by Philip Craig
“Gee, Quinn, what are you doing in the office this time of day? I figured you’d be out belting down a few in the grand tradition of hard-drinking, tough but honest journalists.”
“Screw you,” said Quinn. “You know, I’ll be glad when whatever you’re doing down there is done. I can’t stand many more of these calls. I’m being communicated to death.”
“Does the name Fred Sylvia ring any bells?”
“No. Why?”
“Drop it around and see if it bounces. He may be your Vineyard main man. Or maybe he isn’t. If he’s on the list, I’d like to know.”
“Golly, is this a clue?”
“Just an anonymous tip to a crusading newspaperman. Let me know, okay?”
“Anything else?”
“Brunner International?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Fred Sylvia works for them.”
“Ah.”
I hung up. It was time. I drove up island to West Tisbury to find Zee. West Tisbury used to be part of Tisbury, but isn’t anymore. Now it’s its own town. It consists of a general store, the county fair grounds, a church, and houses containing people who don’t go down to Edgartown or Oak Bluffs much except to buy booze. West Tisbury people tend to stay there. They like it. So do I. On Saturdays there’s a farmers’ market at the fair grounds where you can get great fresh vegetables, flowers, and baked goods. The best smoked bluefish around used to be available there before an overzealous health inspector decided to sic federal commercial regulations on the cottage-industry types. Across the street is an art gallery beside a little field full of dancing statues. Whenever I learn that somebody is on the Vineyard for the first time, I tell them to go up and have a look at the statues. They make you feel good. ~
Zee lived in a little house down a long, sandy road. She rented it from somebody.
“Hi,” she said. She wore a blue dress and white shoes with low heels. Her hair, which had been pulled back the other two times I’d seen her, fell down around her shoulders. It was shiny and dark and thick.
“Wow,” I said. She smiled. I opened the Landcruiser’s door and she got in.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“A private club. Members only.”
We drove to Edgartown and went down my road. She didn’t look nervous. I pulled into my yard and stopped.
“Terrific,” said Zee, and she jumped out. “Your place?”
“My place. Excellent cheap food.”
“Do I get a guided tour before we eat?”
“You get a tour as soon as I get a beer. You make my throat dry.”
“I’ll come with you and see the inside first. You can get me a beer, too. Why did you say that?”
“What?”
“That your throat was dry.”
“I don’t know. I guess I just didn’t want you not to know.”
We went inside. My fishing rods were hung across the ceiling. It suddenly seemed to me to be a pretty rough place—worn chairs, beat-up books, locked gun case, a couch that sagged.
“Can I wander?”
“Sure.” I got two beers and set everything in the fridge out to warm a bit before I cooked it. I found her in the spare bedroom looking at my father’s best decoy. “My dad made that,” I said. “He bought this place a long time ago when prices were really low. He was a hunter and a fisherman and he liked to carve. When he died, I inherited the place. Good thing for me; I couldn’t afford it now.”
We went outside and I showed her the garden and the workshop in the shed out back and the smoker and fillet bench behind that and my grape vines and fruit trees. Then we went up onto the balcony above the porch and looked out at the Sound. Late boats were leaning into the dying wind, heading for Edgartown. We sat down in chairs and looked at the ocean.
“It’s beautiful.”
“A million-dollar view.” I went down and got more beer and came up again. We talked for a while, and then she said, “You know, my throat was dry, too. I just wanted you to know.”
When the sun went down behind the oaks, it began to get chilly, so we went down into the house.
“You sit,” I said. “I cook. The kitchen isn’t big enough for two even if I’d let you try to help.”
I put the St.-Jacques and the asparagus in the oven, set the table, and sliced the bread. When everything was ready I opened the wine and called her in. I gave her small portions of everything and was glad when she had seconds. Afterward I made coffee and peach melba for dessert. Then we had Rémy Martin in front of the fireplace. I was nervous and comfortable at the same time. It was as though I hadn’t brought a woman to the house before. We talked.
