Sea Change

by Dave Balcom

  We walked down a hallway and she ushered me into a room with a table and two opposing chairs. A beefy uniformed officer smiled as he stood up.

  “I have to make sure you’re not carrying a weapon,” he said in a matter of fact tone. “Lift your arms and spread your legs, please.”

  He went over me with a wand, just like the ones they use at airports. It hummed but didn’t shriek. I knew I was unarmed, but I didn’t doubt their polite attitudes would shatter like glass if it had.

  “I’m here to talk, nothing more,” I said.

  “Good luck with that. Mr. Martini hasn’t uttered three words since arriving here. The Yanks told us he was a clam in their custody, too.

  “We have history, Pedro and I. I hope that’ll loosen him a bit. Now my understanding was that you folks wouldn’t be taping or recording or noting from behind some one-way glass during this talk. Do I understand that correctly?”

  “You do. I’m told that this conversation between you two is personal and private, and that is has something to do with a threat on your life.”

  I nodded. “Thanks.”

  “He’ll be along in a minute, coming in from that door over there. You sit over here,” he said pulling a chair out for me.

  The door opened at that moment, and a pair of guards walked Martini to his side of the table. His hands were cuffed to a chain that ran down to ankle chains. As he stood between the two men, one of them knelt down and clipped the vertical chain to a bolt in the floor.

  “There you go, now,” one said as he pushed gently on Martini’s shoulder and slid the chair into position behind him.

  One of the jailers turned to me. “You have up to thirty minutes. If you want to leave before that, just knock on our door before you go.”

  As they got to the door, the other jailer looked back at me, “Just talking, right?”

  I nodded, and they left.

  I had been preparing myself for this moment for days, ever since Jensen had told me that I could interview this man.

  “I knew I should have killed you then and there,” he said without preamble.

  “I wanted to give you that chance, believe me. I’d like to give you the chance right now, but I promised I wouldn’t. But I would like to know who hates me enough to pay a million dollars for the opportunity to kill me.”

  He smiled and shook his head a bit. “I don’t know.”

  “But you know it’s a woman.”

  “I do?” He shook his head again. “I don’t know that.”

  “You told me, just before you put me on that plane. You called the person, ‘she.’”

  I could see him replaying the conversation in his head. “Damned if I didn’t.”

  “So who is she?”

  “If I knew, I would not tell you. For one reason, making you wonder is about the only revenge I can have for my mistake; for another, there are just some people in this world that nobody with a brain will talk about.”

  “And she’s one of those?”

  “See, you’re not as stupid as you look.”

  “I should hope not. Look, let’s say that you gave me a lead as to how I might find this person and it gets back to her that you gave me that lead. What difference would it make to you?”

  He sat silent, so I continued. “I know the only person who means anything to you is in custody in Portland and will live out her life in a prison. I know you’re an educated man who made a conscious decision to be a criminal, and you know that you’re never going to breathe free again.

  “What difference does it make if you die of old age in a prison hospital or if some Outfit flunky sticks a shiv in you tomorrow? Dead is, after all, dead.”

  He sat back as much as his chains would allow. “So, you know about me, and you’ve connected me to The Outfit. Bully for you, but you don’t believe in honor among thieves?”

  “If I did, I wouldn’t believe it of you or her.”

  “I’m hurt. Why not?”

  “If there was some kind of honor code among you animals, you wouldn’t need so much wholesale violence against friends and families. You wouldn’t need to torture and kill an innocent young Coast Guard sailor. You...”

  “Give me a break. You disagree with my tactics? You think I would have really gone after the Whitmans? You think my friends are going after them now? Don’t be an ass.

  “I told you then, it was my plan to live the rest of my life as honestly and freely as possible. If I’d had any indication that you guys knew who I was, I’d be in Borneo or Tibet by now.

