A Case of Vineyard Poison (12 page)

“No, no,” he was saying. “Don't hurt him, J.W. It's not nice to hurt people!”

I took my hand away from Miles's hair and his head thumped facedown onto the floor. I took my knee off his back, and got up. My whole body was shaking. I wondered if my teeth were showing. My fangs.

Bonzo was in front of me, looking up, patting my arms. “Good boy, J.W. Come on, I think you should have a beer. Come on, J.W., have a beer. It'll settle your nerves, you know. Come on.”

He led me away as others gathered around Miles. I took a stool at the far end of the bar, and Bonzo ran around behind the bar and got me a Molson. I took a long pull. The bottle rattled against my teeth.

People were looking at me with a kind of horror. I spied myself in the mirror. There was blood on my face where Miles had hit me the first time, and blood on my ear, and I had picked up some other scratches somewhere along the line. Only the pain near my spine hurt, but I thought that several parts of me might be painful later. The left leg of my pants had a tear in it, and my shirt was stained with beer, blood, and dirt. There was sawdust in my hair. I didn't think I looked too bad, but the people in the room apparently saw something that frightened them. In fact, I was more afraid than they were.

That red veil had fallen before, and I had sworn I would never let it happen again, but it had come out of nowhere, and again I might have killed a man had someone innocent not been there to stop me. Not for the first time I wondered what ancient monsters live deep
within us, under the civilized skins we show the world. Under the skin I show to the world. I drank the Molson and waited for the cops to come.

None did, so after a while I walked to the men's room, which, at the Fireside, is identified by a stencil of a little boy trying to button up his pants. Fireside wit. Inside, I managed to wash off most of the blood on my head and ear. When I stopped shaking, I came out. The police still hadn't come.

Miles was sagging in a booth, being ministered to by members of the audience. He didn't look good, but he did look as if he'd live to fight another day. Bob the bartender came up to me very carefully.

“Look,” he said. “Everything's cool. Why don't you go home? Bonzo tells me you're a good guy, so let's just resolve this without any more problems. Nobody's called the cops. No need for that. We've got everything straightened up, and there hasn't been any real damage. So why don't you just go on, and we'll all just forget about this.”

“What set him off?” I asked.

“Hey,” said Bob, in one of those voices people use when they don't want to rile the person they're talking to, “Miles has been having some problems. He's a good man, but he's been having some problems. I think maybe he just made a mistake, don't you know? I think maybe something you said just set him off. But he's a good guy and I don't want any more trouble. Look, the noon crowd is coming in, and this is a busy time for us. Why don't you just go home? Tell you what, you come back any time later, and we'll set you up with whatever you want. Food, beer, whatever. You just leave now, and we'll be glad to have you back later. What do you say?”

“I'd like to know why he came on me like that.”

“He's been stressed. You know? Look, I don't want to have to call the cops. Bad for business. You understand? But, Jesus, man, I don't want no more trouble here, and Miles, he's not a bad guy. He's just got problems and I'm afraid he took 'em out on you.” He paused. “Or tried to.” Then, “Bonzo says you're a good guy, too. Why don't you just go on home and let us all get on with our business. Okay?”

I looked at him, and he stepped back. “I don't want any trouble,” I said. “But I want to know what set him off. I was minding my own business when he hit me. I want to know why he did that.”

Bob flicked his eyes around the barroom. A lot of people were looking at us. “Listen,” he said. “That girl you were asking Bonzo about. Denise Vale?”

“Yeah?”

“That's his daughter. You know? She's tangled up with some guy Miles don't take to. You understand?”

If my brain had been a computer, it probably would have started making little clicking noises.

“Keep talking,” I said.

Bartenders hear a lot of sad stories. “What do I know?” asked Bob. “Miles and his wife split a couple years back, and the girl went off with Mom. Broke Miles up. And then, the girl comes back this spring and starts hanging around with some guy Miles don't think shit of. You see how it is? Hey, Miles is an okay guy, but I think this whole bit's flipped him, this business with his daughter. Bonzo said you two was talking about her when Miles clubbed you. Jesus, mister, first I thought he was going to kill you, and then I thought you was going to kill him. I tell you, I never saw anything like that for years. Christ almighty. Now, I know how you must feel, but look
around this place. Everybody's staring at you wondering what you're gonna do next. I don't want that. I just want to serve some lunch to these people and have them forget about what just happened. Not that they will, mind you, but you'd be doin' me a favor if you'll just go on home and let all of this settle. What do you say?”

