The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer (25 page)

"Oh, yes . . ."she
moaned, through trembling lips. Her brown eyes were half closed as
she reached out and drew him on top of her. "I know I am to pay
the price, Fuente. 1 am yours. You may do what you like with me . . .
now and forever .... "

* * *

I put the manuscript down on the end table. What I
wanted to do was, I wanted to throw it down the toilet.

But I was afraid of the steam.

So I went from my study desk, through the hallway
that leads to Mary's pottery workshop and the greenhouse, and into
the kitchen, where I proceeded to make a Dewar's and soda at the
sideboard. No, better make that a double. jeeeez . . . Hills of Gold,
Men of Bronze . . .
Ay, carrramba! Sangre de
Cristo!
Gimmie a break already. Actually,
better make that a triple. The bottle gurgled softly, soothingly, as
I poured in the Destroyer. Who did she think she was? I mean, get
serious. Then I heard Mary's fast foot-steps in the hallway, and she
joined me in the kitchen.

"Well?" she said, eyes blazing with
excitement. "Whadduyuh think, Charlie?"

I sipped, leaned back against the sideboard, and
ruminated about phraseology. How to put it delicately.

"Well?"

"It's uh . . . certainly uh, descriptive . . ."

"Uh-huh. Go on . .

"And it's uh, sensual. Very sensual, Mare.
That's for sure."

Her eyes lit up. "You bet. That's what Moe said
down at the cottage. It's good, isn't it? You like it, don't you?"

"Uhhhhh. No. No, I can't say I'm too wild about
it, hon."

Her face fell. Her jaw crept forward a quarter inch
into a bull-dog pout. She crossed her arms over her bosom and worked
her clay-covered fingers back and forth, letting fragments and powder
sift to the floor. She looked at the floor, shifting her feet back
and forth.

"Why not? What's wrong with it?"

"What's wrong with it? Everything, that's what.
I mean, it's just a trashy, cheap story is all."

"Oh yeah? Well shit, then. Why did I ever ask
you, anyway? You just haven't read any of the best sellers lately.
Moe likes it. And Janice loves it."

"Of that I have not the slightest doubt. But the
fact remains, Mare, that the story is simply a vehicle for cheap sex
scenes."

"You catch on fast. So what's wrong with that?"

"Mary, in literature, portrayals of love, sex,
and intimacy should be subtle and refined, not gross and animalistic.
And while sex is a good thing, and enhances affection and love, it
should not be the end in itself."

"Says who?"

"Says everyone. So say all the critics. People
like Clifton Fadiman, for example. In short: art is supposed to
elevate, not denigrate."

"Oh lighten up, Charlie. You don't really
believe that, I hope. It's just your WASP training showing through.
Every day I thank God I'm not a WASP. Now take that poker out of your
ass and read the next chapter."

"I'd rather read it after you've gone through it
again and cleaned—"

"Listen, Charlie: I don't want it to be great
art. I want it to be fun to read. And I bet I sell it to a
publisher."

"I doubt that."

"Oh yeah? Then put your money on the table; a
hundred bucks says I sell it."

Something told me not to take that bet.

Trying to be diplomatic, I made a final, futile
attempt to explain literature as defined by Aristotle, or what I
remembered of him, which was scant. Her response to this well-meaning
lecture was unappreciative. She suggested I take Aristotle and
Clifton "what's-his-name" and shove them up my nether
orifice. I replied that this was clearly impossible since, according
to her, a poker was already residing therein. With a crisp "Fuck
you, Charlie!" she departed, slamming her workshop door behind
her.

Sensing that our dialogue had reached an impasse, I
opened the door cautiously, peered around, and saw Mary at her work
table, working a big hunk of wet clay, strangling it with her
incredibly strong hands.

"Listen, Mary, I didn't mean to sound harsh. All
I was trying to say was—"

She turned fast, her mouth drawn up in a sour look,
her cheeks wet. Her right arm swung back and snapped forward, doing a
dynamite imitation of Roger Clemens on the Red Sox mound. I ducked
behind the door.

