“Alex, you don’t know the half of it.” He looked up at the screen again. “Can you believe this new ballpark they’re playing in now? Comerica Park, they call it? Is that for real?”
“I’ve seen it,” I said. “It’s not like Tiger Stadium, I tell you that much.”
“Of course not,” he said. He picked up a wet dish towel and threw it at his son. Ham O’Dell was even taller than his father, at least six foot six. He’d played power forward at Northern Michigan. He was what the newspapers politely called a “physical player,” meaning that he couldn’t do much besides get in other people’s way. Ham peeled the wet towel off his face and threw it back at his father, missing the man by three feet.
“Basketball players,” Bennett said. “No coordination.”
That started a series of arguments about sports, and then about which generation had it harder. Somehow it went to fishing after that, and then finally to women. That brought Mrs. O’Dell out of the kitchen. Margaret O’Dell was a truly lovely woman, and neither of the two men in the room deserved her. That’s what she said anyway, and when she put me on the spot I was more than glad to agree with her.
“How’s Jackie doing?” she asked me. “I haven’t seen him in I don’t know how long.”
“He’s still the same,” I said. “Aside from last night, he’s doing fine.”
As I talked to her, I remembered something that Jackie had told me. Or had almost told me but not quite, about how he had loved Margaret once, years ago, and about how he had lost her to his best friend. I wondered if he had seen her face when his life was flashing before his eyes.
It was dinnertime when I got back to Paradise. I stopped in at the Glasgow again. Jackie was out of bed, God bless him, and sitting by the fireplace. He still looked a little tired, but nothing a little friendly needling wouldn’t cure. I had my dinner with him, and told him about my day—my meeting with Maven, then with Leon, and finally how I stopped in to see Bennett. And Margaret.
He gave me a slow nod and a smile at the sound of her name. “You really got around today,” he said. “Not bad for a hermit.”
When I finally made it back to my cabin that night, the light on my answering machine was blinking again. There were two messages this time. I pressed play and heard a voice I didn’t recognize at first. Then it came to me. It was Winston Vargas, inviting me to have lunch with him the next day. On his boat, of all places. The second message was from Eleanor Prudell, Leon’s wife, asking me to call her back as soon as I could.
It was late, but I figured Vargas’s message was one invitation I shouldn’t leave hanging. He had left his number—I dialed it and waited through five rings until a woman answered.
“Is this Mrs. Vargas?” I said. “I’m sorry to call so late. Is your husband there?”
“Who is this?”
“My name’s Alex McKnight. I was one of the men playing poker at your house last night.”
“Let me guess, you had so much fun you’re calling to set up the next game.”
“No, actually, your husband invited me to lunch tomorrow. On his boat. I was calling to decline. I hope I didn’t wake you, ma’am. I wasn’t thinking.”
“He’s not here right now,” she said. “He’s out having some kind of meeting with his hired goon.”
“With Leon Prudell? It’s almost midnight.”
“I don’t know his name. He’s the big guy with the orange hair, the one who’s been following me around for the last few weeks.”
I wasn’t going to touch that one. “Well, can you give your husband the message, ma’am? That I won’t be having lunch with him?”
“I’ll do that,” she said. “I hope it doesn’t break his heart.”
“Thank you, ma’am. And good night.”
“Alex, was it? Sleep tight, Alex.”
I was going to save Eleanor Prudell’s call for the next morning, but this business with Vargas was getting stranger by the minute. The way Leon had been acting, and that line about his first priority being his client, his second priority being the police. I was thinking that was just Leon being Leon, but now I wasn’t so sure. I figured it was worth returning his wife’s phone call, even this late at night. She answered on the first ring.
“Eleanor,” I said. “This is Alex. I take it you weren’t sleeping.”
I’d gotten to know Eleanor Prudell, enough to like her and to admire the way she put up with her husband’s private eye dreams. When Leon broke both his ankles, I watched her carry him around the house like he was a basket of laundry. If I ever needed back-up in a bar fight, Eleanor would be my first choice.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” she said. “It’s been so long, Alex.”
“Is everything all right? You sounded a little upset in your message.”
“I’m just wondering what Leon’s got himself mixed up with this time,” she said. “This crazy Vargas character called him seven times today. They’re out at some bar right now, having some kind of ‘pow-wow,’ he said.”
“A ‘pow-wow?’”
“That’s what he called it. He’s been acting real weird, Alex. I mean, even on the Leon scale. I was hoping you’d know something.”
“I really don’t,” I said, feeling a small stab of guilt. “I haven’t been spending any time with him lately.”
“I wish you would,” she said. “You know how to bring him back to earth sometimes.”
“Eleanor, I’m sorry…”
“You don’t have to apologize, Alex. I know you’re not really his partner anymore. I was just hoping you could find out what he’s up to.”
“Maybe I can,” I said, rubbing my eyes. I couldn’t believe what I was about to do. “Vargas wants to have lunch with me tomorrow. Maybe I can find out what’s going on with Leon.”
“God, Alex, would you? I feel better already.”
I said I would, she thanked me a few times, promised she’d hug her kids for me, thanked me again, and then said good night.
