The Company She Kept

by Archer Mayor

  “I doubt it’s that hairy a deal,” Willy commented. “By following Raffner’s stash to its source, we’re just following a lead.”

  “Without telling anyone,” she countered. “That shows the courage of our conviction.”

  Willy laughed. “Hey. I’m covered. I’m the official stray bullet—per the boss. You’re the one feeling like you’re playing hooky.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she muttered.

  He grinned. “I’m here, Sam. So what’s your plan?”

  “You ask Bob Crawford to hook up with us?” she asked.

  “You command, I do,” he replied.

  “You are such a bullshitter.” She smiled. “Well, Bob is my plan, since you already briefed him on the Newport mess. There’ve been a lot of changes in this town since I was under—the drug squad’s been disbanded, a new police chief’s taken over, the community’s more involved than it was. Crawford has his eyes open. I’m hoping he’ll give us a lay-of-the-land snapshot. I don’t want to cold-call Stuey without knowing what he’s been up to and who he’s allied with nowadays.”

  Willy checked his watch and slouched down in his seat. “Okay—hurry-up-and-wait time.”

  * * *

  Joe slowed just shy of Wylie Dupont’s address on Bay Street. Mares’s description of the place as a flophouse had been charitable. It was a two-story, small-windowed, sway-backed, ex-barn wrapped in peeling Tyvek sheeting. It looked as if someone years earlier—fueled with ambition and few funds—had begun a restoration project with no skills and little hope of success, and had met his expectations.

  The irony of the setting’s misery lay across the street, which was a beautiful and uninterrupted view of a finger inlet of Lake Memphremagog, now a slab of frozen water cloaked in snow. The juxtaposition made a lie of the premise that all waterfront property was pricey, while saying a great deal about Newport’s relative isolation from the commercial mainstream.

  Joe found a spot at the foot of the poorly plowed driveway, and gingerly ascended its slippery incline, his hands out to his sides, fully prepared to suddenly find himself extended flat out in midair like a cartoon character in mid-pratfall. Considering that he thought himself on little more than a minor inquiry, it figured that this would be how he’d wind up in the hospital with a broken leg.

  Such, thankfully, was not to be. He reached the building’s tilted front porch, weighted down by cordwood, and seized its railing like a drowning man reaching shore. Not minding the clumps of frozen snow glued to each step, he hauled himself up, reached the apartment building’s front door, and stepped inside after seeing no doorbells or signs to direct him.

  He found himself inside a gloomy central hall constructed of unfinished drywall and scarred plywood flooring, facing a barely visible array of metal mailboxes. Pulling out his small flashlight, he studied the names labeling each box—several of which were illegible—until he spotted a cramped “D’pon,” which he took to be the best effort of Wylie Dupont.

  He did not press the buzzer mounted above box number six, not only convinced that it didn’t work, but also not wanting to give Wylie a heads-up.

  Number six, on the third floor, unsurprisingly faced not the photogenic view, but the rear of the building, where Joe had earlier noticed a caved-in, ancient horse stable, now filled with abandoned trash and rusting metal equipment.

  He paused to catch his breath, unzipped his parka, and knocked on the flimsy door.

  Without warning or approaching footsteps, it opened within seconds, revealing a young bearded man with long hair and slightly vacant eyes.

  “Hi,” he said without expression.

  Joe responded with a friendly smile. “Hi, yourself. You Wylie?”

  The young man seemed to consider that for an instant, before saying, “Yeah,” and then turning on his stockinged heel to leave the doorway empty and Joe standing by himself. Joe’s built-in caution loosened another notch.

  Wylie’s greeting had been neither hostile nor welcoming, but oddly neutral, as if he were simply too distracted by something else to make an effort either way.

  Leaning forward at the waist to better see ahead, Joe slowly crossed the threshold.

  Unexpectedly, Wylie Dupont was indeed otherwise occupied, delivering worms one-by-one to a box turtle housed at the bottom of an old fish tank. Looking around, Joe took in a single room with one window, no closet, and no bathroom—a communal lavatory presumably being located somewhere on the landing.

