Blind Overlook

by JC Simmons

  The men around the table, all dressed as seamen, fell silent, staring at the stranger.

  "The ship to Monhegan going across today?" I asked to no one in particular.

  No one in particular answered me.

  I stood for an uneasy thirty seconds while the men puffed on their pipes and cigars, sizing me up.

  Finally, one of the younger men, without looking at me, said, "Captain's not going across today."

  "Oh, is he ill?"

  "No, he's scared,” the same man said, relighting his pipe with a kitchen match.

  They all laughed.

  "You be wanting to go to Monhegan, Mister?" The man asked, blowing out the match, throwing it at an ashtray and missing.

  "Might,” I said, playing it easy.

  The man stood up. "I'm the Captain. I'm not running across today, too rough."

  "Too rough?" I asked, with disbelief in my voice.

  "Well, I could get you across,” he said, puffing on his pipe. "But I can't lay up to the dock. She's running ten to twelve feet outside. Monhegan's dock is open to seaward. Besides that,” he smirked, blowing smoke toward me. "You wouldn't like the ride."

  All the men guffawed.

  I was amused at their little con game being played against me. I did not mind, for I had been around seamen all my life. They are good people. But a con man's antics are a lot less amusing when you're the sucker.

  Deciding not to push, I played it straight.

  "Yes, I understand,” I said to the Captain, shrugging my shoulders and looking at him closely for the first time. "No problem. There's always another day."

  "You a fisherman, Mister?" One of the older men, chewing on an unlit cigar stub, asked.

  "Not any more. But I did my time as a deck hand."

  It wasn't a lie. I had spent a lot of time at sea. Electing not to tell them it was mostly aboard luxurious sportfishermen and well-founded sailboats, rather than working fish boats, seemed a wise decision under the circumstances.

  You could see all the men around the table relax. I had passed their test.

  "I'm Jim Barstein,” the younger man said, leaning back in his chair, resettling his pipe. "You come back at eight o'clock in the morning, I'll get you across."

  Approaching the table where they sat, I said, "Listen, men, name's Leicester. I'm a private investigator. Any of you ever see either of these two before?" I lay the photographs on the table. They all gathered around.

  One of the men picked up Bilotti's, held it up to the bare light bulb, studied it for a while, and handed it back to me. "This is the one was shot in the parking lot the other day,” he said, relighting his pipe. "Never seen the other one."

  "I've seen'em both,” the young Captain said.

  "Where'd you see this one?" I asked, pointing to Rinaldi.

  "He came down the morning before this one was killed." He indicated Bilotti's photo. "Wanted to get to Monhegan. Seemed disappointed I wasn't going across, something about a meeting on the island. Asked me if I knew anybody who'd charter him across."

  "Did you?" I asked, leaning back, crossing my arms.

  "Nah, nobody does that." He sat up straight, ran a hand through greasy hair. "Be cutting into my ferry business."

  Somebody needs to, I thought to myself.

  "Did any of you see the two of them together?" I asked, picking up the photos.

  "Annie...” The young Captain called to the girl up front. "Come back here and look at these pictures."

  The girl wasn't so young. Early thirties, I guessed. Scraggly hair, hard face. Her hands were callused, unpainted fingernails chipped and bitten. She probably worked on a fishing boat during the season and in the chandlery the rest of the year.

  Handing her the pictures, she looked carefully at both of them.

  "That's the one Wilma found shot in the parking lot. Scared the fool out of her. I ain't seen the other one." She looked at the photos again, shaking her head slowly, then said, "Wait, ain't that the guy was upset when you didn't run that day?" She pointed at Barstein with the photos. "Yeah, I remember him, now. He bought some wool mittens, a cap, and some other stuff. Said they were a gift. Yeah, that's him."

  "Are you sure about this?" I asked, suddenly alert.

  She stood without moving, looking sternly at me, her feet planted apart, her shoulders thrown back, her arms hanging straight at her sides. "I said it's him, didn't I?"

  They all laughed.

  "Yes, I guess you did, at that."

  Thanking them all for the help, I walked out the front door of the chandlery. If the cash had been in the car when Bilotti's body was discovered...

  Getting in my car, I headed back toward Rockland.

