Vulgar Boatman (9 page)

He nodded. “I called a friend this afternoon. A girl I know.”

“And she told you about Alice?”

“Yes. I called her because she and Alice were friends. To find out if she knew anything about what was going on with Alice. A boy or whatever. She told me. That Alice had been killed. And she said a guy was at the school asking about me. She heard Mr. Speer talking on the phone. She heard him say your name and mine and Alice’s. My friend remembered your name and described you. I figured I’d better call you.”

“And that was the first you knew about the murder?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Here I am, being mad at her, feeling sorry for myself, and she’s dead.” He stared at me. “I did lie to you about one thing. I can’t see how it matters, though.”

“Well?”

“We did make love. After we got ice cream we went to a place we go to and—and she seduced me, I guess you’d say.”

“Where did you go? To the school?”

He frowned. “No. We have a place. It’s by the ocean. There’s a development going in. A road goes right down to the beach, and a lot of half-finished houses. It’s very private. Sometimes we take a blanket down by the ocean. That night it was a little chilly. We stayed in the car.”

“Why would you lie to me about that?”

I saw tears well up in his eyes. He turned back to stare out at the ocean for a moment. Then he wiped his eyes on his forearm and looked back at me. “Because after we—we had sex—we argued again. She said she had to get going, as if that should hold me for a while, see? Like it was a little favor she was doing for me to appease me. It hadn’t been like that before. I was confused, my feelings were hurt. I was angry. I—I slapped her. I mean, not hard, not to hurt her. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I might’ve left a mark on her face, I don’t know. I didn’t mean to hit her as hard as I did. She laughed at me. She called me a baby. It was like—like she was somebody I didn’t know, like some kind of monster, almost. She was cruel. She mocked me. Called me a loser, a druggie. It wasn’t her at all. There was something going on with Alice, and I don’t know what it was.”

“What about cocaine, Buddy? Did you tell me the truth about that?”

He nodded. “Oh, yes. I’ve been clean for nine months. Almost ten.”

“What about her?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did Alice do drugs?”

“Alice?” He hesitated. “She…”

I waited. He was staring out at the sea again. When he didn’t say anything, I said, “What, Buddy? What are you thinking?”

He turned. He had a different look. I couldn’t read it. “Yeah,” he said. “Alice had a little problem. Thing is, she was okay last night. I mean, when I was with her.”

He stared hard at me for a moment. “Buddy—”

He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about it. Okay?”

I shrugged. “For now it’s okay. Come on. Let’s finish eating.”

We went back to the table. Buddy picked languidly at his salad. I ate another wedge of cold reheated frozen pizza. “This other guy…,” I began.

“If there was one,” he said. “She never admitted there was. I just suspected there was.”

“Oh, there was one, all right,” I said.

“I know she was murdered, but…”

I looked at him. “You think you’re old enough to drink beer, I guess you’re old enough to be talked straight to. Somebody murdered Alice. You know that. Before he killed her, he had sex with her.”

Buddy’s eyes widened. “Raped her, you mean?”

I shook my head. “They don’t think it happened that way.”

“How do you know?”

“The autopsy report. It also showed that she smoked cocaine.”

“Crack. Yeah. It figures. Shit!” Buddy pounded his thigh with his fist.

“Who was it, Buddy? You must have some suspicion.”

He looked hard at me. “No,” he said. “I have no idea.”

“Listen—”

“I don’t know who it was,” he said. His tone told me to back off. I decided to comply.

“Okay,” I said after a moment. “Speculate.”

He shook his head. “No. I can’t. I can’t think about it. I don’t know.”

“Have it your way,” I said.

We finished eating in silence. Buddy ate a few bites of salad. I polished off most of the pizza. When we were done and had stacked the dishes in the sink, I said, “Now we go to the police. Ready?”

Buddy’s head snapped around. “Now?” he said. I detected a hysterical edge to his tone. “Now? Wait a minute. Hey! Just wait a minute.”

“There’s a warrant for your arrest,” I said mildly. “You’ve got to go.”

“I’m not going now. No way, Mister.” Buddy’s eyes darted wildly around the room, as if he were seeking escape. I moved toward him, and he backed away as if I were attacking him. “Stay away from me, Mr. Coyne. You’re not taking me anywhere. Not tonight.”

