Deadout

by Jon McGoran

  He leaned his head close to mine and said something I couldn’t hear.

  I said, “Milk comes from cows.”

  He scrunched up his face like he couldn’t hear me.

  I gave him a wink. “I know. Crazy, right?”

  He shook his head and said, “What?”

  I was about to repeat it when the waitress came to lead us to our table, next to the rowdy college kids.

  Being a gentleman, I stood back to let Nola go first. Being a douchebag, Teddy went first. To be fair, though, he didn’t sit next to Nola but took the far seat, with his back to the rear of the dining room. Nola ended up between Moose and me, and I ended up between Nola and an empty chair.

  She turned to me and smiled, said something about how great the place was. I looked up to admire the impressive collection of nautical tchotchkes on the wall and nodded my agreement. When I looked back, she was talking to Moose and Teddy.

  As the waitress brought our beers and we ordered our pizzas, my eyes made another appreciative sweep of the décor. I noticed Annalisa, sitting alone in the front booth with her back to the door and a sweep of dark hair obscuring her face. Perhaps she felt my eyes, because she turned and met my gaze for a second. Then she looked away and her face disappeared once again behind that curtain of hair. I looked away, too, and found Nola looking up at me, waiting.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked. I shook my head and pointed to my ears. She cupped her mouth. “Do you see the guy in the hoodie over there?” I nodded. “I think that’s Johnny Blue.”

  “How do you know what he looks like?”

  Her cheeks colored slightly. “Well, I don’t, really,” she stammered. “I mean, I’ve seen pictures. And I watch TV sometimes. I’m home a lot, you know?”

  She patted my knee under the table, then took her hand away as she dove back into the conversation. But I kept staring at her. I would never have pegged her as the reality TV type.

  Our pizzas arrived on metal trays. After the first piece, Moose and Teddy switched seats so Moose could talk to Benjy. As Teddy took Moose’s place next to Nola, he gave me a look over her shoulder, almost like he was challenging me. Then he turned his attention to Nola, flashing a smile that dripped with charm. He tilted his head close and said something frightfully witty.

  He had green eyes. I wanted to hit him just for that.

  9

  I ate three slices of pizza and concentrated on my beer. Then I concentrated on another. I was contemplating a trip to the restroom just to escape the table, when a flash of dark hair caught my attention. Annalisa was getting up to leave.

  Moose said something to Benjy, who turned in his chair and called out to her. Moose shook his head and slid down in his seat while Benjy beckoned her over, insisting over her protests. Her shoulders slumped, and as she gathered her things, Benjy beckoned the waitress, pointed at Annalisa, and ordered another of whatever she had been drinking.

  She came over and stood next to Benjy, waving to each of us and looking around the table, maybe smiling when she got to me. I smiled tightly back at her, not in the best mood at the way dinner had turned out.

  Nola and Teddy looked up at her, then returned to their conversation. Benjy said something to Annalisa, and she bent over to speak to him. By the time she straightened back up, the waitress had returned with a half pint of stout. Annalisa rolled her eyes but took the glass, thanking Benjy but adding a good-natured scolding. Moose rolled his eyes in an entirely different way, but Benjy smiled and gestured toward the empty chair. The one next to me.

  She looked over at me and smiled, then shrugged.

  By the time she had made her way to my side of the table, everyone else had returned to their conversations. She slid into the chair next to me and put a stack of folders on the table, raising her glass in my direction.

  I raised mine back. “Dining alone?”

  She indicated the pile of folders on the table. “Working dinner.”

  “This a good place for that?”

  “It was a lot quieter two hours ago.” As she said it, the table next to us erupted in laughter and cheers.

  “I hate loud restaurants,” I said, because I had to say something.

  She leaned closer, smelling sweet and unfamiliar. “I don’t know,” she said, her breath on my ear. “They can be surprisingly intimate.” She blushed and laughed. Just as she did, the room went quiet. The guys at the next table were getting up to leave, their raucous laughter replaced by the sound of chairs scraping the wood floor and Annalisa’s laughter dying out.

