The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer

by Rick Boyer

  "Good God! What do we do now?" asked Mary.

  "What you do is nothing. Except replace the safety glass—on your door anyway—with wire-impregnated glass."

  "Wait a second, Joe. You mean to tell me that old Lionel Hartzell, the wacko professor who's trying to grow silver in sea squirts, is up on the latest burglary techniques? And you think he also lifted the valuable stuff in this cottage too, just to make it look like a regular B and E, when he was really searching for stolen papers that were never stolen?"

  Joe leaned back against the wall and tapped the can opener idly against his palm.

  "There are some problems with it. I never said there weren't problems."

  "Too many problems. I agree the two break-ins are connected. We can start there. But I think the burglars were looking for something real, not imaginary. And when they didn't find it in Woods Hole, they came up here."

  "Looking for what?" asked Moe, joining us in the kitchen. "And did they find it?"

  "If we don't know what they're looking for," said Mary, "then how do we know if they found it or not?"

  "Right," said Joe. "Except you ask me, Andy could have buried it in the sand, the whatever-it-was. Then we'd never find it."

  "And what about Lionel Hartzell?" I asked.

  "What about him?" answered Joe. "He's our new suspect."

  "You still think he did it? All by himself?"

  "Look: he is a suspect. It's always good to have a suspect and a bunch of leads you're following. You don't have these, the public thinks you're just screwing around. Know what I mean? So, as I say, he is our suspect at this point in time. And also, if you haven't forgotten, it's looking better for Jack. And how do we know that Hartzell's papers weren't stolen, eh? He may be a goofball, but Andy was no babe in the woods, either. He could've waltzed into that lab, stolen some valuable research stuff, and waltzed out again with nobody the wiser. And what was he gonna do with it? Sell it, a ' course, to some pharmaceutical company or something. He can't leave the goods there, so he brings it up here with him for safekeeping over the weekend. And, hey! That could also explain the phone call."

  "You mean he was trying to make contact with a buyer or something?" asked Mary.

  "Sure. Hell, maybe there's a third party who knew about Hartzell's research beforehand, and just hired the kid to lift it. There you go—"

  "Sounds like the pieces fit to me," said Moe. "That's as good an explanation as any."

  So Moe and I went for a search-run along the beach. Joe said he'd stay home and guard the bar and help Mary cook.

  We decided to jog and walk, and went at it for two hours, going first up and down the beach three miles in either direction and scanning the scrub and grass-covered bluffs as we went. At every blowing plastic garbage bag, container, overturned boat, or pile of debris or driftwood, we stopped and poked around. We searched for curious-looking disturbances in the sand. There were none, and of course we both knew that ten days of Cape wind and weather would have obliterated them anyway. Moe suggested we find cottages or buildings that were vacant and look inside. Good idea, if we could've found any. But we didn't, and took to the back roads, sweeping our eyes everywhere for likely hiding spots that Andy could have found in the dark.

  "Zip?" Mary asked as we trudged, sweat-soaked, up the bone-colored wooden stairs from the beach to the cottage deck. We nodded, and she said that at least we'd worked up good appetites. We went in and out of the sauna for another hour and emerged, showered and starved, at six, ready for food and drink.

  We sat at the deck rail, sipping wine, feeling the cool bay breeze blow over us, and watching the sky turn yellow-gold. Then it was time to tuck into Mary's calamari.

  "Well, whoever they are, they found what they were looking for," I announced as I sat down.

  "What makes you so sure?" asked Moe, peering at me over his wine goblet.

  "Nothing. I'm just sick of worrying about it. Pass the pasta."

  SEVENTEEN

  Poor Maria! She curled up on her pallet of fur and animal skins inside the tent. She could hear the hoof beats of the horses as the riders came and went in the night. The mountain air was cold, and her flimsy garments were scant comfort. She shivered and wept.

  She thought of their leader, Fuente. A head taller than the others, he was magnificently strong. And, yes, she admitted to herself, sinfully handsome as well. It was Fuente who had beaten the ruffian called Pablo silly, then thrown him into the palmettos, to the laughter and ridicule of the others . . .

  Maria knew she was to be Fuente's woman now. She rolled on the skin and fur floor of the tent, gathering her scanty rags about her shoulders. But as she thought of the tall dark one, the man with the features of an eagle, the feeling of liquid fire was spreading in her.

