Black Tide (24 page)

"That night, was it the first time?"

"Yeah. And you'll remember what was going on here last June. It was tense, quite tense, and when I got through with that mess, I guess I needed some reaffirmation. Paula and I spent the night and things were fine until I found that damn lump on my side. Ever since then, well, I wonder if I had spent that time with Paula, not because it was her, but because it was something I had to do to prove I was still breathing."

"You think too much."

"Curse of being a writer."

"Hah." Diane made another motion with the tiller and said quietly, the wind blowing her hair about, "1 know what you're talking about. Secrets. Both in my work and in my home, Lewis, sometimes I keep too many secrets and they're like a chain of locks hanging around my neck. There are a couple of investigations going on right now in town that people would love to know more about, especially your friend Paula, but I'm keeping shut.  And then there's my personal life. You know, it would be great, just once, if I could bring in Kara and show her where I work, show her my friends at the station and be proud of our relationship, instead of skulking around all the time."

"How does she feel about that?"

"Hah." Diane took off her sunglasses for a moment, rubbed at her eyes. "She works for Digital in Massachusetts, and they're a bit more open there. Her friends at work know she's gay and it's no big deal. Sometimes Kara doesn't quite understand the politics of a small town. If I came out, Jesus, could you imagine the fuss? The fool selectmen would probably demand that I be fired and I would, and it would take years and tons of lawyer money to win a suit. No, not this year. Not worth it. Some secrets you have to keep, no matter how distasteful the process."

Distasteful. Good word for secrets. I knew the circumstances of Tony Russo's death and I knew the identity of the headless and handless diver, yet I could not say one thing. It would cause too much trouble and publicity, and those were two things I could easily live without. We stayed silent for a few minutes as we got closer to Tyler Harbor. There were a few seagulls out on the ocean air, most of them following the fishing charter boats, looking for a free meal. As the Felch Memorial Bridge ---- which spans Tyler Harbor ---- got nearer, Diane said, “Get ready to take down the sails."

“Aye, aye, captain.” She stretched out a bare foot and gently touched my shin and I was startled. Diane was not one for random touches. "Yes?"

"How are you feeling, otherwise? Your incision healing all right?”

"It's doing fine," I said, which was true. The fresh red of a couple of weeks ago was continuing to fade away to a dull pink.

Diane nodded. "Something bad happened to you years ago. Isn't that true?"

I thought of all the fancy dance steps I had used in the past to avoid this subject, and this time, all I said was, "Yes."

She looked satisfied, yet troubled. "Few years back, when we first met, I was intrigued by you, Lewis. A magazine writer who happens to move into a prime piece of real estate, one formerly owned by the Department of the Interior. That made my cop bones tingle. I thought you were someone in the Witness Protection Program, or some drug dealer who was trying to lead a new life in my town. Didn't particularly like those thoughts, of someone with a nasty past moving into Tyler without me knowing about it."

Good God. "What did you do then?"

“Did the normal tracing, and came back with crap. I got your early life, all right, but then the only thing after you got out of college was you entering employment with the Department of Defense and then leaving some years later. Period. I was going to do some more but then the chief called me into his office and in polite terms told me to cut the shit and get back to work. I guess some people from D.C. rattled his cage, and that was that. So. I know that and I know something bad happened to you, and let me tell you, I wouldn't trade my secrets for yours for the best sailboat on this side of the Atlantic."

I looked up ahead, at the white sands of the beaches and the tiny dots that each meant a person, a human life, enjoying his or her day in the sun. For a moment I wished I was there, lost in that great anonymous crowd, blending in and not being bothered, just content to be warm and safe. Not much of a fantasy, but there it was.

"Have you done any more traces on me since then?" I asked.

"Nope. Satisfied my curiosity. To a point."

"Good. Diane, please don't do that again."

She nodded. "You can count on that. But speaking of tracing, well, you remember our agreement?"

"What agreement?"