  There was a slight hint of menace in the air, like that whole table’s collective drunk had suddenly turned belligerent. I watched them leave, wondering if there was going to be trouble. Then I noticed the bodyguards watching the same way I was, and the two guys in suits from the booth in the back, too.

  The hum of conversation was just returning when the bartender started flicking through the channels on the TV over the bar, and someone called out, “Hey, look! It’s Benjy!” The bartender flicked back and turned up the volume. Sure enough, there he was.

  “We don’t really have any idea what’s going on,” televised Benjy said, scratching the back of his head in a good imitation of bewilderment. “We’re just trying to figure it out.” The place erupted in cheers and laughter, drowning out whatever he said next.

  “There are plenty of guesses as to what’s going on,” said the reporter, “but nobody really knows for sure. With me now is Mr. Teddy Renfrew, with the Native Grown Coalition.”

  The camera cut to Teddy, looking like he was made for TV. “We know what’s causing these problems—pesticides, herbicides, genetically modified crops—those are the problems, not the solutions. The farmers on this island have been using natural farming techniques, native pollinators, and until now we’ve been spared these problems that have been plaguing the mainland. That means we’ll continue to rely on our native pollinators, and we will not bring in industrial-scale pollinators that will make our bees sick with whatever is making the other bees sick.” A few people in the bar hooted and clapped. A couple of hands reached out and patted Teddy on the back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Renfrew,” the reporter said. Then the camera cut to an extreme close-up of a tiny flower. “While everyone agrees the situation is serious, not everyone agrees on what to do about it. With us now is Johnny Blue, reality TV star and, if I understand correctly, now a farmer on Martha’s Vineyard?” The camera panned to Johnny Blue, dressed in the same clothes he was wearing now. Sitting at the table, he raised his fists and his bodyguards bumped him.

  “That’s right,” he said on TV. “I’m the proud proprietor of Johnny Blue’s Berry Farm.” He held up a silver and blue foil packet and mugged for the camera. “Home of Johnny Blue’s Berry Jamz.”

  “And what do you think of the bee situation?”

  “Well, you’re absolutely right, the situation bees serious,” he said, emphasizing the pun. “And they tell me if my blueberries aren’t pollinated in time, I’m going to get stung right in my wallet.”

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asked, pushing the microphone back into his face.

  “Well, I’m not too worried. If the local bees don’t show up soon, I have a guy, Jack O’Callaghan, who can bring bees to the island that are, like, trained or whatever.” He held up the package again, and shook it in front of the camera. “So never fear, all you Johnny Blue fans out there, your Berry Jamz are coming.”

  “There you have it, Jim. Back to you.” The bartender turned off the TV, and for a moment, everyone was quiet except for Johnny Blue, who was repeating his lines, and his bodyguards, who were pretending to laugh at them again.

  Teddy stood up and walked over to Blue’s table. “You’re an idiot, Blue.”

  Blue shot to his feet, sending his chair sliding out behind him. He looked down at his pals, who slowly got up as well. They were huge. Both had shiny bald heads, one with a goatee. Once they were standing, Blue walked around the table, s
tanding in front of Teddy but making sure his pals were right behind him.

  “Nobody asked you, hippie,” he said, his head bent to the side, like maybe someone had told him that looked tough. The two suits in the back booth slid their beers off to the side, the younger one glancing at the older one, looking for a cue. I wondered how they figured into all this.

  “Nobody had to ask me, idiot. It’s a fact. You’re an idiot, and if you bring O’Callahan and those factory bees of his to this island, you’re going to ruin something you’re too stupid to even understand.”

  Blue was shaking his head and laughing, waiting for Teddy to finish. “Well, there’s something you don’t understand, motherfucker. I’m sick of your shit and I ain’t going to let some punk-ass hippie disrespect me or my boys Dawson and Tyrique, bitch.”

  He tilted his head to one side, then the other as he said their names. Tyrique had the goatee.

