Hard Aground

by Brendan DuBois

  I was so terribly tired, and my back and shoulders ached.

  “Just a few more steps,” I whispered, leaning into the cane. “Just a few steps more.”

  I pushed myself off and got into my bedroom. Rudy was right. There were still lights up there, and two cruisers still had their blue strobes flashing. I dropped the cane to the floor and dropped myself onto the bed.

  Even with the blue strobes reflecting off the flat white of my ceiling, I fell asleep right away.

  It seemed like just five minutes had passed before my phone rang. I rolled over like a beached dolphin and grabbed the phone. It was 8:05 A.M.

  “Yeah.”

  “This definitely isn’t the charming and happy Lewis Cole I’m used to,” she said.

  I yawned. “Dear me, Detective Sergeant Woods, do you know what time it is?”

  “I do,” she said. “And I bet I woke you up.”

  “You did.”

  “Tough,” she said. “I haven’t gone to bed yet, but it’s about twenty minutes in my future, and I wanted to let you know about the little O.K. Corral reenactment that took place on your doorstep last night.”

  “Please do.”

  “The large gentleman found in your front yard was a Ramon Martinez, from Lawrence, Massachusetts. We also have two seriously wounded at Exonia Hospital, one Raul Gortez and Santiago Garcia, from Lowell. Plus we have one stolen Mercedes-Benz sedan with enough bullet holes to give passengers a nice shower if it were to rain. Other than that, lots of questions.”

  “Any idea what triggered the gun fight?”

  “Hah-hah-hah,” she said in a monotone. “You made a funny with a pun. Well, our friends in the Massachusetts State Police have told us that the guys from Lowell and the guys from Lawrence belonged to rival social organizations. It seems like they had a meet over at the Lafayette House parking lot last night when a disagreement broke out—along with the gunfire.”

  “Over the chess club results, I’m sure,” I said. “Anything from the surveillance cameras from the Lafayette House?”

  “If there is, the New Hampshire staties aren’t saying,” she said. “Usually we get along just fine with the boys and girls from Manchester, but now—just a lot going on. By the by …”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m still puzzling over young Ramon going to your house. Doesn’t quite make sense. Lots of nice places to hide in among all those rocks and boulders.”

  “Maybe he panicked with all the shooting going on.”

  “Or maybe he was coming for you. Or for something you have. You ever think of that?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  “You have anything to tell me?”

  What could I tell her? That Ramon and his boss Pepe were here earlier, about Felix’s missing silver, which was no longer missing, but was in one of my kitchen drawers?

  “Not a word.”

  She laughed. “Good. Time for this old broad to get some sleep.”

  “Time for this old man to do the same.”

  Just as I was falling back asleep and the whispers of dreams started to make themselves known, the phone rang once more. I fumbled some and a young woman’s voice said, “Mr. Cole?”

  “That’s me.”

  “This is Mia Harrison calling. The niece of Gwen Aubrey?”

  Two unfamiliar names and I was rubbing my face when—“Oh, yes,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention. Sorry about that.”

  “Me, too. Did I wake you?”

  I yawned. “Not really. Please, go on.”

  “Oh, well, you remember the last time we visited? My Aunt Gwen said she knew a man who had served for a while at your house? When it was a training facility for the Navy and its corpsmen?”

  My mind was clearing, like mist lifting off a sodden farmer’s field. “That’s right, that’s right.”

  “Well, we can come by this afternoon. Would that be all right? Do you have the time?”

  “Time is what I’ve got a lot of,” I said. “What time?”

  “How does three P.M. sound?”

  “Perfect.”

  Then I said, “There was a shoot-out in the parking lot of the Lafayette House last night. Did you hear about it?”

  “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

  “It seems like rival drug gangs from Massachusetts had a disagreement. Lots of shooting. One dead. Two wounded.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “Good?”

  “Sure,” she said, sounding cheerful. “That means investigators, reporters, nosy people stopping by … and more customers for the restaurant. See you later, Mr. Cole.”

