Death in the Polka Dot Shoes (7 page)

“I hear you saved the Blenny Man,” Burl said unexpectedly. “Not many people will thank you for that one.”

“Who's the Blenny Man?” I asked.

“Word is you and Vinnie plucked that little mouse out of the water, and then towed his boat home like a lost dog.”

“We did pick up a guy, but I thought his name was Ray,” which was what I thought Vinnie told me.

I remembered that the guy did look like a little mouse, wet and wrapped in a blanket, with black hair draped in every direction. He hadn't said much, except thanks for the coffee. Vinnie gave him a mug on the way back to Parkers Marina. I did remember that when he raised the cup to his lips, his teeth were shaking, and his hands were unsteady when they grasped the handle. On his left hand was a diamond ring that looked out of place, and when he saw me notice it, he pulled his hand back under the blanket, still holding the mug with his right. No doubt new wealth. Even so, I hadn't paid much attention to Ray as we nursed his boat into an empty slip at the end of the pier. Vinnie climbed onto the pier, tied the bow line to one piling and the stern line to another. I helped Ray out of the
Martha
and took back the blanket, all without him saying a word. He looked like a stray animal standing on the dock. We left Ray and his cruiser at the Marina and maneuvered the
Martha Claire
out into the creek channel for the few hundred yard trip to the Bayfront. At least that's the way I remembered it.

“Who is he?” I asked Burl.

Mansfield looked across the office, raised his long frame from the chair and picked up the dictionary, one of three books that I simply couldn't start a business without. The other two were from my first year in law school. Mansfield always looked elegant, even in tan pants and a blue shirt. Sometimes, like today, he wore an ascot, which was so out of place in Parkers that it looked natural. At the Willard Hotel, I would have placed an ascot as among the most pompous of apparel, belonging either to a dandy or a nutcase. But Mansfield pulled it off, the way a fur coat looks all right in church if the lady is elegant in every stitch. Burl was that way, with leather docksider shoes that were richly brown, not scuffed or polished. His brown leather belt was wide, and catalog proper for the ensemble. I made a mental note to dress that way myself, although it seemed unlikely to happen. I just can't seem to shake the inevitability of wrinkles.

Mansfield Burlington picked the dictionary from my desk, flipped through the early pages, and ran his finger to the correct word. He stood erect and read from the dictionary: “Blenny. Any of several small, spiny-finned fishes of the family Blenniidae, having a long, tapering body. Blennius, a kind of fish. Blennos slime, mucus: so called from its slimy coating.”

He looked up. “Now tell me that isn't the man you so ceremoniously pulled from the depths of the Bay.”

“That's him,” I replied. “But is that his reputation? Slimy?”

“I rather like the term, ‘spiny-finned,'” Burl said. “Reminds me of a skinny little man I met in Paris. I commissioned a painting he never painted, but he took my money, tried to take my girlfriend, and denied it all till the day he went to jail for forgery.”

“Before you launch into another historical tirade on the French, tell me about the Blenny Man,” I said.

“Insurance,” Burl said. “I think he sells it because he looks so much like death that it frightens people into buying. Also, he has no shame and will push himself into any gathering.”

“Burl, I've never heard you so expansive in your disgust for someone,” I said. “What did this guy do to you?”

Burl was really warming to the task. “You know when you look through the security hole in your door, and there's a distorted face with fat cheeks looking back at you – that's Ray Herbst. I've known him for years. Everything about him is distorted.”

“Well, he doesn't know much about the water,” I ventured.

“More than you think,” Burl responded. “He probably was taking a leak when he fell off the boat. That could happen to anybody. Blenny has had a hundred boats in his life; he prowls around the marshes of this place and turns up on remote islands for every crab festival there is.”

“Why are you so down on him?” I asked.

“The resort,” Burl said, looking at the floor. “He's fighting it.”

“But so are you.”

“That makes it worse. He's on my side,” Burl said. “But I don't believe him. I'm telling you, Neddie, if the Blenny Man darts in here to say thanks for saving his dark heart, grab your belt cause he's trying to steal your pants.”

Mansfield was becoming a bit of a grump in his old age. But I could see why he was one of the most respected men in the county. He helped everyone who asked for it, and he helped in ways that mattered. He doesn't give money to charities, probably because he doesn't have a lot, but he gives himself. He attends all the church dinners, Elks Club bingo nights, and oyster feasts, usually wearing his own apron that's dark blue with red letters on the front that says Field and Bay. He's very proud of his career and his magazine. It's his identity. Along with his ascot, or his bow tie.

“Once we get this “will” business settled, I want to talk about the Hijenks,” Burl said. “We've got to stop it.”

“Now hold on a minute,” I said. “I may have a conflict here and I'm not ready to discuss it.”

“What conflict?” he asked.

“I'm a lawyer, among other things,” I said. “And I might have a client in this fight.”

“Don't you desert me boy,” Burl said with a smile. I knew he wasn't really upset. Burl is a democratic soul, and understands everyone has a right to their views. Just the same, I'd rather not antagonize him, not with my first one thousand dollar fee hanging in the balance.

“Burl, here's a simple agreement to sign that says I'll do the will and you'll pay for it. And I've attached a form that will get you started thinking about your will. It will help you make lists of things. Account for your money and property. List your relatives and friends you want to leave things to, then come back and we'll talk it through.”

“Damn, if you're going to make a major production out of this, I sure don't want to be paying the hourly rate.”

“Burl, for one thousand dollars, you get everything I know for as long as it takes,” I said.

“Neddie, my boy, welcome to Parkers. Again, I'm sorry about your brother.”

