by Ted Begnoche
"I'm going, I'm going." He danced around her clawing fingers.
"Well don't think you're 'going' fishing tonight, you got that? There's too much work to do, here and at home." She spun to face me, using a gnarled index finger like a pistol. "Where'd you get that chowder, Stu?"
"Um, uh, I had it delivered," I said, protecting the bowl with my free hand.
"That little weasel," she said. "It's not even on the menu." She turned and shoved her way into the kitchen, bawling at Whitey. I polished off the chowder before it was recalled.
Five minutes later Doris plopped my lunch down in front of me, without another word. Whitey had been overly generous, as usual. A sweet, white slab of cod was swimming in a huge pool of French fries. I smeared some of Whitey's homemade tartar sauce over the top and went to work.
Ten minutes later, while Doris had her back to me, I made a casting motion to get Whitey's attention. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up. I fished through my pockets until I found three wrinkled five-dollar bills, placed them under the edge of my plate, and slid out the door.
The noontime rush was winding down as I strolled back to my office. The thermometer on the bank across the street had a hard time deciding between eighty-nine or ninety, and the humidity was way up. Two teenagers pedaling tricked-out bikes nearly ran me off the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to the discomfort Mother Nature had conjured up for us.
When I pushed open my office door, I found Margie seated at my desk, feet propped up, reading a magazine.
Neither one of us was surprised by this.
"Any calls, Margie?"
"Oh, yeah," she said, dragging her feet and several mounds of paper off the desk. “Business is booming, Stuart.”
"I thought so. Anything else happening?"
"Not really. Oh, that gadget in the corner is bubbling like mad. Isn't it illegal to operate a still nowadays?"
"It's not a still, Margie. I'm making beer."
"Beer? It doesn't look like any beer I've ever had."
"It's a dark one. A double bock batch. And wait until you taste it."
"Yuck. I suppose you'd like to get back to work now," she said.
"I suppose I should. And what about you?"
"I've got two more appointments this afternoon," she said, moving toward the door. "Then I'm free as a bird."
"Lucky you." I slipped into the chair at my desk, grimacing at the warmth of it, and began pawing through the rubble on top, searching for the folder I was working on earlier. Margie waved and closed the door behind her, on her way to rid the world of the remainder of its unwanted hair.
The folder turned out to be right where I left it, sitting on the sink in the corner of the office. I retrieved it, stopping by my 'still' to check on the progress of my latest batch of beer.
I brew in small quantities, four or five gallons at a whack. Since I've started, I don't think I've brewed the same beer twice. The combinations and variations are almost unlimited, and I'm having as much fun experimenting with different ingredients and styles of beer as I am drinking them. I'm strictly low tech at this point. I'm not quite ready for a forklift and a union driver.
I went back to my desk, opened the folder and tried to get my mind back to the drudgery of paperwork. Finishing off a job is almost always the worst part of it. Ever since my police days, it's never been one of my specialties.
I pushed a pen mechanically across the paper while my mind drifted elsewhere; first to fishing, then to Heather, and finally to John Barcom. I couldn't explain why I so readily accepted the job he had described. To say he was taking a long shot was making an understatement. While it's true that easy money appeals to me, taking money from people who can't afford to pay is something I never do. And when the task at hand seems to contain as many doubtful elements as John's, I'm usually pretty forthright.
I've always considered this a character flaw.
But no, I thought. Something's different about this. Was it the wheelchair? Maybe so, but not entirely. More of a gut feeling, maybe the same feeling that drove John to seek my help.
And then there was Heather. It had been close to three months since I'd spoken with her. Why the hell was she all of a sudden dancing around in my head?
I wondered if she thought about me as often as I found myself thinking of her, or if she had at least some of the same regrets that I carried around every day?
I wondered if she still had that black swimsuit, the one she wore that weekend we spent on Martha's Vineyard?
Enough, Stuart. I shook my head to clear the clutter, then opened the folder again and forced myself to stare at the papers inside. With a little perseverance, I'd be fishing with Whitey this evening and starting fresh on a new case tomorrow.
Now get lost, Heather, like you wanted to in the first place.
"Heather O'Rourke, please. Yes, I'll hold." I wedged the phone between my shoulder and ear and drummed my fingers on the desk.
It was, of course, futile to try to drive Heather from my thoughts. The paperwork more or less finished itself while my mind shadowboxed with memories that I never could quite corner and defeat.
I first met Heather about four years ago. We were both rookies; her fresh out of the State Police Academy, and me new to the Fairshore Police force.
A housewife who was apparently tired of her husband slipping around decided to take things into her own hands. She shot him with his own gun when he came home to late one too many times. A neighbor called the Fairshore Police, the State Police got involved, and Heather and I ended up hitting it off.
"Heather O'Rourke. Can I help you?"
"I sincerely hope so," I said, chuckling.
"Stuart," she said. "What do you want?"
"Hey, now. Is that any way to treat a former boyfriend?"
"Please don't say that again. Someone might overhear you."
"Aw, come on. We were almost married, weren't we?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait," I said. "Don't do that. I need your help."
"I'm very busy."
