The Emperor of Ocean Park

by Stephen L Carter

  (III)

  WE ARE WALKING NOW, the two of us, a pleasant stroll in the brisk air of an autumn evening on the Vineyard. We are sauntering along the deserted Oak Bluffs waterfront, for all the world a happy couple, passing the empty slips across from the Wesley Hotel, a gracefully sprawling Victorian behemoth built on the site of an earlier hotel of the same name, which perished by fire. The flat January water laps comfortably at the seawall. A few pedestrians pass us, headed toward town, but the harbor, like the rest of the Island in the off-season, has the texture of an uncompleted painting.

  “I can’t tell you everything, Misha,” says Maxine, her handbag, gun and all, swinging gaily from her shoulder. Her arm is linked in mine. I am pretty sure she would let me hold her hand if I tried.

  “Tell me what you can.”

  “It might be easier if you tell me what you think. Maybe I can tell you if you’re hot or cold. And what I can’t tell you, you might be able to figure out for yourself.”

  I think this over as we walk. After dinner, we stood a little too close to each other in the parking lot, sharing that odd reluctance to part that characterizes new lovers, as well as people who follow other people for a living. It was Maxine who suggested we drive to Oak Bluffs, although she refuses to tell me where she is staying. And so we did, the Suburban following me once more, along the Vineyard Haven Harbor, over the hill separating the two towns, and down again to the center of town. We both parked on the waterfront, across the street from the Wesley. I have no doubt that Maxine knows exactly where I live, but I do not want her anywhere near Vinerd Howse.

  Call it an excess of marital caution.

  “Well, handsome?” she prompts. “Are we gonna play or not?”

  “Okay.” I take a breath. With darkness, the air has turned icy. “The first thing is, I think my father was involved in . . . something he shouldn’t have been.” I risk a glance at Maxine, but she is looking at the water. “I think that, somehow, he arranged for me to get some information about it after he died. Or somebody thinks he did.”

  “I agree,” she says softly, and, for the first time in this mad search, I own an actual fact.

  “I think that Colin Scott was looking for that information. I think he followed me because he hoped I would find my father’s . . . arrangements.”

  “I agree.”

  We walk on, headed toward East Chop, a wide outcropping dotted with shingled homes, more Cape Cod style than Victorian, many of them on high bluffs overlooking the water, most of them considerably more expensive than the houses closer to town. Kimmer and I briefly fell in love with a gorgeous house up there, three large bedrooms and a back yard opening onto the beach, but we did not have two million dollars to buy it. Probably it is just as well, given what has happened to us in the years since.

  “Other people are also interested in the arrangements,” I suggest.

  “I agree,” Maxine murmurs, but when I press her, she declines to be more specific.

  I stare at East Chop Drive, which leads up to the old lighthouse and what used to be called the Highlands. At the foot of the bluffs is a private beach club. In the middle of the Chop is a private tennis club. East Chop, for all its crisp New England beauty, has a whiter feel than the rest of Oak Bluffs. Not many of the summer residents seem aware that East Chop was once the heart of the Island’s black colony.

  “Colin Scott knew my father.”

  “I agree.”

  “He worked for my father. My father . . . paid him to do something.”

  Silence.

  I am disappointed, for I was trying, one last time, to discover that Colin Scott and Jonathan Villard were the same person, which would explain what Scott was doing in the foyer at Shepard Street, arguing with my father. But evidently not.

  I hesitate, then try another tack. “Do you know what my father left for me?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re familiar somehow with the . . . clues.”

  “Yes. But we aren’t sure what they mean.”

  I try to think of another intelligent question to ask. We are in a little park full of brown grass, East Chop rising before us, downtown Oak Bluffs off to our right. The occasional car passes on East Chop Drive, which separates the park from the harbor.

  “This island is lovely,” Maxine says unexpectedly, gripping my arm lightly with both her hands, her gaze on the distant shimmering water.

  “I think so.”

  “You’ve been coming here for how long? Thirty years? I can’t imagine—I mean, we didn’t have that kind of money.”

  “We’ve always really been just summer people,” I explain, wondering whether Maxine appreciates the distinction. “And it wasn’t so expensive in the old days.”

