High Season (10 page)

“What about you, Detective?” Pinsky said. “You've been here a long time—ever think about seeing how the other half lives?”

“I never get any offers,” Coffin said. “It's like I've got a big tattoo on my forehead that says
STRAIGHT GUY
.”

“Oh, come on,” Lola said. “No man has ever hit on you?”

“Not never. But not very often, either. And lately not at all.” Coffin patted his gut. “I'm not the most buff guy in town, it turns out.”

“But when they did?” Lola said.

“Men aren't my type. What can I say?” He shrugged. “I seem to be a hardwired hetero.”

“That's right,” Pinsky said. “We're all hardwired. Boys and girls.” He lowered his voice. “These people here are going against nature.”

The tall drag queen made a clucking noise with her tongue and draped a long, elegant arm around Pinsky's shoulders. “You need to relax yourself, baby. Let Lawonda show you how.”

Lola laughed, and Pinsky smiled sheepishly.

“So, are you-all a couple?” one of the other drag queens said. She was very slender, sheathed in a sequined minidress. “I mean, are you shopping for a boy-toy or just being, like,
tourists
or something?”

“Actually, we're police officers,” Coffin said. He took Merkin's
photo from his jacket pocket. “We're wondering if anybody remembers seeing this man.”

The drag queens gathered around. “It's Reverend Rhonda,” Lawonda said, tapping the photo with a long, sparkly fingernail.

“Oh my
God,
” the drag queen in the sequined dress said. “Look at that
sad
little outfit. It's just heartbreaking.”

Lola took a fistful of business cards and a sheaf of photos from her backpack. “We need to know if Ron Merkin was with anyone the night of his death, which was last Friday, or anytime late at night that week,” she said, passing them around. “Any information you can give us would be very helpful.”

There was a low swell of conversation as the photos were passed from hand to hand. Coffin and Lola waited several minutes, but none of the men stepped forward.

“No one?” Lola said. “Are you sure?”

“Our phone numbers are on the cards,” Coffin said. “If anyone remembers seeing Ron Merkin late at night, please call us—anytime. We'll protect your anonymity.”

 

After Lola's Camaro disappeared around the corner, Coffin stood in the street for a minute or two, thinking. His house was completely dark. He always left the floor-lamp in the living room on, plugged into a timer. Maybe the bulb had burned out. Or maybe someone had turned the lamp off. The hair on his forearms rose. A blue Chevy pickup truck was parked across the street.

Crouching a little, Coffin peered through the living room window. It was velvety black inside except for the glow of a lit cigarette—someone was sitting in his father's red easy chair, smoking with all the lights out. For a moment, Coffin imagined he was seeing his father's ghost; all that was missing was a glass of scotch and the Red Sox losing a crucial game on the snowy TV. Then the
cigarette glow arced up and brightened, partially illuminating a man's face. Coffin stood up and rapped on the window. The man started and dropped his cigarette. Coffin could see his bulky silhouette moving quickly toward the door.

“Relax, Rudy,” Coffin said, stepping onto the screen porch. “It's just me.”

“Jesus Christ,” Rudy said, standing just inside the door. He was a big man with thick gray hair and broad features. He held a large pistol. “You scared the shit out of me.” He stuffed the pistol into his jacket pocket. “Got any bourbon? I looked around but couldn't find any.”

“Time to start locking my doors,” Coffin said, reaching for the light switch.

Rudy grabbed his wrist. “Leave it out,” he said. “I'm not supposed to be here.”

“That your pickup outside?”

“Tony's. He let me borrow it. He's not the sharpest tool in the shed, but he's a good boy.”

Coffin felt his way to the kitchen and fumbled through the liquor cabinet in the dark. “No bourbon,” he said. “Scotch or vodka.”

“When'd you get so goddamn fancy?”

“Things have changed since you've been gone. The whole town is going upscale.”

“The whole town can bite my ass,” Rudy said.

“It already did,” Coffin said, pouring scotch over ice in the dark, trying not to slop any liquor onto the counter.

