by Ted Begnoche
Billy clomped up the ladder, dragging the replacement pane behind him.
"Okay," I said. "Did you report this to the Hull PD?"
"Yeah," said Billy. "I finally realized you were right."
"Filled out a report? All that crap?"
"Yeah, yeah, for whatever good it'll do. They asked me did I think it was a random act, like vandals, or kids just having a warped sort of fun. I said I didn't know."
"Were there any other boats damaged at the pier?"
"Not that I know of. The guy I talked to said no one else filled out a report." Billy propped the pane of Plexiglas against the side of the pilothouse and snatched his coffee cup.
"You didn't tell him about the pots?"
"No."
"Or about the flat tires?
"Nothing else, Stu." Billy finished off his coffee and dropped the cup to the deck. He picked up the slice of Plexiglas and together we managed to wedge it into place. Billy used a cordless drill to punch some holes along the side, then drove some screws. "You must have some ideas," I said. "Who do you think is capable of this sort of stuff?"
"There's a couple of guys I have in mind, but nobody I could really point a finger at and say 'yeah, that bastard', you know. I want to have more proof than a gut feeling when I accuse someone."
"Well, we're just kicking things around right now, Billy. And besides, finding a little proof is my job. I'm starting to think you don't have any confidence in my detective skills."
"I just don't want to stir things up too much. Like I said before, we got a nice life here, and I really love this place. It's kind of hard to accept that something like this is happening."
"Try and think now, Billy. Is there anyone you've had trouble with in the past? It doesn't even have to be recently, because some people have a great memory when it comes to stuff like this."
Billy put the drill down on the deck and jammed his hands into the pockets of his overalls, staring out toward the Atlantic. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, and for a moment I thought he was going to remain silent. He wrestled with his thoughts a while longer, then cleared his throat.
"One time I had a run-in with a guy named Martin LaPierre. I was pretty new to lobstering, and he was a high-liner, a real good fisherman. He thought I was dropping my pots right on top of his, and fishermen can be real protective of what they perceive to be their territory."
"What happened?"
"We had words on a few occasions; he always seemed like a hothead anyway, but nothing ever came of it. I moved my traps, he forgot about it, and that was that. Must've been seven, maybe eight years ago."
"Is he still fishing?"
"I assume so. He moved to the Cape a few years back. Said the weather was better, and so was the lobstering."
"Okay, that was a start," I said. "Anything else?"
"Not that I can think of."
"Jesus, Billy, that's not much to go on. Did LaPierre hang around with anyone."
"Not really. He was kind of a loner. The only one I can think of, oddly enough, is Burton Lawlor. Remember him?"
"Yeah, we talked. What's the connection with him and LaPierre? Just fellow fisherman?"
"Well, that's just it. They seemed to be an unlikely pair. Lawlor's a poor fisherman and always has been. I can't see why LaPierre would want to hang around with him."
“Okay," I said. "I'll nose around."
"Good luck, Mister Detective."
"Need anything while I'm out?"
"Yeah. Pick me up a large package of peace of mind." Billy turned and went back to work.
"Oh, baby. That's in short supply nowadays, but I'll try." I backed down the ladder and watched him for a moment, then got in my truck and drove away, feeling pretty useless.
Things were beginning to gnaw at me. My best friend needed my help, although he was still reluctant to admit it, and I really didn't have a good idea of how to go about it. My most recent client was dead, supposedly by accident, which didn't make me feel any better. I was pretty sure John Barcom and I weren't finished just yet.
And then there was Heather. If I thought about it long enough, I could probably convince myself that she was sending out little signals to me indicating a desire for reconciliation.
Oh boy, McCann.
I drove down two wrong Alphabet streets before I chugged by Burton Lawlor's house. The weeds were a bit taller in the tiny front yard, but beyond that nothing appeared to have changed. I slowed down to a crawl, waiting for an ancient beagle to waggle across the road before grinding the gears. At the next stop sign, I took a left and headed toward Pemberton Marina.
