Black Tide (5 page)

I nodded and buried myself back in the
Globe.
At least in those pages were people who thought they had all the answers.

             
When I was done with my shower I stepped out and rubbed myself down with a big white towel and then I looked at myself in the steamy mirror. My short dark brown hair had a few more flecks of gray, and there were a few more lines around my blue eyes. I dried myself off and then checked my skin, as I do every day. There's a faded scar along my left side just above my kidney, on my back near the coccyx and on my left knee. And above the faded scar on my left side was the new and bright one, pink and fresh-looking, with the suture marks still quite visible. Eventually the scar would fade away to a dull pink and so would the suture holes, and then the suture holes would close up, and for all intents and purposes, I would be considered healed.

Yeah. Right. I

In my bedroom I put on a fresh pair of light blue gym shorts and a T-shirt that said "Glavkosmos," which is the civilian space agency for whatever's left of the old Soviet Union. My bed is an old four-poster oak antique, and I have a matching set of bureaus to go with it. In one corner, sitting on a tripod, is my reflecting telescope, and in another corner is a bookshelf. Near the bookshelf is a sliding door that leads out to a smaller deck on the south end of the house, and which has great views of North Beach and Weymouth's Point. I could check the beach with my reflector telescope and see if Diane Woods and Roger Krohn were still there, laboring in the rain, but since I had company, I let it slide. Besides, I had seen the headless and handless diver up close. I had no urge to see him again, even if it was from a comfortable and considerable distance.

I padded back downstairs in bare and slightly wet feet and found Felix leaning against the counter, a glass of water in his hand. "

Thought I'd just have some ice water," he said, swirling the ice cubes around. "It's too early for a beer." He looked down at the glass. "Too bad there's no limes. Lewis, your refrigerator is damn near empty."

"I hate to shop," I said, joining him in the kitchen, which is always clean because I hardly ever cook in it. That's probably not a philosophy that would go over well with certain PBS home cooking hosts, but it worked for me.

"Maybe so, but it seems you like to buy some things," and with that, Felix tapped his foot against a light green plastic bin under the counter that had "Tyler Recycles" on its side in white letters. With each tap of the foot came a clink-clink of empty beer bottles striking one another.

"Is that a week's worth?" he asked, and I didn't feel like telling him the truth, so I said, "I haven't been to the recycling center for a while, so it adds up."

"Yeah, well, other things can add up too, Lewis, and I don't want to see you get fat and sloppy."

"Thanks for your concern," I said, moving past him to get to the refrigerator, and for a moment I thought about getting a beer just to egg him on, but instead I poured myself some lemonade. Outside, the rain was still coming down in thundering gray sheets and I was sure that North Beach was probably now empty, save for Diane and Roger and the cops and maybe even Paula Quinn. What a way to make a living.

Though it was warm, Felix had kept on his jacket and he said, "What were you up to this afternoon, Lewis? You said something about going fishing?"

The lemonade was sharp and cold and wonderful, and I said, “About an hour or so ago, I saw something floating in the water. This something turned out to be a diver. I got to North Beach and helped bring him to shore, and when he got there, it seemed pretty sure that his death wasn't accidental drowning."

"Oh?" Felix said, raising one eyebrow.

"Unless drowning divers are in the habit of cutting their hands and head off while they're dying. Sound like anything you might have run into, years back?" Then it seemed as if I had insulted him tremendously, for his face flushed and his eyes narrowed down and I saw that the skin on his hand was turning lighter as he squeezed the water glass.

But instead of cursing at me in his favorite Italian phrases, he just shook his head and said, "Lewis, I don't know much but I do know this: you do not want to write a column about this one. This is heavy, quite heavy. Sounds like some of our South American brethren had a point to make with that guy. Up in these woods at least, if you're taken care of, it's just you and maybe an ally or two. But some of those groups down south…. Lewis, they'll take you and your family and your maid and your dog and your first-grade teacher if they can find her."

I took another swallow of lemonade. The rain was plastering itself against the windows, making a sound like the glass was being slapped with wet towels, and I said, "Relax, Felix. I'm in no mood to track this one down. I'm going to let Diane Woods and the Tyler police and the State Police have everything on their own. My column this month is probably going to be on the new fisheries bill."

He seemed to relax a bit at that. He placed the half-empty water glass on the counter and said, "Good. That's why they get paid tax dollars. To shine flashlights in dark places and find out things other people would rather not know about."

"Nice point of view," I said. I raised my lemonade glass up in a salute and said, ''A few minutes ago you said you had problems, and that you needed to ask me something. Well, ask away, Felix. "

"Well," he said, hunching himself up a bit in his jacket. "It's sort of complicated."

"With you, Felix, I'm sure it couldn't be anything but."

He motioned to the living room. "Mind if we sit down?"

I nodded and followed him into the next room, which was an open living room and adjacent to the kitchen. He sat on the couch and I took one of the two nearby chairs. Near us was a stereo and GE television with VCR unit, and in the large room were three bookshelves, crammed with hardcovers and paperbacks. Against the open stairs leading up to the second floor was the cold and quiet brick of the room's fireplace. Behind me were the sliding-glass doors that led out to the first-floor deck, where I had been earlier that day, dreamily drinking a bottle of beer and getting ready for another one, when I saw the shape moving across the water. The day's events had quickly burned off whatever alcohol I had consumed, and though I was tired, I was ready for whatever Felix had to say.