  10

  I got to my feet and started working my way around the table. “Let’s calm down here,” I said. But as Blue said “bitch,” he swung his open hand at Teddy’s face. It was probably intended to be a surprise, a cheap shot, but long before he pursed his lips on the “b,” his body was twisting and his arm tensing. I don’t think there was a person in the place who hadn’t known it was coming. Hell, I think the old couple who left when we got there knew it was coming.

  The bodyguards were huffing and rolling their eyes, probably having seen this show a few times too many. But when Teddy put up his hand to block Blue, they jumped into action. Unfortunately, so did I. If I’d stayed where I was, Teddy probably would have gotten his ass handed to him, and that would have been the end of it. I should have stayed where I was.

  Instead, Tyrique cocked his arm for a punch that would have been lights out for Teddy, giving almost as much notice as his boss had done. I stepped up and gave him a jab in the armpit. He dropped hard, rolling in the peanut shells on the floor.

  Benjy and Pete got to their feet and stepped forward, while Teddy stepped back behind them, holding up his hands. Blessed are the peacemakers. The two suits in the back had come forward as well, but when Teddy stepped back, they did, too.

  The second goon, Dawson, grabbed Benjy by the front of his shirt and lifted him with one hand, pulling back to flatten his face. I don’t know where these guys had learned to fight. They seemed plenty strong but the extent of their finesse was “Hulk smash.” If I’d been closer, I might have punched him in the armpit, too, since that seemed so effective with his friend. But the place was packed tight to start with, and there was a mountain of flesh on the floor between us. Benjy’s eyes went wide, staring at the massive fist aimed at his face.

  Without thinking, I grabbed the empty metal pizza pan from our table and flung it, Frisbee style, catching Dawson in the temple. The thing rang like a cheap gong and bounced up into the air. Dawson gave Benjy a shove that took out Pete and Moose as well and snatched the pan out of the air as it fell.

  With a growl, he flung it back at me, but he overextended and forgot to flick his wrist. I could see it was headed right at Annalisa. I sprang across the table and snagged it, fully extended. I may have knocked over a few beers, but it was a very athletic move. When I looked up, I saw Annalisa smiling down at me. Clearly, she approved. Then I saw Nola. Clearly, she did not. Before I could ponder their different reactions, I felt a hand on my waistband, and then I was off, flying through the air.

  My ribs clipped one of the chairs at the next table, an instant after its occupant dove for cover. Tyrique and Dawson were coming around the table after me, one on each side. I met Dawson halfway, rushing him with a flurry of punches to his big meaty face. I had definitely softened him up and slowed him down, but he was still moving forward when Tyrique came up behind me and clamped his hands on my upper arms.

  Dawson pulled his arm back, winding up for a massive punch, and I was sheepishly apologizing to God for having been so bad about keeping in touch, when a booming voice from the front of the room said, “Freeze!”

  It was a masterful rendition, and I froze, not that I’d been all that mobile to begin with. But everybody else froze, too, and that’s not always the case.

  From the sound of his voice, I expected to see some hard-ass two-handing his revolver in front of him. Instead, he was a little older than me, wearing a rumpled work jacket. Still, definitely a cop.

  “What the hell’s going on in here?”

  Tyrique let me go and Dawson lowered his fist, flashing me a grin that was probably supposed to be menacing. The menacing grin can be trickier than it sounds, and if it goes wrong it can get all sorts of goofy. I almost suggested he practice it in the mirror, but he didn’t seem the type to take the advice constructively.

  The bartender came out from behind the bar, brought the cop a beer, and said, “Here you go, Jimmy.” Then he spoke into his ear, his finger pointing at us one by one. The cop drank the beer while he listened. At one point the bartender did a little mime of a Frisbee throw, and they both snickered.

  When he was done, the cop asked the bartender, “Do you want to press charges?”

  The bartender shrugged and shook his head.

