Westfarrow Island

by Paul A. Barra

  Sharkey was a long-retired lobsterman, permanently bent from his work hauling pots in weather both fair and foul. His face was so wrinkled that Tagliabue could never look at it without wishing he could somehow iron it flat. Sharkey’s hair was wispy and white, his hands warped and knobby at the knuckles, his fingers as fat as the cigars he liked to smoke when he had an extra dollar or two.

  Tagliabue remembered it was time he visited Tom with a bottle of Tullamore Dew. They’d share a drink while Tom shared sea stories, the television muted in the background but never off. Tom Sharkey was a lonely man; Tagliabue hoped not to end up like him. He sat back on his bed and rubbed some heat into his feet. Sighing, he lay back, feeling his eyes growing heavy. The sound began again.

  This time he knew where it came from. Grumbling into his pillow, Tagliabue kicked off the covers and stomped to the lobster pot, remembering at the last minute that Polly’s master was dead and the dog had been abandoned for days. He sighed and let his shoulders droop.

  “What’s wrong, buddy? You feeling lonely?”

  He unlatched the cage and let Polly out. The beast wagged his tail. He walked over to the bedroom carpet and circled twice before he lay down.

  “Just don’t piss on the floor, okay?”

  At the sound of his voice the dog came over to the side of the bed.

  “And don’t even think about getting up on the bed.”

  When a pale dawn washed through the eastern window of his bedroom a few hours later, Tagliabue woke up. He’d been dreaming of Agnes Ann sleeping next to him, her belly up against his backside, and it felt like she was actually there in his bed. The dream was so real he looked behind him. Bug eyes and a rat face peered back. The dog yawned and wagged his tail.

  Tagliabue groaned. “Don’t tell me that senile old son of a bitch let you sleep with him.”

  He felt sorry for the dog. He had been left by his owner, left without enough food or water and locked in a rotted lobster trap. Tagliabue asked himself: why would Joshua have done that unless he expected to be back that same day? The mate would not have locked his dog up without food while he sailed out to Westfarrow Island. Joshua knew the trip was planned for two nights. When he got out of bed, Polly jumped down from the other side. They ate scrambled eggs and rye toast together in the kitchen, Tagliabue thinking hard.

  The dog rode with him over to Red Fowler’s shanty two blocks behind Pelham East. Hannah Jones answered his knock. Her face split into a huge grin when she saw Tagliabue and his new companion.

  “God knows, that the homeliest damn critter I ever seen. What you use him for anyway?”

  “He puts people in a good mood, I guess. Everyone who’s seen him so far laughs at him.”

  “Damn, Tagliabue. He so ugly he makes you look good.”

  She laughed and he felt himself laughing along with her. She had the door to the little house opened wide, but she was standing in the doorway, taking up most of the space with her bulk. She said: “I like to invite you in, but I don’t think I want him walking in my house. My neighbors think I got rats, they see him.”

  “No problem, Hannah.”

  He squatted down and called Polly. When the dog scurried up his back and hung on his shoulder the woman doubled over, eyes watering, mouth sputtering. She tried but wasn’t able to talk. She wiped her eyes and straightened up. She looked up at Polly peering at her over Tagliabue’s shoulder and burst into hoots and wails. A woman pulling a shopping basket down the other side of the street looked at the pair of them, a black woman in tears and a large white man with a bony dog on his back, and hurried on.

  Finally they settled in Hannah’s living room. Tagliabue put Polly on the floor, where he sat leaning on the man’s leg.

  “Well, shit,” Hannah said, wiping her eyes, “you do know how to make a woman happy now. You come here with that pup to entertain me or what? Cause if you come to be entertained, you know I ain’t in the life no more, right?”

  “I know, sweetie. Red has made you an honest woman. Fact is, I’ve come to see him.”

  “Well you about five hours too early then. He don’t drag his ass outta bed ’til lunchtime.”

  “I want to see him while he’s still in bed.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened. “That ain’t a good idea,” she said, but Tagliabue was already making for the closed bedroom door. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you now.”

