The Pink Pony

by Charles Cutter

  * * *

  Back on the dock, Burr lingered, standing in the rain, admiring the boats. He felt the same way about boats as he did women. He liked them all. “Zeke, they come in all shapes, sizes, and dispositions.” He strolled to the end of the main dock, the end nearest the Chippewa and the Arnold docks.

  “What have we here?” A sailboat with a yellow, horseshoe-shaped, man overboard life vest. Stenciled in a semicircle around the horseshoe, Fujimo.

  “There she is, Zeke. Big as life. She’s fifty feet if she’s a foot.” White hull, green waterline, nonskid deck, oiled teak trim. Tall, skinny mast with a rake aft. Low-slung cabin. Burr headed down the finger dock. Zeke followed, nonplussed about any boat that wasn’t a duck boat. Burr studied the cockpit and the oversized stainless-steel wheel just ahead of the reverse transom. Three winches on each side. Two coffee grinders, the biggest of the winches.

  There was no sign of life. Burr paced back and forth on the finger dock. Finally, he climbed aboard. Zeke sat on the dock. Burr stepped down into the cockpit and studied the instruments mounted in the aft of the cabin. Compass, knot meter, depth finder, wind direction, wind speed, apparent wind. He stroked them, lovingly.

  The hatch cover had been pulled shut, and three teak slats sealed off the companionway. There was a hasp on the hatch cover but no padlock. He slid it back and was greeted by the sweet, smoky smell that he was all too familiar with.

  Then there was a flare gun aimed at his face.

  “I was just looking around,” Burr said.

  “Get off,” a voice said.

  If that thing gets any closer, I can blow my nose in it.

  The flare gun waved in Burr’s face.

  I hope he doesn’t get paranoid when he smokes.

  “Get off.”

  “I skippered Scaramouche. I saw your stern the whole race and just wanted to take a look.”

  “Scaramouche?” the voice said, the flare gun still in Burr’s face.

  “Peterson 34.”

  “You can’t expect to keep up with a one-tonner. Now get off.”

  “I don’t care if you smoke weed all day and all night. That’s what my partner does.”

  “Does what?”

  “Smoke. Every day, and on top of that he’s a lawyer.” The flare gun hadn’t moved. Burr put his right forefinger on the barrel and pushed it away from his nose. “Can I come below?”

  “I guess so.”

  Burr swung his legs over the slats and climbed down into the gloom of the cabin. There weren’t many portholes, but then again, Fujimo was a racing machine. Burr’s eyes adjusted. He finally got a look at the voice behind the gun. This guy was short, too. Taller than Stubby but not by much. Maybe five-seven. Mid-twenties. Dark brown hair, nicely parted, mustache trimmed just above his upper lip. Peeling nose, like all of the racers. Dilated pupils. No surprise there.

  He looks like a stoned shortstop.

  “Burr Lafayette,” he said, sticking his hand out.

  The young man shook Burr’s hand. “Toad.”

  “Toad?”

  “That’s what my friends call me.” Toad retrieved a joint from an ashtray at the nav station and struck a match. His tongue flicked in and out of his mouth.

  “That explains that.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  Toad sucked on the joint, held his breath and passed it to Burr.

  Today is a day that encourages substance abuse. It must be the rain.

  Burr took a hit and passed it back to Toad, who was sitting on the port quarter berth. He flicked his tongue and took another toke.

  Burr sat down at the nav station. The best instruments here, too. A door on the other side of the cabin led to the aft stateroom. Ahead of that, the galley, midships quarter berths, the enclosed head. Ahead of that, the forward cabin.

  Spartan but functional.

  Toad passed the joint back to Burr. He toked, then remembered Zeke. “Can I bring my dog aboard?”

  “Sure,” said the now affable Toad.

  Burr fetched Zeke from the dock and pulled out the slats in the companionway, but the Lab sat in the rain and looked down at them.

  “Labs sure like rain,” Toad said.

  “They do.”

