Westfarrow Island

by Paul A. Barra

  “That sounds like a good deal to me, Peter.”

  D’Annunzio smiled and stretched out a hand. They shook briefly.

  “It won’t shock you to learn, my friend, that Marvin Harris was the prime mover in the bombing of your boat. Please don’t ask me his motivation. All I know for certain is that he has been becoming more, er, criminal in his outlook lately. I’m afraid he is now what I consider to be a liability to my enterprises. At first it was small stuff here and there, shady but not evil, if you know what I mean? I pay him well and he makes more money from his side work, so to speak. He’s gotten greedy, though, and I can’t see an easy way to disentangle myself from him.”

  “What’s he gotten into, Peter?”

  “I’m afraid it’s the hard stuff, and you can certainly appreciate that I can’t afford to have even the hint of drugs in the Pelham establishments.”

  “So you want to sic me on him.” It was not a question. “

  Marv knows I’m dining with you tonight. I intend to tell him that you suspect he and Red were behind the killing of your friend and that you are looking for him.”

  “Was Red involved?”

  “No. I can swear to that. He was in the bar all night last Wednesday and Thursday.”

  “But he knew about the plan.”

  “I’m not sure about that. He and Marv had an urgent get-together the afternoon before the killing, I do know that.”

  Tagliabue had already learned from Timmy O’Brien that the two had gone up to D’Annunzio’s office. He decided to keep that information to himself. Not for a minute did he believe that he was being offered information so he would stay out of the bar and give Red Fowler’s ego a chance to heal. Harris was becoming a liability to D’Annunzio and the fat man wanted him out of the way, so he manufactured this bogus deal in the hopes that Tagliabue would catch Magpie dealing and have him put away. That way, his hands would be clean and an odious henchman would be out of his pomaded hair. Still, even if he would be doing the bidding of D’Annunzio, Tagliabue now had a target to home in on. He nodded his assent.

  “This information is between the two of us, Anthony. You will appreciate that I can’t be seen to be testifying against Marvin.” “

  As long as the information is valid.”

  “Oh, I guarantee that. Fact, I made a recording of Marvin’s plans to place a small bomb in your boat. He didn’t specify why he wanted to, as he said, disable it. If Marvin made the hole in your boat, he surely must have killed your mate, although he might not have done it intentionally, from the scuttlebutt I hear.”

  “Where’s the tape, Peter?”

  “Rest assured I have it in a secure place.”

  He smiled when he said that, but it didn’t quite come off. D’Annunzio was probably in over his head with Magpie’s foray into the weeds, so he wanted the recording in case his appeal to Tagliabue didn’t pan out. D’Annunzio started to get up, his hand reaching out for a shake.

  “Put your hand in your pocket, Peter. I don’t want anyone to think we’re friends.”

  He rose to his full height. D’Annunzio’s face blanched and he fell back into his seat. He cleared his throat before he managed to say, “Be careful, Anthony. Marv’s carrying.”

  Tagliabue left the Pelham East and walked the few blocks to Red Fowler’s house. Hannah Jones answered the door looking none the worse for wear.

  “You left your ugly dog to home. That mean you ain’t come to pound on my man no more?”

  He smiled back. “Red’s at the bar. I just came by to see if you’re all right.”

  “Yeh, I’m okay. I tole you, Red don’ take out his flustrations on me. I did run him to the ’mergency room to get his nose fixed. Found out he ain’t too happy which you.”

  “I don’t expect he is. See you. Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Anthony.”

  As she was beginning to shut her front door, Tagliabue asked, “You ever see Marvin Harris around here, Hannah?”

  “He come by once in a while. Ain’t seen him lately.”

  “If you do see him, please tell him I’m looking for him.”

  “Uh, oh.” The door closed with a loud click.

