A Matter of Mercy (23 page)

“That’s right,” Rid inserted, covering the same ground with his thoughts. “There’s some beach that’s good at low tide, when we’re there, pretty much none at high tide. And you can’t really walk the beach, because it leads around the bend into Blackfish Creek. There’s no grant space left open there, so nobody can take up shellfishing there, whether they own it or not. Unless, of course, they kicked us all off and—man, I don’t even want to go there.”

Lorenz nodded. “That’s part of the risk we talked about. Also, that this could somehow get to Pissario and he could outbid you. Or the owner of the rights could go off in search of a higher bidder. Remember, you have the option of just fighting Pissario in court and hoping you win. You definitely have a chance to come out on top.”

“But then he appeals, and appeals again. And we get farther away from the local court where a judge knows how we live, and pretty soon we go broke anyway,” Tomas said quietly, and it was the quiet that was dangerous. “I say trying to buy the flats is our best chance. I want my life in my own hands. I’d rather be executed now than sit on death row for ten years and then get the bullet.”

“An interesting metaphor,” Lorenz said. “But you’re correct, as I’ve said, that the court process could drag on for years. Honestly, I don’t see any fail-safe alternative, so you should pick the one you think you can tolerate best.”

“Or the one in which we have the potential to gain the most,” Tomas mused, ruddy-faced, in his good overalls, his face gone to an inscrutable mask as he looked into the future.

“Indeed,” Lorenz assented, head bobbing up and down behind his desk. The motion made his glasses slide down his nose and he repositioned them before becoming still.

There was a moment of extreme silence, during which the lawyer hiccupped and Mario’s stomach complained. The furnace kicked on, and Rid shifted which leg was crossed over the other.

“Let’s do it. Let’s buy the damn flats,” Tomas said.

“I hate waiting,” Mario said. “I’m in.”

“We’ve gotta talk about how much we’re going to offer. I don’t know how I’m going to raise the money, but I’m in,” Rid said, trying to smother automatic panic about where he could come up with yet another pile of cash.

“Good decision. Two things you need to do,” David Lorenz said, moving his legal pad in front of him and clicking his ballpoint open. “You need to form and name a realty partnership, and make an offer. So let’s get to work.”

* * * * 

It was good he’d driven down alone. Not that he’d had the confrontation with Mario that he’d planned. Caroline would kill him for that, and she had a right. Now he’d have to do that later. Right now he was shell-shocked. Too much to take in. They’d decided to offer twenty-five thousand dollars for the flats. Lorenz, Rid could tell, thought it might not be quite enough, but with all the legal bills they’d run up already, this was another eight thousand three hundred something, bango, on top of what else he had to come up with. It was all too much to wrap his mind around.

He’d turned them down when Mario suggested a drink at The Oyster, saying he was way behind on paperwork, and pretty much everything else. That much at least was true. He had to go home and tell Caroline the truth, then figure out what he could sell to come up with the money.

Once inside, though, kicking snow loose from his boots at the door, but still tracking some across the tiles on his way to the big closet under the stairs, his resolve was melting like the ice he’d tracked in. As before, he avoided Caroline by going through the hall by the stairs.

“How’d it go?” she called from the living room. He had a quick glimpse of her red sweater. She was sitting on the floor with the pieces of a nursery tray spread all around her, as he went from front door into the hallway toward the kitchen where the big closet and the stairs to the basement were. He started to ask what the hell she thought she was doing, and then there was too much else that filled the space between them.

“Pretty good,” he called back. She got up and came the other way, through the dining nook, to meet him in the kitchen. And then, like an offering, instead of telling her about Mario, like putting a big IOU in an offering plate, he told her something far more dangerous to himself personally. “You have to promise me—I mean on the baby’s life, that kind of promise—that you won’t tell anyone something.”

“All right,” she said, sliding into a seat at the table. He noticed her belly then, how she sort of pushed it down to make herself fit underneath rather than pull the chair out while she answered without thinking about either her belly or the answer, it seemed.

