The evening went fast and around ten o’clock we found ourselves sitting in the pickup outside the carriage house, dealing with the awkward moment that comes at the end of a first day, when an invitation into a lady’s house can be a prelude to romance. She was probably tallying up the evidence of the evening, trying to decide if she should ask me in. She solved the social exercise with an adroit maneuver that deflected my attention without discouraging it all together.
“I had a great time tonight,” she said. “I’d love to ask you in for a drink, but I have to get up early tomorrow. Would you like to come over later this week for dinner? How about the day after tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there. Unless Mike Arnold puts me back in the shark tank.”
She got serious. “I’m still wondering about that.”
I shrugged. “Maybe they didn’t like my new aftershave lotion.”
It was a lame joke, but Sally was polite enough to laugh. We kissed each other good night, on the lips this time, warmly, and I drove off intending to head straight home. But something made me change my mind. I had been chewing over my parting comment about the aftershave lotion. The weak attempt at wit may have contained a germ of wisdom. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe the sharks did like my smell. It was a crazy idea, but this whole case was crazy. At the end of Sally’s driveway, I pointed the pickup toward the other side of the Cape. Toward Oceanus.
* * *
The four flat-roofed buildings that made up the park complex loomed darkly like a cyclopean fortress against the charcoal backdrop of the star-speckled night sky. I drove across the deserted parking lot and left the truck in the shadows near the administration building, not far from the employees’ entrance. As I made my way to the door with flashlight in hand, the breeze picked up, bearing with it the rank exhalations of the salt creek and marsh. The summer chorus of night insects drowned out my softened footfall.
I slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind me. I didn’t need my flash. Lights had been left on at strategic locations so Ben wouldn’t fall into a pool by accident as he made his rounds, but the park lay mostly in darkness. I followed a passageway to Ben’s office and listened. Tinny voices and canned laughter filtered through the door. There was another sound, like a distant buzz saw. I turned the doorknob, pushed the door open, and stuck my head into the office.
A smooth-faced man on the TV was selling a formula for hair remover to a studio audience. Ben lay stomach up on the cot, snoring. Spittle from his mouth dripped down his chin. On the floor next to the cot was a glass half-filled with amber liquid. Poor Ben had passed out before he finished his drink. I stepped inside, careful not to wake him. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir could have sung “Glory, Glory Hallelujah” in Ben’s ear and he wouldn’t have heard it. You can never tell what a drunk will do, so I was as quiet as possible as I reached across his supine body to the pegboard and carefully lifted off a couple of labeled key sets. I stepped out, closed the door softly, and walked to the storeroom.
Hanging from hooks along one wall of the windowless space were a dozen red-and-black wet suits. The first one I picked out was small, made for a woman. I looked at the others and found three that would fit me. I wasn’t certain which suit I wore in the shark tank, so I set them all aside. One by one, I examined, then smelled them. All I got were rubbery lungfuls of neoprene.
I set the last of the suits aside and looked around the room. Some dive gear was stacked in a corner. Air tanks, fins and masks, belts, and a couple of buoyancy compensators. Called a BC for short, the buoyancy compensator is an inflatable vest with straps to hold the air tank.
I picked up a BC and examined it closely, giving it the same sniff test I used on the wet suits, but found nothing unusual. I looked in all the pockets. Nothing. I put the vest aside and followed the same routine with the other compensator. Again, nothing.
Waitaminute.
I tried again. There was a faint fishy smell. That should not be unusual. After all, this is an aquarium. I stuck my nose into each pocket. Yes. The fish odor was stronger. I held the BC under the light and spread the pocket open. Caught in the crease at the bottom of the pocket was a whitish powder. I tore off a part of an equipment checkout schedule on a clipboard, and used my Swiss army knife to scrape the white powder into the paper, which I folded and tucked in my shirt pocket. After one last look around, I switched off the light and left the storeroom.
