Isle of Dogs (40 page)

“He might,” she replied, “but what he understands and what you want him to do may be two different things.”

“I see. What’s this about cannons and jewels that should be shared?” the governor inquired as he dipped into a robe pocket for his magnifying glass, because no matter how much help the guide horse might prove to be, it could not assist Crimm with reading.

Regina paraphrased Trooper Truth’s essay and again offered her opinion that the treasure should not be squandered by whoever finds it, but should be shared with the public.

“As long as certain pieces would come to the mansion,” the First Lady was quick to add.

“Maybe a cannon or two in the garden and out front,” the governor considered, and his spleen was acting up a bit at the thought of that damnable state of North Carolina. “As awful as that pirate Wheland was, he’s part of Virginia history, and I’ll be damned if those watermen are going to get the treasure first and sell it to some antique dealer or, worse, to North Carolina.”

“Oh, Bedford,” Mrs. Crimm pleaded, “you must do something right away, before it’s too late! Can’t you send in an aircraft carrier or something, so those Tangier people don’t haul all of the treasure away? They have no right to it!”

“No, they don’t,” Regina agreed, and it was the first time
she had not been in concert with what Trooper Truth had to say. “How weird,” she added. “Whose side is Trooper Truth on, anyway? He’s always made sense in the past and been on the side of truth and justice.”

“He could very well be in collusion with Tangier Island and is trying to influence me to let them have the treasure,” said the governor, who was seeing matters far more clearly since he had stopped listening to Trader and eating his sweets. “I’ll issue a press release immediately that warns all treasure hunters to stay clear of that crab pot with the yellow buoy,” the governor declared. “Let those fishermen just try to go near that sunken ship and think they’re going to”—he patted Trip’s neck—“load up. Right, little fella?”

Trip pulled away from his owner and headed toward the elevator and then took a right.

“Right!” Regina said, proud of her father’s power and decisiveness, while Trip made another right and stopped before his reflection in a gilt Chippendale mirror.

“How far down do you think it is?” the First Lady pondered as she imagined chests of gold, family silver, and jewelry fit for a queen.

“Down?” Regina puzzled. “How far down what is?” she asked as Trip lay down in front of the mirror and continued to stare at himself, a bit puzzled.

“Based on the location in this Trooper Truth propaganda,” the governor replied, “I’d say the treasure’s down pretty deep, because it’s in the crab sanctuary, which is in a trough of the bay, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Well, that’s good,” the First Lady said with relief. “The deeper the better, because it will make it all that much more difficult to find. I doubt those Tangier people have the proper gear to dive down and bring a big cannon to the surface. Why, it would sink one of their little boats.”

W
ITHIN
the hour, news of the Tory Treasure screamed over the wire and blared over televisions and radios throughout Virginia, the U.S., and in particular, bombarded North Carolina. Commentators speculated that the people of Tangier would be excited into a furious frenzy because of the
governor’s order that any waterman seen within five miles of the crab pot with its yellow buoy would be arrested by the Coast Guard, which had rushed to patrol that area of the bay. Treasure hunters and their vessels were on notice that they would be seized, the airspace between the Virginia coast and Tangier was restricted to all except authorized aircraft, and Naval vessels were preparing to form a blockade around the island.

Fonny Boy and Dr. Faux heard the news over the car radio after posting bond and leaving Richmond as quickly as possible. They sped toward Reedville, where the dentist intended to hop on the mailboat and bribe the captain to help them find the crab pot Fonny Boy had dropped in the water.

“The Coast Guard won’t be suspicious of the mailboat,” the dentist reasoned as Fonny Boy stared tensely out the window, watching telephone poles fly by.

“That’s poor! It ain’t fittin’! The treasure, it’s mine!” Fonny Boy said every other minute.