Above Felix's head and mounted on the wall was an old photograph of the White Fleet, the naval fleet that our second President of the twentieth century sent around the world in 1907 to prove that the United States was now a great power to be dealt with. There's also a framed picture of the space shuttle
Discovery
taking off on the other wall, and in both of their journeys, they circled the globe and spoke of United States power and prestige. One fleet was now only scrap metal, and the other, smaller white fleet was still alive, and that suited me fine.

Then Felix surprised me by saying, "I need your help."

"You need what?"

"Your help." He stretched out his feet on the hardwood floor of my house, which was covered by oriental rugs purchased at estate auctions throughout the state. "I'm involved with something tricky, something complex."

I held the glass of lemonade in both hands and said, "What are you trying to do, write a magazine article?"

Outside, the rain was still roaring down, and there was a hard slap-slap sound of the rain falling on the first-floor deck. Another rumble of thunder came from the south. This storm was taking its time in moving through.

Felix tugged at an ear and said, "I'm not joking, Lewis. Look. I'm dealing with something that's interrupting my regular business. It's become a hassle, and I need your company and your good graces, along with your calming influence, as I handle things. I need an outsider's point of view. Otherwise, I'm afraid that I might lose it, might lose it bad. And I want to walk away from this one nice and happy and resume my career."

"It must be a weird and tough time when you come see a magazine writer for help," I said.

He eyed me for a moment and said, "You may say you're nothing more than a writer, Lewis, and that's like me telling everyone I'm just a security consultant. Wordplay, that's all. What counts is what's there, and what I know about you and your background makes you more than just a writer. You had some years at the Department of Defense, and from what little I've learned, you were up to your eyeballs in some sort of black work. Then something happened in Nevada to put you in a hospital and that's it, nothing else. And then you ended up here with a habit of getting into stuff that's right on the border. So don't try to play spin doctor on who you are and what you can do, Lewis. I know what kind of pay there is in magazines, and unless you own one, I don't think you could afford this place and the wheels you drive around in."

I nodded at him and said, "Thanks for the philosophy lesson. Give me some background, Felix, and words on why you came here."

Felix sat back and tossed an arm across the couch and the leather of his shoulder holster became visible. "Some old history is coming back to bite me, that's what's wrong. I've been getting calls and mail these past couple of weeks, people asking me the address of one of Jimmy Corelli's safe houses. Jimmy's been dead for a couple of years --- he died in Leavenworth, in his sleep, if you can believe it --- and he had a couple of safe houses that he used whenever he needed to get away from Boston. These houses were in false names and Jimmy dealt with some real estate firms through third parties that kept the taxes and utilities and landscaping paid. Where these houses are located is about as deep a secret as you can get."

He rubbed the fabric on the rear of the couch. "There haven't been that many firefights and feuds here in New England --- at least not lately --- but it's always made sense to have a base or two where you could lie low until things quieted down."

"So you worked for this Jimmy Corelli?" I asked.

Felix shrugged. "Yeah, for a while, when I was younger. I was sort of a utility player back then. Passed around to whoever needed something done at the time. And for a bit I was a soldier for Jimmy Corelli."

''And when you worked for him, you found out where his safe houses were."

He held up a finger. "Only one, Lewis. Only one."

"So who's asking you about the safe house now?"

Felix managed a slight smile at that one. "Nameless and gutless wonders who leave odd messages on my answering machine and send me nasty notes. Threats that say horrible things will happen if I don't reveal the location of Corelli's safe house. They want me to send a note to a post office box in Porter with the safe house's address. So the fact that people are asking me about the house's location made me think that maybe now I'm the only one who knows where it is. Which can happen, the way they keep secrets." He laughed. "Like I have to tell you about keeping secrets."

"I imagine you weren't in a hurry to come right out and write that note about where the house is." "

You imagined right."

I shifted in my seat. The sounds of the rain started to slow down, and the rumbling of the thunder seemed to quiet some. I said, "Sounds like something important is stashed at the safe house. Money. Drugs. Jimmy Hoffa."

Felix's smile was wider. "My thoughts exactly. So one afternoon I went up there and the house was still where I remembered it, looking nice and neat. I let myself in with a key that's hidden on the property, and it only took me about five minutes to find out what the fuss is all about."

''And what's the fuss?" Felix crossed his legs and his pant leg rolled up, exposing a length of sock. Felix is the type of guy who would never have socks short enough to expose his shins while crossing his legs.

He said, "My secret, for now. Let's just say that what's at the house is something that was stolen from this state five years ago, and which made tremendous news at the time. You were probably still working in D.C. five years ago, right?"

I held up my near-empty glass. "Like you said, that's my secret, for now. So what's the big deal? Tell them where the house is and let them be on their way."

Felix shook his head. "That's against my principles, to give away something for nothing, and especially when they've been so rude to me. They want the location of the house and what's in there, then it's going to cost them some money."

"They might not want to give you any money, Felix."

He replied harshly: "They might not have a choice."

I looked at him and said, "It must be something quite valuable, then."

He nodded. "Quite. And in addition to wanting some money, I want some guarantees. The value of what's there… Well, let's just say that it's a great incentive for someone to take care of any loose ends. My mamma didn't raise me to be a loose end, Lewis. So I'm looking for money, and I'm looking for guarantees."

The rain had nearly stopped, and the sky was growing lighter, as the dark clouds moved south. I said, "So why in hell are you here, looking for me?"

He uncrossed his leg, smoothed out the fabric of his pants. "Like I said before, I need your calming influence. Eventually there's going to be some discussion, some sort of negotiations. They're going to do their best to upset me, to make me fly off the handle. Okay, that comes with the turf. But I'm looking for you to help me out, to make me see things clearly."