River Kill

by Ted Begnoche

  I moved past her and into the house. Billy stood in the doorway to the kitchen, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of one massive arm. A ceiling fan slowly beat the hot air around the living room, creating a warm breeze that tugged at the pages of the newspaper laying open on the coffee table.

  Billy sat in a threadbare lounger and popped the top on a can of beer. He handed me one and said, "Sorry, Mr. Fancy, Bud's all we have."

  "Bud's fine," I said. "What happened, Billy?"

  "I'm giving up," he said. He held his beer with both hands, slurping loudly.

  “Giving what up? Why?"

  "My Goddamned boat sank, you know. A lobsterman without a boat ain't much of a lobsterman at all, is he?" Billy placed his beer on a table beside him and gripped the arms of his chair like he was seated on a roller coaster, staring straight ahead.

  "Can't the boat be salvaged?"

  "Oh, sure, they can raise it, but all the electronics are gone. The engine'll probably be shot too. It just ain't worth it."

  "Come on, Billy. You..."

  "No," he said. "You come on." He leaned forward in his chair and looked straight into my eyes. When he spoke, his voice was a hoarse whisper. "They sent a diver down, you know, to assess the job. When he came back up, he said there were holes in the hull. Somebody drilled holes in it and sank the damn thing."

  "Jesus, Billy. Why in hell would someone do that?"

  "Beats me. Why do I have only half the traps I started the summer with?" He leaned back in the chair and pulled his baseball cap over his eyes.

  "Did you go to the police?"

  "No, dammit," he said. "You don't understand, Stuart. I have no evidence. So I lost a bunch of traps, so what?"

  “The holes in the boat, Billy. That's all the evidence you need."

  “I'm done," he said again. "Before somebody gets hurt. I have a wife and kid, for Chrissakes." He jerked his thumb at the porch, where Jill and Derek were reading a book under the spare yellow glow. "If somebody wants to spook me, they succeeded."

  “Billy," I said, "tell the police. You can't let whoever it is get away with this."

  "That's real easy to say from where you're sitting. You don't know what it's like." Billy shrugged his muscular shoulders, then removed his baseball cap and tossed it across the living room. "What the hell did I do so wrong?"

  I drank some of my beer and watched Billy get two more from the fridge. He sat back down and handed one to me. I placed it on the edge of the coffee table.

  "Look, Billy, it's summertime, right? Derek's not in school. Why don't you just send Jill and him to her mother's for a while? That'll give the police time to look into this, and maybe I can nose around a little bit."

  Billy regarded me for a full minute before he replied, sending beer cascading down his throat every few seconds. He placed the empty near his chair and burped softly into the back of one hand.

  "I don't know," he said. "People are nice here. For ten years I've never had any trouble. I love this place."

  "Hull's a great town. Don't let this ruin it for you."

  "It's not a nice feeling, Stu. Somebody doesn't want me here and by the looks of things that somebody will go to great lengths to make sure I get the message. At first, I said, 'what the hell, here we go again,' but now I'm scared."

  "I'm sorry, Billy."

  "I wish..." Billy sipped more beer and looked over his shoulder, in the direction of laughter coming from the front porch.

  "Wish what?" I said.

  "Nothing. I just wish I could talk to my father."

  "I bet I know what he'd say. Tell the police, Billy. Let me poke around. If we can't shake some things loose in a week or so, we'll try something different."

  Billy leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, blowing a loud sigh toward the ceiling. He folded his powerful hands across his chest and tried to keep them still. He got up and paced around the room, a can of Bud clutched in one giant fist.

  I finished my beer, opened the next one.

  Billy peeked out the front door at his wife and son, who were still reading under the porch light. He turned back to me and I met his gaze. He retreated to his chair and fell into it.

  "What're you thinking, big guy?"

  "Lots. Thinking how much I like it here, how much I like fishing and all. I don't know what I'd do if I couldn't. I mean, I'd find something, you know, but it wouldn't take me long to go crazy."

  "I know."

