THE FOURTH WATCH (42 page)

''I shit you not, Padre," Smythe told him. "I
mean they were very sorry of course, gave him a few months
severance, no pun intended, upon his promise not to sue, but what
can you do, times being what they were and all. Had no place for
him. Off you go. So fucked again. Twice Fucked."

"Do you use this language in the hope that it
offends me?"

"Of course!" Smythe said.

"So what did he do?"

"Well that's the thing. Not long after Marty
was sacked, Red Whorley was out here on one of his infrequent
business visits. The news was all around, not just about the
accident, but about how STC had screwed him. Whorley took an
interest. I mean he asked about the guy, and when he found out he
couldn't find a job, he hired him." Smythe shook his head. "Rich
guy with a conscience, not a lot of that going around, but there it
was. They say Red didn't even have a job for him, but put him on
anyway. Man showed some heart."

*****

SMYTHE STOPPED IN
front of a run down tavern with half burned out
neon beer signs in flyblown windows. ''Here we are
then."

Inside, the main room was layered with blue
smoke from ceiling to floor. You could hardly read the 'no smoking'
sign tacked up behind the bar. Underneath the smoke, the place
smelled of stale beer, pickles and piss. There was a pool table and
dartboard to one side, a long wooden bar crowded with drinkers on
the other. There were a dozen or so plank-board tables in the
middle. The walls were cramped with mounted trophy fish, and the
floor was covered with spent lottery tickets and peanut shells. A
man with a mechanical hook for a hand was sitting down one end of
the bar. He had a thick, wrinkled face, a hoop earring in his left
ear, razor green eyes, a shaved and shined head and a thin, red
goatee. If he had an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder, he
could have been a pirate. He looked at them as they approached. On
the bar in front of him were an ashtray with a lit cigarette in it,
a glass containing about four inches of neat whiskey and a frosted
schooner of draft beer.

''Hello, Marty," Smythe said as they
approached.

"Louie," the man said. He took a drag on his
cigarette, then returned it to the ashtray. Picked up the whiskey
glass and took a short nip, put it down, picked up the schooner and
took a long pull, put it down and started over again. All with the
good hand, the hook lying idly by. Smoke, nip, pull.

"This here is Jack Healy from Boston” Smyth
said by way of introduction. Marty Davidson shook his hand Bob Dole
style, gripping Jack's right over the top with his left.

"Actually, I'm from Worcester," Jack said.
Friendly. Smiling.

"No shit?"

"Not one ounce."

"Wormtown!"

Jack looked at Smythe, then back at the pirate.
"You know Worcester?" Jack said.

"Sure," Davidson told him, ''you want to give
New England an enema, you stick the hose in Woosta, am I
right?"

"Well ... urn ... "

Davidson laughed and scratched his crotch with
his hook. Jack winced.

''I'm just bustin' your nuts. I know 'cause we
got the boxes goin' in there."

"The boxes?"

"Yeah. You know. The big boxes, containers,
that come off the ships? They go by rail. 'Port of Worcester',
right?"

Jack looked at him. ''I guess I don't
know."

"Well, whatever, that's nice, you're from
Worcester. So, what can I do you for Mr. Jack from Worcester. Louis
tells me you want to talk to me about Loading Dock." He picked up
his cigarette and shaved it to a point against the side of the
ashtray. "The pay is good, I like my job, Ol' Red was good to me.
What else you want to know?"

"Yeah, Louis was telling me about that, about
your ... ah ... accident and Mr. Whorley hiring you and
all."

"Well then you're up on me, because Louis
didn't tell me shit about you. Just there was a guy he wanted me to
meet :from back east that wanted to talk to me about work. He said
you was a friend of his and were interested in the sales guys. I
kind of like Louie, though I don't know why, so I said I'd talk to
you, so what do you want to know?"

Jack looked at Smythe.

Smythe shrugged. "Kato wanted to ask the
questions," he said. "So I didn't get into it."

Jack thought about that for a moment. That's
what Mike would do. Catch' em cold. "Well, okay, you know that Mr.
Whorley died last spring?"

Marty Davidson nodded. "Yeah, damn shame,
drowned in his pool I heard, he was a good man. Did good by me. I
was sorry to hear it."

Smythe ordered drinks.

Jack said, "See that's the thing, Mr. Davidson.
My friend, Louis' friend, the guy that was coming out to see you,
is a lawyer named Michael Knight and he was starting to believe
that Mr. Whorley didn't die accidentally."

Davidson's eyes narrowed. "How's
that?"

"Our friend thinks he was murdered because he
found out about something that was coming into the country through
the company, here in Seattle, maybe somewhere else, but probably
here. We think somebody in the sales organization is involved, or
knows what's going on. Our friend, Mike, the lawyer, was hired by
Mr. Whorley's daughter, Carolyn, to look into his death. She didn't
believe her Father drowned in his pool. Shortly after he started to
look into this thing, he and Carolyn Whorley were shot. She's dead,
he's in a coma."

"Jesus," Davidson said, "I heard one of Red's
kids got shot."

"So that's why I'm here. I'm going to talk to
these sales people tomorrow. Quite frankly I don't even know what
to ask them. I was hoping you could help."

Davidson was nodding, shaken, not expecting
this. He went around the horn; smoke, nip, pull. “Jesus,” he
said.

"Help us,'" Jack said, to Jesus and
Davidson.

*****

DAVIDSON CONFIRMED
what Louis had told Jack at lunch with regard to
Santamano and Tasi. Basically that Santamano had too much to lose,
was too loyal and honest to be involved and that Tasi had been
under the corporate microscope for more than a year and would have
been already caught if he were in the mix, That left Alacantra,
Talbot and Waters.

"Got to be Waters" Davidson said almost without
hesitation.

"How come?"