I walked across to the other side of the park, avoiding the plaza, following the shadows around the open space until I came to the orca stadium. I didn’t know what I was doing there, or what I hoped to find. I was just drawn to the place. I pulled out the other key ring from Ben’s office and went to unlock the gate.
It swung open at my touch.
Moving cautiously, I went through the gate and followed a passageway to the bleacher section. At the top of the bleachers, I looked down. The auditorium was in darkness. Wishing I had Rocky’s skill at echolocation, I crept down an aisle to the splash area between the lowest bleacher row and the plastic wall of the pool. I paused to listen. There wasn’t a sound. Not even Rocky was stirring. I took a few steps and stopped, sweeping my eyes around the stadium. Blinked and looked again.
An aisle went along the outside of the bleachers from the lowest row to the top of the stadium. Bordering the aisle was a low wall. Visible beyond the wall was the gray, star-speckled sky. And cast in relief against the stars was the figure of a man. He stood there like a statue carved from basalt.
Keeping my left hand on the curved pool wall as a guide, I soft-shoed along the splash area until I came to the outside aisle and started to climb the steps. I planned to move closer and turn on the flashlight.
I glanced down for a second to be sure of my footing. When I looked up again, the man was gone.
Flicking on the flashlight, I pointed it up the aisle. Nothing. I moved the beam higher. A big man, dressed in ninja black, was moving fast toward the top of the stadium.
I sprinted up the aisle, trying to keep him in the bobbing bull’s-eye of light. A quick movement, half shadow, half human, and he disappeared around a corner. I was at the top of the aisle, pounding down the passageway toward the gate. As I rounded the back side of the bleachers there was a metallic clang. I ran up to the gate. Smart guy. Cool, too. He had locked the gate behind him. I dug the key from my pocket, slid the bolt, and dashed out into the central plaza. But the moment’s delay gave my quarry the time he needed. He had vanished.
I slammed my fist into my palm, then went back into the stadium, where I stood in the aisle looking down at the darkened stadium and pool.
Why would anyone sneak in to see Rocky?
From the pool came a slash and weeooof!
The sound echoed throughout the quiet amphitheater. I pictured eight tons of black-and-white predator moving through the inky water, and a chill passed along my spine. It was a nonintellectual, primordial reaction passed down by primitive ancestors who knew that when the sun went down, sharp-toothed creatures ruled the night. But the fear was real, nevertheless.
Ben was still zonked out, snarking and snorting in his alcoholic sleep. I hooked the keys onto the pegboard and headed home.
Back in the mildewed luxury of the boathouse, I slipped off my dating clothes and pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and fed Kojak. Then I sank into an overstuffed chair and thought about the powder in the BC pocket. I was too wired to sleep and needed some mental chewing gum, so I flicked on the TV and was mindlessly watching a Three Stooges flick when the telephone rang. I glanced at the wall clock. It was after 1:00 A.M. Who the hell would be calling me at this hour? I picked up the phone and said hello.
“Mr. Socarides?” I didn’t recognize the voice.
“Speaking.”
“This is Sergeant Winslow at the Barnstable police station in Hyannis. There’s a gentleman here who says he’s related to you. He’ll only say his name is
Constantine. Do you know him?”
“Constantine? Of course I do! That’s my uncle. Is he okay?”
The cop laughed sardonically. “Hell, yes, he’s fine. But he’s been involved in a little trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“It’s too complicated to explain over the phone. Could you drop by so we can get this thing straightened out?”
I threw on a sweatshirt and flip-flops as I talked. “I’m on my way,” I said.
Chapter 17
Less than thirty minutes later, I walked into the two-story brick police station on the outskirts of Hyannis and gave the dispatcher my name. She mumbled into an intercom and a tall red-haired cop came out to meet me.
“I’m Sergeant Winslow,” he said gravely. He shook my hand and crooked his finger for me to follow. We went down a hallway and into a small room with a couple of plastic chairs and a table in it. He motioned for me to take a seat and sat in the other one, then folded his arms across his chest and screwed up his mouth in a puckish thought.