  I hung up the phone, checked the clock. Still plenty of time to catch up on my sleep. My drains would need to be emptied, but I could gamble. I settled myself in, brought the blankets up, and stared out the window, imagining all the ghosts and people who had been in this little house of mine, and how many of them had seen this exact stretch of ocean.

  My eyes closed, my breathing slowed, and the whispers of dreams out there on the horizon began, and the phone rang once more.

  I was getting the feeling that the gods of slumber had something against me, so I was a bit grumpy answering the phone for the third time, and I got a laughing voice in return that made me warm right from the start.

  “Tsk, tsk,” Paula Quinn said. “Here I am, on the last day of my conference, feeling all jazzed up and frisky, and wanting to know if you were up for a visit after I get to work and straighten things out.”

  “Always up for a visit,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Fine,” she said. “Question is, what the hell happened in your neighborhood last night? One of my interns said there was a gun battle in the Lafayette House parking lot.”

  I gave her what info I could, secretly quite pleased that she didn’t ask to quote me as a witness.

  I didn’t feel much like a witness. Only a guy who happened to be around.

  When we got through that piece of journalism, I asked her about the conference.

  “A newspaper conference like this, it’s like a meeting of survivors from some sunken ship, making plans to go out on another cruise. Sounds silly but what else can you do?”

  “Lots of possibilities,” I said. “None of which I should probably mention.”

  “Probably,” Paula said. “You hear anything from your doctor? About the tumor results?”

  “Nary a word,” I said. “It sounds like my tissue samples are touring the finest post offices in California.”

  “Damn.”

  “Double damn,” I said.

  She sighed. “Look, I know I said earlier I’d be coming by for a visit, but I’m torn.”

  “How?”

  “Besides making sure the folks at the Chronicle get this story right and don’t print a headline upside down, there’s other stuff. Got a bunch of laundry to do, mail to check when I get back to Tyler, need to talk to the condo manager about a rattling pipe … I was thinking of visiting you tomorrow. Is that all right?”

  Maybe it was because I was still short on sleep, or feeling strained because of the events of last night, but I paused.

  Paula caught on my pause. “All right, sunshine, I’ll be around later tonight. As a surprise. How does that sound?”

  “Sounds great,” I said. “Thanks.”

  And with that, I hung up the phone, rolled over, and actually managed to get to sleep, realizing only some hours later that what I had just done—having Paula come over—was going to prove to be a horrible mistake.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I slept until midmorning, when it was my turn to make a phone call. I dialed Felix twice, at his home number and his cell phone. Each time he wasn’t there, and each time I said the same thing: “Felix, I have a present for you, from the home country. Call me when you can. It’ll be a hell of a story. And don’t pick on Rudy Gennaro anymore.”

  Then I checked the output from my tubes—about the same, damn it once more—did some laundry, had a late breakfast or
early lunch, dozed some more. Realizing I was expecting company in the afternoon, I did my best to straighten up the place before a much-needed early-afternoon nap.

  At exactly three P.M., there was a knock on the door, and my little house suddenly seemed to be filled with people.

  First in was Mia Harrison, followed by her loud and brash Aunt Gwen Aubrey, and then a very slim older man with light tan pants belted up just below his breastbone. He was introduced to me as Bobby Turcotte, and when we shook hands I immediately noticed the old, faded tattoos on his wrinkled forearms, one of a mermaid and the other with faded U.S.N. and an anchor. It made me wonder if he ever thought those bright and powerful tattoos would fade away, along with his strength and perhaps his memory. Even at his age his white hair was thick, combed back in a pompadour, and behind his wire-rimmed eyeglasses, his eyes were twinkling.

  “My God, my word, I never, ever, thought I’d be back in here again. Wow! Who would have thought.”

  My visitors situated themselves on the couch and a chair, and I moved a chair around so we could hear each other easily. I gave them all glasses of lemonade, with a shot of gin in Aunt Gwen’s glass. Mr. Turcotte (I couldn’t call a man of his age and experience Bobby) took a healthy sip and started talking. “So? Gwennie tells me you’re looking for info about this joint when it was a barracks back when we was doing medic training?”

