High Season (30 page)

“Speak English,” Lola said.

“What properties were you going after, exactly?”

“I don't know. Lots.”

Coffin nodded, and Lola ground her heel on Phipps's cheek.

“Arrrr!” Phipps said. “Jesus! I'm not lying—I don't know off the top of my head. There were a lot. But there's a list.”

Coffin raised his eyebrows. “A list,” he said. “And where would we find that? It doesn't seem to be in Louie's file.”

“I have it,” Phipps said. “In my office. Filed under Real Estate Acquisitioning, Prospective. I'll go get it for you.”

“No you won't,” Coffin said. “Stay here and entertain Officer Winters with your pirate imitation. I'll get it.”

Five minutes later, Coffin returned with the file. Lola took her foot off of Phipps's head. She removed the handcuffs and helped him into a sitting position against the wall.

“Thank you,” Phipps said, a little breathlessly.

Coffin rifled through the file quickly, then pulled out the list. It was several pages long and stapled to a detailed map of Provincetown, liberally marked in green highlighter. Lola peered over his shoulder.

“My God,” she said, pointing to an address on the list. “That's my building.”

“My whole neighborhood,” Coffin said, looking at the map. “Parts of the waterfront—there's Kotowski's house, and Souza's
Boatyard—Souza's not going to be too happy about that. Jesus—the nursing home. A bunch of land across the highway, like Rudy said. A big chunk of the cemetery . . .”

“Look,” Lola pointed. “The Fine Art Center. And the lumberyard.”

“A fourth of the town, at least,” Coffin said. “Maybe a third.”

Coffin prodded Phipps with his toe. “Who else is involved?”

“They're all dead,” he said.

“That's not what I hear,” Coffin said, nodding at Lola.

She took two steps toward Phipps.

“Okay, okay—there may still be one or two silent partners. From out of town, like Merkin,” Phipps said. “The local people were Silva, Hench, and Duarte.”

Lola frowned. “How'd a dead-end guy like Duarte get a piece of the pie?”

Phipps shrugged. “He wasn't a full partner. He was a wage slave, like me. He worked fast and he kept his mouth shut. He was desperate for the money.”

“You might be next on the developers-to-whack list, you know,” Coffin said.

“I suppose it's possible,” Phipps said, paling a bit beneath his tan. His eyes narrowed. “Thank God that lunatic Kotowski's in jail.”

Coffin gathered up the Project paperwork and stuffed it back in its folder. “Maybe you're really dumb enough to believe Kotowski's the killer,” he said. “Maybe not. Either way, if I were you, I'd check under the bed before I went to sleep at night.”

“We should caution Mr. Phipps not to leave town,” Lola said.

Coffin stood. “Don't leave town,” he said. “The state police will want to talk to you, as soon as they're done chasing their tails.”

Phipps touched the swelling bruise on his cheek. “I haven't done anything illegal,” he said, “and the killer's in jail. Why would I want to leave town?”

 

_______

 

“Phipps is going to bolt, isn't he?” Lola said as she and Coffin trotted down the stairs. “And there's nothing we can do about it.”

Coffin grinned. “Oh ye of little faith. Let's stop by my office—I want to make a quick phone call.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J
amie held her hand under the bathtub faucet. The cascading water was deliciously hot. She adjusted the mix a bit—she didn't want to scald herself—then poured in some organic bubble bath and watched it foam in Frank's big clawfoot tub. Downstairs, both doors were locked and the windows were latched. Frank's gun was on the bathroom counter, three feet away. She felt entirely safe. She took a sip of wine, slipped out of her yoga pants, top, and underwear. Because the tub was running, she didn't hear the small, sharp sound of glass breaking downstairs.

 

“You hungry?” Coffin said as they climbed into Lola's Camaro.

“Starved.” Lola turned the key, and the engine roared to life.

Coffin looked at his watch. “Who's still serving at 12:53
A.M.
?”

“E Pluribus,” Lola said. “World's greasiest.”

Coffin grimaced. “It'll be mobbed. How about Billy's?”

“The Ptomaine Palace?” Lola said. “Pretty scary, if you ask me.”

