After a few minutes of this, Sylvie leaned close to the guy and whispered into his ear. He listened for a moment, his grin transforming itself into a frown, and then his head jerked back as if she had slapped him. He stared at her briefly, his mouth agape, and then shoved back his chair and fled.
Sylvie arched her eyebrows and shrugged at me.
“What’d you say?” I asked her.
She leaned across the table to me. “I just asked him if he wanted to get laid. I guess he didn’t, huh?”
A gang of volunteer waitresses cleared away the debris of the meal and slid paper plates of apple pie in front of us. We passed around big stainless steel pitchers of hot coffee for our Styrofoam cups. From the head table came the whine and hum of the amplifier. A voice said, “Can I have your attention, please?”
The conversational din gradually died, and all heads turned to the front. A guy with slicked-back black hair and sideburns was standing at his place at the table, holding a hand mike. “Probably the head Elk,” I whispered to Sylvie. “Guy with the biggest rack.”
“Folks,” he said, and he frowned at the feedback from the system. “Folks, Tom Baron is back where he started. Back here with his good friends and neighbors in Windsor Harbor.”
There was a ripple of polite applause. One man yelled, “Baron for governor!” Louder applause.
“Absolutely right, friend,” said Sideburns, warming to his task. “Tom is on his way. But he never forgets his roots. And it’s my pleasure tonight to give you our native son, and the next governor of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, Tom Baron.”
He stepped aside as Tom made his way to the microphone. The two men shook hands ceremoniously. Around me, folks were standing up, clapping their hands, whistling, and calling out, “Way to go, Tom,” and, “Hey, Big Tom.” I glanced at Sylvie, who looked at me and shrugged. We both stood up. Neither of us applauded.
Tom Baron had the look, no doubt about it. A thick unruly head of black hair, with just the right touch of gray at the temples. Solid jaw, fierce gray eyes, a lanky, Lincolnesque frame.
All politicians have a Speech. It’s the same one, and they deliver it over and over again, substituting the names of local politicians and appropriate anecdotes. Tom Baron’s speech touched on hoary old themes dear to the hearts of politicians—the identification of the speech-giver with the good folks in the crowd, the sanctity of God, community, and family, the virtues of hard work and law-abiding behavior, the evils of drugs and promiscuous sex. Tom, to his credit, made it sound new and sincere, and even a hardened cynic such as I was touched momentarily by the possibilities of renewing the American Dream under an administration headed by Tom Baron. His powerful voice rose and fell in hypnotic rhythms, carrying the hometown folks on its waves, and when he finished, the applause thundered and rolled through the room.
Sylvie leaned across to me. “What did all that mean?”
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But he said it awfully well, I thought.”
Up front, Tom beckoned to his wife, Joanie, who had been sitting at the head table with him. She rose with a great show of reluctance and stood beside him. She was a fading blonde, perhaps thicker-waisted than in her cheerleading days, but still photogenic. A definite asset. Tom threw an arm around her shoulder. She gazed fondly up at him. He bent and kissed her cheek. The folks in the Elks lodge applauded this move with renewed enthusiasm.
After a few minutes, Sideburns reappeared. Once again he and Tom shook hands. Tom handed him the mike and returned to his seat. Sideburns continued to stand there, beaming. Gradually the noise died down.
“Okay,” he shouted. “Let’s have music.”
Everybody stood up and began milling around. Tables were shoved against the walls to clear the way for dancing. I grabbed Sylvie’s arm and steered her outside.
We sat on the front steps of the Elks lodge. I smoked a cigarette. Sylvie sat close to me. “I’m hungry,” she said.
“Soon as I talk to Tom, we can go.”
The September night air promised frost. A half-moon hung over the big maples that rimmed the town common. Sylvie put her head on my shoulder. “Pretty,” she said. “My village in Hungary, it was like this in the fall.”
“And now you are living the American Dream.”
“It was all silly, what he said. But I do believe it, in a funny way. I cannot be too cynical.” Sylvie’s voice was soft. “What I came from, I cannot dislike what he was saying. Here, at least, it is possible.”
