Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (15 page)

I was a little surprised that Burl was so worked up about the Resort project, but this didn't seem like the moment to further explore his attitude. Indeed, he had given me a message to deliver to my new client, thus making me a player in the game. If the SARP (Stop All Resorts Please) people had decided to use me as a conduit to Chesapeake Resorts International, so much the better. I probably owed Burl something for my new stature. Maybe I could give him a break on his will, although that couldn't be much. In any case, I was in the loop, and that felt good.

Teddy Harvest was a legendary waterman who ran his crab house and inn as a way station for politicians searching the eastern shore of the Bay for votes, and for corporate giants and movie stars who showed up for the duck hunting season. Pictures of Teddy with all the governors of Maryland, even the ones who went to jail or left in disgrace, adorned the walls. Teddy knew how to take care of his guests, and he had six slips vacant for Captain Pete and his fellow Captains.

I stepped off our boat as it edged toward the dock, grabbed the stern lines thrown by Lil, and tied them to the dock cleats. I was about to help Lady Marilyn off when somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I turned and was more than surprised to see the Blenny Man. My initial fear was that I couldn't remember his name, and it seemed unlikely that he preferred being called Blenny Man.

“Hello Ray,” I said. “Let me help these folks onto the dock.” I set about the task while Ray Herbst waited. When the last guest was off the boat and walking up the dock toward Teddy's, Ray began again.

“Nice to see you again, Mr. Shannon,” he said. “I hope to see you inside.” As he turned to follow the others, I noticed he was wearing black dress shoes with his khaki's. Somehow this man never quite fit in. He clearly wanted to, with his Caterpillar cap and dark green knit shirt with red letters that said, “Fishermen Get Caught At The Bayfront.” But the black shoes were a giveaway. I kept thinking someone should take his shoeprints, just in case a serious crime was ever committed in South County.

Later I found Ray at the bar, eating raw oysters on the half shell, smothered in ketchup. The oysters were magazine quality, presented on a large plate shaped like an oyster shell, and in enough quantity to suggest he was determined to get his money's worth. The oyster take from the Bay was down this year, but still it seemed unlikely Teddy would run out before the Blenny Man could get his fill.

Blenny had another unusual quirk. Instead of using a fork to lift the oysters, or throwing his head back and sliding them down his throat the way some oyster eaters do, he slurped them into his mouth like an anteater. I watched closely for several minutes in order to time my arrival when his tongue might be approaching a rest stop.

“Ray,” I said gingerly, pushing myself onto the stool next to him, “I trust your boat is running smoothly. I don't remember it too well from that afternoon we found you in the water, but it seemed like a nice boat.”

“It's a dandy,” he said. “Did you notice that day how it kept a perfect circle? Newest thing. Newest thing. Like an automatic pilot.”

“Well, I'm glad we were there,” I said, trying to turn the conversation. He didn't seem too comfortable with the possibility he might have to explain how he fell overboard.

“I saw you at the public meeting on the new Resort the other night,” I said. “But I didn't hear you testify. Do you have an interest?”

Actually, I knew which side he was on, the environmentalists. But I didn't know why. He was a developer, a builder who had locked horns with the environmentalists in the past, and a man who had fought tooth and nail over county permits to tear down a tree. Suddenly, on the biggest land use fight to ever hit Jenkins County, he becomes a tree hugger. I made a note to find out if he had contributed to the cause, and how much.

“I just think this resort is too big for Parkers,” he said. “We'll lose our village atmosphere. We'll have to build houses and schools and sewers everywhere.”

I think when he said those words, he instantly realized they were arguments for a quality of life that he'd been arguing against for years, and probably seemed strange even to a newcomer like me.

“I know that may seem strange, coming from me,” he said, “but it's all a matter of scale. We have to keep things in proportion.”

This all seemed a little glib to me, and totally unnecessary to have to listen to at a waterman's charity event. I edged off the seat to leave.

“Wait Ned,” he said, adopting the more familiar term. No more Mr. Shannon. “I just want you to know I appreciate your pulling me out of the drink the other day. Also, I'm glad you represent CRI. Maybe we can work together some day.”