  “Your family had money, though.”

  “We were just middle-class. But you were, too. A couple of professors.”

  “They never got paid very much. And, besides, my father used to be what you’d call a high-stakes gambler. Only he wasn’t very good at it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. He loved us. We lived in a big old house on the campus with about five dogs and ten cats. Sometimes we had birds. Our folks loved animals. And, like I said, they loved us.”

  “Us?”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Four brothers, one sister, nosey. I’m the youngest and the tallest.”

  “The one who didn’t get any dates.”

  “Well, I didn’t have my own car, so I couldn’t crash into anyone.” Not a great joke, but we both laugh anyway.

  A companionable pause as we look out toward the water together. A yacht, an unexpected sight this time of year, is just motoring out, moving much too fast, but boat owners are like that. Few of the houses are showing any lights. Most are closed for the season. The promised storm never quite arrived, and the night sky is clear and cold and perfect.

  The need to take Maxine in my arms has been creeping up on me all afternoon, and is suddenly very strong. I cover it with a shower of pointless questions.

  “You don’t have much of an accent for somebody from the South.”

  “Oh.” She nods but does not turn toward me. “I was educated in France, too, and I think I’ve said enough about that, thank you.”

  Suggesting the need to propose a different subject. I feel like an incompetent gigolo at a cocktail party.

  “So how did you get into this business?”

  Maxine eyes me sideways again. “What business is that?”

  “You know. Following people around.”

  She shrugs, glancing at me in irritation, upset, perhaps, that I have broken the mood. Sometimes spouses must protect their marriages from their own baser instincts. “Please don’t think of it as following, Misha. Think of it as helping.”

  “Helping? How are you helping?”

  Maxine lets go of my jacket and turns to face me. “Well, for one thing, I can tell you when other people are following you.”

  “Other people? You mean, like Colin Scott?”

  “That’s correct.”

  I think this over for a moment, then toss out the obvious objection. “But he’s dead.”

  “Correct,” she agrees, then adds the most chilling words possible: “But, remember, he had a partner.” The silence resumes. We are walking back toward the Wesley again, an unspoken decision having turned us around, in more ways than one. Then Maxine raises the stakes higher still. “And there could be others, too.”

  “Others?”

  She points up the hill the way we came. “The same man passed us twice on a bicycle while we were back there. Maybe he was just riding up the hill and back down. Or maybe he was following us. No way to tell.” She turns and points back toward Vineyard Haven. “And there was a dark brown Chrysler minivan parked a block from the restaurant. Another car of the same description is parked down at the harbor, right now. It isn’t the same car, because it doesn’t have the same license plate and there was a nice little dent in the bumper of the one at the rest
aurant. You can change the plates, you can put in dents as a disguise, but it’s really hard to take them out that fast. So it isn’t the same car. But it easily could have been. Do you see what I mean? You won’t notice things like that. You’re not trained for it. I am.”

  This viciously detailed recital has left me dizzy. Does Maxine suppose that she is reassuring me? I look out toward the water, where the yacht I noticed a moment ago is rounding the point. One rarely finds boats in the Oak Bluffs harbor once the Island shuts down, and I wonder whose side this one is on.

  “What are you saying? Are we supposed to be a team?”

  “I’m just showing you how I can help.”

  “And so you’ll be watching my back?” I do not quite manage to hit the superior tone I am attempting. “Keeping me safe from all the bad guys?”

  Maxine does not like this at all. She turns toward me, grips my shoulders once more in her strong hands. “Misha, listen to me. A lot of people might be interested in what arrangements your father left. And not all of them will settle for bumping into your car and taking you to lunch. They can’t do anything to hurt you. But they can certainly scare you.”

  We both wait for this to sink in.

  “Is my family in any danger?” I am thinking, Jamaica, call Kimmer and tell her to take Bentley and go stay with her relatives in Jamaica.

  “No, Misha, no. Believe me, nobody is going to hurt you. Nobody is going to hurt your family. Mr. Ziegler has guaranteed it.”

  “That’s all it takes?”

  “In my world, yes.”

