Head Wounds (14 page)

“Love the collar. Do you sharpen those spikes yourself?” I asked her, sitting down to the jumbo Absolut on the rocks she’d poured before I was halfway across the floor.

“My dad calls them hickey deflectors. He doesn’t know the guys I date. They actually dig the sharp little points. What’s the dog drinking?”

“Same as me. Hold the vodka.”

I ordered us both a burger, which Eddie preferred without the bun, and settled in with Immanuel Kant’s
Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime
, neither of which I was feeling myself, but I was willing to give it a go.

People must have come in, had some food and drink, and left again while I was sitting there at the bar. I just didn’t notice. I was absorbed in Kant, except when attacked by mini explosions of anxiety that would suddenly seize my mind. I promptly stuffed them back down into my lower consciousness, temporarily subdued, but poised to strike again at the next opportunity. This was one reason I liked to read stuff with a little meat on the bones. Better for distracting my brain. Keep it from wandering into dangerous places.

The shrink I was forced to see once told me, attempting an analogy I might understand, that my brain was like a little Briggs & Stratton engine. Would run fine all day under a load, but as soon as you disengaged the clutch it would spin up to unsustainable rpm’s, overheat and eventually blow a rod. That’s not exactly how he said it, because he didn’t know anything about small, air-cooled two-cycle engines. But that’s what he was getting at.

I didn’t like the guy at all, but he had a point. It probably wasn’t a coincidence that I never put in less than a twelve-hour
day when I worked for the company. That I sought out the most difficult technical problems and consumed countless hours studying densely detailed engineering texts, seminar papers and quantitative analyses.

I was afraid to stop.

Dorothy came up and leaned over the bar to check on Eddie. He was keeping a low profile, tangled around the legs of the barstool, his head on the brass foot rail, his extravagant tail tucked safely under his butt.

“Should I get him some more water or let sleeping dogs lie?” she said.

“If he wants more he’ll ask.”

She leaned back and looked at the cover of my book.

“He never left his hometown,” she said.

“Who?”

“Kant. Established most of the philosophical fundamentals of his time, back when philosophers were like the only guys thinking about anything, and the dumb sonofabitch never saw London or the Mediterranean Sea. So, is that a work of genius or a con job by a neurotic stay-at-home?”

“I grew up on Long Island and still haven’t been to Hicksville. Name scares me.”

“Not to confuse Kant with that chick poet who never left her house. That’s a clear case of Calvinist gender oppression. Pre-empowerment. You want another one?”

She left me alone to penetrate Kant, which wasn’t as hard as I thought until I hit a wall about fifty pages in. I looked around to see if anyone else in the place was studying eighteenth-century European philosophy and was rewarded by the sight of Patrick and two of his oversized friends walking through the door.

They sat on either side of me at the bar. Patrick to my left, the other two guys to my right. I dropped my feet off the
brass rail and put one on either side of where Eddie was sleeping. I didn’t want any of the lugs to slide into him with their stools.

“So, it’s old Vice-Grip,” said Patrick, forgetting the name had been forged at his expense.

“Feel free to call me Sam. And be careful with your feet. There’s a dog under my stool.”

Patrick looked down at Eddie.

“He bite?”

“No, but I do.”

“I figured you for all bark,” said one of the guys on the right.

“No, no,” Patrick answered. “Sam’s an old punch-drunk. Professional, right? That’s what we’re told.”

To avoid the problem of looking from one side to the other I just looked straight ahead at the glass shelves behind the bar that held Hodges’s modest liquor inventory—all but a few bottles of Absolut he kept for me in the freezer.

“Long time ago. And not much of a career.”

“Explains the nose,” said Patrick. “Nowadays you can fix those things.”

“Yeah, but that won’t fix the problems on the inside. Though by the look of you boys, outside ugly is the bigger issue.”

“We ought to change your name to Death Wish,” said the other right-side guy.

“Somebody already got there. As you can see, not all wishes come true.”

Dorothy came out of the kitchen and saw the fresh faces at the bar. She gave them each a menu and a bottle of Budweiser.

“That’s a nifty lookin’ thing you’re wearing there, darlin’,” said Patrick when she dropped the beer down in front of him. “You got matching whips and spurs?”

