“Vaughn is my working name,” says Vaughn, “but Vaughn’s not usually my real name. My real name is …” Here we have to imagine Vaughn putting down the nail polish, taking off the black leather motorcycle cap, and looking inside. “My real name is Marco Santuzza.”
Yvonne finds this disappointing, but she knows from a place deep within her that Vaughn Monroe’s resurrection probably hasn’t happened. Pity. She gets to her feet and shakes herself just as Schultzie shakes himself after a bath.
“Should I call you Vaughn or Marco?”
“Whichever works best for you.”
“I’ll call you Vaughn. You have his voice. It’s wonderful. Tell me, Vaughn, can you sing?”
“Only for circles of intimate friends. Sorry.”
Yvonne sighs. “Then how can I help you?” The disappointment in her voice could strip granite crumbs from a tombstone.
So Vaughn tells her about Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc., or FBNA. He speaks of their dedication and hard work and of the many beagles they have saved because of the generosity of their benefactors. Thirty-five thousand beagles disappear into the nicotine labs each year, while twenty-five thousand others are used to test the effects on beagles of tear gas, car exhaust, and smog. Many of the beagles have been abandoned by their owners; others are bred on special beagle farms in Pennsylvania, where they are kept in cages and never see the light of day.
Yvonne is so moved by the magnificent baritone that she barely understands a word. She could easily listen to the voice all day. Vaughn is only a few minutes into his spiel when Yvonne withdraws a checkbook from her purse and promises to send him a check that morning.
“Where shall I mail it?”
It mostly happens that benefactors first receive a donation form, but at times the enthusiasm of a benefactor leads him or her to send a check directly to a post office box. Some even send cash.
Vaughn gives her the address.
“I’ll go to the post office right away.”
Yvonne puts down the receiver. The house feels suddenly smaller. But even though a melancholy sadness has settled over her shoulders et cetera, she feels cleansed, purified, and she gets busy making out a large check from her personal account.
—
It should be said that Yvonne Streeter is not a generous person. When a neighbor comes to borrow a cup of sugar, Yvonne charges her a buck. Sometimes she’s generous to her husband, Manny. Generally she’s generous to her three kids in California as long as they don’t make the trip to the well too often. And she might be generous to her brother, her sister, and a bunch of cousins. It depends on her mood. But when calls come from the United Way, Easter Seals, and various cop and firemen associations, the caller is unable to finish a sentence before the phone goes dead. A ten-year-old Cub Scout who knocked on her door to ask for a summer-camp contribution wept as he was berated for his arrogance and opportunism. These days cobwebs drape her doorbell.
So it may seem unlikely that she should give so generously to Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc., but generosity is not the issue; rather, she is asserting her devotion to her dog, Schultzie. She is celebrating that devotion! And her gift is a result of Didi’s two-pronged attack using research and pinpoint selection. With Vaughn’s highly honed computer skills, Didi pries loose the names of beagle owners from the computers of vets in a fifty-mile radius. But not just any beagle owners. No. He chooses those who rush their dogs to the vet for the smallest excuse (“Smoochie’s off his feed!”) and who do it every few weeks.
The second part of the attack is Vaughn’s imitation of Vaughn Monroe, but again Didi is selective. He mostly calls no one under fifty and prefers to call women, who statistically have more adrenalized relationships with beagles than men do. These are also women whose parents’ musical preferences were fixed before the advent of rock and roll. It’s nice that Yvonne likes Vaughn Monroe today, but what’s crucial is that she grew up listening to Vaughn Monroe. She listened to him in her crib!
Yvonne, in fact, was waiting for Vaughn’s phone call. This expectation was like a mild tickling in her cerebellum that had persisted for years. As a result, she topples faster than a sapling gnawed by a beaver. It was fated to happen. Our single surprise is that her large check wasn’t larger, but no matter.
—
Benny Vikström and Manny Streeter spend most of the morning in Brewster, much of it in Pappalardo’s Craftsman bungalow. Generally they are bystanders, even tourists, as the forensics team comes and goes and local cops trudge door-to-door to ask neighbors if they’ve seen or heard anything suspicious. Then around noon a state police detective, Woody Potter, shows up.