“Oh, come on. It's a relic—practically the last remnant of old
Provincetown. It ought to have one of those historic markers out front.”

“It's a dump. Do they have anything besides oysters?”

“Sure. Billy can fry up a burger for you, if you want, and the lobster rolls are good.”

“Okay,” Lola said, “but I'd better not regret this in the morning.”

 

Standing at the window, Phipps watched Coffin and Lola climb into her ridiculous muscle car. After a minute or two the car's lights flicked on and they drove away.

Phipps sat in Louie's chair and picked up the phone. He dialed 9, then the number for Billy's Oyster Shack. The phone rang three times before Billy picked it up.

“They know,” Phipps said, brushing the bruised side of his face with his fingertips.

“Who the fuck is they?” said Billy.

“Coffin and that what's-her-name. That dyke. They know about the Project. They have the files. The list of properties. Everything.”

“That's just great,” Billy said. “What the fuck. How'd they find out?”

“I don't know. That's not the point. The point is, you have to get rid of them. They have to disappear.”

“Hold on,” Billy said.

Phipps heard a clunk as he put the phone down. Then Billy shouted, “Closing time! Get the fuck out!” Phipps heard muffled grumbling in the background, and then Billy said, “It's closing time when I say it's closing time. Get the fuck out!” There was a brief silence before Billy picked up the phone again.

“Do they know about me?” he said.

“I don't know. I don't think so, but we need to make sure they don't find out.”

“Who's going to tell them?” Billy said. “You?”

“Your place is on the list,” Phipps said. “How long before they guess that the person responsible for the killings might be an angry homeowner—another nut like that Kotowski? All they have to do is go through the list and check everyone's alibi. Sooner or later, they come to you.”

Another silence. “Well, what do you know,” Billy said. “You'll never guess who just pulled into the parking lot.”

“They have to disappear,” Phipps said. “No bodies this time. If you do it right, we're home free.”

“I can't believe you let them get their hands on that list,” Billy said. There was a sound like glasses clinking together. “That was not a good thing to do.”

“I couldn't help it,” Phipps said. His chest felt tight. Beads of sweat had popped out on his forehead.

“You fucked up,” Billy said. “Big time.”

“But—” Phipps said. The line clicked and went dead.

 

The tub was wonderful—the water was deep and very hot. Jamie felt the muscles in her neck and back unkinking. She'd dimmed the lights and lit a candle. Her glass of chardonnay sat on the toilet seat, within arm's reach. The bathroom was wreathed in lavender-scented steam. Her apartment only had a shower stall—an amenities disaster of the first order. There could be no civilization, Jamie thought, without the occasional soak. She slid down in the tub until the water came up to her earlobes. She closed her eyes and sighed.

There was a sound. A faint creak from the staircase, beyond the closed bathroom door, at the end of the upstairs hallway. Jamie opened her eyes. It was the kind of sound old houses make on their own—a settling sound, a small groan of contentment or
boredom. She closed her eyes and stretched her legs out under the water, and there was the sound again—in the hallway. She sat up.

“Frank?” she called. “Is that you?”

The bathroom door flew open. Jamie shrieked, covered her breasts with her arms, and tried to press herself flat against the tub's hard curve. Duffy Plotz stood in the doorway. Something slender and bright flicked open in his right hand. “Hi, honey,” he said. “I'm home!”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

B
illy's was empty. The stools had been turned upside down on top of the bar. Billy limped behind a push broom, his crooked body listing to starboard. When the screen door opened, he said “We're closed. Go home,” without looking up from his work.

“Go home!” shrieked Captain Nickerson, swinging frantically in his cage.

“That's no way to treat the regulars,” Coffin said, taking an upside-down stool from the bar, setting it on the floor, sitting down.

“Fuck the regulars,” said Billy, grinning and leaning on his broom. “What brings you two out at this hour?”

“Starvation,” Lola said.

“If we're not too late,” Coffin said.

“Of course you're too late.” Billy locked the door, turned out the overhead lights, and unplugged the neon beer signs in the front window. “But nothing's too big a pain in the ass for Provincetown's finest. What'll it be?”

