Crow's Landing (21 page)

Virgil said hello to Buddy, who seemed more surprised at Virgil's battered appearance than he was to see him in the area in general, then sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The place was pretty busy for a weekday afternoon and Virgil assumed that the weather was a factor. There were a few vacation properties and campgrounds in the area and sitting inside a cottage or a tent, watching the rain come down, was not what people had in mind when they were on holiday. If the outdoors was not an option, the bar was a good substitute.

Buddy finished his game with the woman and Virgil overheard him proposing steaks and beer at his place later on. Buddy, it seemed, had access to the best porterhouse cuts in the entire state. As a pickup line it was pretty effective, at least with the lanky blonde. The woman went off to run some errands and told Buddy she would see him at seven o'clock. As she was walking out the door, Buddy suggested she pick up a couple of bottles of wine.

“What the fuck happened to you?” he asked, walking over to Virgil at the bar.

“Fell out of the hay mow,” Virgil told him.

Buddy took a quick inventory of Virgil's injuries. “Looks like you hit a few bumps on the way down.”

Virgil smiled and turned to the bartender and ordered another beer for himself and one for Buddy, who sat down on the next stool over.

“I tried to find a number for you,” Buddy said. “You don't have a phone?”

“I got a phone.”

“Unlisted?”

“No. It's in Tom Stempler's name. Used to own the farm.”

“He died, right?”

“Yeah. Five, six years ago.”

“Ever think of putting the number in your name?”

“Then people might start calling me.”

The bartender brought the beer and Virgil paid. Buddy took a long pull, the foam clinging to his mustache, and put the glass on the bar. He looked at Virgil, then he smiled like a horny teenager and nodded toward the door through which the blonde had disappeared.

“You see her?”

“You're like a puppy with two peckers, Buddy.”

Buddy nodded. “Her name's Mimi.”

“French girl?”

Buddy laughed at that. “And to think I wanted to stay in Florida. I could fall in love with that woman.”

“That why you were looking for my number?” Virgil asked. “Tell me that?”

Buddy laughed again—it seemed he was in a hell of a mood—and took another drink, this time remembering to wipe his mustache. “Got some information for you,” he said. “You caught yourself a big one, man. That cylinder's full of cocaine. That is, if it's the cylinder I think it is, and with all the commotion it's caused, I'm guessing it is.”

“How did it end up at the bottom of the Hudson River?”

“It got dumped during a bust,” Buddy said. “I talked to a couple of cops who were in on it. Said it happened out from Athens, deep spot in the river. A dealer named Parson brought the dope up from the Caribbean on a boat called
Down Along Coast
. Stuff came from Colombia originally, supposed to be
the best of the best. But somebody with knowledge of it coming into the country got into a mess over kiddie porn and rolled over like a dead carp, patched the information to the metro drug squad. They kept tabs on the boat while it came up through the intercoastal and raided it in the middle of the night, out in the river. But this Parson got spooked at the last minute and threw the cylinder overboard and then he went with it. Seven years later and a little farther south, you hook it with an anchor. How's that for a needle in a haystack?”

“Yeah, I'm a lucky guy,” Virgil said. “So Parson got away?”

“They pulled him in for questioning after the fact. But they had nothing on him. They did find a few grams of coke on the boat, pleasure snort, but they couldn't tie it to him. Apparently the guy's made of Teflon. When he bought the boat down in the islands he registered the thing in his girlfriend's name. She took it on the chin for the coke they did find. She wouldn't give up Parson so they made it trafficking and made it stick and she did three years in Albion Correctional. Parson walked. And just to thumb his nose at the cops, he bought the boat back at police auction. It's a forty-four-foot Chris-Craft, all mahogany and teak, nice-looking boat. I saw it yesterday, moored in the river outside Parson's pad.”

“What were you doing out there?”

“I wanted to have a look. Cops told me where he lived, out by Van Wies Point. I saw Parson himself. He drove up in a white Corvette, gave me the stink-eye when he saw me parked across the road.”

“What's he look like?” Virgil asked. “Don't tell me he's a Russian in a cowboy hat.”