  Tagliabue retrieved the Jeepster from the street and drove back to his apartment. Polly growled when he unlocked the front door, then took to slapping the floor with his tail when he recognized him. After feeding the dog, he changed to a dark T-shirt and jeans. He put sneakers on and pulled a Glock 40 in a waist holster from a work boot in the corner. At the table, Tagliabue cleaned the gun and loaded a magazine, putting another full one in his back right pocket. All this took place to the background sounds of Polly snapping and crunching his food. The apartment got quiet. Looking up, Tagliabue saw the dog standing by the front door looking at him.

  “Shoot. I guess you need to go for a walk, don’t you, pal?”

  Holstering the automatic on his hip, Tagliabue ushered the little dog out and locked the street door. They walked into the soft night, the streets already dark. Tagliabue felt a heaviness to the air, heard the rumble and crackle of far-off thunder. He wanted to walk fast, breathe hard, and get on with the task he had assigned himself, but there was no rushing his dog. Polly bounced along with chattering steps, checking out smells and urinating his own. How does he carry all that liquid in his small rounded belly? Tagliabue wondered as he waited again for the little beast to catch up to him.

  At the junction of Pine, where Patel’s corner store was closed and shuttered for the night, Tagliabue reversed course and headed for home. He liked to let the dog experience both sides of the street so he called Polly close and crossed over. The houses on the far side were dark, spaced by empty lots. Something scrabbled in the weeds. Polly barked once and ran to the noise. In a few seconds he was back, having chased the something and proud enough of that accomplishment. He didn’t need to catch rodents or cats to feel good about himself; he only needed to chase. Tagliabue smiled and continued his slow stroll in the dark. He carried a small high-intensity light in his pocket but felt no need to use it. No cars passed on the quiet street. Magpie was on the run, but he could worry about finding him tomorrow. Right now, all was peaceful in Bath.

  Thunder clashed, closer. Polly stopped and looked down an alleyway between two four-story apartment houses. Hair stood up on his back. The tiny dog snarled, showing his teeth, then darted into the alleyway, growling and barking just as a hard rain began to pelt down. Tagliabue grinned at the little dog’s sham ferocity as he paused to lift his jacket collar and take out his light. It didn’t seem to him that Polly would make such a fuss over a rodent or a cat. He hoped he wasn’t going to tangle with a possum or a coon.

  When the dog yipped, a pained cry, Tagliabue went in after him. The peaceful feeling he was enjoying on the walk with his dog flew from him and he braced for action. He trained his flashlight on the pavement as he sprinted into the alley and thought for a second about taking his gun in hand. But he was in Bath, for God’s sake, a quiet river town in Maine. One military precept he never failed to obey was, “Don’t draw your weapon unless you are prepared to use it.” Anthony Tagliabue was not prepared to shoot someone or something in Bath. His running presence should frighten away any animal threatening Polly.

  Polly was backed against the right wall, snarling again—his growl carrying a certain fearful note this time. Tagliabue swung the light and saw shadows just as they fell on him. Something hit him above his left ear, staggering him. Flashing brilliant sparks strobed in his head. He dropped his flashlight and lashed out in the skittering glimmer it created on the ground.

  He struck something, but the first blow had slowed his instincts. Hard strikes assailed him from front and back. The blows cracked as they hit, not fists then. He went down. Polly barked frantically. Thunder roared. A boot toe crashed into his forehead and more dazzling lights flared before the world went completely dark.

  He woke in a cold rain, seeing visions. A grizzled, crooked man in a slicker and pajama bottoms
stood over him holding a flashlight. Rain splattered off his coat, wind slapped its plastic into a rattling volley.

  “Who’s that? That you, Anthony? Christ boy, you been hurt. Bad, looks like. Can you get up?”

  Tagliabue tried to answer but waves of nausea rolled over him and he had to fight not to vomit. Gasping and sweating, he closed his eyes and let the blackness take over again.

  The next time he came to, the apparition was still there, this time accompanied by a man in uniform. The two were talking. Actually, the old man was talking, the cop listening.

