Port City Black and White

by Gerry Boyle

  Mia turned left onto the Eastern Promenade, looked up. There were people on the roof deck of a big Victorian. They were holding drinks.

  “Party’s started,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  But she wheeled the Saab hard into the drive, squeezed it in between a new Land Rover and a Subaru wagon, kayaks on the roof of the Subaru, a racing bike on the Rover. Both cars had school stickers on the back window: bowdoin and choate, dartmouth and hotchkiss. Mia’s Saab said colby—Fit right in, Brandon thought. “I’m gonna get a sticker for the Criminal Justice Academy,” he said. “Put it on the truck.”

  “Do they make them?” Mia said.

  He slipped the holster and gun from his waistband, put them in the glove box, and locked it. They got out, heard the prattle of voices from high above. Mia locked the car and they started for the door.

  “Pretty fancy place,” Brandon said.

  “Her parents bought the condo as an investment,” Mia said. “She lives in it.”

  “Huh.”

  “Please don’t judge them, Brandon. She’s very nice.”

  “And the chef?”

  “I haven’t met him, but everybody says he’s a good guy. Very good for her. She has this way of sliding down, getting discouraged.”

  “About what? Being rich and idle?”

  “Brandon, please.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I guess he’s very upbeat, keeps her spirits up.”

  They were headed up the stairs, the treads sanded and varnished, stained-glass windows and a built-in seat at the landing. Brandon thought of the other stairs he’d climbed that day: the smell of urine, the dirty underwear.

  At the third floor there was a piece of paper taped to the door. It had a picture of the hosts: Lily, sharp-featured and pretty with short dark hair; Winston, dark and handsome, head shaved, gleaming even in the printout photo. The note said, “Follow the stickies to the deck.”

  They pushed the door open. There were lime-green sticky notes on the floor. They led through a big kitchen, with stainless appliances, a granite-topped island.

  “Oh, isn’t this beautiful,” Mia said.

  “I think you’re beautiful,” Brandon said. He was trying. Positive energy.

  Mia turned, smiled. Brandon meant it: blonde hair flowing, a black tank top and swirly print skirt. And the eyes.

  “I think you’re beautiful, too,” Mia said, and she kissed him gently, took his hand and led the way.

  The notes led to an outside stairway, like a fire escape. They climbed, popped out on the roof. There were maybe twenty people, nobody over thirty. A bar was set up away from the water, liquor and mixers, wine and beer. Lily turned from a couple in madras shorts and polos, saw them and hurried over.

  “Mia,” she said. “I’m so glad you could come.”

  They touched both cheeks, fake-kissing like Europeans. Lily turned to Brandon, said, “Brandon, it’s so good to finally meet you. Mia’s told me so much about you.”

  Brandon took her hand but she leaned in, gave him the Euro kisses, too. Her dangling earring tapped him on the neck, and she turned, still holding his hand, and guided him away.

  “I want to introduce you. Especially to the other people in the book club. Mia talks about you a lot, you know. And now we finally get to see the famous Brandon Blake in person.”

  She paused. A big red-haired guy had just opened a Heineken with an opener on his keys. Lily snatched it away, said, “Sorry. We have a VIP.”

  Lily handed Brandon the beer. The guy looked at Brandon, smiled and bowed. They moved across the deck to the water side, three women and another guy talking. Lily squeezed in, Brandon in tow. “Guys, I want you to meet someone. This is Brandon, Mia’s Brandon.”

  They turned and looked at him curiously. An Asian woman in a short red sundress said, “Well, finally,” and shook his hand. “You live on a boat, right?” she said. “I think that’s so cool.”

  The guy—tall and lanky, blond dreads, khaki shorts, and beat-up Birkenstocks—said, “Welcome aboard, dude.” He held out his beer bottle and Brandon tapped his against it.

  “Thanks. Nice to meet you.”

  A small woman with a mane of dark hair, a gold stud in her nose, reached her bottle in, too. She clanked hard and spilled, beer spattered their feet. “You’re shut off,” Birkenstocks said.

  “Shouldn’t have pre-partied,” the dark-haired woman said, then clapped a hand over her mouth, took it away. “Whoops,” she said loudly. “Gotta be careful, talking to a cop.”

