Lush Life: An Artie Deemer Mystery (9 page)

“I forget how loud New York is until I leave,” said Crystal, pausing to sniff a bright red flower drooping over someone’s garden fence.

During the eighties, when people had absurd quantities of money coming in, they built houses too big for the scale of the island. But the older ones fit perfectly, little single-story cottages nearly enveloped by indigenous vegetation—beach plum, holly, other low-slung, gnarled trees I couldn’t identify—and like most things that fit, they seemed full of peace and pleasure. I was definitely interested in some of the latter, even if the former was too much to hope for.

The best of the day was gone now, so deeply tanned bathers in French-cut suits passed us heading home. It seemed an island of burnished breasts and hams. Crystal glanced at me to see if I was ogling the bouncing flesh. I let my jaw fall slack and bugged out my eyes. She giggled. Had her shoulders dropped some, too? I thought they had. We were the only people on the island without a little red wagon to pull our stuff in, and I mentioned to Crystal, who suggested we hijack the next one that came along.

Paved walkways expired at the western edge of Ocean Beach. From here on it was sandy paths, tough going for little red wagons without balloon tires. I was feeling giddy in the salt air. Jellyroll took a shit in the sand. I picked it up in a plastic bag, but there was nothing to do with it, now I had it in hand. Fire Island government doesn’t want the public around, so there were no public receptacles. I deposited the load in a private garbage can.

Nearby, three small deer picked at the bushes, impervious to our presence. Jellyroll stiffened. He was about to give chase. I told him no, and he looked up at me disgustedly. He loves to chase. I’d need to keep an eye on him or he’d turn feral.

On creosote logs, Jerry’s house perched a full story above the natural rise at the top of the beach. We climbed the steps. Jellyroll took them two at a time, expecting to meet strangers interested
in making a fuss over him at the top. There it was stretched out before us—the Atlantic Ocean. The house itself was simple, but the view from the porch was worth a million bucks, in a decent market.

Crystal dropped her packages, kicked off her shoes, and flopped in a weathered chaise longue. She moaned with contentment. “This is wonderful, Artie. Thank you. It’s just what I needed and didn’t even know it.” The soft, warm wind pulled at the ends of her hair. “You wouldn’t believe how I played in that tournament.”

“Bad, huh?”

“And who’d I draw in the first round but Gracie Cobb. I was so bad, I think she began to feel sorry for me. Gracie Cobb doesn’t feel sorry for anybody. She’d sacrifice her house pets for one lucky roll.”

“Yeah, but you’d just heard Trammell had died.”

“No, I heard that after Gracie stomped me.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe I should get a real job.”

“Ugly word, job.” I opened the sliding glass door and carried our groceries to the kitchen. Jerry’s place was modest, but the single open room had that salt-damp feel of summer vacation when we were children, when the days seemed as endless as the ocean. Arranged seashells, pieces of drift wood in unusual shapes, and desiccated horseshoe crabs decorated the surfaces. Tracked-in sand felt wonderful crunching beneath my feet. As I opened all the windows and the other door, I wished I’d taken the place for a week. When I went back out on the porch, I couldn’t help but notice that Crystal had removed her blouse and bra. That boded well.

She looked at me with theatrical coyness. “We can’t be seen from here unless we stand up.”

“Then let’s not.” I removed my shirt and squeezed in beside her. Her bra had left red lines under each breast.

“I could get sick of this in a couple decades.”

I wondered if she meant the environment or my ministrations.

“Hello up there, anybody home?” called a man from the bottom of the steps.

Jellyroll barked. Crystal covered herself with her forearms and bolted into the house. I looked over the railing. It was a stocky guy with thick, hairy arms. He wore a silly-looking lime-green shorts and shirt set, with high-top Reeboks and white socks. Cop, I thought immediately. “Yes?”

“May I speak to Mrs. Crystal Weems?” His hair was dark and curly; so were his eyebrows. He squinted up at me.

“No, that’s not my name,” said Crystal, beside me now with her blouse back on. “Go away.”

He pulled a gold shield from his shirt pocket. “Detective DiPietro, NYPD. We can talk here in this pleasing environment with birds and sea breezes, or I can jerk you off the streets of New York City.”

“So talk.”

“In private, please.”

“No way. This is my attorney, Mr. Deemer. I want him present. That’s what I pay him for.”

