Plum Island (55 page)

So, instead of taking the New London ferry back to Long Island—which could put me at one of the points of an all-points bulletin
and subject to a hassle by the Connecticut fuzz—I drove west through some scenic back roads, singing along to some dopey show
tune station—Ooowk—lahoma! where the wind comes sweeping down the plains, and all that.

Meanwhile, my right hand was aching and my left hand was stiffening up. In fact, my right knuckles were a little swollen.
Jeez. “Gettin’ old.” I flexed both hands. Oow!

My cell phone rang. I didn’t answer it. I crossed into New York State where I had a better shot at jukin’ and jivin’ the fuzz
if they were on my case.

I passed the Throgs Neck Bridge exit where most people would cross to Long Island, and I continued on and crossed at the Whitestone
Bridge, which may have been appropriate. “The Emma Whitestone Bridge.” I sang, “I’m in love. I’m in love, I’m in love with
a wonderful girl!” I love soppy show tunes.

Over the bridge, I headed east on the parkway, back toward the North Fork of Long Island. It was a very roundabout way because
I had to avoid the ferry, but I couldn’t judge what Paul Stevens was going to do about being decked twice in his own backyard.
Not to mention falling on his face when he tried to take a step with his tied shoelaces.

My guess, though, was that he had not called the cops. And if he did not want to report a trespassing and assault, then that
was very suggestive. Paul conceded this round, knowing there’d be another. My problem was, he’d pick the next time and place
and sort of surprise me with it. Oh, well. If you play hardball, to switch sports metaphors, you have to expect a beanball
now and then.

By seven
P.M.
, I was back on the North Fork, having driven some three hundred miles. I didn’t want to go home, so I stopped at the Olde
Towne Taverne and had a beer or two. I said to the bartender, a guy named Aidan, whom I knew, “Did you ever meet Fredric Tobin?”

He replied, “I bartended a party he had once at his house. But I didn’t exchange five words with him.”

“What’s the story on him?”

Aidan shrugged. “I don’t know…. I hear all kinds of things.”

“Such as?”

“Well, some people say he’s gay, some say he’s a ladies’ man. Some people say he’s broke and owes everybody. Some people say
he’s cheap, others say he’s easy with a buck. You know? You get a guy like that, comes here, starts a whole business from
scratch, and you’re going to get mixed reviews. He’s stepped on some toes, but he’s been good to some people, too, I guess.
He’s tight with the pols and the cops. You know?”

“I do.” I asked Aidan, “Where does he live?”

“Oh, he’s got a place down in Southold by Founders Landing. You know where that is?”

“No.”

Aidan gave me directions and said, “Can’t miss it. Big, big.”

“Right. Hey, somebody told me that there’s pirate treasure buried around here.”

Aidan laughed. “Yeah. My old man said there used to be holes dug all over the place when he was a kid. If anybody found anything,
they’re not talking.”

“Right. Why share with Uncle Sam?”

“No kidding.”

“Have you heard anything new about the double murder at Nassau Point?”

He said, “Nope. I think, personally, those people stole something dangerous, and the government and the cops are making up
a lot of crap about some vaccine. I mean, what are they gonna say? The world’s coming to an end? No. They say, ‘Don’t worry—it
can’t hurt you.’ Bullshit.”

“Right.” I think the CIA, the FBI, and the government in general should always try out their bullshit on bartenders, barbers,
and taxi drivers before they try to sell it to the country. I mean, I usually bounce things off bartenders or my barber when
I need a reality check, and it works.

Aidan said, “Hey, what’s the difference between Mad Cow Disease and PMS?”

“What?”

“There
is
no difference.” He slapped his rag on the bar and laughed. “Get it?”

“Yup.” I left the OTT, saddled up, and drove to a place called Founders Landing.

I
t was getting dark when I got to Founders Landing, but I could see a waterfront park at the end of the road. I also saw a
stone monument that said, “Founders Landing— 1640.” I deduced that this was where the group from Connecticut first landed.
If they had stopped at Foxwoods first, they would probably have arrived here in their skivvies.

