not…”
“Great. See you there.” I hung up and pulled the plug from the wall.
I might have the makings of a successful spy. An eavesdropper on my phone line would have to know Vicki to understand where we were headed. I pocketed Catherman’s card before I started walking down Grinnell.
Some veterans came out of Vietnam damaged; all of them came out changed. Sam Wheeler had never discussed his experiences beyond the one-liners; battlefield words of wisdom, quick praise or disdain for books and movies about the war. I knew no details on the action he had seen, the peace of mind it had cost him to bring home a Silver Star. He once said, “If you fight crazy people with crazy logic, you force the other guy to share your fear. The more he has, the better your shot.” Several years ago he volunteered to counsel Desert Storm and Iraq vets. It took him too far into his memories. He quit before it tilted his mental balance.
Sam and I had taken turns over the years owing each other for lunches, pep talks, physical labor, and arrest avoidance. He had saved my life twice, debts he wouldn’t let me discuss. We’d reached a point of trust where odd requests went unquestioned, occasional peril was taken for granted. While certain aspects of our mutual respect came off as foolhardy to outsiders, to Bobbi and especially to Marnie, they felt natural to me, as opposed to macho, and as simple as foxhole dependability. We had become each other’s back-facing eyes. It sounded like Sam was up to his ass in this operation. If he needed a hand, I’d be there with an arm.
The Schooner Wharf crowd was packed in for music and sunset. Sheltered from a brisk southeast wind, the leeward calm in the bar was thick with smoke and chatter. I signaled Vicki for a beer. She handed over an Amstel Light with a shrug; there were no seats in sight. I took my beer to the boardwalk where gas and oil fumes from the dinghy corral still had a fighting chance, as did grilled fish from somewhere upwind. Tarpon splashed under the decking and dock lines creaked as sailboats’ high rigging swayed.
Also swaying but counter to the wind and the world about him, my old friend Dubbie Tanner. He had made an art form out of false homelessness, living for years out of the trunk of a Chevy four-door, sleeping under bridges, hustling shots and beers from tourists who thought him quaint, a true island character. I happened to know that he earned a solid income from an old venture. He now owned a slum-on-stilts on Rockland Key where he showered and did laundry. His drinks-for-the-needy act remained active.
“Spare change, mate?” he said.
“What’s new, Dubbie? What are the street secrets known only to you?”
“If you feel rich enough for the full list, here goes. Little Feat are recording at Shrimpboat Sound. They rented a house on Margaret and hired a healthy-food chef. Someone in the city planner’s office might have taken a bribe. It might have been precisely fifty-two hundred, but you never heard that. Someone found a body, maybe two, on the beach at Bay Point yesterday morning. And my brewski is empty from now until midnight.”
“I heard none of it,” I said. “Can I ask your source on Bay Point?”
He up-ended his beer. “Not while I’m drinking.”
Marnie appeared. I gave Dubbie a twenty to go away.
“Have you talked to Sam?” she said.
“No, but I know that he’s fine and there’s been no one else.”
“Sounds like hearsay. Were you trying to talk in code, or what?”
“Your presence is proof that I succeeded.”
“My obvious next question,” she said. “Why code?”
“Here’s where you have to trust us both,” I said. “And please don’t decide that you need a drink to make the jump.”
“What am I supposed to do, Alex? Chug a fucking Dr. Pepper and cheer for my missing lover?”
“All I can say is that he’s in a slight jam and, as I suggested this morning, he’s being true to his character.”
“A
“Great. See you there.” I hung up and pulled the plug from the wall.
I might have the makings of a successful spy. An eavesdropper on my phone line would have to know Vicki to understand where we were headed. I pocketed Catherman’s card before I started walking down Grinnell.
Some veterans came out of Vietnam damaged; all of them came out changed. Sam Wheeler had never discussed his experiences beyond the one-liners; battlefield words of wisdom, quick praise or disdain for books and movies about the war. I knew no details on the action he had seen, the peace of mind it had cost him to bring home a Silver Star. He once said, “If you fight crazy people with crazy logic, you force the other guy to share your fear. The more he has, the better your shot.” Several years ago he volunteered to counsel Desert Storm and Iraq vets. It took him too far into his memories. He quit before it tilted his mental balance.
Sam and I had taken turns over the years owing each other for lunches, pep talks, physical labor, and arrest avoidance. He had saved my life twice, debts he wouldn’t let me discuss. We’d reached a point of trust where odd requests went unquestioned, occasional peril was taken for granted. While certain aspects of our mutual respect came off as foolhardy to outsiders, to Bobbi and especially to Marnie, they felt natural to me, as opposed to macho, and as simple as foxhole dependability. We had become each other’s back-facing eyes. It sounded like Sam was up to his ass in this operation. If he needed a hand, I’d be there with an arm.
The Schooner Wharf crowd was packed in for music and sunset. Sheltered from a brisk southeast wind, the leeward calm in the bar was thick with smoke and chatter. I signaled Vicki for a beer. She handed over an Amstel Light with a shrug; there were no seats in sight. I took my beer to the boardwalk where gas and oil fumes from the dinghy corral still had a fighting chance, as did grilled fish from somewhere upwind. Tarpon splashed under the decking and dock lines creaked as sailboats’ high rigging swayed.
Also swaying but counter to the wind and the world about him, my old friend Dubbie Tanner. He had made an art form out of false homelessness, living for years out of the trunk of a Chevy four-door, sleeping under bridges, hustling shots and beers from tourists who thought him quaint, a true island character. I happened to know that he earned a solid income from an old venture. He now owned a slum-on-stilts on Rockland Key where he showered and did laundry. His drinks-for-the-needy act remained active.
“Spare change, mate?” he said.
“What’s new, Dubbie? What are the street secrets known only to you?”
“If you feel rich enough for the full list, here goes. Little Feat are recording at Shrimpboat Sound. They rented a house on Margaret and hired a healthy-food chef. Someone in the city planner’s office might have taken a bribe. It might have been precisely fifty-two hundred, but you never heard that. Someone found a body, maybe two, on the beach at Bay Point yesterday morning. And my brewski is empty from now until midnight.”
“I heard none of it,” I said. “Can I ask your source on Bay Point?”
He up-ended his beer. “Not while I’m drinking.”
Marnie appeared. I gave Dubbie a twenty to go away.
“Have you talked to Sam?” she said.
“No, but I know that he’s fine and there’s been no one else.”
“Sounds like hearsay. Were you trying to talk in code, or what?”
“Your presence is proof that I succeeded.”
“My obvious next question,” she said. “Why code?”
“Here’s where you have to trust us both,” I said. “And please don’t decide that you need a drink to make the jump.”
“What am I supposed to do, Alex? Chug a fucking Dr. Pepper and cheer for my missing lover?”
“All I can say is that he’s in a slight jam and, as I suggested this morning, he’s being true to his character.”
“A
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