Rudy eased his bulk into the red armchair. “You've got a point there,” he said, sipping his drink. “But who's to say I won't get the last laugh?”

“Ever the optimist,” Coffin said, sitting on the couch.

The room was silent for a while, except for the rusty scraping of crickets outside.

“I suppose you're wondering,” Rudy said, when he'd drained his scotch and chewed up the ice cubes, “why I was sitting here in the dark, waiting for you to drag your ass home.”

“I am,” Coffin said.

Rudy cleared his throat. “There's something I want to give you.”

“No thanks,” Coffin said.

“For your ma.”

“Nope.”

“Now how can you stand there and say ‘nope' when you don't even know what it is?”

“Is it stolen?”

“Okay, here we go,” Rudy said, throwing up his hands. “Just
assume
that anything I'd give you is stolen. Real nice.”

“Well, is it?”

“Kind of.”

“Then no thanks.”

“It's money, Frankie. Lots of it. Untraceable. You could put your poor old mother in a nicer place, down in Chatham or somewhere. You could get the fuck out of here, if that's what you wanted.”

Coffin frowned. “And where would I say I got the money, Rudy? When the IRS came to call?”

Rudy snorted. “The IRS. Jesus. Make sure you don't ride your bike on the sidewalk.”

Coffin didn't say anything. Outside, crickets sawed in the grass.

“Three hundred thousand, Frankie.”

“What?”

“Three hundred large. I got it right here.” A briefcase stood on the floor beside his chair—dark object in a dark room. He picked it up and held it in his lap.

“You're riding around in Tony's truck with three hundred thousand dollars?”

“Try twice that,” Rudy said. He patted his jacket pocket. “That's why I've got the firearm. This town's gotten dangerous all of a sudden.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“It's a shitload of money, Frankie. Bundles and bundles of it. A present from your old uncle Rudy.” He patted the briefcase.

“Look, I know I'm going to be sorry I asked—”

“But you want to know where I got it.”

Coffin nodded.

“Your dad and me. We started up a little business venture, back when you were still in high school. You knew about that, right?”

“I figured, maybe. I didn't know for sure.”

“Well, now you do. There was a lot of money to be made in those days, if you had some balls.”

“You were smuggling.”

“I had the connections, your old man had the boat. We had a great thing going—it was bulletproof. We scored big a bunch of times. We never got caught, and we never would've got caught.”

“Then Dad was lost at sea.”

“Lost at sea can mean a lot of things.”

“Like?”

“Like he fell in. Like he was thrown in. Nobody knows.”

“You think he was killed?”

“He sure as fuck didn't commit suicide.”

Coffin took a deep breath. He felt a curious buzzing in the back of his head; the dark room seemed to swim for a moment, then lie flat again.

“We were dealing with some pretty rough people. The Colombians all went crazy when the coke thing took off.”

“So they killed him? Colombians?”

“Maybe. Probably. Hijacked his cargo and chucked him in the drink. They did a lot worse than that sometimes. There'd been a storm, but nothing your old man couldn't handle.”

“Jesus,” Coffin said.

“This can't be coming as a complete surprise.”

Coffin met Rudy's eyes. “No. I guess not.”

“Look—your dad was a good man. A little rough on you, maybe, but a good man. He never would have gotten involved, but he had no choice. The fishing was bad. He owed a lot of money.”

“More scotch?” Coffin said.

Rudy held out his glass, and Coffin went to the kitchen and refilled it.

“So you retired from smuggling and stashed the money. Why wait so long to come get it?”

“The DEA was on me like a cheap suit for a while. I mean to tell you, they are persistent sons of bitches. And I figured it was safe enough buried out in the Beech Forest.”

“Why come get it now, then?”

“Jesus Christ,” Rudy said. “I wasn't expecting the fucking Spanish Inquisition.”

Coffin looked at him in the dark.

“Okay—okay. Jesus,” Rudy said. “I was broke. I needed the cash, all right?”

“I can't take the money, Rudy.”

“Well, you're a damn fool. It's yours—your inheritance, you could say. A reward for playing it straight all these years. It's yours and it's free and no one will ever know unless you're stupid enough to tell them.”