I called Vargas’s number, apologized to his wife again, and told her I’d be making the lunch date after all.
“I’m so glad to hear that,” she said. “I was just sitting here crying about it. Now I can sleep.”
I let her have that one, wished her a good night, and hoped to God that I’d never have to meet her in person.
Before I went to sleep myself that night, I lay there in the dark, listening to the wind coming in off the lake. I wondered what the hell was going on, what Leon was up to, and why Vargas would want to have lunch with me.
Go to sleep, I told myself. You’ll find out tomorrow.
Lunch on a boat. How bad could it be?
Chapter Seven
The Kemp Marina is on the St. Marys River, not far from the Coast Guard station, east of the Soo Locks. There’s an old freighter docked on one side of the marina—you can walk through it and see how the seamen lived on it for months at a time. Then there’s the marina itself, where you’ll see just about every kind of private boat money can buy, from small sailboats to sport fishing boats, all the way up to the hundred-foot yachts. I stood at the front gate, asking myself two questions. First of all, why was I here? It had seemed to make some sense the night before. Now in the light of day I wasn’t so sure.
The second question was, how the hell would I find his boat? I walked down a couple of the docks. Some of the boats had a little sign with the owner’s name on it. Most didn’t. I finally went back to the shed by the front gate, hoping to find the harbor-master, or the dockmaster, or whatever you’d call the guy.
There was a woman in the shed, trying to type with two fingers on a manual typewriter and having a rough time of it. “Be with ya in a second, hon,” she said, as she hunted for the next key. “Two hundred dollars,” she finally said. “That’s how much it costs to fix a computer. Two hundred dollars. You’d think he’d spring for that, wouldn’t you?”
I listened to her say a few more things about the man who wouldn’t call the computer repairman
. I hoped it was her husband, because some of the things she was saying you shouldn’t say about somebody you’re not married to. “Sorry about that, hon,” she said, finally looking up at me. “What can I do for ya?”
“I’m looking for Winston Vargas’s boat,” I said.
She rolled her eyes. “Vargas, there’s a piece of work.”
“Do you know if he’s here right now? He told me to meet him at noon. I’m a little late.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t talk about him like that,” she said. “You must be a friend of his.”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“Okay, then. Never mind. Anyway, let’s see. You go back out there, go to the last dock. He’s in the second-to-last slip on the right.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I appreciate it. I hope you get your computer fixed.”
“I’m not holding my breath,” she said, and then she went back to her typing.
I walked down to the last dock and then all the way down to the end. The sun was high in the sky and gleaming off the shiny metal trim on the boats. One man was sitting on a lawn chair on his deck, reading the paper. He looked up at me and nodded. The boat next to his was probably the biggest yacht in the marina. It looked like it probably slept twelve people quite comfortably. I couldn’t imagine what it cost.
Vargas’s boat wouldn’t be quite as big as this one, I thought, but I was betting on something pretty obscene. When I got to the second-to-last slip on the right, I was a little surprised at first. The boat couldn’t have been more than forty feet long. There was a cabin, but it probably slept three, maybe four people. Compared to some of the other boats here, it was downright modest. But then on second thought, it made sense. Those mega-yachts were probably slower than hell. Vargas’s boat had a long hull, and probably had twin diesel engines from the looks of the stern. This thing was built to go fast.
I didn’t see anybody on deck, but I didn’t want to just jump aboard. I remember somebody telling me once that a man’s boat was just as inviolate as his house, maybe more so. You don’t go on board without being asked.
“Ahoy!” I shouted. “Anybody home?”
The door to the cabin opened, and Vargas looked out. He looked even more bald in the light of day, if that’s possible. “Alex,” he said. “Come on aboard.”
It was a long step from the dock to the side of the boat. I felt a little zing in my groin muscles as I stretched for it, just another daily reminder that I was getting old. As soon as I stepped foot on the deck, the dog came running out of the cabin, barking at me like I was Satan himself.
“Miata, take it easy! It’s just Alex! You remember Alex!”
The dog danced around me like a bantamweight, moving side to side and looking for an opening. Vargas picked him up with one hand. “Sorry, Alex. He’s still a little high-strung since the other night.”
“That’s all right,” I said. Since the other night, my ass. That dog was born high-strung.
“Frankly, Alex, I’m a little surprised you came. I don’t imagine you had a very good experience at my poker party.”
“You didn’t have such a great time yourself,” I said. “I know it wasn’t your idea to get robbed.”
“No,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head. “That wasn’t the plan.”
“I guess I’m wondering why you invited me, though. I know I’m not your first choice for a lunch date.”
“There may be a thing or two I’d like to ask you about,” he said. “Just to get your opinion. But why don’t we head out first? It’s such a nice day for it. Do you fish much?”
“Once in a while,” I said. “Not as much as I’d like.”
“Perfect then,” he said. “We’ll catch a couple of whitefish.”
He put the dog back down on the deck, which set off another round of barking and carrying on. “Don’t make me put you inside, Miata. Just go lay down over there.”
The dog barked a few more times, but then finally backed away and sat down next to Vargas’s captain’s chair. He watched me as I sat down, ready to leap at my throat if I made any false moves.