I leaned back against the wall, hoping my example would relax him. He remained standing in the middle of the living room, half crouched. “Listen, Buddy,” I began in soft tones.

“No. You listen. I know how this works, see. You take me in now. They book me, or whatever you call it. Then they stick me in a cell, because my old man can’t get bail for me until the morning. And there’s no fucking way I’m going to spend a night in a cell. I still get nightmares. Sometimes I think I’m over the edge and not coming back. Walls close in. The floor drops out from under my feet. The old hallucinations. From the bad shit I used to take. If you think I’m going to spend a night in a jail cell—listen. Jesus Christ, please listen to me! I’ll beg you, if that’s what you want. I’ll do anything. But I’m telling you, I’m not going. Not tonight.”

“Buddy, you don’t understand. It’s my duty. I’ve got to take you.”

“Now? Can’t it wait till morning? Look. I didn’t have to come here. So what’s the big deal? Just wait till morning. When the sun’s shining. That’s all I’m asking.” He was pleading, his eyes wide. He held his hands out to me as if I could give him salvation. They were trembling.

He sensed my hesitation. “Look,” he said. “We can go in the morning. Let me stay here with you. I’ll be okay here. Then tomorrow take me in.”

Unstable young people hang themselves in Massachusetts jail cells with alarming frequency. And Buddy Baron was an unstable young person. I decided I’d rather have a minor professional dereliction on my conscience than the possible tragic consequence of a hard-nosed adherence to the very letter of my duty. Another ten or twelve hours wouldn’t matter.

I nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow morning. Without fail. You won’t give me a hard time?”

He sighed, then managed a small smile. “Oh, Jesus, Mr. Coyne. Thank you. Oh, man.”

“I hope the sofa is okay,” I said. “I’ve got an extra bedroom, but there’s no bed in it. It’s full of junk.”

He nodded. “The sofa is great. I owe you, Mr. Coyne. You have no idea.”

I rinsed off the dishes and loaded up the dishwasher. Buddy wandered over to the television. He flicked it on and watched it for a few minutes. Then he came over to me.

“Can I help?” he said.

“I’m done. Thanks.”

“Want me to pick up a little?”

I glanced around my apartment. Sylvie always teased me about my preference for disarray. She was right—it was a leftover from a marriage to a compulsively neat woman. “No,” I said. “Everything’s where it belongs. Thanks for the thought, though.”

He shrugged. “What do you do, then?”

“What do you mean?”

“At night. Alone.”

“I’m not always alone.”

He nodded with mock sagacity. “Of course. Sure. How about when you are alone?”

“I read. Tie flies. Daydream. Study chess problems.”

“You play chess?”

“Rarely. Badly. Under duress. When I have an opponent.”

“Well?”

“You’d probably find me no challenge,” I said.

He grinned. “Chicken?”

“No,” I said. “I am not chicken.”

“Let’s play for a beer.”

“No dice, kid,” I said. “We will play for the sheer joy of the competition. Thrill of victory, agony of defeat. The chess pieces are in the drawer.” I gestured at the kitchen sink, and he went and pulled open the drawer next to it, while I swept the magazines, newspapers, beer cans, and socks off the coffee table in the living room. A moment later I heard Buddy laugh.

“Mr. Coyne,” he said from the kitchen, “this drawer is unbelievable. There’s all kinds of junk in here. The chessmen are loose.”

“I think there are two or three sets in there.”

“You ought to organize things a little.”

“I don’t need to organize it,” I said. “I know everything that’s in there. Batteries, a set of socket wrenches, spare keys for everything, screwdrivers…”

“Fishhooks, a broken transistor radio, cassettes, dollar bills, golf tees, about three gross of pencils. Jeez! Anyway, you’re right about the chess pieces. More than enough here, for sure.”

We set up the board on the coffee table. Buddy played a cautious, defensive game, which I didn’t expect. Most young chess players are impulsive, looking for the quick kill. That, in fact, more accurately described my style, which, I supposed, signified something important. Buddy declined most of the exchanges I offered, and he erected a wall of knights and pawns in front of his king that appeared impregnable. What I thought might be a crack in that defense cost me a pawn. It looked like enough of an advantage for Buddy to wear me down.

I smoked a lot of Winstons. Buddy drank a lot of Pepsi. We didn’t talk much while we played. He was very intense about it. I had trouble concentrating.