“But it is more possible for some than for others.”
“Ah, you are such a cynic. I don’t know what I see in you.”
Loud voices seeped over us as the door behind us opened. I turned around. Tom Baron was standing there. He sat down beside me.
“Gimme one of your butts, will you?”
I took out my pack of Winstons and shook one loose for him. “What a rat race,” he said. “Gimme a light.”
I held my Zippo for him. He inhaled deeply and sighed.
“Sylvie Szabo, Tom Baron,” I said.
Tom barely glanced at Sylvie. “Yeah, nice,” he said. “So what’d you hear in there? What do the simple folks say?”
“Lots of jokes about farting. Beans the musical fruit. Like that.”
“Ah, Coyne,” said Tom, smiling. “I can always count on you for necessary deflation. They’re having a good time, though, huh?”
I shrugged. “What’s this all about, Tom?”
He pulled back from me gently and moved away from the light that spilled out of the Elks lodge windows. I followed him. We leaned against the hood of an ancient Cadillac parked in a shadow.
Tom sighed and flicked away his half-smoked cigarette. “They found the body of a high school girl in the woods behind the school this morning. Kid named Alice Sylvester. She was strangled, they think. This was a real popular kid. Cheerleader type. Honor Society. Small town like Windsor Harbor, Brady, something like this is a big tragedy.”
“Big tragedy anywhere,” I observed.
“Yeah, right. Thing is, this girl, this Alice, she was Buddy’s girl friend.”
“That has to be rough on the kid,” I said. I took a hard look at Tom. I realized I had missed his point. “What are you saying?”
He gazed away at the dark sky. “For all I know,” he said slowly, “Buddy was with Alice last night.”
“What do you mean, for all you know. Didn’t you ask him?”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Buddy didn’t come home. We haven’t seen him.”
Tom started pacing back and forth in front of me. I went to him and put my hand on his shoulder. “What exactly are you trying to say? Do you think your son killed the girl?”
He shook his head at the night. “I don’t know what to think, Brady.”
“I mean, I know Buddy has had some problems. But I wouldn’t think he was a murderer.”
“I didn’t say Buddy was a murderer,” said Tom softly, not looking at me. “Hell, I don’t think he is. In my heart, I know he’s not. But my head—ah, shit, you know what I mean. All I’m saying is, this is a problem. I don’t know how to handle it.”
“What have you told the police?”
He turned to face me. “Nothing. I called you.”
I nodded. “But they haven’t come knocking at your door?”
“No.”
“And you haven’t reported that Buddy is missing?”
“He’s not exactly missing. He just didn’t come home last night. Hell, he’s eighteen years old. He comes and goes. He’s stayed out all night before.”
I took out my Winstons again and offered one to Tom. He shook his head impatiently. I lit one for myself. “I want to know what you think,” I said.
“Well, I don’t think Buddy killed his girl. That’s one thing. Hell, he loved that girl. He really did.”
“Those,” I observed, “are the people who kill each other.”
“I don’t really need
your cynical homilies, Counselor. You’re not exactly making this easy, you know.”
“I wasn’t trying to make it easy. I think you ought to assume that Buddy is in trouble.”
“You don’t think I thought of that already?”
“There’s another thing,” I said.
“Yeah. I know what you’re going to say. Something could’ve happened to Buddy. Right?”
“Right. Either way, we should’ve talked to the cops a long time ago. You have already screwed up. A felony has been committed. You possess relevant information.”
Tom’s laugh was sudden and harsh. “No shit, Counselor. Relevant information, indeed.” His tone shifted abruptly. It became soft, hesitant. I sensed a rhetorical trick, but it was still effective. “Look,” he said. “This is, ah, delicate, Brady. Sensitive. You understand, I know.”
“You’re saying that these events are inconvenient. They do not serve to advance the cause.”
