Vineyard Fear by Philip Craig

park.
    But I was out of books and the big book fair in West Tisbury was still days away, so I had to make a run to the library to keep myself going. Normally I have at least one book to read, since I keep one in each place I expect to be. I have a bedroom book that I only read before sleeping, a bathroom book that I only read while on the throne (poetry here, since it comes in appropriately short slices), a kitchen book, two living room books, and a car book for traffic jams. However, a cruel fate had touched my life: I had finished all of these books within days of each other and was suddenly bookless.
    So downtown I went.
    Edgartown is so quaint and lovely, so filled with flowers and greenery, so fairylandish and make-believe, that pedestrians think that cars are just part of the scenery and the middle of the street is as much for them as for automobiles. They are surprised and even resentful when they discover some car attempting to occupy the street they are walking in while ogling the sights, and only reluctantly move to the brick sidewalks as the car inches by. Edgartown summer cops do their best to keep both drivers and pedestrians moving, and actually do a pretty good job of it by late summer. In mid-July, they are still a bit green and have a hard time untangling traffic, and need wise advice from the chief.
    I found him, walking down North Water Street, Edgartown’s classiest street as well as the location of its excellent library. This surprise was almost as great as the one I had experienced only moments before when a car parked right in front of the library had pulled out just in time for me to pull in. Shocking.
    â€œYou look pale,” said the chief, “and I don’t blame you. An actual parking place.”
    â€œPerhaps you’ll take my arm and lead me to a chair before I faint. What brings you up to this part of town? Don’t tell me that the weed of crime is bearing bitter fruit on North Water Street.”
    â€œThe weed of crime in this case was a lady in that big house there who phoned that somebody was trying to break through the back door. It turned out it was her cat that she’d forgotten she’d put out, trying to get back in out of the heat.”
    â€œYour story has done much to make me feel more secure on these mean streets. How’s the summer going?”
    He wiped his brow and replaced his hat. “Be glad you’ve turned in your badge. We have more jerks in jail than I can ever remember having before.”
    In every community the size of the island’s winter population, there are about twenty people who cause ninety percent of all the problems. They are the vandals, the drunks, the druggies, the car racers, the thieves, the people who rob their parents, who beat up women and children, who trash houses, who hate cops, and who never seem to change.
    â€œIf you’ll give me immunity and a whole lot of money, I think I know some guys who will shoot the guys who are giving you most of your trouble,” I said.
    â€œHell,” said the chief. “If you could just move a couple of families off of the island, I could retire. How’s Zee?”
    â€œFine, I guess. I haven’t seen her for a while.”
    He nodded and his eyes floated down toward the four corners, where Main met Water Street. Many cars werenot moving there. A summer cop in traffic trouble. The chief tugged on his hat brim and started on down the walk to do his duty.
    â€œProtect and serve,” I called after him and turned to see Geraldine Miles coming down the walk from the library.
    She was wearing a wraparound skirt and short-sleeved shirt, and the bruises were no longer apparent on her arms. She was tanned and looked happy. There was a man with her, a tall, strong-looking guy about her age wearing new summer clothes: Vineyard Red shorts and a white shirt that said “Frankly scallop, I don’t give a clam.” He carried a canvas beach bag. His face and arms