This guy, Manny thinks, looks nothing like a detective. He wears jeans and a barn coat, a Red Sox cap and boots. He drives a Chevy pickup, and a goofy-looking dog, maybe a golden retriever, is salivating out the open window. He’s maybe forty: a tall, muscular man with short brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a chin that juts forward like a challenge.
Manny tries being a bit patronizing, but Potter buys none of it. He doesn’t say anything, but his chin juts out a little farther and his eyes get a little darker. Manny decides that Potter is one of those difficult people who lack a sense of humor.
Woody Potter listens to Vikström’s explanation of why two New London detectives are in Brewster; then he asks Vikström, with a straight face, “Are you one of those famous Swedish detectives?”
Vikström opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.
Once Potter realizes that no answer will be forthcoming, he points through the living room window to Gazzola, who’s just crossing the street. “I need to talk to Chief Gazzola. We can talk after.”
“What’s this Swedish-cop shit?” asks Manny when he and Vikström are alone.
Vikström shakes his head. He has no idea, and it worries him. He dislikes distractions and wants to get back to New London and chase down Fat Bob. There’s also the unknown person—Manny calls him “the phantom”—who either did or did not signal to Pappalardo to tromp on the gas. Manny says they also need to talk to Marco Santuzza’s widow, because the person who shot Pappalardo might be a friend of Santuzza’s, or possibly a friend of Fat Bob’s, seeking revenge. “It might even be the widow herself,” Manny offers.
Five minutes later Woody Potter hurries back inside. “Let’s get out of here before Pappalardo’s wife shows up. She’s driving down from Providence. She works up there at a hospital. I can talk to her later.”
“You don’t like the wife?” asks Manny.
“I’ve never met her, but I’m told she’s upset. I’d like to avoid the emotion. Let Chief Gazzola deal with it—he’s the one in charge. Unless of course you want to talk to her.”
“Not right away,” says Vikström. “You think that’s cowardly?”
“Only sensible,” says Potter. “You’re out of your jurisdiction.”
“Can we get something to eat?” asks Manny. “It’s lunchtime.”
They go to the Brewster Brew, a coffee and ice-cream shop on Main Street in a former shoe store that now has round, marble-topped tables with sweetheart chairs. It doesn’t serve lunch, but there are bagels and cream cheese, six kinds of Danish, and a variety of ice-cream sundaes. Potter orders black coffee. Manny gets coffee and two Danish—glazed apple and cheese and pecan—which he decides are lunchlike. Vikström gets a banana split with three scoops of ice cream, chocolate syrup, pineapple and strawberry toppings, crushed nuts, whipped cream, and a maraschino cherry on top. This is another example of the battle raging between Vikström and his partner. He orders the sundae not because he wants it but to annoy Manny, who loves ice cream yet can’t eat a spoonful without gaining weight. Vikström is thin and never gains weight no matter how much ice cream he eats. He sees it as a special gift and believes that if a person has a special gift, it’s his job to flaunt it.
Jean Sawyer, owner of the Brewster Brew, brings the banana split by itself on a shiny, chrome-plated tray as if she were presenting d
iamonds to a king. “I want you to know you can have as many maraschino cherries as you want.” Jean pauses, thinks, and adds, “Up to ten.” She returns for the rest of the order.
Woody Potter watches how Manny stares at Vikström’s banana split and guesses that an enmity of some duration exists between the detectives. Vikström wonders what Manny will do to get even.
On a shelf behind the counter along the far wall is a row of antique coffeepots and grinders, while over the shelf is a watercolor of an old guy in an old-timey white wig who looks like a sickly George Washington. Beneath the picture are the words WRESTLING BREWSTER, OUR FOUNDER.
“Who’s the old man in the picture?” says Vikström.
“Don’t ask,” says Potter. He turns to check the location of Jean Sawyer, who’s behind the counter putting their cups of coffee and Danish on a tray. Potter leans forward and lowers his voice. “If you ask, Jean will spend four hours answering your question. You don’t want that. It’s supposed to be a picture of the guy that founded the town, but it’s not. Jean held a contest and picked the picture of someone who might look like Brewster. But don’t mention it. We’re here on business only.”