“No, darlin’, but I do have a matching black belt and no tolerance for sexist abuse. You gonna read that menu or do you already know what you want?”

After collecting their orders she went back into the kitchen.

“What kind of bitches you hang out with, man?” asked Patrick after the kitchen door stopped swinging.

“Post-empowerment.”

While the guys drank their beers I wondered how I was going to get from the Pequot to my car and then home again without the possibility of a situation presenting itself. As I pondered this, I stalled for time.

“How well did you guys know Robbie Milhouser, anyway?” I asked, looking straight ahead at the bottle-filled shelves.

“A couple’a years. Long enough to consider him a major friend,” said Patrick.

That set off nods all around.

“What happened to him wasn’t right,” said one of the right-siders.

“I agree with that,” I told them. “I didn’t do it, by the way, just to set your minds at ease.”

“So they just arrested you for the fuck of it,” said Patrick.

“A little misunderstanding. It’ll be taken care of.”

“Taken care of. That’s exactly what it’s gonna be,” said the other right-sider.

“Did Robbie hire you as a crew, or one at a time?” I asked.

“What’s it to you?” Patrick asked.

“He suggested you were a package deal. Just curious.”

“You’re curious about a lot of things.”

“I know most of the builders out here. Thought you might like a reference. That house is almost done and Robbie’s not building any more.”

“Tell that to his old man,” said a right-sider. “It’s all his deal now.”

I looked at Patrick in time to see him frown at the guy who’d just spoken.

“You’re not supposed to inherit shit from your kids,” said Patrick. “Supposed to be the other way around. Fucked up.”

“Said he’s got plenty of work as long as we need it,” said the same right-sider, I thought with some defiance. “Makes me want to settle down here, build my own place. Sit on the beach, do a little fishing.”

“Go to the discos,” said the other right-sider. “Do a little coke. Fuck an heiress.”

“The old man’s got another project?” I asked the first right- sider.

“At least. More after that. Said he’s tappin’ a steady supply.”

“Hey, bonehead,” said Patrick, like he meant it. “That’s the man’s confidential information.”

The other guy didn’t seem inclined to escalate. He just shut up and went back to sucking on his beer. I asked him to tell me more about old man Milhouser, just to stir the pot, but before he could answer Dorothy and Vinko came out of the kitchen with their food. This would have made for a good distraction, a little time for me to think, if the aroma hadn’t woken up Eddie. He jumped up and was immediately charmed to see we had company. Everyone was introduced and given the opportunity to scratch his head. He sniffed at the air and looked around to see if anyone had thought to get an extra burger for him. With no bun, and two or three fries.

“I didn’t think you were allowed to have dogs in restaurants,” said the other right-sider.

“It’s not a restaurant,” said Dorothy. “It’s a bar and grill.”

That seemed to satisfy him. Everybody quieted down while they worked on their food. I was glad to see Dorothy staying behind the bar. She washed out some glasses, slopped a wet rag over the bar surface and otherwise fiddled around
with things. I thought it might be the best time to get out of there, but I wasn’t sure. And I didn’t like the idea of leaving Patrick and his boys there without Hodges to look after Dorothy and Vinko. I watched her busy herself and tried to send her telepathic messages. It worked so well she disappeared again into the kitchen.

“Come here often?” I asked Patrick.

He was polite enough to finish chewing before answering.

“Nah. First time. Lucky break bumping into you. Give us a chance to renew old acquaintances.”

“Can’t say it’s been an incredible pleasure, but I’m getting ready to shove off,” I told him. “Hey Dotty,” I yelled at the kitchen door. “I need my check.”

“Not a problem. I think we’re done here, too,” said Patrick. The other guys looked at their half-finished meals. “I heard this was a tough neighborhood. We should escort you to your car.”

“Thanks, but I’m all set. It’d be bad for my bodyguard business. Send the wrong signal.”

Patrick looked like he was considering that.

“Not when they see you got an armed escort,” he said, looking down at his lap. I followed his eyes and saw that he was holding an open five-inch buck knife flat against the top of his thigh. “Much more impressive, huh?”

“Sure. Would get my attention. Already has.”

“So, what say we just pay our bills and get on out of here. I could use the air. This place stinks of fish.”

