking her laptop into her backpack.
"Broadband hunting?" I asked.
"Already found. Just follow me."
Happily for Eddie, the route was over untrod territory, redolent with fresh smells, each of which he lingered over with intense interest. So the journey across the island toward the southern coast was accomplished at a polite pace, which was fine. The humans in the party were in no particular hurry.
We filled the unhurried time by dishing on our dinner companions of the night before.
"I think Fey senior could be an okay guy," said Amanda. "At least he wants you to think so."
"I think that's praise too faint to damn."
"Better than his creepy kid."
"Autistic kid," I said. "Not the same thing."
"Oh, thanks. I get to be creeped out and politically incorrect."
"You're right. He's creepy. But he doesn't want to be, and has no way to know for himself that he is."
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"So now you know how insensitive I can be—Del Rey's boobs, what do you think? Fake or real?" she asked.
"Fake as a twenty-dollar Rolex. At least based on what I could see, which was nearly everything."
"Del Rey? By that naming standard I'd be Oak Point Anselma."
"I like it. Oaky to your friends."
"Derrick, on the other hand, no read. Seemed cocky and edgy at the same time. And condescending, though he didn't know I noticed, which is typical of condescenders. So he sells some freaking software. So the hell what."
"N-Spock revolutionized large-scale computation. I loved it. Saved me huge time and money. Very robust analytical application. Jillions of if/thens a minute. Way ahead of its time. Can't imagine what they can do now, given the speed of modern platforms."
"I keep forgetting you weren't always a dumb carpenter. Is that insensitive of me?" she asked.
"Why would it be?"
"So what's their story? Derrick and his entourage? Can you have an entourage with only two people?"
"Don't know, on either count," I said. "But it doesn't smell right."
"I'll be glad to be out of here," said Amanda. "I feel like we're in some third world country and on the verge of getting thrown into a squalid prison filled with rats and Peace Corps volunteers. Unless we pay some huge ransom. Or worse. 'Money eez not the only currency we accept from women such as you, Madame,' " she added, in a generic foreign accent. "Grrr."
"Stay cool. Burton's sending the letters of transit."
We were interrupted by a pair of West Highland terriers who raced around Eddie as they tried to decide whether to attack or cavort. Eddie settled the question by doing a doggy-down and running out the length of his very long
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tether as the Westies joined the game. Lots of chasing, wrestling and slobber ensued.
We waited it out.
Ten minutes after resuming the trek, we crested a hill and walked down to a ragged row of shops behind a white picket fence that looked handmade by a team of drunken colonial artisans. The last store in the row was on its way to dissolving back into the earth. It had a sign that said SALUBRIA, ANARCHIA, HEONIA. YOU DECIDE.
"Let me guess," I said.
"Keep an open mind."
The first trick was to step over the bulldog lying in the middle of the front door. We let Eddie break the ice, while holding the tether slackless for quick extraction. No need. The bulldog hardly acknowledged he was there. Eddie hopped over and we followed.
Inside was a wall of incense complemented by the smell of decaying carpets and scented candles. Abba was on the stereo and the lighting made the room feel like there was no outside, no brilliant autumn sun nor azure sky. The store's trade seemed to be a random display of ragged crafts, sandals made from recycled beach debris, esoteric books, voodoo dolls wearing three-piece suits, healthful fruit drinks with handmade labels and a desktop Apple MacIntosh computer on a desk against the wall. The sign above it said, THE WORLD AWAITS. TEN BUCKS AN HOUR.
"Cover your ears," said Amanda before ringing the ship's bell hanging in the middle of the room. My hearing was saved, but I felt the sound in the pit of my stomach. A few moments later a woman came out of a door behind the counter at the back of the store.
"Oh goody," she said. "Company."
"Customers," said Amanda.
The woman's age was hard to pin down, given her pure white hair, pulled back into a lavish ponytail, clear, pinky
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complexion and straight posture. She wore a heavy cotton shirt under a pair of overalls, and motorcycle boots.
"Even better," said the woman. "Buy anything you want. Even me. Hey, I know you," she said, pointing at Amanda.
"I was in before," said Amanda. "I used your computer and bought a set of salt and pepper shakers in little crocheted cozies."
The woman reached up with both hands and scratched Amanda's head.
"I remember you," she said. "The hair. Thought it was a wig."
Amanda, a private person, took the affront with grace. She gripped the woman's hands by the wrists and gently disentangled them from her hair.
"We'd like to buy some more computer time," said Amanda. "Cell service is still down and we need to connect with home."
"With reality, you mean," said the woman. "Won't find that here. Who's the hooligan?" she added, looking at me.
"Sam Acquillo," said Amanda. "Don't let him fool you. He's worse than he looks."
"I'm Gwyneth Jones. Welsh witch, part-time, so don't try any of your peccadilloes on me."
"Noted," I said.
"I take Visa and MasterCard. And cold cash, or trade, though I doubt you folks have a set of brake pads for a '69 Citroën Deux Chevaux."
"I can get them," I said. "And do the installation. I just need a garage bay and the tools. Metric. And a manual. Prefer it in the original French. Can't trust the translations from those days."
She looked at me for a moment, then waved us over to her computer.
"Go ahead and log on," she said. "We'll discuss little French lemons later. Coffee anyone? I have Nigerian and Chock full o'Nuts."
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I sat next to Amanda and watched her log on to her email. She sent a message to Burton's private mailbox asking when he thought the parts would arrive. Then I asked her to go to the NOAA marine forecast site, which featured, in brilliant red letters, a small craft warning beginning late the next day, Tuesday, and running through Thursday afternoon. She went deeper into the site and found speculation that we wer
e in for a full-out gale. Most big winds came out of the northwest or northeast that time of year, but this was a rare sou'wester.
The commentator included a link to a climate change site called itstoolatebaby.com. I clicked on it for the hell of it. They said we were in for a series of big storms, in rapid succession, and that the corporate executives responsible should be tried in the world court for crimes against humanity. I thought I probably wouldn't go that far, though I might make exceptions for a few, not for the same offenses.