To the east of the park was a big, big house, bigger than Uncle Harry’s and more colonial than Victorian. The house was surrounded
by a nice wrought iron fence, and I could see cars parked in front of it and some cars up on the side lawn. I could also hear
music coming from the rear of the property.

I parked on the street and walked down to the open wrought iron gate. I wasn’t sure of the attire, but I spotted a couple
in front of me, and the guy was dressed pretty much as I was—blue blazer, no tie, no socks.

I found my way to the back lawn, which was wide and deep, sloping down to the bay. There were striped tents, colored party
lights strung from tree to tree, blazing tonga torches, hurricane candles on the umbrellaed tables, flowers by Whitestone,
a six-piece combo playing Big Band stuff, a few bars, and a long buffet table; the very height of East Coast seaside chic,
the very best that the old civilization had to offer—and the weather was cooperating. Truly F. Tobin was blessed.

I noticed, too, a big blue and white banner strung between towering oak trees. The banner read, “Peconic Historical Society
Annual Party.”

A pretty young woman wearing a period costume came up to me and said, “Good evening.”

“So far.”

“Come and choose a hat.”

“Excuse me?”

“You have to wear a hat to get a drink.”

“Then I want six hats.”

She giggled, took my arm, and led me to a long table on which were about two dozen idiotic hats—tricornered hats of various
colors, some with feathers, some with plumes, some with gold braid like navy hats of the period, and some black hats with
the white skull and crossbones. I said, “I’ll take the pirate hat.”

She picked one off the table and put it on my head. “You look dangerous.”

“If you only knew.”

Out of a big cardboard box she fetched a plastic cutlass, such as the one Emma had attacked me with, and she slid it into
my belt. “There you are,” she said.

I left the young lady so she could greet a group who had just arrived, and I walked farther onto the sweeping lawn, hatted
and armed. The band was playing “Moonlight Serenade.”

I looked around and saw that there weren’t too many people yet, about fifty, all hatted up, and I suspected the big crowd
would arrive after sundown in about half an hour. I didn’t see Max, Beth, Emma, or anyone I knew for that matter. I did, however,
locate the closest bar and asked for a beer.

The bartender, dressed in a pirate costume, said, “Sorry, sir, only wine and soft drinks.”

“
What?
That’s outrageous. I need a beer. I have my hat.”

“Yes, sir, but there’s no beer. May I suggest a sparkling white? It has bubbles, and you can pretend.”

“May I suggest you find me a beer by the time I get back here?”

I wandered around, beerless, and checked out the acreage. I could see the park from here, the place where the first settlers
landed, sort of the local Plymouth Rock, I guess, but virtually unknown outside of this area. I mean, who knew that the
Fortune
followed the
Mayflower
? Who cares about second and third place? This is America.

I watched Mr. Tobin’s guests spread out over his broad lawn, standing, walking, sitting at the white round tables, everyone
wearing a hat with a feather, glass in hand, chatting. They were a sedate group, or so they appeared at this early hour—no
rum and sex on the beach or skinny-dipping or naked volleyball or anything like that. Just social intercourse.

I saw that Mr. Tobin had a long dock, at the end of which was a good-sized boathouse. Also, several boats were tied up at
the long dock, and I assumed they belonged to guests. If this party had been held a week earlier, the
Spirochete
would have been here.

Anyway, curious sort that I am, I walked the length of the dock toward the boathouse. Right before the opening of the boathouse
was a big cabin cruiser, about thirty-five feet long. It was named the
Autumn Gold
, and I assumed it was Mr. Tobin’s boat, named after his new wine, or named after Mr. Tobin’s as-yet-to-be-discovered treasure.
In any case, Mr. T liked his toys.

