New Jersey Noir--Cape May

by William Baer

  “I like it,” she decided, “despite the hypermasculinity.”

  “It was built back when Lambert built his castle, in 1892, and no woman has ever lived here. Never.”

  It was a sad fact, but it was still a fact.

  The place had been inhabited by a long line of womanless, wifeless Colts, passing down, eventually, to my uncle.

  Now to me.

  Rikki understood.

  She glanced down at The Winter’s Tale but didn’t comment.

  “Show me your Paterson,” she said.

  Her wish was my command.

  We walked through the back of the house to the outside porch, five hundred feet over the base of the mountain. Below us, the lights of the city were beautiful.

  As always.

  As were the distant lights of the New York City skyline.

  “Where are the falls?”

  I pointed down below, off to the right, at the Paterson Falls.

  She said nothing, fully aware that my uncle had been assassinated there last month. Forty-three days ago.

  “Why not tell me a Colt story?”

  Why not?

  So I told her how Hamilton’s vision of a great industrial city, powered by the waterfall, had come to fruition, with its numerous mills and numerous factories. Then Sam Colt came down from Connecticut, set up his arms factory, and developed a prototype called “The Paterson,” a single-action revolver, that later morphed into the Colt Walker, then the even more famous Colt 45, “the gun that tamed the West.”

  “The Walker?”

  “Yeah, Sam Walker was a captain in the Texas Rangers, and he got together with Sam Colt, and they took the Paterson and they turned it into the largest, most powerful handgun in the world. Walker wanted lots of ‘firepower,’ and he got it. The gun was used by the Rangers and by the military in the Mexican War. It remained the most powerful handgun in the world until 1935, when the .357 Magnum came on the market.”

  She looked down at my city.

  I had no idea what she was thinking about.

  After all, does a man ever really know what a woman is thinking about?

  She turned and looked at me directly.

  “You’re a very strange person, Jack Colt.”

  I think it was supposed to be a compliment of some kind, but I wasn’t sure. To be honest, I never thought I was “strange” at all.

  But maybe I was.

  She kissed me on the mouth.

  Like cotton candy at the Jersey Shore.

  Like heaven.

  When it was over, she smiled mischievously.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. Forget about it.”

  “Not very likely.”

  “I’m very vulnerable right now.”

  I didn’t know what to say.

  “Besides, Nikki made me do it.”

  Now, I really didn’t know what to say.

  She stepped over to the porch bench and sat down in the moonlight. Looking lovely. Looking (oh, the hell with it, why not use the b-word?) beautiful.

  She attempted to explain herself.

  “She’s with me all the time, Jack. Every minute of every day. Can you understand that?”

  “Not really. Maybe in theory.”

  “Do you ever talk to yourself?”

  “Sometimes. Not much.”

  “Well, I talk to Nikki all the time, and she talks right back, and she always encourages me, and she said, ‘Kiss the big boy,’ so I did.”

  “It sounds to me like you’re denying culpability.”

  She laughed.

  “Of course, I am.”

  Of course, I was even more confused than before. Even more attracted.

  “Will she be prompting you again in the near future?”

  “I think she thinks we both need a temporary moratorium.”

  I liked the redundant word “temporary.” Then I changed the subject.

  “Can you handle some more cold case stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  I sat down beside her.

  I wanted to hold her hand, but I didn’t.

  “It’s a little weird, Rikki.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Edward Colt was Billy Kelly.”

  She was amazed. Stunned, but not upset.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought he was nearly forty?”

  “He lied about his age when he created his new identity.”

  She thought about it for a moment.

  “Which means he was my brother-in-law.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which means I dated my own brother-in-law!”

  “Yes.”

  “Which he knew.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re right, Jack, it is creepy. Very creepy.”

  I made an effort to de-creepy it.

  “I’m sure he found you irresistible.”

  “Just like my sister?”

  “Yes.”

  She thought it over, so I kept moving things along.

  “It’s probably why he hadn’t interviewed Ronnie yet. Or Rita. Or Izzy. He knew that they’d recognize him.”

  “Then the cat would be out of the bag.”

  “Yes.”

  Then she asked me the same question that she’d asked me this morning in the Cheesequake service area.

  “Did he kill my sister?”

  “I don’t know, Rikki. But I don’t think so. I have the feeling that he came back to Cape May to try and solve the murder and clear his name.”

  My cell vibrated.

  Finally.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  I read Nonna’s text.

  “Can you tell me?”

  “Sure.”

  I read her the text:

  Izzy’s a dealer at the Borgata. Be careful.

  Another vibration.

  I read it out loud:

  Rita and Casey got married in Canada. In Halifax.

  30

  Appendix II

  Theia mania:

  “Some Enchanted Afternoon.”