“Nah, he's a black dude,” Buddy said. “He's put together, probably a gym rat. As fit as a butcher's dog.”

Virgil's next question was technically not a question at all. Not when he already knew the answer. “You get the girlfriend's name?”

“Dusty Fremont.”

Virgil nodded and tipped back his beer. “These cops you talked to. They heard anything about the cylinder recently?”

“Far as they know, it's still at the bottom of the river.”

“I guess they're out of the loop then,” Virgil said.

“I guess they are,” Buddy said.

“That's surprising,” Virgil said. “Or maybe not. I found out who took the cylinder, and my boat. Albany detective named Hoffman.”

“So the Albany police have it?”

“I don't think so. Hoffman was a cop the day he took it. He retired the next day.”

“Ah,” Buddy said. “Which leads you to the conclusion that he's probably not going to turn the coke over to the proper authorities. Which leads you to further conclude that he's not going to bring your boat back.”

“That's where it leads me.”

“How did you find out his name?”

“A woman told me.”

“What woman?” Buddy asked and when Virgil didn't answer he figured it out quick enough. “Shit. How did she find you?”

“She's a smart girl,” Virgil said. “She was looking for Hoffman and now it turns out Hoffman's looking for her. He's traveling with a big mean cowboy with a Russian accent and a scared junkie.”

Buddy took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one. He sat thinking. “Why would she want to deal herself back in? She already did time for this.”

“She seems pretty conflicted about it,” Virgil said. “Told me she wished I'd never found the thing.”

“And you say Hoffman's looking for her?”

“Yeah. Matter of fact, he somehow got wind that she'd been to see me and he and his band of merry men showed up at my place a couple nights ago, asking questions.”

Buddy pulled on the cigarette. “Was that the night you fell out of the hay mow, Virgil?”

“Yeah.”

Buddy took a moment, then nodded. “So you never told this Hoffman she'd been to see you.”

It was a statement and not a question, so Virgil never replied. He watched as Buddy Townes smoked the nonfilter and tried to figure the angles. It was interesting to watch; the man went from eager horndog, giddy with thoughts of thick steaks and voluptuous blondes, to private investigator in a matter of minutes. Like an old beagle laying on a porch, catching the whiff of a cottontail on the wind.

“Why would Hoffman be looking for her, when he's got the dope?” he asked.

“I've been wondering that myself,” Virgil said. “She thinks he's afraid of something.”

Buddy drained the last of his draft and pushed the mug across the bar in the general direction of the bartender, who was at the far end, mixing drinks for a waitress who stood by. Only the two of them were working and they were kept hopping, serving the customers who'd come in out of the rain. Virgil's second beer was still half full but he didn't hurry it along. He wasn't about to get into a guzzling contest with Buddy Townes.

“All right,” Buddy said after he'd gotten the bartender's attention. “There's a third party missing here and I have to
assume that third party is Parson. I guarantee you he knows that somebody found the cylinder. I don't know how, but he knows.”

“Dusty mentioned him.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. She didn't say anything about being his girlfriend, and she didn't say he knew about the cylinder.” Virgil paused, thinking back to the conversation in the hospital parking lot. “But she did say he owns the thing.”

“Like I said, he knows.”

When the bartender brought the beer, he told Buddy to put the cigarette out. Buddy did so reluctantly, and gave him a twenty.

“Parson still in the business?” Virgil asked.

“Allegedly not,” Buddy said. “According to the cops, he restores high-end cars for a living. Vintage stuff. There's a theory it's a front. But Parson's been clean since that night on the river. He'd actually been pretty clean in general, even before that. He took a fall once twenty years ago on a conspiracy rap, did eighteen months. After that, he became an expert at keeping his own fingerprints off everything. You know what I mean? Like getting the girl to put the boat in her name.”

“You think Dusty's working for him now?”

“Do you?”

Virgil shrugged. “Like I said, she seems pretty reluctant to be involved at all. It's almost like she has no choice. That make sense?”

