“There’s two kind of locals,” Ike once said. “February and March.” He wasn’t talking about himself, about the real locals-those who’ve been on St. John for generations, the blacks born and raised there. He meant the newcomers. He was talking about people like Walter and Billy, and whatshisname, the pop singer living on his boat out in the harbor, and all the others who left their roots on the mainland to take up the island life. There were those who came for the lifestyle, flat broke or loaded with all the money they needed, and there were those on the run looking for a place to stop. These were the February people, according to Ike. They could be found eating lunch or dinner at Billy’s alongside the tourists and visitors. Or they might be the ones waiting tables, crewing the charter boats, hanging out on the beach, living on the cheap. Walter was not a February person. “Never was,” said Ike. He was a March person. He tolerated high season, taking comfort in the certainty that it would end, the crowds would lessen, if not leave altogether, and life would return to normal.
Walter came back from Atlanta and stayed home. It took Clara no time at all to see what happened. She wouldn’t be seeing that girl Isobel around here anymore. She did what she could to care for him, but Clara had no medicine for Walter’s blues. He moped. He sulked. He sat alone on the patio until all hours of the night. He didn’t talk much. Clara told her sister. Her sister told her friends. They told theirs. Before long everyone knew. It’s a small island, and they do know everything. To make matters worse, Walter had that CD Clara had heard a million times, The Best of the Cadillacs. It was a rare day she enjoyed listening to that one. He played that one song, “Gloria,” too many times to Clara’s way of thinking. It was hopeless, she concluded. How could he miss both of them? At the same time? Poor man. His sadness was not a pretty sight. She figured he had to hit the bottom of lonely before he could pick himself up. She prayed it wouldn’t take him long. Ten days into his depression, Clara said she needed to see a sick friend. “I’ll be gone all day,” she said. She gave Walter a list of groceries and household items and asked him to pick them up in Cruz Bay. “I can’t be making you lunch either,” she said. “I won’t be here. You should stop at Billy’s, get something to eat, and see your friends.” She said she’d be back by eight o’clock to make him a late dinner.
Billy’s was so crowded Walter almost decided to turn around and go someplace else. When Billy saw him he hurried to the end of the bar, moved the last two patrons out, and signaled to Walter his regular place was available. Both seats.
“Thanks Billy,” he said.
“Anytime. Anytime, Walter. You doing alright?”
“Great. Fine.”
“Hungry? You want something?”
Walter shrugged. Billy didn’t budge. “A sandwich,” Walter said. “Anything at all will do.”
Billy said, “Coming up.” He opened a bottle of Diet Coke, placed it on a coaster in front of Walter, and walked back into the kitchen.
Walter heard the familiar footsteps even in the noisy bar. It was a skill he developed early on. Perhaps it was a talent, something you had or you didn’t. He was never sure. When you’re following someone you can’t always count on being able to see them or look directly at them. Learning to recognize someone by the sound of their footsteps had helped him many times and saved him on more than one occasion. He knew a blind man who said he could hear a friend coming a block away. He wished he were that good. Without looking up, he said, “Sit down, Tom.” Maloney sat on the same barstool he used when they first met, the one next to the fan at the very end of the bar, near the kitchen. Walter looked at him. This time Maloney was comfortably dressed. He wore white pants, a cream-colored, loose-fitting golf shirt, and sandals on his bare feet. His cheeks and forehead were red. “He’s been here at least a few days,” thought Walter. Probably looked for him in Billy’s everyday. Walter’s elbows rested on the bar. He opened both hands and moved his arms out as wide as his elbows would allow. Without saying it, the look on his face asked, “Why? Why are you here? What do you want?”
Maloney’s rigid shoulders made him appear as if he had no neck at all. His tight-jawed anger allowed him to speak only through clenched teeth. He said, “Where is it?” Walter said nothing. “It’s gone, isn’t it?” Maloney asked. “Where’d you put it? Where is it! It’s mine, goddamnit!”
“Easy, big guy. Remember where you are. Show respect if you want to get some.”
Tom Maloney may have dressed more comfortably than the last time he was on St. John, but he was definitely agitated. He tapped his feet and licked his lips. Walter sized up his loose-fitting outfit, looking to see if it was possible he might be carrying a weapon. A man with a big gut has a hard time concealing a gun in his waistband. Maloney was unarmed. He was just angry.
“What’s the problem, Tom? What are you doing here?”
“The money. The account’s closed.”
“My account?” He looked at Tom Maloney with contempt. “You’re surprised? What kind of a fool do you take me for? You gave me my exact balance the day we met, remember? When Pitts gave me the briefcase, I realized you didn’t want my money, so I wasn’t worried. Then you deposited quite a lot of money in my account, again getting access without me knowing about it. That’s twice.” Walter looked at him like a stern uncle might a recalcitrant nephew. Billy brought Walter’s sandwich. He recognized Maloney too and spoke right up.