  “That’s right,” I said. “What was it like?”

  He laughed, took another sip. “Don’t ask me what year it was … must have been the last year of the Korean War, ’cause I remember getting discharged soon after. For the second time, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  Turcotte’s voice laughed and quaked at the same time. “Oh, I was in the Pacific for the first go-around, you know? Was at Leyte Gulf, invasion of Okinawa. Medical orderly aboard one of the support ships. Jesus Freakin’ Christ, you wouldn’t believe what those poor Marines looked like, coming aboard, bandages and wraps, most of them dopey ’cause of the morphine they got, sweet Jesus. The burns, the shrapnel wounds, the missing arms and legs … Christ. I remember one corporal, we started undoing a big bloody bandage around his belly, and shit, his intestines just oozed out on the deck.”

  Gwen patted him on his thin leg. “Now, now, Bobby, we appreciate your service and all, but how about telling us what it was like, being in this cottage back in the day, back when Elvis was just about ready to get famous?”

  Mia looked like she was going to get sick, but Turcotte giggled and leaned into Gwen. “Hell, Gwen, I still appreciate all the good times you and I shared back in the day. Christ, you still look good. Me, I’m a thin and old wreck, but God, you sure kept yourself together.”

  “Well, it sure as hell wasn’t from clean living,” Gwen said, and the two of them laughed.

  Turcotte looked around my home. “Jesus, this place, it looks a lot different, but a bit familiar, you know? I mean, that deck wasn’t there, but the view, that’s the same. And back then, this room seemed much bigger. We had a hi-fi system over there, lots of chairs and couches. No books, though. Upstairs were the bunks. And the cellar—oh yeah, the cellar …” Turcotte started laughing again.

  “What about the cellar?” I asked.

  He stopped and looked to Gwen, Mia, and me. “Oh, hell, enough time’s passed. It’s not like the Navy’s gonna worry about it, right, Gwen? And the girls, hell, they’re grown up, have kids. I hope they have fond memories. Lord knows, I still do.”

  Gwen patted his leg again. “Bobby, come along now, get to the point. Mr. Cole lives here now, and he’s curious about what it was like back in the day.”

  Turcotte smiled but he wasn’t laughing, and it was like a bit of coolness was running through his veins. He gave off a rattling sigh and settled back in the couch. “You folks, you still don’t know the whole story, you know? Nobody knows. The movies, the books, the documentaries, it’s like all you’ve got is a bunch of puzzle pieces on the floor, and you pick up a bunch and try to get the whole picture. You know? You might get the general view of what’s what, but there’s a lot of pieces, a lot of stories still missing.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  Turcotte smiled, wiped at his lips. “Those of us who made it during the Pacific, we cheered when the A-bombs got dropped, you know? There was no debate, no shit talk about morality, about hitting those two cities. War and morality? Please. Shit, we had already turned Tokyo and its residents into cinders. All we knew was that we were going to live. We weren’t going to get wounded, shot, burnt, or have our balls blown off trying to invade the Home Islands. The war ended and I came back here to Tyler. I started lobstering again, dumped my uniform in a trunk, and the nightmares faded away. Then those shit-ass North Koreans started a war in ’50.” A pause. “Assholes. You know why? Because just when we were settling back into civilian life, lots of us were being called up again. To go back to our old duty. And most of us … shit, earlier, we didn’t mind going out to the Pacific. It was our job. Our duty. Goddamn Japs had started it. But Korea? Shit, who cares about Korea? But some of us lucked out. The ones that came here. Hah.”

  Mia and Gwen were quiet, so I stepped in. “How did you luck out?”

  He grinned. “Me and the other fellas, we had been around. We knew the Navy, knew how their minds worked. And we played the system. And why not? All of us were vets, and we weren’t so eager to go back to sea, or to that frozen Korea place, fight the freakin’ Chinese. Nope. So our job was to delay, delay, delay. And that’s what we did. Ask for training, take leave time, get sick here and there, do this, do that … and before you know it, we was here, getting trained on stuff we already knew. Oh, damn, it was sweet duty.”

