“I’m pronouncing it with the Ollie North accent, which is the truly Amurican one.”
“As in ‘Amurica the Beautiful.’ ”
“That’s it. Spoken like a truly Amurican woman.”
“The kind that made our nation great.”
“The very kind.”
Later, as darkness fell, we walked back downtown, and were not mugged, held up, or otherwise assaulted on the mean streets.
“Dinner at Jake Wirth’s?”
“Nothing could be finer.”
Jake’s dark beer, wurst, and sauerkraut were delish, as always. We wandered home through the dark streets, sated and happy.
“Not a bad first day in the big city,” said Zee later, sleepily wrapping her arms around me.
“Not bad at all.”
We breakfasted at McDonald’s, a treat to folk such as us, who live on a McDonaldless island, thanks to a successful effort by our Vineyard neighbors to repulse a Big Mac attack intended to establish a place in Vineyard Haven. The successful defenders of the blessed isle hold that it is too classy a place to want or need an off-island fast-food joint. Personally, I think that Mac’s or its equivalent is exactly what the island needs—a place to get cheap, dependable, high-cholesterol, all-American food. But nobody has yet asked me my opinion on the issue. At any rate, now being in America, Zee and I feasted on Egg McMuffins and coffee, and called them good.
“Mac’s in Paris, you know,” said Zee, munching. “A guy told me a while back that the trash containers in Luxembourg Gardens are stuffed with empty McDonald food containers. So if it’s good enough for a Parisian, it’s good enough for me.”
“Fried food without guilt.”
We walked up to the MFA and had a look at things, then walked back downtown just in time to have a beer and sandwich before hitting the Wang for the matinee.
The Wang Center is just a few seats smaller than Fenway Park, but our tickets were front and center, so we had a good view of everything. Zee was pleased to note that our fellow opera lovers were not dressed too much differently than we were, in slacks and shirts, sans formal garb. There were exceptions, of course, including an elderly man and his younger companion who were seated a row in front of us. They, unlike most of the men in the audience, wore neckties and suits. No doubt there were others of their ilk scattered here and there, lending an aura of civilization to an otherwise casual-looking crowd.
I listen to a good deal of opera, but I had never attended a performance. I thought it was terrific, the perfect first opera for anyone who’d not seen one before. Carmen was slinky and beautiful, Don José was perhaps a tad overweight, but in good voice, and Escamillo both looked and sang well. There was passion and dancing, a lot of good music, and just enough violence. We gave everyone several good rounds of applause, and I was happy.
“‘The Toreador Song’ was good enough to make one consider becoming a baritone instead of a tenor,” I said to Zee as we jostled our way out of the auditorium.
“Surely you’re not giving up the idea of singing ‘Nessun dorma’ some day?”
“Well, no. But I don’t see why I can’t do both.”
“Along with learning how to play ‘Amazing Grace’ on the bagpipes. You’re a musically ambitious man, Jefferson.”
“It’s true that I aspire to great things.”
“As for me, I think I can see myself doing the habanera.”
“Perfect casting. Dark-eyed Portuguese beauty that you are, doing the flamenco bit.”
“Gee,” said Zee, “with our musical drive, it’s really too bad that neither one of us can actually sing very well.”
“Maybe we could become musical scholars. For instance, did you know that the habanera came from Cuba and isn’t really Spanish at all?”
“Neither was Bizet, for that matter.”
“It’s so swell to be smart. I really love it.”
We came out into the afternoon sunlight, and the crowd, chatting and cheerful, moved away in both directions along Tremont Street, seeking food or transportation home.
There was an old, well-maintained black Cadillac at the curb. It had those dark windows that prevent you from seeing who’s inside, but the driver’s side window was rolled down and there was a young guy sitting there, looking at the people coming out of the theater. He saw who he was looking for, got out, and opened the rear door. I noted that his party consisted of the older man and younger companion who had been seated in front of us, decked out in ties and suits. The two of them moved toward the car, with Zee and me only a step or two behind.
