High Season (8 page)

 

 

 

 

R
odney's was a pretty good piano bar, if you liked that sort of thing. Evening light slanted through the big front windows, golden, autumnal. There were ferns, but only a few. A bartender in a shirt and tie rattled ice and vodka in a stainless steel shaker. It was Happy Hour, and a cluster of tourists drank at the copper and walnut bar, into which a battered but in-tune Steinway baby grand was socketed. A handsome woman sat at the Steinway, big hands tickling out a Cole Porter tune. She wore a black sequined dress and a red wig. Her voice was smoky and low; she did a passable Marlene Dietrich:

It's not 'cause I shouldn't,
It's not 'cause I wouldn't, honey,
And, you know, it's not 'cause I couldn't,
It's simply because I'm the laziest gal in town.

“This isn't quite what I pictured when you said we were going to a drag show,” Lola said.

Coffin leaned in the doorway. “No strobe lights?” he said. “No lip-synching ‘I Will Survive'?”

“No Abba,” Lola said.

Coffin pointed at the woman in the red wig. “That's Dawn Vermilion,” he said. “She's a Provincetown institution.”

“In more ways than one, I'll bet,” Lola said.

“She's a one-person grapevine,” Coffin said. “She hears everything.” He looked at his watch. “Show's almost over. Let's wait in the dressing room.”

 

The dressing room was a converted utility closet, cramped and windowless. A pink vanity had been shoved into one corner, its top cluttered with lipsticks, mascaras, and half-used cakes of foundation. Three mismatched chairs sat at odd angles to each other. Racks of dresses lined the walls. Sequined and bright from a distance, the dresses were rumpled and dirty up close.

Dawn Vermilion sat at the vanity, smoking a cigarette and peering dismally into the lighted mirror. “Middle age is such a bitch,” she said, lifting her chin and pursing her lips. “What have I done to deserve
jowls
, for God's sake?” Two of the mirror's eight lightbulbs were burned out. The vanity's top was scarred with cigarette burns.

“At least you don't have a bald spot,” Coffin said, fingering the top of his head.

Dawn's red wig sat on the vanity. Her real hair was gray, cropped short. Her makeup seemed thick and garish in the harsh light. “No doubt I have that to look forward to,” she said. “My father had less hair than a mackerel, the old monster. But I don't imagine you-all came down here just to cheer me up.”

“Of course not,” Coffin said.

“We came to gossip,” Lola said.

Dawn smiled suddenly, a big, lipsticky grin. She made a looping
gesture with her cigarette. “Gossip? Honey, you've come to the right place. I take it we're talking about the late, great Reverend Ron?”

Lola nodded.

“I'll dish if you will, darlin',” Dawn said, putting on a New Orleans drawl.

Coffin thought for a minute. “According to the ME, he only had one testicle,” he said.

Lola shot Coffin a look, but he ignored it.

“A one-ball wonder?” Dawn rubbed her hands together. “Predictable, but yummy. You cops get all the good dirt. Not sure I can top that.”

“Oh, go on,” Lola said. “Any little thing.”

Dawn leaned toward her. “
Well,
” she said, in a hoarse whisper, “Gordita's boyfriend Edward waited on someone he's
certain
was Reverend Ron and the missus, a few nights ago. They ate like pigs—ran up a huge tab. Very par
tic
ular; nothing suited them. The wine was corked, the fish wasn't fresh—caught that day, but what
ev
er. Ordered
three
desserts—sat there for
hours
. Then they practically stiffed him. Left a
ten percent
tip. Ten percent! And I thought
dykes
were lousy tippers.” She turned to Lola. “No offense, honey.”

“Who's Gordita?” Coffin asked.

“Gordita Derriere,” Dawn said. “One of my coworkers. Complete slut—but absolutely gorgeous, if you're into chubs.”

Lola wrote something in her notebook. “And Edward—where does he work?”

“The Fish Palace, God help him. He's a tiny little gnome. I think he's a feeder.”

“A feeder?”

“It's a codependency thing. Very complicated. The bigger Gordita gets, the more Edward loves her, and the more she needs him. I saw it on
Jerry Springer
once.”

