Vineyard Deceit (18 page)

Mixed with these shops are bars that are largely filled in the summertime by young working people and college types. If there's ever a fight on Martha's Vineyard, it usually starts behind one of these bars and consists of drunken young men making loud combative noises while they swing at one another or roll around on the ground until the local cops come and PC them for the night. The Fireside is one of these bars. I found a parking place just up the street and went inside to find Bonzo.

Sometime before I met him, Bonzo was, I've been told, a promising young man. The only son of a widowed schoolteacher, he was the apple of her eye. Then, as occasionally happens to young men these days, he scrambled his brain with an illegal chemical additive, reputedly bad acid. He now earns a few dollars a day by performing menial tasks at the Fireside. He gazes out upon the world through sweet, empty eyes, and when not working, collects bird songs on his expensive recording devices and, now and then, goes fishing with me. He takes his work seriously and harbors no grudges against man or God. His mother lives in one of the gingerbread cottages near the Tabernacle and still labors in the academic halls of Martha's Vineyard High School. She loves innocent, blank-brained Bonzo without hope or self-pity. I take her fish from time to time, as Vineyard fishermen do to folks who cannot catch their own.

Bonzo and his mop and bucket were cleaning a spill back in the far corner of the barroom. The place was crowded with noisy people, mostly ten or fifteen years younger than I was, and the music was blaring in that mind-splitting mode that seems so popular with today's half-deaf youth. “American Bandstand” and I were born
and raised together, so I am familiar with many a wretched, once-popular song and singer, but compared to the current awfulness, even Elvis, once a controversial figure, now seems sedate and bland. My advanced age did not seem to offend anyone, so I went to the bar, found a stool, and ordered a Sam Adams.

The Fireside was as alive with smells as it was with noise. The odor of beer, both fresh and stale, mixed with the faint fragrance of marijuana and the stronger scents of sweat and whiskey. Most of the customers seemed pretty cheerful, I thought, as I watched them in the mirror behind the bar. By and by I saw Bonzo spot me and come over. I turned on the bar stool as he arrived.

“Hey, J.W.,” he said with his child's smile. “Good to see you again.” He put out his gentle hand and I took it. “Do you think we can go fishing pretty soon? I sure like to catch those bluefish.”

Bonzo was a tireless fisherman. He would stand on the beach with the surf sloshing his legs and cast and cast and cast, never stopping, rarely catching anything, delighted when I caught the fish his short, childish casts could not catch, alive with joy when he himself nailed some fish swimming close to shore.

“The bluefish have gone up north,” I said. “They'll be coming back down again in September. We could try for some bonito, though.”

“Bonito! That would be just fine, J.W.!” A faint frown then mingled with his smile. “Say, did we ever fish for bonito, J.W.?”

“I don't think you ever did, Bonzo, but we can give it a shot. You know those little boats that are anchored around the ferry dock lately? The guys in those boats are after bonito.”

“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, I knew that!” He beamed and it was like the sun dancing on water. “You got a boat we can use, J.W.?” Again that frown mixed with his smile. “I haven't got a boat, myself, you know.”

“I know you don't, but I've got my dinghy. That would be big enough on a calm day. I can bring it up in the LandCruiser and drop it overboard in the harbor and we can go out from there. I've got enough gear for both of us and I'll pick up seme bait.”

“Excellent! That will be just excellent! When?”

“How about the day after tomorrow? Early. I can pick you up about dawn, say five-thirty. That way we can get a morning's fishing in and you can still get back in time to go to work at noon.”

He nodded soberly. “That'll be good, J.W. I got my job here and I can't just leave it. My work's important.” He gave his mop handle a squeeze.

“Say, Bonzo,” I said, “you're the kind of guy who keeps his ears and eyes open and knows what's going on, aren't you?”

He thought about the question, then nodded. “Yes, I am, J.W. I hear a lot, you know, because of my work. People talk and laugh and I'm right there and sometimes I laugh right along with them.” He grinned, then stopped. “Sometimes they don't laugh, so I just be quiet and keep working. But I hear them and see them. You know what I mean, J.W.?”

“I know what you mean, Bonzo. Tell me this: Did you ever hear anybody in here mention the name Sarofim?”

I was not optimistic, but on the other hand the Fireside was a popular hangout for young folks and it just might be that some lonely Sarofimian, tired of cleaning hotel rooms and planning revolutions, had dropped in for a beer and some company generally uninterested in politics.

To my surprise, Bonzo's blank face lit up. “Sure! I heard that word just the other day!”

It seemed too easy. “You did?”

“But not in here, J.W. In church!”

In church? My brain stopped, then started again. Why not? Some Sarofimians probably went to church just like other people. Maybe even Sarofimian revolutionaries went
to church. A lot of revolutionaries think that God is on their side. “Who mentioned it, Bonzo?”

“Hey, you know who talks in church, J.W. The priest! Father Jim. He said it, Cherubim and seraphim. Two kinds of angels. Father Jim said the cherubim were high, but the seraphim were higher. Is that what you wanted to know, J.W.? I heard that in church, so it must be true.”

I drank some beer and tried again. “I'm sure it's true, Bonzo. Now think carefully; did you ever hear anyone in here, not in church, mention Sarofim? It's the name of a country, and I'd like to talk to anyone from that country, if I can find somebody.”

Bonzo's brow wrinkled then smoothed. “Gosh, a country with a name like an angel. No, J.W., I don't think I ever heard anybody but the priest say that name.” He brightened. “But I'll tell you what I can do. I'll ask my friends. I got a lot of good friends here and they know a lot and I'll ask them. Then when you go fishing I can tell you what they tell me. Is that okay?”