About ten-thirty I took her home.
“It’s early,” she said. Was there a slight look of hurt in her eyes?
“I know. But you have to work tomorrow and I want this evening to end too soon so I can ask you out again.”
“All right, Jefferson.” She smiled.
“It’s my date,” I said. “I get to run it the way I want to.”
In West Tisbury she asked me if I wanted a nightcap. “No,” I said. “I want to be able to wonder about what your place looks like.”
Then I was leaning forward and she wasn’t leaning back and our lips touched. Mine were dry. I felt about fifteen years old. It was terrific.
“Good night,” I said. “Thank you.”
She was standing in front of her door watching as I drove away. She was smiling. I fought an impulse to turn around and accept her invitation. Instead, I rolled down my window and shouted, “Don’t forget to practice your casts!”
Some long-forgotten sensations had obviously turned my brain to mush. Feeling red-faced and oafish, I drove back to Edgartown. I could only hope that she liked idiots.
— 9 —
Fred Sylvia lived on West Chop, according to the records in the Vineyard Haven town hall. I drove down the side street that led to his place. A large, comfortable house of weathered shingles, white trim, and brick fireplaces, it was set on an acre or two of lawns, shrubs, and trees and overlooked Vineyard Haven harbor. In front of the house was a shiny new tan Buick two-door. Sylvia believed in buying American. Across the harbor, as crowded with power yachts and sailboats as other harbors on the east coast, I could see the dock where the Bluefin was lying. At the foot of Sylvia’s land there was a beach and a small dock. Tied to the dock were a motorboat and a small sailboat. It was a very nice view.
That morning Quinn had had news. “Sylvia isn’t the only name,” he’d said, “but it’s one of the big ones. I asked a guy and he asked me where I’d gotten the name. I didn’t tell him, but I did tell everything to my editor and now I’m on the story. So I may see you in a few days. Any fish left?”
“For you, an ocean full,” I said. “What about Brunner International?”
“A big outfit. Importing, exporting, commodities, movies, you name it. Offices here, in Europe, South America, and the Middle East. H.Q. is in New York. Sylvia is about halfway up the ladder. One of those sharp guys you never see up front. I’m not sure what he does, but he does something profitable.”
Profitable indeed. I admired his house, his car, his boats, and his lawn. According to census figures, Sylvia and his wife had two grown children besides Danny. Maybe Danny would manage to grow up, too, sometime. I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I heard it chime somewhere inside.
A tall, black-haired woman opened the door. She was wearing tennis whites. She looked like a model.
“Yes?” Her eyes went down and came up again. I hadn’t dressed for the occasion, but I gave her my best smile.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Fred Sylvia, please.”
She eyed my clothes again. “Well, you’re certainly not a salesman.”
“No, ma’am. It’s a private matter. Business.”
Was I too old for her? Maybe she was just anxious to get to the court. It was a nice day for tennis. Anyway, she stepped back and I stepped in. She picked up her racket a
nd called down the hall, “Leon, there’s a man here to see Fred. I’m going down to the club. Sit down, Mr. . . .”
“Jackson.”
“Sit down, Mr. Jackson. Leon will take you to my husband.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sylvia. Have a good game.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Jackson.” She went down to the Buick and got behind the wheel. Great body! I heard a floorboard squeak and turned to face a very large young man with a thick neck. I shut the front door. The large man wore an alligator shirt outside of a pair of those multicolor pants so popular at Vineyard cocktail parties.
“May I help you, sir?” Maybe he was a Harvard man. Modulated voice. Very polite. Cold eyes.
“I’d like to see Mr. Sylvia. A business matter. My name is Jackson.”
“Does he expect you, sir? He’s quite busy in his office.”
“Tell him it has to do with Brunner International. Pharmacological division.”
His eyes roved over me. I didn’t look like anybody from Brunner International, but then I didn’t look like anything else in particular, either.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.”