“The three of us, we formed a company and we’re putting in an offer to buy the tidal flats from the real owner. See Pissario
thinks
he owns them, but his land wasn’t registered right, and our lawyer found out about it. Pissario doesn’t know.” Rid sat across from her at the table and explained what Lorenz had learned, how they were trying to do it all without Pissario getting wind of it, and how he had to figure out what to sell now.

“So what’s the name of your realty company?” Caroline said, which Rid found a strange question.

“You promised,” he said, suddenly nervous about disclosing it all. “Pissario can’t get wind of this.

“I’m on your side, remember?”

Rid sat back in his chair and grinned for a few seconds. “Other Foot Realty. As in
the shoe’s on the other foot now, and watch out buster, because we may just use it to drop kick you straight to hell.”

“Great name,” she said with a smile. “You want me to put on some coffee—or you want a beer?” She started to lean forward on her elbows and slide her butt back to get up from the table, obviously intending to get him something to drink, like there was no more to say about the subject.

He never knew quite how to take her. “You really think it’s a good name? You think the whole thing’ll work?”

She hesitated. “What about the—”

Goddammit
. A volcano started rumbling in Rid’s head. She thought they were crazy. “What’s wrong with it? You think the real owners will go to Pissario? Hell, they don’t have any use themselves for the flats,” he erupted.

Now she was stopped, half-up, half-down, propped on her forearms, leaning over the table. “I didn’t say that. You already said you’re in debt, I was just—”

“You don’t seem to get it. Even if we win, Pissario will appeal and keep us tied up in court forever. Next time he might be able to get an injunction, too.” His voice continued to rise, but he couldn’t seem to stop it. He unbuttoned the top of his shirt. The house was too damn warm now. And where was Lizzie?

“Where’s Lizzie?”

“On the couch. I hope that’s okay. I was working in there, and she jumped up next to me. You didn’t make her get down the other day, so I figured she was allowed.” Caroline shifted her weight to one arm and gestured over her shoulder, toward the living room where the tray parts were spread out on the floor.

What was she doing with his stuff? Not trying to make a repair, for God’s sake! She’d only watched him a little while that morning. “Yeah. Hey, what are you doing with—”

Caroline sat back down the rest of the way. “Rid, I could put some money into the realty company for you. I inherited enough from my mother.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

“Look, thanks for the offer, but this is my thing, and I want to keep it that way.”

“I’m not trying to take anything away from you.” Seated, but leaning toward him just the same, keeping her tone reasonable.

“But it would happen, and that’s what scares me.”

“No, it wouldn’t.”

Now she was starting to get mad, he saw, but keeping it in check. Well, so be it. He wasn’t going to have worked so hard to keep his grant and then go halfsies with some chick just because he needed money in a pinch. “The discussion is over,” he said. “No.”

“Look, I can loan it to you, then.”

“OVER!”

She let loose. “I get it that you’re scared, but
I’m
not the one trying to do anything to you, here.
I’m
scared to death.
I’m
scared something’s wrong with the baby,
I’m
scared of your nutcase partner—
and by the way, did you talk to him
?—if he’s the one threatening me, I’m scared out of my mind if you haven’t noticed, and I get it you’re scared about the lawsuit but that’s no reason to shout at me. I thought we were going to help each other.”

Suddenly sober and wild at once. “What’s wrong with the baby?”

“Nothing that I know of. I’m scared, because of the accident, and what I did! Do you believe in karma?”

Then, to make things worse, she started crying. He could never do a single thing right around her for more than a minute and a half. “Did some doctor tell you something?”

“I haven’t been to a doctor yet.”

“What?
Jesus
. Why the hell not?”

She shook her head helplessly. A shrug. “All the chaos—” she started.

“What are you thinking? You’re
supposed
to.”

“I’ll take care of it. How about
you
talk to your partner like you
said
you would and get off my case.”

It was too much, too much. Couldn’t he manage anything right except to love the flats and a dog? Rid grabbed his keys, whistled for Lizzie, stumbled back into his boots and jacket even as he headed back for the front door, pulling them on as he went. He undermined the drama of his exit by stepping on a loose bootlace and tripping. Lizzie did not appear enthusiastic about going with him, a cut. Still, with the dignity he could gather, and his reluctant dog, he stomped to his truck, revved it and showed her how fast he could get off her case, since that’s what she wanted. With nowhere to go, he spun left out of the driveway toward Route 6 because at least that would get him nowhere a helluva lot faster than 6A, which was to the right.

