Rizzuto thought about it.
“Not too many of those around here. They tend to stick out. Especially when it snows. Get my drift?”
I didn’t know what was worse. The racist joke or the drift reference, which he probably didn’t get even though he said it. But I let it go.
“Did you know Panetta?”
“Not really. Knew of him, of course.”
How long you been a cop up here?”
“Born here. Gonna retire when I hit 70. Two more years. Started out on patrol in Oswego. Been chief here 20 years.”
“That makes you about the same age as Panetta. You know him when you were younger?”
“Maybe to say hello to. Knew a lot of kids back then. High school. You know how it is.”
“You seemed pretty concerned about Victoria Gustafson.”
“Well, hell, everybody knows Vicki and Otto. Her ex. Real loser. You seen their place? I get complaints, you know. Not that I blame Vicki. She’s a nice lady. Taught one of my kids. I was just concerned when I heard a private detective was talking to her. Thought it might have something to do with Otto. When are you gonna see her again?””
“Sometime tomorrow afternoon. She’s going to Albany. I have to call her. In the meantime, can you think of anyone I might talk to who might know anything about Panetta, either recently or from the old days?”
“Not off the top of my head. If I do, I’ll call you. Got a card?”
I gave him one.
“You said you’re gonna talk to the Pulaski cops?”
“Probably.”
“Want me to make a call? Kind of let them know I’m OK with it. Can’t hurt.”
It wasn’t a bad idea.
“Sure, thanks.”
He picked up his phone and punched in some numbers. He said his piece, then covered the receiver and looked at me. “Monday morning at 9? Their chief is off tomorrow.”
I figured I’d be stuck overnight Sunday anyway, so I nodded. Rizzuto hung up. He stood, and so did I. He put out his hand. We shook.
CHAPTER 17 - A NEW SKILL
I drove into Pulaski. VFW Post 7289 was right off State Route 11, also known as Salina Street. It was pretty hard to miss. The post itself was a standard one-story building, but there was a small lawn next to it on which sat a decommissioned M-60 Abrams tank decked out in camouflage green.
It was still pretty early in the day and I wasn’t expecting to find out much, and I wasn’t disappointed. I found out next to nothing. The hall was basically closed, except for a couple of young guys painting some shutters. They explained that they had recently left the Army and joined the post.
“Most of the guys are pretty old,” one of them said. “But we figured we’d see what it was like. Beers are only a buck. Thought we’d help out by doing a little sprucing up. If you want to talk to somebody, come back tonight. Better yet, tomorrow around 11. They have a kick-ass brunch. Lots of guys show up for that.”
I thanked them and headed back to my car. I resigned myself to taking the rest of the day off when I spotted a sports shop called the “Yankee Fly & Tackle” next door. I decided to go fishing. Hell, I was on the damn Salmon River with time on my hands.
The man behind the counter was happy to sell me a fly rod, reel and some streamer flies. I passed on the waders, vests and hats he also wanted to sell. When I said I didn’t know the first thing about fly fishing, he told a clerk to mind the store and took me out back into a parking lot and taught me the basics in about 20 minutes. For his trouble, I did buy a vest before I left.
An hour later I was wading barefoot near the dock at my motel. The Salmon River wasn’t a parking lot and many of my initial casts wound up in trees along the shoreline. I even managed to catch the dock before I put some distance between it and me. But I finally was able to put most of my flies where I wanted them. That’s not to say the fish wanted them. The current wasn’t too bad, but it took me a while to figure out that I had to take it into account when casting. In fly fishing, the heavy line is stripped from the reel by hand and then whipped back and forth in the air until finally it is allowed to settle gently on the water. At its business end is a small leader to which is attached an almost weightless fly or streamer. You cast upstream and allow the line to drift slowly downstream, perhaps giving the line an occasional twitch to make the fly or streamer simulate life.