  I knew this, of course. I just never quite believed it before. It is one thing to read about Uncle Jack’s power in the newspapers; it is something else to feel it in action, a protective cocoon around me and my family.

  “Then what are you trying to say?”

  “It’s the information that’s dangerous, Misha.” The conversation has returned to its starting point. “If it falls into the wrong hands—that’s the danger.”

  “Which is why you think I should give it to you—whoever you are—instead of to Jack Ziegler.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you work for . . . well, the government?” She shakes her head, smiling. “No, that’s right, you work for the good-but-not-great guys.”

  “In a contest between us and Jack Ziegler, nobody is going to Heaven, but, yes, that’s still about right.”

  “Except that you’re following me surreptitiously, and Uncle Jack is protecting me.”

  “Maybe he’s following you too. Maybe I’m protecting you too.”

  “I haven’t seen any sign—”

  “Remember how he acted in the cemetery, Misha? Was that the way a man behaves when he has no stake in the outcome?”

  “In the cemetery? You weren’t at the cemetery—”

  “Yes, I was,” Maxine smiles, delighted to be one up on me again. “I was at the funeral too, sitting in the back row with a bunch of your relatives. They all thought I was somebody’s cousin.” The smile dims a bit, and I sense weariness now: she is tired of playing a role, tired of flirting, tired of the job. “You even hugged me over by the grave,” she adds softly. “It was a nice hug.”

  I am a little surprised, as Maxine means me to be. But I am also undeterred.

  “You still haven’t given me a reason to give the . . . the information to you. That is, if I ever find it.”

  “You won’t take my word for it? I mean, I did buy you crab cakes.”

  “And wrecked my car.”

  “Just the bumper. And I offered to pay for it.”

  When I remain silent, Maxine stops walking and grabs my arm again. We are in the parking lot of a tiny store that sells just about everything, from breakfast cereal to fine wine to the little stickers that allow you to put your trash at the curb for collection.

  “Listen to me, Misha. I am not your enemy. You have to believe that. I told you that the people I’m working with aren’t saints. You might not invite them to dinner. But believe me when I say that, if they get their hands on what Angela’s boyfriend knows, whatever it turns out to be, they will destroy it. If Jack Ziegler gets his hands on it, he will use it. It’s as simple as that.” Her eyes seem to glow in the darkness. “You have to go back and find it, Misha. The clues are all there. It’s just that nobody else can figure them out. I think your father thought you would know right off who Angela’s boyfriend was. Your father was an intelligent man. A careful man. If he thought you knew, then you know. You just don’t know what you know.”

  I shake my head in frustration. “Maxine, I have to tell you, I don’t have any idea what my father was talking about. I think he made a mistake.”

  “Don’t say that! Don’t you ever say that!” Maxine seems fearful, looking around as though she expects to find somebody is listening in. “You do have an idea. Your father did not make a mistake.” Almost shouting as she corrects me.

  I remove her hand from my wrist. “I’m too tired for all this. I think I might . . . I’ve been thinking of giving up the search.”

  Her eyes grow wider and, if anything, more alarmed. “You can’t stop now, Misha. You just can’t. Nobody else can figure out the arrangements but you. So you have to do it. You have to. Please.”

  Please?

  “I see.” I keep my tone neutral. I do not want her to realize that this sudden lapse into supplication is more terrifying than anything else she has said. But Maxine detects my mood; I can see it in her intelligent face; and I can see her decide to let it go.

  “I don’t think we’ll see each other again, Misha. That is, I don’t think you’ll see me. Not if I do my job right. I’ll be watching you, but you won’t know when. So just act natural, and assume I’m there to help.”

  “Maxine, I—”

  “I’m sorry about the money,” she hurries on. “That was clumsy. And it was insulting. It wasn’t to fix your bumper. And I had a lot more of it in my bag, just in case. I still do.” Her tone is wistful.

  “In case what?”

  “We heard somebody else was trying to buy the arrangements from you. Disguising it, maybe, as fees for speaking engagements, something like that.” I feel a chill but do not say a word. “So, anyway, I was actually supposed to . . . well, I was supposed to bribe you, Misha. I’m sorry, but it’s true. We know you’ve had certain financial pressures. And, um, domestic pressures, too. I was supposed to bribe you with money or . . . or, well, with whatever else it took.” Now it is her turn to blush and drop her eyes, and mine to feel a rising warmth I would rather keep at bay.

