Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (6 page)

“Vinnie,” I said, “why is that boat just circling in the water?”

Vinnie looked dead ahead and squinted, but said nothing. I thought it was interesting, so I turned the
Martha
about five degrees starboard and headed for it. Finally, Vinnie ventured a thought.

“There's a pound net out there somewhere,” he said. “Maybe he's circling to see the Loons. Or maybe he's getting ready to empty the net.” Loons and seagulls seem to sit on every part of the net, waiting for a free lunch of the fish that happen into the enclosure.

“I didn't suppose they still allow pound nets,” I said.

“You mean because they take up so much room, or get in the way of boaters?” he replied.

“Yeh,” I said, “just figured their time had come.”

“No,” Vinnie explained, “but there aren't many pounders still out here. There aren't many small fishermen still out here. They have to get licenses and permits for the nets, and they have to come out every day to load the catch, often before they go crabbing. Then if some damn city slicker in a cigarette boat runs through the nets at night, the waterman gets sued. Not many left.”

“I forgot how it works,” I said casually, not remembering exactly how the nets collected the fish.

“See those sticks in the water, just to the left of where that boat is circling?” Vinnie asked. “They form a couple of leader nets that funnel the fish into a Hearth enclosure that catches the fish. See those sticks that run about two hundred yards west of the circle? There's a leader net along those sticks. The fish swim into them, panic at the thought of being trapped, then turn to swim along the net until they reach the enclosure. There's a trap door where they go in and can't get out. Then the waterman comes along in his open boat, closes the trap door and scoops them into his boat with a dip net. Not very high tech.”

“Still, pretty ingenious.”

“There are probably better explanations of the nets,” Vinnie said. “But the result is the same. Fish of every kind swim in, can't get out, and the fisherman in an open boat scoops them up. You'll find everything from fish to human body parts in those nets, but they work.”

Vinnie hesitated, then added, “They been doing it since Jesus, and probably before.”

“No, I just read that some waterman in the 1800s invented the pound net, probably right here on Jenkins Creek.”

“Jesus was a waterman and he used nets,” Vinnie responded. Vinnie was a little defensive about his religion, and I let it pass.

“I don't see anybody in that boat,” I said, moving my eyes from the pound net to the moving boat.

“Maybe that's why it's circling,” Vinnie said. “Those new boats have an automatic turn mechanism so if you fall overboard, it circles. Of course, the captain could be in the cabin banging his girlfriend.”

I kept on course for the boat, nosing the
Martha Claire
back after every wave pushed us off course.

“Over there,” Vinnie shouted. “He's in the water. Probably drunk, or taking a leak.”

I couldn't see anybody for the chop, and I momentarily lost track of the boat. Then I found him, a man with his arms flailing, fully dressed and slapping at the water. He was bobbing in the waves, but the boat was circling behind me. I had a moment of anxiety in the thought that I had come to the boat too quickly, without figuring the width of its circle, or where the captain was located. Now the boat was behind me, but the man in the water was in front of me.

Vinnie said calmly, “He's outside the circle of the boat, pick him up first. Get close. I'll toss the line and we'll see if he takes it. Forget the boat.”

That's easy for you to say, I thought. The empty boat was rocking wildly. We weren't in any real danger. But sometimes when a wave raised the port side of the
Martha
I could see the man's face in the water, white and unresponsive.

“Why doesn't he look up, or wave?” I shouted. “Is he dead?”

“I hit him with the damn line, and he didn't take it,” Vinnie said. “I'm going in.”

I realized Vinnie had put on his life jacket while I was talking. He kicked off his tennis shoes, threw his cap on the deck, and jumped into the Bay, not two feet from the victim.

Christ, don't hit him, I thought.

Vinnie was with him instantly, threw back the man's head and turned his body like it was a rubber toy. He took a few seconds to get his legs untangled from the victim, took about three strokes and he was beside the boat. I shut down the engine, mostly because I didn't know what else to do, and I didn't want anybody caught in the propeller. I rushed to the side of the boat and looked down at Vinnie's nearly bald head, with a few strands of hair draped across his head like wet seaweed. Vinnie was nearly cheek to cheek with a small head of coal black hair that showed no sign of life. I fell to my knees, waited for the boat to rock low once more, then grabbed the arm of the motionless man and flung him into the boat.