“Can I get a cheeseburger?” Lola said. “Onion and tomato?”

“Want it bloody or burnt?” Billy said. “I can't promise anything in between.”

“Burnt.”

“Frankie?”

“Shot of the monster,” Coffin said, “and one for my friend here.”

Billy retrieved the bottle of Old Loch Ness and poured two hefty shots.

“Not imbibing?” Coffin said.

“Let me cook the lady's burger,” Billy said. “Then I'll have a drink with you.” He disappeared into the kitchen.

Lola sipped her scotch. “Hoo-wah. That's potent.”

Coffin told her the story about his grandfather's last run. Then he poured himself another shot.

“What do you think the odds are,” Lola said, “that our killer lives in one of the highlighted sections of the map?”

“Overwhelming,” Coffin said. “Unless it's Phipps, trying to cut himself a bigger piece of the pie.”

Lola sipped her scotch, made a face. “You don't believe he was just working for a salary?”

“No way. If he knew about ED, they had no choice. They had to make him a partner, just to shut him up.”

“Do you think he killed them?”

Coffin shrugged. “Maybe. He'd have to be crazy, or the greediest man in history. He was going to get extremely rich anyway, if things worked out.”

“Maybe he didn't want to take a chance it
wouldn't
work out,” Lola said. “Maybe he just wanted to take the partners' money and run.”

“Maybe,” Coffin said, “but does Phipps seem like a guy that would crucify someone?”

Lola shook her head. “I don't know. I mean, does anybody? Assuming they're not actually foaming at the mouth?”

“Show us your tits,” muttered Captain Nickerson.

“This parrot obviously hangs around a lot of sensitive intellectual types,” Lola said.

“It was my father's.”

“Sorry,” Lola said.

Coffin waved the apology away. “Ready?” he said, holding the bottle over Lola's glass.

She covered the glass with her hand. “I'm good,” she said. “Shouldn't drink too much on an empty stomach. I already feel a little woozy.”

Coffin nodded. “Me, too,” he said, downing his shot. “But when don't I?” He fished a cigarette from the pack in his shirt pocket. He tried to light it, but the cigarette slipped from his fingers and fell on the bar. “Weird,” he said, looking at his hands. “My fingers are kind of numb.”

Billy came back from the kitchen and refilled Coffin's glass. “Food'll be out in a minute. Thought you quit,” he said, holding a match while Coffin puffed at the cigarette.

“There's quitting, and then there's quitting,” Coffin said.

“I feel funny,” Lola said.

“Better drink up,” Billy said, filling her glass with scotch. “It'll fix what ails you.”

Coffin felt as though he were slowly rising out of his body. The room glowed a soft magenta. “I can't feel my legs,” he said. The lit cigarette fell from his fingers.

“So,” Billy said. “A priest, a rabbi, two lawyers, a midget, a lesbian, and a talking dog walk into a bar. Bartender says, ‘What is this—a joke?' ”

“I feel really weird,” Lola said.

“I got another one,” Billy said. “How many Republicans does it take to screw in a lightbulb?”

Coffin felt himself rising. The smoke-yellowed ceiling tiles
warped into a long vertical tunnel, and Coffin levitated toward it. He looked back and saw his body sitting on its stool, next to Lola. Billy was talking.

“Nine. One to blame Clinton for not changing the lightbulb before it burned out. One to deregulate the lightbulb industry. One to claim that anyone who doesn't support changing the light-bulb is in league with the terrorists. One to go on
Meet the Press
and say that the lightbulb changers will be greeted as liberators. One to give Halliburton a billion-dollar contract to change the lightbulb. And three to explain to Bush that you don't really screw
in
the lightbulb.”

“Weird . . .” whispered Lola.

“Frankie! Frankie! Frankie!” yelled Captain Nickerson.

Coffin felt himself being drawn into the tunnel. It was dark and very long, but at its end Coffin could see a brilliant magenta light. He felt as though he might have died—he wasn't sure he was breathing. The thought of his death did not alarm him. He was serene. He was the essence of being. He was love. He was godlike.