The waitress brought the dessert. When she left, JD stared at the pie for a moment and then sat back in his chair.
“Here’s how it looks to me, Jimmy. I get into this with you, and I might get rich or I might get fucked. I don’t get into this with you, I won’t get rich, and, being as how I’m a crook, I may get fucked anyway.”
Macklin waited. JD ate a forkful of pie.
“So I’m in,” JD said.
“Good. How’s the pie?”
“Excellent,” JD said.
SIXTEEN
Jesse leaned on one elbow against the end of the bar at the yacht club and looked out over the water at the tip of Stiles Island. He had a scotch and soda in his hand. Around him the princes of Paradise danced with their princesses at the annual Race Regatta Cotillion to a band playing music from the Meyer Davis songbook. Jesse hated these events, and he hated them particularly when he had to go alone. It would go easier with a few drinks. But he couldn’t let himself have a few drinks, and he hated fighting it off. But he was the chief of police, and he knew it would help him in his work to be part of the social fabric of the town.
So he was there.
Morris Comden, the chairman of the board of selectmen, stopped at the bar to pick up a vodka and tonic and chat with Jesse.
“Always a nice party, isn’t it, Jess?”
Comden was a short, square man with a strong chin and deepset eyes. Jesse had never heard him say an intelligent word.
“Sure is, Morris.”
Jesse hated being called Jess.
“Look at those ladies in their party dresses,” Comden said.
“I was a single man like yourself, Jess, I’d be sashaying a few of them around the floor, lemme tell ya.”
“You and Mrs. Comden cut a pretty mean sashay,” Jesse said.
Mrs. Comden was a thin-lipped woman, taller than her husband, who wore no makeup. There was always about her a look of perpetual outrage. The Comdens dancing was in fact, Jesse thought, a mean sight.
“What happened between you and that little lawyer lady?”
Comden said. He sipped his vodka and tonic as he spoke.
“Abby? Wasn’t in the cards, I guess,” Jesse said.
Jesse turned his tall glass in his hands slowly. The longer he took between sips, the longer it would last. Comden had no such inhibition, and he gulped some more of his drink. If Morris was quick, Jesse thought, he could get it in and get another before he went back to his table. Jesse smiled to himself. Takes one to know one.
“Heard your ex-wife came east to be on the television,” Comden said.
“She’s doing weather,” Jesse said, “on Channel Three.”
“You ever see her?”
“Some.”
They were quiet for a moment. Comden drank most of the rest of his drink in short quick swallows. Jesse knew that Comden wanted to ask if Jesse were sleeping with Jenn, but he couldn’t think how to ask.
“Well,” Comden said, “that must be odd, seeing her again after you been divorced and all, and you having another girlfriend. She been, ah, seeing anybody?”
“It’s kind of odd,” Jesse said.
Comden’s eyes shifted, looking for the bartender. When he caught his eye he gestured for a refill.
“Yeah, I’ll bet it’s odd,” Comden said.
The bartender set a fresh vodka and tonic up on the bar, and Comden grabbed it as if it were about to flop into the water.
“Odd,” Jesse said.
“Damned odd.”
Jesse nodded.
“Well, can’t leave my bride alone too long,” Comden said.
“Good seeing you, Jess.”
“Nice talking with you, Morry.”
He knew Comden preferred to be called Morris. It was late summer, and the sun was still above the horizon. Its reflection made a long shimmer straight across the dark water of the harbor.
In another half hour it would be gone, and the blue evening would begin to thicken. Jesse took a small sip of scotch. When he got home, if he felt like it, he could have a couple of real ones before he went to bed. A tall, good-looking woman with a nice tan came to the bar and ordered an Absolut martini up with
“Here’s how it looks to me, Jimmy. I get into this with you, and I might get rich or I might get fucked. I don’t get into this with you, I won’t get rich, and, being as how I’m a crook, I may get fucked anyway.”
Macklin waited. JD ate a forkful of pie.
“So I’m in,” JD said.
“Good. How’s the pie?”
“Excellent,” JD said.
SIXTEEN
Jesse leaned on one elbow against the end of the bar at the yacht club and looked out over the water at the tip of Stiles Island. He had a scotch and soda in his hand. Around him the princes of Paradise danced with their princesses at the annual Race Regatta Cotillion to a band playing music from the Meyer Davis songbook. Jesse hated these events, and he hated them particularly when he had to go alone. It would go easier with a few drinks. But he couldn’t let himself have a few drinks, and he hated fighting it off. But he was the chief of police, and he knew it would help him in his work to be part of the social fabric of the town.
So he was there.
Morris Comden, the chairman of the board of selectmen, stopped at the bar to pick up a vodka and tonic and chat with Jesse.
“Always a nice party, isn’t it, Jess?”
Comden was a short, square man with a strong chin and deepset eyes. Jesse had never heard him say an intelligent word.
“Sure is, Morris.”
Jesse hated being called Jess.
“Look at those ladies in their party dresses,” Comden said.
“I was a single man like yourself, Jess, I’d be sashaying a few of them around the floor, lemme tell ya.”
“You and Mrs. Comden cut a pretty mean sashay,” Jesse said.
Mrs. Comden was a thin-lipped woman, taller than her husband, who wore no makeup. There was always about her a look of perpetual outrage. The Comdens dancing was in fact, Jesse thought, a mean sight.
“What happened between you and that little lawyer lady?”
Comden said. He sipped his vodka and tonic as he spoke.
“Abby? Wasn’t in the cards, I guess,” Jesse said.
Jesse turned his tall glass in his hands slowly. The longer he took between sips, the longer it would last. Comden had no such inhibition, and he gulped some more of his drink. If Morris was quick, Jesse thought, he could get it in and get another before he went back to his table. Jesse smiled to himself. Takes one to know one.
“Heard your ex-wife came east to be on the television,” Comden said.
“She’s doing weather,” Jesse said, “on Channel Three.”
“You ever see her?”
“Some.”
They were quiet for a moment. Comden drank most of the rest of his drink in short quick swallows. Jesse knew that Comden wanted to ask if Jesse were sleeping with Jenn, but he couldn’t think how to ask.
“Well,” Comden said, “that must be odd, seeing her again after you been divorced and all, and you having another girlfriend. She been, ah, seeing anybody?”
“It’s kind of odd,” Jesse said.
Comden’s eyes shifted, looking for the bartender. When he caught his eye he gestured for a refill.
“Yeah, I’ll bet it’s odd,” Comden said.
The bartender set a fresh vodka and tonic up on the bar, and Comden grabbed it as if it were about to flop into the water.
“Odd,” Jesse said.
“Damned odd.”
Jesse nodded.
“Well, can’t leave my bride alone too long,” Comden said.
“Good seeing you, Jess.”
“Nice talking with you, Morry.”
He knew Comden preferred to be called Morris. It was late summer, and the sun was still above the horizon. Its reflection made a long shimmer straight across the dark water of the harbor.
In another half hour it would be gone, and the blue evening would begin to thicken. Jesse took a small sip of scotch. When he got home, if he felt like it, he could have a couple of real ones before he went to bed. A tall, good-looking woman with a nice tan came to the bar and ordered an Absolut martini up with
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