A Beautiful Place to Die

by Philip Craig

  I did.

  — 10 —

  I went home and ate warmed-over St.-Jacques for lunch while I checked the tide tables. Then I drove to the hospital and went in to see Billy.

  “I’m out of here this afternoon,” he said with a smile. “They’re giving me my walking papers.”

  I shut the door and sat down. Billy stopped looking happy. I told him everything. From the time his sister came to see me up to the talk I’d just had with the chief. His face went through a number of changes during my narrative. Once or twice he wanted to say something, but I waved him silent. When I was through, I said, “Well, what do you think? Is somebody after you?”

  “No. Why should they be?”

  I shrugged. “You’d know more about that than I would. According to Julie, you’re still dealing. Dealers get hurt; it’s an occupational hazard. It happens every day. Somebody gets murdered and in a day or so the police let it out that it was drug related. You’re in it for the money, I imagine. And your old man still thinks that you’re straight, God help him.”

  “My old man.” His lip curled. “He’s got me on such a tight allowance up at school that I can’t even have a social life. You’re going to tell him, of course.”

  “Maybe. Is that how you got back into the peddling business? Because you needed more money than your old man was handing out?”

  He shrugged. “You know him. He figured he’d spoiled me before so he’d make up for it this time. I was always broke.”

  I doubted that Billy had been as poor as he claimed, but then one man’s poverty is another’s riches. If you feel poor, maybe you are. On the other hand, maybe Billy just liked dealing dope. Maybe he just liked the life-style or the power it gave him over the people who paid for his product.

  “Where’d you get the stuff you sold, Billy?”

  His eyes wandered away and his mouth tightened. Did Billy have a code of honor? Would he refuse to rat on his own supplier? Yes, he would. “I won’t tell you that,” he said.

  “Your sister thinks that somebody tried to kill you. Your dealer might be a likely choice if the word got around that you were about to become an informer.”

  “No. The people I used to know weren’t that sort.”

  “How about the people you still know?”

  “No. Besides, I’m not informing on anybody.”

  I am not a theater critic, so I don’t always know an act when I see one. Billy’s voice was a bit cracked, and the muscles at the hinges of his jaw were working. I changed course.

  “So nobody would want to kill you. You were close to Jim Norris. Would anybody want to kill him?”

  Billy looked startled. “Jim? What do you mean?”

  “I mean maybe somebody was after him, and not you. Maybe the right guy got blown up after all.”

  Big eyes. “What are you talking about?” Billy was sitting up.

  “I mean maybe Jim was a narc, an undercover operator for the state or feds. Maybe somebody got on to him and got rid of him before he could testify. Do you know if he had any enemies, anybody who might want to kill him?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think he was a narc?”

  The shock was past him. Billy settled back on the pillow again. “No, I don’t think so. I suppose he could have been, but . . . He would have told me, I think. We were almost like brothers, you know. We didn’t hit it off when he first came here, but in the end we really got along. Hey, do you have to tell my family all this? Look, I admit it—I peddled some stuff at college because I needed more money than my dad was sending me. It wasn’t much, just some grass I had stashed and some codeine. I’m really not a pusher, I swear.”

  I looked at him, wishing I could see into his soul.

  “Hey,” he said, “I’ll stop. I’ll get rid of the stuff I have left. I swear it. Look, you can come with me when I get out this afternoon and you can watch me burn it, or whatever. That’s it—you come and watch me. What do you say? Please . . . don’t tell my family.”

  “You’ll need somebody to drive you home,” I said. “I’ll do it. Then you give me your stash and I’ll get rid of it. Everything you have.”

  “Okay, okay. It’s a deal. I’ll really go straight this time, I swear. Just don’t tell my family.”

  Bad habits are hard to break. I considered myself and my corncob pipe and did not feel particularly superior to Billy and others whose addictions sometimes dominate their lives.

  I went to see George. Susie was there. George looked pretty good, I thought. He was getting some color back. We exchanged insults. When I left, I gave Susie a nod and she followed me out into the hall.

  “As far as I can tell,” I said, “nobody is after Billy. I’ve spent three days asking questions and there’s not a hint anywhere that anybody was after Billy. It looks like it was just an accident.”