Davidson lit a new cigarette and waved his hook
at the bartender, who brought new drinks. "He's young and hungry
and he's a prick," He smoked, nipped at his glass of whiskey and
chased it with draft beer.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he's a young kid, and he makes a lot of
dough - at least according to the talk - and he's always here, you
know? It's like he's a shepherd or something. Comes home when he
has a load going out. Some of the other guys do it too, but I don't
know, he's different. And he's always on my ass. 'Where's the
paperwork, where's the customs guy, why can't you assholes ever get
anything ready on time', that kind of shit".

"So he wants to get his stuff out on time,"
Louis said, "collect his commissions or bonus or whatever. What's
weird about that? Sounds smart. Goes with the he's hungry
thing."

"Yeah, I know, it's just like he's nervous.
Like he doesn't want you in his space, just wants you to have
everything ready for him and then get out of the way so he can do
his thing with the customs guys." Davidson shrugged, ''I don't
know, he just sticks out."

"What's his relationship with the customs
guys?" Jack asked him.

"Real good. They love him. Takes them out.
There are only a couple of them. Jim something, Slade Maxwell and
this new kid, I think his name is Warrenson or Westonson or some
fuckin' thing. Kid wasn't here a week and Waters had him out for
lunch or golf. I don't know. Custom guys ain't supposed to take
favors, but they all do, it's a boring job I guess."

They were quiet a minute, thinking about it
all.

Jack asked, "What do the buyers want from the
customs guys?"

"Clear the container. Get it on its
way."

"How's that work?"

This time Smythe answered. "With all the
containers that come through Seattle, there is no way for customs
to look inside even a meaningful percentage of them - nevermind
look at them all."

''They look for suspicious stuff," Davidson
told him, ''the odd balls." More drinks came.

"These buyer's, not just the Loading Dock guys,
but from all the companies, they want their containers released so
the product can move, so they brown-nose the customs folks."
Davidson shrugged. "It works. The customs guys get to know and kind
of trust the buyers, and they waive the stuff through. Its not like
they don't have other stuff to look at."

Davidson drank and smoked and thought. Jack and
Smythe watched him.

“That's how stuff gets by. You get a safe ride
in a container that no one is going to look in," Davidson said.
“'Course you got to know how to get it in, and how and where to get
it out, which means you got to have help doing it. The kind of help
that guys like Waters can give you."

Jack was nodding. Someone dropped coins into a
jukebox and played some local grunge music. It was loud, and empty
beer bottles too close to each other on the bar started to buzz
with the thump of it. A big guy in a cowboy hat, jeans and a
sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off was playing pool with a fat,
Native American looking girl. He put his cue down, went over to the
jukebox, slid it out from the wall and yanked the plug. He glared
at a table full of young people. His eyes were filmy with drink.
"Don't play that shit in here," he told them pointing his finger.
The place was quiet as he went back to his game. Then the chatter
picked up again.

"So," Davidson said, "You're talking to these
guys, Ray and them, tomorrow?"

"Yes," Jack said, “one at a time. It's not like
anyone is going to admit anything, but maybe someone will spook and
do something that leads us somewhere else. Maybe you could watch
and if anything happens after I leave town, let us
know."

Davidson nodded. “Yeah," he said after a while,
''I guess I could do that, for Red."

*****

GROGGY FROM THE
beer, Jack said his goodnights at 9:30 and took the trolley
north to the Aquarium stop. He promised to call Smythe when he
finished his interviews on Sunday. The sea breeze blowing ashore
helped clear his head, and it had blown the flat, low cloud ceiling
inland. The great northwestern sky towered into the heavens, deep
black and filled with stars. The flat, endless, black body of the
sea seemed to merge with it, earth and sky united as one. The moon
was full, white with light, so clear that you could see the fabled
face that the shadows of the mountains on its surface
made.

He drove back to the hotel making the sign of
the cross on his forehead repeatedly, imploring God to get him back
safely. When he got there, he surrendered his keys, and five bucks,
to the valet gladly. He had a fat burger at the bar with a plate of
nachos and a tall glass of seltzer water with shaved ice and lemon.
Then he went up to his room and prayed on his knees for an hour
before going to bed. He was exhausted, but he tumbled around, sleep
avoiding him. He went through tomorrow's lineup in his mind. Ray
Santamano first up. Find out how the office worked, who traveled
where, when. Use that information to frame the questions that he
asked the rest. Alacantra next. Waters, Talbot then Tasi last. He
was out of his element, but he had to try for Kato. He drifted off
into a fitful sleep still worrying about it all.

The phone startled him awake. He squinted at
the digital clock on the chest of drawers across from the foot of
the bed. 3:46AM. ''Hello?''

"I struggle for sleep most nights."

Jack sat up and clicked on the light on the
nightstand next to the bed. ''Hello?'' he said again.

''Do you believe in coincidence?" Jack
recognized Louis Smythe's voice. "Or is it all about
God?"

"Its all about being 4:00 in the morning ...
and God, of course," he rubbed his eyes. "What is it,
Louis?"

"It's what its not."

"Well what isn't it then?"

"When I can't sleep I sit and listen to the
police scanner. As a reporter for a Great Metropolitan Newspaper, I
have to be on top of my game, old boy, am I right?"

"Louis ... "

"It's not Waters."

"It's not?"

''No.''

Jack looked at the clock again and sighed. "Why
not, Davidson seemed so ... "

"Someone murdered - butchered really - Ernie
Alcantra tonight. I'm on my way there now."

"You're kidding."

''Nope. Cut out his eyes and tongue, and cut
his ears off - after tacking him to the wall with a
shotgun."

"Oh my God!"

“Hmm.”

“Oh my God!” Jack said again.

"See no evil, speak no evil, hear no evil,"
Smyth said, "Yikes!"