  * * *

  Arriving at the Navigator Inn, I went into the lobby and picked up a local newspaper. Having a cup of coffee with Mabel crossed my mind, but there was some serious thinking to be done before meeting with Gino Anastasio. Mabel would not be of any help with it.

  Henry waved me over to the registration desk.

  "Message for you from Detective Chamberlain." He leaned on the counter, picked at a callused knuckle. "Wants you to call him. Didn't matter what time you got back. Said if he wasn’t at the office, he’d be home."

  "Thanks, Henry." I folded the newspaper under my arm, and started out the door.

  "Oh, Mr. Leicester,” Henry said with a sly grin. "I think Mabel's taken a liking to you. Consider that a compliment. She don't cater to many men. In fact, I can't remember any she's been with since starting to work here two years ago."

  "Again, thanks, Henry." I waved the newspaper at him. It would probably make headlines in the local news if I did go out with Mabel. Small towns...

  "Anything happening with the dead guys?" He asked, shuffling receipts, not looking at me. "I mean, you making any progress with solving the crimes?" He glanced up, then quickly looked back at whatever he was doing.

  Putting the paper back under my arm, I said, "We're always making progress, Henry. You can count on it."

  He cracked a nervous grin.

  It made me suddenly remember how fast he knew of Nat Rinaldi's demise. Could he be somehow involved in this? Did he know who killed these men, or maybe that the four hundred and fifty thousand fell into local hands and he knew whose?

  "See ya, Henry." Walking out of the lobby, I glanced back and saw him hurrying across the hall, heading toward the coffee shop and Mabel.

  The door to my room was standing open. Reaching in my jacket pocket, I took out my old worn magnum. We had been together many years, through some rough times. This model sixty-six had been with me long enough that I thought of it more as a living thing than an inanimate object of death.

  No one was in the room; nothing seemed out of order. Putting the magnum away, I chalked the open door up to a careless maid. For a fleeting moment one desk clerk named Henry, who had a passkey, crossed my mind. He would not leave the door open when he was finished, though.

  Scratching my head, I sat on the side of the bed and phoned J.L. He was still at the office.

  "I've got some information on Anastasio from Chicago. Thought maybe you'd like to hear it. You want it over the phone?"

  "Sure, why not,” I answered, thinking it didn't matter who overheard it anyway.

  "He's bigger than I thought. They refer to him as the Chairman of the Board. New York, Miami, Vegas, the West Coast. He sits at the head of the table. The Boss of Bosses."

  Lying back on the bed, I looked up at the sprinkler system hanging from the ceiling. "So he's the one they elected at the meeting at Apalachin in upstate New York a few years ago. The one the FBI found out about and made such a big to-do in the news media."

  "He's the one. The Wise Guys refer to these get-togethers as commission meetings. Can you believe it? The FBI had a tap on the place. One of the Dons made the remark that organized crime was second only in size to the government itself. Anastasio spoke up and said they were at least as big as IBM."

  I had heard the story dif
ferently. The message was the same, though.

  "Anything else?" I asked, sitting back up.

  "Only that this guy is powerful. Wouldn't make sense for him to be piddling with stuff like this. It just doesn't wash."

  Thinking for a minute, I pulled at the telephone cord. "The hit had to be planned for Bilotti. Rinaldi may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time by design. It was a cover for the hit."

  "I don't know,” J.L. mused.

  "It does seem too complicated for a hit on a mole." Kicking off both shoes, I rubbed my feet together. "They could have just dropped him off the Sears tower, or let him wash up on the beach from Lake Michigan. Something's out of kilter. Tomorrow's meeting should prove interesting."

  "Well, you've got to be careful. I'll put a wire on you. Jay, he could get you aboard his airplane, shut the door, fly off, and you'd never be heard from again."

  "Well, it'd be a hell of a ride." Scratching a little toe, I said, "No wire, J.L. He's not stupid. They'd find it before I was within ten feet of him."

  "Okay, if that's the way you feel,” Chamberlain said, relenting, sounding unhappy. "I'll be taking you to the airport. I want Gino Anastasio to know I'm there, waiting if anything should go wrong."

  "Sounds fine to me,” I said, meaning it. "I'll see you in the morning."