“Any idea what night this was?” Coffin asked.

“Last week sometime,” Dawn said, taking a last drag from her cigarette and stubbing it out in a chipped ashtray. “Gordita isn't good with details.”

Lola frowned. “Why do they do it?” she said. “The tall ships, I mean. I don't get it. They never look like they're having any fun.”

“They miss their mothers, poor things,” Dawn said, brushing away an imaginary tear.

“If you were a tall ship,” Coffin said, “where would you hang out in this town? Who would you hang out with?”

Dawn picked up a pair of tweezers and plucked at an errant eyebrow. “Good Lord, I don't know,” she said. “I don't think there's any specific gathering place, if that's what you mean—no great hall of tackiness they all seem to gravitate to. They're not really pack animals like we are. They just seem to go galumphing around, looking forlorn—don't they? With their embarrassed wives padding behind, hoping to God they don't run into anyone from back home in Altoona or wherever.”

“Loved the show,” said Lola. “Sorry we only caught the last part.”

Dawn Vermilion winced. “Not my best effort, I'm afraid. Lately, my voice seems to have a mind of its own.” She took a bottle of vodka from the vanity's drawer, screwed off the cap, and poured three ounces into a lipstick-smeared water glass. “Show biz'll wear you down, honey. But at least I do my own vocals. So many of us girls just lip-synch it nowadays. It's ruining what used to be a legitimate art form, if you ask
moi
.”

“I like your name,” Coffin said. “Red sky at night, sailor's delight.”

“Red sky at morning,” Dawn said, putting on her wig and blowing Coffin a kiss, “sailor take
warning
.”

 

_______

 

At six o'clock, the line of tourists waiting for tables at the Fish Palace ran out the door and around the corner, almost to the foot of MacMillan Wharf. Mostly they were retirees, bused in for the day, hoping to take advantage of the Palace's early bird special: a one-and-a-quarter-pound boiled lobster, baked potato, salad, roll, corn on the cob, and a half-dozen steamer clams for $14.95, beverage extra. The late-afternoon, late-summer light was slanted and golden; the harbor glittered; a small red boat fluoresced on the beach. The Fish Palace had blinking neon lobsters in the windows. Now and then, a voice rattled out of a plastic speaker, unintelligibly paging customers who were waiting outside.

“My God,” Coffin said, as he and Lola squeezed through a clump of thick-legged tourists. “Is it my imagination, or is town even more crowded than usual?”

A doughy woman in shorts and sandals glared after them. “The line forms at the rear!” she said.

“Seems like it,” Lola said. “Residual gawk factor from the Merkin killing, maybe.”

Inside, the line of hungry tourists extended down a hallway, past the Palace's open kitchen, where a dozen bustling Jamaicans in white jackets and chef's hats sautéed fillets of sole, seared tuna steaks, and deep-fried baskets of oysters. Green-brown lobsters stared accusingly from a gurgling glass tank. Other lobsters, cooked and bright red, crouched on plates next to foil-wrapped potatoes and watery half-ears of corn. The plates, lined up on a high counter, were whisked into the dining room by grim-faced waiters.

The line stopped at the entrance to the dining room, which was cordoned by velvet museum ropes. The hostess—a small, olive-skinned woman—stood guard at a podium while an angry tourist jabbed his finger at her notebook.

“See, there we are,” he said. “Hanson, party of four. You've seated
all these people ahead of us.” He jabbed the notebook again. “We've been waiting over an hour.”

“What d'you want me to do, sir?” the hostess said, indicating the packed dining room with a wave of her pen. Every table was full, every seat occupied by retirees or couples with small children. The green carpet was strewn with oyster crackers, bits of lobster shell, dropped napkins. Everyone seemed to be either talking or chewing. “It's high season and we're very busy.”

Coffin caught her eye, and she smiled at him over the angry man's shoulder. “Hi, Frankie.”

“Hi, Roz,” Coffin said.

The tourist pointed at Coffin. “If you seat these people before us, that's it—we're out of here.”

“Suit yourself, ace,” Roz said. She turned to Coffin and shrugged. “It's like feeding time at the zoo,” she said. “Not a pretty sight.”

