on Cape Cod who hasn’t been talked to by at least one of the Gregorys.”
He gave a modified laugh. It sounded like a steam heater. His mouth laughed, his chest
laughed, his eyebrows stayed put, elevated above his glasses. Like his mustache, they
were too dark for his pale skin. The image they presented distracted from his message.
Still, I smiled, because that is what he wanted me to do. Eight years we had barely
spoken to each other and now, in a matter of minutes, we were so inextricably intertwined
that we could make little in-jokes about our mentors. If things kept improving like
this, I might soon get out of the basement. Maybe even get invited to the Pops concert.
Sit at a round table and help Mitch look for celebrities.
Hey, there’s Regis Philbin.
4
.
“
D
ON ’ T WE PAY FOR ALL THE THINGS WE DO, THOUGH ?”
Who said that? Hemingway. Lady Brett to Jake Barnes, the protagonist in
The Sun Also Rises
.
What had she ever done to compare with what I had?
Better yet, is what she said even true? Or is it true for some but not for others?
Was Peter Martin paying now that he was a doctor in San Francisco, living in Pacific
Heights, attending opening night at the opera in black tie? What about Jamie Gregory,
now a Wall Street banker, living in a landmark four-story townhouse in the Village?
The one who really paid was Kendrick, and all she did was get drunk.
Kendrick. Her father. Her mother. And, oh yes, George Becket, living by himself on
the Cape, working out of the basement office of a political hack, lying awake at night
thinking about how different things might have been.
5
.
C
ELLO DIMASI WAS SAID TO HAVE BEEN A FINE BASEBALL PLAYER . He went to an obscure college in Connecticut but made it onto the Hyannis Mets in
the Cape Cod League, which bills itself with good reason as the premier summer collegiate
league in the country. He played two years for the Mets as a catcher who couldn’t
hit, had a bad arm, but handled the pitchers well and excelled at blocking the plate.
There is a picture on the wall in Muggsy’s showing him upending a guy who stood six-feet-four
and went on to play five years for the Baltimore Orioles. The guy is literally flying
through the air, and Cello, his head down, his squat body hunched and tilted forward,
has both feet planted firmly on the ground.
Cello never fulfilled his dream of signing with the pros, but he made a lot of friends
in the area. After college, he ended up on the Barnstable police force, and after
twenty years on the job had worked his way through the ranks to the position of chief.
Like Mitch White, Cello had a cadre of supporters, but they were most definitely not
the same cadre. Cello’s group were people like “the Macs,” McBeth and McQuaid, people
who ran the building trades, put on fishing and golf tournaments, coached youth sports,
went to Muggsy’s for breakfast and took their cocktails at Baxter’s on the waterfront
during the off-season when the tourists weren’t around.
I knew the chief only in terms of discussing cases. There had been the bicycle-theft
incident over which we had been at odds, but for the most part we were able to work
things out to our mutual interest. The Kirby Gregory matter might not have had such
a positive outcome for her if the Breathalyzer results had not been made questionable
by a failure to locate the calibration records of the device. On the other hand, Michael
McBeth’s nephew was able to walk with a reckless even though he had spent the night
puking his guts out in a Yarmouth jail cell.
The chief greeted me as though I had come to cut another deal.
“Georgie!” he said, calling to me through the bullet-proof window of the utilitarian
reception area of police headquarters off Phinney’s Lane. “C’mon back. Maddy, buzz
the good counselor through.”
Maddy buzzed, I pushed open a metal-plated door, the chief stuck out his hand, and
we
He gave a modified laugh. It sounded like a steam heater. His mouth laughed, his chest
laughed, his eyebrows stayed put, elevated above his glasses. Like his mustache, they
were too dark for his pale skin. The image they presented distracted from his message.
Still, I smiled, because that is what he wanted me to do. Eight years we had barely
spoken to each other and now, in a matter of minutes, we were so inextricably intertwined
that we could make little in-jokes about our mentors. If things kept improving like
this, I might soon get out of the basement. Maybe even get invited to the Pops concert.
Sit at a round table and help Mitch look for celebrities.
Hey, there’s Regis Philbin.
4
.
“
D
ON ’ T WE PAY FOR ALL THE THINGS WE DO, THOUGH ?”
Who said that? Hemingway. Lady Brett to Jake Barnes, the protagonist in
The Sun Also Rises
.
What had she ever done to compare with what I had?
Better yet, is what she said even true? Or is it true for some but not for others?
Was Peter Martin paying now that he was a doctor in San Francisco, living in Pacific
Heights, attending opening night at the opera in black tie? What about Jamie Gregory,
now a Wall Street banker, living in a landmark four-story townhouse in the Village?
The one who really paid was Kendrick, and all she did was get drunk.
Kendrick. Her father. Her mother. And, oh yes, George Becket, living by himself on
the Cape, working out of the basement office of a political hack, lying awake at night
thinking about how different things might have been.
5
.
C
ELLO DIMASI WAS SAID TO HAVE BEEN A FINE BASEBALL PLAYER . He went to an obscure college in Connecticut but made it onto the Hyannis Mets in
the Cape Cod League, which bills itself with good reason as the premier summer collegiate
league in the country. He played two years for the Mets as a catcher who couldn’t
hit, had a bad arm, but handled the pitchers well and excelled at blocking the plate.
There is a picture on the wall in Muggsy’s showing him upending a guy who stood six-feet-four
and went on to play five years for the Baltimore Orioles. The guy is literally flying
through the air, and Cello, his head down, his squat body hunched and tilted forward,
has both feet planted firmly on the ground.
Cello never fulfilled his dream of signing with the pros, but he made a lot of friends
in the area. After college, he ended up on the Barnstable police force, and after
twenty years on the job had worked his way through the ranks to the position of chief.
Like Mitch White, Cello had a cadre of supporters, but they were most definitely not
the same cadre. Cello’s group were people like “the Macs,” McBeth and McQuaid, people
who ran the building trades, put on fishing and golf tournaments, coached youth sports,
went to Muggsy’s for breakfast and took their cocktails at Baxter’s on the waterfront
during the off-season when the tourists weren’t around.
I knew the chief only in terms of discussing cases. There had been the bicycle-theft
incident over which we had been at odds, but for the most part we were able to work
things out to our mutual interest. The Kirby Gregory matter might not have had such
a positive outcome for her if the Breathalyzer results had not been made questionable
by a failure to locate the calibration records of the device. On the other hand, Michael
McBeth’s nephew was able to walk with a reckless even though he had spent the night
puking his guts out in a Yarmouth jail cell.
The chief greeted me as though I had come to cut another deal.
“Georgie!” he said, calling to me through the bullet-proof window of the utilitarian
reception area of police headquarters off Phinney’s Lane. “C’mon back. Maddy, buzz
the good counselor through.”
Maddy buzzed, I pushed open a metal-plated door, the chief stuck out his hand, and
we
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