  "Oh for Chrissake's,” I said to myself.

  —and she could not stop this feeling, this wonderful sensation that the sisters at the convent school had never mentioned. Who could have never thought that she, Maria Teresa Perez, the pretty girl who, since the tragic death of her parents and the loss of La Sombra, the huge family ranch in the steep, cool mountains of Durango, had studied to be a nun, pure of heart and body, should be degraded so terribly! She shuddered at the recent memory of that terrible day when the bandits had ridden down from the high hills, shooting their carbines in the air, singing and shouting drunkenly, burning the ranch buildings and killing the shepherds. And then, then they had found her, hiding like a frightened rabbit in the tiny chapel . . . And yet, as she saw the light of the campfire flickering on the wall of her rude tent, and heard the coarse language and rough laughter of the bandits outside, she somehow felt a strange, wild release . . .

  "Good God . . .," I groaned.

  But what was that? What was this sound, coming closer to where she lay shivering? It was a clinking of metal, and the sound of slow, strong, footsteps approaching. Then Maria drew in a sharp breath of fear as she looked underneath the tent flap and saw the shiny leather boots . . . the gleaming silver spurs that jangled and rang with each strong step . . ."Maria! Maria, my little pumpkin! Are you ready for me?"

  Then the tent flap jerked aside, and she lifted her weary head, trembling, to gaze up helplessly at the dark, aquiline face of Fuente, red-brown in the firelight, his dark eyebrows and ferce mustache setting of his gleaming eyes, his fine, white teeth. He looked the brutal bandit, the iron-hard revolutionary, born of the injustice and poverty of the Mexican hills. And yet . . . and yet, she did see a sensitivity there, an inner gentleness that spoke through the sad eyes and full, sw mouth. What was he like, really, she wondered? Could he ever love? Was he capable of more than mere lust? Would she ever truly know him?

  "So there you are, my little mountain warbler! My little vixen of the hills . . . you are rested I hope?" said Fuente in a hoarse whisper. He strode into the tent, clad in rough leather and metal. The cartridge belts across his wide chest gleamed gold. He cast them off, threw down his sombrero, and grabbed her in his iron talons. Too weak and frightened to resist, she let herself be raised up, and he took her in his powerful arms.

  "Iron talons? Iron talons?"

  Maria smelled the raw tequila on his breath, and beneath that, the male smell, the rough, salty-sweet drift of his man sweat. She felt herself growing weak, a strange dizziness sweeping over her. Fuente forced his lips on hers. She tried to struggle, but it was no use. She felt herself melting into him, yielding herself into his rough strength. The night noises of the wind and crickets, and the laughing, cursing ruffians around the fireside grew faint as a new sound rose in her ears, a warm, rushing sound like a million molten waterfalls—

  "For crying out loud," I moaned, "spare me—"

  Truly, this was a man who had known many women, who knew far more than the simple peasants he rode with. Maria felt herself blush with shame. Yes, she admitted to herself, yes, it was pleasure. She could no longer deny it.

  She moaned aloud as the heat within her grew. A wet, liquid, burning fire, like the lava from a y
oung volcano.

  She could not speak, but buried her face in his massive chest, then raised it to seek his mouth again.

  What would the mother superior say? Maria Teresa Perez, turned into a common slut, a slave of the passions of the flesh, by this brazen bandit! The feeling of liquid fire returned now, with renewed force and fury. Moaning and writhing on the animal skins, she realized sadly that she was powerless in passion's grasp.

  "Oh, yes . . ."she moaned, through trembling lips. Her brown eyes were half closed as she reached out and drew him on top of her. "I know I am to pay the price, Fuente. 1 am yours. You may do what you like with me . . . now and forever .... "

  * * *

  I put the manuscript down on the end table. What I wanted to do was, I wanted to throw it down the toilet.

  But I was afraid of the steam.

  So I went from my study desk, through the hallway that leads to Mary's pottery workshop and the greenhouse, and into the kitchen, where I proceeded to make a Dewar's and soda at the sideboard. No, better make that a double. jeeeez . . . Hills of Gold, Men of Bronze . . . Ay, carrramba! Sangre de Cristo! Gimmie a break already. Actually, better make that a triple. The bottle gurgled softly, soothingly, as I poured in the Destroyer. Who did she think she was? I mean, get serious. Then I heard Mary's fast foot-steps in the hallway, and she joined me in the kitchen.