I entered the boathouse. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from both ends to see two boats, one on either side
of the dock. The boat to the right was a small, flat-bottomed Whaler of the type you could take into shallow water or wetlands.
The other on the left side of the dock was a speedboat, in fact, a Formula 303, the exact same model as the Gordons’. For
a half second, I had the spooky feeling that the Gordons had returned from the dead to crash the party and scare the crap
out of Freddie. But it wasn’t the
Spirochete
—this 303 was named
Sondra
, presumably after Fredric’s current squeeze. I suppose it was easier to change the name of a boat than to get a tattoo off
your arm.

Anyway, neither the cabin cruiser nor the speedboat interested me, but the flat-bottomed Whaler did. I lowered myself into
the small boat. It had an outboard motor, and it also had oarlocks. There were two oars lying on the dock. More interesting,
there was a pole, about six feet long, of the type used to move a boat through bulrushes and reeds where neither oars nor
motor could be used. Also, the Whaler’s deck was a little muddy. In the stern was a plastic crate filled with odds and ends
and among them was a compressed-air foghorn.

“Are you looking for something?”

I turned to see Mr. Fredric Tobin standing on the dock, wineglass in hand, wearing a rather elaborate purple tricornered hat
with a flowing plume. He was stroking his short beard as he stared at me. Mephistophelian, indeed.

I said, “I was admiring your boat.”

“
That
boat? Most people notice the speedboat or the Chris-Craft,” he said, indicating the cabin cruiser docked just outside the
boathouse.

I said, “I thought that was the
Autumn Gold.
”

“The
make
of the boat is a Chris-Craft.”

He was speaking to me with a tiny tone of irritation in his tiny voice which I did not like. I said, “Well, this little guy
here is more in my price range.” I smiled disarmingly. I do that before I fuck somebody big-time. I said, “When I saw the
Formula 303, I thought the Gordons had returned from the dead.”

He did not like that at all.

I added, “But then I saw it wasn’t the
Spirochete
—it’s called the
Sondra
, which is appropriate. You know—fast, sleek, and hot.” I love pissing off assholes.

Mr. Tobin said coolly, “The party is on the lawn, Mr. Corey.”

“I noticed.” I climbed up to the dock and said, “This is some place you have here.”

“Thank you.”

In addition to the fruity hat, Mr. T was wearing white ducks, a blue double-breasted blazer, and an outrageous scarlet ascot.
My goodness. I said, “I like your hat.”

He said, “Let me introduce you to some of my guests.”

“That would be terrific.”

And off we went, out of the boathouse and along the dock. I asked him, “How far is the Gordon dock from here?”

“I have no idea.”

“Take a guess.”

“Maybe eight miles. Why?”

“More like ten,” I said. “You have to go around Great Hog Neck. I checked my car map. About ten.”

“What is your point?”

“No point. Just making seaside conversation.”

We were back on the lawn now, and Mr. Tobin reminded me, “You will not question any of my guests about the Gordon murders.
I’ve spoken to Chief Maxwell, and he has agreed to that, and he further reiterated that you have no official standing here.”

“You have my word that I won’t bother any of your guests with police questions about the Gordon murders.”

“Or anything to do with the Gordons at all.”

“I promise. But I need a beer.”

Mr. Tobin looked around, saw a young lady with a tray of wine, and said to her, “Please go into the house and get this gentleman
a beer. Pour it into a wineglass.”

“Yes, sir.” And off she went. Boy, it must be nice to be rich and to tell people, “I want this, and I want that.”

Mr. Tobin said to me, “You’re not a hat person.” He excused himself and left me standing alone. I was afraid to move lest
the serving girl with the beer not find me.

It was deep dusk now, and the colored party lights twinkled, the torches blazed, the candles glowed. A nice gentle land breeze
blew the bugs out to sea. The band was playing “Stardust.” The trumpet player was terrific. Life is good. I was glad I wasn’t
dead.

I watched Fredric work the party, person by person, couple by couple, group by group, laughing, joking, adjusting their hats,
and putting plastic swords in the belts of ladies who had belts. Unlike the most famous Long Island party-giver, Jay Gatsby,
Fredric Tobin did not watch his party from afar. Quite the opposite, he was right in there, mixing it up, being the most perfect
host ever.