“We’ll split it fifty-fifty,” Dr. Faux reminded him. “You owe me for bond and whatever I end up paying the mailboat captain. We’ll need gear, too, which will be expensive. There’s a bait and tackle shop near where the mailboat docks, but we’ve got to hurry, and for God’s sake, don’t do anything to cause trouble, Fonny Boy. If the police know we’ve left Richmond, we’ll be arrested again for jumping bail, and then the judge is really going to throw the book at us.”

“They wouldn’t do nothing to us!” Fonny Boy’s backward talk meant that if they got caught while finding the treasure, they were really in trouble this time.

“And if the mailboat gets seized, who cares?” Dr. Faux replied. “It doesn’t belong to us. If questioned, we’ll just blame everything on the captain and say that we boarded the boat to mail a few letters and dental bills back to the island, and next thing we knew, the boat was speeding toward the treasure before we had a chance to get off.”

“No!” Fonny Boy excitedly meant the opposite.

M
AJOR
Trader and his cellmates learned the news, too, because one of the guards had a habit of wearing a Walkman with the sound turned up so loud prisoners could hear every
tune, advertisement, and news release that leaked from his headset.

“Now listen here,” Trader said. “Instead of wasting all your time trying to drown me in the toilet, let’s band together. If we can figure a way out of here, we can find that treasure first.”

“You think so?” Slim Jim asked with nagging doubt. “I mean, even if we could get outta here, how we gonna find that crab pot and then haul all the treasure outta the bottom of the bay?”

“I can’t swim,” Snitch added.

“Uh-uh, I never could swim,” Stick confessed.

“You don’t have to swim, you idiots!” Trader impatiently replied.

He had traded beds with the Mexican boy because if there was one thing Trader understood, it was office psychology. His maxim was fairly simple. If you wanted to feign friendship and sympathy, you sat the person you wished to manipulate in a nice living area with nothing between the two of you but a coffee table. If the objective was to intimidate, you sat at your desk, which became an imposing barrier between you and the individual you intended to terrorize. If you wished to confuse and humiliate, which had always been his preferred tactic with the governor, you poisoned the person with Ex-Lax and then insisted on having important discussions while walking through buildings or driving.

The Mexican boy’s steel bed, as it turned out in the light of morning, was in the center of the cell. By appropriating it while he was using the toilet, Trader had gained the leadership role he wanted, although the other cellmates weren’t sure why they suddenly viewed him with a bit more respect. Realizing the power of violent gastric attacks, Trader directed that when the guard was strolling past, on cue Reverend Justice would double over in agony and make loud moans and shrieks while the other cellmates gathered around him in a panic and screamed for help and shouted for everyone to give him air.

“The guard will burst inside the cell to render aid,” Trader explained. “And when he does, you”—he said to Stick—“poke him in the eye, and you”—he said to Cat—“grab his radio, and you”—he said to Slim Jim—“grab his keys so you can unlock all the doors, and you”—he pointed to the
Mexican boy—“put your finger in your pocket and pretend it’s a gun and start threatening to shoot because no one in this place understands Spanish, and you”—he nodded at Snitch—“stay right here in the cell and when questioned later, claim that our jailbreak was an inside job and you overheard us saying we were escaping in an awaiting getaway car that was taking us to Charlotte.”

“But we don’t got no getaway car,” Stick said, and he didn’t like the thought of sticking his finger in anybody’s eye.

“That’s where you come in,” Trader said to Reverend Justice. “The guards treat you far more respectfully than the rest of us and have even asked you religious questions and told you to pray for their various problems. I fully believe that if you ask to use the pay phone because one of your parishioners is dying and needs last rites over the phone, the guard will give in.”

“Baptists don’t do last rites,” the reverend protested. “And I’m not so sure I want any part of this. I’m already in a world of trouble for trying to solicitate that old Clot woman.”

They fell silent as the guard with the headset loudly passed by, his eyes glazed as he snapped his fingers and hummed to a rap tune.