Chapter 23

He drove aimlessly for a while, first heading for Provincetown, shame arguing with anger, trying hard to let anger win. He’d left Caroline trapped at his house—still no gas in her car, at least he didn’t think she’d chance it—and now he’d trapped himself away from the house, just as neatly. “I’d do anybody else’s whole shit list if they’d do this one thing for me, girl” he told Lizzie. Then, “Don’t look at me like that. Your place is with me.” He reached over to the glove compartment and took out a biscuit to sweeten the deal. The Lab snuffled it out of his hand. “Yeah, I know what you like,” he said, caressing her ears. Then, “Goddammit, it’s
my
grant. They’re
my
goddamn trays.”

Then, when shame won, he was angry about that, too. “She’s right about one thing, Lizzie. I didn’t talk to Mario, that fucker.”

He’d turned his truck around back toward Wellfleet and The Oyster where Mario’s truck was in the parking lot. He’d known it would be. Across the street, the shellfish shack was showing the orange ball. No fishing, obvious given that it was well below twenty-eight. It felt like twenty-eight below, what with the wind.

He parked some distance away, figuring Mario might come out mad. He might come out mad himself. They couldn’t afford it, though. The partnership had to survive.

The afternoon was dwindling into graveyard weather, smoky with souls and ghosts as another round of snow created a faux twilight of obscured visibility. Rid motioned Lizzie to the back seat and put out her blanket. He’d brought her with him more to irritate Caroline than anything else. It was later than he’d thought, though, past Lizzie’s suppertime. He put some water in the dish on the truck floor. “Not long, girl. I promise.” Lizzie sighed and settled on her blanket.

Mario was at the bar, still the dressed-up version of himself he’d been in the lawyer’s office. Rid mock slugged him on the shoulder. “Come on, man, let’s get a table.”

“Thought you had too much to do,” Mario said.

“Yeah, well, I got thirsty.”

“Slide in here.” Mario gestured to the stool next to his. He was sitting on his jacket, the limp arms extending to the plank floor, hat and gloves on the bar, taking the space of two customers in season. The hat was new, looked like a fur-lined baseball cap with ear-flaps, Rid noticed, annoyed. There was a time he’d have made fun of it.

“Hey, Billy, how y’doin’?” Rid said pointedly. “Nah, let’s grab a table, want something to eat?” He hoped Mario hadn’t had more than a couple beers. “Or did you already?”

“No, I’m okay. Just another brew.”

“Come on, let’s get a table, there’s business.” He could tell Mario was a bit gone, not too far yet. “Billy, can you bring us a couple drafts, and how about a double order of wings, single order of fries.” Something he knew Mario would eat that might keep him from getting shit-faced.

Billy drew the beer, wearing frustration that he was being excluded from their conversation. He plunked the mugs on the bar with too much force. “The rest’ll be up whenever King Chuck sees fit. Can you get these to a table by yourselves?” He had gelled his hair, and wore two silver bracelets and a heavy silver ring that looked new, all on his left hand. On his right wrist, a second watch appeared when his sleeve rode up; Rid almost said something about it, but stopped. The goal was to get away, after all.

“We’ll manage somehow,” Rid said.

Mario started to protest, but Rid picked up the mugs and headed well away from the bar. Only three people were there, two—Rick and Monty—he knew. They had grants over off Egg Island, and Rid nodded to them while he herded Mario to a table against the back wall.

Maybe more sober than Rid had calculated; once they were seated Mario challenged him. “All right, what’s up?” The light was low enough in the bar that Mario’s eyes appeared black instead of brown and his skin as dark as it did in August. An old scar was visible on one side of his face in the better light coming from the entryway with its glass doors to the waning daylight. There was no light in Mario’s eyes, though, which made Rid uneasy.

And, he had no approach prepared. “Uh … you, uh … you know the chick I….”

“Knocked up?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Listen, someone’s been messing with her.”