  “No.” Her jaw was firmer than her brother’s. “There was nothing wrong with the boat when I took it out. It was perfect.”

  “Things can go wrong. They don’t stay perfect.”

  Tears were suddenly oozing from her eyes and running down her face. “The worst part is that maybe it was my fault. I told Jim that I loved him and I think I drove him away. If I hadn’t said it, maybe he’d have stayed on the island and then he wouldn’t have been out in that boat.”

  “Cut it out, Susie. You’ll be guilty of plenty of things in your life before you’re through. Don’t try to be guilty of this, because you’re not.”

  She crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. “It was Saturday. He had the day off. We were messing around on the beach with a Frisbee and we were really happy and I just ran up to him and told him I loved him. And I tried to kiss him, but he pulled away. He looked shocked, like he was almost sick, and he said, ‘No. No, you don’t. Not like that.’ And he backed away. Then he shook his head and walked off. That afternoon he told Dad that he was leaving the island and going home. I must have cried for hours. When Billy found me in my room that evening and I told him about it, he was furious. He said he’d find out about it and he went to find Jim. But when he talked to me the next day, he wasn’t mad anymore, and he and Jim were still friends and planning that last fishing trip. So it was my fault, you see.”

  “No,” I said, “it wasn’t your fault. It was just one of those things. People fall in love with people who don’t love them back, that’s all. I know he liked you—he just didn’t love you the way you loved him.” I was trying to remember the way it was to be sixteen and in love and was glad I was past that. Then I remembered Zee and wasn’t sure I was past it at all. I dug out my handkerchief, glad that it was a clean one. “Here.”

  She dabbed at her eyes and blew her nose. The Martins were all going through hard times.

  “Call your mom and tell her that I’m bringing Billy home, then go back and visit your dad.” She nodded, still looking down, and gave me my handkerchief. “It wasn’t your fault,” I said again, trying not to sound forlorn.

  I went along the hall to emergency and found Zee. She looked very fine.

  “I’m going down the beach about seven-thirty,” I said. “Want to come along? There’ll be pretty good light until after nine.”

  No hesitation. “I’ll meet you in the Katama parking lot. You still have my rod and gear.”

  “Oh, goll darn. I forgot to give them back to you.”

  “Sure,” she said, “and I forgot to pick them up last night.” She had wonderful teeth.

  Feeling good, I went back to Billy’s room. Someone had brought him clean clothes and I helped him get into them. He had a lot of tender places and still wore bandages. But he could walk, so we checked him out and got into the Landcruiser.

  In the five years I’d known the Martins, Billy had treated everyone else badly at one time or another, but had shown only affection for Susie. Was being mad at a man who had refused his sister’s love enough motive to make Billy a murderer?

  I asked him.

  He gave me a shocked look. “What? Me
? Are you crazy? Jesus Christ!”

  “Susie says you were really mad. I know how you feel about her.”

  He stared out of the windshield, breathing hard. We drove past the rows of cars that lined the road beside the beach. “All right, I admit I was mad. Nobody hurts my sister, you know? I found him up at the Fireside and I was still hot, but we didn’t fight, we talked. And he told me she was his sister, that she was like a sister to him, and that he didn’t know how to handle the way she felt and so he was going to go back home out west. He’d been all over, you know. Said he had an itchy foot and it was time to go home and settle down and let Susie find somebody who’d be right for her. Anyway, we had a couple of beers and we decided to go fishing in the boat.” Then his fists clenched. “We were friends. I hadn’t liked him too much when he first started hanging out with Dad, but it turned out he was a good guy.”

  When we got to the Martin place, his mother met him with tears and tried to put him right to bed, but he put her off.

  “I’ve been in bed for days, Mom. I’m fine. J.W. and I are going to walk for a while so I can get some of the kinks out. Don’t worry, we’re not going far. I just want to get some air, you know?”

  We strolled out to the barn where George kept his decoys, his fishing gear, and the flat-bottomed skiff he used for duck hunting and scalloping. We climbed a ladder to the loft and Billy moved some boards and buckets aside and got out a nylon athletic bag. Inside were several vials of clear liquid, a pack of white powder, and about a kilo of green leaves packaged in small bags.

