Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (10 page)

“Well, Vincent, this never seemed like the almighty, ideal, glorious life to me. Is being a crabber having it all?” Velma used Vinnie's formal name when trying for humorous exaggeration.

Vinnie smiled. “Why Velma, do you mean that building beehive hairdos and living paycheck to paycheck in this thirty room mansion is not the ultimate way of life?”

“Vinnie, after thirty years with you, I love just being alive. We have good friends and family, and a good church. But being a waterman is not having it all.”

“It might be if you didn't need the money.”

“You mean Ned just fishes for fun.”

“That's the way I see it,” Vinnie said. “He makes his money lawyering, probably stealing inheritances from old ladies, and he steals God's beauty by going out in that boat every morning. That sounds like an easy life to me.”

“Vincent, don't be so cynical.”

“All watermen are cynical.”

“Well, Neddie has been good to us. He didn't have to keep you on. And he's polite, single and handsome,” Velma said. “I like having him back, except for losing his brother of course.”

“How's Martha?” Vinnie asked. “I haven't seen her since the Bay-front that day. And she didn't look too good that day.”

“She was in the shop last week,” Velma said, “and I thought she was fine, except I think she's got it in her head that Jimmy was up to no good.”

“You mean foolin around with women?” Vinnie asked, screwing up his face in rejection of his own observation.

“Something,” Velma said, “I don't know. Maybe it's that resort. Now Neddie is mixed up with those folks too. I think they're fast talkers.”

“Neddie can take care of himself,” Vinnie said. “But it would have been better if they'd found Jimmy's body. Then Martha would know what happened.”

“Put your plates in the sink.” Velma didn't have to say that, but it was a goodbye she had offered Vinnie for years, just before going back to bed. It was reassuring to them both because it implied they would be back in the evening to clean up. She didn't have to go back to bed anymore, but she still directed the plates before heading to her shower.

Vinnie walked into the mud room, as he called it, a corner of the front porch he had enclosed some years before. He already had on two pair of wool socks and they slipped easily into the white rubber boots that were waterman traditions, warm, waterproof and skid proof. But they didn't do much for falling arches, and Vinnie's feet hurt from standing in the boat all day. He tucked his jeans inside the boots, cinched his belt one more notch, and reached for the tan canvas jacket hanging on the wall. His rubber waders would be waiting in the boat, and cold, but they would warm up fast from body heat. He liked to leave the house first, say goodbye, and get the station wagon started before Velma was quite ready. Her car, a used Pontiac muscle model they picked out several years ago, was in the garage and a guaranteed start. Velma loved the car. It had a sexy quality as defined by the culture of the 1970s that included oversized tires, a 400 horsepower engine, red and orange flames stenciled along the sides, and some souvenir hanging from the rear view mirror. Velma had a paper mache Hawaiian lei that she and Vinnie got at an Elks Club dance in honor of Don Ho's 60th birthday. It hung from her mirror for several years, and only recently did she begin thinking that she might change it. It was turning yellow and brittle.

Vinnie's car was known throughout the county for being disguised as a moving billboard. Every conservative political slogan and country music phrase ever put on a bumper sticker was part of Vinnie's Chevy station wagon. Some of the stickers were twenty years old, as old as the car, and faded beyond readability. My favorites were Agnew Is Innocent, I Love Hilda Mae Snoops, and No More Kennedys. Agnew was faded; most people didn't recognize former Maryland Governor Donald Schaefer's girlfriend Hilda; and the Kennedy sticker was an all purpose statement against wealth, power, entrenched Democrats and outsiders in general. None of the stickers were particularly clever, but they all had a purpose. Vinnie was a man who stood for things, and his car told you what. His seatbelts were wedged between the seatbacks and encrusted with cracker crumbs, French fries and spilled coffee. The danger of dying in his car from food mold was probably greater than from a car crash.

The car leaned to the rear left corner, for reasons Vinnie never explained. Most people thought it was due to a failed shock absorber. And passengers usually found some way to anchor themselves, perhaps just a finger through the door latch, to keep from sliding across the seat. But Vinnie noticed it had been some time since anyone had volunteered to ride with him. He smiled at the thought of how well his “no maintenance” plan was working.

