Dover Beach (10 page)

Art laughed at the distinction. "But those books aren't any more useful than
Riddley Walker.
What about something on how to make glass?"

"I may be going to England," I said. I told him my story.

He was suitably impressed. "Imagine that," he murmured. "Imagine that." He wandered over to a few stacks of books in the corner and started wading through them. "Not much call, you know, anymore. People want fantasy about the past, not reality." He came out with a picture book and an old travel guide. "Best I can do, I'm afraid."

"They'll be fine. The place has probably changed a lot anyway."

Art shrugged. "Not as much as this place has." He sat down on the edge of his cot. There was a wood stove in the room, but it wasn't giving off much heat. Art didn't seem to mind. "England," he said dreamily. "Do you ever think, Walter, about how much we owe certain people who will undoubtedly remain anonymous forever? People say history is determined by great economic and social forces, that individuals don't make a difference. But I can't believe that. Someone gives an order, or refuses to carry out an order, or carries it out badly, and England is spared. Someone holds back at the last second, and the bombs aren't dropped that should've been dropped, and we're here, alive, swapping books and chatting by the light of an oil lamp. And maybe those people are still alive, like those old writers. I wonder what they're thinking about. Do they think they did the right thing? Are they proud of themselves? Or do they think that, at the most important moment of their lives, they fouled up, and they'll never have a chance to atone for their mistake?"

"I think," I said, "that maybe people don't think as much as you think they do."

Art cackled. "But what else do they have to do nowadays? There's no TV."

"They read dirty books."

"Ah, you're a cynic, my friend."

"Gee, I wonder how that happened."

Art shook his head. "I hope I had nothing to do with it." He paused. "You know," he said, "if you don't get to go, Walter, you might consider going into business with me."

"Selling dirty books? There's barely enough—"

"Not selling them, Walter. Writing them." Art's eyes glittered. "I don't have the imagination, but I'm sure you could do it. Imagine if I had new novels to sell my clientele—new dreams to dream. I've got a friend at the
Globe
who says they might be willing to rent out their printing press, and—"

"Um, I don't think so, Art. Maybe, if this England thing falls through, you know—"

Art smiled and raised a hand to stop me. "Just a thought. Anyway, enjoy your books. And enjoy England, if you get to go. Shakespeare, Dickens, Browning: 'Oh, to be in England...' And Matthew Arnold. Remember 'Dover Beach'? 'The cliffs of England stand,/ Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.' So much to see. I envy you."

I remembered the poem. "This all feels like a dream," I said.

"There's nothing wrong with dreaming," Art replied.

I wasn't so sure. I always felt a little woolly-minded after visiting Art. His bookstore was like a drug that made me want to live the way he did, accomplishing nothing, just pondering unanswerable questions as time drifted by. In its own way, that was as sinful as reading the filthy books that Art sold—at least, I'm sure that's what Stretch would say. And Stretch, in his own way, spoke the truth.

Still, a little dreaming was okay, it seemed to me. I felt no compunctions, therefore, about returning to my chilly library and reading the books Art had given me I studied the pictures and memorized the text and imagined myself in England: warm, well fed, happy. It was a good dream, as dreams went, because it was, at least conceivably, attainable. It kept me happy until sleep, and another dawn, arrived.

* * *

Bobby Gallagher's headquarters were across the Fort Point Channel in South Boston, on a dismal street of endless warehouses. The police knew enough to stay away from that street. I pedaled over there the next morning.

A twelve-year-old black kid was squatting in the snow next to the front door, a shotgun cradled in his arms. His name was Jason, but for some reason Bobby called him Doctor J, so that's what everyone else called him too.

"Hey, Doctor J," I said.

"Hey, Wally."

I got off my bike. "Is the man in?"

He nodded. "Doin' some business."

"Lemme go inside and wait for him, okay?"

"Sure thing." He got up and pounded a complex rhythm on the door. After a moment Mickey opened it and smiled a greeting.

"The bike okay here?" I asked Doctor J.

"It ain't goin' nowhere."

I went inside, and Doctor J resumed his guard duty in the snow.

Brutus started barking as soon as the door closed behind me. Fortunately, he was chained to the metal railing of the stairs leading up to Bobby's office, so he couldn't do any damage. Brutus was an extremely large German shepherd, and we didn't get along.

"Who's he talking to?" I asked Mickey, gesturing upstairs.

"Tax people, I think."

"Problems?"

Mickey shook his head. "They need computer parts."

"Ah."

Mickey went back to working on the van, which was parked in the middle of the warehouse floor. I watched him for a while and then got bored; engines have always baffled me. I wandered around the warehouse and stared at the stuff Bobby had accumulated: television sets, lawn mowers, microwave ovens, pinball machines. They were just for show, of course. Anyone who broke in was welcome to steal a lawn mower. The good stuff was upstairs, in a room your casual thief was not likely to be able to enter; that room held the computer parts, the jewelry, the guns, the ammunition. Bobby preferred to deal in your smaller, more portable items. He knew what he was doing.

Eventually the upstairs door opened and Bobby came out, followed by two nervous-looking men in gray overcoats. Each was carrying a shopping bag. Brutus wagged his tail as they went past; he was a very stupid dog. They hurried outside, with Bobby thanking them effusively and inviting them to do business again anytime. When he came back inside, he was grinning. "R. Gallagher, Inc., Suppliers to Government and Industry. Impressed, Wally?"