I swung into the lot at Pemberton and parked in a puddle you could float a Coast Guard cutter in. The sun was just starting to break through the clouds. A thin layer of steam was lifting off the water, promising a scorcher of a day when the sun came out unencumbered.
The pier was alive with activity. Men in orange rubber overalls scurried back and forth, some carrying green plastic tubs filled with lobsters, others hoisting traps and line. Seagulls swooped low and screamed at the fishermen, looking for a morsel to be shared or stolen. Salt and diesel smell filled the moist air, riding on an undercurrent of fresh fish. If I was an artist, I'd set up my easel at the end of the dock and get a good start down the road to fame and fortune.
I walked into the shack at the end of the pier, where Billy told me I'd find Sonny Eachern, the proprietor of Sonny's Bait. He described Sonny as a giant, friendly man, with a thick stack of red hair sticking out from under his omnipresent Navy watch cap. He wore a faded flannel shirt on even the hottest days in the summer, while selling bait and ice and other assorted necessities to the fishermen. He also minded the fishermen's catch, keeping hundreds of lobsters underneath his piers in huge 'cars', holding tanks that kept the lobsters alive until he was ready to sell them off. Billy said he always had a story ready, some embellished tale plucked out of the many years he spent at sea.
I spied Sonny in the back of the store, loading cubed ice into a cooler and talking a mile a minute. Two fishermen stood by while Sonny leaned in close to them. A few seconds later the back of the store erupted in laughter.
Sonny used a giant hand to slap each man on the back as they headed out the tattered screen door. He wiped his hands down the front of his shirt and then turned his attention to me.
"What can I do for you, my friend?"
"Stuart McCann," I said. "I'm a friend of Billy Cardell's." I extended my hand and Sonny reached over the counter and pumped it up and down.
"Then you know who I am," he said. "How in hell is Billy doing? It didn't seem right, him not down here this morning."
"He's okay. Working on his boat."
"Goddamn shame. First time something like that ever happened at this pier, and I been here close to twenty-five years." Sonny rubbed at some red stubble that had sprouted on his cheeks, wagging his big hand back and forth. He lit a cigarette and regarded me through the swirling smoke.
"Billy'll be back. He's a tough son of a bitch. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Sonny?"
"Go ahead, but I'm going to have to work through it." I nodded and waited while he sold a half dozen bank sinkers and a handful of hooks to three eager teenage boys. He dispensed his thoughts about where best to catch a giant striper, then sent them on their way.
"What time do you open in the morning?" I said.
"I'm here before the sunlight every day except Sunday. I beat a lot of the fishermen here."
"How about on the other end. Do you stay very late at night?"
"I usually quit at six o'clock. Twelve or thirteen hours is enough for me." Sonny hauled a tub of fresh pogies onto a scarred counter top and began shoveling ice on top of them. "Sometimes I stay a little longer if a fisherman is late on coming back to the dock." Sonny dropped the pogies to the floor and gave another tub the same treatment. He huffed and swore while ashes flew from the end of his cigarette.
"Can you think of anyone who might want to do someth
ing like this to Billy?"
Sonny ground out his cigarette in a giant clam shell, then pushed his watch cap back and forth on his head. He pursed his lips, then frowned. "Not really," he said. "I mean, Billy's had his share of run-ins with people, just like everyone else, but nothing really sticks in my mind. Generally speaking, Billy keeps to himself and doesn't bother anyone."
"Could this just be a prank? Some kids having a little fun?"
"Seems a little strong for a prank. Besides, no other boats were damaged. Why would they pick his, when half-a-dozen others were tied up right alongside the pier. They had to work to get to his; either take a small boat out or swim for it. Even at low tide, Billy's boat is moored in six foot of water."
“What about cameras? Webcams?”
“We have a couple of cameras, but they’re pointed at the building entrance and up and down the dock, not out at the boats,” said Sonny.
