Dover Beach

by Richard Bowker

  Three days? The deadline seemed as absurd to me as the search itself. "I'll do what I can," I said. "But I should tell you that if the evidence exists, it might take more than three days to find it. I've already talked to my contact in the government, and he's going to search for information about who the British took; but what we're looking for might be in some file in Atlanta, or in the back of someone's desk drawer, and there's no telling how long it'll be before we get our hands on it."

  "But you see, Sands, I have to go back to Florida in three days. If I don't get back, people start asking questions, they look into things... my bridges would be burned."

  I didn't follow that, and I wasn't sure I wanted to. "If finding Cornwall is this important to you, why not go to Florida and come back when you get more vacation time, or whatever?"

  "Three days," he repeated. "Then I return to the leukemia and the melanoma and the polio and the birth defects, and I leave all this behind. Understood?"

  I shrugged. If the case was a pipe dream, it didn't really matter what kind of deadline he gave me. Private eyes don't get to choose their cases—at least, not private eyes at my level of experience. As long as I got paid, I wasn't going to argue. "You want me to report in daily?"

  "No, just when you have something."

  I stood up and put my coat on. "I figure I worked six hours at two dollars an hour. Plus expenses—parking and lunch—I figure you owe me twelve dollars and sixteen cents."

  Winfield looked at me as if I had just asked him for a new Cadillac. "You've got a nerve, Sands," he said. "I offer you something like this, and you still want your crumby two dollars an hour?"

  I was puzzled and a little angry. "Something like what? You're offering me three more days of work trying to find some evidence that probably doesn't exist. We had an agreement: if I did an acceptable job today—"

  "Sands, you've got a chance to go to England, goddammit. England—where life is halfway normal, where there's heat and food and television and good-looking women. Don't screw it up by pissing me off."

  I sat back down. "Have I missed something here?" I asked slowly. "When was it established that I was going to England?"

  Winfield waved his hand irritably. "Well, of course I'll need a bodyguard. And you seem reasonably bright—I might have you, I don't know, track down clues or something. Listen: you know, if you go over there, you don't have to come back. Theoretically you have to leave when your visa runs out, but they can't deport you if they can't find you, right? Meanwhile you find some nice British girl to marry or you figure out who to bribe, and you're all set. But the main thing is to get over there, right? This is the chance of a lifetime, Sands. Just get me the evidence."

  Perhaps the heat and the smell of the steak were making me hallucinate. England? Me? I was familiar with both objects, but the combination of them seemed utterly ludicrous. Me. In England. Where was the catch?

  It was obvious. Winfield was just getting more work out of me without having to pay for it. And besides, the proof he wanted simply didn't exist. I had talked to Hemphill; I knew he wasn't guessing about Cornwall's death.

  But still, there was a chance—wasn't there? And the chance was obviously worth three days of my life. In England. Me. "Okay," I said. "I'll see what I can do."

  Winfield smiled. "Good man," he said. "Three days. Bring me proof."

  "Coming right up," I said. But I didn't have the faintest idea how I was going to find it.

  Chapter 9

  "So how's the case?" Linc asked at supper.

  "I made a little progress. The guy I'm looking for is probably dead, but he may conceivably be in England."

  "Well, that narrows it down. Is your client satisfied?"

  "He's keeping me on the case, so I guess he's satisfied."

  "I'm helping Walter find out about the England angle," Stretch announced. "Gonna check out all the scientists the British took back with them while they were here."

  Gwen looked at me. "What happens if he's in England?" she asked.

  "Oh, I dunno," I said. "It's almost certain that he's dead, anyway." I concentrated on my stew.

  After supper we all went into the parlor and listened while Gwen played the piano. Linc huddled in a blanket on the couch. Stretch tried to sing along with a Beatles' song. He was almost as bad as Ground Zero. I sat in an armchair next to the piano and watched Gwen's eyes studying the ragged sheet music, her fingers moving gingerly over the keys. We went to bed early.

  "Are you happy?" she asked as we lay in the darkness.