I remembered the motel owner’s warning about falling into a hole so I didn’t stray too far from the shore. The gravel hurt my feet, but the water was cold enough so that it numbed the pain. That sounds like I was having a bad time, but I wasn’t. The river and the foliage were beautiful, and learning a new skill is never a waste of time. I’d filled a thermos with hot coffee and bought a couple of ham sandwiches on the way out of town. I wolfed a quick lunch on the dock and went back to fishing. It didn’t even bother me that I was having trouble catching anything. Fly fishing is an art, so I wasn’t surprised when I lost a couple of fish I’d actually hooked. But late in the afternoon I finally landed a small steelhead that weighed about three pounds. I knew enough about steelheads to know that they are really rainbow trout that have spent some time in the ocean and return to tributaries to spawn. The one I caught still had a distinctive red band along its flanks. I also knew it would be delicious.
Recalling my contretemps the night before at the restaurant that airmailed its fish, I decided to cook my trout. I cleaned it on the shore and went back to my suite and stuck it in the fridge. Then I drove into Pulaski, found a supermarket and bought some butter, flour, cheddar cheese, olives, lemons, leeks, a baguette, some potato salad and coleslaw. I stopped in a liquor store and bought a small bottle of Pinnacle vodka, which I stuck in the freezer in my suite’s kitchen. After showering, I turned on the Golf Channel and caught the last few holes of the third round of the FedEx St. Jude Classic in Memphis. It had a pretty good field, with many top PGA Tour players tuning up for the upcoming U.S. Open. I sipped the cold vodka while eating some of the cheese, olives and a hunk of the baguette. If there is anything that doesn’t taste better when accompanied by a baguette, I haven’t found it.
Then, I sautéed the leeks and then dusted the trout inside and out with flour, leaving the skin on. When the leeks were just translucent, I added the trout and pan fried it, adding some lemon after I flipped it over once. I made up a plate with my salads and ate in front of the TV. The Classic had been replaced by something called “Big Break Guadalcanal,” in which a group of wannabee golf professionals, male and female, competed against each other. Most of the golf was bogus, with artificially arranged challenges involving sand traps and other obstacles. The contestants spent most of the time sniping at each other in “off-camera” interviews on camera. It was like “Survivor” meets “The View,” except with golf clubs. I wondered what the Marine Corps thought about it. But I can’t say I was having a bad time. The vodka gave me a nice glow and my trout was spectacular. The local restaurants should be ashamed of themselves. Then again, the man at the tackle shop told me that cormorants, big, black, long-necked diving birds, had been devastating the local fishery in the Great Lakes, so perhaps commercial catches for restaurants were prohibited.
“Cormorants were a protected species,” he’d said. “It’s nuts. Some mornings their flocks can blot out the sun. Friend of mine and his sons just got six months in jail for going over to one of the islands and killing about 3,000 of the suckers with shotguns. He runs a charter business. Says he was just protecting his livelihood. I’m not saying it was right, but that still leaves about a billion of them.”
After I cleaned up the kitchen, I poured myself another drink and decided that another visit to the VFW could wait. I called Alice.
“What are you doing?”
“I was just about to step into the shower,” she said. “I’m meeting Joyce for dinner and then we’re going to see a play at the Lynn Redgrave on Bleecker Street. Her current boyfriend is in it.”
Joyce was an aspiring actress who lived in Alic
e’s building who rotated current boyfriends.
“I hope it’s better than Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”
“Listening to Donald Trump would be better than Dying Is Wasted on Corpses.”
“That’s harsh.”
“What are you doing?”
“Trying not to think about you wrapped in a towel.”
“What towel?”
“Oh, God. You had to say that.”
“You sound a little buzzed,” Alice said, laughing.
“I caught my first steelhead. I’m celebrating.”
“Is a steelhead some sort of criminal? Like a gang member?”
“No. It’s a fish. A big rainbow trout.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be catching criminals?”
“Fish are dumber. It’s less work.”
“Why don’t they call it a rainbow trout?”
“Because it has lived in the ocean.”
“Aren’t you basically on Lake Ontario? What’s the ocean have to do with it.”
“I should have known better than to talk fish with a philosophy professor.”