  The first time I saw Billy I was ten years old, fatherless, awkward, and directionless. I was up in North Jersey visiting my aunt, attending a freshman football game at DePaul against Hudson Catholic. Billy had just scored from twenty yards out, and he came back to the sidelines, and he took off his helmet.

  I pity those who’ve never experienced what I felt at that precise moment. Something that’s so marvelous, so extreme, so inexplicable, that the hapless poets have spent millennia trying to find a way to describe it. I was young Juliet looking at my Romeo, the little mermaid looking at her prince, Maria looking at Tony, Bella looking at Edward.

  What does Shakespeare’s Ferdinand say when he sees Miranda?

  The very instant that I saw you, did

  My heart fly to your service.

  What are some of the useless words the writers use?

  intoxication

  madness

  addiction

  irresistibility

  helplessness

  instantaneousness

  etc.

  I wish that I had more time to explain this better than I’m doing. Trying to explain the inexpressible, the unexplainable. The ineffable. All I can do, the very best that I can do, is to admit that, at that sudden initial sight of my Billy, my life began. It now had “purpose.” My heart was seized, and my mind was focused and single-minded.

  No one has ever loved another human being more than I’ve loved Billy Kelly.

  Yes, I know it’s vain. I know it sounds self-important. I know it seems perfectly ridiculous that such a stupendous thing could happen to a silly ten-year-old girl.

&nbs
p; But it did.

  Billy, of course, was handsome, stunningly so, with dark sweaty hair, darker eyes, which proved to be black/brown, and Irish Kennedyish features, and, yes, a bit rough-edged.

  In other words, perfect.

  When the game was over (he’d scored once again, and DePaul triumphed 21-10), I told my aunt that I wanted to buy a coke before we drove back to her house. Then, quickly, I made my way down to the field, walked right up to him, and spoke.

  When I think back on it now, it was only the theia mania that gave me the courage, the audacity, the fortitude. After all, I was a goofy, skinny, scaredy-cat, little nothing of a girl, with all kinds of inferiority issues, but I walked right up to Billy Kelly and I spoke to him. As if under a spell. As if it was my fate. My destiny. As if I didn’t have a choice.

  “Nice game.”

  Well, maybe it wasn’t exactly Shakespearian, but the contact was made.

  He looked down at me, still holding his helmet in his hand.

  “Thanks, kid.”

  That was it.

  It was over.

  He didn’t gush, but, at least, he reciprocated. He didn’t blow me off, and he seemed to truly appreciate what I’d said.

  He was polite.

  Charming.

  That afternoon initiated the rest of my life. My real life. A life dedicated to loving Billy Kelly until I was old enough that he could love me back.

  Confiding in no one, I cyberstalked him for the next five years, followed every detail of his football career, created a scrapbook and a secret web file, and dreamed about him night and day. When one of the newspaper accounts of a game at Don Bosco referred to him as an “honor student,” I immediately changed that part of my life. There’d be no more floating my ass through middle school. I needed A’s. Nothing less. I needed to try and become what I thought he’d want me to be.

  When he graduated, he got accepted at Johns Hopkins. I knew that he’d injured his knee in his senior year and college football was probably out of the picture. So I wasn’t surprised when he took a more academic route.

  Finally, it was time to take action. I was terrified, but it was time to move from my fantasies into the real world.

  I’d been preparing for years.

  Saving my money for years.

  Even though I was only fifteen, I was an honor roll student, and I’d arranged for a tour of the Hopkins campus as a “prospective” student. I took the bus to Baltimore, rented a room at a Motel 6, and paid very close attention to everything my tour guide said. The campus itself seemed like heaven.

  Later that night, I tracked him down at a party at Wolman Hall. It was a booze-only, rather tame affair, which I was glad to see. It was very preppy. Billy was now a second-semester freshman, wearing jeans, a navy Hoppy polo, and deck shoes. He also had a Dos Equis in his hand and lots of surrounding friends. I won’t bother to describe how handsome he looked, but I have to admit that I was pretty spooked by all the pretty girls at the party, all of whom were older than I was, and some of whom were prettier than I was.

  When I saw my opening, I walked over.

  “I saw you play at DePaul.”

  “Was I any good?”

  He smiled.

  He was polite and personable.

  Perfect.

  “You scored twice. Against Hudson Catholic.”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “I was ten.”

  He was both surprised and amused.

  “Ten?”

  “Yes, but I remember it well.”

  He seemed pleased.

  We talked about his football days, which I actually knew much better than he did, about his family (an aunt), his major (history), and about lots of other stuff.

  Including me.

  I won’t pretend that he fell for me like I’d fallen for him. That would have been impossible anyway. But he was definitely intrigued, and I believe, no, I know, that there was a definite attraction. Possibly romantic. Possibly sexual. I have no idea, and I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he was interested.

  I made sure not to monopolize him all night, and I also made sure to talk to some of the other boys.

  Making sure he saw it.

