From the countertop I picked up the envelope I had brought in and took out the photograph of the dead Libyan. I handed it over and Jack gave it a look. "This the guy?" he asked.
"It is."
"Is he sleeping or what? It looks like he's in a car."
"He was in a car," I said. "And this photo was taken just before they took his body out."
"Oh. Dead, then." He held it up closer to his face. "How'd he die?"
"Someone shot him."
"The hell you say. Really?"
"Really," I said. "Look, does it ---"
Jack interrupted me. "You know, he does look familiar. And you want to know why?"
“Sure.”
He handed the photo back to me. “The suit. It was a pleasant day and he came in wearing this suit, and no necktie. I find that strange. Why would anybody go to the bother of putting on a suit and not put on a necktie? Yeah, I remember him now. Came in real quiet. Didn't speak English that well. Spent a while in the lobby, looking out the windows. Like he was supposed to meet someone here. And he went through the exhibits real quick, and then he barreled out to the parking lot, like the guy he was meeting had finally arrived."
I put the photo carefully back into the envelope. "Did you see who he was meeting?"
"Nope, not a thing. Minute he went out the door, he just disappeared. You know, standing back there behind the counter, you really can't... well, look who the cat just dragged in."
I looked over to the museum entrance and a man came in, with the careful walk of someone who is either drunk, or who is trying to bluff his way through a terrible hangover. He had on soiled khaki pants frayed around the edges, dirt-encrusted sneakers, and a blue nylon windbreaker zippered up the front. He hadn't shaved for several days, and his eyes were large and slightly protruding, like the eyes of some sort of aquatic animal. His thick brown hair looked as if he had cut it himself.
"Keith," Jack said, deep disappointment coming out in that one syllable. "So glad you could show up."
"Sorry 'bout that, Dad," Keith murmured, rubbing a large hand across his face. "Damn clock radio didn't go off."
Jack looked as if he was trying to keep his temper in check "Then you should get a new clock radio, son. It seems like that one always breaks down just when you have to be somewhere."
Keith rambled over to the countertop and stopped, and then slowly eased his hip against the side, so he could have some support while standing. "Jesus, Dad, could you layoff the guilt shit already? I just got here."
"You certainly did, and hours late." Jack took a deep breath and said, "Lewis Cole, I'd like to introduce you to my son, Keith Emerson. Formerly of' the U.S. Marine Corps. Former apprentice welder at the Porter Naval Shipyard. Former productive member of the community. Any other formers you can think of, Keith.
Keith burped and said, "Whatever. I'm sure you can think of a few more, Dad. Hey, I misplaced my ATM card. You got a twenty I can borrow?"
I said, "Nice to meet you, Keith."
He looked over in my direction. "Yeah, well, fuck you very much, too. You got twenty I can borrow?"
I moved to my wallet and Jack said, "No, I'll handle this."
He awkwardly leaned his cane against the counter and pulled out his wallet. "Here. Ten is all you get. If you had gotten here on time and helped me out like you promised, then I would have given you forty."
Keith snapped the offered ten-dollar bill from his father's hand and then suddenly shoved him in the chest, making him stumble back against the near wall, the metal cane clattering to the floor. "Thanks a fucking lot, old man! You think I enjoy your charity, do you? You think I like being your friggin' chauffeur, the guy who answers the phone here, do you?"
By now I was around the display cases and out in the lobby, and Keith was reaching over the counter, trying to grab his dad. I got a double fistful of his nylon jacket and pulled him back, and remembering how Felix had operated just a while ago, I tried to duck under his swinging punch.
But I'm no Felix, and the punch popped me in the chin, making my teeth clack with a horrible noise that echoed inside my ears. I stepped back a few paces, breathing hard, still holding his jacket, and I managed to wrestle him to the ground. I still had my weapon in my shoulder holster, which is where it was going to remain for the time being.
"Stop it, stop it right now!" Jack yelled.