Tom straightened and moved several steps away. I held my ground and waited. After a moment he came back to stand in front of me. “Brady,” he said. “We’ve known each other for a long time. You don’t have to treat me this way. I don’t have to tell you everything that’s whirling around in my head. You know me. I shouldn’t have to apologize for myself.”
“You want a lawyer or a friend, Tom?”
He stared at me. “You are one tough son of a bitch when you want to be. Okay. Fair enough. If I gotta choose, right now I think I want a lawyer.”
I touched his shoulder. “You don’t have to choose, old pal. But be straight with me, okay?”
He nodded. “Look,” he said, “I don’t want you to get the wrong idea. I am upset about the girl. I didn’t know her well. But I liked her. I liked what she seemed to be doing for Buddy. And, hell, I’d be upset anyway, a thing like this. And I’m worried about my son. Very worried. Whether he did this or not, I realize that he could be a suspect. And I’m not stupid. I know something could’ve happened to Buddy. It’s—I’ve tried not to think about that. Joanie’s been ever so cheerful. I know she’s had the same thoughts I have.”
“Look,” I said.
Tom held up his hand. “Right. I know. We should’ve talked to the cops right away. I knew that. You’re right. As usual, Coyne, God damn you.” Tom jabbed me lightly on the bicep. “But listen. You have to understand about the campaign, too. It’s important to a lot of people, Brady. It’s bigger than just me. It’s—”
“Ah, bullshit!” I thrust my face close to his. “Don’t you give me that kind of shit. That’s Eddy Curry talking. That’s not Tom Baron.”
Tom pulled back from me, but he returned my stare. “It’s the truth,” he said simply. “Whether you think it’s dumb or not, there are a lot of people who care a lot about this campaign, who have invested time and money and commitment, too. It’s not just my power trip, Brady. That’s why this thing has to be handled… discreetly, know what I mean? Yes, you do. Look. If Buddy’s not involved, not guilty of something—and you know as well as I do that he’s not—then there’s no reason why his name—my name—should be dragged through the shit. You do see that, don’t you?”
I nodded. “In theory, yes,” I conceded. “Except this isn’t theory, and it doesn’t work that way.”
“Helluva good way to ruin a candidate, Brady, you gotta admit that.”
“Shame on you,” I said. “Only Eddy Curry would think of that.”
He shrugged. “Just a thought. A touch of scandal and this campaign is gonzo.”
“I’ve heard of dirty tricks, but this is a crazy thought.”
“Those Democrats, they’re known for dirty tricks.”
“Politicians are known for dirty tricks. But we’re not talking about a dirty trick, here. This is murder. So get off that kick.”
“Yeah, stupid,” he mumbled.
“Besides,” I added. “It really is possible something happened to Buddy. And here you are, performing for the home folks as if nothing has happened. You’ve got your priorities fucked up, my friend.”
He looked at me for a moment, then shrugged. We wandered back to the lodge and Tom slumped on the steps beside Sylvie, who seemed to be savoring the night air. Tom turned to her and said, “What do you think, Miss?”
“You should do what Brady tell you to do,” she said promptly.
He grinned up at me. “Hell, I know that. That’s why I called him.”
“Then let’s get going,” I said.
“Where?”
“The cops. Where else?”
He shrugged and stood up. I extended my hand to Sylvie, who got up and put her arm around my waist.
Tom said, “Hang on just a minute, okay? I gotta go back inside, tell Joanie and Eddy that I’ve gotta take off.”
He went back in. Sylvie hugged me and put her cheek on my shoulder. “Does this mean no monkfish?” she whispered.
“Afraid so, hon. This might take a while.”
Two
WE PARKED IN THE lot beside the Windsor Harbor police station. The building was a flat-roofed cement-block structure. All function, no form. Floodlights were mounted up on the corners to illuminate the area. Good way to discourage prowlers, burglars, rapists, and other criminal types who might want to hang around there.
Sylvie decided to stay in the car and listen to my collection of Miles Davis tapes while Tom Baron and I went inside. A young, red-headed cop who sported a bushy mustache and a big expanse of sunburned forehead was perched behind a glass partition in the cramped entry area. When he saw us come in, he leaned down to speak through the slit at the bottom of the glass.