“You got a waiter named Edward?” Coffin said. “Little guy?”

Roz looked around the dining room. “There he is,” she said, pointing to a very small man who was plunking salads in front of a table full of retirees. “He's not in trouble, is he?”

Coffin shook his head. “Not at all. We just want to ask him a few questions about someone he waited on.”

Roz frowned. “The Merkin guy. I didn't see him, but Edward swears he was in here.” She waved to Edward and he trotted over, carrying a big stainless steel tray.

“Are you the police?” he said. “This is so exciting. Just like
Law and Order
.” He was no bigger than a twelve-year-old boy, five-two or five-three at the most. His voice was tinny and high. Like all the waiters at the Fish Palace, he wore a white polo shirt with a tiny red lobster stitched above the right breast.

Coffin held up Merkin's picture. “You waited on this man last week?”

Roz wore reading glasses on a chain around her neck. She perched
them on her nose and peered at the picture. “Good grief, what an outfit.” She clucked her tongue. “Talk about people who live in glass houses.”

“That's him,” Edward said. “Him and his wife were in here. It was late—nine thirty or so. They sat upstairs because he insisted on a water view.”

His voice made Coffin want to grit his teeth. It sounded like an old reel-to-reel tape deck, playing back a little too fast.

“
What
a pain in the ass they were,” Edward said. “A real Preparation H table. Bitch, bitch, bitch. And cheap, too. Practically stiffed me.”

“How did they behave toward each other?” Coffin said.

“You mean, were they fighting or anything?” Edward paused for a moment, then raised a hand, palm up. “They seemed—
triumphant
,” he said. “Like they'd just won the lottery or something.”

“Did you happen to overhear any of their conversation?”

“No, they were very careful about that. When they saw me coming, they'd clam up. Then, as soon as I walked away, they'd get all animated again.”

Lola stopped writing in her notebook. “No offense,” she said, “but if you'd just won the lottery, why would you come here? Why not someplace a little more . . . upscale?”

“Two things,” Edward said. “First, the place is always packed—so it's more anonymous. You're one more tourist in the herd, know what I mean? Moo!”

“What's the second thing?” Coffin said.

“Oysters. I couldn't believe it. They ordered
four dozen
on the half shell. There's only two or three other places in town that serve them. It's like he was an oyster junkie or something. He just kept sucking them down. I've never seen anything like it.”

 

_______

 

The big man left his blue Chevy pickup running, got out, and unlocked the gate that blocked the dirt road into the beech forest. It was almost dark, and the light under the beech forest canopy was watery and green, like the inside of a big terrarium. He drove slowly on the rut-veined road, his pick and shovel clattering in the truck bed. When the road dwindled to nothing in the underbrush, he stopped the truck and climbed out. He stood still for a few seconds, listening. Then, satisfied that no one was around, he gathered his tools and scrambled down a bank, into a low basin shaded by beeches. The ground was covered everywhere with last year's rotting leaves.

At the basin's lowest point, two small stone grave markers sprouted from the earth, about four inches square and three feet high; a number of others were broken off near the ground. A few yards away, a large circular indentation was still visible in the earth. It was all that was left of the old smallpox pesthouse, to which the good people of nineteenth-century Provincetown had removed the sick, to live or die as God willed, thus sparing the town from epidemic.

“Rest in peace, you antique sons of bitches,” the big man said. He dropped the shovel on the ground and took a small compass from his pocket. Starting from the second intact marker, he took fifteen steps heel-to-toe and started to dig.

The digging took a long time; the ground was webbed with roots. He hadn't brought gloves, and by the time he'd dug down a foot he had the beginnings of a blister on his right hand. He paused to rest for a minute, took a silver flask of whiskey from his hip pocket and drank from it, then went back to work.

He dug until it was almost dark. Then, finally, the shovel struck something metallic about three feet down. He'd left his flashlight in the truck, but he didn't really need it. He lay on his belly and reached into the hole—he could feel the hard, square edge of the
suitcase that was buried there. Working fast, he widened the hole with the mattock, then shoveled out the loose dirt. Most of the aluminum suitcase was visible. He reached into the hole and pulled it out.