  The place struck Joe as a large closet, converted into a bedroom, if only through the application of a number on the door. He did discern, spotting it through the mess, what he thought might be a bed—or at least a thin mattress—along one wall. But otherwise, the tiny space was filled with an upended stack of two-by-fours, half of a bicycle, a collection of empty picture frames, several plastic garbage bags, an assortment of dropped clothes, tools of all kinds—in various states of disrepair—and three broken TV sets. From waist height on down, the place was a jumble; from there to the ceiling, it was as if the room was empty. The fish tank was spacious and upscale by comparison.

  Wylie seemed to have forgotten him.

  “I’m Joe,” he said. “You live here alone?”

  His host didn’t respond, intent on his mission. The turtle’s neck was fully extended as he reached for the dangling prize Wylie held above him.

  Joe tried again. “I wanted to talk to you about Nate.”

  “He’s dead.” The reply came fast and without inflection.

  Joe kept addressing the young man’s back. “I know. That must’ve been tough. You were good friends, weren’t you?”

  “We were friends.” Same toneless high-speed delivery.

  Joe paused, considering the value of continuing the conversation. Mares had implied that Dupont might be a worthwhile witness, but so far, the evidence was lacking.

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions about him, if that’s okay,” Joe tried, mostly to be thorough.

  The turtle finally took hold of the worm, allowing Wylie to turn around. He looked happy with his success.

  “Sorry,” he said, smiling. “Jack comes first when it’s lunchtime. Who’re you?”

  Joe hesitated at the startling change. This was evidently a one-thing-at-a-time sort of guy.

  “My name’s Joe. I’m hoping to learn a little about Nate. What kind of person he was, who his other friends were. That kind of thing.”

  Wylie seemed confused. “Why?”

  Joe decided to begin again. He opened his jacket to reveal the badge attached to his belt. “I’m a police officer,” he began. “And I’m trying to find out…”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, brought up short by Wylie turning red-faced and bunching up his fists.

  “You killed him,” Wylie growled through clenched teeth.

  “No, no,” Joe tried placating him, holding up both hands. “I want to find out why that happened.”

  But the transformation was complete and irreversible. The gentle, childlike man of moments ago tucked down and charged Joe as if wishing to spear him with his body. Joe had only time to catch his head like a basketball as it careened into his midriff and propelled him backward toward the half-open door.

  Wylie’s fury turned him into an irresistable force, as brainless and direct as an attacking bull. Joe’s shoulder struck the edge of the door, pivoting him slightly as they both blew out onto the landing. For a split second, Joe saw the yawning top of the staircase approaching at speed—along with the good chance that he was about to become a human toboggan—before he twisted violently in the same direction that he’d already begun. He used Wylie’s momentum against him by grabbing his ears and throwing him forward as if passing a ball, reversing their positions just as they flew into the void and down the staircase.

  The next few seconds became an explosive ecstasy of arms, legs, glimpses of passing stair treads, and a rapid succession of painful and jarring body blows. It ended as abruptly as it had started, with both men in a
heap at the bottom.

  Half-conscious, his head ringing and his body throbbing, Joe gasped for air as he kept slapping at Wylie and trying to push him off, only slowly becoming aware that his attacker had become a dead weight.

  With that, he stopped his efforts, hearing shouts as from a great distance, and lay back against the wooden floorboards, caving in to an overwhelming urge to rest.

  He shut his eyes, he thought for just a moment, and passed out.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  “Joe.”

  He kept his eyes closed, half hoping he was still dreaming.

  “Joe.”

  The dream had been negligible, but it had helped dull a pain in his head of staggering intensity. Not so the man’s voice.

  “Wake up.”

  He opened up just enough to see Bill Allard’s familiar shape looming over him. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Give it a rest.”

  “I’m supposed to find out if you’ve been brain damaged.”

  Joe widened his eyes. “By yelling at me? Who told you to do that?”

