Killer Waves (13 page)

"Nope," I said. "Just listening to see if anybody's taking a shower and needs to be rubbed down or something."

Felix laughed. "Oh, Mickey. She's working at the stables this afternoon, and I'm going up to see her in a few minutes. She's trying to teach me to ride a horse."

"And how's she doing?"

"She's doing well, but unfortunately I don't get much time in the saddle, so to speak. Something always manages to come up to interrupt the lesson."

I tried to act innocent. "Does that mean you get your lesson fee back?"

Another laugh. "Hardly. What's up with you?"

"Trying to get a handle on something," I said.

"Something to do with the dead guy in the parking lot?"

"The same," I said, taking a satisfying swig from my Molson. "Well, I did some work on that, like you know.  Whoever he is, he wasn’t connected to anything that I’m familiar with, or with friends of mine. An out-of-towner in every aspect. What else do you need to know?"

I looked around the clean kitchen, where cooking pots and pans and culinary instruments of all types hung in plain view. I've always said Felix should do a shooting-and-cooking show --- a unique concept, one I was sure would be a surefire success --- but he always demurs, saying he doesn't need the publicity,

"Drugs, as clichéd as it may sound," I said. "I think the guy was connected somehow to the unofficial pharmaceutical business, and I want to know more."

Felix rubbed a thick finger around the rim of his glass.

"What makes you think I know anything at all? You know what I've always said and done: Nothing to do with drugs, at all. Too many crazies."

"True, but I'm just looking for some information. Is the trade around here so attractive that someone would be killed for it?"

A shrug. "People get killed all the time, sometimes for pocket change or because somebody stepped on somebody else's sneakers. But a death over the local drug market .. Lewis, it doesn't sound right."

"How's that?"

He rubbed the finger again across the glass edge. "Too diffuse, too penny-ante, too low-level. Even in Boston and New York and Hartford, there's hardly any gangbanging activity at all. Those cocaine and crack wars, they're mostly over, and that's in the big cities. Up here? Never even came close to that level of violence, either then or now. Which makes me suspicious if somebody told you that guy was whacked over the local drug trade."

I took a cold swallow of the Molson. "Suppose the guy was connected to a cartel, looking to come up here and expand their business?"

"In what way?" he asked, suspicious.

"Start importing their materials around here.  Like Porter Harbor.”

Felix said, “Excuse me for being blunt, but have you lost your mind? Forgot where your sock drawer was this morning? Putting orange juice in your breakfast cereal?"

"No, no, no, and thanks for the concern."

"Well," he said, hunching himself over so his elbows rested on the polished kitchen counter. "I don't doubt that some stuff moves in and out of Porter, but it's a commercial port, and a small one, at that. The guys from the cartels, they like to work in familiar turf, familiar ports. This far north and something this small doesn't make any sense whatsoever."

He looked up over the kitchen sink, where a small clock rested on a shelf, next to a row of spices. "Running out of time, my friend. Anything else?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind."

He smiled widely. "Knowing where I'm going and what I'll be doing with the dear Mickey this afternoon, I'm feeling particularly generous. Go ahead."

"I'm trying to find someone in the local area, somebody associated with the Porter Naval Shipyard."

"You got a name?"

"I've got a nickname," I said. "A guy called Whizzer."

"Whizzer?" he asked.

"Whizzer," I confirmed.

He finished his glass of wine, slapped his hands against his flat belly. The sound almost echoed in the house. "I'll give it a go, Lewis, but it sounds like a guy who has a bladder problem. Not somebody hooked up with the drug business."

"Maybe so, but if you could find him, I'd appreciate it. Even tell a few lies about you to Mickey the next time I see her."

"Sure, I'll see what I can do. In the meantime, hurry up and finish your beer, so I won't be late."

A couple of minutes later we were outside, and he started walking to his blue Mercedes convertible. "By the way, you okay on this?" he asked.

"Okay on what?" I asked.

"Whatever it is you’re looking for.  I know you like to poke and pry at things mysterious, usually when it interests you or involves a friend. Whatever for, I've never been quite sure why. Must be your law-abiding nature."

"Must be," I said.

"But this thing sounds too nutty, even for you. Dead guy in a car, fed types crawling around, looking for a guy named Whizzer. You working for the feds on this, Lewis, or is this freelance?"

I said, "Let's just say I'm working."

