I checked the envelope again. No note or letter from Laura.
And I was surprised at how much that disappointed me.
At the stables in North Tyler, I parked next to Felix's Mercedes and walked over to one of the fenced-in areas near the barns. The place was well-kept, with a fresh-hay smell and the scent of horses mixed in with the salt tang of the ocean. It was a crisp day and Felix was leaning over one of the wide white planks that made up the fencing. Out at the farthest end of the enclosed paddock was a woman riding a horse, with an English-style saddle. Felix had on a short black leather jacket over a light blue polo shirt, and stone-washed jeans. He nodded in my direction as I ambled over.
"Carrying?" he asked, now looking out toward the open field and the woman on horseback.
"That I am," I said.
"How come you always guess so well?" He shrugged. "From years of experience. It's always been a good thing to spot when you meet someone that he's carrying a concealed weapon. That way, you're not surprised when it suddenly becomes unconcealed. Plus, that L.L. Bean jacket you have doesn't do such a good job of covering up your shoulder holster. It gets all bunched to the side. You should think about getting a smaller holster, wear it in your waistband."
I joined him at the fence, leaning my arms over the planks as well. Just a couple of good 01' country boys hanging out together who wouldn't know the difference between a Morgan and an Arabian. "I like a shoulder holster," I said. "Thing is, I don't like having a loaded weapon stuck in my pant waistband. Too much opportunity for something bloody hitting close to home, if you know what I mean."
"Yeah, that could suck," Felix said, watching his woman canter back and forth. "What's going on with you?"
"Looking for some advice," I said.
That made him laugh. "Me? Advice? Many a times I've offered you advice before and you've never taken it. Why should this time be any different?”
From this distance I could tell that Mickey was a redhead, for she had a ponytail that bounced along her back in time with the horse's movement. "Always a first time," I said.
"True," he admitted. "Go ahead. What's up?"
I cleared my throat, looked around in a bit of paranoia, just making sure we weren't being overheard. "I'm involved in something delicate, something involving the feds."
"Department of Justice?" he asked.
"Can't say, I'm sorry," I said. "But I'm... well, I just want to make sure I'm not in over my head. I've always had the feeling that you might have had some dealings with feds in the past, some experiences you could pass on."
He gave a low chuckle. "Yeah, experiences, that's a good word. What do you mean, 'involved'?"
"It would appear that I'm now working for them."
“They paying you well?"
"I'm volunteering," I said.
"Well, that's a thought. I remember reading that there's a new spirit of volunteerism sweeping the land. Glad to see an example firsthand. They promise you anything in exchange for your help?"
"Sort of," I said. "It was more like a series of threats that won't come true if I cooperate with them."
He nodded, clasped his large hands together. "Boy, does that sound familiar. Okay, remember this, and remember it well. A couple of times I've been entangled in some federal business, and I've been fortunate enough to wiggle my way out without too much fuss. But I did learn a few things. First, feds always lie. Always. It's in their nature, because usually they're operating on a couple of different levels, and these levels don't all involve you. And if they're not out-and-out lying, they're holding things back. So remember that, and use it to your advantage."
"How?" I asked.
He turned and looked at me. "Don't give them everything all at once. And don’t feel guilty if you don’t come forward with some information you fid out. Make the playing field level. Hold some things back on your own.”
I mulled that over for a moment, thinking about the dead Libyan and the little button that showed he had been to the submarine museum. Good, I wouldn't feel guilty anymore about not bringing that up with Laura.
"Anything else?"
"One more thing," he said. "Always have an end game prepared, in case things go to the shits unexpectedly. You don't want to be sitting there, fat dumb and happy, being led away in handcuffs in case you were promised immunity in exchange for whatever you're doing. Remember that, too, and remember it well."
"Thanks," I said. "I will."
"Good." He smiled. "Thus endeth the lesson."