“Thanks Mansfield,” I said, using the formal name. I stood to see him out and he moved toward the door. He took the handle and started to turn it, then looked back at me to add, “You know, your brother was working for the CRI.”

“I know Burl, thanks for coming in, and I'll get right on the paperwork for your will.”

This was turning out to be a busy day.

Diane Sexton wasn't due in Parkers until two o'clock, well after I would finish lunch with the Calico Cat, Effie Humbolt. By lunch I mean a piece of Dominos pizza, catered by Effie from the pizza shop located in the far end of our building. To call our offices a professional building may have been a stretch. We had an insurance agent, who was independent, meaning he represented a lot of companies when he was sober. Fortunately, there are a lot of insurance companies out there so you can go through quite a few in a lifetime of overindulgence. We also have a second hand clothing store, which does quite well because we have so many available customers. And we have a real estate firm that deals almost exclusively in local property. Its owner is Pippy Plotkin, who is called “Pigskin” because it is alliterative and because Pippy paints his car in maroon and gold colors with Washington Redskin logos on the doors and an Indian in full headdress on the hood. Pippy makes a lot of money churning beach houses and fishing cottages, then he spends it all attending out of town football games. I've only met him once, but Effie says he's a pip.

Effie is about forty-five and married to a local appeals court Judge. The courthouse is in Annapolis so I seldom see him, which is fine because then I can dream that Effie loves me. She is a peach, knows everyone who ever lived in Parkers, and comes from one of those “crossover” families who were poor about three generations ago, but through farming and a good Maryland law school, found themselves at the top of the heap with a new house on Jenkins Creek and respectability as well. Everyone tells me she is the most valuable friend I can make in Parkers and I hope it's true. She's dark complexioned, with defined legs and thin ankles, and shoulders that imply either weightlifting or good ground strokes. In any case, I like talking with her, and immediately accepted the offer of a pizza lunch as soon as Burl was out the door.

“Now listen, Mr. Ned,” she said, “we have to get you a bigger office, with a secretary, and a waiting room. You can't have clients just walk in on your meetings.”

“Sure I can. First of all, I have this handy dandy answering system that takes all phone calls and records messages. Second, I don't schedule overlapping meetings. And third, I can't afford a secretary, and probably don't need one if I'm going to be on the water all morning.”

Effie sat in the client chair in front of me, pushed her can of Coke across the desk, and crossed her legs. There was condensation on the can and it left a streak of water across the top. I snatched the can before it could leave any more tracks, and she wiped the water with a Kleenex.

“Are you settled in, Ned?” she asked. “How's this gonna work? Will you have a schedule?”

“Don't know Effie. Depends on the crabs.”

“Well, I expect we'll get a lot of people looking for you who end up in the Calico Cat,” she said. “And that's all right. Maybe I can sell them a little yarn while they wait.”

“I hope so, Effie. You have been so kind,” I offered. “And this pizza is pretty good too. Not the Willard, but pretty good.”

“Are you a Willard fan?” she asked.

“It's my secret love. If you ever need me on a Saturday night, call the Willard.”

“Why you little scoundrel,” she mocked. “You've got two lives here and a third one in Washington. I hope you're not dangerous.”

“No Miss Effie. Now you've got to go because I have another client coming.”

“Two in one day,” she commented. “Let the good times roll. Bye Ned.” Then she flashed those great legs and left, never looking back.

I always wanted my own office. For a blue collar kid with white collar ambitions, it's like driving a Saab. It's a symbol of freedom and success that doesn't really cost much, but you don't need it or even want it until you've reached that station in life where material luxury dreams are possible. It all comes in stages. I remember in Parkers Elementary School, about the fifth grade I would guess, there were no white collar jobs in our career day. There was a policeman, but we all knew him, or at least his car. And most of us feared him or hated him for arresting our fathers and brothers. To think of him as a role model was preposterous.

There was a fireman. Old Jim was the only name we knew. He sat in front of the station all day in a metal folding chair, leaned back against the building, and slept during those times he wasn't washing the trucks. His ambition was well hidden and it was never clear to me that I should follow in his footsteps. I understood that he put out fires, and possibly saved lives, and his trucks were fascinating to climb on, but still there was something missing. We also had a waterman who brought oysters to career day and showed us how to crack them open and eat them, although many of my classmates had trouble with the sight of fresh oysters sliding out of the shell like egg yokes. My dad caught these things for a living, so I had oysters more often than hamburgers.

We never had a professional man at career day, not even “Pigskin” Pippy Plotkin. We had carpenters and plumbers and clam diggers and one very exciting fellow who dove for oysters. He strapped air tanks on his back and ran an air hose out the window of the school to his rusted pickup truck parked on the grass. His brother, who was only a year or two ahead of me, ran the air pump in the truck and we all got to breathe some of the air from the compressor tank. It was neat. But I did have concerns about the younger brother. Once I had seen him smoking behind school and giving some guy the finger. Not exactly a lifesaving character in my mind.

All of these people worked with their hands, in highly commendable occupations, but they didn't teach me anything about being a professional worker, or how money worked, or about the world of people who spent everyday in tall buildings. What were those people doing? I saw them on television. I saw their new cars and some of the houses being built on Jenkins Creek that implied wealth, but my school didn't offer a clue. It wasn't until high school that I began to sense a larger universe of occupations.

I suspected that Diane Sexton came to this issue from the opposite direction. She grew up in Long Island, New York, someplace I had never visited, and went to college at Vanderbilt in Nashville. Her folks thought a little southern gentility might hone the sharp edges of her life in New York. And it did. She was a perfectly charming blend of smooth manner and raging ambition, like one of those swans with a long elegant neck that will seduce your eyes, then take a chunk out of your leg.