  “How sweet?” I asked.

  He laughed again. “Real damn sweet. In fact, by the time we got here, the fighting had died down, the armistice talks were going on. Most of us stopped going to class over at the old artillery station. Stayed here, got drunk, got suntanned, had lots and lots of parties. And the cellar …”

  The second time he had mentioned the cellar. “And what was in the cellar?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “Only thing down there is dirt and an oil furnace.”

  “Well, there was no oil furnace back then,” he said, grinning. “But the dirt was there, a good place to sop up the drinks and piss and vomit when things got out of hand. A bar in the corner that served all the time, day and night. And once the little girls in the area knew what was going on here, man, it was pure pleasure.”

  Mia’s face flushed, and I remembered what her aunt had said earlier: Each generation thinks they invented sex, drugs, and drink, and each generation is wrong.

  “What did you give them, then?” I asked.

  “Mmm,” he said. “You know.”

  I smiled at him, trying to put him at some sort of ease. “I think I know, but why don’t you tell me?”

  “Uh, the usual,” Turcotte said, glancing a bit nervously at Mia and her aunt. “Most of those girls had never tasted beer before. Rum. The trick with the rum and Coke was to put just enough rum in the Coke to give the sweetie a nice little buzz, but not enough so she could taste it.”

  “Other things, too?” I asked. “Marijuana, maybe? Other stuff?”

  He grinned shyly, nodded his head. “It was party central back then. I mean, most of us, we skipped classes—with the war over, what were they going to do, send us to Korea? Even the instructors let up on us. We had rock and roll on the hi-fi, a barbecue pit out back, dancing, drinking, smoking, lots of fun stuff.”

  Mia still looked one part horrified, one part amused. I’m sure her generation was like my generation, thinking they had invented it all, had sampled it all, and for the very first time in human history.

  “But didn’t—I mean, didn’t you have inspections every now and then?” I asked.

  “Sure, but I mean, c’mon. Most of the officers were in the reserves, just like us. And they weren’t going to go out of their way
to give us shit. I mean, there were a couple of hard cases, but we always got tipped off that they were coming. Hell, we never got caught.”

  Turcotte swiveled on the couch. “Hey, Gwen, how come I never saw you stop by? You were a fine piece back in the day.”

  She gave him a not-so-gentle slap to the leg. “I’ll have you know that many men still consider me fine, no matter what day it is.”

  Turcotte grinned but wouldn’t let it go. “Still, you would have learned a lot back then, right here. Gotten a real fine education.”

  Gwen smiled sweetly, put her hand on his upper leg, and leaned in. “Bobby Turcotte, if you don’t turn around and answer Mr. Cole’s questions, straight and true, then Mia and I are going to trot up that driveway and leave you behind, and then you’ll be late going back to your room and tapioca pudding. So what’s it going to be?”

  His red face turned even redder. “Ah, just joshing around, Gwen, that’s all. You don’t need to take offense. Okay. What else do you want to know, Mr. Cole?”

  “When did all this happy time end?”

  “Well, it happened around August of that year, when things were really hopping. Seems like this cop—can’t remember what town he was from—”

  “North Tyler,” I said.

  “Yeah, that’s right, North Tyler. Well, he heard his niece was sampling the fun times down here. Betty, Bambi, something like that. Jesus. She had this flaming red hair, light freckles. She had hooked up with this big sailor, a guy named Mahoney—”

  Gwen interrupted. “Focus, Bobby, focus.”

  “Oh, yeah. Well, this North Tyler cop tries to come down and pick up his niece, and all hell broke loose. Okay, she told us she was eighteen, how were we to know otherwise? Am I right? So this cop was on a one-way suicide mission, trying to get his niece out, and a bunch of us tuned him up and tossed him into the Atlantic Ocean.”

  Mia spoke for the first time. “Were you one of those who tuned him up?”

  The smile was still on his face. “Long time ago, lady.”