  “That’s it,” said Billy. “That’s the whole stash. I should have gotten rid of it long ago, but . . .”

  I still had my pipes. I closed the bag and we left the barn. I put the bag in the Landcruiser.

  “Thanks,” said Billy. “Thanks for helping.”

  “Go see your mother,” I said. “She’s probably got a bowl of chicken soup for you.”

  He went in and I went home, wondering what I’d say if some cop stopped me and asked me what was in the bag. At home I got Julie’s stuff and added it to the bag and put the bag out in the storage shed in more or less plain sight. The purloined letter ploy. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with the stuff. Until I did decide, I had quite a stash of my own.

  It seemed that I was at a dead end in my investigations, such as they were. I had a beer, then worked in the garden for a while. Greens were popping up more and more every day. My lettuce looked promising. I could taste a fresh imaginary salad in my mouth. After an hour I went in and cleaned the house. I changed the sheets and vacuumed with the vacuum cleaner I’d salvaged from the dump. In Edgartown, people throw away things you wouldn’t believe. When I was through inside, I mowed the lawn with the lawnmower I’d salvaged from the dump. The place looked pretty good.

  I thought of Zee while I took a shower. I have an indoor winter shower and an outdoor summer shower. The outdoor one is twice as good, and I used that. I felt half good, half discontented. I had another beer and heated up the last of the stuffed bluefish for supper. Delicious.

  At seven I drove down to Katama and waited. The last of the beachers were going home after a long day in the Vineyard sun. The waves rolled in, and four-by-fours came off the beach as others came down the highway and turned off through the sand toward Wasque. At seven-thirty Zee’s Jeep pulled up alongside of the Landcruiser. She got out, locked up, and climbed in beside me. She wore jeans and a sweatshirt and her hair was wrapped in a kerchief.

  We went down to the beach.

  There were a couple of dozen four-by-fours down at the point. I stopped at the right-hand end of the line. I kicked off my sandals and Zee climbed into her waders and we went to work. Her casts were straight and getting longer. I caught fish and she didn’t. She didn’t give up, though. After a while, I went over to her.

  She had a disgusted look on her face. “I can’t get out to them. They’re beyond my cast. I can’t throw half as far as you and the rest of these guys.”

  “You’re doing fine. Try my rod. It’s graphite. The latest thing. Its action is different from yours, but once you get it down you’ll add several yards to your cast.”

  “But what’ll you use?”

  “Here. Just try it.”

  “All right.”

  She threw the plug straight up the first time and into the surf at her feet the next.

  “Great, huh?” She laughed, shaking her head.

  Using her rod, I made three casts. On the third, about two turns of the reel in, the rod bent. I set the hook and turned to her. “This is your fish. You want to bring him in?”

  “Bring in your own fish, Jefferson!” She was getting the feel of the graphite. I landed my fish and watched her as I took the plug out of its mouth.

  When she finally made the cast correctly, I could see it from the start. The rod came back, swept forward and snapped the plug in a long, high flight that arched far out into the chop. The plug hit the water and the fish hit the plug and the rod bent. Zee hauled back and somebody yelled, “Yee haw!” It was me. I started to run down to help her, then stopped myself. I could hear the reel sing. She had a good one.

  She fought the fish for five minutes before she gained much on it. She would stop and reel it in only to have it run off again with the line. Had I set the drag too light? I didn’t think so. She worked the rod and finally began to gain. The rushes away from shore were shorter. Then they stopped and she was getting him in. Fifty feet out, the fish came dancing out of the water, standing on its tail.

  “A beauty!” It was me again.

  She brought it into the surf and backed up, the rod bent in a lovely arc. I ran down then, and as the fish flopped up onto the sand, I got between it and the waves. Many a fish has been lost right there. They give a last toss of their heads and they’re back in the surf and gone. Zee wasn’t going to lose this one.

  Come on down and get him, I thought. Keep the line tight. She reeled down, leaned, and got a hand in his gills and pulled the fish up to the Landcruiser. Her cheeks were bright and she was wet with sweat. She was laughing and panting.