I was going to say something else when there came the sound of a loud and out-of-tune engine. We both turned and saw a van roar into the parking lot and skid to a stop. It was a light blue and had once belonged to some sort of business, for lettering and illustrations on the door and side had been painted over in black. The two front doors flew open and two guys jumped out, wearing dirty jeans, heavy boots and white hooded sweatshirts. They strode forward purposefully, the one on the left holding a tire iron, the one on the right a baseball bat. They were both heavyset and bearded, and the one with the tire iron had a ponytail.
I cleared my throat. "I do believe these gentlemen are here to see you."
Felix sighed. "Unfortunately, you're right."
I said, "Somehow, I don't think they want to discuss the differences between the Western and English style of horseback riding."
"Once again, you are correct, sir."
"Tinios!" the guy holding the baseball bat said. "You were so fucking tough with our cousin, breaking his arm like that! Let's see how tough you are now, asshole."
I was conscious of what was under my coat and I said, "You going to need some help here, Felix?"
"Yep," he said, shrugging off his leather jacket. “Hold this for me, will you?”
I did just that. "Are you sure I can't do anything else?"
He gave me a cheerful smirk. "Sure. Tell Mickey my last thoughts were of her. Excuse me for a sec, will you?"
With that, he went over to the two advancing men, and I was reminded again of just how good Felix was at what he did. He went up to them, hands held up in front of him, as if he were showing them that he was unarmed. "Come on, guys," he started. "Your cousin was shooting off his mouth about burning this place down if the owner didn't come up with some ---"
And then things moved quickly indeed. Felix moved whip like under the reach of the guy holding the tire iron, and threw an elbow into his chin. The guy grunted and dropped the tire iron and fell back against his partner. The guy with the baseball bat tried to untangle himself but Felix came in again with a flurry of punches to the man's nose. They both collapsed onto the ground and Felix went in again with fists and feet.
I moved Felix's coat from one hand to another. Felix backed away, chest moving hard, but his face calm enough, and he kicked away the baseball bat and picked up the tire iron. He went over to the van and punched out both headlights with the tire iron, and then tossed the tire iron into the open doorway of the nearest bam. Back he went to the two guys on the ground. One was looking up sourly, hand to his bloody nose, and his companion was facedown on the ground.
"Satisfied?" Felix asked.
The guy with the bloody nose used a variety of four-letter words and then said, "Whaddya mean, satisfied?"
Felix shrugged. "You wanted to see how tough I am. I just demonstrated it to you. Now, you and your bud should get up and get out, and don't ever bother me or this place again. Or next time, you'll get to see how tough I am when I'm angry."
More four-letter words and threats were issued, but within a minute or two the van was backing down the road, the reverse gear whining in a high-pitched sound, one man driving, the other hunched over in the passenger seat. Felix came up to me, hand held out, and I passed his coat over.
“Nicely done,” I said.
Felix grinned. "Thanks. And if I'm lucky, Mickey didn't see a thing."
I looked over and saw the woman and her horse still prancing around at the far end of the field. She waved and
I waved back. "Looks okay to me."
"Good. Hey, you want another piece of advice?" "Sure. What do you have?"
Felix tossed his coat over a fence plank. "Just remember my phone number, that's all. You get into anything silly, give me a ring."
"Care to define silly?"
He gave me a look, one that was a cousin of the look he had given to the two previous visitors. "Like pornography, I think you'll know it when you see it."
I nodded. "You're probably right."
It was a busy day at the Porter Submarine Museum, with two tour buses parked in the lot among dozens of cars, the diesel engines to the buses grumbling, and a number of people lining up to go into the Albacore. I got out and went over to the museum, envelope in hand, and found a sort of roiling chaos as I got inside. Jack Emerson was bounding as fast as he could with his cane, going from his office to the telephone on the countertop. There was a small crowd about the gift counter, and from the dark looks they were shooting in Jack's direction, I figured he hadn't been over there in a bit.
I stood self-consciously there for a moment, and then made a quick decision. I went to the gift counter and maneuvered my way through the people and stood there looking at their angry faces. Now I knew once again why I'd never liked working at any type of service job.