“Jesus,” I shouted, not realizing how small he was, or how the adrenaline had increased my strength.

Vinnie had both hands on the side of the boat and was heaving himself in as I laid the man on the deck and started yelling at him.

“Wake up.” But there was no response.

Vinnie quickly turned him on his stomach, hit him on the back, and water seemed to rush from his mouth. He was a little man, with narrow features, and eyes that didn't open, but were set in deep wells. Even for a drowning man, he looked desolate, like he just crawled out of a cave.

Vinnie flipped him again, on his back, and blew into his mouth. That's all it took. The man just started all his systems, like the dashboard of a car that lights up on ignition. His eyes opened. He coughed, again and again. His arms rose as he tried to turn on his side.

“Get her started,” Vinnie said, as he tried to help the man get in a comfortable position for coughing and breathing.

“Get the boat,” the little man said. It was a weak voice, pleading. “Don't leave the boat.”

Criminently, I thought, I almost forgot about the guy's boat. But who cares. The first rule here is save the victim.

“I'm OK,” he said, “get the boat.”

“Where the hell is the boat?” I muttered, swinging the
Martha
Claire
around to find the circling power boat. It was off my stern, circling at a fairly good speed, maybe seven knots. Like a figure skater, repeating the same circle over and over.

Vinnie was sitting on the deck with his new acquaintance, but he looked up enough to suggest, “See if you can get close enough to board her.”

“Hell no,” I replied, knowing I couldn't do that even if it could be done. She was going too fast.

“How much gas does it have?” Vinnie asked his new friend.

“Fifty hours,” he muttered.

“Fifty hours!” I exclaimed. “We could be here for days. Let's call the Coast Guard.”

“Wait,” Vinnie said. He struggled to untangle himself from the man on the floor. He raised the man's body and leaned him against the engine box. “It will be warm,” he said. “Sit here and hold onto the side.”

I kept the
Martha
within a few yards of the pleasure boat, but I couldn't hold the circle and I couldn't hold the speed. I would fall behind, and then cut across the circle in the water until I caught up again. The boat had made so many circles that its wake seemed like a permanent scar in the water.

Vinnie went below and came back with a dark green army blanket, my father's. It had been given to Dad by his brother, who fought in the Philippines during World War II. Uncle John had once sent me a hollow coconut from Guam that was finished into a bank, and every year on my birthday he would send a silver dollar to put in the bank. The blanket still had the Army's insignia stenciled on one corner, but there was a sizable hole in the center where some battery acid had leaked on the blanket.

“Is that for the guy?” I asked as Vinnie emerged from the vee birth.

“No,” he said, “the boat. Pull
Martha
into the circle wake of that boat. Wait as long as you can, so you know
Martha
is on the same course as the cruiser. I'm going to throw this blanket in the circle and hope the cruiser hits it. Once I throw, get the hell out of there so it doesn't hit us.”

I didn't ask the purpose of this blanket maneuver, but it seemed significantly easier than trying to jump into a moving boat.

I found the wake just after the boat went past, threw Martha in neutral, and waited for the cruiser to circle again. It took a couple of minutes to come around. Finally, it was bearing down on us when Vinnie threw the blanket and screamed, “Go. Go. Go.” We lurched forward, causing our guest to roll on the floor. But Vinnie never lost balance or line of sight. He saw the cruiser approach the blanket, devour it under its sharp bow, and the blanket disappeared under the hull. And then the cruiser coughed. Like a child with someone's hand over its mouth. Muffled. Then another cough. And the motor died. The cruiser stopped and within an instant was floating in the water as helpless as a styrofoam cup. The blanket had become entangled in the propeller just as Vinnie had calculated, and the big engine stalled.

Vinnie moved in close to the helm and said, “If you can get close, I'll board the boat and we can tow her in.” He was looking me right in the eye, I think to see if I was shaken by the whole experience.