  Where do I start?

  “Fujimo is a great name for a boat. Kind of Zen.”

  “If you say so. She’s fast as hell.”

  “Are you the boat boy?”

  “For the moment.”

  “I won my class, but I’m also Murdoch Halverson’s lawyer.”

  “What’s that got to do with me losing my gig?” He passed the joint to Burr.

  “My client has been charged with Mr. Lyons’ murder. As long as I’m here, can I ask you a few questions?”

  “Like?”

  “Like, are you anything else besides the boat boy?”

  “Head trimmer.”

  “That’s great.”

  The trimmer adjusted the headsails to their best possible advantage. Next to the driver, trimming was the most important job on a racing sailboat.

  “After Port Huron, I was supposed to take Fujimo to Chicago, but I’ve been stuck here since Jimmy died. But not much longer.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. Lyons is going to can me.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s going to sell Fujimo.”

  “Why?” Burr said, as if he didn’t know.

  “Married women don’t like boats.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  Grace loved boats. Until we got married.

  Toad passed him the joint.

  I’m going to lose my place if this keeps up.

  “I think she needs the money.”

  “Really?”

  “Jimmy pretty much owed everybody. Including me.”

  “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to murder Jimmy?”

  Toad sucked on the joint and thought it over. “Plenty of people.” He offered the joint to Burr who finally passed.

  “Like who?”

  “Like Jane.”

  “Jane?”

  The ship’s bell chimed eight times. “Shit. It’s noon. I got to go for my interview.”

  “Just a second. Would you give me the crew list?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.” Toad stubbed out the joint and put it in his pocket.

  “Who do you think might have killed Jimmy?”

  “My money is on Jane.” He stood up, reached in the hanging locker and pulled out his storm jacket.

  Burr thought he might as well try again. “Who was on the crew?”

  “No.”

  “I’m trying to save an innocent man.”

  “Murdo might be a lot of things, but one thing he’s not is innocent.”

  Burr found a twenty-dollar bill in his pocket and handed it to Toad, who looked at it like he’d never seen one before. He stuffed it in his jeans. “That gets you on board.”

  “I’m already on board.”

  “You paid in arrears.”

  He should be a lawyer when he grows up.

  “Questions cost a hundred.”

  Burr pulled the rest of his cash out of his pocket and counted it. “I’ll buy forty-one dollar’s worth.” He passed the cash to Toad.

  Toad sat down.

  “About the crew.”

  “There were ten of us, including Jimmy.”

  “Let’s start with the ringers.” Burr pulled a cocktail napkin and a pencil from his storm gear.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re the least likely to have a reason to murder Jimmy.”

  “Eric had the point. I went to State with him. Never gets anything twisted up. Robert and Tom were the grinders. Robert goes to C
entral. Tom goes to Kalamazoo and plays football. O-line. Big, strong guys, especially Tom. Another guy, Sammy, did the mast. I was head trimmer. Tom backed me up.”

  Burr coughed.

  I could get stoned just sitting here.

  He was having a hard time concentrating, but he wrote down the names with the job next to each one.

  “That’s pretty much it for the ringers.” Toad retrieved the joint from his pocket and lit it.

  “What about the others?”

  “The other guys, most of them at least, were Jimmy’s pals. He and I drove, but so did Murdo and Lionel.”

  “Lionel?” Burr hoped it wasn’t the Lionel he knew. But then how many Lionels could there be in Detroit?

  “He had this white hair that would frizz up. Looked like a lion.” Toad giggled.

  “What did he do?”

  “Driver. He was pretty good, but he oversteered.”

  “His day job.”

  “He was Jimmy’s lawyer.”

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  “Who was the navigator?”

  “Mostly this guy named Otto. I never met him before, but I think he was in the screw machine business, too.” Toad sucked on the joint. “Then there’s this guy Dickie. Skinny guy. He really didn’t do much. I don’t know why he was there.”

  “Why?”