  When the party began to wind down, I told him to come and visit me in Cape May.

  “I will,” he said.

  “When?”

  He thought it over.

  “I’ll be heading north next month with my buddy Sonny. Maybe I’ll convince him to make the stop.”

  “Great. I’ll send you a text with my info.”

  “Great.”

  Then I walked away.

  Walking on air.

  Of course, I really wanted to wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him on the mouth, but I knew I’d have to be careful. Slow and normal. I’d been planning to marry the boy for five years, and absolutely nothing and no one was going to get in my way.

  31

  Carlito’s

  Saturday, March 28th

  36°

  Rutgers was winning 42-40 at the almost-end of the first half. They were playing Michigan State, and the lead wouldn’t last for long.

  What the hell was Rutgers doing in the Big Ten anyway?

  That’s a rant for another day.

  The don was sitting at his favorite table near the restaurant’s only TV screen, watching intently. He was surrounded by a group of expensively dressed dagos, including his oldest son, Vinny Ravello, whom I’d called earlier tonight from Stone House.

  “I’d like a word with your father.”

  “I’m not sure he’ll want a word with you.”

  Thirty-nine days ago, I was standing next to Vinny’s younger brother, Eddie, when he was gunned down at his limo place on Pennington Street. I knew Eddie growing up in Paterson, and we were “friends” of a type. The type that a law enforcement type like me could be with the youngest son of the most powerful mobster in North Jersey.

  As for Vinny, we were always wary, at arm’s length, but always polite and respectful. There were times, like now, when I needed the Ravellos, and there were times when they needed me.

  Vinny Ravello, ever the tough guy, realized that he’d come off a bit too dismissively, so he tried again.

  “What’s up, Jack?”

  “Just a word. Three minutes.”

  I could hear him smile over the phone.

  “Are you asking for a favor, Jack?”

  I admitted the truth.

  “I guess I am.”

  “Can you come to Carlito’s?”

  “In the Ironbound?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I thought your father never left Paterson?”

  “His cousin owns the place, and they want to watch the Rutgers game.”

  “I thought he hated basketball?”

  “Yeah, but I guess there’s a bet of some kind.”

  Of course, there was.

  “I’ll be there by halftime.”

  Which I was.

  I was sitting at a table for two in the back of the crowded Carlito’s watching the beach girl drink a caipirinha. We’d just knocked off a quick supper: ziti and ricotta for me, manicotti for the princess.

  It was an Italian restaurant in a neighborhood famous for its countless Portuguese restaurants, and they knew how to mix up a decent caipirinha.

  It was my suggestion when she asked, “Can detectives have booze on the job?”

  “You can.”

  She took a sip.

  It flowed over her tongue, and her eyes got big, and she smiled like a teenager.

  “Yum!”

  “Yeah, I thought you might like it.”

  I’d spent three years in Newark at Seton Hall Law, and I knew the Ironbound well. Real well. I loved the place. It
was mostly Lusophone, of course, but other-ethnic as well. My law school pals and I would eat over here all the time, at the very best restaurants, mostly Portuguese, but also Brazilian, Ecuadorian, Mexican, Spanish, and even one that no longer exists run by a family of Cape Verdeans.

  I still love the ambiance, the food, the people, and the music. Portuguese fado. Brazilian samba. But now I was in Carlito’s listening to Jerry Vale, singing lightly in the background, and I couldn’t complain. Who doesn’t like Jerry Vale?

  “What is it?” she wondered.

  “Lots of sugar, lime, ice, and eighty-proof cachaça.”

  “What’s that?”

  I didn’t know how to explain it without a diagram.

  “Something like rum, but different.”

  She smiled again.

  “That really clarifies things!”

  “If you don’t get too loopy, I’ll buy you another one.”

  “I’ll buy my own, Mr. Big Shot.”

  Then Little Miss Big Shot knocked off her drink and raised her hand for the waiter.

  “While you’re getting blotto, I think I’ll do what we came here to do.”

  I walked over to the Ravello table, wondering about the don’s “bet” on the game. Wondering if it was the kind that he couldn’t actually lose.

  Probably not.

  When Vinny saw me, he got helpful, alerting the old man.

  “It’s Jack. Jack Colt.”

  The don turned around in his chair and looked at me. Maybe it would be more accurate to say that he looked through me. Which he always did. He was sixty two years old, with a face that was indelibly impassive, wary yet hyper-confident, with alert never-miss-a-thing blue eyes.

  He didn’t bother to say, “What do you want?” he just waited.

  So I told him.

  “I’m working a cold case in Cape May that has nothing to do with you or any of the families, and I need your permission to talk to someone.”

  “When have you ever asked my permission to do anything? Or your uncle for that matter?”

  He spoke about my uncle like he was still alive. Maybe it made him feel younger. Whatever the case, I liked it.

  “I’m asking now.”