“Hard to say, without knowing the whole story. But you can bet your ass that Parson wants that powder. There was rumored to be a hundred pounds of pure cocaine in that cylinder. You know what that's worth on the street? You're talking a couple million dollars minimum. A man loses fifteen,
twenty grand on a deal and he'll chalk it up to experience. This is a different kettle of fish. If Parson knows that somebody found that cylinder, he's going to want it back.”

Virgil absently rotated the beer mug on the bar. “If Hoffman didn't turn it in, you have to assume he's going to sell it. Why not just sell it to Parson?”

“If Hoffman called you up and offered to sell you your boat back, would you buy it?”

“No.”

“There you go. Parson might be thinking the same way.” Buddy considered this a moment, then nodded, as if agreeing with himself. “And that's why Hoffman would be afraid of him.
If
Hoffman knows that Parson knows. This thing goes round and round, doesn't it?” Buddy reached for another smoke, and stopped. “And … maybe that's why Hoffman's looking for the woman. If she's out asking questions, then he's going to think she's working for Parson, whether she is or not. Why wouldn't he think that? She was the girlfriend, she was on the boat, she served the time. You could say she's invested more in this than all the rest of them put together.” Buddy took another drink.

“She works construction,” Virgil said. “Drives an old pickup. She doesn't look like any kind of a drug dealer to me. But I think she's nervous about Hoffman. She knows now that he's looking for her.” Virgil indicated the cast on his arm. “And she knows he's playing rough.”

“What's this about a Russian?” Buddy asked.

“I don't know how he fits in,” Virgil said. “Whether he's just muscle for Hoffman or something else. Big bastard. I got a feeling he's seen too many Clint Eastwood movies. A little on the mean side, I'd have to say.”

Virgil saw Buddy look at his watch, and in that instant
he could see Buddy's focus shift. He knew that Buddy was thinking about the tall blonde again.

“She could be in a shitload of trouble,” Virgil said.

“Mimi?”

“Dusty.”

“Right,” Buddy said. “And you're thinking about riding to her rescue?”

“No. I just want my boat back.”

“Bullshit.” Buddy laughed. “You're going to get yourself in shit, you know that? Why fuck around with these people if you don't have to? You can buy another boat. Go back to your farm, let them fight it out among themselves.”

“Okay.”

“You're not even listening to me.”

Virgil finished his beer. “Sure I am. Thanks for the information, Buddy. I hope you have a nice dinner.”

“I hope I have a nice dessert.”

Virgil got to his feet. He was nearly to the door when Buddy called out to him. Virgil turned.

“Stay out of it, Virgil. These guys aren't fucking around. People like this will kill you just to make a point. And we're talking about a couple million dollars here.”

Virgil nodded.

“How do you know this girl's not playing you?” Buddy asked. “Shit—she might be the baddest one of the lot.”

Virgil smiled. “She told me the same thing.”

 * * *

As he headed for home, hitting Route 385 at Coxsackie and driving south, Virgil considered what Buddy Townes had said. And he knew that Buddy was right. He knew nothing about the woman named Dusty Fremont, other than that she was acquainted with a nasty bunch of people. She had
shown up at Virgil's farm telling half-truths, trying to get him to reveal things that he didn't know, that he would have no way of knowing. No matter how Virgil tried to paint her in a positive light, the fact remained that she was looking for a shipment of cocaine that was apparently worth a small fortune. She wasn't a cop, so it seemed unlikely she was looking to get the dope off the street. In spite of her insisting otherwise, it was easy to assume that she wanted the coke for the same reason everybody else did. To get rich. Either she was on one side or the other.

Still, there was nothing about her that suggested that she was driven by greed. Virgil wanted to believe her when she said she'd rather not be involved in the situation at all, that she wished he'd never found the thing to begin with. But there were things she wasn't telling him, something she was protecting. And, on a certain level, in spite of her tough talk and her street swagger, Virgil knew she was scared.

He was approaching Kimball's Point now, and as he drove past the entranceway to Brownie's Marina, he glanced over to see several police cruisers in the parking lot. The tackle shop was encircled with yellow tape. He continued on for another mile or so, and then turned back.