  There was a moment of stop-action, the movie paused. Birkenstocks started it up again, said, “No shit. You mean, like a real policeman?”

  Brandon could feel others listening, a lull in their conversations.

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “Right here? Portland PD?” Birkenstocks said.

  “Yup.”

  “Wow. Very cool. I’ve never met a cop before. I mean, except when I was getting a ticket.”

  “Is it true some women go gaga for a man in uniform?” the dark-haired woman said.

  “Sarah,” Lily said. “Please.”

  “I read about it in Cosmo once. They put a cop uniform on this model guy. He was really hot, but you’re pretty hot, too.”

  “Sarah.”

  “Well, it’s true. This guy, he walked around Manhattan in his police uniform and you wouldn’t believe the women who hit on him. Not just waitresses, either. These rich East Side ladies and everything.”

  “Must be a New York thing,” Brandon said.

  Sarah took a swallow of beer, went on. “They’d say things like, ‘Officer, you can handcuff me anytime.’ ”

  They laughed.

  “Definitely a New York thing,” Brandon said.

  “So, dude,” Birkenstocks said. “Do you, like, carry a gun?”

  “Lily,” Sarah said, raising her voice, “does this mean we can’t smoke pot?”

  They laughed again, Sarah saying, “But I’m serious.” Lily took Brandon by the arm and guided him away.

  “I’m sorry. Sarah’s really a sweetheart, but get a couple of drinks into her, she starts to do standup.”

  “It’s okay,” Brandon said.

  “I think it’s so exciting what you do,” Lily said, pulling him closer. “I mean, it’s dangerous, right? There are really bad people out there.”

  They crossed the deck. Brandon saw Mia over by the bar, a serious-looking guy, gold-rimmed glasses, talking to her, Mia nodding. Then it was another cluster of people along the rail. Lily said, “Sorry to interrupt. I just want you to meet Brandon. He’s here with Mia—from our book group.”

  More smiles, bottles and wineglasses clinking. Winston held out his hand.

  “Brandon, this is Winston. And Laura and Rod and Kikki and Bill.”

  “Welcome, Brandon,” Winston said, a deep voice, West Indies accent. Brandon felt Mia slide up to his side.

  “Thanks for having us,” Brandon said. “This is a great spot.” He motioned toward the bay.

  “Brandon and Mia live on a boat,” Lily said.

  “Oh, really,” Winston said. “I did the live-aboard thing for a year or two.”

  “Probably a little easier in the Caribbean,” Brandon said.

  “You don’t stay on the boat in the winter, do you?” Lily said.

  “Oh, yeah. You cover it up, hunker down.”

  “How big a boat?” Winston said.

  “Thirty-two. An old Chris-Craft.”

  “It has this great name,” Lily said. “What is it?”

  “Bay Witch,” Mia said.

  “Sweet,” Winston said. “I love it. When I had the restaurant in Bridgetown, I lived on my partner’s sailboat. Fifty-seven feet.”

  “So you were on the west side of the island,” Brandon said.

  “Yes,” Winston said.

  “No real deep harbors on the island, even in, what is it, Carlisle Bay?”

  “No, but we get by
.”

  “West side is sheltered, but in the fall, I’d be worried if the winds shifted, came out of the west. In a big blow, nowhere to hide,” Brandon said.

  “You’ve been to Barbados?”

  “No,” Brandon said.

  “Brandon reads a lot,” Mia said.

  Winston grinned, gave Brandon a slap on the shoulder. Brandon felt the strength of him, a solid, muscled guy. “Oh, you absolutely must come down. When Lily and I go next winter, we’ll take you. It’s a beautiful place.”

  “You have family there?” Mia said.

  “No, they’re all scattered. That’s the thing about the Indies—very beautiful, but limited opportunities. Many young people, if they can do it, they go. UK, Canada.”

  “But you came to the U.S.,” Mia said.

  “Oh, yeah. I figured I’d come to the land of opportunity. I love the States. You hustle here, you work hard, the sky’s the limit.”

  Lily had moved toward him.