I looked across the room at Miles. He looked as bad as I felt.

“Okay,” I said. “Is he all right?”

Bob put a friendly smile on his face. “Sure. Sure, everything's cool. Thanks for being a good guy. Sorry this had to happen. You come back, now. Food and drinks on me. Bring a friend.”

I headed for the door. People parted in front of me like the Red Sea splitting for Moses.

Outside, the summer air was warm and fresh. I walked up the sidewalk until I got to the Land Cruiser. Like a lot of fishermen, I keep a small first-aid kit in my truck. After all, many a man has been sliced by bluefish teeth or fins, or has managed to hook himself instead of a fish. I found a Band-Aid and, looking in the rearview mirror, stuck it on the split in my skin where Miles had first hit me. I couldn't figure any way to stick another on my cut ear, so I let that go. I took a couple of aspirin while I was at it, in anticipation of future pains. Then I drove back to Denise Vale's house and pounded on the door again.

When the dazed young man appeared, finally got his eyes focused, and recognized me, I asked him when he'd last seen Denise.

He tried to think about the question, but finally had to give up.

“She wasn't here for the party, was she?” I asked.

“She wasn't?” He frowned. “Yeah, I guess that's right. I wonder where she was.” He offered a slack-mouthed grin. “Denise likes to party. Party, party.” He became somber again. “I think maybe I had too much party.”

“I'm J.W. Jackson. Who are you?”

“Me? I'm Roy.”

“Denise Vale has a boyfriend, Roy. Maybe she spent the weekend with him.”

The” idea seemed to impress him. “Hey, maybe she did.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Who?”

“The boyfriend.”

“What about him?”

“What's his name?”

“Uhn. Let's see.” Roy frowned and scratched his belly. “Roy . . . No, that's me. And you're J.W. Let's see . . . George, maybe? No, that's not it. Rick? Richard? Vance? Something like that.”

“Does he have a last name?”

“Uhn. Beats me.”

“Do you know where he lives?”

Roy had no idea.

“Are you in college, Roy?”

He yawned and his breath was the fire of dragons. “Yeah. Sure. Princeton.”

Princeton. “What are you studying?”

He thought about that and figured it out. “Philosophy,” he said. “Philosophy and religion. Economics. Stuff like that. I'm pre-law. Say, what time is it, buddy?”

I told him.

“Jesus,” he said. “I'm supposed to be at work, I think. I better take a shower.”

I didn't want to discourage him from doing that, so I left and drove back home to see how my guests were doing.

They were doing fine. I found a note telling me that Quinn was giving Dave his world-famous guided tour of Edgartown, but that they'd be home in time for an afternoon dip in the briny before the cocktail hour. And were we going fishing again in the morning?

Why not? There weren't very many mornings when I wasn't happy to go fishing.

I took a shower and then made a pita bread sandwich with the remains of last night's baked bluefish, a slice of Swiss, and some horseradish. Then I found a beer in the fridge and had lunch on the balcony. There was a light east wind, and it felt good. The beach road was lined with parked cars, and the water beyond was busy with boats. On this side of the road, novice surf sailors were taking lessons in the flat waters of Sengekontacket Pond. It was an interesting-looking sport, but I preferred sailing the
Shirley J.,
my eighteen-foot catboat.

I thought about the
Shirley J.
In three weeks I'd be sailing in her with Zee on the way to Nantucket. A sailing honeymoon. It played well in my imagination.

When I was through with lunch, I drove into Edgartown to see the chief of police. My back hurt, but I tried to will away the pain and the worry that went with it.