"So," I said. "Who's next?"
A heavyset woman with glasses hanging by a thin chain around her fleshy neck tapped the top of the glass. "We've been for a long time! Where have you been?"
"Sorry, I'm late."
The woman wouldn’t let it go. “And why are you late?”
I looked back at her. "Water buffalo got loose in my garden. Please, who's next?"
She looked suspiciously at me, and then tapped the glass again. "One of those coffee mugs, please."
I reached under the counter, pulled out a white mug with the Albacore's name and profile painted on the side.
"How much?" she asked.
I turned the mug over, which revealed a tiny price tag stuck on the bottom. "Five ninety-five."
She shook her head, the dangling eyeglasses moving to and fro. "No, I mean how much with the tax and all."
"That's it, that's the price," I said. 'There's no sales tax here in New Hampshire. Or an income tax."
The suspicious look came back. "Then how do you folks pay your bills?"
I shrugged. "Beats the hell out of me. Look, do you want the mug?"
“I’ll take two."
"Two it is," I said.
Within a half hour most of the people had cleared out of the lobby, either going into the museum proper or heading outside to the submarine, which offered a self-guided tour. My feet ached, my hands were cramped from wrapping up coffee mugs and shot glasses, and I had paper cuts on a few of my fingers. Jack came over, leaning heavily onto his cane, and slapped me on the back.
"Man, you were a lifesaver today," he said. "I rightly do appreciate it, Lewis. Honest, I do."
"Glad I could help," I said, handing over a pile of bills and change. "Sorry I piled everything up here in the corner. I figured I didn't have enough time to learn how to run the cash register. Here, I also kept track of what I sold."
He took the paperwork and the money and went to the cash register, and started punching in the sales I had made. As I watched him work, I said, "Are you always by yourself when it gets this busy?”
“Nah, not really,” he said. “Lucky for me that today a couple of Boy Scouts are in the submarine, helping make sure the people go through the submarine without getting themselves into too much trouble. Some of these tourists we get, they show their appreciation for the sacrifice of the sailors that manned the Albacore by trying to steal something from the boat, or scratching in their names on an instrument panel."
"How charming."
"Yeah, how friggin' charming. Anyway, Ross Termin, he was supposed to come help me this morning, but he woke up puking his guts out and couldn't make it. And my idiot son Keith said he'd be over this morning as well, and as you can see, he ain't here. So there you go. Hey, did you come back here to do a story, or what?"
"More like 'or what,'" I said. "I'm still trying to track down a visitor you might have had a few days ago."
He shook his head, his gnarled fingers still punching the keys to the cash register. "Did you see what kind of day we're having here today? Lewis, I could have had a guy come in here wearing a sombrero, and within a half hour I'd forget his face and what color the hat was. That's what kind of day we're having."
From the countertop I picked up the envelope I had brought in and took out the photograph of the dead Libyan. I handed it over and Jack gave it a look. "This the guy?" he asked.
"It is."
"Is he sleeping or what? It looks like he's in a car."
"He was in a car," I said. "And this photo was taken just before they took his body out."
"Oh. Dead, then." He held it up closer to his face. "How'd he die?"
"Someone shot him."
"The hell you say. Really?"
"Really," I said. "Look, does it ---"
Jack interrupted me. "You know, he does look familiar. And you want to know why?"
“Sure.”
He handed the photo back to me. “The suit. It was a pleasant day and he came in wearing this suit, and no necktie. I find that strange. Why would anybody go to the bother of putting on a suit and not put on a necktie? Yeah, I remember him now. Came in real quiet. Didn't speak English that well. Spent a while in the lobby, looking out the windows. Like he was supposed to meet someone here. And he went through the exhibits real quick, and then he barreled out to the parking lot, like the guy he was meeting had finally arrived."
I put the photo carefully back into the envelope. "Did you see who he was meeting?"
"Nope, not a thing. Minute he went out the door, he just disappeared. You know, standing back there behind the counter, you really can't... well, look who the cat just dragged in."