  Toad yawned. “It didn’t seem like they got along. All he did was talk to Jimmy about money.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Benny. He was the cook. That’s all he did. Great cook. Lousy sailor. Kind of squishy.”

  “Squishy?”

  “Like this.” Toad reached his hand to Burr and shook it. A limp handshake.

  “Anybody else?”

  “Not that I can think of.”

  “Who did the pit?”

  “The pit?”

  “The pit,” Burr said again.

  “The pit,” Toad said again. “Robert. Robert did the pit.”

  “I thought you said Robert was a grinder.”

  “He did the pit, too.”

  It will be a miracle if I can remember any of this.

  “Why would anybody kill Jimmy?”

  “I already told you.” He looked Burr right in the eye. “Money.”

  “Money?”

  “Jimmy lived large but not on his own nickel.” Toad snickered again. “I always had a great time with Jimmy. Too bad it’s over.”

  Toad put out the joint, now just a roach. “You used up your forty-one dollars.” He put the roach back in his pocket. “I got to go to my interview.” He started up the companionway. “You got any idea what Fujimo stands for?”

  “I thought it was some Zen thing.”

  Toad’s tongue darted in and out of his mouth. “Zen, my ass.” He pulled back the hatch cover then turned back to Burr. “It means ‘Fuck you, Jane. I’m moving out.’”

  * * *

  Burr, Zeke at his feet, sat in a booth at Jesse’s Chuck Wagon. There was a counter with stools, all occupied, on the other side of the diner. Jesse’s was on Main Street, two blocks west of the marina. It was known for serving breakfast all day, which was just fine with Burr, who had a powerful appetite and knew why.

  Burr sat facing the door. He never sat with his back to any door. The door opened to muttering and general confusion, a dapper man tangled up in a black umbrella stuck in the doorway.

  Eve ducked underneath Jacob and his umbrella. She shook the rain off her yellow slicker and sat down across from Burr.

  “You smell just like Jacob.”

  “That’s why I’m so hungry.”

  Jacob gave up on the umbrella and sat down next to Eve, the umbrella upside down on the floor. He had a summer-weight, belted Burberry trench coat over a coral crew neck cotton sweater. He took off his crushed felt fedora. Natty as always, but water dripped from his steel wool hair. Raincoat, hat and umbrella notwithstanding, Jacob had managed to get wet.

  “I see we’re in another one of your dives.”

  “It looks to me like you can have anything you want here, as long as it’s fried,” Eve said.

  “You can get breakfast all day. That’s what I like about it.” Burr took the crew list out of his pocket.

  “What’s that?” Jacob said.

  “It’s Fujimo’s crew list.” Burr handed Eve the list.

  “Do these people have last names?”

  “That’s what we need to find out.”

  “We, meaning me?” Eve studied the list. “Toad?’

  “He’s the boat boy.”

  The waitress arrived, a sulky looking young woman with ketchup on her apron. Burr ordered the chuck wagon special: eggs over easy, a double order of link sausage, hash browns, rye toast, and tomato juice. And a side of pancakes.

  “Do I need ask why you’re so hungry,” Eve said. She ordered pancakes.

  “And you, sir?” the waitress said to Jacob.

  “Water.”

  “Just water?”

  “Water will be more than enough.”

  “Plus, there’s Jane,” Burr said.

  “I thought she was the grieving widow,” Eve said.

  “Not if she knew what the name of Jimmy’s boat meant,” Burr said.

  “The name?” Jacob said.

  “Fujimo.” Burr explained the acronym. Eve snickered. Jacob frowned.

  “Why would she kill her husband? All she had to do was divorce him and she’d get half.”

  Eve knew all about divorce, but Burr this didn’t think this was the time to bring that up. “If Jimmy was broke, she’d get half of nothing. If she killed him, she’d get the life insurance,” Burr said.

  “Assuming she was the beneficiary,” Jacob said. He took the list from Eve. “Murdo’s on this list.”

  “He was part of the crew,” Burr said.