“I didn’t ask you how many trout could fit through the eye of a needle.”
“Let’s just say that things are a little complicated in upstate New York.”
“I take it you’re not making much progress.”
“Not so. I learned how to fly fish. In addition to the steelhead, I caught six trees and a dock. The dock season is closed, so I didn’t keep it.”
“You are buzzed.”
“A tad. But to answer your question, I think Pulaski is a dead end. I have a few more things to check, but I’m not optimistic.”
“When are you coming home?”
“Monday.”
“I miss you.”
“I’ve only been gone two days.”
“Does that mean you don’t miss me?”
“Of course I miss you. Why do you think I’m sitting alone in my motel room in Pulaski drinking vodka out of a water glass?”
“That’s one of the nicest things a man has ever said to me.”
“I can also talk dirty.”
“Oh, please do. But you will have to hurry. I don’t want to be late. Joyce may change boyfriends.”
CHAPTER 18 - SUNK
I got up late Sunday morning feeling a little hung over. I made some instant coffee in a Krups set up in the kitchen just for that purpose and buttered up what was left of the baguette. I needed some exercise. I thought about running but then remembered the canoes. I called the desk and asked the owner how long it would take to paddle to the VFW post.
“About an hour, I would think. You’ll be going with the current. Coming back will be a lot tougher. Might take you a half hour longer. Be quite a workout.”
Just what the doctor ordered. I took a shower and put on some clothes I thought would be appropriate for both my river cruise and a VFW post. Jeans, golf shirt and sneakers, no socks. I also took a small windbreaker, with my gun in one of its pockets. Despite the price on my head, I wasn’t expecting trouble. But, then, it’s not the trouble you expect that gets you killed.
I walked down to the river and righted one of the canoes. It was a sturdy aluminum Pelican Dakota and looked brand new. Inside were the paddle and two life preservers. I shoved the preservers in the bow and took off my sneakers and threw them in the bottom of the canoe. Then I pushed the canoe along the grass into the water, jumping in at the last second. I paddled out into the middle of the river and headed downstream. A lone fisherman on the far bank gave me a wave, which I reciprocated. The sun was up, but it was cool on the water. I was having a wonderful time. I’d have to talk Alice into doing this sometime. I passed several other fishermen, but there were long stretches where the river bent and there was so much brush and the trees so thick along the banks that I saw no one. Those were the stretches I liked the most. The isolation was as welcome as it was unexpected.
With the current as my friend, the paddling was easy. Finally, I reached a built up area, with buildings and stores and docks along the river. I soon came to the Salina Street bridge. As I passed under it I spotted the Army tank by the VFW post. I paddled over to a dock by the post and tied up next to a couple of outboards. I put on my sneakers and windbreaker and went into the VFW.
The place was jammed and the brunch smells strong. There were kids running around, looking like they’d been dressed for church. Tables had been set up and I could see family groups eating. There was a long line at a buffet set in the back by a wall. Two men wearing Army berets were sitting at a smaller table just inside the door taking money. A sign said “Buffet Brunch, $10. Kids, FREE!”
When it was my turn I said, “Do I have to prove I’m a veteran?”
“You have to prove you have ten bucks,” one of the men said. “Everyone is welcome.”
I paid my $10 and he put it in a metal box. He gave me a blue ticket from a big roll. In front of the other man was a roll of red tickets next to a sign that said “50-50.” I motioned to it and said, “How much?”
“Ten bucks a ticket, three for $25. Proceeds go to subsidize the brunch for vets who can’t afford it. Winner’s half usually comes out to about $500.”
I gave him $25 and headed to the bar. There’s always a bar at a VFW post, and it’s always open. A couple of old salts were sitting at the bar drinking boilermakers. I sat next to them. The bartender, a much younger guy with muscular, tattooed forearms came over.
“Whaddle ya have?”
“Can you make a Bloody Mary from scratch?”
I’m not a fan of prepared, bottled ingredients.
“Watch me.”
I did. Vodka, tomato juice, salt, pepper, Worcestershire sauce, dash of Tabasco, lemon and a big green olive.