I looked over to the museum entrance and a man came in, with the careful walk of someone who is either drunk, or who is trying to bluff his way through a terrible hangover. He had on soiled khaki pants frayed around the edges, dirt-encrusted sneakers, and a blue nylon windbreaker zippered up the front. He hadn't shaved for several days, and his eyes were large and slightly protruding, like the eyes of some sort of aquatic animal. His thick brown hair looked as if he had cut it himself.
"Keith," Jack said, deep disappointment coming out in that one syllable. "So glad you could show up."
"Sorry 'bout that, Dad," Keith murmured, rubbing a large hand across his face. "Damn clock radio didn't go off."
Jack looked as if he was trying to keep his temper in check "Then you should get a new clock radio, son. It seems like that one always breaks down just when you have to be somewhere."
Keith rambled over to the countertop and stopped, and then slowly eased his hip against the side, so he could have some support while standing. "Jesus, Dad, could you layoff the guilt shit already? I just got here."
"You certainly did, and hours late." Jack took a deep breath and said, "Lewis Cole, I'd like to introduce you to my son, Keith Emerson. Formerly of' the U.S. Marine Corps. Former apprentice welder at the Porter Naval Shipyard. Former productive member of the community. Any other formers you can think of, Keith.
Keith burped and said, "Whatever. I'm sure you can think of a few more, Dad. Hey, I misplaced my ATM card. You got a twenty I can borrow?"
I said, "Nice to meet you, Keith."
He looked over in my direction. "Yeah, well, fuck you very much, too. You got twenty I can borrow?"
I moved to my wallet and Jack said, "No, I'll handle this."
He awkwardly leaned his cane against the counter and pulled out his wallet. "Here. Ten is all you get. If you had gotten here on time and helped me out like you promised, then I would have given you forty."
Keith snapped the offered ten-dollar bill from his father's hand and then suddenly shoved him in the chest, making him st
umble back against the near wall, the metal cane clattering to the floor. "Thanks a fucking lot, old man! You think I enjoy your charity, do you? You think I like being your friggin' chauffeur, the guy who answers the phone here, do you?"
By now I was around the display cases and out in the lobby, and Keith was reaching over the counter, trying to grab his dad. I got a double fistful of his nylon jacket and pulled him back, and remembering how Felix had operated just a while ago, I tried to duck under his swinging punch.
But I'm no Felix, and the punch popped me in the chin, making my teeth clack with a horrible noise that echoed inside my ears. I stepped back a few paces, breathing hard, still holding his jacket, and I managed to wrestle him to the ground. I still had my weapon in my shoulder holster, which is where it was going to remain for the time being.
"Stop it, stop it right now!" Jack yelled.
I got up from the floor, moved away from the kneeling figure of Keith, who was trying to catch his breath while flinging an impressive number of obscenities my way. Jack moved over, can back in his hand, and he reached over with the tip of the cane and, with a gentleness that surprised me, touched his son at the side of his ribs.
“Keith, can you get up?”
A slow nod, and then he stood up, weaving around. Saliva was running down his chin. Jack went on. "You go on home, now. All right? I'll give you another ten dollars when I get home."
His son's eyes were filling up. "I hate it, you know. I hate being poor in this city! All the tourists and rich types coming here and the yuppie homeowners, and look at me. Almost forty years old and I'm begging money from my dad. Jesus... " He caught me looking at him and the tone of his voice changed. "And you, you fuck... I ever catch you in Porter again, you're a dead man. All right? You're a fucking dead man and you won't have a chance."
"You keep on drinking like you've been doing; I'll have a chance the size of Montana."
"Lewis," Jack said quietly, and Keith wiped a hand across his face. He muttered a few more things and then went outside. By then a group of chattering senior citizens came out of the exhibit area, laughing and talking to one another, and I touched the edge of my chin. I gingerly moved my jaw back and forth and let my tongue examine each of my teeth. All seemed solid, though I was sure my jaw would hurting like hell tomorrow.
Killer Waves Page 17
