The Penny Ferry - Rick Boyer (19 page)

"I agree."

"Well, Pop went from New York up to Schenectady,
where he had some relatives. He learned to be a plasterer, and he
earned good money, which he saved. He got married and Mom worked too,
as a pastry cook. They saved and saved. just before World War Two,
rock lath came in. Most people dismissed it as a fad, but Pop saw the
writing on the wall— no pun intended. He knew rock lath was here to
stay, and that it would put him out of business. I don't know if you
know this, but it took a week to put up a real plaster wall. The
wooden lath, sometimes wire lath, then the rough coat. Day or so
later the brown or scratch coat. Finally the finish coat. A great
wall, but a lot of time and dough. So Pop, using his common sense and
some of the saved money, got some young greaseballs off the anchovy
boats and trained them to put up rock lath. That was the start of his
contracting business."

"Ah sooo."

"It was small at first, and Pop worked with
them, doing the fancy cornice work and stuff. Before long he hired
more greaseballs to work as carpenters, putting up studding and door
frames. About that time Pop ran into a young Polack named Ray
Woznicki, who was a plumber. Well, both guys were looking for a shop
and some rolling stock, and they thought if they could go together on
the capital equipment both would benefit. Ray wasn't Italian, but he
was Catholic, which was almost as good. They were in the same parish.
So they went in as partners, and each guy moved out of his garage and
into their new rented building in the center of town. Result? Central
Construction Company. Hah! Original, huh?"

"And so it just grew and grew."

"
And so it just grew and grew. Right. Pop went
overseas in the war and fought at Anzio and all up through his old
country, then came home. Ray didn't come home; he got shot to pieces
on Iwo. Broke Pop's heart. Old Mrs. Woznicki, Ray's widow, she still
owns a lot of the company. Anyway, Central Construction grew like
Topsy in the postwar boom, and they went into retail. . . started a
lumberyard and supply house along with the contracting company. Now
Pop was hiring greaseball architects, for Chrissake."

"Amazing!"

"No, not amazing. You're forgetting it all
happened real gradually, Doc, over years and years. And sometimes,
growing up, I remember some pretty lean years. But it kept growing
mostly, and Pop paid off his notes, and then he did the smartest
thing of all."

"What?"

"He got out. As Kenny Rogers says in the song,
he knew when to fold 'em. Around nineteen sixty Pop saw the dramatic
rise in union scale. The greaseballs were now making more than he
was. No good. It was the rock-lath story all over again to Pop. You
couldn't pay a guy nine bucks an hour to slam nails. Again, common
sense. Forget the financial rags and the guys with MBAs . . . good
old common sense, eh?"

"Right."

"So in sixty-one Pop sold the contracting
business for a bundle, and put the money into three big retail stores
specializing in what Pop saw would be the new thing: do-it-yourself
home improvement. So there you are."

We sat in silence for a minute.

"America is a great country," I said.

"
It sure as hell is. Got some warts, but we're
the best around. You bet! So come on in now and have some
bouillabaisse."

When the fish stew was ready Mary served it in big
crocks she had made. Each one held over a quart of bouillabaisse,
which we ate with huge wooden spoons. There was a long baguette of
French garlic bread, and more cold Soave. Okay, they'd done it to me.

"Well I wish you luck on this bad business,
Joe," I said, refilling my glass. "I really hope you catch
the guys who did Johnny in. And I hope Sam doesn't get hurt, either.
But one thing's for sure: I'm out of it. My mouthpiece is nowhere to
be found. So they chucked it into some old trash can somewhere and
it's gone for keeps. So that lets me out. Exit Doc." '

"About time," growled Mary, who was
cracking a lobster claw in her teeth. "No more screwing around
in old factories and getting shot at."

But she was wrong, and so was I. Because my
mouthpiece was about to surface in a most surprising manner. And like
so many things that come back at you— like the late john Robinson's
voice— it came with strings attached.
 
