Vineyard Deceit (8 page)

The slide screen went blank and the television screen lit up. Thornberry's voice changed a tone or two. “I expect no problems tonight, but there is something you should know. The nation of Sarofim is politically unstable at the moment. The Padishah has enemies. Representatives of the opposition are said to have arrived on Martha's Vineyard, and an embarrassment to the Padishah would serve their cause. There has been violence in Sarofim and in Europe. This is a film clip of men and women thought to be members of the Sarofim Democratic League, one of the organizations believed to be responsible for revolutionary activities against the Padishah.” The screen flickered and Middle Eastern faces, youthful and laughing, appeared. Another cut showed faces in a crowd on an American street. “Those were taken two weeks ago in Weststock, Massachusetts, where they are students,” said Thornberry's voice. “Now they have disappeared, probably by moving in with Sarofimian students studying in Boston. The intellectuals of Sarofim are often supportive of the SDL. Keep your eyes open for these people and for others like them. Sarofimians are not necessarily easy to spot. Be alert and suspicious.”

The television went off, the lights went on, and Ms. Johanson took charge of me and my fellow insiders and explained where she wanted us during the evening's festivities. I got to be in the ballroom, with roving opportunities elsewhere on the ground floor. I was a downstairs person.

“You come on duty at five,” said the efficient Ms. Johanson as she dismissed us. She looked at me. “Can you arrange a ride with somebody else? That car of yours looks terrible.”

Ms. Johanson wasn't a bad-looking woman. “How about with you?” I asked.

Ms. Johanson did not smile. “There's a spot about a hundred yards outside the gate. You can park there. Hide that machine in the trees if you can.”

She went away and so did I. Off to Vineyard Haven to collect my rented tux. On the way I looked for revolutionary Sarofimians but didn't see a one. I suspected that I might be on their side, if I ever happened to find their side.

7

The northeast wind that had blown in the clean dry weather had gone away, and the day was muggy, with a thin overcast of high clouds. Undaunted by the paleness of the sun, the August people were out on the beach between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs, making the most of the warm weather. There were kites in the sky, surf sailors just off the beach, children and adults in the warm summer water. Out on the Sound the sailboats moved between the Vineyard and the dim haze that hid Cape Cod, and there were fishermen on the Jetties and kids diving from the
bridges into the channels that linked Anthier's Pond to the sea.

In Oak Bluffs there were boats anchored near the ferry dock, with fishermen trying for bonito. It didn't look like the fishermen were having much luck, but none of them seemed to be complaining. And no wonder: fishermen think going fishing is usually better than anything else you might want to, do; besides, if you actually hooked a bonito you would really have a good time. Bonitos give you a real fight. I even know some guys who no longer go bluefishing because they like bonito fishing so much better. Personally I do not subscribe to that radical view.

On the far side of Oak Bluffs I passed the hospital where Zee was not working that day. She was busy getting herself and Aunt Amelia properly gussied up for the big event that night. Why so much time? I should have asked just to make trouble. A man wouldn't understand, she'd have said, me in particular. True.

I drove on into Vineyard Haven, hoping but not expecting to find a parking place not too far from the store that was renting me my formal duds. Vineyard Haven has the worst driving and parking conditions on all of Martha's Vineyard. The dreaded T, where the Edgartown road intersects the State Road and left turners routinely are backed up for eternities, is second in frustration only to the infamous Five Corners downtown where the ferries unload and traffic is routinely complete chaos.

Vineyard Haven natives are no doubt used to such messes and in no hurry to do anything about them, but those of us who live elsewhere dread our visits there. It is a paradox too obvious to merit comment that most of the traffic on and off the island goes through Vineyard Haven and that the town houses the Vineyard's best stores and that therefore we often have to go there whether we like it or not. I mean it's not like Gay Head, which is a place you only go to because you choose to. You
have
to go to Vineyard Haven sometimes.

I found a parking place right on Main Street. Another sign that there is a God? Inside my store the salesgirl and I looked each other over as she got my tux.

“We don't get many calls for this size,” she observed in what I took to be arrapproving tone. She ran her eyes up and down while I did the same.

I smiled modestly and didn't tell her that I'd ordered the jacket a size big to allow Manny Fonseca's hefty pistol to hang less obviously under my arm.

She wore a diamond on her left hand. The hand touched my arm. She was a nice looking young woman. A college girl, I suspected, about ready to go back to the books and not above a last flirtation. “You're a big guy,” she smiled.

I tapped her diamond with a forefinger and raised a brow.

“Oh, that,” she said, leaving her hand near my arm. “Don't mind that.”

“I'm tempted, but like you I'm already taken,” I said. “Oh; if only I were free.”

She took back her hand and sighed then grinned. “Oh, well.”

I took my tux and left, thinking that I was probably old enough to be her father although I didn't feel that way.

I drove home and fixed myself a late lunch. Precombat food. Carbohydrates. Pasta with pesto made from my own basil. Since neither Thornberry nor Ms. Johanson had mentioned food for the security folks and since both had ordered no drinking on duty, I washed my pasta down with lots of good cheap red jug wine, just so I wouldn't waste away to nothing before the evening was over.