  Tagliabue opened the door. Red Fowler’s massive form lay asleep on his back, his mouth gaping, releasing a sound like a rusty chain being dragged through a hawsepipe. When he inhaled after a few seconds, Red’s lips quivered and whistled. The pillows and sheets that landscaped the bed were tinged gray, clothes and shoes littered the carpeted floor. Tagliabue swept open the heavy curtains covering the one window in the room and surveyed the place. Two of the drawers of the scarred and stained dresser were already open, revealing underwear and socks. He went through the drawers, feeling for a gun. Fowler’s breathing rasped on. He looked in the tall chifforobe and felt the pockets of the clothes hanging in it. In a poplin jacket he discovered a cheap cell phone. He put it back and fingered through the crushed cigarette packet, change, mints, and matchbooks on the night table.

  He sat on the man’s chest. After a moment with two hundred sixty pounds compressing his lungs, Fowler came to with belching bluster.

  “What the fuck . . .”

  Sour breath issued from his mouth, filling the little room with the odor of digested alcohol and sleep. Tagliabue breasted the smell and spoke quietly only inches from the big man’s face.

  “I want to know what happened to Joshua White, Red. You’re not the kind of man to shoot someone in the back but you probably know who did. I want to know who did it.”

  “Can’t . . . can’t breathe.”

  “If you can talk you can breathe. Now tell me who shot my friend in the back or you’ll be breathing through a mouth without any teeth in it.”

  Fowler’s eye widened at the threat. He growled and heaved his body. Tagliabue stepped off him and turned to face him as the redhead threw the covers aside and struggled to a sitting position.

  “You invade my fucking house and try to suffocate me to bust my chops about some derelict who’s probly better off dead? I wished I woulda killed him myself . . .”

  Tagliabue slammed a short right into Fowler’s face, knocking him back into his pillow. The meaty smack of flesh being struck rattled the open window and covered the sound of septum cartilage cracking. Fowler squealed. Tears sprang from his eyes. Tagliabue sat on him again. Blood ran from Fowler’s nose and water from his scrunched-up eyes. He was gasping in pain as Tagliabue spoke in quiet, venomous tones.

  “I ever hear of you talking about Joshua White, fat boy, I’m coming into Pelham and am going to beat the shit out of you in public. I’m going to pound you down and make you beg for mercy. After that, every yahoo with a few beers in him is going to try you out. Think about life after that.”

  Tagliabue left the bedroom, left Red Fowler bleeding and distraught, mewling in agony. He had lost his temper and was angry at himself about that, but it was too late to take it back. He’d gotten nothing out of Red Fowler. In fact, he let the big man know that he suspected something about him and Magpie. He’d been warned. Magpie would be hard to find after this. It was stupid, what he did in the bedroom, and unprofessional.

  Hannah sat with her hand on Polly, both bug-eyed and silent as they stared at him closing the bedroom door behind himself. He made for the front door, massaging his knuckles.

  “Hold on, big man, I’m coming wichyou. Ain’t no facing him till he get right again.”

  They left and walked down lower Pierce Street, the little dog following along behind, stopping to check out smells on the sidewalk and piss on a johnny pump before scurrying to catch up with them again. Polly seemed content to be left off the leash. He didn’t venture into the gutter.

  Tagliabue looked over at the woman, who showed no emotion on her face. Her jocular mood when she fi
rst met him and the dog was gone. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “Red is hurt and embarrassed. He going to take it out on you, Hannah?”

  “Not likely. He know I ain’t about to tolerate none of that shit. He treat me like his honeychile anyway. I do keep my own bank account, just in case.”

  She was a handsome woman for all her heft, Tagliabue noted as he nodded to her. She stopped in front of a corner store.

  “I’m ready for a cuppa, Anthony. Don’ worry none about me. Worry ’bout yourself. That Red a mean mother now. Ain’t nothing worse than an old bull getting desperate.”

  “I know. See ya.”

  He walked off and the woman went into the store, a bell tinkling as she opened and closed the door. Polly stood undecided for a second then trotted after Tagliabue. They went down the hill to the harbor and Maven. The dog rested in the shade of the conning station while his new owner changed the oil in the twin engines and greased some fittings. Tagliabue needed to work off the nervous energy he felt after his confrontation with Red Fowler. He was cleaning his hands and forearms with Gojo and a bucket of salt water two hours later when Polly picked up his head and snarled, his body quivering. A skinny spotty-faced teen was walking up to the boat. The dog barked and moved over to Tagliabue.