We were well into what promised to be a long, tedious end game, advantage Buddy, when Doc Adams called.

“Bluefish!” he shouted at me. “Bluefish, Coyne. Can’t you taste ’em, still flipping and flopping when we toss ’em onto the skillet?”

“PCB’s,” I intoned. “Mercury. Red tide.”

“What’s a little adventure in your life? Take a chance. No risk, no reward.”

“I don’t call consuming poison adventure, old buddy. Anyway, whose boat?”

“Your friend Frank. I thought he let you take it whenever you want.”

“He used to.”

“You’ve got to take better care of your friends. Especially those with boats. Bad form, getting on the outs with Frank. Damn bad form. Call him. Make up with him. Send him a bouquet of posies. Another week or two, the blues’ll be all gone.”

“Frank’s boat got stolen.”

“Ah, nuts.” Doc hesitated. “You don’t feel like renting one, do you?”

“Me? Not especially.”

“Me neither. Let me think. We could go up to Plum Island and cast for them from the beach. Hit or miss, but fun.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do that. What’s the tide going to be?”

“Hang on.” While I waited for Doc to come back on the phone, I glanced at the chess game. Buddy was sitting back, grinning at a bishop move he had made. He mouthed the word “Check.” I slapped my forehead.

“Here we go,” said Doc a minute later. “Tide’s up at four-thirty Saturday. We want to catch it coming in, we ought to get there around one. That’s a nice time of day.”

“I’ll pick you up in Concord,” I said. “Little before noon?”

“Good. I’ll see if Mary will let me snitch a couple thermoses full of that homemade minestrone I smell. I’ll build some sandwiches.”

I told Doc to give Mary a big wet kiss for me, which he said would be a pleasure, and we hung up. I went back and sat across from Buddy.

“Check,” he said.

“I know, I know.” I studied the board. It was a long way off, but I finally saw it. The inevitable checkmate. I might avoid it. But to do so, Buddy would have to make a major blunder. I decided to give him credit for not doing that. I tipped over my king. “Nice game,” I said.

“You’re too aggressive,” Buddy said. “No backup. You tried something and it didn’t work and you had nothing to fall back on.”

“Yeah,” I said. “The story of my life. I’m going to bed.”

“I don’t think I’m going to sleep much,” he said.

Buddy insisted on putting away my chess pieces properly. I found the felt-lined wooden box they belonged in under some papers on my desk. I emptied the bass flies out of it and gave it to him.

I found some sheets and a pillow and blankets for him. He said he could make up the sofa himself. I said good night to him, and he said, “Thanks for everything, Mr. Coyne. I’m glad I called you.”

“Busy day tomorrow,” I said. “Try and get some rest.”

“About that beer,” said Buddy. “I gotta admit it. You were right. It’s kinda nice to know where you stand with somebody.”

I awakened even earlier than usual the next morning. I lay in my bed for a minute or two before I remembered why I was feeling a little wired. Buddy Baron was sleeping in my living room. I was going to take him through the first steps of what probably would prove to be a long legal process. It would be painful for him and his parents, regardless of the outcome.

I slipped into my jeans and crept out to the kitchen. I was careful not to awaken Buddy.

I needn’t have bothered.

He wasn’t there.

T
HE BEDCLOTHES I HAD
given him the night before were stacked on the sofa, neatly folded. I couldn’t tell whether he had used them and refolded them or not. I looked out on the balcony, in the spare bedroom, in the bathroom, without much expectation of finding him. And I didn’t.

Buddy had left.

I sat at the table, listening to the coffee machine chug and gurgle. The police wanted Buddy Baron, and I had him, and I let him go. I had blown it. Cusick would be rightfully furious. I wasn’t sure how Joanie or Tom would react. For my part, I was embarrassed. I had misjudged him.

When the coffee was ready, I poured a mugful and took it out onto the balcony to wait for the sun to come up. The question that nagged at me was this: If he intended to run away, why did Buddy bother to come to me in the first place? He knew what had happened to Alice. He knew there was an arrest warrant out for him. So why come to me? Did he hope for something that I failed to give him? Or did he get what he wanted?

Or did he just change his mind and chicken out?

Although I do some excellent thinking out there in the cool of the predawn morning on occasion, no answers were forthcoming this time. I finished my coffee, went in to shower and shave, got dressed, and headed for my car.