  "Sure," I said. "It felt good to be on the job. I didn't screw up very much, and my client seemed pleased."

  "I'm glad," she said, and she snuggled into the crook of my shoulder.

  I waited until she was asleep, and then trekked upstairs. But my room didn't give me the satisfaction I needed. Tonight I was too restless, too excited, and the shadows were too dim. After a while I took a book from the shelf. I stared at it, then went back downstairs, put my parka on, and walked out into the night.

  Used to be that going outside in the city at night was an open invitation to get yourself murdered. Things are better nowadays, but still I was on my guard as I walked the few blocks to School Street. I stopped in front of a small store. The sign over the door said:

  Art's Filthy Bookstore

  It had never been clear to me whether the adjective applied to the store or its merchandise; I had a feeling it was deliberately ambiguous. There was a light shining inside. I pounded on the door.

  After a few moments there was movement. A slot at eye level in the door opened and Art peered out into the darkness. "Who is it?" he demanded.

  I took out the badge that Mickey had given me and held it up in front of the slot. "Vice Squad," I said. "Open up. This is a raid."

  Art cackled delightedly and started undoing the locks. In a minute or so the door opened and I stepped inside. "Nothing objectionable here, Officer," Art said. "Look for yourself."

  I looked. Art probably had the largest collection of pornography in the commonwealth—maybe on the entire East Coast. His store was crammed from floor to ceiling with old Penthouses and Playboys and Hustlers, with Fanny Hill and The Story of O and The Delta of Venus and Emmanuelle, with hundreds of novels by Anonymous about Victorian gentlemen and their willing maids, with thousands of novels that told the steamy inside stories of the sexual hijinks of Hollywood stars, of the international jet set, of the glamorous people in the high-powered worlds of advertising, finance, fashion, publishing... crammed with anything that might feed people's fevered imaginations about the old days, that might tantalize and delight and exhaust them with visions of pleasures they could never possibly share.

  Jesus Christ did not approve of Art.

  Art didn't approve of himself, really, but a guy's gotta make a living, and this was what people wanted in a bookstore. So he gave them their cheap thrills, and he saved his affection for the occasional discriminating customer. Like me.

  He was a little man, with bright eyes, long white hair, and a beard that hadn't been trimmed in twenty-two years. He looked the way Santa Claus might look, if Santa Claus were forced to subsist on our modern diet.

  "You're absolutely right," I said, picking up a dog-eared copy of Greta, She-Wolf of the Nazis. Greta glared at me from the cover, whip held menacingly in one hand. She was bursting out of her too-tight storm trooper uniform. "Just good, wholesome literature here. I must have been misinformed." I handed him the book I had brought. "Here's a present for you."

  Art nodded with satisfaction as he examined it. "Brin. The Postman. Hardcover, 1985. Very good condition—better than the one I have. Postwar Oregon, right?"

  "Right. Bobby Gallagher and I carted off an old lady's library the other day, and this was in it. He let me keep the book—no one else would want it."

  "This is excellent, Walter. Thank you. Let's go add it to the collection."

  We went through the store, past a "No Admittance" sign, and into a storage area. It, too
, was piled high with books, but there was also a cot, and a sink, and several locked cabinets. Art opened one and placed the book reverently inside, next to a softcover and another hardcover edition of the same novel.

  "Are there any you don't have?" I asked.

  Art shook his head. "Who knows? You wouldn't believe how many books got published in the old days. There were a lot of people writing back then."

  I stared at the books—row after row. I had only bothered to read a few of them. It always seemed like such a waste. On the Beach. Alas, Babylon. A Canticle for Leibowitz. Fiskadoro. "It looks like they were all writing about the same thing," I murmured.

  "There were a lot more She-Wolves of the Nazis than post-holocaust novels," Art pointed out.

  "You're the expert." I watched Art lock up the cabinet. "You know, this is a very weird hobby," I said.

  Art smiled. "You think so? Perhaps that's because you're so young, You don't feel the need to connect. This is my way of connecting."