  Easing the phone back into its cradle, I took the newspaper and went out on the balcony. It was dusk dark, the peaceful transition period between light and night. A good time of day for some, a lonesome time for others.

  The evening ferry was off-loading cars and people. Lines were forming for those finished with the day’s work, heading home to the idyllic life on offshore islands. The wind had calmed as the sun set. It was going to be a nice spring night in Rockland, Maine.

  Propping my feet up on the banister, I unfolded the paper. An article in the lower right hand corner of the front page caught my eye:

  STOLEN RUBENS RECOVERED IN FLORIDA

  Miami Beach – A stolen 17th-century oil masterpiece by Flemish painter Peter Paul Rubens was recovered in Miami Beach on Tuesday, six years after it was taken from a museum in Spain. The five-by-eight inch painting entitled AURORA was recovered after four men offered to sell it for $3.5 million to an undercover agent, officials said.

  If the thief's offered it for $3.5 million, wonder what its real value would be?

  I had never heard of the artist, Rubens. My knowledge of art was still next to nil. Rockwell Kent, I knew about, though. It was a start.

  Night fell quickly, like someone pulling down a window shade. The ferry pulled out, taking people to warm, clean homes, laughing children, and loving mates. Sitting alone on a balcony in a hotel, I thought of two dead bodies, a mournful sister, the dying wife of a friend, a man who headed the entire crime families in the United States, and Mabel.

  Finishing the newspaper, I called down and asked Henry to ring me at seven in the morning, then went to bed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The appetent and limbic parts of my brain worked embarrassingly well during the night. Henry called precisely at seven o'clock. Thanking him, I headed for a stinging, ice-cold shower.

  After dressing, I opened the sliding glass doors and walked out on the balcony. The air was cool and smelled faintly of salt. A light breeze rippled the blue water of the bay. The sun was already up, but hung like a giant red ball above the offshore islands. The early ferry, returning the same people it had carried the night before, appeared to emerge from the blazing orb.

  Chamberlain was to meet me at eight o'clock for breakfast. Securing the door to my room, I walked down to the end of the hall. The elevator doors opened instantly when I punched the button, as if waiting to draw me into the cold, empty space for some evil purpose. The doors closed, clicking like valves, a pulsating rhythm in their sound.

  Chamberlain was standing, talking to Henry, when I entered the lobby. After the usual pleasantries, we went into the restaurant. There were no other customers. Mabel emerged from the kitchen with a pot of fresh coffee.

  "Hello, you two,” she said, smiling, waving the coffeepot in a broad sweep. "Be a few minutes for a table."

  "Morning, Mabel,” J.L. said laughing, selecting a seat by the window and sitting down. "Always the kidder, aren't you?"

  "Keeps me young. How's Kathleen doing?" She asked, pouring us coffee.

  "She's not feeling too well today. But thank you for asking."

  "And you, sir,” Mabel asked, looking at me. "How are you today?"

  "Very well, Mabel,” I said, thinking of the limbic part of my brain. "Do you work all the time? You're here every time I come in."

  "No,” she said, taking out a pen and pad from an apron pocket. "Sometimes I sit by the phone and wait for it to ring."

  Sitting with my elbows on the table, I felt my face flush.

  "What'll it be, Gentleman?" Mabel asked with a sly grin.

  Chamberlain ate like a horse. I only had coffee.

  "You heard anything from South Carolina?"

  "Waterbury's are clean,” Chamberlain answered between bites. "Fax came in this morning from the South Carolina State police. He's a retired Aerospace Engineer, worked with NASA. Neither he or his wife have ever had so much as a parking ticket."

  "We keep looking." I fingered a knife, and watched Mabel disappear into the kitchen.

  "Yes, we do."

  Henry entered the restaurant, went behind the counter, poured himself a cup of coffee, came over to our table, and sat down with us. He said the hotel was empty, except for me. Silently, I wondered where Nat Rinaldi could have stayed. He had to have slept somewhere. I made a mental note to discuss this with Chamberlain on the way to the airport. His men were working on it, I knew, but we needed to know.

  Watching Henry carefully, there was nothing outwardly noticeable that indicated he had more than a layman's curiosity of what had happened in this small community. He had not been scratched off my list, not yet, anyway.