“No need to get tough, Detective,” I said. “We’re always ready to cooperate with the police.” A shiver of delight ran up and down my spine. I was her attorney.

“Can I come up?”

“Yes,” said Crystal, “but don’t call me Mrs. Weems.”

“You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, aren’t you, Detective DiPietro?”

He sat in Crystal’s chaise longue. Crystal sat in the aluminum lawn chair. I sat on the wooden railing.

“Nice place,” said the cop. He folded his hands behind his head like a houseguest and breathed deeply. “Yours?” he asked Crystal.

“No.”

“Don’t you love that fresh salt air? I know I do. What is it about salt air? Hard to say. Maybe it’s the freshness. This is my day off. I live over across the bay in Islip. Actually, this beach right here is part of the Town of Islip. Fancy Fire Island types don’t like to admit that, but it’s true. I came over with my family in my boat. It makes a nice day for the kids. A little waterskiing, little flounder fishing. Let’s talk about VisionClear Bank and Trust—”

Crystal sagged.

“What’s the matter, Crystal?” said the cop. “This ring bells for you? Cops questioning you about your husband’s banking practices?”

“He’s not my husband. I told you that.”

“But he was your husband when they came to get you in Miami, right?”

“So what? I wasn’t involved then, and I’m not now.”

“As her attorney, I protest the smartass tone you’re using on Ms. Spivey.”

“As her attorney, did she tell you she got busted for bank fraud?”

“That’s a lie!” said Crystal. “I never did.”

“I’ve seen your mug shots, Crystal.”

“I wasn’t charged with anything.” Her voice was flat, but her black eyes flashed. “Why are you harassing me?”

“I’m not harassing you. I just want to talk about VisionClear and Trammell Weems. VisionClear served the financial needs of criminals. Weems looted it, and then he drowned. Only we have reason to believe that he didn’t really drown.”

“What do you mean he didn’t—?”

“I mean we think he faked his death to cover his tracks. You wouldn’t put it past him, would you, Crystal? I mean, it’s his style, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s just say that’s what happened. Hypothetically. In which case he’d need an accomplice, somebody to tell the world that Trammell drowned. This Bruce Munger person, for instance.”

“So why don’t you go talk to him?”

“I will. But since I was out here with the kids, I thought I’d start with you.”

“Have you been following Crystal?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know we were here?” I asked.

“Coincidence. I saw you getting off the ferry. Somebody’s been following you? I’m not surprised.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because the bad guys want their money back. You think I’m a smartass, wait till you meet them. There’s the Mafia, there’s international arms merchants, drug smugglers, and some crooked politicians. A bunch of beauties. You won’t like them or their methods.”

“Goddamnit,” snapped Crystal. “These people are going to come after us?”

“Look, I’m willing to believe you’re nothing but an innocent bystander, but in my work, I try to see things from the bad guys’ point of view. And from there, it doesn’t look good for you. What do they see? They see the fact that you were married to Trammell. They see the boat off which he drowned belonging to your uncle. And they see the only eyewitness to the drowning—this Bruce Munger fellow—as a friend of yours. If I were in the bad guys’ shoes, I’d start looking for Trammell and their money right here.”

“So what do we do?” I asked, trying to ignore my rising fear.

“Well, I might be able to help. I’d like to help. But you’re going to have to tell me everything, and you’ll have to tell me if anybody approaches you about Trammell, VisionClear, and so
forth. Anybody at all. Is that clear? When was the last time you saw Trammell?”

“Day before yesterday. He came into my uncle’s poolroom to rent his boat.”

“How common a thing was that, renting your uncle’s boat?”

“I don’t know. Trammell and my uncle used to go fishing a lot. I don’t know if he ever rented the boat before.”

“Did you speak to Trammell on that occasion day before yesterday?”

“I told him to get out.”

“And why was that?”

“Because Trammell fucks people up—just like he’s fucking me up right now.”

“Did Trammell and your uncle ever have any business dealings? I mean besides boat rentals?”

“No. Look, my uncle is retarded. He doesn’t have business deals.”

“Retarded? What do you mean retarded?”

“He’s like a child. He loved Trammell. I saw my uncle on the way out here. He’s grieving for Trammell. If Trammell faked his death, my uncle doesn’t know it.”

“But it’s still possible Trammell used your uncle in some way.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“I can’t. I don’t know.”