  “Yonder gale took out me lights, so’s the television set went off,” he said, his toothless gums catching and breaking suction like an octopus at work. Tagliabue recognized the peculiar diction as that of Tom Sharkey. He smiled. The old man went on, “I looks out the winder and see Anthony’s new pup running in circles and barking somethin’ fierce, so’s I opens the winder for a gander. That’s when two men come a runnin’ out the alley. One kicked at the doggie but he missed. I put on me foul weather gear and come out to see what the fuss was about. Found the big boy here all bloodied and sick.”

  It seemed an appropriate time to spare the patrolman. Tom could be voluble when he had an audience. Tagliabue moaned. Polly whined and licked his face.

  “Don’t try to move, sir. We got an ambulance coming. Let them boys take a look at ya,” the cop said.

  Tagliabue lay still. Before long a man and a woman were putting their hands on him and training a pencil light in his eyes. The back of his head hurt if he tried to move. He heard one say “concussion” before they put a cervical collar around his neck and moved him to a gurney, the cop helping, and strapped him in. Before they slid the contraption into the ambulance, Sharkey came up to him and said: “I’ll take care of yer puppy, Anthony. Don’t worry about him.”

  He squeezed his hand and Tagliabue squeezed back.

  “Your gun is missing.”

  “And good morning to you, Detective Coleman.” Tagliabue was feeling considerably better after a drug regimen and a night’s sleep. He had a crosshatch of stitches running from his right eyebrow to left hairline that felt stiff and sore; the back of his head was soft to the touch and ached when he moved; his left ear was cut and the temple area abraded; and his shoulders were so bruised and swollen that the hospital gown he was wearing in bed seemed made of sackcloth. But all his teeth seemed well anchored and the dizziness had abated. “How do you know it’s missing?”

  “There’s an empty holster still attached to your belt.”

  “Funny. They didn’t take my wallet or the magazine in my back pocket.”

  “They weren’t out to rob you, Anthony. Thugs like this can’t ever pass up a weapon. They probably didn’t see the clip in your pocket. What’d they get?”

  “A Glock 40, registration number Me256344.”

  “Shit. That the new ten mil job?”

  “Yep.”

  “I thought your holster looked a little long. Loaded, was it?”

  “Yep again, fifteen rounds of Federal 180 grams.”

  “No wonder they couldn’t resist pinching it.”

  Johnny Coleman stopped taking notes and stood up. He walked around the room, pulling open the sheet surrounding the second bed to reveal an empty space and looking out the window. He closed the door to the ward and came back to Tagliabue.

  “Who was it, Anthony?”

  “Peter Nunz warned the Magpie I was looking for him about the shooting of Joshua White. I figure Marv hired a couple of hard cases to, er, distract me.”

  “We found two-by-fours with your tissue on them. You’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “I’m lucky they didn’t catch me out on the street. The alley was a little narrow for that kind of lumber.”

  “Why’d you go into that alley anyway, in the middle of the night?’

  “Polly heard something in there, then he got hurt and I heard him cry. I thought I’d better rescue him, although I was expecting a bigger dog or something like that. I didn’t see the guys with the lumber until they were on me.”

  “You have your Glock out?”

  “No, thank God.”

  “What d’ya mean? It could have saved you some flesh. They beat you pretty bad.”

  “I’m sure now it was some local lads, out to teach me a lesson or warn me off or something. I would hate to have shot one of them. I’m a little surprised they hit me in the head. I don’t think they expected me to run at them in that alley, where I could get in a few licks myself.”

  “You can thank your ugly fucking parrot for that. And that grotty old neighbor of yours. Goddamn, does he ever shut up?”

  “He’s a bit lonely. Besides, this is the most excitement Tom Sharkey has known since Mutt James accused him of raiding his pots—and Mutt’s been dead and gone for twenty years now.”

  Coleman laughed. He said: “Well, we’re hunting the mutts who did you, Tagliabue. It ain’t likely we’ll find anything, but you never know. Speak to me if you hear anything, okay?”

  Tagliabue tried to nod, caught himself and said, “Wilco.”

  “Good. Now I gotta go. There’s someone waiting in the lobby to see you.”

  The detective left. Five minutes later, Agnes Ann knocked and slipped through the cracked door. Her smile looked forced as she stood an arm’s length from his bed.