"Well, Roger Krohn has set up Wednesday night for a double date, with a friend of his from Massachusetts. Remember that? And you said you'd do it if I'd do some traces for you. It's a deal, right?"

Again, that awful scene, of Tony Russo slumped against his car. I hadn't bothered with the local Sunday papers today because I did not want to be reminded of it, not for a second. I folded my arms and said, "No, it's not a deal."

"Lewis! Cut it out, you promised!"

I turned away and sighed and said, "Look, I didn't mean it that way. I'll still go out with you and pretend you're my true love so that Roger Krohn stops sniffing around you at work, but don't need that trace anymore."

"Hmmph." She kicked me with her bare foot. ''A deal's a deal, Lewis Cole. I don't want you thinking that I owe you anything from this Wednesday night. We made an agreement, a promise, and I take those kinds of things seriously, as you should, too. Give me those names and we'll be even, all right?"

I didn't feel like arguing, so I said, ''All right."

She smiled sweetly at me and said, "Now haul ass up forward and start bringing in the jib, or I'll keelhaul you, sailor."

"Promises, promises," I muttered as I went forward, and though I felt I was being stampeded into something, it was still nice to hear her laugh.

Later that evening I was back home, comfortably full after a dinner of barbecued steak and rice at Diane's. I had an ice I water in my hands and I was sitting on my deck, just thinking. A few minutes earlier I had gotten off the phone with Diane, having passed along the birth dates and Social Security numbers of Justin Dix, Craig Dummer and Ben Martin. Diane said she would have the trace completed in a couple of days. Always keep our promises, Diane had said, and well, I had promised to do that. Maybe Felix could do something with that information. I didn't particularly care that much at this moment. He hadn't called and I was glad. The answering machine light glowed a steady green. That also meant no phone calls from Paula Quinn, and I decided that she and I would have to talk soon. Not tomorrow or the next day, but soon.

The breeze was soft against my sunburned skin and with the quiet winds came something else, a reminder of an earlier promise: the scent of oil, still powerful and ruling after many weeks since the
Petro Star
disaster. I tried to ignore the smell, tried to look at the stars and at the running lights of the ships out there on the lonely Atlantic, but the hydrocarbons would not let me go.

I leaned back, rubbed the cold glass against my face. It felt good against the sunburn. "Promises," I said. "Secrets."

Then I went inside and upstairs and began to pack.

Chapter Fourteen

It was early afternoon on Monday, the day after my sail with Diane Woods, and I was nervous, with the back of my neck tense and my hands sore from having gripped the steering wheel of my Range Rover for long hours. I had gotten up with the sun, and after packing away some items, I had driven all that morning, and I felt as if I had traveled into another universe. Early this morning I had been on my lonely beach in Tyler, New Hampshire. This afternoon I was in Manhattan, and I was not enjoying myself. The drive through Massachusetts and Connecticut had been a long one, and the last half hour in this concrete-and-steel wasteland had been the worst.

I had found a parking garage near my target area, and that made me feel just a bit better. Leaving a Range Rover with New Hampshire plates out on the open streets of New York City was probably like leaving an engraved invitation for theft or mayhem, but I hoped that the garage would give me at least a couple of hours. I didn't intend to spend more than that in this city. The air was hazy and hot, and as I looked up past the skyscrapers, the sky as a bright yellow, with not a hint of blue.  The air smelled of trash and diesel exhaust, and the loud bedlam ---horns, sirens, construction noises ---- seemed to make my ears shudder. I was in a section of the city where there were shop selling videos and books about sex in all of its shapes and forms.  The men who ducked into those tiny places seemed to walk in their own world, staring at their feet, their shoulders hunched, fists in their pockets. The people about me on the wide sidewalk all seemed to be in a hurry, rushing to who knows where.   In the space of three city blocks, four different people asked me for money, and I came across two three-card Monte games, and man with bare feet, sleeping against a stoop with a puddle of urine about his buttocks.