  “You don’t know anything about me or The Outfit, and I don’t know anything about you other than your name. When I pulled your I.D. that night, I remembered hearing your name from a capo I worked for. He said you had really screwed up our operations twice, and that you weren’t going to get another shot.

  “So, when I saw who you were, I reached out to him and told him I had you aboard the Blackhawk. He told me to keep you alive until he called me back.

  “Know this for a fact, I wasn’t working under The Outfit’s direction up here. It was my show, all on my own. So, when he calls back, he tells me all can be forgiven if I deliver you alive and well so his boss can have the pleasure of offing you. Dig?”

  I thought about it. “And he let slip that his boss was a woman?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  I thought for a few minutes more. “I don’t want to know the name of your capo; I wouldn’t expect you to tell me. I would like to know where he works.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Hell, all the bosses move around a lot. Right now, the top person is living in Portland, and is squeaky clean by all accounts.”

  I changed the topic. “Does the name Wallace Crocker mean anything to you?”

  “It means something to all of us. He was a big shot in The Outfit for ten years and then just flat disappeared. You made that happen, if I got the story straight.”

  I felt the world tilt for a second. It was such a violent reaction; I had to put my hand out on the table to steady myself.

  “Who’s Willard Crocker?”

  “He’s his brother. I’ve heard of him, but I’ve never met him.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it. No, really; I mean, don’t mention me or this conversation to anyone. You dig?”

  I went to the jailers’ door, rapped twice and then left the room without another word.

  40

  As I was driving to the ferry, I called Jensen, got his voice mail and left him a call back.

  Jan had spent the morning exploring Victoria and had enjoyed herself immensely, but after fifteen minutes of chattering away about the lovely city, she stopped, cocked her head and asked, “Tough meeting?”

  I shook myself and let her see a smile. “My mind’s full of thoughts, ideas and questions. I don’t want to relive the meeting just yet, I’d rather hear about your impressions. Can you see yourself coming here as a tourist?”

  “Sound strategy, Stanton, shifting the burden of conversation away from what matters. No, I can’t see us coming here as tourists, but if we ever came up here to fish, I’d day-trip that city in a minute. It’s breath-taking in its simplicity and charm.”

  She went on talking about the book store she’d found as well as a hardware store that sold anything you could imagine you needed on a boat. “They even taught me how much chain I had to have for a Danforth anchor. Do you know?”

  “There’s a chain on the anchor?”

  “You really are out of your element on the water, aren’t you?”

  “So tell me about the chain.”

  “The anchor is really light, but when the boat tries to drag it, the blades dig into the bottom because there’s a chain between the top of the anchor and the actual anchor rope. Can you see the anchor in your mind?”

  “I saw the anchor on Fergie’s boat, was that a Danforth?”

  “I don’t remember, but if it had flukes on either side of the rod that makes the anchor lay flat for storage, it
was.”

  “So how do you measure the chain?”

  “With a tape measure, what else?”

  At that moment my phone chirped. It was Jensen, and he and I talked all the rest of the way to the ferry terminal. We got there just as they began to load cars and trucks aboard. I turned the truck over to Jan so I could continue to talk, figuring I’d lose the signal below decks.

  When Jan came topside, she found me sitting on a bench in the rear of the ferry. “Like looking where you’ve been rather than where you’re going?”

  I smiled at her and patted the bench beside me. “The wind up front always makes my eyes water.”

  She sat, put her arm through mine and rested her head on my shoulder. “Did Martini tell you who the buyer was?”

  “No, but he did talk about some stuff, and in the process he gave me a very real lead.”

  “Did you share that with Jensen?”

  I didn’t answer right away.

  “Jim, did you?”

  “Yes. Of course. I asked him to locate Willard Crocker. I think he lives in Portland.”

  “Is that where we’re going right now?”

  “I think we should, if you can stand the Monaco for a couple more nights.”

  We got off the ferry at four p.m., and I started driving south. “I think we can stay tonight in Bellingham. I know a decent place.”