  He raised a hand to test his throbbing head and found his forearm tethered to an IV tube and one finger capped by a pulse monitor.

  He looked around slightly, trying not to move. “Where am I?”

  “Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center,” Allard answered him. “They brought you straight here after the downstairs neighbor found you in a pile in Newport.” He added with an edge to his voice, “Where you’d gone to interview a dangerous half-wit on your own with no backup and without telling dispatch. Congratulations. Pure dumb luck you made so much noise going down—imagine if that lunkhead had just cut your throat and then dumped you in the lake. You’re supposed to be influencing Kunkle—not the reverse.”

  Joe used his other hand to massage his forehead, to no effect except to discover that it was covered with a bandage.

  “Was Wylie Dupont found with me?”

  “Yeah, with a broken neck.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “No. He might wish he was when he comes out of his coma—assuming he does.”

  Joe scowled. “He just blew up. It was crazy.”

  Allard’s tone hardened again. With his vision clearing, Joe could see that Bill looked like he should be in the adjoining bed. He was obviously exhausted. “What’s crazy is that there’re enough TV trucks dogging my heels to document a shuttle launch. We were just starting to think they might find this whole mess too boring to stick around, when you decided to go commando on us.”

  “I thought that meant you weren’t wearing underwear.”

  Bill glared at him. “Don’t fuck with me. What the hell were you doing, anyhow? What does Dupont have that’s so valuable?”

  Joe blinked slowly a couple of times. “That’s the worst part—probably nothing. I was just hoping for some sort of break.”

  Bill shook his head. “No one ever told you to beware what you wish for?”

  * * *

  Bob Crawford got out of his car and crossed over to where Sam and Willy were sitting in her vehicle. He settled into the backseat.

  “Nice heater. Mine only goes up about half-power. They can’t figure out why. Gotta drive around dressed like an Eskimo.” He began struggling out of his parka as he spoke. “You hear about your boss?” he asked.

  They both turned to stare at him. “What?” Sammie asked first.

  “He’s at DHMC with a bump on the head. Got ambushed in Newport by some buddy of the late, unlamented Nate Fellows. Guess he was flying without a wingman for some reason.” He waggled his eyebrows at them. “What’re you two up to?”

  Sam wasn’t ready to move on yet. “How is he? Is he okay?”

  “Fine, far as I know. He went down a flight of stairs. The other guy came out worse, so there may be some justice in the world.”

  “Spare me,” Willy grumbled.

  “How did you hear all this?” Sam asked, still struggling with her surprise.

  “The hospital is media storm central, but my source is a nurse I know on the floor. You guys should play the radio more often.”

  Willy shifted his attention to his partner. “You wanna go rushing off to his side—hold his hand?”

  Of course she did, which heightened her anger at his attitude. “Damn. You do have a gift.”

  Crawford weighed in. “Wouldn’t make any difference. You know he’s got hot- and cold-running medical care. You can’t beat that. Plus, it sounds like your boss-of-bosses is with him anyhow.”

  “Allard?” Willy was caught off guard this time.

  “That’s what I heard. He’s probably reaming your boy a new one.”

  Willy tilted his head appreciatively. “Could be,” he agreed. “I’ll remember that next time he beats up on me.”

  Sam scowled at him. “You poor baby. You do suffer.”

  Willy laughed. “I do. I do.”

  “So,” Crawford asked, “you going or not? We can do this another time.”

  It was Sammie who chose for them. “No, you’re right. Sounds like he’s fine. We can catch up with him later. Or I can,” she said darkly to Willy.

  “Okay then,” Bob resumed. “What d’you want from me?”

  “For starters, what’ve you heard about Stuey Nichols?” Willy asked.

  Bob nodded in acknowledgment. “Allan Steward Nichols. Lives in the Gut somewhere. Moves around, like most of them, so I don’t have a specific address.”

  “And?” Willy pressed.

  “Not much else. Local loser doing pissant deals—making ends meet. Not a major player. Why?”