  “You don’t look as bad as Detective Coleman said, Tony.”

  “Cops always see things from the worst possible perspective.”

  “Can I touch you or anything?” She was using a hospital voice. Her eyes were hooded and fearful.

  “My lips are in perfect shape.”

  She came forward in a rush and kissed him lightly. She stayed close, peering at parts of him as if he were a specimen in a lab.

  “You’re going to have a scar on your forehead.”

  “I’ll look dangerous.”

  “You are dangerous.”

  “Yeah, to myself.”

  “Tony, you are dangerous. You have marks all over your body from all the scrapes you’ve been in.”

  “It’s just the kind of work I do, Aggie. Don’t make too much of this little incident.”

  She pulled back and sat on the chair Detective Coleman had used. She clasped her hands together and spoke in a low, urgent voice.

  “I know it’s the kind of work you do.”

  “Uh, oh. This sounds serious.”

  “I’m not playing, Tony. I’ve been putting together the last two years we’ve known each other. You disappear for days at a time with your boat tied to the pier. You know things a normal person wouldn’t ordinarily know . . .”

  “For instance?”

  “You know my ex has a gambling habit. I never said anything about that.”

  “You ever hear of the Internet, Aggie?”

  “You can’t find that kind of information on the Internet, at least not on the sites available to normal people. And how come we never spend any time in your apartment? We always sleep together at my place.”

  “You live in a better class of place.”

  “The one time I was ever even allowed to enter your domain, you hustled me out in a minute, and you didn’t explain why a cargo boat operator needs a Mac Pro that must have cost $4,000 and a better home security system than the Kennedy compound in Hyannis. And how come no one else lives in your apartment house? The other two floors are empty.”

  Tagliabue lay in bed with his eyes closed, trying to regulate his breathing. He opened one eye and squinted at Agnes Ann as she perched on the chair, her body taut, her eyes large and moist.

  “I’ve just survived being beaten with sticks and I’m in pain. There are drugs I can’t pronounce sloshing through my body. I don’t think I can handle an interrogation right now.”

  “That’s why I decided to confront you now. You’re vulnerable. There’s a chance you’ll be truthful with me.”

  “I’ve never lied to you, Aggie.”

  “Maybe not, but you leave
a lot out.”

  She sniffed, tears spilled from her eyes, but she made no attempt to stem them. Tagliabue, stiff with pain and immobilized by medications, could not hold her. He wanted to soothe her anxiety, mitigate her distress. He spoke softly: “What brought all this on?”

  “I came as soon as I heard about you being hurt but they wouldn’t let me on the ward for over an hour while they were sewing you up, I guess. I went for coffee in the cafeteria and saw Detective Coleman there. We talked. He said there’s more to this case than a dead body. He doesn’t know what. He said there are other forces, he called them, forces being brought to bear. His chief was called up to Augusta and came back all vague about the case. He told Johnny to find the guys who attacked you but nothing else without conferring with him. He and Tom Sharkey tried to get someone to let them into your apartment to get dog food. The detective said you are the only one living in that house and that he can’t figure out who even owns it.

  “I have long been curious about your life, Tony. There are too many things I don’t know.”

  “You’ve got to be patient. We’re just starting our life together. Things take time. I have to keep a little mystery about myself or you’ll get tired of me.”

  He smiled when he said the last. Agnes Ann smiled too, wiping the tears away in an agitated gesture when she felt them touch her lips. She searched his face with her dark eyes.

  “Having a mysterious stranger in my bed can be exciting, and I don’t want to tie you down or pry into your private life. I just can’t stand the thought that your private life might kill you one day.”

  “It’s not all that dangerous, Aggie. My scars and bumps have accumulated over a long time, including my years in the navy.”

  “You haven’t been around a long time.”

  “It ain’t the years, it’s the mileage,” he said, trying to sound like Indiana Jones. “And I’m hoping someday you will tie me down.”

  “I know you love me, Tony. You don’t have to say it. A woman knows those kinds of things.”