Vinnie and Velma lived in a typical community of small frame homes, built in the 1940s as summer cottages for the middle class of Washington to escape the high humidity of the city. No heating or air conditioning and not much insulation. The western shore of the Bay, from Annapolis to the Solomons, is crowded with villages called Silent Waters, or Restful Beach, or Clift Haven, or some name signifying the aspirations of their residents. The streets were narrow, and the lots were small, divided by chain link fences often purchased at discount by the community associations to ensure that no one remained unfenced. In recent years, almost all the houses had been winterized and renovated to the point they looked like faded lego blocks, going in all directions with floors that often meant stepping up or down as you moved from room to room. Vinnie bought his house in 1971 for twelve thousand dollars, added a bathroom, oil heat, window air conditioners, and the back porch. The house wasn't on the water, but it was across the street from water, and when Vinnie backed out of his driveway, he could see the sparkling early morning waters where the sun was beginning to burn off the fog. He reached the Bayfront Inn in less than five minutes.

Margaret “Simy” Sims was putting a filter in the big silver coffee-maker behind the bar. The bar and the restaurant were side by side, but separate operations under the same roof. The owner, Mabel Fergus, knew this was not efficient, but it was practical. She didn't want a bunch of drunks pushing into the restaurant for coffee, whether it was to sober up or to fill their thermos jugs for a day on the water. And she didn't want food in the bar, at least partially so Simy wouldn't have to pick up dishes and take food orders. The bar was for drinking.

Simy was making the second batch of coffee of the day, her supply depleted by the first round of crabbers who headed out about six, just after she opened. Vinnie was in the second tier, mostly captains and mates on the fishing boats that would meet their charter parties about eight. The Bayfront fleet was changing. Maybe a dozen crab boats still operated out of Jenkins Creek, at least five of them from berths at the Bayfront. But another half dozen captains had given up the crabbing altogether, and had transformed their boats into “charter fishing” vessels, forsaking crabs for Rockfish. Along the Jenkins and most of the western shore of the Bay the water is shallow, often two or three feet with huge splotches of sandbars that show solid green on the charts. The somewhat narrow shipping channel from the Atlantic to Baltimore may be ninety feet deep or more, but most of the Bay is closer to twenty-five or thirty feet deep. Nevertheless, “deep sea fishing” is the brand name people recognize from fishing fleets along the Carolinas or Florida coasts, so there was a move afoot to build a new sign on the pier that said “Charter Fishing.”

Most of the charter captains were charging three hundred dollars a day for a party of six and doing far better than they had as crabbers, with a lot less effort.

Vinnie figured Neddie would move toward charter fishing, if he stayed in the business long enough. Ned was already trying to do two things, crab and law; he might as well add a little Rockfish fishing. But it was too soon to know.

Vinnie moved around the bar, tapping a couple of the boys on the shoulder and saying hello.

“Simy,” he said, “coffee black. Have you seen Ned?”

“No Mr. Vinnie,” she said, often using the formal prefix for old friends. She took a wide lipped porcelain mug from several stacked on the bar, flipped the black lever, and steaming coffee gushed out, spilling just a bit over the edge. She wiped the excess with a dish rag stuffed in the pocket of her jeans. Simy had been at work a couple of hours but hadn't applied her make-up yet, and her hair was pulled back and pasted to her head with several pins. Her dark green tee shirt said “Spoil Me” on the front, prompting Vinnie to wonder where she got it. He didn't wonder what it meant. He knew that just about every waterman on the Bay had tried to spoil her at one time or another, and for some it was a lifetime project. In fact, one of the most troubling aspects of his association with the Shannons was the knowledge that Jimmy had been interested in Simy himself, although Vinnie wasn't sure much had ever happened. Still, he was careful what he said whenever Martha was around...

Vinnie turned to Captain Petey on the next stool, and asked if he had a full charter.

“I got a hot one today,” Petey said, rubbing the mermaid tattoo on his left arm. “A bunch of politicians from the State house. And that guy you saved, the Blenny Man.”