  "They also wrote books about useful stuff, like how to make glass, and how to treat typhus."

  "But I'm not a useful person. Did you ever think that some of these writers are still alive—looking at the world as it is, and comparing it to the world they had imagined? I wonder how they feel about it."

  "Probably they think: geez, it coulda been worse."

  "True. But it's harder living in a world than it is imagining one. Now, you didn't come here just to give me a present. What can I do for you, Walter?"

  "Books on England."

  "Ah, England. What about Riddley Walker?"

  "Real books," I said. "About the real England."

  Art laughed at the distinction. "But those books aren't any more useful than Riddley Walker. What about something on how to make glass?"

  "I may be going to England," I said. I told him my story.

  He was suitably impressed. "Imagine that," he murmured. "Imagine that." He wandered over to a few stacks of books in the corner and started wading through them. "Not much call, you know, anymore. People want fantasy about the past, not reality." He came out with a picture book and an old travel guide. "Best I can do, I'm afraid."

  "They'll be fine. The place has probably changed a lot anyway."

  Art shrugged. "Not as much as this place has." He sat down on the edge of his cot. There was a wood stove in the room, but it wasn't giving off much heat. Art didn't seem to mind. "England," he said dreamily. "Do you ever think, Walter, about how much we owe certain people who will undoubtedly remain anonymous forever? People say history is determined by great economic and social forces, that individuals don't make a difference. But I can't believe that. Someone gives an order, or refuses to carry out an order, or carries it out badly, and England is spared. Someone holds back at the last second, and the bombs aren't dropped that should've been dropped, and we're here, alive, swapping books and chatting by the light of an oil lamp. And maybe those people are still alive, like those old writers. I wonder what they're thinking about. Do they think they did the right thing? Are they proud of themselves? Or do they think that, at the most important moment of their lives, they fouled up, and they'll never have a chance to atone for their mistake?"

  "I think," I said, "that maybe people don't think as much as you think they do."

  Art cackled. "But what else do they have to do nowadays? There's no TV."

  "They read dirty books."

  "Ah, you're a cynic, my friend."

  "Gee, I wonder how that happened."

  Art shook his head. "I hope I had nothing to do with it." He paused. "You know," he said, "if you don't get to go, Walter, you might consider going into business with me."

  "Selling dirty books? There's barely enough—"

  "Not selling them, Walter. Writing them." Art's eyes glittered. "I don't have the imagination, but I'm sure you could do it. Imagine if I had new novels to sell my clientele—new dreams to dream. I've got a friend at the Globe who says they might be willing to rent out their printing press, and—"

  "Um, I don't think so, Art. Maybe, if this England thing falls through, you know—"

  Art smiled and raised a hand to stop me. "Just a thought. Anyway, enjoy your books. And enjoy England, if you get to go. Shakespeare, Dickens, Browning: 'Oh, to be in England...' And Matthew Arnold. Remember 'Dover Beach'? 'The cliffs of England stand,/ Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.' So much to see. I envy you."

  I remembered the poem. "This all feels like a dream," I said.

  "There's nothing wrong with dreaming," Art replied.

  I wasn't so sure. I always felt a little woolly-minded after visiting Art. His bookstore was like a drug that made me want to live the way he did, accomplishing nothing, just pondering unanswerable questions as time drifted by. In its own way, that was as sinful as reading the filthy books that Art sold—at least, I'm sure that's what Stretch would say. And Stretch, in his own way, spoke the truth.

  Still, a little dreaming was okay, it seemed to me. I felt no compunctions, therefore, about returning to my chilly library and reading the books Art had given me I studied the pictures and memorized the text and imagined myself in England: warm, well fed, happy. It was a good dream, as dreams went, because it was, at least conceivably, attainable. It kept me happy until sleep, and another dawn, arrived.

  * * *

  Bobby Gallagher's headquarters were across the Fort Point Channel in South Boston, on a dismal street of endless warehouses. The police knew enough to stay away from that street. I pedaled over there the next morning.