“Vinnie,” I said, “if I ever drive this boat again, even for one minute, I want you by my side.”

“You got it boss,” he said, moving to ready his jump.

Chapter Four

Opening my law practice beside a Calico Cat linen store in what passes for the only shopping center in Parkers was not part of my long-term plan. It was actually Effie Humbolt's Calico Cat store, with a subtitle: linen and things. More things than linen, and mostly bolts of cloth that appeared to be Laura Ashley knockoffs, priced for the local sewing circles. I noticed a predominance of rose designs, in colors ranging from pink to green, familiar to every family who uses wallpaper. I hadn't seen much wallpaper since leaving Parkers because the style in Washington had moved to plain walls and ceiling molding, or an occasional stripe. In any case, it gave the Calico a homey feeling that I appreciated, even though my new law office would be spartan modern with plain walls, a wooden desk with Queen Anne legs that I picked up at Rick's Antiques shop out on Route l, three walnut chairs of mixed origins for the vast clientele expected soon, and a Persian rug of mixed ancestry that gave me the illusion, at least, of some class. All the furnishings totaled less than three hundred dollars and strengthened my sense of frugality.

Every endeavor in life has its fears. The workboat certainly raised physical fears, but the law practice raised economic fears. Clients might never come. Our profession has historically had this high minded idea that lawyers can't advertise for clients. Too unseemly. But it's perfectly fine, even recommended, that we join every low life civic club in North America and grovel before the most corrupt politicians available in the hopes of winning a fee. In my case, two hundred dollars an hour.

I made much more than that at Simpson, Feldstein and James, and I had other amenities I didn't deserve, like a walnut paneled office with leather chairs and pictures of horses jumping over fences in the nearby Virginia hunt country. I had never actually met a horse, but I knew them to be great symbols of wealth and pedigree, often associated with white fences and acreage. In defiance of this legal tradition and with a tip of the hat to local pride, I hung a picture of an oyster boat with two old guys raising hand tongs from the misty waters of the Bay. I liked the freshness of starting my own office.

I didn't have a library, but it seemed unlikely I would need a lot of precedents anyway. I did have a piece of computer software titled: Practical Law Applications. It could have been called a floppy disc for the mellow minded, but it included a sample will with blank spaces to fill in; sample real estate agreements; and instructions for filing civil lawsuits on behalf of any aggrieved party. I figured if I used two out of three I could survive.

I was straightening the furniture when Mansfield Burlington grasped the outside door handle, leaned back on his heels to read the stenciled gold letters, Ned Shannon, Attorney at Law, and entered.

“Hello Burl,” I almost shouted.

“What,” he said, “no waiting room. No big busted secretary. No cases of empty law books.”

“You mean empty cases with no law books.”

“You heard me,” he said.

“No capital, huh,” he said. “I'm here to help. Your first client. I need a new will.”

“Come right in, Burl. You're in great luck, because I'm having a first time special on wills, one thousand dollars for the whole process or two hundred dollars an hour.”

“How long will it take?”

“About five hours,” I replied, “but it could go longer.” I saw Burl doing the math in his head and realizing the thousand dollars was a floor in this process, no matter what happened.

“You would be good in the used car business,” Burl joked.

I had spent so many years as part of a legal team, advising corporate clients on regulatory laws related to safety and environment, that it made me nervous to define a simple legal service and state my fee. At Simpson, Feldstein and James, all that was done for me. Furthermore, I was getting nearly three hundred dollars an hour there and the firm had devised so many ways to hide the fees that I never had to actually say to anyone, “My fee is….” Rather, it was part of a proposal, presented on paper and explained to the client by one of our administrative partners, who painted our merits with such gusto that people actually couldn't wait to pay us the big money. Indeed, they usually breathed a sigh of relief just knowing that our firm would keep them out of jail, or avoid a fine of even greater dimensions than our fee. Corporations would always rather pay the fee than a fine. It puts them on a much higher road for their public relations team. And over the years we had even made it an honor to pay our fee, a distinction like winning the Purple Heart for being shot in the rear.