“Hey, Mr. Baron. How you doin’?”
“Great, Pete. Never better.”
I imagined Tom’s hand twitching out of frustration because he couldn’t reach over the partition to shake the cop’s hand.
“How’s the campaign?”
“Good, Pete. Looking real good. Listen. Is the chief in?”
The cop frowned. “Matter of fact, he’s over at the hospital. We had a bad thing last night—don’t know if you heard. Anyhow, he’s getting the word from the medical examiner. He oughta be back soon. You want to wait?”
Tom glanced at me. I nodded.
“Well, sure,” he said.
We sat in molded plastic chairs and shared what was left of my pack of Winstons. I scrutinized the wanted posters on the bulletin board. All the criminals with their portraits up on the wall looked sinister as hell. I found that vaguely comforting.
The phone rang a few times. Although I couldn’t hear what the desk cop was saying, I had the impression he was talking to a girl friend. I was sure it wasn’t a wife. A pair of uniformed policemen wandered in. Tom greeted them warmly. They both claimed they intended to vote for him.
We had been there for more than an hour when the police chief came in. He glanced our way, hesitated just an instant, then said, “Hi, Tommy.”
“Harry,” said Tom. He darted a quick look at me, then he said to the other man, “Got a minute?”
The chief touched his steel-rimmed glasses. “Matter of fact, I do,” he said. He glanced inquiringly at me.
“Oh, ah, Harry Cusick, this is Brady Coyne. Brady’s my attorney.”
Cusick extended his hand to me. “Good to meet you,” he said. To Tom he said. “Good move.”
“Huh?” said Tom.
“Bringing your lawyer. Come on in.”
Tom and I followed the chief through a door that buzzed when he approached it. We went down a short corridor to Cusick’s cramped office. He settled behind his desk, and Tom and I arranged ourselves in straight-backed chairs in front of him.
Cusick was wearing a rumpled summer-weight suit. The collar of his shirt was open and his tie was pulled loose. He pushed his glasses up onto his forehead and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. Then he peered at Tom.
“I just finished telling two very nice people that their beautiful daughter had been murdered. Her windpipe and larynx were crushed. She died in
great agony. They are not taking it well.”
Tom and I looked at him. He smiled bleakly at us.
“This is not my favorite part of the job. We don’t have much of this in Windsor Harbor. I came to this town to get away from this sort of thing. I have some preliminary results from the medical examiner.” He shot a look at Tom. “Maybe you’re interested?”
Tom nodded.
“I had to tell these parents that their daughter had engaged in sexual intercourse within an hour of her death, one way or another.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” blurted Tom.
“Obvious.” Cusick shrugged. “Somebody screwed her either before she died or—”
“Jesus!” breathed Tom.
“The M.E. thinks it happened before she died, actually. There was evidence that she was, ah, sexually aroused herself.”
“Not rape, then,” I said.
“Probably not. She was fully clad when she was found. The other thing I had to tell these nice people was that their little girl had significant traces of cocaine in her bloodstream. These folks did not like to hear any of this. But I had to tell them. And I had to ask them questions, of course. I couldn’t allow them to grieve, to feel their anger and their loss. My job is to ask the questions. So I did.” He looked down at his desk and touched the edges of some papers that were lying there. He looked up at Tom. “Why are you here?” Cusick asked him.
“I guess you probably know, Harry.”
Cusick nodded. “Alice Sylvester’s parents said they thought she was with Buddy last night.”
“I don’t know whether they were together or not. They might have been.”
“I have to talk to Buddy.”
“I don’t know where he is.”
“What do you mean?”
Tom took a deep breath, either to gain some patience or to steady his nerves. He let it hiss out slowly. “He never came home. I don’t know what to make of it. Normally, of course, I wouldn’t give it a thought. He’s eighteen, he’s got a job, he’s pretty much on his own. But this…”
Vulgar Boatman Page 2