Wham!

The wad of wet earth stuck to the door for a second
before it came unstuck and plopped softly on the tile floor behind
the closed door. It was safe to assume she was upset. Chances were,
if I stayed around, she'd lose her temper. So I beat a hasty retreat
into the study again. just as I sat down behind my desk, the phone
rang.

"Is this Dr. Charles Adams?"

"Yes it is. How may I help you?"

"My name is Marvin Isaacson, Dr. Adams, and I
run a pawnshop down here in New Bedford. Tell me, Doctor, have you
lost any valuable articles recently? Say, within the past week?"

Instantly, I knew the purpose of the call.

"Yes I have. They were stolen from my cottage
down on Cape Cod."

"Ah! The pieces seem to fit. Listen: my sons and
I have been trying to reach you for the last four days—"

"Well, we've been down on the Cape the whole
time. We just came back here to Concord last night to get the mail
and mow the lawn and things. I'm glad you caught us. Do you want me
to describe the articles?"

"Please."

So I did, paying particular attention to the SONY
short-wave. I told him I'd removed the back and fastened an I.D.
plate inside, containing name, address, and phone.

"That's how I found you," said Isaacson.
"One of my sons took the radio in pawn when I was out. When I
saw it, and thought there was a chance it might have been stolen, I
removed the back and checked for any sort of owner identification.
You were smart to put your name in there. So you want to come down
and get it?"

"Uh-huh. Tomorrow. How much will it cost me?"

"We gave the kid two hundred on pawn. So if I
can get my money back, I'm happy."

"I'll get your money back and then some, for
your honesty. And I'm also thinking you can help us identify the kid.
You say he is a kid, a young man?"

"Yes, my son says maybe between twenty and
thirty."

"That's interesting. If he comes back to reclaim
it, stall him and phone the cops."

"I know, but he won't. The whole thing smelled
so much of stolen goods I began searching for a name as soon as I saw
it. I been in this business a long time."

We rang off and I called Joe at the cottage.

"Hmmmm. And so you think this supports your
feeling that it wasn't Hartzell who was behind it?"

"I sure do. What do you think?"

"I don't know yet. I think maybe Hartzell
could've gotten some young punk help for the break-ins. But that
poisoning job, Doc, that was clearly done by somebody extremely
knowledgeable and cunning. The poisoning certainly doesn't fit with a
young punk kid. You read me?"

"Yeah. I hear what you're saying. Well, I'd like
you to come down to New Bedford with me tomorrow and interview Marvin
Isaacson."

"
Can do."

"How's Moe?"

"Fine. He's off down the beach looking for
whatever's washed up in the night."

"Figures. See you tomorrow."

So I hung the phone up again and spent the next hour
psyching myself up to go out and trim the hedges.
 

EIGHTEEN

MARY AND I rolled out of the sack at seven, made a
quick pot of coffee, drank half and bottled the rest, and drove down
to New Bedford. We rolled into town off highway 140 and met Joe at a
small shopping center we all knew about. He was leaning against his
cruiser munching on a doughnut, a tall plastic-foam cup of coffee
sitting on the roof.

"'Bout time," he said, his mouth swollen
with dough. He climbed aboard the Audi and off we went.

New Bedford made her name in the last century as the
world's premier whaling port. It remains one of the most historic and
colorful towns in the east, and one of my very favorite Massachusetts
towns.

Gloucester, her sister city to the north, is like New
Bedford in many ways. The biggest resemblance lies in the maritime
flavor they both have. When you visit either town, you smell fish and
see fishing boats, fish markets, fish processing plants, fish piers,
marine supply houses, and so on. And they both have strong ethnic
communities with roots in the fishing industry. Up in Gloucester,
it's the Italians. In New Bedford, the Portuguese. We were now
heading down Pleasant Street toward the historic south end and the
whaling museum. Nearby is the famous Seamen's Bethel church on Johnny
Cake Hill, the church with the unique pulpit in the shape of a ship's
prow, where Ishmael heard the sermon delivered by Father Mapple in
the beginning of Moby Dick. It's all still there, virtually unchanged
since Melville wrote about it. And having been "a-whaling"—in
a manner of speaking- and seen the beasts close-up, I felt as if I
almost belonged there. We followed Marvin Isaacson's directions and
found his pawnshop just a hop and a skip from the old church, on the
edge of the historic district with its brick buildings and cobbled
streets.