“I don’t do celery,” he said, placing the glass in front of me. “There’s a supermarket down the street.”
It was a terrific drink, and I said so. Canoe paddling is good for a hangover, but so is a Bloody Mary. And usually more convenient. I asked him if he knew John Panetta.
“Sure. Used to come in occasionally. Scotch drinker. J&B. Nice guy. Shame what happened to him. Why?”
I took out my card.
“Just doing some background work, in case the cops ever get who did it. He ever talk about the old days, either when he lived here or when he was in Vietnam?”
“Not to me. He and the guy he was usually with mostly watched ballgames on TV. That’s what we usually talked about. Sports.” He looked over to the other guys at the bar. “Hey, Earl? Panetta ever talk the war with you guys?”
“Who wants to know?”
“This guy’s a private eye.”
I introduced myself to Earl and his buddy, Sam, and gave both of them my cards.
“I thought some nig,” Sam said, just catching himself as a woman walked by. “I thought it was a break-in.”
“Just covering all the bases,” I lied. I was getting used to it. “Can you help me out?”
“We were all in Nam,” Earl said, “but Panetta didn’t talk much about it. We wanted to hear how he won the Medal of Honor, of course, but he just gave us some shit about bein’ in the right place at the right time.”
“Actually,” Sam said, “he used to say he was in the wrong place at the right time.”
We all laughed.
“Point is, we didn’t press him or anything,” Earl said. “Man was a hero. He wanted to keep it to himself, that’s his prerogative. You in the service?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
I told them.
“I hear that was some deep shit,” Sam said. He looked at the bartender. “Wasn’t that where you were, Bobby?”
“Iraq,” the bartender said.
“Oh, yeah. Tough to keep all the wars apart.”
We were all buddies after that. I even hit the buffet with Earl and Sam and sat back at the bar eating with them. Bobby the bartender made me another Bloody Mary.
The food wasn’t that good, b
ut there was plenty of it. Sam and Earl rounded up a couple of vets who also knew Panetta, but they didn’t add much to what I already knew. John Panetta was a good guy, liked his Scotch, talked a lot more sports than war and, as far as they knew, had no enemies.
I bought a couple of rounds of drinks for my new friends, but I strategically switched to coffee. I didn’t want to accidentally paddle to Manhattan on the way back to the motel.
I paid my bar tab and gave Bobby my 50-50 ticket, on the proviso that if he won he had to buy some celery.
“Go fuck yourself,” he said, laughing.
As I got up to leave, Earl said, “Did you talk to Panetta’s friend?”
‘What friend?”
“I don’t know. Some guy where he moved to. I asked him why he was moving to Long Island and he said he had an old Army buddy there.”
“You mean Staten Island?”
“Yeah, right. Whatever. Did you speak to him?”
It was the first I’d heard that Panetta even knew anyone on Staten Island before he moved there.
“Not yet,” I said easily. “He’s on my list.”
Earl shrugged, losing interest. Boilermakers in the morning will do that, pancakes or no pancakes.
***
I was glad I’d limited myself to two Blood Marys. The trip back upstream was no picnic. But I soon got into a good paddling rhythm, buoyed by the realization that I might have just stumbled onto a clue. Unless Panetta was being facetious when he spoke to his VFW drinking pals, he had a reason for moving to Staten Island. And that reason might just have gotten him killed.
When I was in an open stretch of the river, the sun felt good on my back as I strained against the current. I did a paddling experiment, trying to find the most efficient way to alternate strokes. Two on the left, then two on the right, seemed to provide the most headway without any veering. I was traveling at a good clip when I entered a heavily treed bend in the Salmon and had to slow. It was a particularly deserted stretch. There was a large sycamore on the bank off to my left. I like sycamores and this was a particularly beautiful one. Not as big as the giant growing through the flagstone patio in my back yard — I was going to have to do something about that someday — but it stood out with its mottled green and brown coloring.
GUNNER (ALTON RHODE MYSTERIES Book 5) Page 12