"This shouldn't take much time. I just need a little information. How about LuLu's tonight? It's been a while."
"I don't think that's such a good idea," she said.
"Heather," I said, leaning forward in my chair, "just one drink and a little conversation. What harm will that do?"
"I have to go."
"How about 9:00 o'clock? I'm buying."
"Damn you, Stuart," she said, blowing a sigh into my ear. "Why can't you just die?"
"I'll try. Will I see you at LuLu's first?"
She was silent for so long I thought the line went dead. Finally, I heard a tiny clicking sound, like fingernails tapping on a desktop. I cleared my throat.
“I can't do it," she said.
"But..."
"Not now, Stu. I'm not ready to start anything up again. I don't know if I'll ever be."
"I'm not talking about starting anything up."
"Please," she said. "I don't expect you to understand. Just respect me and my distance, okay?" She broke the connection, and I heard my heartbeat in my ears.
I shook my head and tossed the phone on my desk. It began chirping immediately.
"McCann."
"Stuart, this is John Barcom."
"Hello, John. What's up?"
"I just remembered a few things I neglected to mention when we met today."
"Shoot," I said, reaching for a pen.
"I'd rather not. Not over the phone. Could we meet again?"
"Sure," I said. "Is tomorrow soon enough?"
"I guess so," said John. "Did you hear that clicking noise?"
"What noise?"
"Could my phone be bugged?"
"That usually only happens in the movies."
"I'm sorry for sounding so paranoid," he said.
"Look, John, we'll talk tomorrow. Have you ever been to Sal’s on Quincy Ave?"
"I've been by it hundreds of times, but I've never been in."
"Let's me
et at noon. We can talk all you like."
"Thanks, Stuart."
"See you there," I said and hung up the phone.
I shook my head. John Barcom needed a friend, I thought, not a private investigator.
Chapter 3
The lot at Sal's was packed, but I could see John Barcom's van backed into the handicapped spot right near the door. He was sitting behind the wheel, wearing the same baseball cap that he had on yesterday. I found a spot to wedge my truck into out back, and by the time I circled the building he'd already rolled up to the entrance.
"Hi Stuart," he said, thrusting his hand toward me. I reached out and grimaced as he squeezed the bones together. A few more meetings with John, I thought, and I'd never play the piano again.
"Good to see you, John." I rescued my hand and shook it out gingerly. "I hope you like pasta."
"One of my favorites. Let's do it."
Empty tables were scarce, but the energetic waitress who greeted us at the door worked some magic and we were seated in a couple of minutes. John hummed a tune I couldn't quite place while we scanned the menus. Our waitress brought us two bottles of beer and took our orders back to the kitchen, weaving skillfully through hungry patrons and an army of workers.
When she was out of earshot, John poured some beer into a glass and raised it in my direction. "To successful ventures," he said. Our glasses clinked, and he allowed himself a half-hearted smile.
"I hate to keep bothering you," said John, making wet circles on the tabletop with his glass.
"Why don't you tell me what's on your mind?"
"Okay. Bear with me, now." He pulled at his beer and swiped the back of one wrist across his mouth. His eyes swiveled left and then right.
I raised my eyebrows and edged closer to the table.
"I think someone is trying to kill me," he said.
"Are you serious?"
"Totally."
"What makes you think that, John?"
"There've been a couple of incidents. You know, close calls. I don't think they're coincidences."
"What the hell happened?"
"Last week I was eating lunch on the loading dock, and a stack of pallets fell from a storage area. They missed me by a foot. Would've squashed me like a grape." He brought his two hands together and produced a smack loud enough to turn heads.
"Jesus," I said. I sucked at my beer and watched as our waitress approached. Twin plumes of savory steam curled from our dishes as she laid them before us. She gave us an equally tempting smile before she departed.
I dug into my chicken parmesan, but John ignored his plate and kept his gaze on me, watching while I ate. After a protracted minute, he removed his baseball cap and placed it on a chair next to him.
"So what do you think?" he said. He jammed a ravioli into his mouth and watched me.
"I don't know. It could be just an accident. You know, wrong place, wrong time."
John thought a minute, and our waitress came to ask if everything was all right. We reassured her, and she was off again.
"You mentioned a couple of incidents," I said. "What else Is going on that makes you think someone is out to get you?"
"Did you notice what happened to my van?"
"No,” I said. “What's wrong?"
"The passenger side is all chewed up. I ran it into a guardrail last night on Route 3. Someone cut me off. I had to swerve to avoid hitting the bastard."
"Wow. Did you report it?"
"No. I didn't think it would do much good. It happened so fast I don't even know what kind of car it was. Something small and fast and red is about the best I can do."
"I still think you should call the police."
"You're probably right, Stuart." John sighed and rubbed at his massive jaw, then dry-washed his tired-looking face. "But I'm sure they have enough real work to do." He used a hunk of crusty bread to soak up some sauce, then washed it down with more beer. Our waitress, a model of efficiency, removed our empty plates and brought two cups of steaming coffee.
"The incident at work," I said. "Was there anyone else around?" Someone who might've seen something that you didn't?"