  "Well?" she said, eyes blazing with excitement. "Whadduyuh think, Charlie?"

  I sipped, leaned back against the sideboard, and ruminated about phraseology. How to put it delicately.

  "Well?"

  "It's uh . . . certainly uh, descriptive . . ."

  "Uh-huh. Go on . .

  "And it's uh, sensual. Very sensual, Mare. That's for sure."

  Her eyes lit up. "You bet. That's what Moe said down at the cottage. It's good, isn't it? You like it, don't you?"

  "Uhhhhh. No. No, I can't say I'm too wild about it, hon."

  Her face fell. Her jaw crept forward a quarter inch into a bull-dog pout. She crossed her arms over her bosom and worked her clay-covered fingers back and forth, letting fragments and powder sift to the floor. She looked at the floor, shifting her feet back and forth.

  "Why not? What's wrong with it?"

  "What's wrong with it? Everything, that's what. I mean, it's just a trashy, cheap story is all."

  "Oh yeah? Well shit, then. Why did I ever ask you, anyway? You just haven't read any of the best sellers lately. Moe likes it. And Janice loves it."

  "Of that I have not the slightest doubt. But the fact remains, Mare, that the story is simply a vehicle for cheap sex scenes."

  "You catch on fast. So what's wrong with that?"

  "Mary, in literature, portrayals of love, sex, and intimacy should be subtle and refined, not gross and animalistic. And while sex is a good thing, and enhances affection and love, it should not be the end in itself."

  "Says who?"

  "Says everyone. So say all the critics. People like Clifton Fadiman, for example. In short: art is supposed to elevate, not denigrate."

  "Oh lighten up, Charlie. You don't really believe that, I hope. It's just your WASP training showing through. Every day I thank God I'm not a WASP. Now take that poker out of your ass and read the next chapter."

  "I'd rather read it after you've gone through it again and cleaned—"

  "Listen, Charlie: I don't want it to be great art. I want it to be fun to read. And I bet I sell it to a publisher."

  "I doubt that."

  "Oh yeah? Then put your money on the table; a hundred bucks says I sell it."

  Something told me not to take that bet.

  Trying to be diplomatic, I made a final, futile attempt to explain literature as defined by Aristotle, or what I remembered of him, which was scant. Her response to this well-meaning lecture was unappreciative. She suggested I take Aristotle and Clifton "what's-his-name" and shove them up my nether orifice. I replied that this was clearly impossible since, according to her, a poker was already residing therein. With a crisp "Fuck you, Charlie!" she departed, slamming her workshop door behind her.

  Sensing that our dialogue had reached an impasse, I opened the door cautiously, peered around, and saw Mary at her work table, working a big hunk of wet clay, strangling it with her incredibly strong hands.

  "Listen, Mary, I didn't mean to sound harsh. All I was trying to say was—"

  She turned fast, her mouth drawn up in a sour look, her cheeks wet. Her right arm swung back and snapped forward, doing a dynamite imitation of Roger Clemens on the Red Sox mound. I ducked behind the door.

  Wham!

  The wad of wet earth stuck to the door for a second before it came unstuck and plopped softly on the tile floor behind the closed door. It was safe to assume she was upset. Chances were, if I stayed around, she'd lose her temper. So I beat a hasty retreat into the study again. just as I sat down behind my desk, the phone rang.

  "Is this Dr. Charles Adams?"

  "Yes it is. How may I help you?"

  "My name is Marvin Isaacson, Dr. Adams, and I run a pawnshop down here in New Bedford. Tell me, Doctor, have you lost any valuable articles recently? Say, within the past week?"

  Instantly, I knew the purpose of the call.

  "Yes I have. They were stolen from my cottage down on Cape Cod."

  "Ah! The pieces seem to fit. Listen: my sons and I have been trying to reach you for the last four days—"

  "Well, we've been down on the Cape the whole time. We just came back here to Concord last night to get the mail and mow the lawn and things. I'm glad you caught us. Do you want me to describe the articles?"

  "Please."