  When we checked in, I called Leslie Veragas, the detective with the Washington State Police. He was out, but called back just after six. “What’s up, Jim?”

  “I am in town and wondered if you’d have time for a drink or dinner with us.”

  “Who are us?”

  “My wife, Jan, is with me. We’re on our way home after visiting Pedro Martini in a Canadian jail.

  “Oh, I heard about that. Congrats! Celebrating? I’d love to meet the woman who committed to life with you. Any place in mind?”

  “Your territory; your call.”

  He gave me directions and an address. We agreed to meet just after seven when his shift ended.

  The restaurant was busy, but not jammed. We found Veragas at the bar, and he had a table waiting for us.

  “I am very grateful that you took such good care of Jim when he first arrived here,” Jan started.

  Veragas beamed at me. “I figured his story was way too crazy to be made up, so I got the lieutenant to let me go along for the ride. Steve Ryder turned out to be a piece of work, but his silence made Jim’s version all the more believable. And now, we got a killer and a kidnapper in the soup; a happy ending.”

  “Veragas is the only person I know who’s laid eyes on Willard Crocker,” I said to Jan.

  “Crocker? Who... oh, that lawyer who came to see Ryder and shut him up. That’s right.”

  “What does he look like?” I asked.

  “A forgettable lawyer. Guess in his forties, receding hairline, light brown hair, blue eyes; ruddy complexion like he’s outdoorsy, maybe a golfer. Medium tall, hundred and sixty-five pounds, maybe, little paunch over his belt. No memorable scars or birthmarks. Wore contact lenses. Oh, and he’s left-handed.”

  I looked at Jan. “Some kind of forgettable, right?”

  She was amazed and said so. Veragas looked ready to blush, “Occupational disease,” was all he could say.

  He told us about his wife and three children; and he showed us pictures, so Jan pulled out her wallet and showed him a photo of Judy on point in the back yard. “That’s the sum of our happy family.”

  “No babies?” He asked.

  “We haven’t been married for two months yet,” Jan said laughing.

  I shook my head. “I’m telling you right now, Mrs. Stanton. You show up pregnant and you’re going to have more than a little bit of explaining to do.”

  Veragas caught the teasing tone and said, “Ahhhhh, sounds like somebody has a brickin’ in his medical history.”

  That cracked me up, but not as much as the confusion on Jan’s face. “What’s a brickin’?” She asked just as she got it. She does blush, and she can’t deny it.

  The next morning as we were driving down I-5 toward Portland, my phone chirped and it was Jensen.

  “Willard Crocker has an office and a home.” He rattled off the addresses, and I repeated them as Jan wrote them down.

  “Thanks, Ray. I really appreciate this.”

  “Good,” he said. “But I want you to be sure you’ve got them right, and he repeated them, and I did too. Jan smiled and nodded.

  “Great, we’ve got them. Thanks aga...”

  “The reason I don’t want you to make a mistake about those addresses is that if either of you is found within a half mile of either of those addresses, I’ve given orders to have you arrested and booked for obstruction of justice.”

  “Wait a min...!” I started to say, but he cut me off again. “No, you wait a minute. Unless you’ve been deputized by some agency I don’t know of, you’ve got no business messing around with Crocker or any of his associates.

  “We’ve got people watching him and anyone he comes in contact with. If we don’t call you, we don’t need you. Got that?”

  “Come on, Ray...”

  “Do you copy, Mr. Stanton, civilian?”

  “This is so unfair.”

  “Tough. I suggest you take that lovely bride of yours home, relax in the luxury of your world and let me and mine see to the dirty work with which Mr. Crocker seems to be involved.”

  “That’s beautiful English, agent Jensen. I didn’t know you had it in you. But before you give me the brush off like I was some beat reporter from Hicksville, I’d like you to remember that you wouldn’t be celebrating the conclusion of this affair without my help. I also think you should realize how important it is to me, the personal me, that I get a shot at these bastards... I need that shot, Agent. I think you owe it to me.”