Mario snickered, stopping Rid cold. “So I heard from Billy. Billy figured it to be
me
, since she’s a waterfront owner, and I figured it to be
you
since you’re the handy dandy daddy.

Rid leaned back in his chair. “What?
Me?
How do you figure that? She’s, for Christ sake, man, she’s pregnant.”

Mario smirked. “Didn’t know you had such family feeling. So you’re saying it’s not you?”

“No it’s
not
me.” The realization that Mario was playing him as he’d played Caroline started to come to him.

“No you don’t. No, you don’t,” Rid said, leaning forward, getting into Mario’s face, using the side of his arm to sweep Mario’s cap and gloves to the side of the table and nearly knocking over Mario’s beer as he did. “
I’m
not what this is about. You’re what it’s about.
You
and rocks through windows and notes in
your
handwriting and burned toast on doorways.”

There was probably no faking the confusion on Mario’s face when he threw in the bit about burned toast.

“Burned
what
?” Mario said.

“Toast.”

“Like bread?”

“Like bread.”

“What’s the point of that?” Irritated, loud.

“As if you don’t know.” Sarcastic.

“I
don’t
know.” Mario was shouting now.

Billy interrupted them with the food, setting it between them. “Do I have to set up a DMZ here?” he teased, a hand on a hip. “You need me to call in some of my boys, break things up?”

“Beat it, Billy.” Gesturing with his thumb back toward the kitchen, Rid tried to soften it with a half smile.

“No fighting.”

“It’s cool, Billy. Go on back,” Rid said again. He waited for Billy to get all the way back behind the bar where he couldn’t hear, though he continued to watch, wary of fists. That must mean that Mario had been drinking longer than Rid had guessed. “Calm down, Mario. Last thing we need is Billy getting between us. He might lose an earring, and how would we live with ourselves?”

Mario chuckled.

“Here, let’s have us some wings.” Rid pulled the plates closer between them, picked up a wing, dipped it into sauce, and gestured to Mario to do the same. Mario salted the fries. “Grab that ketchup, will ya?” he said, pointing to the table behind Rid. Both men ate in silence for a couple of minutes.

“Okay, maybe we can get back to this,” Rid said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “How about this? It’s your handwriting.” He pulled the water-warped yellow sticky note with its ballpoint
aRE
from the pocket of his flannel shirt.

Mario shrugged, hands up. Again, his confusion looked genuine. “I do sorta print like that, but I didn’t write that, not that I remember anyway. Doesn’t go with anything, for one. I wouldn’t have no call to write one word on a page like that.”

“So you’re saying you had nothing to do with any of it?”

“Nah. Can’t say I lost sleep over it, though. Figured she was in with Pissario, and I was givin’ you the credit for it myself.”

Rid took a long drink of beer while he considered how much to say. “She’s not. In with Pissario, I mean.”

“You know that for sure?”

“Yeah.”

Mario narrowed his eyes. “How?”

“Take my word. If you get any wind—anything—on who might be doing this stuff to her, you tell me, right? For some reason, the cops are passing on it. I’m going to talk to Jerry though, now that I know it’s not you. It’s not you for sure, right? It’s okay to talk to Jerry?” He was giving Mario another chance to stop him, although Mario could probably figure he didn’t have anything new to take to the cops right now.

“Go ahead man, talk to Jerry or any other cop. It won’t be me you sic ’em on. We’re cool.”

“Okay. Thanks. So, uh, you got your share lined up for the uh… ‘shoe’?”

For once Mario didn’t miss a beat. “Pretty much. You?” Mario answered, looking out from underneath his brow because his head was bent over a plate at the moment. Rid felt himself being sized up.

“Working on it. Prob’ly pick up some time on a scallop boat outta N’Bedford.”
I could do it easy as you if I was running drugs, of course.
Rid kept the thought to himself.