“I can't live the rest of my life with a sack full of illegal cash under my bed. I wouldn't be able to sleep at night.”

“I admire your scruples,” Rudy said. “Where you got them from, I don't know—must have been your mother's side.”

“Must have been,” Coffin said.

Rudy pondered for a moment. “Look, you don't have to decide right now. It's yours. It was your old man's and he's gone so it's yours. I'll keep it for you. I'll put it in a safe deposit box and send you the key—that way I won't spend it all. It'll be there if you change your mind.”

“I wouldn't know what to do with it, Rudy. I mean, sure I could use it—who couldn't? But I don't think I could bring myself to actually spend any of it. Considering.”

Rudy squirmed a little in the red chair. He looked at Coffin, looked away. “What if I told you it was more like
five
hundred grand.”

“What?”

“Your cut. It's more like half a million. Five hundred and thirty thousand, give or take. I lied, okay? Jesus.”

“Half a million,” Coffin said. His mouth felt dry. “Holy shit.”

“Maybe now your old man will leave me alone.”

“What do you mean, leave you alone?”

“I keep dreaming about him,” Rudy said, standing up, clutching the briefcase. “His hair's all full of seaweed and shells, and man, is he pissed. It's awful.”

“Good seeing you, Rudy,” Coffin said.

“Keep it real, Frankie,” Rudy said. He turned and walked out onto the porch. The screen door opened and closed softly. Coffin watched Rudy climb into the blue pickup and drive away, taillights dwindling then disappearing as he turned the corner onto Alden Street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

R
ight on time,” Coffin said, opening the screen door. It was eight thirty on the dot. The morning was cool and clear.

“But of course.” Lola smiled. She wore a gray skirt, knee length, with black heels and a white sleeveless top made of silk.

Coffin had never seen her in a skirt before. The heels made her calves bunch a little. He tried not to stare at them.

“There's coffee. Mop water, just the way you like it.”

“Ick,” Lola said, wrinkling her nose. “Just water's fine.” She opened cupboards until she found a glass and filled it from the Brita pitcher on the counter. She leaned a hip against the door frame.

“How's Mrs. Merkin?” Coffin said.

“She sounded pretty frantic on the phone. The state police consider her a suspect, the press is camped out on her front lawn, and the lawsuits have already started to roll in. Tough times back on the farm.”

“She's not exactly your favorite vegetable, I gather.”

“I'm sorry she lost her husband,” Lola said. “Nobody deserves
that. But I don't feel bad about the rest of it—the lawsuits and reporters. They had it coming.”

“The Merkins cast a lot of first stones,” Coffin said.

Lola shook her head. “It's not even the hypocrisy. They were just so—” She searched for the right word. “So
hateful.
Hateful bigots who got rich playing on people's fears. Some way to make a living.”

“Mean, dumb, and energetic is a dangerous combination.”

Lola sat down, opened her briefcase, took out three loose sheets of paper, and slid them across the table to Coffin. “I asked her to write out a log of their activities while they were here and e-mail it over to me. Everything they did, everyone they talked to. She said the state police asked for pretty much the same thing, except they weren't so nice about it.”

Coffin picked up the papers. “Arrived Wednesday night around six thirty, went straight to their rental condo on the east end. Let's have a look at that today.”

Lola nodded and made a note. “They rented a deluxe two-bedroom on the top floor of the Ice House. Booked it through a Realtor here in town.”

“We'll give them a call.” Coffin looked down at the paper. “Dinner out at the Fish Palace. She had the grilled sea bass with mango salsa; he had a steamed lobster and two dozen oysters on the half-shell.”

“More like four dozen, according to Edward.”

“Afterward, she goes back to the condo, and he stays out by himself for several hours.” Coffin turned the page. “Next day, breakfast in, walk on the beach, home to read and watch TV. Lunch at Bixby's. Home for a nap. Out for dinner at the Cellars.”

“She had poached salmon with dill sauce and asparagus,” Lola said. “He had oyster stew and grilled swordfish.”