Then a car that had been double-parked down the street to the right moved up and stopped beside the Caddy. A shapeless figure wearing a long, unzipped, hooded sweatshirt, baggy pants, and high-top sneakers stepped out and came around behind the Cadillac. This popular inner-city attire caught my eye, since it was a warm day for a sweatshirt, however fashionable such garb might be.
As the older man reached the car, the hooded figure spoke one word: “Marcus.”
The older man paused and looked at him, and the hooded figure brought out a sawed-off shotgun from beneath his sweatshirt.
As the shotgun came level with the older man’s chest, his younger companion, half a step behind, lurched forward, too late, to protect him.
Closer, and ignored by the shootist, I took one step and knocked the muzzle of the gun into the air as it went off.
I was aware of the sound of breaking glass as the shot hit some window or streetlight, then I had both hands on the gun and had spun my body between it and its owner. For a moment we struggled for possession, then I slid a hand down, found the little finger of the shootist’s trigger hand, yanked it back and broke it. There was a cry of pain from behind me, and a sudden release of the shotgun. I turned in time to see the hooded figure race around behind the Caddy. I grabbed, but caught only the sweatshirt, which its owner slipped out of like an eel. He cast one look at me, then dived through the window of the car beyond the Cadillac. The car’s engine roared, its spinning tires squealed, and it tore away up Tremont.
Turning back, I found myself looking into the wild eyes of the older man’s companion. There was a large pistol in his hand, and it was pointed at me. I was aware of the shotgun in my own hands. For an instant he seemed poised on the brink of decision: Was I friend or another foe? Should he shoot or not?
“Get out of here,” I said. “That guy might not have been alone.”
Perhaps a second passed. Then he nodded. “Yeah.” He pushed the older man into the car. “Get us out of here, Vinnie,” he said to the driver, whose face was white and tense. He and Vinnie got into the Cadillac and drove away.
All around us, shocked theatergoers were staring or cowering away. Who could blame them? I thumbed on the safety, then held the shotgun close to my thigh, where it was less conspicuous.
“Come on,” I said to Zee, taking her arm. “We’ll go inside and call the cops.”
She was pale as snow. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I said, but I felt pretty pale myself.
We went back into the theater and made our phone call. It took Boston’s finest about five minutes to get there. They weren’t used to shootings at opera matinees.
4
The uniforms who showed up first felt better when they’d separated me from the shotgun. They didn’t trust the safety any more than I did, and they didn’t trust me, either. We were all glad when the lab boys took the gun away.
Meanwhile, some detectives had arrived and taken turns asking us questions. They did the same of some other people who had hung around long enough to be nailed as witnesses. As might be expected, not all stories corresponded in detail. A couple of people even testified that I was the shootist, which didn’t surprise me or the cops, but which made Zee angry.
“What kind of klutzes are those people? Don’t they even understand what they see with their own eyes? My God!”
“Now, take it easy, Mrs. Jackson,” said detective Gordon R.
Sullivan, who was going over things with us one last time. I wondered what the R stood for and how many Sullivans were on the Boston PD these days. Detective Sullivan had a soothing voice. “Eyewitnesses are notorious for getting things messed up. We’ll get this all sorted out. So you don’t know the guy who seems to have been the intended victim?”
“I never saw him before.”
“And you, Mr. Jackson?”
“Never saw any of them before.”
“What made you involve yourself like that? That was a very dangerous thing to do.”
I’d been wondering about that. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” I said. “If I’d had time to think, I probably never would have done it. It just happened.”
He looked at me. “Just happened.”
“Yeah.”
“And you don’t know any of the parties?”
“No.”
“Or, like where we might catch up with any of them?”
“The older guy and his friends drove off in an old black Cadillac with those tinted windows. The car had a Mass plate, but I didn’t get the number. The perps were in a light-colored sedan. A Chevy, maybe, but I’m not sure. I can’t tell the difference between one make and another these days. They took off up Tremont. I didn’t get that plate, either. And I don’t know how many of them there were. A driver and the shooter, at least.”