Manny and Vikström nod their heads, mildly intimidated.
Manny leans forward and whispers, “Why was he called ‘Wrestling’?”
Potter looks around again; Jean is approaching with a tray. “Because he wrestled with the devil,” whispers Woody Potter.
“Ah,” says Manny, as if this described everything. “Been there, done that.”
Jean puts the tray on the table and distributes the coffee and Danish. The tray is scratched brown plastic rather than the shiny chrome tray that supported Vikström’s sundae. The three men notice this but choose not to comment. Jean hangs over the table waiting for a word to be spoken so she can enter the discussion. No one speaks, and soon she retires, looking disappointed.
Vikström has told Potter little about why they are in Brewster, only that it concerns the accident yesterday in New London when Pappalardo backed up the dump truck and how Bank Street had been closed for hours. Now he explains that a witness saw someone signal to Pappalardo as the Harley approached, which was when Pappalardo tromped on the gas.
The Harley, a Fat Bob, belongs to another man: Robert “Fat Bob” Rossi. And the guy riding it, Marco Santuzza, had borrowed it, maybe meaning to buy it. So it’s unlikely, but still possible, that Santuzza was the intended victim. In the meantime Fat Bob has disappeared, probably because yesterday evening a green Ford drove up to his ex-wife’s house and a man, identity unknown, shot up his motorcycle. Fat Bob had run out the back door and hadn’t returned.
Contrariwise, Fat Bob might have set up the whole business to kill Santuzza himself, and maybe he’s being pursued by Santuzza’s associates. As for Pappalardo, he may have been killed by Fat Bob or by whoever signaled Pappalardo to tromp on the gas. Manny uses the word “tromp” four times and gives it special emphasis each time, making it sound drumlike.
“But it might be something else entirely,” says Potter. “Santuzza might have been killed by an enemy of his own—the same with Pappalardo. Someone might have killed him who has no connection to the business in New London. Even his wife might have killed him. I mean, it’s possible.”
“But not likely,” says Manny.
“No, not likely, but you can’t rule it out. Anyway, I’m glad it’s your mess and not mine.”
Manny chews on his Danish as Potter sips his coffee. Vikström works on his banana split. He eats it slowly, scooping up a spoonful, staring at it briefly with a fond smile, inserting it carefully in his mouth so no drops fall on his necktie, and looking up at the ceiling with a blissful expression. This is no more than show business. As for the motorcycle business, he’s already guessed that Santuzza might have been the real target. So maybe Pappalardo was killed by a friend of Santuzza’s seeking revenge, or maybe by a friend of Fat Bob’s seeking revenge. Did Santuzza and Pappalardo know one another? Or did Fat Bob know Pappalardo? And who was the guy who signaled Pappalardo to tromp on the gas?
Woody Potter has finished his coffee and pushes away his cup. “I’ll get Chief Gazzola to talk to Pappalardo’s connections here in Rhode Island to see if anyone has a motive and if Pappalardo knew Santuzza or Robert Rossi. And there’s the guy who signaled to Pappalardo. D’you know what he looks like?”
“We’re working on it,” says Manny, who chooses to keep the information about the black pompadour to himself.
“How was your ice cream?” Woody asks Vikström.
The banana split, the hugeness of it, made Vikström a little ill, and he knew he’d have to skip dinner. But he gives no sign of it. “I could eat another,” he says.
“And what are you going to do?” Manny asks.
“Right now,” says Potter, “my wife’s making spaghetti carbonara, and I have to pick up some fresh bread and stuff for a big salad. This is supposed to be my day off.” Potter heads for the door. “We’ll be in touch.”
TEN
Around noon Connor stops in Brewster to pick up groceries on his way back from New London and then continues to the beach and the Winnebago. The sky is turning blue, the temperature is rising, and the snow will be mostly gone by morning. Reaching the gravel road to the water where he and Vaughn shoveled snow, he guns the motor and fishtails forward to the Winnebago.