It seemed hard to believe, but this part of Manhattan made me yearn for the reason and sanity of the Strip at Tyler Beach. Within a few minutes, at my quick-paced walk --- it only too me a few seconds to acquire the walking stance of the native New Yorker, which is two parts speed and one part intimidating look --- I made it to the Port Authority Building on West Forty-second Street. Buses were grumbling in and out of the side streets of the terminal, and yellow taxicabs sped about in long lines, hunting for fares and passengers.

Inside the Port Authority I passed a gauntlet of young men, both black and white, who seemed to be sizing up the people streaming in and out of the first floor. I followed the motto of the out-of-towner in Manhattan --- keep moving and don't act, though you're lost --- and I went to a deli counter and bought a cup of Coke and ice for two dollars. I leaned against a brick wall and watched the movement of people rushing in and out of the building. I wished for a moment that I had a telepathic ability tap into each person's mind as he or she walked by. The black businessman in the expensive suit, wearing earphones.  The young Asian woman carrying two large suitcases and wearing a brimmed white hat. Two bearded men in suits and white shirts with no ties, arguing with each other in a language I didn't understand.

After a bit I watched the activity around the banks of telephones where I got the attention of two young white men, wearing jeans and leather vests and with long hair, who talked and joked with each other, but whose eyes seemed to belong to an early warning surveillance system. Every couple of minutes they would talk in hushed tones with a businessman at the phones, and once I was sure I saw money being passed along.

I finished my Coke, tossed the cup into an overflowing trash can and strolled over to the phones. I caught the eye of the taller one. He made a motion and his friend was looking at me. I nodded and said, "I need what you're selling."

The shorter of the two laughed. He had a silver nose plug in his left nostril. "Man, what makes you think we got anything for you?"

"I got eyes, and I need two long-distance numbers. What's the charge? "

The taller one shook his head and said, "Cop," and the other one said, "Wait a sec, Jack. Look at his face, all sunburned like that. How many cops you know out in the sun all day? Where'd you get that burn, m'man?"

On a sailboat.”

They both laughed at that and the shorter one said, "Man,  that’s a story no cop could come up with. Why you need two?"

I smiled. "None of your business, right? How about a deal or I go elsewhere."

The taller one wasn't smiling. "Twenty a pop. Right now.”

“You'll get your first twenty for the two numbers," I said.  “I want to test them both, right here, and you get your other twenty." “

“Deal," the shorter one said, and he passed over two slips of paper. I gave him a twenty-dollar bill and went to the closest phone, making sure my back wasn't turned to these two young entrepreneurs.

Using the long-distance codes, I dialed two numbers from memory, numbers I had not had cause to remember for years. For the first one, a brisk female voice said, "White House," and I hung up. Then I dialed again, got an equally brisk voice saying, "Pentagon," and I was rude for the second time that afternoon.

I slipped another twenty-dollar bill to one of the Phone Thief Brothers, and then got the hell out of the Port Authority and made a quick walk back to the parking garage where my Rover was parked. My time in Manhattan was over.

Three hours later I was in the upstate New York town of Greenville, at a place called the Carriage Stall Motel near Route 32. It was a typical L-shaped motel with a swimming pool in place of a courtyard. I parked at the farthest point in the parking lot, and walked to the motel's office. A bell chimed as I stepped on the door pad and an older man came out, wearing a white T-shirt and sagging green work pants. He hadn't shaved that day and gray hair grew in tufts from his ears. I paid for two nights' stay with cash, and with an extra twenty slipped his way, I asked for a room that had no neighbors.

"I'm a light sleeper," I explained, and that didn't even make him shrug. On the registration card, I said my name was Norm Lincoln, that I lived on 1326 Oak Street in Decatur, Illinois, and under occupation I listed "financial adviser." I also said I was driving a Saturn and made up a license plate number. The manager must have been having a busy day, for he didn't ask me for an ID, which was nice. That meant I could stay. If challenged, I was going to leave and try my luck at a motel in another town.