River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  The dream seems so real, so vivid, that sometimes I can smell the rubber from the tires on my patrol car. It almost always starts in the same spot, with me chasing a blue Ford Mustang, stolen from the South Shore Plaza, out of the liquor store parking lot and down Quincy Avenue, heading toward Weymouth Landing. The scumbag in the Mustang ran two people off the road in the first two hundred yards. I was in pursuit, complete with smoking tires and squealing radio.

  It's not as fun as it looks on TV.

  It was dusk, and everyone said that was a factor. I said bullshit, and when that Mustang made a right turn toward the highway, I was right on him. He reached fifty miles per hour on a tiny side street better suited to twenty, and I backed off a little, trying to radio my position. I succeeded in knocking the mike to the floor. A left and then a right and he was heading for Union Street, which would deposit him on Route 3 in about a mile, ironically passing by the police station.

  Cars were pulling off the road as we sped up Union. My heart was ready to explode, and the fear tasted like an old penny lodged in the back of my throat. The radio spewed static and incoherent words.

  The bastard made a quick left on Liberty Street and I followed, my tires scraping against the curb. One hundred feet separated us as we sped by the elementary school. The speedometer needle was laying all over the sixty mark. I goosed the accelerator to close the distance but lost sight of him around a sharp turn. My back tires slid up onto the sidewalk as I fought the cruiser for control. I panicked for a split second and then punched it. The rear end fish-tailed and then came out of the skid. I thought I was home free, and my heart slipped back down my throat.

  Except waiting for me around that corner was an eleven-year-old boy, just starting to walk his bike across the street. If I live to be a thousand, I'll never forget the look in his eyes as my cruiser bore down on him. I fought the wheel, screaming so loud I thought my lungs would burst. He just stood there, frozen, and I was unable to turn the hurtling cruiser. The sound it made, the Goddamned life-ending thump, I can still hear it now, Jesus Christ.

  I came awake kicking and screaming, slicked with sweat, my heart thumping against my ribcage like it was ready to burst. Pedro had started his high-pitched barking again, his little yelps barely piercing the fog that had settled around my brain. I had to blink several times before I realized I was still on the couch.

  The soft glow of the cable box read 3:38.

  I sat up. Pedro's barking slowly subsided. Pale white from the streetlight outside seeped in around the curtains. More sleep was just wishful thinking at this point, so for the third night that week I stumbled to the kitchen and filled the coffee maker with water and strong Columbian. After a long shower, the coffee was ready, and I sat at the table with a six-month-old copy of Field & Stream, waiting for dawn.

  I called Whitey around five o'clock, catching him as he was leaving for the diner. I explained the situation, and he said he'd be there in ten minutes. I slipped on yesterday's jeans and a clean T-shirt and went out to wait on the front steps, turning a hazy game plan this way and that in my muddled mind. Whitey interrupted my attempt at coherent thought right on time.

  "You look like shit," he said when I pulled open the passenger door.

  "Thank you. That's exactly how I feel." I rubbed at the stubble on my cheeks, ran my tongue against my furry teeth.

  "Good God, Stuart. I had an awful thought as I was driving up. Put you in front of an office building in town right now, and you'd look homeless. The police would drop you off at Father Bill's."

  "That bad, huh?"

  "Not good."

  "Where's Doris?"

  "Please," said Whitey, holding up his right hand like a traffic cop. "Don't you have enough problems this morning? I told her I'd meet her at the diner. Had to help a friend in need."

  Whitey pulled away from the curb and pointed the car toward the Square without a glance for traffic.

  "My name didn't come up, did it?"

  "Not specifically, but I think you're a suspect. Maybe she should have been the detective." He gestured at a cardboard container that held two cups of coffee. "Get it while it's hot." He shook a cigarette loose from a crumpled pack and worked his lighter until we were engulfed in hazy gray smoke.

  "So, where's the crime scene?"

  "LuLu's," I said. "I met Heather there, last night."

  "Really?" Whitey arched his eyebrows. "How's she doing?"

  "She seems great. She asked after you."