He sold a rod and reel to a man who looked like he had never fished in his life, adding hooks and sinkers and leaders to complete the outfit. Sonny threw in some pogies and the man left grinning from ear to ear
I watched through the grimy windows as a person who looked vaguely familiar to me tramped into the shop. The man bought two cups of steaming black coffee from Sonny and held one in each hand, alternately sipping from each. Who I was looking at finally dawned on me as he stumbled out the door. I said goodbye to Sonny, thanking him for his time and information, and followed Burton Lawlor out the door.
Lawlor was half-running toward the end of the pier, moving away from me at a good clip and barking instructions at a group of men who were raising hell in the back of a cabin cruiser. The name on the side was the HAZY DAZE, and it took me a minute to realize that Lawlor was watching his own boat pull away from the dock, loaded with
four men and a dozen fishing rods and more cases of beer than they could drink in a week. By the sound of things, the guys had been into the beer since last night sometime.
Lawlor shouted a few more instructions, drained one of his coffee cups and then spun around and stumbled into me.
"There go some hell raisers," I said. "Is that what they call a party boat?"
"Hey, if it ain't Mr. Detective," he said. "What the hell are you doing down here? Looking for more floating bodies?"
"I hope not." I gestured at his boat, which was yawing port and starboard and throwing up a huge wake in a headway-speed only zone. "Are those guys going to be safe out there?"
"Ah, they're just doing a little fishing. I'm more worried about my boat. They'll be okay. And if not, it'll give the Coast Guard something to do."
"Are they friends of yours?"
"They are today. They just paid me five hundred dollars to rent my pleasure boat for eight hours. That's pretty good money; take me a long time to make that lobstering." Lawlor fished a wad of bills from his back pocket and proceeded to count it out in front of me.
"How many boats do you have, Mr. Lawlor?”
“Just two. This one and the lobster boat.”
“So you don't fish much anymore? Just boat rentals?"
"I fish on Saturdays and Sundays, early in the morning. Catch enough to eat and a little to sell. Too Goddamned many people lobsterin' nowadays for a man to make a decent living at it. People are all the time dropping their traps into water that I been fishin' for years. It's too Goddamned crowded."
"You have to work too hard to make too little."
"Damn right. Best thing I ever did was start renting that boat out. Wasn't even my idea, but I like it." Lawlor spat at the pier and rubbed a grimy forearm across his lips.
"Whose idea was it?"
"Guy asked me if I wanted to make some extra money, and I said sure, long as it was legal. He rented the boat overnight. Loaded it up with fishing rods and coolers and headed out. Middle of May too, and it's still too friggin' cold if you ask me. I worried at first, not about him, but my Goddamned boat."
"What happened?"
"It was bobbin' right beside the pier the next morning. Must've come in late at night. Only thing was a scrape along the bow, tore off some of the paint and a good chunk of rail. I didn't bother fixing it."
"Did the guy say what happened?"
"I never saw him again. It was like he was never here, and I dreamed the whole thing. Now I'm a little more careful. I check their driver's licenses. Take down names, addresses, shit like that."
"That's probably a good idea."
"I gotta go. The kids need to get to camp." Lawlor spun on his heels and stalked toward the parking lot, apparently tired of our conversation.
Maybe that's what prompted me to catch up with him. It's funny the way things shake out sometimes.
"Hey, Lawlor. One more thing."
"Yeah?" he said, without turning around.
"What ever happened to Martin LaPierre?"
Lawlor stopped in his tracks.
"Why in hell do you ask?"
"Just curious. Someone said he moved to the Cape a while back. I was wondering if the fishing is any better down there."
"Shows how much you know, Mr. Detective. LaPierre moved back this year. Ties his boat up over in Weymouth Back River. And he can still out-fish any lobsterman around here."
Lawlor got into a beat up Chevy truck and fired the engine. I
waved and he nodded back, then spun his tires in the loose pea
stone.
Chapter 14
I thought about going back to see Billy, but when I left he seemed to be chugging along fine without me, so I pointed the Toyota out of Hull, traveling north on route 3A.