  So I did, paying particular attention to the SONY short-wave. I told him I'd removed the back and fastened an I.D. plate inside, containing name, address, and phone.

  "That's how I found you," said Isaacson. "One of my sons took the radio in pawn when I was out. When I saw it, and thought there was a chance it might have been stolen, I removed the back and checked for any sort of owner identification. You were smart to put your name in there. So you want to come down and get it?"

  "Uh-huh. Tomorrow. How much will it cost me?"

  "We gave the kid two hundred on pawn. So if I can get my money back, I'm happy."

  "I'll get your money back and then some, for your honesty. And I'm also thinking you can help us identify the kid. You say he is a kid, a young man?"

  "Yes, my son says maybe between twenty and thirty."

  "That's interesting. If he comes back to reclaim it, stall him and phone the cops."

  "I know, but he won't. The whole thing smelled so much of stolen goods I began searching for a name as soon as I saw it. I been in this business a long time."

  We rang off and I called Joe at the cottage.

  "Hmmmm. And so you think this supports your feeling that it wasn't Hartzell who was behind it?"

  "I sure do. What do you think?"

  "I don't know yet. I think maybe Hartzell could've gotten some young punk help for the break-ins. But that poisoning job, Doc, that was clearly done by somebody extremely knowledgeable and cunning. The poisoning certainly doesn't fit with a young punk kid. You read me?"

  "Yeah. I hear what you're saying. Well, I'd like you to come down to New Bedford with me tomorrow and interview Marvin Isaacson."

  "Can do."

  "How's Moe?"

  "Fine. He's off down the beach looking for whatever's washed up in the night."

  "Figures. See you tomorrow."

  So I hung the phone up again and spent the next hour psyching myself up to go out and trim the hedges.

  EIGHTEEN

  MARY AND I rolled out of the sack at seven, made a quick pot of coffee, drank half and bottled the rest, and drove down to New Bedford. We rolled into town off highway 140 and met Joe at a small shopping center we all knew about. He was leaning against his cruiser munching on a doughnut, a tall plastic-foam cup of coffee sitting on the roof.

  "'Bout time," he said, his mouth swollen with
dough. He climbed aboard the Audi and off we went.

  New Bedford made her name in the last century as the world's premier whaling port. It remains one of the most historic and colorful towns in the east, and one of my very favorite Massachusetts towns.

  Gloucester, her sister city to the north, is like New Bedford in many ways. The biggest resemblance lies in the maritime flavor they both have. When you visit either town, you smell fish and see fishing boats, fish markets, fish processing plants, fish piers, marine supply houses, and so on. And they both have strong ethnic communities with roots in the fishing industry. Up in Gloucester, it's the Italians. In New Bedford, the Portuguese. We were now heading down Pleasant Street toward the historic south end and the whaling museum. Nearby is the famous Seamen's Bethel church on Johnny Cake Hill, the church with the unique pulpit in the shape of a ship's prow, where Ishmael heard the sermon delivered by Father Mapple in the beginning of Moby Dick. It's all still there, virtually unchanged since Melville wrote about it. And having been "a-whaling"—in a manner of speaking- and seen the beasts close-up, I felt as if I almost belonged there. We followed Marvin Isaacson's directions and found his pawnshop just a hop and a skip from the old church, on the edge of the historic district with its brick buildings and cobbled streets.

  There weren't three gold balls hanging over the doorway, but the window was filled with the usual items one finds in pawnshops, namely firearms, musical instruments, cameras, and watches. Marvin, a white-haired guy of about sixty, welcomed us warmly, but was slightly taken aback when Joe introduced himself as the fuzz.

  "Don't worry, Marvin. I've come here as a brother-in-law as much as a cop. But we all are interested in how you came into possession of this radio." And he briefly related the story of Andy's death and the subsequent burglaries. Marvin drummed his fingers nervously on the glass case he was leaning on, then ran his fingers through his ample white hair.

  "See, we've been in this business now four generations. We run a good shop. Believe me, I'm familiar with the new laws about fencing stolen merchandise, so you see, we're real careful. Darryl looked all over the outside of the radio for an I.D., but couldn't find any. But when I came back and saw the radio, and when I heard a kid had pawned it, well, naturally, I had my doubts. So that's when I took off the back cover."