“Describe the shooter.”
“We already did that,” said Zee. “Young guy. White. Short. Light build, about a hundred forty pounds or so. Dark hair. Dark eyes.”
Sullivan gave her an expressionless look. “You remember a good deal, considering you only saw him for a second.”
“I’m a nurse,” said Zee. “I see a lot of people in the emergency room. I’m used to quick ID’s.”
“I guess so.” He looked at me. “Anything to add? Maybe you remember something you forgot before.”
“Don’t forget the broken pinkie.”
“I won’t.” The detective looked at his notes. “Wiry type. Wearing gloves.”
I nodded. “Maybe those surgical ones. Pretty strong kid, for somebody that size. Gave me a real tussle for the gun.”
“You say the shooter said a name. Marcus.”
“Yeah. And the older guy looked at him. So maybe the older guy is Marcus.”
“Why would he call his name?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he wanted him to know he was about to get shot.”
“Or maybe he wanted to make sure he was shooting the right guy.”
“Yeah. He didn’t show the gun until Marcus looked at him.”
“Reacted to hearing his name, you mean?”
“That’s how it looked to me, but it all happened pretty fast.”
“And after the shooter took off, you turned around and the younger guy with Marcus had a gun pointing at you.”
“I’d hardly call him a young guy,” said Zee. “I’d say he was more fortyish. But, yes, he did point a gun. I was only a yard or so away, and I saw it all. He jumped in front of the older man and jerked the pistol out from under his coat. I thought he was going to shoot Jeff!”
The detective looked at me. “And that’s when you told him to take off.”
“Yeah.”
“This fortyish guy was a bodyguard, you think?”
“That’s what I think.”
The detective grunted, and got out a cigar. Then he looked at Zee and put the cigar away. “Lessee. An older guy named Marcus complete with bodyguard and a driver and a black Cadillac with Mass plates. Shouldn’t be too hard to track down. The perps are another story. You both sure you never got a look at the driver’s face?”
“Not even a glimpse.”
Sullivan stood up. “You gonna be in town long?”
“About thirty seconds after you let us go,” said Zee. “I’m on my honeymoon, and I don’t want to spend the rest of it in the Wang Center.”
“Honeymoon, eh?” Sullivan arched a brow. “Congratulations, Mr. Jackson. Best wishes, Mrs. Jackson.”
A policeman came up to us, and gestured toward the door with his thumb. “Gordy, there’s some reporters out there. You want I should let them come in now?”
“No reporters,” I said, getting up. “I don’t need any reporters sharing my honeymoon. There’s got to be another way out of here.”
“Come with me,” said Sullivan. “We’ll sneak out the back way and go down to headquarters so you two can look at some mug shots and sign your statements and be on your way.”
So we went and looked at mug shots, but didn’t see the kid with the shotgun.
Sullivan was disappointed, but not surprised. “The thing is, we get shotguns, but they aren’t the weapon of choice around here. Nines are what the bad boys like these days. But since spring, we have had two shotgun killings. Not the usual thing, so maybe this shooter is the same guy. You’re the first people who’ve seen his face, so I thought maybe we’d get lucky.”
“Who got shot?” I asked.
“The sort of people you’d expect to get shot sooner or later. Two would-be bad guys from in town.”
For the most part, people who die violently live that way first. It’s pretty rare for a peaceful person living in a peaceful place to get shotgunned.
Of course, it does happen.
Sullivan thanked us and told us that he might be in touch. “Not unless we nail the perps, though, or unless something comes up.” He shook hands. “I’ll have somebody run you back to your hotel. If you think of anything else, give me a call.” He gave me his card. “Now get back on that honeymoon.”
A young cop drove us back to the hotel. There, I looked at Zee. “What do you say, wife, shall we stay another night or head for the blessed isle?”
“I’ve had about as much city as I want for now. To the Vineyard, James.”