"Are they gonna come back and audit you, now that their computers work?"

"Hell, no. I also bribe them. A totally separate transaction. What's up?"

"Can we talk?"

"Sure. Come to the inner sanctum."

We went upstairs. Brutus growled at me as I passed.

The inner sanctum was decorated in faded fake-wood paneling, stained ceiling tiles, and orange shag carpeting. Very sophisticated. A photograph of John F. Kennedy was displayed prominently above the sagging couch. Scattered elsewhere on the walls were photographs of Bobby's mother, the 1984 world champion Boston Celtics, and Bobby himself, in younger days, just as fat but with more hair, shaking hands with some forgotten politician. There was a 1986 calendar with a photograph of a mostly naked woman luxuriating on a mound of tires. There was a plaque that said "Erin Go Bragh" and another that said "Schlitz—Breakfast of Champions." And behind the gray metal desk there was a crucifix.

Bobby sat down beneath the crucifix. I sat on the couch. "So how's the case coming, Mr. Private Eye?" Bobby asked. "Any car chases yet? Any beautiful but mysterious broads wanna go to bed with you?"

"Not so far. I could maybe use your help, Bobby."

"Sure. Waddaya need?"

"I need to find out the names of the scientists that the British took from around here when they were occupying New England."

Bobby looked at me the way Winfield had when I asked to be paid. "Why, uh, do you think I'd know that, Wally? I was pretty busy staying alive back then. Didn't keep very close tabs on everything the British were up to."

"Of course. I'm not asking
you,
Bobby. I'm just wondering if you can help me come up with a way to find out. See, my client thinks this guy Robert Cornwall may have been scooped by the British—apparently they took some of our scientists while they were here. My client is even willing to go to England to track Cornwall down—and he'll take me with him—but we need some evidence that Cornwall was one of the ones taken. He's given me three days."

"How the hell can he afford to go to England?"

"I don't know. But he says he can, and I believe him."

"And you get to go with him?"

"That's what he said, Bobby."

"Jesus. So waddaya want me to do?"

"Well, you've got a lot of contacts in the government. I thought maybe you could ask around, see if anybody knows what happened back then. Ideally, I could use something in writing—a list, you know, or something like that."

"What about Stretch?"

"I asked him, too, but I'm not sure how much he'll help. I'm worried that he thinks it'll be for my own good if he doesn't find out anything. If I screw up my first case, maybe I'll come to my senses."

"Will you?" Bobby asked.

"Not planning to," I said.

"You know, that offer about working for me still stands."

"Yeah, well, my refusal still stands, too, I guess."

Bobby gazed at President Kennedy, or maybe the Celtics. He seemed to have that faraway look I had seen on Hemphill's face the day before—although, with Bobby's bad eyesight, it was tough to be sure. "Such a strange world, Wally," he murmured. "Who'd've thought we'd get a government that promised to ditch all its weapons and ban computers and get people making babies again? Jesus Christ, make love, not war. Who'd've thought a bright young guy with the world to conquer would pick the one most dead-end job around—except maybe for director of civil defense? Who'd've thought—well, a lot of things."

I was getting awfully tired of this. First Jesus Christ, then Stretch, and now Bobby. I stood up. "If you're not going to help me, Bobby, just say so and let me get on with—with my investigation."

"Now take it easy, Wally," Bobby said. "I'm just musing here. A guy's got a right to muse, don't he? Of course I'm gonna help you."

I sat down. "Thanks," I said.

Bobby smiled. "What are friends for?" But he still didn't look happy; the faraway look hadn't disappeared. "If you go to England, are you coming back?"

"Oh, I don't know, I haven't really—"

"Don't bullshit me, Wally. You've always wanted to get out, and this is your chance. Right?"

"Well, what of it?" I asked defensively.

"I just like to know what's going on, that's all. You sure you want to go live with those Limey bastards?"

"I could move to Ireland once I'm over there, if it'll make you happier. The trick is to get over there." I thought about it. "You know, with this connection you've got going with Fitch, you could probably afford to leave before very long too."

Bobby looked uncomfortable. "Yeah, well, I dunno, maybe I'm used to things around here."

"Shit, the inmates get used to the asylum." I went back to the original subject. This one was making me uncomfortable too. "Anyway, will you help me? I've got two days left to come up with something, and then my client is going home, so we've gotta act fast."

"Okay, Wally. I'll see what I can do."

"You're a good guy, Bobby."

"Ah, bullshit."

He went back to staring at President Kennedy, and I left the room. Brutus just missed my ankle as I went downstairs. Outside, Doctor J was still squatting in the snow, and my bicycle was untouched.

Chapter 10

It was my turn to cook supper: pea soup with hard biscuits. I bought the biscuits, but I had to make the soup. I'm no chef. Linc sat at the kitchen table and watched me stirring the disgusting stuff. Every day he seemed to look a little paler, a little more feverish. I wished I could send him off somewhere away from the cold and the slush and the ceaseless struggle—to Florida, to California, even to England. But that wasn't the way life was; and anyway, it was too late.

He started whistling one of the Beatles' songs Gwen had played: "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."

He was not a bad whistler. "The Sandman is upset," he said when he had finished.