“But you wouldn’t put that past Trammell either, would you?”

“I think Trammell really loved my uncle…But that wouldn’t stop Trammell from using him.”

“Has anybody spoken to you before this?”

“No.”

“Nobody at all?”

“No. I said no.”

“Well, I want to help you, and I can. But you’re going to have to come clean with me.”

“I have! What do you want from me! Hell, I never heard of VisionClear Bank until I read about Trammell’s death in the newspaper.”

“Okay.” He slipped a card from his shirt pocket and snapped it down on the wooden arm of the chaise.

I picked it up. There was nothing on the card but DiPietro’s name and a phone number.

“That’s in case you ever need a cop. Personally, I believe you. But it’s very important for me to know if you are approached by any individual wanting to discuss this matter. Any individual at all.”

“Why do you think Trammell is alive?” I asked.

“I can’t go into that without jeopardizing my informant. Call me any time of the day or night if you hear anything.” He stood up. “Thanks in advance for your cooperation.”

We stood at the top of the steps and watched him descend. Then we sat silently, stared out at the horizon. Crystal was near tears.

“Maybe this isn’t far enough, Fire Island,” I said.

“I can’t just pack up and leave because of something fucking Trammell did.”

“True.”

“…Where would we go?”

“The Bahamas.”

“The Bahamas?”

“A place called Poor Joe Cay.”

“Who do you know there?”

“A man called Calabash.”

“Calabash, huh?”

“He used to be my bodyguard. Now he’s my friend.”

“You had a bodyguard?”

“Yes.”

She glanced at me, but she didn’t ask any more about that. She said, “Thanks for being my lawyer.”

“My pleasure.”

“Artie, they arrested me in Miami, like that cop said. But I hadn’t done anything, and they let me go. Do you believe I didn’t have anything to do with Trammell’s scams?”

“Of course.”

Pause. “That cop wrecked the sexy feelings for me.”

Two stern-draggers fished on the horizon. They seemed pinned there, unmoving. I have in the past found peace looking at the ocean, something about perspective and timelessness, but now that seemed like a lot of romantic twaddle. There was nothing out there but a couple of fishing boats. Whatever this Trammell business was about at bottom, I think we knew even then, grudgingly, that we wouldn’t escape the toxic runoff. I felt completely exhausted.

Crystal was asleep in the chaise when the sun went down over our right shoulders. I could see the top of New York in the far distance, the architecture of reality. The ocean turned to teal in the dying light. Mosquitoes rose and drove us inside.

EIGHT

C
RYSTAL SLEPT IN the next morning. I watched for a while, kissed her forehead. I still hoped we could salvage the romantic component in this weekend. After all, what did we have to do with Trammell Weems? Nothing. That was past; this was now. Without opening her eyes she reached behind my neck and gently pulled me to her. I told her I was going to take Jellyroll for a walk on the beach while it was still early, the beach empty. When the beach is crowded, we get stopped every fifty feet by admirers, his, not mine. It’s like walking with Madonna. I made coffee and took a mugful with me. The coffee, the deserted beach, Jellyroll’s joy, and Crystal back at the house in bed combined into a feeling of contented bliss, a feeling striking in its unfamiliarity.

We walked west about a mile, almost to the community of Saltaire. On the way, I threw drift wood sticks for Jellyroll until he panted. Jellyroll is not a swimmer, only a wader. He wades in up to his chest and drinks great gulps of seawater. Then, after a while, he throws it back up. I used to carry a jug of fresh water on beach trips, but I gave up, because it wasn’t thirst but some kind of compulsion that drove him to drink from the sea. Certain dog behavior will remain forever inexplicable to humans. So now I try to avoid that drink-hoop routine by engaging his attention with drift wood.

But both of us grew tired of it, and we sat down on the beach near the high-tide line. There I sift ed absentmindedly through the flotsam and jetsam entangled in the snaking
lines of seaweed. One summer a red tide of medical waste had washed up on New York beaches. Everyone knew its origin—illegal dumping by Mafia-owned garbage collectors—but no one seemed inclined or able to stop it. I saw no medical waste. I found a few black, leathery skate-egg cases, fish bones, and a large, dead horseshoe crab. I mused for a while on the simple creatures, on lives spent scuttling along the ocean floor. I saw the man approach from the upper beach, but I ignored him until his shadow fell across us.