  “Hey, he ain’t gonna tear me up, is he?” the boy asked, laughing. “You need a real guard dog I got me a cocker spaniel up to the house.”

  Tagliabue smiled at him. “You’re a funny man. You ought to know that size isn’t everything.”

  “Yeah, I do know that,” the boy said around a huge grin. “I know that mongrel might could bite me in the knee if he got a running jump. He’s a scary cocksucker all right.”

  He sat on the shore power box on the pier next to Maven and took the reversed Wicked Weed hat off his head, releasing a burst of blond curls. Polly relaxed but stayed on his feet, leaning against Tagliabue’s leg. The teenager sniffed and wiped his nose with his forearm.

  “You Anthony Tagliabue?”

  “I am.”

  “Well, Mr. D’Annunzio wants to know if you would do him the honor of visiting with him at his table in the Pelham East at about seven. He wants to buy you dinner.”

  “Okay, thanks. You work for him?”

  “Yeah, after school some and in the summer. I’m Sean Flynn. You know my mother, used to be Heather Malsch?”

  “I know her. Say hey for me. How’s she doing?”

  “She’s okay. I’ll tell her you said hello, big guy. See you soon.”

  As the boy started to walk off, Tagliabue said: “Hey, Sean, you want a dog?”

  “No, thanks. My little sister’s afraid of monsters.” He sauntered off laughing and Tagliabue said to Polly: “I was only kidding, pup. You’re stuck with me, looks like.”

  He left the animal in his apartment when he walked down to the restaurant that evening. The Jeepster was still parked near Red Fowler’s place. His blood was still boiling at the time, so he hadn’t wanted to risk driving. Now he was afoot. Luckily, it was a short walk.

  A tall and heavy oak door with a scene of a vineyard in stained glass opened easily into the dining room of Pelham East, blue sprays of grapes anticipating the decor of the room. The blue rug of the bar area ended at the fish tank divider. Tagliabue stepped off the oaken planks of the dining room and looked to the end of the bar. Red Fowler sat hunched on his stool, a metal cast curving over his nose, smudges forming under his eyes.

  “Ol’ Red’s going to have some beauteous black eyes here pretty quick, isn’t he?” he said to a passing waiter.

  The man snapped a look at Fowler and back to Tagliabue, mouth taut. He had paused when Tagliabue spoke to him but he started off again in a purposeful stride.

  “He ain’t a happy camper, Anthony. I don’t mind telling you that,” he said softly over his shoulder.

  Tagliabue went on through the dining room to the back corner where Peter D’Annunzio sat at a four-top that fit into an alcove. He was sitting in the far chair with his back to a window onto a lighted biergarten. Diners filled the outside area overlooking the eastern harbor, their voices and the sounds of a piano drifting in every time the door to the dining room opened. The door also let in cool air. Two men Tagliabue recognized as bodyguards sat at an adjoining table about four feet away from D’Annunzio. He nodded to them and took the seat next to his host, as far from the two men as he could get. Many of the other tables were occupied, conversations being absorbed by the plush wallpaper and double tablecloths.

  “Hello, Anthony. Welcome.”

  “Thank you, Peter. Nice crowd.”

  “Yeah, for a Monday. We don’t get much turnover during the early week, though, so we only take reservations for seven and eight. Makes us look busy.”

  “Nobody ever accused you of being dumb, Peter.”

  “What do they accuse me of?”

  “Sure you want to hear it?”

  “Yeah. Tell me.”

  “Some people think this restaurant is a front for some unspecified disreputable activity.”

  D’Annunzio laughed. His face pushed into a mass of glades and moguls, the fat swath below his chin wobbled, and his eyes disappeared into slits. His pointy beard bounced up and down like a matador’s pigtail. Tagliabue felt the urge to swab baby oil into the rifts of his flesh.

  “Anthony, Anthony. You kill me.”

  He dabbed at his eyes with his linen napkin. A waitress arrived then and set a hammered copper mug in front of Tagliabue. It glistened with condensation. D’Annunzio stopped laughing as quickly as he had begun.