I got up from the floor, moved away from the kneeling figure of Keith, who was trying to catch his breath while flinging an impressive number of obscenities my way. Jack moved over, can back in his hand, and he reached over with the tip of the cane and, with a gentleness that surprised me, touched his son at the side of his ribs.
“Keith, can you get up?”
A slow nod, and then he stood up, weaving around. Saliva was running down his chin. Jack went on. "You go on home, now. All right? I'll give you another ten dollars when I get home."
His son's eyes were filling up. "I hate it, you know. I hate being poor in this city! All the tourists and rich types coming here and the yuppie homeowners, and look at me. Almost forty years old and I'm begging money from my dad. Jesus... " He caught me looking at him and the tone of his voice changed. "And you, you fuck... I ever catch you in Porter again, you're a dead man. All right? You're a fucking dead man and you won't have a chance."
"You keep on drinking like you've been doing; I'll have a chance the size of Montana."
"Lewis," Jack said quietly, and Keith wiped a hand across his face. He muttered a few more things and then went outside. By then a group of chattering senior citizens came out of the exhibit area, laughing and talking to one another, and I touched the edge of my chin. I gingerly moved my jaw back and forth and let my tongue examine each of my teeth. All seemed solid, though I was sure my jaw would hurting like hell tomorrow.
I joined Jack back behind the counter and he said, "My apologies."
"None needed," I said.
Jack took out a handkerchief the color of old snow and blew his nose and wiped at his eyes. "I wish you had known him when he was younger. He was smart and tough and quick on his feet. He entered the Marines right when he turned eighteen --- though I was sure I could have gotten him a job at the yard without any trouble --- because he said he wanted to prove himself."
He carefully folded up the handkerchief and replaced it in his pocket. "The Marines seemed to suit him. Gave him discipline, gave him a purpose. When he was in high school, he could be a wild one when he wanted, and I was glad the Marines made something out of him. Then he entered aviation school, and actually became a pilot. My son, a pilot. Oh, how proud I was of him."
I stepped closer to the counter so he wouldn’t have to raise his voice so much around the visitors crowded by the brochure stand. “What did he fly? Helicopters?”
"Nope. Jets. F/A-18 Hornets. Flew them off the
USS George Washington
."
"I'm impressed."
A satisfied nod from Dad. "You should be. An aircraft carrier is a huge vessel, but when you're up in a jet, coming in for a landing, it looks like a postage stamp. And remember, too, that this postage stamp isn't stable. It's moving up and down, side to side, and crowded on that postage stamp are other aircraft, people and equipment. And you're coming in at hundreds of miles an hour... A controlled crash, Keith once told me it was like. A controlled crash. And then there's night landings..."
Jack stopped for a moment, and then I quietly said, "Did something happen to him in the Marines?"
Another nod, but this one wasn't as satisfied as the previous one. "Yep. Never got the whole story, but Keith told me some of it once, a couple of years back. He was coming in for a night landing in the Persian Gulf and there were problems with the electrical system on his Hornet. Batteries were supposed to supply emergency back-up power, but they were drained for some reason. He was practically flying deaf, dumb and blind when he put her down on the flight deck, inches away from rolling off and killing himself... It shook him, shook him so bad that he lost his confidence. He tried getting into the jet the next day and he got the shakes. And it got worse, much worse... "
He stared at me. "It was like he was on a slippery slope he couldn't get off. He got transferred out of flying status, but even working at a desk made him get the shakes. Then he got discharged and came back home. I pulled a few strings and got him a job at the yard. Didn't even make it through a year before he was out of there. Now he's on some sort of disability pension, living in a crappy apartment, and begging for a few dollars off me every now and then. Not much of a life, is it?"
I tried to think of what kind of answer to give him, and decided the truth would work all right. "You're right," I said. "Not much of a life."
He rubbed at the hand that held his metal cane and said, "Tell me this, why don't you, speaking about lives. You're a magazine writer for
Shoreline
, am I right?"
"Yes," I said, knowing where this was going.
