how.”
“Tomorrow night at the Pequot.”
“Do I have to actually eat dinner, or just drink?”
We knew we’d find Joe Sullivan at the Pequot, Hodges’s ratty little bar and grill serving the remaining fishermen of Sag Harbor and other diehard locals. His daughter, Dorothy, a Goth depressive, mostly ran the joint at this point, though Hodges was usually there to eat and lend unwanted advice.
The food was actually more than edible, contrary to Jackie’s opinion, and the atmosphere truly distinctive, if your taste runs to red vinyl, weathered-grey wood, and the smell of fishermen fresh off the job.
“Drink all you want,” I told her. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Then pick me up at six. Don’t bother ringing the bell. I’ll know you’re there.”
Jackie lived above a Japanese restaurant in Water Mill, a hamlet just east of Southampton Village. It wasn’t a big place, just enough for an apartment and separate office. She’d know I’d arrived because the entire exterior of the building was under video surveillance, along with strategically placed alarms controlled by motion sensors.
I wasn’t the only one on the team with a history of mortal threat.
Despite all that, when I got there, Jackie was sitting on the stoop eating out of a take-out container. As she stood, she had to pull down the hem of her dress to get it within legal distance above her knees. She wore high-heeled sandals and her big ball of hair was pulled back from her face.
“Jesus, Jackie,” I said, “we’re going to the Pequot, not Studio 54.”
“I turn forty next year,” she said. “Got to use up the wardrobe while I still can. What’s Studio 54?”
“You’re gonna give Hodges a heart attack.”
“Then maybe he’ll stop staring at my boobs.”
Sag Harbor was an old whaling town bordering Southampton to the north. It had a lot of old houses densely packed together and a marina that accommodated giant yachts as well as the usual mix of merely unaffordable sailboats and cabin cruisers. Hidden away down a narrow channel on the other side of the harbor was the town’s fishing fleet, once focused on commercial catches like cod and flounder, now as likely chartered out by sport fishermen who liked catching their bluefish and bass in more rustic surroundings.
The Pequot was off the marina’s parking lot, so the fish was as fresh as the charter crews were ripe.
Sullivan was at his usual table for two, so we had to drag over another chair to all sit together.
“I don’t remember the invitation,” he said, as we plopped ourselves down. “What did you do with the rest of your dress?” he added, looking at Jackie over the top of his burger.
“She bought it off the midlife crisis rack,” I said.
“Be thankful you’re only at mid.”
“We need to talk to you about something,” said Jackie. “It’s important.”
Sullivan looked over at me.
“Do you like it when she says stuff like that?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Sam knows it’s important. He’d just wait till the end of the night to talk about it. I’m not that patient.”
Sullivan held up his burger.
“What if we just wait till I eat this?”
“How come we’re not drinking?” I yelled toward the bar, where Dorothy looked up from a conversation with another tattoo-festooned ghoul. She gazed through curved, three-inch-long black eyelashes, then walked slowly over to our table.
“Vodka, Pinot, and Bud,” she said. “What’s shakin’?”
“A vodka, a pinot, and a Bud,” I said, “if they can find their way to our table.”
“What’re the specials tonight?” Jackie asked.
“Everything’s special,” said Dorothy. “Especially the wait staff. Certifiably awesome.”
“You added something,” said Jackie, studying Dorothy’s face.
“Interesting,” said Dorothy, “though consistent with clinical studies of the weak interplay between memory and casual observation.”
“She took something away,” I said,
“Tomorrow night at the Pequot.”
“Do I have to actually eat dinner, or just drink?”
We knew we’d find Joe Sullivan at the Pequot, Hodges’s ratty little bar and grill serving the remaining fishermen of Sag Harbor and other diehard locals. His daughter, Dorothy, a Goth depressive, mostly ran the joint at this point, though Hodges was usually there to eat and lend unwanted advice.
The food was actually more than edible, contrary to Jackie’s opinion, and the atmosphere truly distinctive, if your taste runs to red vinyl, weathered-grey wood, and the smell of fishermen fresh off the job.
“Drink all you want,” I told her. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Then pick me up at six. Don’t bother ringing the bell. I’ll know you’re there.”
Jackie lived above a Japanese restaurant in Water Mill, a hamlet just east of Southampton Village. It wasn’t a big place, just enough for an apartment and separate office. She’d know I’d arrived because the entire exterior of the building was under video surveillance, along with strategically placed alarms controlled by motion sensors.
I wasn’t the only one on the team with a history of mortal threat.
Despite all that, when I got there, Jackie was sitting on the stoop eating out of a take-out container. As she stood, she had to pull down the hem of her dress to get it within legal distance above her knees. She wore high-heeled sandals and her big ball of hair was pulled back from her face.
“Jesus, Jackie,” I said, “we’re going to the Pequot, not Studio 54.”
“I turn forty next year,” she said. “Got to use up the wardrobe while I still can. What’s Studio 54?”
“You’re gonna give Hodges a heart attack.”
“Then maybe he’ll stop staring at my boobs.”
Sag Harbor was an old whaling town bordering Southampton to the north. It had a lot of old houses densely packed together and a marina that accommodated giant yachts as well as the usual mix of merely unaffordable sailboats and cabin cruisers. Hidden away down a narrow channel on the other side of the harbor was the town’s fishing fleet, once focused on commercial catches like cod and flounder, now as likely chartered out by sport fishermen who liked catching their bluefish and bass in more rustic surroundings.
The Pequot was off the marina’s parking lot, so the fish was as fresh as the charter crews were ripe.
Sullivan was at his usual table for two, so we had to drag over another chair to all sit together.
“I don’t remember the invitation,” he said, as we plopped ourselves down. “What did you do with the rest of your dress?” he added, looking at Jackie over the top of his burger.
“She bought it off the midlife crisis rack,” I said.
“Be thankful you’re only at mid.”
“We need to talk to you about something,” said Jackie. “It’s important.”
Sullivan looked over at me.
“Do you like it when she says stuff like that?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Sam knows it’s important. He’d just wait till the end of the night to talk about it. I’m not that patient.”
Sullivan held up his burger.
“What if we just wait till I eat this?”
“How come we’re not drinking?” I yelled toward the bar, where Dorothy looked up from a conversation with another tattoo-festooned ghoul. She gazed through curved, three-inch-long black eyelashes, then walked slowly over to our table.
“Vodka, Pinot, and Bud,” she said. “What’s shakin’?”
“A vodka, a pinot, and a Bud,” I said, “if they can find their way to our table.”
“What’re the specials tonight?” Jackie asked.
“Everything’s special,” said Dorothy. “Especially the wait staff. Certifiably awesome.”
“You added something,” said Jackie, studying Dorothy’s face.
“Interesting,” said Dorothy, “though consistent with clinical studies of the weak interplay between memory and casual observation.”
“She took something away,” I said,
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