Elsinore by Jerome Charyn Page A

mine. I came to collect it, that’s all.”
    And Holden trudged across the fields of junk with Phipps behind him. He had to stop and rest after fifty feet. His hands were torn by the time they reached the car. None of the dogs had bothered them.
    Holden put the suitcases in the trunk. Then he drove toward the ferry.
    â€œPhippsy, you might have had an agreement with the father, but not with the sons. We’ll be lucky to get off the Vineyard alive.”
    â€œThey wouldn’t go against their father,” Phipps said.
    â€œThey’re bumpers,” Holden said. “And they’re crazy.”
    The ferryman took them across the creek, and already Holden was suspicious. He didn’t like the ferryman’s dumb smile.
    â€œWe’ll stay on the island tonight,” Phipps said. “I booked a room in Edgartown.”
    â€œI don’t think that’s such a hot idea. We ought to distance ourselves from those boys.”
    â€œWe’re staying at the Charlotte Inn.”
    They drove to South Summer-Street and Holden parked in a little lot. He carried the suitcases into the inn. Phipps signed the book. And then Holden managed to get the money up the stairs to their room. He wasn’t so jumpy inside the Charlotte Inn. The furniture and the little crooked hallways reminded him of Brown’s, where Holden liked to stop in London, when he was stealing patterns for his tailor. He loved the wallpaper at Brown’s, the adventures he had exploring the hotel, finding a corner where he could sit and read a book. There were always clergymen around, factory owners from Devon or Lancashire, and Yanks like himself. But he could never understand English hotels, because no one hounded him for the bill. The idea of cash seemed beneath the dignity of a hotel. And Holden had the illusion of staying at Brown’s for free.
    And so the Charlotte Inn soothed him, and he didn’t worry so much about Ethan’s boys. He had his shooter. He could relax a bit. And somehow he didn’t believe that they would wander into the inn and start knocking on doors in the middle of the night. But they weren’t rational beings. They’d been hiding too long, living with their dad, and Holden didn’t take a chance. He slept with the gun.
    The room had a fireplace and a soft couch and an old clock that ticked in Holden’s ear. He built a fire for the old man, crumpling paper around the logs. Holden missed his VCR. It felt like a good night for The Big Sleep . He opened one of the suitcases and borrowed a thousand-dollar bill.
    The old man had gone into the toilet and sat for an hour. Then Holden began to hear a rabbity noise, like a small animal crying. “Phippsy,” he said through the door. “Are you in trouble?”
    Phipps didn’t answer at first. Then he said, “Come in, please.”
    But the toilet was locked.
    â€œOpen up.”
    â€œI can’t.”
    And Holden had to stab at the lock with his pocket-knife. It took him another five minutes to enter the toilet. The old man was sitting on the pot with his pajama bottoms caught between his legs.
    â€œI’m a bloody invalid. I need a nurse.”
    â€œIt’s nothing,” Holden said, untangling the old man.
    And they went to sleep in their twin beds, Holden with his gun, his mind like a night crawler, picking at sounds while he dreamt. The old man snored.

    They had breakfast downstairs in an enclosed garden. Fresh orange juice and English muffins and cups of coffee with cream. There was a great clutter outside the inn. A film crew had captured Edgartown. Holden saw caravans and trailers and lighting trucks. Men with walkie-talkies stood on the trucks and breathed signals across the town. They were shooting Jaws 5. And Holden wondered what kind of shark they’d concocted for the film.
    â€œSid,” the old man said, “did you ever think of changing careers? You dress like an actor.