I put my hand on his thin shoulder. “That will be a big help, Bonzo. One more thing. Did you ever hear of a musical group called the Gits?”

“Gosh, J.W., everybody's heard of the Gits. We got two Git songs on the box over there. Say, you want me to play that music for you? You can hear 'em clear over this noise. I tell you, J.W., the Gits are loud!” He grinned and reached into his pockets for coins.

The room was already a cacophony of voices and screaming electronic instruments.

“Louder than this, Bonzo?”

“Oh, sure. This is nothin'.” He had his money out. “I'll play you some Gits and you'll see! They're really good!”

Ye gods! “No, no! I've got to go. Five-thirty the day after tomorrow. I'll pick you up. Okay?”

He looked at the coins in his hand, then slid them back
into his pocket and smiled his sweet, dreamy smile. “Okay! I'll be ready. We'll catch us some bonito!”

I finished my beer and went out. Circuit Avenue was filled with walkers wandering between the bars and restaurants. Young people mostly, of all shades and shapes. Unlike lily-white Edgartown where many people still blanch at the thought of non-Caucasian neighbors, Oak Bluffs has for many years been racially integrated, so the flavor of the street inclines more toward Neapolitan than vanilla. It seemed the sort of street where a wandering Sarofimian might feel comfortable, but if I saw any, I didn't know it. I found my LandCruiser and went home. So far, I'd been held scoreless in the Sarofimian Bowl, but I had hopes for the morrow.

On the morrow I had a brisk, get-the-day-going shower in my outdoor shower and, naked, toweled myself dry in the yard between my house and my garden. One of the advantages of living in a place hidden from other houses is that you can do things like that. The Chiefs theory notwithstanding, no low-flying airplanes examined me during this procedure. Only two bunnies, who studied me between explorations for holes in my garden fence. In the garden, towel flung Hercules-style over my shoulder, I plucked a few weeds and picked a couple of zooks that, as zucchinis are apt to do, had grown hugely overnight and needed to be eaten before they ate me. On my way into the house, I paused to study Archie Bunker's chair. A little glue, a few well-placed wood screws, and some paint and it would be as good as new.

Inside, I judged the time to be right and telephoned Zee. I was correct in my guess. Zee was between breakfast and departure for work.

“Just checking up,” I said.

“Everything's fine. Do you plan on doing this every morning?”

“If you move in with me, I won't have to.”

“I'm late, Jeff. I've got to go to work.”

“Be careful.”

“I will. You don't have to worry about me.”

“Let's get married.”

She laughed. “Not this morning, but thanks for asking.”

“Goodbye?”

Another laugh. “Goodbye.”

I chopped part of one of the zooks into a skillet with some butter and sautéed it while I dug out some eggs and grated some cheddar. Zook omelet and toast made from homemade bread, washed down with coffee. Not bad!

Then, since it was going to be another warm August day, I put on my thrift-shop shorts, sandals, a tee shirt, and my new hat—the baseball type with an adjustable plastic band in back and a logo on the front. Mine said HT-8 and was decorated with a picture of a helicopter and had my shellfishing license pinned over my left ear. Properly attired for detecting, I set off to Chappaquiddick to visit Ms. Helga Johanson, the well-known blond-and-blue-eyed private eye. I doubted if she'd be glad to see me.

Outside the gateway to the Damon house I discovered a uniformed guard. Grady Flynn, one of Edgartown's finest. On private detail. Big bucks for soft duty.

I suggested as much and he grinned. “It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it.”

I told him I wanted to talk with Helga Johanson, and he pulled out his radio, talked into it, listened, and waved me through. The LandCruiser looked a bit out of place when I parked beside the house not far from the helicopter I assumed was the Padishah's. Another man, this one in civvies but with the unmistakable look of a cop—private, I guessed, in this case—opened the door at my knock and, after eyeing me in general disapproval, led me into the library. There, it seemed, Thornberry Security had set up
war headquarters. General Johanson stood beside a table covered with papers. She was wearing a light blue blouse and a darker blue skirt. He blue shoes had low heels, and her legs looked terrific. Her eyes moved over me from head to foot, and a flicker of suspicion crossed her face. I, in reply, ogled her without shame.

“Blue is your color,” I said.

She put out a cool hand. “Mr. Cabot has informed me that you are his agent and has asked that we cooperate with you. Naturally we're glad to do so.”

“Naturally.” I held her hand a moment after she attempted to withdraw it, then let it go. “I'll tell you everything I know in return for everything you know and a chance to go up to the master bedroom.”

“The master bedroom? I doubt if you'll find anything of importance there, Mr. Jackson.”

“Call me J.W. I'd like to look at it anyway. I was only there once and may have missed something.”

“It seems very possible that you might,” she said, “but I assure you that Thornberry Security did not.”

“Come with me,” I said. “You can guard the house from me and I can prove to you that I can walk and talk at the same time. You can get away from these papers for a while. Do you good.”

It was not a bad ploy. Who doesn't want an excuse to get away from a table covered with papers?

She hesitated, then nodded. “All right, Mr. Jackson.”

“Great,” I said, taking her arm. “You and me and the master bedroom. Sounds like a terrific combination.”

She shook my hand away. “I haven't much time for you either professionally or personally, Mr. Jackson.”

“Call me J.W.,” I said and took her arm again. She shook her arm less vigorously and gave a sort of annoyed snort. But I hung on and smiled down at her, and after a moment she relaxed. Together we walked out of the library.

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