Dover Beach (4 page)

Somewhere close by a piano was playing, children were laughing. I felt as if I had stepped into a storybook.

The deformed girl led us into a long dark room lit only by a coal fire. The room had a vaulted ceiling, tapestries on the wall, a Persian carpet on the floor. At the far end of an oak table sat a man with a gray beard and deep-set, glittering eyes. He was wearing a flowing white robe. Maybe I hadn't stepped into a storybook; maybe I had stepped into the Bible. Maybe
he
was God.

"You may return to your post, Lavinia," the man said in a deep, God-like voice.

The girl silently left the room. The man's gaze turned to us: three travelers from a distant land, bearing gifts.

Not much to look at. Bobby is the only fat man I know—but it isn't a healthy fat, a storybook fat. And his eyes are clouded, and his teeth are rotten. Mickey is short and has a shriveled arm. And I—well, I am reasonably normal, which means reasonably scrawny, reasonably scarred by life. I don't think I look like a private eye.

"Please sit," the man said.

We sat.

"I trust your drive was uneventful."

"Wasn't bad, Mr. Fitch," Bobby said. "But the snow didn't help matters much."

"Ah, yes, the snow." Mr. Fitch paused. "'When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul.'" He fell silent then, as if he had exhausted his supply of sociability, or forgotten the next line. He looked as if he didn't have much need for sociability. He sat straight and stiff as a pine tree, his hands folded on the table in front of him. His skin was leathery, his mouth hard. He scared me.

"We brought some very good merchandise," Bobby said. "You'd be surprised at how much is still out there, if you know the right people."

Mr. Fitch nodded, unsurprised. "I'll take a look."

"Want us to bring it right in here?"

Mr. Fitch unfolded a hand and gestured at the empty table.

Bobby stood up. "Great. Come on, boys."

Mickey and I followed him back out to the van. Lavinia kept a careful watch on us from the front porch. "What'd I tell you about that guy, huh?" Bobby asked as Mickey opened the doors and jumped inside. "He's got maybe thirty kids and half a dozen wives and he goes around lookin' like the goddamn Lord of the Universe. Watch that stuff, Mickey, okay? It's fucking fragile."

I did most of the lugging. Mickey couldn't help much because of his arm, and Bobby preferred talking to lifting. After a few trips back and forth we had covered the table with our stuff, and Bobby started his sales pitch. "Look at this china, Mr. Fitch. Rose Medallion. Service for six, plus assorted other pieces—almost perfect condition. See this portrait? Look at the signature: John Singer Sargent. He was famous. Ever see his murals in the Boston Public Library? That tea set is sterling silver. And you said you liked books, right? A complete set of Dickens—leather bindings, acid-free paper. I don't think anyone ever opened them. Isn't that something?"

Mr. Fitch examined everything while Bobby rattled on. He unwrapped every piece of china and stared at it. He took the painting out into the hall to study it in better light. I noticed he was wearing hiking boots under his biblical robe. Bobby was sweating. Mickey and I stood by the fire and waited.

"All right," Mr. Fitch said eventually. "Come with me." He strode outside and signaled to Lavinia, who fell in step behind us. We crossed to a long, narrow structure off to one side of the main house. He took out a key and opened the padlocked door, then went inside and flipped on an electric light. We followed him in.

It was a storage building—shelf after shelf of cartons jammed against the walls, a narrow aisle down the middle. Amazingly, the place was heated. We stood awkwardly in the aisle while Lavinia waited outside, her shotgun cradled in her arms.

"PC?" Mr. Fitch asked.

"Right," Bobby said.

Mr. Fitch reached up and took down a small box. He opened it. The object inside was covered with bubbly plastic stuff. He unwrapped it.

It was not as beautiful as the china, but Bobby was not interested in beauty. He took it from Mr. Fitch and hefted it approvingly. It was a hard drive, I knew. Not that I cared. "How many?" he asked.

"I'll give you twenty-five."

"Are you crazy? I need fifty, or no deal."