  "I thought you had a job right now. I don't want you rearranging your life for me, Stu."

  "In my line of work, you have to stay flexible. I won't be rearranging anything."

  Billy heaved a sigh and shook his head. "All I want to do is make a living, enjoy my family. I need to know that they're going to be safe."

  "Billy, we've been friends for a long time." I paused and waited until he looked over at me. "There's something more here than you're telling us. What the hell is going on?"

  Billy blinked twice and swallowed, then shook his head and turned away.

  "Okay, then. Talk to Jill. See if she'll go away with Derek for a week or so. That'll give us and the police a little time."

  "All right, Stu, I'll talk to her. I'm pretty sure she'll be agreeable. She hasn't been to her mother's for a while, anyway."

  Billy drained his beer and set the empty on the coffee table. "Tell me one thing, Stu."

  "If I can."

  "Why is it that you never met my father, yet you know exactly what he'd say? I mean, you’re right on target. He'd say stick it out, too."

  “I think it's because I've been staring at a perfect replica of your Dad for the last half-hour." I smiled, and for the first time all night, Billy smiled back.

  I shook hands with Billy on the front porch and gave Jill a kiss on the cheek. Derek had fallen asleep on a lounge chair, a Dr. Seuss book propped open on his tiny chest.

  I watched them in my rearview mirror, watching me until I couldn't pick their shapes out of the inky night.

  Chapter 11

  I felt like shit.

  I promised my best friend I'd help him with something very important in his life. I promised myself that I'd continue with the John Barcom thing as long as it took to satisfy me. I had a lot on my plate. As usual, my priorities and my willpower were at odds.

  I got up before the sun Tuesday morning and spent most of the day doing something very irresponsible; casting popping plugs from the rocks that line the Cape Cod Canal and broiling under a sun that felt like a giant tongue of rolling flames. It was so hot, even the fish were hiding. All I could manage were a few small blues and an immature striper of about two feet. I released them all, taking pleasure when the swam away.

  The dream had put in an appearance again last night, and it seems that no amount of alcohol or fatigue will chase it away. If history is any indication, time is the only thing that will erase those haunting memories, and until enough of it passes I'll just have to slug it out with the ghosts in dreamland.

  Lucky me.

  By the time I got back to Fairshore, it was nearly 5:00 PM. I went straight to the office and switched the air-conditioner to high, then slumped in my chair and waited while the office cooled down. There were more messages on my phone, and I decided I really need to begin carrying it everywhere with me, even though I hated the crazy thing.

  I grabbed a pen and notepad while I listened to it on speaker. Whitey's was the first, wondering where the hell I'd been for the last few days and bragging about a keeper bass he caught at Wollaston Beach. I scratched out a note while the messages moved on.

  Heather's sweet voice was next. The plate number I gave her was registered to a Stanley Stepkowski, Junior. Interesting. She said to call if I needed anything else.

  "Hey, Stu," said the next voice, "my boat's out of the water, and for the time being my family's out of town. Call me when you're not fishing." Billy Cardell, sounding like himself again. I made more notes and listened to the last message.

  "Hello, Mr.
McCann. You don't know me, but my name is Hugh Gertling, and I'm a... well, was a friend of John Barcom's. Look, I promised John I'd call you, but I feel kind of ridiculous. This is probably not making any sense, but if you give me a call I'm sure I can explain everything." He reeled off a number, which I scribbled in my notepad under his name.

  I read through the notes I'd made. I'd see Whitey in the morning, and that was soon enough to take the ribbing I would have to about his big striper.

  It was tempting to call Heather, but I needed to think about what to say first.

  Billy was probably still with his boat. I'd try him later from home.

  I picked up the phone and punched in the code to reach Hugh Gertling. After two rings a woman with a pleasant voice picked

  it up then called Gertling to the phone.

  "Hello?" This is Hugh Gertling."

  "Stuart McCann, Mr. Gertling. I'm returning your call."

  "Oh, right, Mr. McCann. Thanks for calling back."