  "She's a nice kid," said Whitey. "You know, you really oughta..."

  "Okay, Whitey. Please? If everyone did what they oughta do, it'd be a pretty boring old world."

  "Sorry, pal," he said. "Just trying to make conversation."

  "My head's more suited to silence today."

  "As you wish." He smoked his cigarette down to a nub and then ground it out in an overflowing ashtray. He went for his coffee and pried the lid off, cursing when he sloshed some on his pant leg.

  We traveled the rest of the way in silence, sipping coffee and staring through the windshield. Whitey swung into LuLu's and bounced through the rutted dirt lot.

  "Thanks, Whitey."

  "Forget it," he said, waving his hand in the air. "Meet me back at the diner. I'll fix you up a hangover special. It'll be just like old times."

  "God, don't say that. I don't know if I could go through that crap again."

  Whitey laughed and backed away. I unlocked the truck door and pushed my fishing tackle aside. The faithful Toyota sputtered to life, and I let the engine warm a little before driving off.

  By the time I rolled to a stop in front of Whitey's, the sun was a big orange basketball perched well above the horizon. A bass drum was throbbing in my head, and sweat beads had sprouted on my forehead. Would I ever learn?

  I had my doubts.

  Whitey didn't open for another fifteen minutes, but he let me in and I took a seat at the counter. Doris brought black coffee and a scornful look. She was distributing silverware and cups and glasses, bracing the diner for the early-morning onslaught of regulars. Whitey labored over the grill, pre-cooking sausage and bacon and his famous red flannel hash.

  The smells were at once enticing and nauseating, and I wondered if I'd be able to hold anything down. Whitey slid a plate in front of me just as Doris twisted the lock and admitted a stream of customers.

  "Here you go, Stu," he said. "This'll cure any hangover ever made."

  "Jesus, Whitey, four eggs? My arteries are threatening to slam shut already."

  "Shut up and eat. You'll feel better in no time." Whitey glanced at Doris and scurried back to the kitchen.

  I finished up my breakfast, gaining momentum as I went along. I put ten dollars under my plate when Whitey had his back to me, got my legs under me and slipped out. I left my truck parked in front of the diner and walked the two blocks to my office.

  Inside the lobby, I noticed that the elevator button was working, but I decided to punish myself a little more and use the stairs.

  I flopped down in the chair behind my desk and waited while my laptop churned to life, then checked my email for new messages.

  Capital Insurance again. I scratched a note on a pad of paper. I opened a blank document and used my two shaky index fingers to peck some notes about John Barcom, adding in everything I could think of. I gave the file a name, saved it, then turned the machine off.

  While my stomach did flip-flops I pawed through my desk drawer in search of anything that would relieve hangovers. Whitey's breakfast helped, but I still wasn't right.

  What I found instead was a picture of Heather, taken I forgot where, maybe down on Cape Cod. Yeah, Wellfleet. That damned black swimsuit again. She was gorgeous. I propped the picture up on my desk.

  I finally found aspirin, four left in a dusty white bottle, and some antacids, which were laying loose in the drawer and covered with dust. I brushed two of them off, shook the aspirins out into my hand, and popped the whole mess, washing it down with half a warm
Coke that was sitting on the desk.

  When Capital Insurance opened for business I called and got the particulars on another case that needed my attention. At 9:30 I grabbed my keys and a Red Sox hat and headed down to the truck, hoping to find Burton Lawlor, and maybe match up answers with some of the questions bouncing around in my mind.

  Once I was in Hull I cruised Nantasket Avenue, slowing to a stop at every crosswalk to let all the barefooted beach-lovers scurry back and forth on the steaming asphalt.

  Lawlor's place was on E street, but from the looks of the outside, it wasn't Bruce Springsteen's E street. The grass in the postage stamp-sized front lawn was two feet high, and it was busy growing around and through various toys and discarded household items. I could see an old push-style lawn mower with only one wheel sitting by the side of the house. The structure could have been either gray or blue at one time, but not enough paint was left on the shingles to make an accurate assessment.