Connor parks next to the gray Ford Focus, carries in the groceries, and sets them down on the counter by the sink. Eartha and Vaughn are on their phones; Didi writes addresses on envelopes and inserts creative invoices detailing the amount pledged. What makes them creative is they have borders with photographs of beagles hooked up to smoking machines. Didi also inserts a fulsome letter of thanks and a return envelope with a stamp attached to make the return easier. The return address does not say Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction, Inc. but FBNA, Inc., which stands for one of Didi’s bank accounts: Frank Bishop Negotiating Accountant, Inc. The return envelope goes to a post office box at the U.S. Post Office on Masonic Street in New London, a massive three-story stone-and-brick building. It’s an example of Classic Revival architecture and already on the National Register of Historic Places. Didi doesn’t like his mail going to ticky-tacky P.O.s.
Near the FBNA post office box is another post office box. So if the first post office is watched, Didi can avoid suspicion by going to the second, which contains a few picture postcards. Didi imagines that if the “watcher” sees him fussing with a mailbox, he’ll think he’s opening the FBNA mailbox and try to nab him. At which point Didi will show the postcards and act out what Vaughn calls “righteous inflammation.” This is a subtle stratagem, but not once has Didi needed to use it. Still, it indicates how Didi plans for all contingencies. After a week both mailboxes are closed for good, and the postcards perhaps go to the dead-letter office, now called a mail-recovery center.
Didi enjoys writing these postcards: John, Call home, Jimmy hit by tree and Maggie, The baby wasn’t Henry’s after all and Louis, I don’t know what they are, but they’re quick and they’re filling the cellar. These are a few of many messages Didi has used, and he likes to imagine the nervous narratives that his messages inspire in agonizing clerks.
It should be no surprise that Didi likes to arouse those unsettled feelings that make people peer back over their shoulders. Letting sleeping dogs lie is not him. People shouldn’t get too comfy. He wants them to stop being complacent and start feeling anxious, which makes them careless in their choices. This is one of the axioms behind Bounty, Inc.: Anxiety produces better donors.
Detectives Manny Streeter and Benny Vikström also inspire disquiet. It’s part of their job description, though they’re hardly aware of it. It’s become second nature. They work to inspire insecurity in others. It softens them up and makes them eager to tell the truth. Dread, for them, is a tool.
Connor’s brother Vasco arouses disquiet as well. His skill is to make others feel lesser. When he tells a person, “You’re looking better,�
�� he or she will think, Was I looking so bad before? After that it’s all downhill.
In each case the actor (Didi, Manny, Vikström, and Vasco) puts on a persona to get what he wants, an ersatz self whose role is to make others feel reduced. The actor may also value its comic element, but the victim is just a victim.
Connor sees this behavior in Didi and Vasco; and he may have seen it in Manny and Vikström, though he met them very briefly. After all, it’s part of a cop’s tool kit. For the cop it’s a power issue: I’m stronger than you. For Vasco, it’s an ego issue: I’m better than you. But Didi feels that people will have richer lives if they worry more. It gives them something to fight against. It teaches them to take nothing for granted. It undercuts complacency.
As for Connor, he takes life at face value. He’s no patsy, but he leans toward the gullible. Nor is he skilled in convincing strangers to donate money to Free Beagles from Nicotine Addiction or the Holy Sisters of the Blessed Little Feet. He throws out the pitch, and people hear the lie. So they hang up. This is why Connor was chosen to run errands. He’s at the bottom of the scammer’s ladder, and it shames him. So he practices little lies to get the hang of it. Remember? “I’m from Minneapolis,” says Connor, who is actually from Cleveland.
“Sixty-five thousand beagles are used in biomedical research each year,” whispers Eartha. “By doing nothing you put a gun to their heads.”
“Have you ever heard a hooked beagle hawk and spit?” murmurs Vaughn. “Have you listened to the smoker’s gurgle in their lungs?”
“If you’ve noticed a white, unmarked panel truck cruising the streets of your neighborhood,” says Eartha, “then your Snoopsie will be next.”
After putting away the groceries, Connor takes a Dos Equis from the refrigerator.
“You got a call a while ago,” Eartha tells him. She wears a tight turquoise turtleneck, and again her breasts, for Connor, become armaments of the amatory.
“Who from?”
“I’ve forgotten. Hey, Vaughn, what was the number?”
Is Fat Bob Dead Yet? Page 11