  “And of course, there are also the most beautiful women.” He gave her a hug and she smiled.

  “He thinks he’s such a charmer.”

  “What do you mean, he thinks?” Winston said.

  Dinner was served buffet-style in the dining room, salads and bread and soup set out on the table. There was a mound of lobster salad, grape and chicken salad with curry, a plate of curry goat, plates of things that looked like turnovers.

  Everyone moved around the table, filling their plates.

  “Oh, lobster salad to die for,” Sarah said.

  “You gotta try the curry goat,” Winston said. “Very West Indies. Very delicious.”

  Brandon was next to the serious guy who had been talking to Mia. Brandon introduced himself.

  “Crane,” the guy said. “Like the big tall bird.”

  He was wiry and lithe, like a rock climber. He turned to Winston. “Does everything have meat? Because I’m a vegetarian.”

  Brandon saw Winston give the guy an annoyed look, then slap the smile back on. He looked up and down the table. “The wine,” he said. “The wine is vegetarian.”

  Crane scowled, served himself salad, poured a glass of Chardonnay to the brim. He turned away, leaned against a bureau, and started to eat. Brandon and Mia found chairs, ate with their plates on their laps. Winston and Lily sat at a side table. Some people drifted back to the deck.

  “The goat is great,” Brandon said.

  “I’m glad. I knew you’d love it.”

  “Winston’s running a restaurant here,” Lily said.

  “All food from the Indies,” Winston said.

  “Rendezvous is high-end,” Lily said. “Not just a barbecue place. Organic goat meat. All local vegetables and fish.”

  “You think when you kill the goat, it cares if it’s organic?”

  It was Crane, off to the side. Brandon saw that the wineglass was almost empty. Crane reached the bottle from the table, poured again.

  “The goat, he leads a happy life,” Winston said.

  “It’s not like they know what’s coming,” Brandon said. “And then it’s the end. Boom.”

  “Well, you would think so,” Crane said. “You kill people for a living.”

  The room went quiet. A chair scraped.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Mia said.

  “It’s what cops do,” Crane said. “In this country, they’re executioners.”

  “Oh, Crane,” Lily said. “Spare us.”

  “No, it’s true. Police have the right to kill you whenever they feel it’s justified. They’re the judge, the jury, the executioner.”

  “But then they have the investigation,” Winston said.

  “And they investigate themselves. Remember that Sudanese guy? Cops killed him, right there on Congress Street. Nothing happened to them.”

  “He was pointing a loaded gun at them,” Brandon said.

  “He was mentally ill,” Crane said.

  “Doesn’t matter whether he was crazy,” Brandon said. “If he’d pulled the trigger, they would’ve been just as dead.”

  “So you’d have taken him out.”

  Brandon hesitated, then plunged in. “If I had no other choice.”

  “So all cops are killers when it comes down to it,” Crane said.

  “They’re protecting people,” Mia said.

  “People like you,” Lily said.

  “Let’s be honest: Cops just get off on power. The power to take a life. It gives these guys a hard-on.”

  “Oh, my God,” Lily said. “Crane, why don’t you—”

  “Brandon knows,” Crane said. “I mean, he’s done it.”

  “Just shut up,” Mia said.

  He drank, swallowed, smiled.

  “Oh, sorry. The elephant in the room, right? That the regular guy standing right there took somebody out. I mean, I guess he was a bad guy, so we’re told, but still.”

  He turned toward Winston, stone-faced across the room.

  “Just before you got here, Winston. It was in all the papers, on TV. Brandon was this big hero. Lily told you, right? How this psycho grabbed Mia, was threatening to kill her—at least, that’s what they said in the paper. Brandon, he wasn’t even a cop then, he got a gun and shot the guy right in the—”

  “Enough,” Brandon said.

  “I’m surprised the police took you on,” Crane said. “How many brand-new cops have already whacked somebody? Or maybe that was a good thing. Proved you could do it.”

  Brandon put his plate on the floor and stood. Mia was up, too, holding his arm.

  “No, Brandon. It isn’t worth it.”

  “See, violence is always the first option with you people,” Crane said.