I ran off several Bad Bunnies who were snooping around my garden fence, then weeded the garden for an hour (about my weeding limit on my very best weeding days), gobbled up a few asparagus sprouts sneaking up through the seaweed I'd spread over the asparagus bed,
admired my fine tomatoes, thinking I should can a few tomorrow, after the Sarofim emeralds were safetly transferred and Manny Fonseca's pistol was back in his armory, picked two zooks that were threatening to get out of hand, and took a shower. Outside, of course. I have two showers, one inside and one outside. The outside one is much superior. It doesn't steam up the place, there's plenty of room, you don't have to clean out the drain because there isn't any, and you can walk directly from the shower to the solar-powered drier to hang up your towel. Only in the wintertime do I use my indoor shower.

I shaved, wondering again if I should grow a beard but once more deciding not to. How about a mustache, one with maybe waxed curls on the end? I placed a finger across my upper lip and looked at myself in the mirror. Nah.

A bit of toothbrushing, then into clean skivvies, pants, frilly shirt, cummerbund, and shiny black shoes. One thing the armed services teach you is how to shine shoes. The black tie was the snap-on variety, thank goodness. I can tie a bow tie, but I don't like to. It takes me a long time to get the ends even.

I strapped on the shoulder holster. It was the kind where the pistol hangs horizontal under your left arm. Under the other arm is a unit to hold extra clips. A real shootist's sort of rig, irresistible to a guy like Manny Fonseca. I made sure there was
not
a round in the chamber before I stuffed the .45 into the holster. I did not want to accidentally shoot a hole in anyone standing behind me if I actually had to draw the weapon. Manny would be disappointed with me if he ever found out, but I didn't plan on telling him.

I put on the tux jacket and admired myself. Not bad. You really had to look to see the lump under my arm. Very sophisticated. James Bond would approve.

I was tempted to phone Amelia Muleto's house to ask
Zee if she wanted to change her mind and ride to the party with me in my LandCruiser. But I could imagine what she'd say: no, she would see me over there. Right now she was very busy, so goodbye. Click.

What do women
do
during these primping sessions?

I poured vermouth in a cold martini glass, sloshed it around and poured it out again, got the Absolut out of the freezer, and filled the glass to the brim. The perfect martini. Just enough vermouth. I had heard about an atomic scientist, out in Nevada in the bomb-testing days there, who had tied a bottle of Noilly Prat Dry to the bomb tower before the detonation and thereafter claimed to get exactly the right amount of vermouth from fallout. I preferred mine not
quite
so dry.

I drank my martini in elegant solitude, and when I was finished it was time to drive to Chappaquiddick.

The On Time ferry, so called, some say, because it has no schedule and is therefore always on time, carries three or four cars at a time and runs back and forth between the Edgartown town dock and the Chappy landing. After four o'clock the beachers were headed for home, so there were a lot of cars coming off Chappy and only a few going back. I drew a curious look from the ferry captain, who had never seen me looking so splendid.

“Dare I ask?” he asked.

“The Damon party,” I said, glancing at my nails.

“You'd better park your car where nobody can see it, then.” He brought the ferry smoothly into the Chappy landing.

A lot of people were picking on my car lately. I drove it right up to the Damon gate, showed the guard my badge and ID, and parked behind the barn where the rest of the help had parked their cars. Ms. Johanson could park
her
car down the road if she wanted someone to park there.

Inside the house I came face to face with Jason
Thornberry. He was suave and comfortable in his tux. He'd come a long way from wearing blue on the Boston PD.

“J. W. Jackson, isn't it?” He put out a hand. I took it. His was still a strong one. “I thought your face was familiar when I saw you this morning. I remember offering you a job a few years ago, just after you retired from the force.”

“Maybe I should have taken it.”

“The offer is still open. Thornberry Security can always use a good field man.”

“I spend more time on the beaches than in the fields these days.”

“But here you are on security detail.”

“Tomorrow I plan to be canning tomatoes.”

His sharp eyes looked me up and down. “You wear formal clothing well. The same cannot be said for many agents. You have police experience, you have a college education, you were well thought of by your superiors on the Boston PD.”

“You've done some digging.”

He nodded. “I'm in the business of finding things out. Thornberry Security can offer a man of your qualifications excellent opportunities for interesting and remunerative work.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Do. Good to have you working with us, Jackson.”

He moved off, a tall, sophisticated figure with sharp eyes examining once again the physical layout of the house and the people who were responsible for house security. He had been one of the most youthful captains in the history of the Boston Police Department and had had a reputation for being honest, ruthless, and politically astute. Probably you had to be ruthless and politically astute to become a youthful captain in the Boston PD. I wasn't so sure about honest. I did know that a lot of people on the shady side of Boston life had breathed easier when he
left the force to form Thornberry Security, Inc. Some of the remaining PD brass had not been as pleased when he siphoned off several of their best men to work for him.

I walked on into the house and into the ballroom. It was large, high ceilinged, and like the library, was hung with crystal chandeliers. At its far end, doors opened onto a veranda that overlooked the northern part of Katama Bay. Next door, also with doors opening out onto the veranda, was the dining room. I strolled there and found linen-clothed tables set with silver and summer flowers. The head table was opposite the doors to the veranda. I went out through the doors and found more linen-clothed tables. Not even the Damon dining room was large enough to hold a hundred guests. Some people would be obliged to eat in the open air. I wondered if they would mind. Personally I preferred the view from the veranda, but I imagined that many would consider that lovely vista of blue water and boats greatly inferior to one of the Padishah of Sarofim seated with various Damons at the head table.