“Thanks Ray,” I said. “I'll see you later.” And moved away from the bar, wondering what in the world that conversation was all about. I started it, but whose side was he on in this fight?

The return trip to the Bayfront was mainly a matter of keeping warm. The dark settles into the Bay like an ice cube in a glass of tea, and suddenly the world is cold. The spray from the hull brushed over the gunnels and soaked those standing too close. It sent shivers that never stopped. Pete was heading for the barn and must have jacked up his engine to full cruising speed. It was a rough ride as the
Lil
slammed against some of the waves, not enough to be dangerous but enough to throw the passengers off balance and leave our legs tense and tired.

Tying up at the Bayfront was like the end of most trips, boring and unremarkable. The guests exited rapidly, just wanting to get home and shower the smell of Old Bay crab seasoning from their hands and face. I hung back, mainly to help Pete clean up his boat. He shut her down pretty quickly. Without fish to clean or rods and reel to refit, a quick spray of the deck by the first mate was all it took.

I stopped by the
Martha Claire
for a routine check of the bilge pump, locked the cabin door, and started for my car. Pete and Lil had already left. I noticed that the Bayfront was still open, although Simy was turning out the lights. I figured I could use one quick drink to take the edge off before going to bed.

I pulled the front door open and its hinges squeaked. It had a brass handle with large splotches of brown tarnish, but no brass toe plate across the bottom. The wood had splintered from water exposure and the corners had rounded from being kicked or slammed. The grease from working fingers of plumbers, electricians, boat mechanics and every other tradesman in the county left large stains you could see in the shadows. As I opened the door, the single light bulb overhead danced the shadows so it was hard to tell the dirt from the light. This was significant only because washing your hands in the Bayfront forced you to confront the dingy bathrooms with sinks that carried the fingerprints of earlier patrons, especially at the end of the day. I had washed my hands on the boat so I gingerly pulled the door open.

It was always dark at the bar, but I had never entered when it was empty, leaving the place with a lonely feel, as if I shouldn't be there. Then Simy's voice, tired and a little edgy, called me in.

“Come in, Ned,” she said. “I saw you tie up and thought you might stop by.”

“Thanks, Simy. We had a good trip to the island. Made a few dollars for the cause. I think people enjoyed it.”

“That's good,” she said, “Lil and Pete do a lot of good work around here. For new folks, they understand what it's all about. Can I get you a beer before closing?”

“Thanks,” I said, edging onto a stool. “Are you about to shut down?”

“Close,” she said. Simy continued to drag the dish rag around the counter, not functionally, but in a slow even motion suggesting a long and understanding relationship between her and the wood. She had a history at the bar. Fights and brawls, words screamed in anger, deals made for motors and secondhand boats, spilled beer and broken bottles, even a couple of bullet marks from trajectories through the high windows on the street side of the building. Simy had often stared at those windows when she came to work, wondering how the shooter could have gotten high enough to put a bullet through the window and down as low as the bar. Her conclusion was a truck cab, an eighteen wheeler, passenger side. At least those giant trucks were rare enough that she didn't worry much about it happening again.

“Ned,” she said, “we haven't had a chance to talk. How do you like being back?”

“Great,” I said. “It takes some getting used to. But I like the people. The pace is so slow here it's like being retired.”

“Not if you've always lived here,” she said. “Not if your life depends on showing up every day for work.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to imply anything. I'm just adjusting, that's all.”

“Have they found your brother's killer yet?”

“Not yet,” I said, realizing the word must be spreading.

“Sorry about Jimmy,” she said. “He could be so sweet. I remember when he first started using his boat for charter fishing, and the crabbing of course. My daddy said that was another sign of the end. He said when the boys go from catching fish to kissing ass, we're in trouble.”

“Well,” I ventured, “I'm still fishing.”

“Look at Pete and the
Lil
,” she said. “They have a new sonar that tells them where the fish are located. GPS tells them where to go. All he has to do is bait the hooks, and take care of the guests: that's the tough part, ice, beer, tee shirts, hats, seasick medicine and deli sandwiches. God only knows what it takes to pamper those people.”