  Brandon started for him, dragging Mia, but Winston was quicker, already across the room. Crane raised his hand and Winston caught the wrist, clamped it, twisted the glass from Crane’s grip. Crane flailed as Winston put the glass on the table, then turned back. He slapped Crane across the face, forehand and backhand, four times, the blows coming rapid-fire, the force knocking Crane sideways, first one way then the other. Blood spurted from his nose and mouth and he put his hands up. Winston turned him around, jammed his arm up his back.

  “You motherfucker,” Crane gasped. “Let go of me.”

  “You’re disrespecting me,” Winston said. “You’re disrespecting this house.”

  “This is assault,” Crane shouted. “You’ve got no right to touch me.”

  “You’re lucky,” Winston muttered. “In some places, you’d already be dead.”

  He hustled Crane out of the room and they heard the door slam, footsteps down the stairs. There was a long silence and then Brandon said, “I hope he’s not driving.”

  “He rode his bike,” Lily said. “He doesn’t believe in cars.”

  She turned to Mia, who was ashen, eyes welling with tears.

  “It’s all because you wouldn’t date him,” Lily said. She turned to Brandon. “He has this obsession thing with Mia.”

  “Understandable,” Brandon said.

  “I didn’t think he’d do this,” Mia said.

  “It’s the alcohol,” Lily said. “He’s one of those people—”

  “There are a lot of those people,” Brandon said.

  “I’m sure you see it all the time, with your job,” Lily said. “But you should be able to go to dinner and not have to listen to that.”

  “Yeah, well,” Brandon said. “We should go.”

  “Yeah,” Mia said. “Don’t want to put any more of a damper on the party.”

  Winston came into the kitchen, went to the sink and washed blood from his hands. He turned to them and grinned. “There,” he said. “How ’bout coffee and dessert?”

  Lily mustered a smile.

  “Stay, guys,” she said. “Winston made plantain tarts.”

  They skipped the tarts, drove back to the boat in silence. When they’d parked in the dirt lot at the marina it was almost dark, lights glowing on the floats, the city skyline emerging a
cross the harbor.

  “I’m sorry,” Mia said.

  “Goes with the turf,” Brandon said. “I’m sorry for you.”

  “You ought to be able to go out like a normal person,” she said.

  He smiled.

  “Cops aren’t normal people. And I’m not even a normal cop—or so people keep telling me.”

  “Maybe we should move,” Mia said. “Someplace where nobody knows.”

  “We have a life here. You’ve got your writing, your job. I’ve got the marina, the boat.”

  “How ’bout Portsmouth, New Hampshire? It’s a nice city, has a harbor. We could move the boat down, get an apartment.”

  “I’m not letting people like that drive us out,” Brandon said. “Besides, I’ve got work to do here.”

  “The baby?”

  “Yeah. And everything else.”

  They walked to Bay Witch, didn’t meet anybody on the way. On board they went below. Mia went into the cabin to change into warmer clothes. Brandon stood in the stern and called Choo-Choo, doing a twelve-hour shift. He put the phone away as Mia, in jeans and a sweater, came up from below.

  “Anything?” she said.

  Brandon shook his head. “No.”

  “Want to sit?” she said.

  “Sure,” he said.

  They took two blankets from the locker and went around the side deck and up to the bow. There were two chairs on the foredeck and they sat facing the harbor, wrapped in blankets.

  “Look at us,” Mia said, smiling. “Couple of old duffers.”

  Brandon smiled, squeezed her hand.

  “Sorry to ruin your party,” he said.

  “That’s just Crane. He’s basically an ass when he’s drinking.”

  “I know, but still. You were looking forward to it.”

  “It was okay other than that. Well, maybe Sarah . . . but people would get over that after a while, right? Start to treat you like a regular person.”

  “Maybe,” Brandon said.

  He paused.

  “This Crane guy. What does he do?”

  “Oh, gee. Works in a coffee shop in the Old Port. Writes angsty, self-absorbed stuff about how screwed up the world is and how he’s always a victim.”

  “He’s obsessed with you?”

  “It was when I first moved to Portland. Before I met you. He was in my fiction workshop, until he quit because we dared to criticize his stuff.”