Edgartown is a small village, but it has the best-equipped police station on the island, and well-trained personnel. It has a couple of detectives, a fingerprint lab, a photo lab, and other modern accoutrements. Except for the chief, who prefers to keep his old familiar .38 special, its officers all pack modern 9mm semiautomatics. When I was a Boston cop, I also carried an old .38, but times change.

I tried the station on Pease Point Way first, but naturally the chief wasn't there. The department may be modern, but its budget isn't big enough to allow its chief to sit around in his office all day. Besides, who'd want to sit in an office on as nice a day as this?

“He's probably down on Main Street somewhere,” said Kit Goulart, who was behind the front desk. Kit Goulart and her husband are about the same size as a pair of oxen, and could probably outpull most of the teams at the annual county fair, if they had a mind to. I pretended to ogle the badge on Kit's large bosom, got a laugh in reply, and went into town.

The chief was strolling along the sidewalk on Main, headed down from the courthouse. Naturally there weren't any parking places on Main, so I drove past him to Water Street, hooked a right, then a left, and parked the Land Cruiser on Collins Beach, just beyond the No Parking sign. Fishermen park on Collins Beach all the time and don't get tickets because Edgartown is a boating
town, and the police prefer to ignore the local trucks parked on the sand.

I walked back to Main, passing under the giant Pagoda Tree that some sea captain brought to the island in a flowerpot back in the 1800's, and wondering once again how many giant Pagoda Trees there were in the United States. Had there ever been a Johnny Pagodaseed, spreading pagoda trees across the frontier for the use of future generations? If so, my history books had overlooked him.

Edgartown's streets were full of tourists wearing shorts and sandals and pastels. It seemed like the middle of July, but it was only June. More people every year. Good news for the merchants, no doubt, but a subject of constant griping among a lot of year-rounders, who greatly enjoyed talking about the good old days when there weren't all these cars and their accompanying traffic jams, when there were still parking places, and when you could walk downtown and know the people you met.

I caught up with the chief at the parking lot in front of the yacht club.

“What do you want?” he asked. “You live up there in the woods and you never come to town in the summertime unless you have to or you want something from somebody.” He looked at my face. Then he took my chin in his hand and turned my head first one way, then the other. “And what door did you walk into? A revolving one, looks like. You okay?”

“I'll live. What do you know about Miles Vale?”

“What about him?”

“First time I ever saw him was when the medics were working on the Ellis girl up in my driveway. Since he was with the ambulance, I figure he must live here in
Edgartown. And since you're the chief of Edgartown's finest and know everybody and everything that happens in town, I figured you might know something about Miles Vale.”

“Like I said, what about him? Miles do this to you?”

“What kind of a guy is he? I hear his wife left him, and that their daughter went with Mom. Then, I hear, the daughter came back to the island and started hanging around with some guy Miles doesn't like. That's all I know about Miles.”

“Miles do that to your face?”

“Why? Does Miles have a reputation for beating people up?”

“Did Miles beat you up?” The chief was suddenly very official.

“I hear people say Miles is a good guy. Fella up in Oak Bluffs told me that. Tony D'Agostine told me that, too. No, Miles didn't beat me up.”

The chief thought for a second. “Did Miles try to beat you up?”

“The last time I saw Miles, he was sitting in a booth in a bar, surrounded by well-wishers. Look, all I want to know is what kind of a guy Miles is. If he's a good guy, why did you think he might have tried to beat me up? Does he beat other people up?”

“Just hold on a minute. First, tell me. If Miles didn't beat you up, did you beat up Miles?”

“Miles is fine.” I wondered if he really was. I hoped so.

“All right,” said the chief. “You don't talk to me, I don't talk to you. Have it your own way.”

“About Miles, now . . .”

“Miles who?”

“Miles Vale.”

“Never heard of him.” The chief dug his pipe out of his pocket, checked to see if there was any tobacco in it, and lit up. Knowing my weakness, he blew a bit of smoke my way.

I don't miss cigarettes anymore, but the smell of a pipe still makes my nose start to work. Every time I get a whiff of pipe smoke, I decide that I'll break out my corncobs and briars again. They were still in their rack at home, although I hadn't used them in years. I inhaled the chief's smoke.