  "I'm really sorry about John," I said. "I understand you two were good friends."

  "Yes, and I'm sorry, too. John was a great person. I'm afraid the whole company is in a state of shock. He was very well liked."

  "What happened, Mr. Gertling? I was in the emergency room, but they weren't able to tell me much. I guess he fell down some stairs?"

  "Yes, that looks like what happened. Must've been right around afternoon break. I had to run an errand, and I found him when I got back. I called 911 immediately, but..." His voice trailed off, and he blew a huge sigh into the phone.

  "You mentioned that you promised John you'd call me. Why would he make you promise something like that?" I propped my feet up on my yard sale desk and clasped my hands behind my neck.

  “Well, I guess John was a little nervous. When Melvin Addson died, it really shook him up. See, he was convinced it wasn't an accident. I guess you knew that because that's why he hired you."

  "Right," I said. "But why..."

  "Listen, Mr. McCann. I have my golf bag on my shoulder. I was just on my way to the driving range to let out some aggression, and I really don't want to discuss this in front of my wife anyway. She's upset enough about John as it is. Why don't you meet me over there? It's the one on 53."

  "I know where it is. I can be there in 15 minutes."

  "Fine," he said "I'll have a red shirt on, and all the balls I hit will be slicing to the right. You'll recognize me right away." Gertling laughed and hung up the phone.

  I cradled the receiver on my end and swung my feet off the desk. I switched the air-conditioner to low, caressed a beer on the way by my 'still', and locked the office door.

  John Barcom wormed his way into my thoughts as I threaded through rush hour traffic. I didn't push him away.

  Hugh Gertling was right. I’ve never played much golf, but I

  recognize a slice when I see one. It was clear that people would be in real danger when this man stepped on a golf course. I sat on a bench and watched for a few minutes, then walked over to where he was hacking away.

  "Am I safe here?" I asked.

  Hugh Gertling spun around and sheathed the club he’d been wielding, then stuck out his hand. He was a small, wiry man, with a salt-and-pepper crewcut and tattoos on both his muscled forearms. A moustache underscored his hawk-like nose, dropping down at the sides of his mouth.

  "No one's safe when I have a golf club in my hands," he said. "Mr. McCann, right?"

  "More like Stuart," I said. We shook hands and he leaned against the fence separating the hitting areas, regarding me with eyes that looked like they were chipped from a lump of coal.

  "Like I said over the phone, I promised John I'd contact you in case something happened to him. He was a very good friend to me, a very good person, so I'm honoring my promise."

  "Why would he make you do that? Was he convinced that something was going to happen to him?"

  "Yes, he was. I guess if you didn't know John, maybe he could come off as a little paranoid." Gertling toyed with a glove that covered his left hand, snapping and unsnapping the button.

  "Did he have reason to be? I mean, in your opinion, were his fears well-grounded?"

  "Well, not really," said Gertling. "What are we talking about, three separate accidents, counting John's, over the span of a year? They seem to be absolutely unrelated to me, but he had a different opinion."

  "The feeling I got when he first spoke with me was that he felt like he was on some sort of 'hit list'. Did he ever say anything like that to you?"

  "Yeah, he did. He was convinced that Melvin and him were on a list of people that someone was slowly checking off. Like I said, to me, it didn't make any sense, but John was adamant."

  "Was there any connection between John and Mr. Addson besides work? Did they know each other for a long time, or was it just from StanMel Circuits?"

  "Just work, I'm pretty sure." Gertling pulled a driver from his bag and teed up a ball. I stood back and watched while he got himself comfortable, moving his feet and his hands until he seemed satisfied. He swiped viciously at the ball, which dribbled about ten feet off the tee and down a small grass banking. Gertling shook his head and smiled.

  "On the phone, you said people were a mess at work. I guess John was pretty well liked."

  "By everyone. He always had a kind word for you, always some bit of encouragement when you were down. People loved to see him tooling around in that chair of his. He always brought a smile to everyone's face."