  “Sam’s got a source who says he was in on a deal to supply Susan Raffner with weed through an intermediary.”

  “No foolin’? I get why you’re interested.”

  “But you don’t know his whereabouts?” Sammie confirmed.

  “Not exactly. I can find out—just by taking you up the street.”

  “Good,” Willy encouraged him. “’Cause if we’re real lucky, this might be the back door into what got Raffner killed. Bob, if you don’t know where Stuey lives, you know at least where he’s getting his supplies? It was Holyoke, back in the day.”

  “Still is,” Bob said. “The powers change names now and then—the top dog right now is somebody named Manny Ruiz. If we could land him, that would be a major home run. But it’s not likely. Too well protected.”

  “Whoa,” Willy reacted, tapping Sam on the arm. “He was your squeeze back then.”

  Sam shot him a withering look, surprised by her own anger. “That was the cover. Glad it was convincing, even after all these years.” She shifted to Crawford. “How big is Ruiz?”

  “Top ranks. It’s a more open marketplace than it used to be, now that Vermont’s a ripe-’n’-ready consumer state. The last bunch of hotshots were out of New York—the Bronx, to be precise—but even they weren’t cut from the old cartel model, with the strict pyramidal, top-down, Mexican drug lord structure. The action’s shifted to what used to be the runners and lieutenants—like a middle management thing now, ’cause the money’s so good and the risks so minimal.”

  He jutted his chin out the side window at the town around them. “That’s partly why the shift in policing in this town.”

  “I was telling Willy that they discontinued their drug unit,” Sammie said.

  “Correct—for local departments, it’s less about interdiction now, and more about making your town an unappealing marketplace. You wanna meet with the local expert on that, I know where he is right now—regular as rain every day. He might also be able to tell you about Stuey.”

  Sam and Willy exchanged a glance. “Sure,” Sammie told Crawford.

  * * *

  It was late at night when Joe saw the door to his hospital room swing open without a sound. He was awake, reading a history book. His sleeping schedule had been knocked off-kilter by the visits he received around the clock from doctors and nurses, not to mention the spontaneous naps he fell prey to.

  Adding intrigue to this interru
ption was the fact that he recognized the wary business-suited man who entered as Gail Zigman’s head of security, John Carter.

  “John?” he said inquiringly.

  Carter finished his survey of the single-bed room, also glancing into the small bathroom. “Hey, Joe. How’s the noggin?”

  “Not a vital organ, so all’s well. What’re you doing here?”

  “On the job,” was the answer. “You up for a guest?”

  Joe guessed what was next. “Absolutely.” He marked his page and rested the book in his lap.

  Gail entered as John left, closing the door and leaving them alone.

  Joe smiled. “Just so it’s on the record, I know that you know that we shouldn’t be meeting without a witness in the room, unless I’ve been taken off the case.”

  She smiled back tensely and crossed over to him to administer a kiss on the cheek and an awkward hug. “I know you know that I know—and that I also don’t give a good goddamn.” She sat in the chair next to his bed and slipped off her coat.

  “How goes the battle?” he asked. “You’ve had more press coverage recently than most natural disasters.”

  “Interesting comparison. I’ll tell you about it in a couple of minutes, but it’s not why I came.” She laid a hand on his and looked him straight in the eye. “I want to know if you’re okay. Really. And please—none of the New England macho crap you just gave John. I want the truth.”

  He turned his hand over so he could interlink fingers with her. “I’m fine. I promise. They’re holding me overnight to be safe, but every test and scan and blood draw they’ve done shows nothing wrong. Apparently, I bounce as well as when I was a baby. I’d tell you if it was otherwise. Speaking of bouncing, though, how’re you holding up? I don’t guess you’ve fit much governing in with all the junk that’s been flying at you.”

  She forced a smile. “You’ve been keeping company with Kunkle for too long.”

  “Oh?” he asked.

  “My coming out has been called a lot of things lately, but ‘junk’ isn’t one of them—or my grieving over Susan’s death.”