  “That doesn’t help,” Jacob said.

  Burr ignored him.

  “What about all the other drunks who were on the island that night?” Eve said.

  “And there’s the guy who protested Jimmy,” Burr said.

  “Protested?”

  “Another boat said she was fouled by Fujimo.”

  “And you’d kill somebody over that?” Jacob said.

  “Those are half-million-dollar boats, and the owners have egos to match.”

  “For all you know, it may have been someone who had nothing to do with the damned sailboat race,” Jacob said. He looked out the window. “For all you know, it could have been that street sweeper out there.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  A northwest wind came up during the night and blew out the rain, and the morning dawned crisp and clear. Burr and Zeke sat on the top deck of the Captain Shepler bound for Mackinaw City. Burr let Zeke sit against the rail on the upper deck. Zeke, ears flapping in the wind, loved the spray in his face. Burr, who didn’t, sat on the aisle.

  Burr had avoided leaving the island unless it was absolutely necessary, but it had become painfully clear after meeting with Toad that lawyering from the porch of Windward, however delightful, wasn’t going to get the murder charge dismissed.

  Once ashore, Burr had the valet retrieve his black Jeep Grand Wagoneer with the fake wood paneling. He opened the passenger door for Zeke, who always insisted on a boost to the passenger seat. Why a dog who broke ice to fetch a duck and bullied through a cattail swale after a pheasant insisted on being helped into a car was beyond Burr.

  They headed south on I-75. Burr tried to get the cassette player going in the Jeep, then remembered it was broken, like the rear windshield wiper he’d broken off before it broke on its own. Then, 250 miles and a tank-and-a-half of gas later, Burr took the Jefferson Avenue exit in downtown Detroit. They passed the Renaissance Center, which housed the offices of Fisher and Allen, and parked ju
st up Griswold in front of the Penobscot Building, a grey Art Deco skyscraper that had been the tallest building in Michigan until the Renaissance Center had gone up.

  He and Zeke rode the elevator to the thirty-second floor, then transferred to the elevator that ran to the top fifteen floors. It shook and rattled all the way to the forty-third floor. Burr remembered why he hated elevators. He didn’t agree with Eve’s theory that it was a loss-of-control issue.

  The damn things aren’t safe.

  The doors opened to oak paneling and brass lettering that read Jameson, Jones, Worthy, and Goodenough. The law firm took up the whole floor, not that there was much floor space this far up.

  “Yes?” said a young woman at the reception desk.

  “Burr Lafayette to see Lionel Worthy.”

  “And your associate?” she said. Total deadpan.

  “Co-counsel,” Burr said, returning the deadpan.

  She phoned into the bowels of the law firm. A few minutes later, Lionel Worthy appeared. Big and strong, thick around the middle. Florid complexion, white hair combed straight back, ending in curls that brushed his collar. Sixty-five-ish.

  He smells like an ashtray.

  “How nice to see you again, Burr.” Lionel Worthy pumped Burr’s hand. “And this is?” he said, scratching Zeke’s ear.

  “Zeke.”

  “Come on back.” He took them to a corner office that looked over the top of the Guardian Building to the Detroit River on one corner and the City-County building on the other. The counselor with the flowing mane sat down behind his desk in a wine-colored leather office chair.

  Burr sat in one of two matching wing chairs facing Worthy’s desk. Zeke looked longingly at the other chair, but Burr motioned him to the Oriental rug. Worthy opened a drawer took out a pack of no-filter Pall Malls and lit a cigarette. He blew a cloud of smoke in Burr’s direction. Burr coughed. Worthy waved at the smoke, but it still settled over Burr, who coughed again. Worthy smoked half the cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing brass ashtray and lit another one. He sucked on the new one, then said, “What can I do for you?”

  He looks like he’s sucking lemonade through a straw.

  “I represent Murdoch Halverson.”

  “The Halversons already have lawyers.” Worthy blew two lungfuls of smoke from his nostrils.