Hingham Harbor slid by on my right, shimmering like a pirate's treasure chest in the noontime sun. Traffic was thick, and I hit all the red lights on the way back to Weymouth. I finally made a right turn at the appropriate set, following signs that led me to Eagle Head Marina.
The cracked and heaving asphalt road gave way to gravel which was deeply rutted and strewn with good-sized boulders. The road choked down to almost nothing, with long grasses sweeping across the windshield, until eventually, it opened up into a parking lot that contained about a dozen cars and trucks. A small shack, badly beaten by the weather and leaning toward the open ocean, stood by the edge of the Back River. One half was set on stilts driven into the earth; the other half hung out over the river on top of huge, barnacle-encrusted pilings. Seagulls were perched all over the structure's roof, and judging by the contrast of their droppings against the red shingles, this was a favorite hangout of theirs.
I parked my truck and sat with my rump against the hood, watching a couple of boats heading out of the river. A lobster boat slipped effortlessly alongside the dock. The mate tossed a line to someone who was standing on the rickety pier, then hopped off the boat and looped the thick rope around a stanchion to make it fast. He fastened the stern line and then hopped back on board, pushing green tubs of lobster around with his feet.
I ambled over to the shack and pushed open the screen door, stepping over a cat that was gnawing on the tail of a mackerel. A woman was talking on a cordless phone, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke swirling around her head. I put my back to her and perused the dusty fishing tackle that adorned the walls, waiting for her to finish her conversation. She cleared her throat and I spun around.
"Something I can do for you?" she said, clutching the phone between her ample breasts.
"I was looking for someone."
"If you tell me who it is, I might be able to help you."
"Sorry. Martin Lapierre."
"LaPierre comes and goes as he pleases," she said, crushing out her cigarette in an overflowing metal ashtray with one practiced hand. "Haven't seen him for two, maybe three days."
"So you can't say when you expect him back?"
"Like I said, try and predict the weather, you know. It's easier than guessing what Lapierre will do."
I stood in the shop and stared out the grimy windows at the two men unloading lobsters. The lady tapped a size 12 shoe on the rough floor
planks, seemingly impatient with my daydreaming.
"Is there something else?"
"Is his boat out here?" I said, pointing at the river. "Naw, he took that with him."
"Can you tell me the name?"
"Ha," she snorted. "I could, but why should I? Who the hell are you, anyway?"
"I'm a friend of a friend. I need to talk to LaPierre."
"Stop back again. He'll be around. He's like a bad penny, that one."
I thanked her and she resumed her conversation, lighting another cigarette without missing a beat. The screen door swung shut behind me and I headed back to the truck.
"You lookin' for Frenchy?" said a voice from behind me. At least I thought it was a voice. It sounded more like gravel on an old washboard.
I turned and peered into the shadows. Sitting in a dilapidated rocking chair was the shriveled, slumped-down shape of a man. A straw hat was perched on his head, with tufts of snow white hair pushing out around the sides. As I got closer he began to come to life a little more. His face had the color and texture of an old saddle. Dark glasses protected his eyes from the midday sun. "Who?" I said.
"Lapierre. I heard you ask inside. Didn't mean to eavesdrop. Hearing's just one of a few bodily functions that haven't abandoned me yet."
"I need to talk to him. Do you know where I can find him?"
"Don't know exactly, but I suspect he'll be back in a day or two."
"Why do you say that?" I asked. I found a white plastic bucket and pulled it up next to the rocking chair. The man continued his steady rhythm, the chair giving off tiny squeaks that were punctuated by his feet tapping on the dusty floor of the porch.
“Heard him say it."
"Who'd he say it to?"
"Fella who fishes with him sometimes. Donnie something. It'll come to me." The old man reached down beside the rocking chair and pulled a can of Budweiser off the floor. He tipped the can and drained the dregs, then tossed the empty at a barrel that already had a few poking out the top. It bounced off the building and landed lightly with all the others.