  I pushed open the gate in the rusty fence and climbed three wobbly steps to the porch. No one answered my insistent knocking, and after a few minutes I gave it up.

  I retreated to my truck and made a few more scribbles in my notebook, baking in the morning sun. The vestiges of last evening's excesses were slowly leaving my body, and I was actually feeling human again. In spite of Whitey's gargantuan hangover breakfast, my stomach was rumbling. I made a U-turn and pointed the truck back at Nantasket beach.

  Seashells is a tiny bar along the strip of Nantasket Avenue. I couldn't remember ever being there before, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. The place was pretty depressing at midday, with just a few patrons staring sullenly at a talk show on a small flat screen TV. Stale beer and old cigarette smoke overpowered everything else.

  I leaned a hip against the bar and waited while the barmaid dragged herself off a stool and ambled over.

  "What'll it be?" she asked. I felt like I was in a movie.

  “A Bud, and a moment of your time."

  She leaned into a cooler and extracted a bottle, cracking the seal on an opener screwed to a post. "The Bud's three bucks. I got all the time in the world, as you can see."

  I slid a ten-dollar bill toward her and sipped at the beer, wincing over the first mouthful. She hovered.

  "I'm looking for a guy named Burton Lawlor, except I really don't know who I'm looking for. Someone told me I might find him here."

  "Someone was right. That's him, down the other end." She used a fat finger to point at a man who had his nose stuck in the sports section of the Boston Herald. I collected my beer and pushed away from the bar, thanking her for the information.

  Lawlor didn't even flinch when I put my beer down next to his and slid onto a vacant stool to his right. I took another mouthful of Bud while my stomach lurched in shock. After I had waited a respectful amount of time, I cleared my throat. Still nothing.

  "Mr. Lawlor?" I said.

  "Who wants to know?" came a voice from behind the paper. He turned a few pages without revealing himself.

  "My name is Stuart McCann. I'd like to talk to you for a few minutes."

  "About?"

  Oh great, I thought. A man of few words. Pulling information out of Lawlor would be like pulling alligator teeth.

  "About the boat you found drifting by itself, about six or eight weeks ago. I was wondering..."

  "If you're from the cops, I already answered about a million questions. If you're not, why in hell should I talk to you anyway?" He put the paper down on the bar and used a practiced hand to scoop up his beer mug. He drained it dry and wiped his face with the back of one suntanned arm.

  Burton Lawlor was the human embodiment of his front yard. His crinkled, bloated face needed a good mowing. Long strands of

  greasy hair was strewn haphazardly back over a cannonball-sized bald spot.

  The tee shirt that stretched over his extra-large frame had once been white, but never would be again.

  "I'm not a cop," I said, signaling the bartender. "I'm a private investigator. I'd just like to ask you a few questions."

  Lawlor grunted and swung off his stool, swaying slightly as he walked away from me. He pushed through a door that said GENTS.

  I ordered another round of whatever whiskey he was drinking and another draft. When the bartender brought the drinks I gave her another ten, and when she walked away I peeled a twenty off my diminishing bankroll and slipped it under the mug of beer.

  Lawlor returned, hitching his jeans up over his ample belly as he walked, and slid back onto the stool. When he picked up the mug the twenty was sticking to the bottom. He pulled at some beer, then pulled at the money and tucked it into his pants.

  "Twenty don't go as far as it used to, mister." He laid the mug down and picked up the whiskey, rolling the shot glass between his thumb and forefinger.

  "There's twenty more if you tell me something I don't know."

  Burton Lawlor stared at the ceiling while he considered my offer as if deciding where to invest his newfound wealth. I guessed SeaShells would be at least a few dollars richer this evening.

  Lawlor threw back the whiskey and clenched his teeth, hissing like a boiling teakettle.

  "What the hell," he said, placing the empty glass where the bartender could see it. "Ask your questions. My memory's as good as it's ever been."

  "Okay, Mr. Lawlor," I said. "Why don't we start at the beginning? Tell me how you first came upon the drifting boat."