He went down the hall and turned left. I heard him knock on a door. There was a murmur of voices, and then he reappeared and came back down the hall.
“Mr. Sylvia will see you, sir. Follow me, please.” Back up the hall we went. At the end of it we turned left and came to a heavy oak door. Leon was kind enough to hold it open for me.
Fred Sylvia was a handsome guy who liked handsome things around him. His wife was handsome, his bodyguard was handsome, and his office was handsome. His desk was carved oak and sported the latest in oversize computers. Fred collected teacups and saucers. They were arranged in rows in a glass-fronted rack on one wall. There was an Oriental carpet on the floor, and what looked to be an early-eighteenth-century painting of a ship hanging in a gold-colored frame on a wall. Fred himself was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark summer trousers. He wore dark boat shoes. He looked like he had just stepped out of Esquire. He waved Leon away. Leon left. I shut the door behind him and noticed that it had a lock. I locked it and turned again to Sylvia. I jabbed a thumb at the lock.
“Security. A private talk.”
Sylvia’s hands were both on his desk. Behind him, French doors opened onto a veranda. “What do you want? You sure as hell don’t work for Brunner International. I’ll give you five minutes, then out you go.”
I walked over to the case of cups and saucers. They were bone china. Exquisitely thin, delicate as butterfly wings. Some looked very old. Nice.
“Five minutes may be enough. You know Billy Martin?”
“The baseball player. No.”
“Not the baseball player. A kid here on the island. A few years ago he was pretty strung out on dope. Your boy Danny got him hooked and he stayed hooked for quite a while. Remember?”
“Maybe. My boy’s been clean for months. I don’t know anything about his ex-friends.”
“Well, Billy took the cure and went off to college just like your boy Danny and became really straight arrow. Everybody was proud of him. He went to Brown, his old man’s school. He passed all his courses. He was a success story. He’d kicked the habit and become an all-American boy. Only he hadn’t. At college he mixed with other users. Grass, coke, and other stuff. Codeine was his specialty He sold it to other students. There’s a lot of money at Brown, and the students can afford expensive habits. The point is that Billy let it slip that his supplier is named Sylvia, and since he’s got no contacts off island, it figures that he gets his stuff here. Add everything up and, lo, here I am.”
“You’re a wacky one, you are. There must be a thousand Sylvias between New Bedford and Nantucket.”
“I still have a couple of minutes, Fred—let me use them, okay? Now’s here’s the point. There’s a drug bust brewing, as you no doubt know if you can read, and there is at least one person here on the blessed isle who thinks that maybe Billy Martin was going to fink on his friends and associates in hopes of getting himself a few wide smiles from family and maybe the deity itself.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I’m talking about somebody putting a bomb on Billy’s boat to keep him from shooting his mouth off.”
Sylvia’s face did not change, but behind his eyes the gears were turning. Finally he said, “Oh. That boat that blew up. That kid that got killed. He’s the one you’re talking about.”
“No, I’m talking about the one who didn’t get killed.”
Sylvia shook his head. “My company’s boat and captain saved that kid. You think I’d bomb a boat, then save the guy I was trying to kill? I don’t think I’d make the ten-most-wanted list if I ran my criminal empire like that. Do you? I think you must have been someplace else when they handed out the brains, Mr. Jackson.”
“Maybe your captain didn’t know who he was saving. Maybe your right hand doesn’t know what your left hand is doing.”
“Maybe you’re nuts, too. Your time’s up. Get out.”
“If it wasn’t you, who was it? I need a name, Fred.” I touched the cabinet holding the china. It, like everything else in the room, was handsome—carved oak, like the door and desk. Maybe Brunner International had an oak forest and gave deals to its middle management. I tugged and felt the cabinet move.
“Time for you to go,” said Sylvia. His hand slid under the desk and no doubt touched a button, which Leon no doubt heard. Sylvia looked at me in disgust then with a different expression as I jiggled the china cabinet slightly. Everyone is afraid of something. Sylvia was afraid of having his china collection destroyed.