  Gertling jammed his driver back in his bag and fiddled with the strap, looking as uncomfortable as I felt.

  "Will there be any kind of service for John?"

  "He wasn't from around here," said Gertling. "His sister is coming up from New Jersey to bring him back. There'll be a small ceremony down there, I think they said Friday. Me and three or four other people are going to drive down Thursday night."

  "I have some of his money left over, I said."

  "Keep it, Stuart. I'm sure he would've said the same thing."

  "I didn't earn it. I'd feel like a bandit."

  "Ah, bullshit. You keep it. John liked you, said he had a good feeling about you. And with him, that meant everything." Gertling shouldered his golf bag and picked up the wire bucket that had held his allotment of range balls. There were about a dozen left. He inverted the bucket and let them all trickle down the short slope and out into the hitting area. Some of them rolled further than his last drive.

  "Is there anything else you can think of?" I said. "Something John might have said recently, even if he was joking, that seems out of the ordinary or sticks in your mind."

  "Let's see," said Gertling, twirling a nine iron while he stared down at the ground. "I can't think of anything, except that he was really down on work lately, and that was unusual for him. Like I said before, he was a cheerleader. He was great for morale. But that changed recently."

  "When? Can you tie it to any event?"

  "Probably around the time of Melvin Addson's accident. He just wasn't himself after that. I remember him telling me I should quit StanMel, that the place was killing him, would kill all of us one way or another. I thought that was odd because he really loved his job. And this wasn't a one-time thing. He mentioned it a least once a day."

  "That does sound weird," I said, "but maybe he was just upset about Mr. Addson."

  "That's what I thought, so I kinda just ignored it. Maybe I made a mistake." Gertling shifted his golf bag on his shoulder and began walking toward the parking lot, the soles of his golf shoes scraping on the steaming pavement. "Can you think of anything else? I realize you’ve probably answered a million questions for the police. I'm sorry if I'm being a pain in the ass, but I have a feeling about this, too. For some reason, my mind won't let it rest."

  "That's all I can think of right now, Stuart."

  I fished for my wallet and pulled a business card from one of the pockets, handing it over to Gertling. "If you think of something else, no matter how trivial it might seem, I'd
appreciate a call."

  "Okay," said Gertling. He fingered the card for a moment, then tucked it into a pocket of his shirt. "Look, I need to get moving. My wife wants to go out to eat, and I need to swing by the shop to pick up some papers I left there. It was good to meet you." He extended his hand and we shook again.

  I watched as Gertling made his way through the parking lot. I had a nagging thought that I'd forgotten something, but couldn't put my finger on what. Gertling jammed his clubs into the back seat of an old sedan that had more rust than paint showing, then fired it up.

  Suddenly I knew what was tugging at my brain, and I jogged toward Hugh Gertling's car. He was pulling away, picking up speed, and I was struggling against too many beers and forty-year-old legs. In the space of thirty seconds, I vowed to give up drinking forever and promised myself I'd get back into shape. I pulled muscles that hadn't even twitched in months; my lungs burned and my back throbbed.

  Fortunately for me, right before I promised to start going to church again, Hugh Gertling looked in his rearview mirror and stomped on his brakes. I limped up to the driver's side door and stood there, panting.

  "Was there something else, Stuart?"

  I held one finger up while I caught most of my breath back. "You said you were going to StanMel Circuits?"

  "That's right. Why?"

  "Do you mind if I tag along with you? John owed me a tour, and I was just curious." I rubbed at the stitch in my side.

  "No problem, only like I said, I can't be there long. I'm expected at home."

  "I'll meet you over there," I said. "I know where it is."

  Hugh Gertling waved and drove away, leaving me panting in the middle of the parking lot. I waited another minute and then limped back to my truck, already eager to break my promise about the

  beer.

  Chapter 12

  Hugh Gertling fiddled with the lock on the door to the loading dock until it finally succumbed to his whispered oaths. I waited while he flicked on a bank of lights, then followed him in while the fluorescents hummed overhead.