  "I was out checking some traps," he said, reaching for his mug. "I'm a lobsterman, you know." I nodded and he continued. "Anyway, I noticed a boat, a nice cabin job, coming awful close to some rocks. I know people fish out there all the time, but this boat was way too close to be safe, so I eased up as close as I could and looked for signs of life." Lawlor pulled at his beer and swiped his whiskers with the back of his one grimy wrist.

  "Did you notice anyone on deck?"

  "No one was on deck, and no one answered my calls either. The boat was about fifty yards from the rocks. I got as close as I dared and my boy tossed a grappling hook into the stern. It caught on something, and we towed it out."

  "Then what?" Did you actually go on board?"

  "Yeah, I actually went on board," said Lawlor. "I had my two boys with me, and the older one, he's fourteen, held my boat steady while I jumped across."

  "What did you find, Mr. Lawlor?" I took a sip of my beer, but my heart really wasn't in it. Burton Lawlor, on the other hand, had a real thirst. He waved for the bartender, and she brought him more juice. I declined.

  "I didn't find nothing," he said. "No one was on the boat. It was kinda spooky, ya know." Lawlor's tongue was thickening up, and his speech was starting to slur. I hoped I could keep him sober long enough to pull a story out of him.

  "Can you describe what the boat looked like?" I said. I had given up on my beer and pushed the half-empty bottle away.

  "I remember it was pretty fancy. It was set up like someone's living room, not a serious sea-going vessel. And dinner was all set up on a fancy table. It was like someone just got up and walked away."

  "Except there was no place to walk to."

  "Right," said Lawlor, chugging more beer. “Great sandwich, by the way. Ham and cheese, lettuce and tomato.”

  "You ate the sandwich?"

  "Well, yeah. I figured it’d just go to waste. I drank the wine,

  too."

  "That’s nuts,” I said. “Can you think of anything else that might be important?"

  "Not really," said Lawlor. "There was some pretty fancy fishing equipment, but I left it alone. I got all my own stuff."

  "How long were you on the boat?"

  "Ten minutes. After that, I called the Coast Guard. They came right out and towed it away. I guess they found the poor bastard later that day. Must've fallen in."

  "That's the popular theory. Well, Mr. Lawlor, thanks for your time." I extracted my wallet and fished out a business card. I handed the card and another twenty over to Lawlor. "If you think of anything
else, even if it seems trivial, give me a call."

  "Hey, no sweat. Lawlor held up his empty mug and grinned, revealing more gums than teeth. "How about one for the road?"

  "Do me a favor," I said. "Stay off the damn road."

  Chapter 7

  I got back to the office at 1 PM, after stopping for a steak and cheese sub at Charlie’s on 3A in Hingham. They make the best subs on the South Shore, and after demolishing a large, I declared myself fully recovered from last night's indulgences.

  I sat down at my desk and thought about calling Heather, but decided against it, instead, spending the remainder of the afternoon bottling beer and thinking about my conversation with Burton Lawlor.

  Could I even rely on any information given by Lawlor? If I had arrived an hour or so later, he might have told me the Red Sox were going to win the World Series at the end of the summer.

  Margie squeezed her way through the door and scared the hell out of me, sending my thoughts skittering like water drops on a hot frying pan.

  "Hey Stuart," she said, "aren't you supposed to put the beer inside the bottles?"

  "Very funny, Margie. Why are you sneaking up on me?" I squeezed the valve on the tubing shut, stopping the flow of beer from the brewing vessel to the floor, and wiped my hands on my pants.

  "I didn't see you all day," she said, parking a haunch on one side of my desk. That old oak is solid stuff.

  "And you missed me, right?"

  "Of course. Anything exciting going on?"

  "As you can see, I'm bottling beer. That's about as exciting as my life gets lately."

  "Well, that's no fun. How about a movie? There's a Tommy Lee Jones thing down at the Cameo. Are you interested?"

  "Sounds tempting, Margie, but I'm going to be tied up here for a little longer. I've still got over a case to go. Plus, I have to make some notes."