“That's the future,” I agreed.

“I don't care,” she said. “I just hate to see change.”

“Why?” I asked. “You're a beautiful young woman. Change is good for you.”

Simy was wearing a black tee shirt, tucked into her jeans, that even late at night exposed her ample breasts and full figure. In fact, now that I thought about it, she must have tucked her shirt since I came in. Sprucing up a little, as my granddad used to say.

“Neddie,” she began, “I used to live with my folks over on Jenkins Creek. My daddy would come home with a big batch of crabs and my mom would steam them into the best Sunday afternoon crab feast in this county. And Daddy would bring home oysters, and we had em raw, on the half shell, fried, baked and every other way you can cook em. My brothers and sisters had a wonderful life. Our own little boats tied up at the dock. We'd go out in the evening and drink beer and float in when the sun came down. I even lost my virginity in that boat. My boyfriend laid down in the bottom and I sat on him. And every time a wave came by I would float up and down on that boy. It was the best sex he ever had. And I didn't even know what I was doing. But that's life on the water. Livin and lovin just kind of run together. We didn't plan anything. We just ate, and fished, and swam and made love as it came along.”

“What happened to the boy?”

“What boy?”

“The one in the boat.”

“Oh, that was Kevin. He became a waterman. Worked for my daddy for a while, and then got killed in a car wreck. He was a nice boy.”

“My daddy owned so many businesses around here, nearly every boy in the county worked for him at one time or another. He owned a liquor store and even the grocery store for a while. But they never seemed to work out, and Daddy would drift back to the water. Those crabs were always there, free for the pickin.”

“When did your dad retire?” I asked.

“Several years ago,” Simy said. “I don't remember when. How can you tell? One day he started collecting social security, so I assumed he was 65, but he's gone now.”

Simy seemed within herself, talking about her father as if reflecting on a distant past. She took another drink of beer, and set the bottle down gently. She seemed to soften in the dark, and I started to wonder if she might enjoy an evening at the Willard.

“My daddy was always looking for opportunity,” she said. “I remember once he decided to get in the “buy boat” business. It used to be that restaurant and other buyers would take your crab baskets right off your boat, pay cash, and bring them back the next day. Then the refrigerated trucks started showing up. They would meet you at the dock, and pay you better money because they could carry more fish, or oysters, or whatever and deliver them longer distance.

“My daddy looked at that and said to himself, ‘Why can't I do both?' So he bought a used refrigerator truck, just a pickup with a cold box on the back, and bingo, he was in business. This was back in the fifties, when nobody had to worry much about licenses and permits and all that stuff. Anyway, he loads up a ton of oysters and heads for a big restaurant on Long Island. As he finishes unloading his oysters, three guys come up behind him and grab his arms. They throw him against the truck and give him a warning.

“This is our territory and don't ever come back.” Then they threw him to the ground and walked off. But Daddy was a pretty tough old bird, and he still had a half truck of oysters left. So he pulls himself together, and drives into New York City to deliver the rest of his load to the Fulton Fish Market. That's a big market down on the tip of Manhattan that's been there for years. So he finishes unloading his truck to all these Italian boys and bang, the same three guys grab him from behind. They say, “Didn't we tell you not to do business here?” Then they hit Daddy, and knocked him down, and kicked him. He came home in terrible shape, even with a broken arm. Mama got him all fixed up with liniment and all of her home treatments, then took him to Annapolis to have his arm fixed. The next day Daddy didn't get up till noon. But he put an ad in the paper for that truck, and that was the end of the fish wholesale business. Two days later he was back on the Bay, crabbin.”

“Did you go to college, Simy?” I asked. That was a Washington question. Sometimes the old ways crept back and reminded me again that the cultures had changed. At the Willard, I always asked girls about college, jobs and what neighborhood they lived in, hoping to strike a line of conversation. In Parkers, we ask about family or boats. I shouldn't have asked Simy about college, because most waitresses haven't gone to college, and some are embarrassed about it, not because they didn't have the brains or the talent. The problem was money, and the fact that few families made college an important objective. Getting a job or married were the important goals.