Mr. Fitch shrugged. "I haven't got fifty."

"Well, what else do you have? Got any ammo?"

Mr. Fitch stiffened. "I don't deal in weaponry."

"Okay, okay. How 'bout software? And printers. How about them?"

Mr. Fitch and Bobby started dickering. I was impressed by how forceful Bobby was, considering that his entire future was on the line, and a girl stood ten feet away holding a shotgun she was clearly prepared to use. He knew what he was doing, at any rate, because after a few tough minutes they had struck a deal, and I found myself lugging the precious equipment out to the van.

"Nice work," I said to Bobby when he came to inspect.

"Thanks. He's weird, but he's a Yankee, and that means you can do business with him. Jesus, I could use a drink. Let's go inside."

I followed him back into the house, carefully wiping my feet before I entered.

Our merchandise had been cleared from the table. One of the Rose Medallion plates was piled high with pieces of cake. A solidly built woman with gray hair was pouring cups of tea, using the sterling silver tea set. I sat down next to Mickey, who was eyeing the cake with considerable interest.

"Can I get you anything else?" the woman asked when the tea had been poured.

Bobby cleared his throat. "I was wondering if there might be anything stronger than tea in the house. To celebrate our new business relationship, you understand."

The woman looked at Mr. Fitch. He paused a moment, then banged his fist on the table. "'What?'" he thundered. "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale?'"

She smiled and left the room. In a moment she returned with a green bottle, which Bobby gazed at with something approaching religious ecstasy. She poured an inch of the amber liquid into a glass and gave it to Bobby, then did the same for Mr. Fitch. She offered the bottle to Mickey and me next, but we refused. We were tea people.

Bobby toasted Mr. Fitch. "Here's to many more nights like this," he said.

Mr. Fitch nodded his agreement.

The cake was delicious. Bobby drank half his whiskey. "You must come to Boston and let me return your hospitality," he said.

Mr. Fitch's face darkened. He set his glass down. "I will not go to Boston, Mr. Gallagher. I lost a child there once. Killed by the brigands who inhabit that place."

"Well, it's really a lot better than it used to be," Bobby said, a little uneasily.

"'Dost thou not perceive that it is a wilderness of tigers?'" Mr. Fitch roared. "Tigers must prey, and Boston offers no prey but me and mine."

Tigers? Bobby scratched his head, for once at a loss for words. I reached for another piece of cake. "'How happy are thou, then,'" I remarked, "'from these devourers to be banished.'"

Mr. Fitch stared at me. "You know
Titus Andronicus?"

I raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't everyone?"

He smiled and drank his whiskey. "Maybe this world has a future after all," he murmured.

Bobby looked at me as if I had just caused the blind to see and the dumb to speak.

Mickey poured himself another cup of tea.

* * *

"Boy, was that something. Boy, was that ever something. That guy is so
weird.
But we showed him, huh, Wally? Hey, when did you learn that—whatever it was?"

I shrugged. "You know me. I just sort of pick things up."

"Sure impressed the hell out of Fitch, anyway. Boy, was that something. He liked the set of Dickens too. I wasn't gonna take it from the lady, you know, but then I remembered how he likes books."

"What does he do with all that stuff?"

"He keeps what he wants and trades the rest. Drives up to Maine and dickers with the border guards. They're corrupt as hell, thank God. Imagine, all the problems we've got, and the government bans the sale of computer equipment. What a world."

"Why don't you go up to Maine yourself—eliminate the middleman?"

"Because Fitch'd kill me. Also, I'm nervous enough just going to New Hampshire. What was it he called Boston?"

"A wilderness of tigers."

"Yeah. That goes double for fucking Maine."

I smiled, suppressing a memory or two. The snow had tapered off, but progress was still slow along what was left of the highway. We had it all to ourselves.

"God, 93 used to be such a good road," Bobby murmured. "I remember leaving MIT early on Fridays and whipping up north to go skiing. Imagine
wanting
to be out in the snow."