“Anything else you want, Walter? You need anything, I’m right here.” Billy glared directly at Tom Maloney, then walked away.
“Lots of people do something once,” Walter said. “Something they shouldn’t. Once is not nice, but understandable. However, anybody who does something twice is telling you something. I can be fooled, but I’m not a fool. There’ll be no third time.”
He took a big bite of his sandwich. Obviously he couldn’t keep talking with his mouth full. Maloney had already said everything he had to say: “Where’s the money!” Walter swallowed and tried to remove a piece of ham stuck between his teeth with his tongue. “You shouldn’t have hired Wilkes,” he said.
Maloney had either forgotten Wilkes or had no interest in him. He was single-minded. “Where is my money!” he demanded.
“I thought by now most of it would already be earning interest for The Center for Consumer Concerns. Yours and Nathan’s. You sent it, didn’t you?”
“Look, you sonofabitch! Where’s my fucking money? Not the money I had to turn over to that thieving murderer. Do you know what’s happened to me?” A nervous, perhaps even dangerous, laugh overcame Tom Maloney. He was shaking. “I owe money. Me! I owe money!” He struggled to gain control. He stopped laughing. “Where’s my money! Thirty million dollars. Thirty million no one could touch. Not yours! Mine!”
Walter was not a man to be called a sonofabitch, especially on his home turf. A warning was written all over his face. Maloney could not have missed it.
“Remember what I told you about Leonard Martin, Tom? Remember I said I was certain I would never see or hear from him again?” Maloney gave him an angry nod. “You won’t see him either, Tom. Everything has a price, right? Even life-your life. Pay up and live. Stiff him and you’re dead. You talk about your thirty million. A little extra stashed away. You don’t have thirty million. You had thirty million.”
“You took that money. I want my money’s worth. You find him again and you kill him. Get my money back from those sonsofbitches in Atlanta. Then it’s your thirty million. Until he’s dead you have my money. Do you understand me?”
Walter laughed. “Doesn’t sound like my kind of work,” he said. Maloney was beside himself. He raised his right hand, trembling, fist tightly clenched. Walter didn’t budge.
“You threatening me, Tom? You just found a way to stay alive-complements of Leonard Martin. Don’t push your luck. You don’t need me to kill anyone. Not anymore. No one wants to kill you. The rules have changed. I want you to listen to me, Tom, carefully.” Now Walter spoke to him softly, just as he had done once before.
This time the message was different. “Fuck with me, I’ll kill you. What I told you about Isobel Gitlin, that goes double for me. I even smell one of your goons, you’ll wish you were dead already. Remember Na Trang? I’m no Leonard Martin. You’ll never get off my hook. I’ll cut your throat and watch you die slowly. The last thing you’ll see is me cleaning my knife.” Walter calmly picked up his sandwich and took another bite, followed by a long drink of his Diet Coke.
If Maloney was searching for any sign of nerves, he had the wrong guy. Walter Sherman was the last person Tom Maloney could intimidate. Maloney was crazed, but not crazy. He feared Walter Sherman more than any other man-Leonard Martin included. He knew he was right to do so. Walter could see him cooling down. He looked like a boiling kettle turned to a lower heat, its whistle reduced to a whimper. He was still hot, but no longer running out of control. And he had the look of a man definitely thirty million dollars poorer.
Walter said, “Now get the fuck off my island.” Tom Maloney got up and walked out. In the mirror behind the bar, Walter watched him walk all the way out. Billy, a look of fierce determination and readiness on his face, pointed to Walter, his index finger definitely meant to be a gun-a sign of absolute support. Walter smiled at the bartender, thinking, “I wouldn’t want to have William Mantkowski as my enemy.”
The thirty million dollars Tom Maloney had sent to Walter’s account in the Caymans was now sitting in another bank in Cyprus, in transit, on its way to its final destination.
St. John
The news about Isobel Gitlin and The Center for Consumer Concerns began to spread after the joint press conference for Alliance Industries and Stein, Gelb, Hector amp; Wills. Alliance announced their plan to absorb SHI Inc. using a stock switch plan effectuated by Stein, Gelb. Then they shocked the attending press, almost all of whom covered the business or financial beat, when they admitted to culpability in the E. coli disaster more than three years earlier and announced their intention to contribute close to six billion dollars to a new foundation, The Center for Consumer Concerns. They were confident the money would be approved by their directors and shareholders. No specific schedule had been worked out with The Center, but Alliance and Stein, Gelb promised to fully fund their pledge within four years. No one in the room, except for a hulking mass of a man standing in the back, known to a few people there as the Moose, had ever heard of The Center for Consumer Concerns. Questions came furiously. A silence, a pause punctuated by an audible gasp, greeted the news that The Center’s executive director was Isobel Gitlin. A murmur that could not be stifled followed the announcement that Nicholas Stevenson and Harvey Daniels served as the foundation’s trustees. Before the press conference restored order, Mel Gold left to return to the Times. In a heated editorial meeting later that afternoon, he succeeded in having the morning edition of the Times refer to Isobel only as “a former obituary writer for the New York Times.” He knew she’d be happy with that.