  A twelve-year-old black kid was squatting in the snow next to the front door, a shotgun cradled in his arms. His name was Jason, but for some reason Bobby called him Doctor J, so that's what everyone else called him too.

  "Hey, Doctor J," I said.

  "Hey, Wally."

  I got off my bike. "Is the man in?"

  He nodded. "Doin' some business."

  "Lemme go inside and wait for him, okay?"

  "Sure thing." He got up and pounded a complex rhythm on the door. After a moment Mickey opened it and smiled a greeting.

  "The bike okay here?" I asked Doctor J.

  "It ain't goin' nowhere."

  I went inside, and Doctor J resumed his guard duty in the snow.

  Brutus started barking as soon as the door closed behind me. Fortunately, he was chained to the metal railing of the stairs leading up to Bobby's office, so he couldn't do any damage. Brutus was an extremely large German shepherd, and we didn't get along.

  "Who's he talking to?" I asked Mickey, gesturing upstairs.

  "Tax people, I think."

  "Problems?"

  Mickey shook his head. "They need computer parts."

  "Ah."

  Mickey went back to working on the van, which was parked in the middle of the warehouse floor. I watched him for a while and then got bored; engines have always baffled me. I wandered around the warehouse and stared at the stuff Bobby had accumulated: television sets, lawn mowers, microwave ovens, pinball machines. They were just for show, of course. Anyone who broke in was welcome to steal a lawn mower. The good stuff was upstairs, in a room your casual thief was not likely to be able to enter; that room held the computer parts, the jewelry, the guns, the ammunition. Bobby preferred to deal in your smaller, more portable items. He knew what he was doing.

  Eventually the upstairs door opened and Bobby came out, followed by two nervous-looking men in gray overcoats. Each was carrying a shopping bag. Brutus wagged his tail as they went past; he was a very stupid dog. They hurried outside, with Bobby thanking them effusively and inviting them to do business again anytime. When he came back inside, he was grinning. "R. Gallagher, Inc., Suppliers to Government and Industry. Impressed, Wally?"

  "Are they gonna come back and audit you, now that their computers work?"

  "Hell, no. I also bribe them. A totally separate transaction. What's up?"

  "Can we talk?"

  "Sure. Come to the inner sanctum."

&nbs
p; We went upstairs. Brutus growled at me as I passed.

  The inner sanctum was decorated in faded fake-wood paneling, stained ceiling tiles, and orange shag carpeting. Very sophisticated. A photograph of John F. Kennedy was displayed prominently above the sagging couch. Scattered elsewhere on the walls were photographs of Bobby's mother, the 1984 world champion Boston Celtics, and Bobby himself, in younger days, just as fat but with more hair, shaking hands with some forgotten politician. There was a 1986 calendar with a photograph of a mostly naked woman luxuriating on a mound of tires. There was a plaque that said "Erin Go Bragh" and another that said "Schlitz—Breakfast of Champions." And behind the gray metal desk there was a crucifix.

  Bobby sat down beneath the crucifix. I sat on the couch. "So how's the case coming, Mr. Private Eye?" Bobby asked. "Any car chases yet? Any beautiful but mysterious broads wanna go to bed with you?"

  "Not so far. I could maybe use your help, Bobby."

  "Sure. Waddaya need?"

  "I need to find out the names of the scientists that the British took from around here when they were occupying New England."

  Bobby looked at me the way Winfield had when I asked to be paid. "Why, uh, do you think I'd know that, Wally? I was pretty busy staying alive back then. Didn't keep very close tabs on everything the British were up to."

  "Of course. I'm not asking you, Bobby. I'm just wondering if you can help me come up with a way to find out. See, my client thinks this guy Robert Cornwall may have been scooped by the British—apparently they took some of our scientists while they were here. My client is even willing to go to England to track Cornwall down—and he'll take me with him—but we need some evidence that Cornwall was one of the ones taken. He's given me three days."

  "How the hell can he afford to go to England?"

  "I don't know. But he says he can, and I believe him."

  "And you get to go with him?"

  "That's what he said, Bobby."