 

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Life's biggest problem is that it's boring. At least
it's boring most of the time. When it's not boring it's terrifying.
But when the panic subsides the needle does not settle back to
mid-range, which consists of stimulating, interesting, exciting. No.
Instead it drops right back into boring. There's no middle ground in
life, or precious little of it.

So, in accordance with this zero-to-red line-to-zero
pattern of life's tachometer, I was bored and depressed following
work the next afternoon. My day's labors had consisted of removing
impacted third molars. It's a painful but necessary procedure. It's
how I make the bulk of my living. I hate it. None of my patients had
been happy to greet me. Afterward, though glad the operation was
over, they departed sullenly, with swollen jowls, in anticipation of
the pain to come when the local wore off. Bad. I went for a slow run
out along the Old Road to Nine-Acre Corners, then back around to Old
Stone Mill Road where we live. I took a sauna, assembled and fiddled
with my new compound archery bow, and took the mail into the study to
go through it. I listened to Wagner. It was the funeral march from
Seigfried. Very stirring. Heroic. When the Chicago Symphony plays
Wagner, with that great brass section, you can hear the alpenhorns
echoing off the purplish far walls of the Jungfrau . . . The only
trouble with Wagner is that if you listen to too much of him, you get
to actually believe it. And then it's not too difficult to imagine
yourself walking out to the nearest aerodrome, climbing into your
Stuka, and roaring off into the wild blue to strafe civilians.

Got to watch it with old Richard Wagner.

Halfway through the mail call I came across a
government form bearing a U.S. Postal Service inscription. It was
from the post office in Lowell, informing me that "an item of
personal property" had been found in one of their postal
facilities, and that I could claim said item by appearing there in
person, bearing the proper identification, within thirty days.

An item of personal property . . . found in a postal
facility . . .It couldn't be. It was too good to be true. To hell
with thirty days;'I hightailed it to the phone and dialed the Lowell
P.O. It was after four; I had forty minutes to get there before they
closed. After much runaround and holding, I finally got to the young
lady who was familiar with the item.

"Well, we were wondering when you'd call back,
Doctor Adams. You see, you gotta have the slip in your hand, as well
as the I.D. It's just the rules."

"I understand. Well, I'll be right up, so stay
put. You want me to describe it?"

"No, not again. I'll be here. 'Bye."

On the drive up I couldn't help thinking that part of
her phone conversation had sounded funny. Did she have the correct
item? Was she confusing me with someone else? It wouldn't seem likely
in a town the size of Lowell.

I arrived just before closing, and soon was facing
the young woman across the counter. I showed her the proper
identification.

"Should I describe the package?"

She gave a little giggle, as if I were obviously
kidding, then gave me a questioning sidelong glance with furrowed
brow.

"Your voice change?"

"Hmm?"

"Your voice. It sounds different. Gotta cold,
mistah?"

I stared around the building. I was beginning to
think I was in a Franz Kafka novel. A fat man appeared next to the
young lady and glared at me over his droopy glasses. He looked at me,
looked at the slip, looked at me, looked at the slip, looked at me.
Later on in the year he was going to try something really
challenging, like toilet training.

"Whats a big idea?" he asked me.

"What big idea? I'm here to claim my personal
item. I have furnished the required identification and am prepared to
describe the item. It's a small package from Investment Alloy
Laboratories in Cambridge, which is a dental lab. And the piece is
valuable to me."

"
Must be, the way you been buggin' us about it,"
he said.

Back into the Kafka novel again.

"
Excuse me. I only called once."

"Frank, he don't sound like the other guy,"
said the girl. "I asked him if his voice changed."

"What other guy?" I asked.

"
A guy named Charles Adams has been callin' us
continual for the past two days, did we find a box, you know? But we
ain't found no box, till yesterday. Then we send the note out,
right?"

"
Did he call you today?" I asked.

"Uh-huh. About forty minutes ago."

"No dear, that was me."'