“I think I can dump this thing before Leon can get through that door or through those windows or wherever it is he’s supposed to appear on the scene. What do you think?”
Sylvia’s tongue touched his lips. “Be careful! Those are priceless! Step away!”
“I need a name, Fred. Who wanted Billy Martin dead?”
“I don’t know. I tell you, I don’t know! Get away from there!”
But instead, I jiggled the cabinet again, a bit harder this time. Sylvia actually went pale.
“Tell me a name.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know!” His voice was higher than before. “For God’s sake, don’t break any of those pieces. They’re irreplaceable! Please, Jackson, be careful!”
“A name.”
“I swear to God, Jackson, I don’t know a name.”
Someone—Leon, no doubt—was pounding on the door.
“That noise makes me nervous,” I said. “Tell your man to go away.” I rattled the cabinet, and Sylvia screamed at Leon to leave.
“I don’t believe you, Mr. Sylvia,” I said. “I think you’re holding out on me. If I don’t get a name, I’m going to start taking these pieces out one at a time and dropping them on the floor, starting right now.” And so saying, I opened the cabinet door and took out a tiny cup and saucer, eggshell blue with lines of gold and red entwined in an intricate and subtle design around the rims.
Then Sylvia surprised me. He burst into tears, came racing around from behind his fine desk, and threw himself at me, clutching not at me, but at the cup and saucer in my hand. I let him have them and he pushed at me, trying to get between me and the cabinet. He sobbed and sobbed, cradling the china in one hand and slapping at me with the other. I studied him.
“Okay, Fred, I guess I do believe you after all.”
I went to the French windows. As I stepped through to the veranda, I heard his shrill voice: “I’ll kill you for this, I’ll kill you, I swear I will!”
But I didn’t believe that he’d tried to kill Billy or knew who had.
* * *
I ran the whole business over in my mind as I drove toward home. As I got to Edgartown, an idea wormed its way up out of my subconscious, or from wherever it is that ideas live before you realize that you have them. I stopped at the police station and asked Helen Viera where the chief was.
“On the street. Where else?”
Where else, indeed? I found him by the paper store.
“Chief,” I said, “tell me something. Is it possible that Jim Norris was a narc?”
He looked at me.
“Think about it,” I said. “He shows up on the island a couple of years ago. He makes friends with Billy and his family. He’s a thirtyish single guy who hangs around where other people his age and a bit younger hang around. People like him. They talk to him, they like him, they get to trust him. But when his work is done and the bust is about to come down, he’s supposed to leave town so when the shit hits the fan it won’t hit him, too. But suppose somebody caught on to him. Suppose it was Jim who was supposed to get blown up, and not Billy at all? What do you think?”
“I think you’re full of shit. I also think you should back away from this. You’re getting mixed up with stuff I wouldn’t tell you about even if I knew, which I don’t.”
“You can trust me with your deepest secrets,” I said. “I’m a fisherman, and fishermen never pass on stories.”
He shook his head in mock astonishment. “As far as I know, Jim Norris was just a beer drinker. I never heard his name mentioned with regard to drugs of any kind.”
“But who’d mention it? The users wouldn’t because they’d think he was one of them and they wouldn’t want to squeal on him. The feds and DEAers wouldn’t because they’d know he was one of them, and they wouldn’t tell you because maybe they think you local guys are a bunch of stiffs who would blow his cover.”
“I read a philosophy book once,” said the chief. “It said you can’t prove something on the basis of no evidence. You can only prove something on the basis of evidence. Didn’t they teach you that sort of thing at the police academy?”
“I don’t remember reading any philosophy books at the academy,” I said, “but you’ve got a point.”
“Look at this traffic,” said the chief. “I’ll be glad when Labor Day comes. It gets worse every year, I swear.” Then he looked at me. “Go away,” he said.