There weren't three gold balls hanging over the
doorway, but the window was filled with the usual items one finds in
pawnshops, namely firearms, musical instruments, cameras, and
watches. Marvin, a white-haired guy of about sixty, welcomed us
warmly, but was slightly taken aback when Joe introduced himself as
the fuzz.

"Don't worry, Marvin. I've come here as a
brother-in-law as much as a cop. But we all are interested in how you
came into possession of this radio." And he briefly related the
story of Andy's death and the subsequent burglaries. Marvin drummed
his fingers nervously on the glass case he was leaning on, then ran
his fingers through his ample white hair.

"See, we've been in this business now four
generations. We run a good shop. Believe me, I'm familiar with the
new laws about fencing stolen merchandise, so you see, we're real
careful. Darryl looked all over the outside of the radio for an I.D.,
but couldn't find any. But when I came back and saw the radio, and
when I heard a kid had pawned it, well, naturally, I had my doubts.
So that's when I took off the back cover."

Joe took out his notebook and sat in the corner with
Darryl Isaacson, the son who'd taken the radio in pawn, while Marvin
placed my SONY on the counter. I wrote him a check for his money,
hoping I could get at least part of it back from the insurance
company. Joe requested that the young Isaacson go up to Boston and
cooperate in a computer-generated composite reproduction of the young
man who came into the shop.

"lt takes maybe thirty, thirty-five minutes,"
Joe said. "What you do is, you sit in front of a screen, and
they flash up faces with different types of eyes, nose, hair, facial
shapes, and so on, and all you do is tell them to change this and
that until you see a face that resembles the guy as closely as you
can remember. Remember that toy called Mr. Potato Head? Well, that's
what it's like; you just keep playing with parts of a face until you
get it."

The kid wasn't really eager, but the elder Isaacson
assured us that both of them would go up to Ten Ten Commonwealth
Avenue and do it. We thanked them and left, arriving back at the
Breakers, as planned, in time for lunch. The three of us met Moe, who
was already there, finishing up his little vacation. We all changed
into bathing suits and sat on the deck.

I'd bought some of that spicy-hot red sausage the
Portuguese call linguiga in the north end of town on the way back.
This Mary and I cooked quickly in a wide iron skillet, then added
marinara sauce. Then I cut three long pieces of a French baguette,
put in the sausage, covered it with the sauce, and sprinkled on a lot
of Parmesan cheese and some hot peppers. Sausage subs. I took them
out onto the deck, where Joe dove into his with his usual fury: eyes
glazed, chin shiny with grease, low moans of ecstasy punctuated by
chewing and gulping.

Moe, who'd been reading and beachcombing, had his
usual lunch. He brought out three big plastic bags of dried fruit and
nuts, and sat munching on these items, washing down the health food
with blue milk. Moe never has any fun. I was only eating lunch
because I'd had no breakfast, but the subs were good. We sipped beer
and looked at the far, hazy horizon. Joe wiped his hands and took out
his notebook, flipping through the pages and belching softly.

"This was a lucky break," he said. "Besides
getting your radio back, we've got a description of the kid who
pawned it."

I eased back in my deck chair, feeling the warm sun
all over me. "So have your thoughts about Hartzell as the
culprit changed any?"

He shrugged. "Somehow, it seems a little less
likely, but I can't say why. It's just a feeling."

"
Uh-huh. I share it. And I think the reason is,
we're remembering that Hartzell hates young guys. So why would he
enlist the aid of a young kid in a burglary? So the pieces just don't
fit very well."