  “I hope you like this special Moscow Mule, Anthony. My barman Jeffrey over at Pelham Paris makes the ginger beer himself from his own roots and drives it over here twice a week. This just came in this afternoon. And the limes, y’know, are in season down in the Keys. Couldn’t be fresher.”

  Tagliabue sipped the spicy drink and found it surprisingly refreshing.

  “I also hope you like lemon sole almondine. It’s actually flounder, but it was caught today. Our Monday chef, Alfred, has an especially delicate touch with flounder.”

  “It comes with pomme frites and curry ketchup,” the waitress said. “The vegetable is steamed chard.”

  Tagliabue nodded to her and she went away.

  “People like to eat outside even this time of year?”

  D’Annunzio nodded, his chin set into motion again. “They like the view and the smell of the bay. This is about as cold as they can tolerate though. The garden will be filled every clear night from now on out.”

  Tagliabue drank and waited for conversation clues from his host. Since they both were born and raised in Bath there were plenty of local topics of mild interest, and that’s what they talked about. Apparently the reason for the summons to dine was going to wait until after dinner. D’Annunzio had another Mule, but Tagliabue declined a refill.

  “You never did drink much, did you Anthony?”

  “Not much. I enjoy some drinks, like this one, and I like beer, but I want to know what I’m doing most of the time.”

  “That’s a good strategy for a man in your position.”

  Before Tagliabue could find out what D’Annunzio meant by that remark, the server returned with their entrees. The fish was delicate, the fries crisp. It was an excellent meal. He only hoped that he’d be served some information for dessert.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After they finished eating and the server had swept the linen, Peter D’Annunzio sat hunched over a pony glass of Drambuie. He sipped, wiped his lips, grimaced, frowned. He leaned back, shot the brilliant white cuffs of his linen shirt and spoke. “You have caused me difficulties, Anthony.”

  “How so?”

  “You have ruined Red Fowler’s confidence. He’s effective as a bouncer because people are afraid of him. If he can’t, er, project an image of invincibility, drunks will begin to think they can challenge him. If that happens, we’ll have fights in Pelham East. This restaurant’s reputation as
a fine dining and drinking establishment will suffer. You catch my meaning?”

  D’Annunzio’s voice took on a plaintive tone, as if he had looked into the future and saw change coming to what had been a successful and painless business arrangement. The change was not welcome; he hoped to defer such an eventuality for at least a while longer.

  “It’d be tough to undo what transpired between Red and me, Peter. And no offense, especially after you just treated me to this fine meal, but I’m more concerned about finding out what happened to my friend Joshua than I am about business at your restaurant.”

  “I understand. Yes, I do understand. Actually, I wish to propose a possible solution that should solve both our dilemmas. Number one, you stay out of this restaurant, in particular the bar area, for a few months. That should give Mr. Fowler time to regain his confidence and get back to his old, shall we say, garrulous self.

  “Number two, I tell you who was responsible for the untimely demise of your crony Joshua White. What do you think?”

  Tagliabue thought the proposition was surprising, at first. The owner of Pelham East valued Red Fowler’s services but big and aggressive bouncers were available for hire. The man was not irreplaceable. Tagliabue surmised that Peter D’Annunzio liked to play the role of a connected restaurateur without actually being involved in illegal activities. He was not a gangster but cultivated the aura of an educated yet dangerous boss. He thought people should respect him not only because he was wealthy but because he was mysterious and sort of on the outer edge of the compliant and obedient masses. It was a dubious persona to Tagliabue, but he was certain D’Annunzio wanted to own it.

  If he accepted Peter’s proposal there was no doubt in his mind that the restaurant owner would tell Fowler that he didn’t want the redhead seeking retribution by beating up Tagliabue, so he had ordered Tagliabue to stay out of Pelham East. That would make D’Annunzio seem to have authority. It would also make Red Fowler believe that D’Annunzio was confident he, Red, could accomplish retribution if he wanted to. That was D’Annunzio’s interest in the bargain. As for Tagliabue, he didn’t want to punish Fowler anymore. He was also confident enough not to care if some people thought he’d been warned off. That made his response to the man’s proposal easy.