“When you use the pay phone,” Trader resumed, “you call someone of lesser intelligence who works for you and is submissive and naive, and order that person to pick you up on the street. Just say you’ll have a few friends along for the ride, and then we’ll get the hell out of town. In the immense unlikelihood that we’re apprehended, I’ll just claim that you were abducted and had nothing to do with the plan.”

Reverend Justice was a little more at ease when Trader put it to him that way. After all, Reverend Pontius Justice was a local celebrity who had devoted his life to saving souls and stopping crime. Even if he released his pent-up needs of the flesh now and then by picking up ladies of the night, he always paid them and gave thanks.

A
NDY
had yet to receive any thanks from Hammer, and it was getting on his nerves that all she seemed interested in was pacing the carpet in her headquarters office and complaining.

“You should have run this by me first,” she kept saying behind the closed door, even though there were very few people at headquarters on a Saturday morning. “For God’s sake, Andy, where was your brain when you wrote all this nonsense about a so-called Tory Treasure? Look at what you’ve stirred up! By encouraging the Islanders to seize the alleged loot because it’s rightfully theirs, you have succeeded in prompting the governor to issue threats and send out the military. If there wasn’t a civil war before, there certainly will be one now. And frankly, I’m in agreement with the governor. The Islanders do not have a right to the treasure. It belongs in a museum.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” Andy tried to get through to her. “My only intention was to cause everyone to think everybody else is trying to take something away from them. And in order to make Tangier Island really angry at Virginia, it was necessary for me to excite Virginia into being really pissed off at the island. Then, when Macovich arrives tonight in a state police helicopter filled with NASCAR guys who are really Smoke and his road dogs, just what sort of reception do you think they’ll be greeted with? Our undercover troopers will hardly be needed.”

“You’re making no sense and you’re scaring me!” Hammer blurted out. “And I thought the entire point of Trooper Truth was to always tell the truth. It seems to me in these latest essays all you’re doing is manipulating everyone, even if it’s for a good cause. Or even if you mean it as a good cause. Damn it! I’m so confused.”

“I understand exactly how you feel,” Andy said. “I promise I know what I’m doing. We both know how ruthless and dangerous Smoke is. If that helicopter sets down on the island and he sees the first hint of people who don’t exactly look like watermen, even if they’re dressed like them, he very well may open fire the minute he steps out on the airstrip. We’ve got to introduce an element of surprise to make him pause just long enough for us to surround him and take him down without incident.”

“Let’s get on with this and mobilize the troops,” Hammer decided. “The governor will just have to return by car to the mansion after the race. You and I are flying the helicopter to Tangier Island to see what we can do to bring closure to this
mess. And by the way, what makes you think a Tory Treasure really is in the bay?”

“I don’t necessarily think it,” Andy replied. “But that old piece of iron clearly came from a battle, possibly involving pirates. And that Tory turncoat Joseph Wheland certainly must have amassed a fortune during all of his years of plundering plantations and other ships, so what happened to all of his loot?”

B
ARBIE
Fogg had never been on a real plantation, but she got a sense of what that might be like when she pulled up to the front gates of the governor’s mansion at noon, just in time to see a very odd sight.

Two powerfully built EPU troopers were shoveling woodchips into the back of a long, black limousine. Barbie drove through the opening gates and parked on the circular driveway. She collected her makeover products, which fit nicely in a large toolbox, and grabbed a bag of clothes out of the trunk.

“What are you doing?” she asked the troopers. “I don’t mean to pry, but why are you piling all these woodchips on the back floor of this beautiful limo? Are you planning to plant flowers inside? If so, I think that’s a wonderful idea. Then the governor can ride around in a garden.”

The troopers sternly replied that the information was classified, and then the mansion’s front door opened and a black butler in a stiffly pressed white jacket greeted Barbie with a smile.

“Do come in,” he warmly said. “Miss Reginia is expecting you. Here, let me take your coat, and can I help you with your toolbox?”