  “Sarcasm noted, Mr. Stanton, but an Ivy League education should not be wasted. As for your need to assuage your guilt, anger and remorse through personal involvement in this case, I think you better start remembering who you are, and what you stand for.

  “What do you want, Mr. Stanton? You want to be judge, jury and executioner? You want some vigilante payback? I don’t think that’s the guy Miles Lawton saw in you, and it’s certainly not the guy I see in you.

  “I think you need to give this some thought. You still coming into town?”

  I had pulled off the highway and was sitting on the shoulder, idling. Finally I let out a big sigh, and said, “I see no reason,” and I looked at Jan. “I think we’ll cancel our hotel reservations and turn east at I-eighty-four.”

  “Splendid. Call me when you get home safely, otherwise I’ll worry.”

  I hung up and listened as Jan canceled the room at the Monaco, and we didn’t exchange more than a dozen words until I stopped at the Columbia Gorge Hotel in Hood River for dinner.

  It was another silent hour and a half until we arrived home.

  I kissed her good night, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms, something we hadn’t done very often before.

  I woke up as usual, instantly awake, no sense of dream or time. We had moved in the night, but her hip was still against mine. I listened and heard all the sounds of my home and nothing more.

  I stole out of bed, threw on some jeans and a tee and padded downstairs. Shirlee Nelson was sitting at the kitchen island, writing a note. I could see Judy on the deck outside the screen door.

  “Oh, there you are,” she whispered.

  I looked at the clock and found it was after ten in the morning. “No need to whisper,” I said. “Want some coffee?”

  She nodded and finished the note as I put the coffee together. “How’s Jack?”

  “Perfect. Disgustingly so.”

  “Are you gonna tell me what’s in the note or make me read it?”

  She handed it over, and went to the refrigerator in search of bread or an English muffin. She held the muffins up with an inquiring look on her face. “No thanks,” I said.<
br />
  She put the muffin halves in the toaster and sat down next to me.

  I let silence drag on and felt comfortable in it. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”

  “We have, and we’re worried about you.”

  “About us?”

  “Both of you. We’re worried that you’re going to move away, and we don’t think we want to break in a new neighbor.”

  I sighed for effect. She continued, “With Jan in your life, you seemed complete again, the way you were when we first met you. Then this stuff came up, and you seem to be different somehow; on edge, struggling with something that we don’t recognize as being a part of you.”

  I sighed again, this time it was real.

  She hopped up to tend to her muffins, and I went to the cupboard for cups, and stopped at the fridge for her cream.

  “We have never discussed moving away,” I said.

  “So what’s eating at you?”

  “Anger. It has never been a part of me. I fought in the war, did things that were required of me, some things that made me sick, but I was never angry at the enemy. It’s why I quit as soon as I could. I wasn’t one of those guys who got any kind of kick out of beating the enemy. I liked winning. I was competitive; always have been.

  “But I’ve never felt what I’m feeling right now. That guy, the bastards he works for, their senseless violence and brutality, I have this glowing hatred in me... And there’s nothing I can do about it. The authorities are in charge, and they’ve made it real clear that my continued participation is unwanted.”

  “Poor baby,” she mocked me. “Isn’t adulthood a pisser?”

  “You asked,” I said in defense.

  “I did, and you answered. Now, how do we rid ourselves of this anger if we can’t go beat some bad guy to a pulp or shoot somebody?”

  “I’ll figure it out. Just give me some time.”

  “Good. You’ve got until six when Jack’s putting ribs on the grill. Have this shit cleaned up by then, okay?”

  I smiled back at her. She finished her coffee and got up to leave.... “Oh, by the way, we’re out of dog food at my house. I put it on my list, but we’re not going to town for a few days yet.”

  “I’ve got lots here. I’ll bring some down for your larder, but I don’t think you’re going to be dog sitting again until after bird season. I’m pretty grounded.”