Dorothy came out of the kitchen wiping her hands on a dishrag, followed by Vinko carrying a plastic pail, which he filled with dirty glasses stowed below the bar. She stood at the register and printed out my check. Patrick asked for his, too. She nodded without looking over and continued to punch in the bill.

“I want all of you to look at these carefully,” she said, slapping little slips of paper down in front of each of us. “I’m not sure I got it right.”

Patrick picked his up and looked at it like he’d never seen a check before. When he looked up again he saw Vinko with the business end of Hodges’s 12-gauge pump-action shotgun pointing at his chest.

“Hands on the bar everybody,” said Dorothy quietly. Vinko racked a shell up into the firing chamber as further inducement. We all complied.

“Not you, Sam.”

She stood on a step stool and looked over the bar.

“Say, Vinko, guess what Mr. Personality’s got in his lap.”

He stepped back a pace, then leaned over to take a look.

“Eez big knive,” he said.

“That’s what I thought. Sam, see if you can pick it out of there without getting your arm in his line of fire.”

First I put my left hand through Eddie’s collar. He hadn’t moved from the foot of my stool, but I felt better getting a grip on him. Then I reached in and picked up Patrick’s knife by the heavy wood and chrome handle. It had the heft and wear of an old weapon. Locking blade notched on the back, razor sharp. I pressed the release, folded it up and stuck it in my pocket.

“I’ll mail it to you.”

As Vinko watched me extract the knife, the barrel of the shotgun drifted toward the left. I reached up and gently moved it back in Patrick’s direction.

“Okay, fellas,” said Dorothy, “it’s time to move on. Your meal’s on the house. Our way of greeting new customers. Sorry about the knife. House rules. If I didn’t enforce ’em those fish heads over there would be flashing all kinds of hardware in here, wouldn’t you Pierre?”

We all turned around to look at Pierre, who was leaning back in his chair, enjoying the show.

“For sure, Dotty. Filleting all day you forget and slip ‘em right in your pocket. Isn’t that true?” he asked the half dozen fishermen sitting with him at the table, all of whom nodded enthusiastically.

“Better to listen to Dotty, is what I’m thinkin’,” said one of them. “We all seen Vinko handle that thing.”

“Shoot the pecker off a mallard at a hundred yards,” said Pierre.

Not surprisingly, Patrick saw the wisdom in making an orderly withdrawal. Which is how he did it. Calm and easy, with a grin. His boys looked less sure of themselves, but had the forethought to bring along their uneaten burgers. Before he backed out the door, Patrick gave Dorothy the same little bow I saw him give Jackie at the job site. Both had an air of uncompleted business. Vinko used the end of the shotgun to wave him along and he left.

A ragged round of applause came from the twenty or so men and women sitting around the bar and grill, most of whom I assumed were fishermen or mechanics from the marina. Dorothy gave a bow of her own and took the shotgun from Vinko and stowed it back behind the bar.

“Shit, Dotty, I ain’t never bringing this in here again, I swear,” said Pierre, holding up a greasy-looking filleting knife. His chorus of fellow fishermen repeated exaggerated denials and waved around their own knives. She told them all to shut up and handed out a free round of beers.

“Once I start giving things away, I can’t stop,” she said to me as she filled the mugs. “Though it’ll keep them in their seats until Will Ervin gets here. Vinko’s calling him now.”

“Ervin know about the shotgun?”

“Sure. It’s not the first time it’s been above the bar. I think you should let him follow you home.”

“What about you?”

“Pierre’s one of my roommates. Half of these other guys live on my street. Not a problem. Here, you get one more on the house, too. Shotgun special.”

“Black belt?”

“All my belts are black,” she said.

Will Ervin showed up soon after that, and I didn’t argue with him when he offered to follow me home. He’d bought the basic story we’d told him at the Pequot, which included everything but Patrick’s knife. That’d be too much for the cops to ignore. As much as I hated it, I needed Patrick out on the streets, free to act. I didn’t know enough yet. Even if he easily made bail, he’d just go to ground.

So I told Ervin I understood why Robbie’s boys would be sore at me, and that I was hoping we could just forget about the whole thing. Ervin shared Sullivan’s zeal to protect his North Sea flock, though with a guileless, forthright style of his own. It took some convincing for him to let it go, aided by a promise that I’d report everything to Sullivan in the morning.