  The cop drained his glass and put it on the bar as he walked toward us. He took out his notebook and a pen, using the pen to point at us. “I want to see some IDs, you, you, and you.” The two goons and me. “I know who you are,” he said, pointing at Johnny Blue.

  “This ain’t Vineyard Haven,” Blue protested.

  “Shut up, Blue,” the cop said. “I’m covering for Chief Bonner.”

  He started with the goons, taking their driver’s licenses and writing down their names. When he got to me, I opened my wallet and showed him my badge.

  He looked at it and then looked at me, studying my face for a second. Then he nodded, like, yeah, that made sense. He wrote down my name, then looked back up at me. “Not very professional behavior, huh?”

  I didn’t know if he was referring to me getting involved in the fight or him sucking down a fine pilsner in the middle of an investigation. I figured it was safer to assume the former.

  “They started it,” I said.

  He laughed. “Yeah, with those knuckleheads, I kinda figured. Still, be better if you tried to calm things down, rather than jumping into the fray. How long you here for?”

  “Leaving tomorrow morning.”

  “You think you can stay out of trouble that long?”

  “Yeah, I can manage that.”

  “Safe trip home, then.”

  * * *

  We gathered outside the bar, huddling against the cold, and said our good-byes. There was some awkward laughter about the brawl. Benjy slapped me on the shoulder and thanked me for averting the flattening of his face. Teddy didn’t. Instead he solemnly said how sorry he was that things had to deteriorate into violence, which is never the answer.

  Nola looked at him as if he were a cross between Gandhi and Martin Luther King. And maybe a little Brad Pitt.

  We both hugged Moose, and I found myself surprisingly caught up in the emotion of it. I missed the little guy more than I had realized, and I was sad to be leaving.

  Teddy offered to give us a lift back to the hotel, and I was relieved when Nola cheerfully declined. Then we finally left, and I realized the reason was that she couldn’t maintain her cheerful façade any longer.

  As soon as we turned to go, the bright smile fell off her face, replaced by stone. We walked quickly against the cold, and as soon as we turned the corner, she said, “That was humiliating.”

  “What?”

  “You! We’re here for two days and you can’t resist getting into a fight? Jesus, Doyle, it’s an embarrassment.”

  “Are you kidding me? I didn’t start that. Your friend Teddy did.”

  “There’s a difference between words and fists, Doyle. Or maybe that’s what you don’t get.”

  “Are you kidding me? He was about to get flattened. I saved him, and I don’t even like the guy.”

&
nbsp; She spun to face me. “You don’t even like him? Why, because he believes in something other than himself? Because he sees something wrong with the world and is working to make it better?”

  “No, because he’s a douchebag.”

  She growled and stormed off ahead of me.

  I took two fast steps, then slowed down, realizing the conversation wasn’t likely to improve.

  By the time I got to the hotel, she was inside. I walked up to the front door, but instead of opening it, I plopped down in one of the rocking chairs looking out over the harbor. It was beautiful, but it was cold. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I went inside. Nola had the decency to pretend she was asleep, so I climbed into bed beside her and did the same.

  Driving home the next day, we spoke about as much as we had on the drive up, only this time Nola was awake for the whole ride. Seven hours of awkward silence. By the time we got home and unpacked, it was close enough to bedtime to call it a night. I got a polite peck on the cheek before we went to sleep.

  It was as if we’d never left.

  11

  The next day, I left for work before Nola woke up, a little earlier than I had to. I was dreading going in, dreading the bullshit that seemed to be waiting for me there every day. I’d probably taken two mental health days in my life, and it bugged me that the one time I really could have used one I had more stress waiting for me at home than at work.

  “You’re back,” Danny said when I walked in. He seemed disappointed, closing the folders he’d been working on and sticking them in a drawer. “Kinda thought you’d come to your senses up on the island and take some time off.”

  “Whatcha working on?” I asked.

  “Nothing, now that you’re back,” he said with a sigh, pawing through a small pile of paper on his desk. “‘Our’ assignment is to work the front table as part of the security detail for a conference of municipal planners.… In case there’s trouble.”