“How old is your uncle, anyway?” he said after a moment.
“I’m not sure, Sergeant. He lives in Florida. I haven’t seen him in years. Early seventies, maybe.”
Winslow shook his head as if I’d just told him fish fly and birds swim.
“Unbelievable. I hope I have as much energy when I’m seventy-plus. No, scrub that. When I’m sixty. Well, we’ve got your uncle in protective custody. He had a little too much to drink.”
I winced. I never saw Uncle Constantine drunk, but I used to hear the family tut-tut talk. I tried to put the best face on it.
“His wife died not too long ago, Sergeant. He’s been pretty broken up about her death. Maybe he was feeling bad and had a few pops.”
“No, I don’t think he was feeling bad.” Sergeant Winslow chuckled. “From what I understand he was feeling pretty good, but he’d better get remarried if he wants to live to be eighty.”
Winslow was being too damned elliptical. It was starting to annoy me.
“I don’t get you, Sergeant.”
“We got a call earlier tonight from a watering hole down near the harbor. The bartender was screaming at the dispatcher. Said some customers were tearing the joint apart. We get called there a couple of times a month in the summer. Mostly college kids who can’t hold their liquor. This sounded more serious. The dispatcher could hear crashing and yelling. So we sent over a couple of cruisers in a hurry. The cops come in the front door and there’s a brawl in progress. No, let me rephrase that. It was more of a riot. And your old uncle was right in the middle of it.”
“My uncle?”
He nodded.
“Migod, was he hurt?”
The cop did his annoying chuckle again. “Naw. He had a few bumps and scrapes, but the other guys got the worst of it. They ended up at Cape Cod Hospital. Nothing serious. The main damage was to their egos.”
“What happened?”
“We’re still trying to piece this thing together, but I got the impression it started with an argument involving some women.”
It was my turn to chuckle. “Women? C’mon, Sergeant. That’s my seventy-year-old uncle you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, I know, but the bartender saw the whole thing. A couple of girls were having a drink. These two goons from Billerica came over to their table and gave them a hard time. Your uncle decides to butt in. The guys have one too many, and it’s made them mean. So instead of laughing it off and minding their own business like they should have, they decide they’re not going to take any grief from this old geezer. They try to shove him around. He took a few knocks, but before they know it, both of them are looking up at the ceiling.”
Oh jeez. My heart sank. My mother practically ordered me to keep an eye on Uncle Constantine. I could see myself saying, Sure, Ma, everything’s okay, Uncle Constantine just got himself plastered, brawled with a couple of lardheads over some women in a bar, got busted by the cops and thrown in the slammer.
I sat back in my chair and groaned. “What’s going to happen?”
“I know what I hope is going to happen. You’re going to take your uncle home and make sure he behaves himself. We didn’t arrest him. We’ve got him here so he won’t hurt himself.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Or anybody else.”
“What about the guys in the bar? Do they want to press charges?”
“Uh-uh. They’re a little embarrassed. They go to court and the story will get back to their hometown. How they were whupped by this old man. They’ve agreed to pay all damages. They wouldn’t have a case anyhow. The bartender will vouch for your uncle, and the girls whose honor he defended think he’s the most wonderful man in the world.”
“I appreciate your telling me this, Sergeant. You can release him in my custody. I’ll see he stays out of trouble.”
“You may not want to make any rash promises you can’t keep. Remember, I’ve met your uncle. Just tell him to do his fighting in the next town.”
Winslow rounded up a uniformed cop, who led the way to the cell block. The policeman stopped in front of a cell and opened the door so Winslow and I could go in. Uncle Constantine was asleep on a cot, his back to me. He looked like a heap of soiled laundry.
Sergeant Winslow said, “Hey, Constantine, you’ve got company.”
Uncle Constantine stirred, grunted in reply, the rolled onto his other side so that he faced us. He blinked the sleep out of his eyes. Slowly, he sat up on the cot and blinked again. He didn’t seem to know where he was, then the light of recognition dawned in his face. His broad mouth widened into a grin. He yelled joyfully.