  On the way out of the restaurant Chamberlain insisted on paying. At the cash register Mabel asked if I still had the piece of paper she'd given me. I said that I did.

  "What you don't use, you lose,” she said, walking away toward the kitchen.

  When we got in Chamberlain's car he asked, "What was that all about?"

  "You mean with Mabel?" I fastened my seat belt. "What do you know about her?"

  "I've known her for thirty years. Lost her husband to the sea." He started the engine. "She's hard working, never remarried. Doesn't play around much. Why, you interested?"

  "Just wondered,” I said, looking out the window to the blue waters of the bay.

  "Yeah,” Chamberlain said, with a smile, putting the car in gear. "Let's go meet with the Chairman of the Board."

  "We've got to find where Nat Rinaldi was staying,” I said to Chamberlain while looking at the buildings along the waterfront as we drove south toward the airport.

  "Yes,” he said, nodding, both hands gripping the steering wheel. "Sooner or later we'll get lucky. One of the advantages in working the confines of a small community is your chances are better at finding the bad guys. Or anything else you might be looking for."

  "You think he might have stayed on Monhegan?"

  "I don't know." He turned and watched a squad car speed down the street in the opposite direction. Bending forward, he turned up the police radio. "It's a possibility we won't rule out."

  "I talked with Barstein, the ferry boat Captain out of Port Clyde,” I said, turning and watching the blue and white round a corner. "He said Rianldi was at the dock wanting to get across to Monhegan Island the day before Bilotti turned up with a bullet in his brain. Only the ferry didn't run. Rinaldi was upset, asked about a charter boat."

  Chamberlain hit the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "I asked Barstein, personally, if Rianldi had been on the passenger list. He said no, which was the truth. He should have volunteered he'd seen him."

  "Well, you know seamen are a closed mouth grou
p,” I said, remembering being among them yesterday.

  "Yes. But, by God, this is murder." He slapped the steering wheel again, then as an afterthought, adjusted the volume on the police radio. "Two of them. They know it!"

  Chamberlain was mad. He knew the people in his community. All of them. He knew there were times when they'd lie; illegal fishing, running some grass, stealing. There are things where one draws the line. Murder was one of them.

  "I thought one of the locals might have lifted the cash from Bilotti,” I said, feeling out his thoughts. "If it was still there when the body was found."

  "Forget it,” Chamberlain said, looking at me. "They couldn't keep it secret for twenty-four hours. They'd probably go buy a new sports car, a boat, and a house. All in one day, paying cash." He laughed, exercised the fist with which he'd hit the wheel. "I don't think so, Jay."

  Maybe, I thought. But half a million would go a long way to keeping up an old ferryboat.

  "We may have to go over to Monhegan Island,” I volunteered, rolling down a window, smelling the clean salt air. "If we come up dry finding where Rinaldi was staying on the mainland. He may have gotten over. It could be where the money and the Kent collection are located."

  "Yeah,” Chamberlain said, cracking his window a few inches. "If you want to believe Anastasio didn't perpetrate some elaborate scheme to whack a disloyal mole. Let's wait and see what the Boss of Bosses has to say."

  Knox County Regional Airport, Rockland, Maine, is a small airport by today's standards. It has two runways; one, four thousand five hundred feet in length; the other, four thousand feet. Long enough to accommodate aircraft up to and including medium-sized turboprops and jets.

  There are two fixed base operators on the field. We had no way of knowing where Anastasio's plane would park. There were no transit aircraft at either business. It was five minutes until ten o'clock. We waited.

  Chamberlain spotted it first.

  "There,” he said, pointing into the blue sky. "Over the water tower."

  "Pretty good eyesight for an old man,” I said, laughing, still trying to locate the aircraft.

  Finally I did catch the sun glint off of metal. A small speck in the sky emerged into an aircraft. We watched as it intercepted the electronic landing system, which would guide it to within two hundred feet above, and on the centerline, of the runway.

  The sleek jet descended gracefully, blue smoke erupting from the tires as the main landing gear took the full weight of the aircraft. It rolled out slowly to the end of the runway, taxied back towards the fixed-base operation where we were standing. Several local pilots came out to watch, the jet obviously an unusual sight at the small airport.