“I had to bring the dog today,” he said. “My wife is out. Again.” He hung on the last word, shaking his head. I didn’t feel like asking him about it, or hearing anything about what was going on between his wife and the family lawyer. Or telling him what his wife had told me the night before, that she knew he had hired Leon to follow her. The whole scene was already uncomfortable enough, and I was beginning to regret it.
Vargas fired up the boat. I could feel the deck vibrating, the twin engines throbbing with so much power it was like sitting on a rocket. He stepped past me to untie a couple of lines, the dog barking again just on general principle. Then he sat back down in his captain’s chair and pulled the throttle back a notch. There was a furious churn behind the boat as he backed it and quartered, then he kicked it forward and we were on our way.
“You ever been through the locks before?” he said as we cruised down the St. Marys.
“No, that I haven’t done.”
“Sometimes you have to radio ahead,” he said, “but it looks like there are already a couple of boats lined up. It gets interesting when you’ve got a freighter in the lock at the same time. You feel like a very small fish in a tank with a whale.”
There were three pleasure boats waiting for the southern-most lock to open. Vargas fell in behind them. Almost immediately, the gates to the lock opened. Two giant steel doors, each one at least fifty feet across, swung open. The three boats ahead of us proceeded into the lock, and then Vargas joined them. I could see the viewing platform above us. With the water level down, it felt like we were at the bottom of a well.
A bell rang as the gates closed behind us. Slowly the boat began to rise, as the water from the other side was fed in from below. The gates on the far side were holding back the crushing weight of Lake Superior, which seemed at that moment like a ridiculous idea. A thin stream of water was leaking through the line where the two gates joined, like they would break open at any second. But of course they didn’t. Ten minutes later, the boats had risen the twenty-one feet, and the gates began to open. The people on the viewing platform were at eye level now. A few of them waved to us. The dog barked back at them.
Once we cleared the locks, we still had a couple of miles of river to negotiate, under the International Bridge. We went around the bend where the river narrowed, past the Shallows, O’Dell’s place prominent on the shoreline.
I could be in there right now, I thought, having a cold beer and watching a baseball game. Instead I’m on a boat with Vargas and his dog.
When we passed the last bend, we finally hit the open water of Whitefish Bay. The sun came out from behind a cloud and lit up the water, turning it a thousand shades of green and blue. Vargas pushed the throttle up and we were off, the bow rising as we gained speed, the cold spray lashing at our faces. He tried to say something to me, but his words were lost in the noise of the engines. The lake was as calm as it ever gets, but even so we started bouncing around on the deck. I grabbed onto the gunwale. The little dog was getting thrown around like a beanbag, until Vargas caught him in midair.
He really opened it up, pushing the boat to the limit and sending us screaming out into the heart of the bay. Any boats that were puttering around behind us were long gone. I imagine he was trying to impress me. I just held on and waited for him to slow down.
Finally he did, kicking it down to an idle and letting us drift. We were miles from shore now, so far out I could see only the barest outline of land on the horizon.
“Tell me the truth, Alex,” he said, wiping off his face. “Is this a boat or what?”
“You’ve got a boat here,” I said. “I’ll give you that one.”
“I’ve got some poles here, if you feel like catching some whitefish. Of course you can’t depend on catching your lunch, so I brought some sandwiches. And some cold beer.”
“I’ll pass on the fishing for now,” I said. “I w
as hoping you’d tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But not on an empty stomach.” He pulled out a big cooler and opened it, set me up with a pastrami and Swiss on rye bread, and a cold Molson’s. It was American Molson’s, but it went down well enough as I sat there in the glare of the midday sun. It was all starting to feel a little surreal, with the bright light and the gentle rolling of the boat on the lake. I felt like I was being lulled to sleep.
Finally, Vargas broke the spell. “You have some problems with me, don’t you,” he said. “I picked up on that the other night, before everything else happened.”
“I’m sitting on your boat, eating your food and drinking your beer,” I said. “I’m not sure this is the right time to criticize you.”
“But I know you’ll give me an honest answer,” he said. “You’re a straight shooter.”
“Let’s just say I don’t agree with you on some things.”
“Like what?”
“We don’t have to go through them,” I said. “I know I’m not going to change your mind about anything.”
“Who says you won’t? Try me.”
“Look, the other night you were telling me how much you love it up here, right?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, but it doesn’t seem to mean much to you if you can’t own it—if you can’t buy it just for yourself and maybe a few of your friends, rope it off and put a ‘No Trespassing’ sign at the gate.”
“Like Bay Harbor,” he said.
“Like Bay Harbor.”
He took a bite of his sandwich, and looked out at the lake. The dog watched him, waiting for some food to come his way.
“Even that stuff you collect,” I said, “up in that room of yours. Those things from the shipwrecks. The Indian artifacts. It’s not enough to just appreciate what they mean. You have to own them and put them in a glass case. In your own little room where nobody else can see them.”
“You seem to have a strong opinion about that.”
“Not strong enough to break into your house and destroy the whole room,” I said. “But yeah, it does bother me.”
North of Nowhere: An Alex McKnight Novel Page 7
