Death in the Polka Dot Shoes by Marlin Fitzwater Page A

had once sent me a hollow coconut from Guam that was finished into a bank, and every year on my birthday he would send a silver dollar to put in the bank. The blanket still had the Army’s insignia stenciled on one corner, but there was a sizable hole in the center where some battery acid had leaked on the blanket.
    â€œIs that for the guy?” I asked as Vinnie emerged from the vee birth.
    â€œNo,” he said, “the boat. Pull Martha into the circle wake of that boat. Wait as long as you can, so you know Martha is on the same course as the cruiser. I’m going to throw this blanket in the circle and hope the cruiser hits it. Once I throw, get the hell out of there so it doesn’t hit us.”
    I didn’t ask the purpose of this blanket maneuver, but it seemed significantly easier than trying to jump into a moving boat.
    I found the wake just after the boat went past, threw Martha in neutral, and waited for the cruiser to circle again. It took a couple of minutes to come around. Finally, it was bearing down on us when Vinnie threw the blanket and screamed, “Go. Go. Go.” We lurched forward, causing our guest to roll on the floor. But Vinnie never lost balance or line of sight. He saw the cruiser approach the blanket, devour it under its sharp bow, and the blanket disappeared under the hull. And then the cruiser coughed. Like a child with someone’s hand over its mouth. Muffled. Then another cough. And the motor died. The cruiser stopped and within an instant was floating in the water as helpless as a styrofoam cup. The blanket had become entangled in the propeller just as Vinnie had calculated, and the big engine stalled.
    Vinnie moved in close to the helm and said, “If you can get close, I’ll board the boat and we can tow her in.” He was looking me right in the eye, I think to see if I was shaken by the whole experience.
    â€œVinnie,” I said, “if I ever drive this boat again, even for one minute, I want you by my side.”
    â€œYou got it boss,” he said, moving to ready his jump.

Chapter Four
    Opening my law practice beside a Calico Cat linen store in what passes for the only shopping center in Parkers was not part of my long-term plan. It was actually Effie Humbolt’s Calico Cat store, with a subtitle: linen and things. More things than linen, and mostly bolts of cloth that appeared to be Laura Ashley knockoffs, priced for the local sewing circles. I noticed a predominance of rose designs, in colors ranging from pink to green, familiar to every family who uses wallpaper. I hadn’t seen much wallpaper since leaving Parkers because the style in Washington had moved to plain walls and ceiling molding, or an occasional stripe. In any case, it gave the Calico a homey feeling that I appreciated, even though my new law office would be spartan modern with plain walls, a wooden desk with Queen Anne legs that I picked up at Rick’s Antiques shop out on Route l, three walnut chairs of mixed origins for the vast clientele expected soon, and a Persian rug of mixed ancestry that gave me the illusion, at least, of some class. All the furnishings totaled less than three hundred dollars and strengthened my sense of frugality.
    Every endeavor in life has its fears. The workboat certainly raised physical fears, but the law practice raised economic fears. Clients might never come. Our profession has historically had this high minded idea that lawyers can’t advertise for clients. Too unseemly. But it’s perfectly fine, even recommended, that we join every low life civic club in North America and grovel before the most corrupt politicians available in the hopes of winning a fee. In my case, two hundred dollars an hour.
    I made much more than that at Simpson, Feldstein and James, and I had other amenities I didn’t deserve, like a walnut paneled office with leather chairs and pictures of horses jumping over fences in the nearby Virginia hunt