"You used to work at MIT, Bobby?"

"Yeah, in the business office. Why?"

"Did you happen to know a professor named Robert Cornwall?"

Bobby looked at me as if I were crazy. "Why do you wanna know something like that?"

"I got a case today. Somebody's looking for Robert Cornwall."

"Who's looking for him?"

"His, uh, son. Did you know Cornwall?"

Bobby slowly shook his head. "I didn't really pal around with the professors, Wally. I was just a local kid tryin' to make a few bucks. Jesus, what makes the guy's kid think he can find him after all these years?"

"He's been down South. It's the first chance he's had to look."

"Sounds like a waste of time to me."

I didn't reply. I'd heard that before.

"I'd lay any odds he's dead," Bobby went on. "Hundred things could've killed him, from typhoid to starvation—well, to the goddamn Brits. People are starting to forget about the Brits, you know, now that we're supposed to be such good friends. But Jesus, did they ever fuck us over. We were just starting to get back on our feet around here, and they come in and screw everything up. Said they were doing us a favor. They did the Irish a favor too, I suppose. Fuck their favors. They should've left us alone."

"Okay, Bobby," I said softly. The Brits were his favorite subject, and he could veer into it from the strangest angles. We both fell silent. We weren't far from the city now. I started thinking about home. I started thinking about my case.

"Trouble," Mickey said. He pointed back over his shoulder. A police car was behind us, flashing its red and blue beacon.

"What the hell do they want?" Bobby muttered. "I pay off enough people around here."

"Should I stop?" Mickey asked. "Probably can't outrun em."

"Yeah, I guess so. Dammit."

Mickey stopped the van. The police car pulled up behind us.

"Let me do the talking," Bobby said. "Maybe they're just killing time."

I got out and let Bobby clamber down into the slush. I stayed next to the van and looked back at the police car. A cop was walking toward Bobby. Another cop sat on the passenger's side and watched. I turned back to Mickey. "One cop usually in a cop car, right?" I asked.

"Right," he said. "Maybe it's a special patrol. Looking for smugglers."

"Sure."

The cop came up to Bobby and glanced at me and Mickey. He was tall and skinny. His cap perched precariously on top of his head; a well-aimed rock would've knocked it off. "You got a permit to be driving this thing outside the city limits?" he asked Bobby.

"Officer, I think we should have a little talk," Bobby said.

"No permit? What's in the back?"

"Now, Officer, I'm sure that we can come to a meeting of the minds about—"

"Open it up, asshole." The cop reached out and pushed Bobby toward the back of the van. I saw a lot of wrist and forearm.

"The goddamn uniform doesn't fit," I said to Mickey. The cop still sitting in the car made a movement. I saw a glint of metal. I reached back into the van, picked up the shotgun, and blasted out the windshield.

The tall cop and Bobby fell to the ground. The other cop made a move as if to slide across the front seat to the driver's side. I aimed a little above him and shot again. He lay still.

The tall cop had grabbed Bobby and was struggling to get the gun out of his holster. I got down from the van, ran through the slush, and clubbed him with the butt of the shotgun. He fell back with a howl of pain and let Bobby go. I reached down and took his gun.

"The other one's getting away," Mickey called out.

I looked up. The other cop had gotten out of the car and was running with difficulty, bobbing and weaving close to the ground. "Let him go," I said.

Bobby staggered to his feet and looked at me with a mixture of fear and astonishment. "What the fuck are you doin', Wally?"

"They're not cops," I said. "They must've stolen the car. Or maybe it's a fake." I poked the tall guy lying at my feet. "Who sent you? O'Malley?"

He rubbed his jaw where I had clubbed him, and he didn't reply. I undid the safety of his revolver and fired a bullet into the ground three inches to the left of his jaw. He looked up at me, shotgun in one hand, his revolver in the other, Smith and Wesson bulging in my pocket. He was a little afraid. "Yeah," he gasped. "O'Malley. He just wanted to hassle you, that's all. We weren't gonna do nothin'."