“No kidding,” Vinnie said, surprised. “He has his own boat. Why is he chartering?”

“Boat's broke,” Petey said. “Something about the gas line. And he had these guys lined up for a fishing trip, so I got em.”

“Politicians are lousy tippers,” Vinnie said. “Plus they want to tell you how to do everything.”

“I don't care what they say, as long as they pay,” Petey said. “And nobody around here tips anyway. I remember Jimmy took these guys out last year and they gave him fifty dollars. So maybe they're changing.”

“Jimmy took out the Blenny Man?” Vinnie asked.

“Yeah, I think it was him,” Pete said, screwing up his face as if it hurt to force his brain to recall. “The Blenny Man and four or five others.”

“You know that scrawny little guy never said one word to us on the boat, after we had saved his life…and his boat,” Vinnie said. “No thank yous. Nothing. Just shivered, told us to save his boat, and walked away.”

“That's more than one word.”

“Right,” Vinnie said. “Still seems strange.”

The bar was almost empty as Petey retrieved his jacket from a hook on the wall and started for the door. Simy started cleaning the counter, an easier process after everyone was gone. She picked up the remaining glasses, gave them a wrist rinse in the dishwater, and set them aside for the washer. Even early in the morning, her dish rag was wet from wiping the counter. But she pulled it from her waistband and gave the counter a quick swipe. Simy didn't start many conversations. Usually the customers urged her into them, but Vinnie was alone at the bar and the two television sets perched in opposite corners of the room were off. They were on for soap operas in the afternoon and all sporting events, but not in the morning when hangovers were common.

“Vinnie,” Simy said, “how's Velma?”

“Fine,” Vinnie said. “She's at the shop. She said she saw you last weekend at the craft fair at Wesley Methodist.”

“I went with Mom,” she said. “Mom's been going to that craft thing for twenty years. She always buys something. Sunday she got a piece of plywood painted like a dandelion and stuck it right in the middle of her yard. Can you believe that?”

“Your mom's a good woman, you know that?” Vinnie said.

“You know the first thing I do every morning when I get up. I call my mom just to see what she's doing.”

“That's nice,” Vinnie said. “I thought you still lived with your folks?”

“No, I moved out when my son was born. That's about six years ago,” she said, “I live down the street in the old Graves house. Just renting.”

Vinnie knew that Simy had a son, but not much else. Velma didn't think she had ever gotten married, but Vinnie didn't know how to ask without prying, so he let it drop. He sat staring at his beer. Simy realized he was out of conversation, so she moved around the bar to get the beer chest ready for chipped ice. That meant emptying two or three inches of water left over from yesterday. Several years ago Mabel Fergus had hit on the idea of iced beer as a gimmick for competing with the other bars in town. And it worked. Something about ice on the bottle was a special treat, especially in the summer when the boys would pour off the boats hot and sweaty, beet red from sun burn, and tired to the bone. They would often ask, “Gimme one of those iced cold beers.” So Mabel moved the beer freezer over to the restaurant for steaks and hamburger, bought a five-foot long ice chest, and put it right in the middle of the bar so everyone could see it. Then she bought an icemaker from some industrial supply store in Baltimore, and every morning filled the chest with domestic beers. Simy carried a case of beer from the back room and lined up the bottles in the chest. Then she covered them with ice, heaped it up, and laid several bottles at various angles on top. That was her invention. A little creativity. Something about seeing those bottles laying on top of fresh ice was an open invitation to drink.

Simy went to the back room for a bucket of ice when the phone rang. Mabel kept a private phone in back for the staff, out of sight of patrons, and beyond the use of anyone not on the payroll. The payphone was out front by the door, and Simy was instructed to give anyone with a hard luck story a quarter for the payphone, but never let anyone in the back room. It was me on the phone. I don't think she recognized my voice, but I called her by name, and asked her to tell Vinnie that I, Ned Shannon, wouldn't be coming to the boat. She said, “I'll do it,” and hung up.

I figured Vinnie would be worried, but at least he knew I called. And by noon everybody in town would know where I had gone.