  “Bribe me to do what?” I ask after a moment. We have arrived back at our cars. She takes her keys from her pocket and presses the button. The Suburban’s lights flash, the alarm bleeps off, and the doors unlock. I grab her arm. “Maxine, bribe me to do what?”

  She stiffens at my touch. She is suddenly quite unhappy. I do not know whether it is just coincidence that every woman I meet seems to be depressed, or whether I make them that way.

  “Bribe me to do what?” I ask a third time, dropping my hand. “To give whatever it is to you instead of Uncle Jack?”

  Maxine has the door open and a foot on the running board. She answers me without turning around.

  “I know your life has been difficult lately, Misha. I know some scary things have happened. A lot of people would decide to give up the hunt at this point. We heard you might be thinking about it.” She hesitates. “I guess the best way to put it is that I was supposed to do whatever it took to get you not to give up. To convince you to keep looking. But I don’t think you need to be bribed. I think you’re the kind who can’t let go. You’ll keep looking for him because you need to.”

  “Looking for whom?”

  “For Angela’s boyfriend.”

  “And then what? Maxine, wait. Then what? If I find him, and if he tells me what my father wanted him to tell me, what am I supposed to do? I mean, suppose I agree with you? How do I get the information to you?”

  Maxine is up in the
seat of the Suburban now, ready to close the door on me. But she turns and looks straight into my eyes. I can see the mixture of exhaustion, irritation, even a little sadness. This day did not go precisely as she planned.

  “First, handsome, you have to find him,” she says.

  “And then?”

  “Then I’ll find you. I promise.”

  “But wait a minute. Wait. I’m out of ideas. I don’t know where to look.”

  The roller woman shrugs and turns the key. The engine explodes into life. She looks at me again, her gaze clear and direct. “You might start with Freeman Bishop.”

  “Freeman Bishop?”

  “I think he was a mistake.”

  “Wait. A mistake? What kind of mistake?”

  “The bad kind, handsome. The bad kind.” Maxine closes the door and throws the Suburban into reverse. The car accelerates up the hill toward Vineyard Haven. I watch until the taillights vanish around the bend.

  I am alone.

  CHAPTER 34

  A STORY UNRAVELS

  (I)

  I WAKE EARLY THE NEXT MORNING, alone in Vinerd Howse, ashamed of how much of the night I spent tossing restlessly, unable to sleep, wishing for company but not my wife. I pull on my robe and step out onto the little balcony off the master bedroom. The streets are empty. Most of the other houses on Ocean Park are closed for the season, but one or two show signs of activity, and a jogger, out early in the crisp air, waves cheerily.

  I wave back.

  Down in the kitchen I toast an English muffin and pour some juice, for I did not fill the larder when I arrived, expecting to be here only a day or two. I carry my breakfast into the little television nook by the front hall where, three decades ago, I saw Addison and Sally tussling away. Simpler times.

  You might start with Freeman Bishop . . . . I think he was a mistake.

  A mistake? What kind of mistake? Whose mistake? Mine? My father’s? Questions I throw at the roller woman, even though she is not present to answer them.

  And how can a dead man help me find Angela’s boyfriend?

  I cannot sit still. I wander from room to room, poking my head into the guest room, done up in red wallpaper and red fabric on bed and chairs, the room where my mother died; and into the bathroom that doubles as a laundry room, with the cheap linoleum floor that was already old when my parents bought the house; back into the small kitchen, where I pour more juice; and, finally, into the dining room, where that blowup of my father’s Newsweek cover still hangs over the unusable fireplace. THE CONSERVATIVE HOUR. The way it was before, as the Judge would say. When life seemed golden. I remember how my father’s nomination tested the unity of the Gold Coast, how lifelong friends stopped speaking to each other as they came down on opposite sides. But perhaps splintering was more common than I suspected in our happy little community. Didn’t Mariah tell me that the congregation at Trinity and St. Michael split down the middle when Freeman Bishop’s cocaine use came to light? And if—