We checked out and headed south. It was now early evening, and we had the road pretty much to ourselves since we were driving toward Cape Cod and the cape weekenders were all coming home, filling the northbound side of the highway.
Zee was pretty silent, I thought. Finally, she spoke.
“You scared me, Jeff. You could have gotten yourself killed.”
I was uncomfortable about the whole incident myself. Years before, after having been shot, I’d left the Boston PD for Martha’s Vineyard in part because I hadn’t wanted any more to do with defending the city from its bad guys. When I’d learned that I would have to live the rest of my life with a bullet lodged against my spine, and when I’d had my first wife leave me for a man in a safer profession, I had decided to let some other people save the world. “It all happened pretty fast,” I said now. “I didn’t really think about it, I just did it.”
“I know. That’s one of the scary parts. I just got married. I don’t want to be a widow.”
“It was just a fluky thing. It’ll never happen again. We should just put it behind us and not think about it anymore. I plan to live a long time, and tell my grandchildren lies about the good old days when all the bluefish weighed at least twelve pounds and the bass weighed fifty.”
“Good. We’ll grow old and gray together.” She put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. But when I glanced at her, she still had a thoughtful, solemn look on her face. Feeling my eyes on her, she looked at me.
“Now, don’t think about it anymore,” I said.
She put a smile on her face. “Okay, I won’t think about it anymore.”
“The past doesn’t exist.”
“At least we should only remember the good and useful parts.”
“You’ve got it, kid.”
We arrived at the Sagamore Bridge traffic circle and took a right. Driving along the road paralleling the canal, we saw several boats making the transit from Buzzards Bay to Cape Cod Bay, all motoring briskly along.
“Someday we’ll do that in the Shirley J.,” I said. “We’ll make a giant sail up Buzzards Bay, through the canal and out across to Provincetown. Then we’ll go down the outside of the cape and home
again.”
“In the Shirley J., that will take some time,” said Zee.
“We’ll have the time. We’re going to be married for at least an epoch.”
“How long’s an epoch?”
“Long enough to circumnavigate Cape Cod in the Shirley J., and then some.”
“And to produce grandchildren.”
“That, too.”
We looped onto the Bourne Bridge and drove to Woods Hole where, by happy chance, it being a Sunday evening, we managed only a short wait in the standby line before catching a freight boat to Vineyard Haven.
At our house, the summer stars were out, and Boston seemed far away. There was a soft wind from the southwest, and it stirred the leaves of the trees. An owl hooted somewhere off to the north. Zee put her arms up and around my neck and I drew her to me. We stood in the warm darkness, then went inside.
Oliver Underfoot and Velero, sleeping together in their favorite chair, yawned at us.
We went into the bedroom.
“Home,” said Zee, smiling.
Two days later, Zee went back to work at the hospital. In her absence, I cleaned the house, checked on the Shirley J., and then went clamming down at the Eel Pond. By the time Zee got home, I had supper ready to go in the oven, and chilled Lukusowa martinis and smoked bluefish pâté waiting for her.
“Not bad,” said Zee, kicking off her shoes, and lighting up the room with her smile.
We took the hors d’oeuvres and the drinks up to the balcony and watched the evening settle over Vineyard Sound, out there on the far side of the barrier beach that carries the road between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs.
A few last sailboats were leaning across the darkening waters, heading for harbors, and motorboats were leaving white wakes behind them. The beach beside the highway was emptying of its last families, and there were only a couple of bright surf-sails moving back and forth along the shore. The evening darkened into night, and I went down and got supper heated.
We ate a lazy meal.
“This is nice,” said Zee, reaching across the table and touching my hand. “I’m glad we’re here.”
“Yes.”
The next morning, as I was putting my rod and my qua-hogging rake on the Land Cruiser’s roof rack, I heard the phone ringing. When I was single I sometimes didn’t answer the phone on general principles, but now I was a married man with responsibilities, so I made the dash and swept up the receiver.
Death on a Vineyard Beach Page 3