“Aristotle!”
He came off the cot like a stone from a catapult, threw his arms around me in a bear hug, squeezing so hard I could hardly breathe. He smelled of sweat and the liquorishy fragrance of ouzo. He released me just long enough to plant a wet kiss on my cheek, then locked me in his vice grip again.
“Aristotle,” he repeated. One big hand clamped on my shoulder in an iron grip and the other grabbed the back of my hair and tugged on it affectionately.
“See,” he said to Sergeant Winslow. “I tell you my nephew will come. This is my sister’s boy.” He pushed me away and held me at arm’s length. “Aristotle. You have grown tall. I remember when you are only this big.” He held his hand at waist level. “It’s your mother’s cooking.”
Uncle Constantine always seemed ten feet high when I was a kid. Age and the death of his wife had taken a toll. He was more round-shouldered than I recalled, and the magnificent white-thatched head drooped slightly more than it did in his younger days. But his deep voice was robust, his muscular body was as hard as it was when he carried me around my house, and his blue eyes glittered with electrical vitality.
Sergeant Winslow said, “You can go, Constantine. We’re releasing you in your nephew’s custody.”
Uncle Constantine unleashed me and flung himself at Sergeant Winslow. He wrapped his arms around the cop and gave him a mushy kiss on the cheek. Winslow’s face turned the color of his hair.
“Thank you very much, my friend. You are a fine policeman, and a gentleman, too.” Uncle Constantine released the stunned cop and led the way out of the cell.
Sergeant Winslow hurried to catch up. “Wait. You’ve got to fill out some forms.”
Fifteen minutes later, we were in the parking lot. Constantine drew a deep breath of the cool night air and flexed his biceps. “Eleftheros,” he said. “Freedom. Efharisto, Aristotle. I thank you for coming to save me. Sergeant Winslow is a very good man. But, fooh. His jail stinks like a pigpen.”
“Glad to do it, Uncle Constantine. I’m really happy to see you. What happened at that bar?”
He dismissed the question with shrug. “Today I come to Hyannis in my boat. I call your brother George and say trip is over, I want to celebrate. So I find this place near the doc
k. I have an ouzo. Very good. So I have another one. Maybe another. I am very happy to be on land. Then something makes me not happy. Some pretty girls are at a table. Two big boys bother them. I go over and say, please, let girls alone. The big boys don’t like what the old man says. They try to frighten me. Then they push me away. I push back.” He clenched his hands into fists. “Pretty soon, poom! I bump one on the nose. Poom! I bump another one on the chin. Then the police come. Nice Sergeant Winslow gives me a hotel room. I tell him to call you. You come, and I am free, Aristotle.”
“Ma called me a few days ago. She was worried about you, Uncle Constantine.”
He pretended he was angry. “She always worries for me, my little sister,” he said, “she doesn’t want me to come here in the boat. I tell her it’s okay, but she is still angry, she wants me to stay home. The trouble with your mother is she’s too stubborn.” He glanced around as if my mother were in earshot. “This thing with the police,” he whispered. “Don’t tell your mama, okay?”
“That’s the last thing you have to worry about, Uncle. You can stay with me tonight if you want to and call her in the morning from my house.”
“Ohi, Aristotle. Take me to my boat. I sleep there. The Artemis is my home now.”
“Okay, Uncle Constantine. I’ll give you a ride.”
Constantine’s boat was tied up to one of the floating piers at the Lewis Bay Marina. He had lucked out on the mooring. The fishing boat that normally occupied the spot was off several days on a trip. We walked out onto the pier past sailboats and cabin cruisers quietly nested in their slips and stopped next to the Artemis, where we stood in the moonlight.
“Did you have any trouble coming up from Florida?” I asked.
“A few leaks. Sometimes the engine gets lazy. But I take care of it. No problem. The Artemis can go through a hurricane.”
Death in Deep Water Page 16