The normal news cycle-especially for the television networks and cable channels-is twenty-four hours. In a day, Isobel Gitlin was old news. Two days after the press conference no one was talking about her or The Center. Alliance Industries, and to a lesser extent Stein, Gelb, had become the darlings of the left. “Corporate Conscience-At Last!” cried The Nation. Even the libertarian Cato Institute praised the move proclaiming self-awareness and self-examination the best path toward curbing corporate abuse. Then, of course, they questioned whether such abuse existed or not. The stir in Atlanta lasted a little longer. It was a good local story. Still, by the weekend few were talking about it anymore. Isobel went about her daily life in pleasurable obscurity. In stores, supermarkets, and in the malls, the only stares she got were those always waiting for attractive young women.
Back home, Walter’s mood improved slowly, if at all. The walls had fallen, the doors were cracked open. His vulnerability had been an open sore. He called upon more than a half century of resources to repair the damage. He went back to eating breakfast in Billy’s. The company of his friends was a gift not to be taken lightly, but he’d been hurt and they knew it.
“Walter, you know that song-you know, that one-it goes,” and Ike loosed his tortured falsetto on Billy’s sparse morning crowd. “I found lo-ove on a two-way-y street and lost it on a lon-le-y high-i-way.”
“Very nice,” Billy said from behind the bar. “You want them all to leave?”
“Yeah, I know it,” Walter said. “I can even recognize it when you sing it.”
“Well, that’s what I mean,” Ike said, the smoke from whatever it was hanging from his lower lip blanketing his face.
“So what?” Walter said.
“The thing is, you found love on a lonely highway and lost it on a two-way street. That’s ass-backward, ain’t it?”
Walter said nothing. He drank his usual drink and frowned at Ike.
“Forget about it,” said Billy, turning away from Ike, mumbling something else.
“No, no,” Ike said. “Don’t you never forgetaboutit.” His attempt to imitate Billy was laughable. Billy and Walter smiled at each other. Ike continued, “Keep going, Walter. You’ll find it. Damn if you don’t find everything else.”
Walter offered no reply. He had nothing to say. The song in his mind was “Looking For Love In All The Wrong Places.” God, I hate country music, he thought.
Isobel flipped off the cell phone. She dropped the instrument on her kitchen table, right into the pile of real estate brochures. She covered her smiling face with both hands, almost laughing out loud. She should have known. Of course, she should have known. The bank had just called. They said a bank representing an anonymous donor called requesting wire instructions for a contribution to the Center. A few minutes later a bank in Cyprus made The Center for Consumer Concerns richer by thirty million dollars. “Oh, m-my,” she said. “Walter, Walter, Walter.”
St. John
“You got three,” said Ike, blowing the usual amount of smoke away from Billy out toward where the Poet slept in the square. “Brando, Newman, and Dean. What’s more to say? Ain’t three better. Ain’t three as good.” He looked to Billy, standing where he always did, behind the bar, halfway between himself and Walter. Billy mumbled something as he wiped the already spotless counter. “What?” said Ike.
“Tinkers, Evers, and Chance,” Billy said, this time loud enough to be heard. “There’s three for you.”
“Who the hell they?”
“Come on, old man. You’re losing it. Tinkers to Evers to Chance.”
“Un huh,” said Ike, the same way his doctor often did after putting down his stethoscope.
“Chicago Cubs infield,” Billy went on. “Best double play combination there ever was.”
Ike said, “Oh, yeah. Now I hear you. Couldn’t make out what you said. I heard of them. That was when only white boys played, so we’ll never know how good they were, will we? Easy to turn a double play on a white boy. Can’t run fast enough.”
“Ahh,” said Billy, waving his bar rag at the old man.
“Brando, Newman, and Dean,” said Ike again. “And they all white. I am no prejudiced man. I recognize talent.”
Billy said, “Walter, you got three for us?”
“Three what?”
“Three anything. Three better than Bran-”
“I heard him,” Walter said. “You too. I’ll go with the three ghosts.”
Billy dropped his bar rag on the floor. “The Father, Son, and the Holy-”
“No, Billy. That’s only one ghost, if I remember correctly.”
“I think you’re right, Walter,” Ike said. “Only one.”
Walter said, “The three ghosts. The ghost of Christmas past. The ghost of Christmas present. And the ghost of Christmas future.”
“The past, the present, and the future,” said Ike. “That’s good. That’s very good. I’ll take the past, if you don’t mind. I surely will.”
“I’ll take the present,” said Billy, who feared the future and dreaded the past. �
�That leaves you with the future, Walter.”
“It most surely does,” said Ike. “You up to it?”
“The future,” said Walter, raising his drink in the air. “Gentlemen, here’s to the future.”
Billy went to write it up.
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The Knowland Retribution l-1 Page 36