  “Whee Hawkin!” She jammed the rod into the spike on the front bumper, took the pliers from the hood, and got her plug back. “Wow! I am wiped out!”

  I got the scales and weighed her catch. “A thirteen-pounder. Not bad, pardner.”

  She grinned and I grinned. I slapped her on the shoulder. She patted the graphite. “Now I know the secret of your success. All this time I thought it was skill.”

  “Damn,” I said. “There goes my image.”

  We fished for another hour, until it was too dark to see the plugs hit the water. I felt good and we laughed a lot. She got three more fish, but none as big as the first one. On the way back, we scaled them at the Herring Creek and she gave all but the big fish to me.

  “I’m keeping this one,” she said. “I’ll eat it for the next month. I won’t have to buy food until July!” I liked her for being proud and happy. “Come and help me eat it,” she said. “Tomorrow night?”

  “Yes.”

  — 11 —

  When I got home, I filleted the fish and put the fillets in the fridge in a pan of water mixed with sugar and salt. The next morning I washed them off and set them on racks to air-dry for an hour. It was smoking day.

  My smoker is out behind the shed. I made it from an old freezer I got from the dump and a 220-volt system I got from a stove there. I smolder hickory chips in an old frying pan for about six hours to get the fillets the way I like them. I bow to no one when it comes to smoked bluefish.

  When the fish were in the smoker and smoke was oozing out from around the door at the approved rate, I sat down by the phone. Why was I doing that? I was going to have the biggest phone bill in the history of the world. I phoned Quinn. He was out, but someone answered his phone at the Globe. I left a message: Jackson wants to know if the names Billy Martin or Jim Norris mean anything to anybody. Cryptic stuff. The guy who took the message didn’t even seem curio
us.

  I looked at my watch. Eight A.M. Oregon was three hours earlier. Five A.M. there. Too early. I got out my newspaper clipping and again read the names of Jim Norris’s parents: Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Norris. They had two other children, a daughter, Nancy, and a son, Bradley, Jr. I dialed 1-503-555-1212 and got their telephone number.

  At ten o’clock Quinn called. Neither name I’d left was in his notes, but both were now.

  “What are you doing, J.W.? I thought you were out of the fuzz business?”

  “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

  “Ah-ha! So you’re in the newspaper business.”

  “I admit to being a sorry sort of guy, but I haven’t sunk that low yet.”

  “You’re pretty insulting for a man who’s about to get a hot piece of genuine rumor.”

  My ears perked up. “Not just a rumor, but a genuine rumor?”

  “A genuine one. From what we in the fourth estate refer to as a ‘reliable source.’ ”

  “Let’s have it.”

  “It’ll cost you. I want a bluefish on my line before the season passes. And I want you to smoke it for me so I can bring it home to my mother. She loves the stuff.”

  “You got it. What’s the rumor?”

  “The rumor is that five days from now a lot of heavy DEA people plus a number of state narcs will be arriving on your quiet little island to perform a law enforcement operation that very night. If I can talk my editor into it, I’ll be down myself to cover the story.”

  “Well, for God’s sake, stay out of sight. If the news gets out that a big-time media guy like yourself has arrived on the Vineyard, the baddies will know that something is about to happen and they’ll head for the hills.”

  “I’ll wear Groucho glasses and mustache. They’ll never recognize me till it’s too late. The next day I’ll expect a fishing trip.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  I put more chips in the smoker. The fillets were still pale and wet. Fishing takes patience. Smoking fish takes more patience. Lots of things take patience. I felt a little twinge near my spine where the bullet still rested. Was it working closer to the nerves or farther away? Or was it staying put, just like the doctors said it probably would? The spine, with all its parts, nerves, and blood vessels is not one of God’s best designs. It’s pretty fragile for the amount of work it’s supposed to do. I hadn’t even hurt when it happened. I hadn’t even known I was shot. Too much was going on at the time. I’d been shooting, too, and the guy who shot me was falling down about the same time I was. I only hurt later. Now, after five years, I only had a twinge occasionally and the knowledge that the bullet they decided not to try to take out might one day move a bit.