The two finished the wings and fries and each had another draft. The bar was a quarter full by the time they were finished, all locals and most pulled chairs around Rid and Mario’s table. One grant holder from around Mayo Beach asked them about the progress of the suit—“Nothin’ in the paper for a while,” he said, but Rid held up a hand and said, “Nope, you’ll get nuttin from Fort Mario Knox, and I personally am far too drunk to speak,” at which everyone guffawed. The shellfish warden said, “Leave ’em alone boys ’n girls. Best you can do is buy their beer and pray for ’em.” Tomas came in and joined them. Rid could tell he was immediately nervous about how much Mario had had to drink. Himself too, probably, and whether they’d let anything slip. He tried to sober up his own demeanor to reassure Tomas.

It was after seven when Rid pushed back from the table, calling Mario aside from the group. “I’m taking off. Listen, Tomas is nervous as a cat. Watch yourself. No mistakes.”

“Yeah. I know.” Mario’s forehead was sweaty, and his eyes showed the beer, though. Tomas should get him out of the bar soon, but Tomas would figure that out.

“Hey, no hard feelings about the other, huh? We gotta trust each other.”

“Yeah. S’okay.” He stuck out his hand for Rid to shake, and Rid had a good five seconds of peace until Mario went on. “It took me a while to get it back, y’know. For a long time I thought one a you guys had a cell phone the night my truck sank—thought you’d stabbed me in the back. I was just bein’ stupid. You’re right. We gotta trust each other, partner.” He seemed to make an unnecessary point of extending the hand shake and their eye contact.

* * * * 

“So what the hell do we tell Caroline, huh, girl?” Rid had his truck barreling down Route 6. “That Mario’s off the hook? That the son-of-a-bitch probably did it all, but he’ll likely quit now? Yeah, she’ll just go for that one, won’t she now?” It was still snowing, and the flakes were the main thing his headlights illuminated, but there was so little traffic that he wasn’t concerned. He kept his brights on, which probably didn’t help except to alert oncoming vehicles he was there. Everybody else would do the same. He had four wheel drive. Some damn fool pedestrian was walking against traffic, doubtless headed to the Cumberland Farms convenience store he’d just passed.

A mile or so further on he figured it out. A disabled car, hazard lights blinking, was on the opposite shoulder. “Poor bastard. Bad night to be stuck. So, Lizzie, I guess we just go with Mario’s off the hook. I made my point, he made his. You think?” Lizzie edged over on the seat and licked his face. “Yeah, me too.”

He swung off Route 6 toward his house, rehearsing what he’d say to repair the fight. By the time he pulled into the driveway, he thought he had it about right.

“CiCi?” Calling as he opened the front door, which was locked. Rid flipped on lights as he made his way back to the kitchen. “Hey, Caroline!” The house was colder than he’d have expected. Had she let the wood stove go out? “CiCi? Where are you?” Worry in his voice now. He opened the basement door but there were no lights on down there. He ran up the stairs to check the bedrooms, Lizzie at his heels.

It came to him suddenly. Her car. It wasn’t in the driveway.
Goddammit.
He reversed so suddenly that he ran into Lizzie, who let out a rare yip of pain. “Sorry, girl, sorry.” Then, talking to himself, “Calm down, it’s okay. She probably went to her place. Mario was with me, nothin’ gonna happen over there,” working through it logically as he bent to check the dog, whose paw he’d tromped and shoulder he’d kneed. “I’m sorry, girl, you okay?” On his haunches, over and over he pushed down panic as he caressed Lizzie and massaged one of her front paws. “Mario’s not going to do anything else anyway. We’d had an argument, I took off, I was gone too long. She must’ve got more and more pissed off. Okay, first thing to do is call over there, make my apology, tell her I went to talk to Mario,” Rid explained to the dog.

Back downstairs, on his way to the phone by his recliner, he checked the bathroom she’d been using. “
Her stuff’s not here. That’s not good. Shouldn’t have gone out in this weather, for one thing, and no need to go off just because
.
”

At once, he knew. Gas. He knew damn well she’d told him there wasn’t gas in the car. He’d known it when he drove off this afternoon.
Stupid, stupid
. Then, the image of the snow walker on Route 6, the disabled car with the hazard lights flashing. No.
No.
In a frantic fluster, his manufactured calm in shards, he stuffed his feet back into boots, fumbled for coat and keys, dropping the keys as he tried to pick them up at the same time he pulled on gloves, and stumbled for the front door.
No.
Eyes stinging.
No.