"Yep," he said. "Came in here with a business card and everything. I even went to the trouble of going over to the smokeshop, see what kind of magazine you were. You see, some scamsters out there, they like to think the older you get, the stupider you get. Every now and then some clown comes in trying to convince me to buy an ad in their magazine or brochure. And most times, these magazines and brochures don't even exist. But yours existed, that's for sure, and I even saw your name and photo on your column."
"But you still have questions, am I right?"
"Yep. Like what's a magazine writer doing sniffing around for some visitor I had a few days back? Okay, you said it was confidential, and I can go along with that. But here you come again, still looking for info, but this time you've got a photo of this guy. Dead in his car. Which means that it came from a cop or something. So, are you a cop, or are you working for the cops?"
"I'm not a cop, and I'm not working for the cops."
"Then who the hell are you?" There was no anger in his voice, just a strong sense of wanting to know up and down, right and wrong, black and white.
"I'm a writer," I said. "Just like you saw in the magazine, just like you saw on my business card. But sometimes... sometimes I get involved in some things that are quite confidential. Sometimes it's best for a writer to ask questions, instead of an investigator or a detective. It's more casual that way, doesn't raise a lot of fuss. Which is why I'm working on this particular story, about this particular visitor."
He picked up the photo, put it back in the envelope and handed it over to me. "This guy a friend of yours?"
"No, not at all."
"But it’s important, right?”
“Yes, quite.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you, Lewis. And it pisses me off to say that, it really does, considering how you helped me earlier today and how you put up with my son." Jack stuck out his hand and I shook it. "Tell you the truth, I think of anything, I'll let you know. And remember this."
"What's that, Jack?" I asked.
He smiled. "You still get a free tour of the
Albacore
from the other day. You can take it now, if you'd like."
I headed for the door as it was opening up and a group of kids came tumbling in. "Not today, but later. I look forward to it."
He looked to say something in reply, but in a moment he was engulfed by the kids, all demanding admission, all demanding attention.
Outside, the spring air was nice and clear, though it was lightly scented from the belching diesel engines of the tour buses. I looked across at the highway and over to the port of Porter. A lot of ports up and down the New England coast have been touristed and condoized and yuppied up, but not this one. Porter had its share of coffee houses but it also had its share of diners, and while there were a few high-priced condos overlooking the harbor, by God it was still a working harbor.
And part of the working harbor was the mass of buildings and cranes, over at the other side of the harbor, marking the Porter Naval Shipyard.
As I got to my Ford I checked the time, saw it was almost noon. If I raced south I might be able to meet up with Paula Quinn and buy her an expensive lunch and offer her an explanation for last night, when she had called and Laura Reeves had answered the phone. In spite of the little good-bye kiss, there was nothing there, not really ...
Oh yeah? a little voice inside of me said. When I got to the Ford I decided to retrace my steps back to the museum and use the pay phone and officially set up a lunch date with Paula. I didn't want to leave this one to chance.
And as I turned away from my Ford, there was a deep-sounding
pong
as a bullet whizzed past my ear and struck the driver’s door.
Chapter Fourteen
No time to think, no time to debate, no time to look about and say out loud, "What the hell was that?"
I dropped to the asphalt on my belly and rolled underneath my Ford Explorer, and when I got to the other side I sat up against the front tire, where a whole lot of engine and steel and other heavy things were between me and my assailant. I scrambled underneath my coat and pulled out my Beretta, finding it extremely heavy. I laid it across my knees, tried to remember how to breathe. A bit of tradecraft from Felix popped into my head. "Sometimes you get into things, you don't have the luxury of figuring out what in hell is going on. So you default to your primary response. Which is saving your hide. A number of years ago I was at this party in West Roxbury and this lovely young lady was putting the moves on me. She really wanted me to stay, but I was rude and left her and the party. Couldn't explain it, couldn't put my finger on it, but something was making me uneasy. So I bailed out and I'm glad I did. Later I found out that there were a couple of guys in the basement with ropes and blowtorches who were waiting for this fine young lady to bring me down. So always go to the basic. Protect yourself. Even if you piss off some people and look foolish.