"That's the funny thing, Stuart. I was down on the loading dock, and it was lunchtime, so it was pretty quiet. I usually eat down there every day."
"Alone? What about cameras?"
"No. I have a good friend, Hugh Gertling, who's the boss of shipping and receiving. Only he had to run an errand for Stepkowski's son that day, so he wasn’t in the building. There’re cameras on the manufacturing floor and here and there throughout the building, but as far as I know, none on the loading dock.”
"Hmmm. Wait, Stepkowski's son works there, too?"
"Yeah. He started a few months ago, right after he got out of MCI-Norfolk."
"What did he do to land him there?"
John rested both arms lightly on the table. "You name it, Stuart. Car theft. Armed robbery. Assault. He's a real sweetheart."
"Sounds like it," I said, draining the last of my coffee.
"Yeah, and it's funny. His old man is just the opposite. He'd do anything for you. If he likes you, that is. You don't want to get on his wrong side."
"The kid sounds like a friction machine."
"You got it. I mean, he has this attitude, like he's the boss's son and all he needs to do is show up every day and at the end of the week, no matter what he's been able to accomplish, he'll draw a big fat check anyway. So I guess some of the people resent him for that."
"And Mr. Stepkowski lets him get away with that?"
"Oh, no. Step busts his balls every chance he gets. He keeps the kid by his side pretty much the whole day. I guess he's showing him the ropes, you know, preparing for his retirement. That's another rumor circulating the building."
“What?" I asked.
"That Step is grooming the boy to pass the reins on to him. And that scares the shit out of people. They're afraid he'll either sell the place to some other outfit or just run it into the ground out of sheer ignorance." He pressed his lips together and waggled his big head. "Shit, listen to me. You must think I'm sounding pretty paranoid."
"Well, John, that's easy for me to say. Those pallets didn't come close to crushing me, and I wasn't riding in your van when it almost went off the road." I ran a thumbnail around the rim of my coffee cup. "But I guess to me the two things seem unrelated."
"Just accidents?"
"Sounds like it to me."
"I guess I trust your instincts," he said. "Oh, I almost forgot. Would you hold on to something for me? It'd make me feel better."
He began rummaging through the saddlebag strapped to the side of his chair, extracting pens and markers and a couple of fishing sinkers. Finally, he looked up at me and shook his head.
"What's wrong?"
“I must've forgotten my notebook. I've been pretty shook-up lately. Anyway, I really wanted you to keep it for me."
"What's in it?"
"Just some doodles and notes," he said. "But I'd feel better if you had it."
Our waitress dropped our check on the table. John placed one giant hand on top of it and gave her a thin smile.
"I have an idea," he said. "Why don't you come down to StanMel later on? I could give you a tour of the joint."
"I don't know, John."
"It won't take long. It's not a big place. I'll show you around, give you the notebook. Then I'll let you work."
"All right," I said. "If it'll make you feel better. What time is good?"
"Around four would be okay. Just park out back and use the loading dock steps. Ask for either me or Hugh Gertling."
"I'll be there."
“Thanks," he said. "I feel better already." He reached for his cap while his words twisted inside my ears. I smiled when he jammed it onto his head and cocked it at just the right angle.
"What?"
"Nothing. I'm curious, is all. What's that symbol on your hat?"
"Oh, that?" John removed his hat and held it out for me to see. "M
y old army days. That was my company in Vietnam. It's not an official insignia or anything. We had a few artists, myself included, in our little band of merry men. The POW-MIA stuff was something I added later. Two weeks after he drew this up the guy was killed by a sniper. The same skirmish that cost me the use of my legs."
John laid his hat on the table and folded his giant hands together. His gaze settled on me briefly and then bore right through me. It appeared as though his mind was traveling back in time, and the journey was not a pleasant one. All at once I felt a strange sort of bond with him, although I'd never been anywhere near Southeast Asia. I guess I was foolish to think I was the only one whose past sometimes refused to lie still.
John plucked the bill from the table and wheeled his way toward the exit. I tossed down a ten-dollar bill and followed him out, pausing at the register while he paid up. When we were outside, with the moist air settling around us like a physical presence, John parked himself near the damaged passenger side of his van and began talking.
"We were all pretty green," he said, twisting his hat in his giant hands. "I don't think anyone in the unit had more than three months in country. We'd been in a few firefights, but nothing really heavy, like what we were about to go through.
"It was a classic ambush. A dozen NVA popped up in front of us, and when we tried to retreat, wouldn't you know a few more popped up behind us, too? There were deep ditches on both sides of the road, perfect hiding places, tall grass and plenty of cover."
John used the back of one arm to swipe at some sweat beads that had popped on his forehead. He stared out at Quincy Avenue, but for all I knew, he was seeing all the way to Vietnam. He licked his lips and shook his head. After a bit, he continued.
“Only the bastards had the ditch mined, Stuart. When we jumped in, it wasn't the safe haven we thought it would be. Then they just walked the road, picking off screaming GIs like shooting fish in a barrel, until some artillery and aircraft chased them back into the hills. It was over in ten minutes, but looking back, I guess it was just about the longest ten minutes of my life."