She giggled again. Frank looked at me, looked at the
slip, looked at me, looked at the slip. . .

"
That's just what he said each time: it's me."
She laughed.

"But I described the package."

"
Yeah," said Frank, "four times."

I sighed, and swept my eyes around the place.
Somebody else wanted the package. Somebody who knew what it looked
like. And also somebody who knew the post office would have it. Who
was it? Not the guys chipping at the factory wall, because he thought
the package was still in there. Or maybe he was after the newsboy's
pouch . . . the empty pouch . . .

They finally let me have the package because they
knew I wasn't leaving without it, and it was closing time. The best
way to win an argument with a government employee is to do it just
before quitting time. I filled out another special form and departed
with the box, which was only as big as a pack of cigarettes. It had
been opened, and the post-office people had not opened it. The letter
carrier had found it, as is, in a letter box near the old factory. It
could have been there all weekend. The mouth-piece was there, in
perfect condition. They had never seen the other caller at the post
office, nor had he left any phone number or address. One thing for
sure: he knew where to find me.

But he didn't even wait until I got home. At the
third light I knew the dark-blue Olds behind me wasn't there by
coincidence. I did a double cloverleaf on and off of 495 and he was
still on my tail. He was following me, as Brian Hannon might say,
like stink on a skunk.

South on Route 3 he sped up, swerved to the left-hand
passing lane, and tried to come alongside. But I swerved left too and
blocked him. He tried to pass on the right and I blocked him again.
Then I pulled out the light switch while I tromped on the gas pedal.
He braked hard when he saw the rear lights flash on, and I had the
edge for a few seconds, but it didn't work and I wasn't surprised. An
International Scout is no match for an Olds sedan on the highway. He
tried the passing routine again and this time I let him. But as he
passed me he tried to run me off onto the shoulder. And we weren't
alone on the road, either. My mystery friend wanted that cardboard
box pretty badly. When he tried to head me off I got a little
belligerent and swerved right into him. Ka-whunk! Our fenders banged
and shrieked, and I even saw sparks. A Scout may not be fast, but
it's heavy-duty and good on the body punches . . . just like Dempsey.
I had bloodied Blue Olds's nose a bit and he backed off.

I couldn't see the driver clearly at all. He had no
front plate, either. I guess I was a little heated up by this time
and didn't care what happened to the Scout's body. I wanted to put
Mystery Man into the opposing lane, right smack into a Peterbilt or a
Mack. But I think he sensed this, and stayed back. He got no closer
than a hundred feet but stayed with me like an echo. We crossed the
Bedford line, then on into Concord. I went along to the town and hit
Walden Road. Half a mile along it I swerved into a parking lot and
Mystery Man followed me in. But he did a three-sixty right away and
barreled out of there on two wheels. And as it was, it was lucky for
him he wasn't tagged right then and there. I went inside and told the
desk sergeant to follow that car. Then I went upstairs to Brian
Hannon's office.

"
Smart thing, coming to the police station,"
he said as he ignited a Lucky and waved out the match. "Usually
crooks feel unsafe around them."

"Except for this one."

"Your comedy is not appreciated, Doctor Adams.
I'll have you know that the people of Concord, and of the
Commonwealth, depend on me and my staff to—"

"Listen to this. I want to tell you what's been
happening lately. Maybe you can help me figure it out."

"Maybe I can, maybe not. I'm very busy right
now."

"
So I see," I said, pointing at the
unfinished crossword puzzle on his desk.

He frowned and squinted at me and leaned back in his
chair, blowing smoke rings. When I finished he scratched the side of
his balding head. Then he spoke.

"What happened was, they went through the pouch
in the room at the factory, okay? They not only opened it there; they
went through the contents. The empty envelope from the Boston library
proves this. They sorted through the papers and discarded the
envelope. They opened your box from the lab and decided they didn't
need it. So on their way home one of them, who decided to do his good
turn for the day—"