He gave me a straight look "Okay. I understand. But understand this. Be careful. Feds always have their own agenda. Always. And most times, they don't share their agenda with us little people. So watch your step."

"I intend to."

"Good," he said, slapping me gently on the shoulder, which is about as expressive as Felix gets. "I'd hate to think of the conscience of Tyler Beach getting into trouble."

"Too late for that," I said, and went back to my own vehicle, thinking of him and Diane giving me direction, giving me clues. I sat in my Ford for a moment, watching Felix drive away, confident and sure in his skills and his future. He had been shot at, knifed and beaten up on several occasions, and no doubt his name existed in several law enforcement agency files, but right now I envied him.

For he wasn't afraid.

I started up the Explorer and went home.

Chapter Eight

When I got home the lights were on downstairs, and somebody was waiting for me as I walked through my new door, still smelling fresh and alive from its recent arrival from the hardware store. Laura Reeves was on my couch, wearing a white turtleneck and a short black skirt this time, her black stocking-enclosed legs tucked underneath her. She had a
Sunday New York Times Magazine
in her hands and she nodded at me as I took off my coat.

"Thought you'd be home eventually," she said. "How was your day?"

"Gee, dear, it was swell," I said, walking into the living room. A fire was burning its way in the fireplace, and I looked around. "All by your lonesome tonight?"

"Rest of the crew's working," she said. "Out there doing the nation's business, which is why I'm here. To see what kind of business you've been up to. For example, how's that pager working that I gave you?"

"It's not."

She nodded, as if she had already figured it out. "I see. And how's your phone working?'"

“Phone’s working fine.  I guess my phone answering skills ain’t what they used to be.”

Another crisp nod, and she unfolded her long legs and sat up. "I see. Tell me, do you think this whole thing is a joke, something put together for your amusement?"

I went over to the fireplace, tossed in a chunk of wood. "Oh yeah, it's been a barrel of laughs."

"Well, think about this before you start laughing," she said, standing up. "We took several things away from you --- from your house to your funds --- to get you on board. Now that you're on board, we're expecting results. And results don't mean goofing around, hoping we'll lose attention or move on to something else. And if I think you're not serious about providing results, we can be right back where we started from. Understood?"

I looked at the sharp look on her face, her self-assurance, the way she held herself I stood up and held my hands behind me.

"Understood," I said. "Care to stay for dinner?"

There. I think I disturbed her, just for a moment, for her eyes moved away from mine. "No, I would not." A slight smile. "Thanks for asking, but I must be going."

Reeves went past me to the door, and as she stood on the stone steps she said, "Whenever you next leave your house, please advise me. And one more thing, Lewis. Please answer your phone, all right? We're not the enemy."

"Sure," I said. "I understand."

And I waited until she was a distance away before I said, "You may not be the enemy, but I'll be damned if I know what you are."

Then I closed the door.

It was 2 A.M. I was wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. Sometime earlier I had spent a couple of hours on my new computer, surfing the Net, enjoying the fast modem I had with my new machine. I had gone to a lot of different places on the Web, one of' which was responsible for my getting up at this hour.

Still, I had thirty minutes. I rested, listening to the ever-present sound of the ocean.  During the day when I’m out and about in the daylight, the noise of the waves rolling in is like a low humming, a background noise that I can hardly make out.  But at night, with the lights out, with nothing else demanding my attention, the waves always take center, always demand attention.

Just like this little adventure I had signed up for. From the way Reeves and her boys had roared in, to the reaction of the North Tyler chief to the way they had shanghaied me to play in their little world, not a lick of it had made sense. And Felix and Diane had also told me as much. I continued staring up at the ceiling. Be careful, Felix had said, be careful.

I checked the clock. Time to get up. I yawned and got dressed in the dark and then went downstairs, where I put on a heavy coat and stepped outside. It was a clear and moonless night, and even being in one of the most heavily populated parts of New England, I could make out the faint veil of the Milky Way spanning overhead. In the dim light I went up my driveway, stopping only when I reached the parking area of the Lafayette House. I then walked across the silent parking lot, sitting on one of the boulders that marked the eastern boundary of the lot. I sat and let my legs dangle, the waves of the Atlantic just yards away. I had seen winter storms where waves would reach the rocks I was sitting on, but not tonight. It was too calm for such anger.

I looked at my watch and then looked over to the southeast.

Right on time. A bright dot of light that appeared to be moving slowly, and then gaining speed the longer I looked at it. The space shuttle Endeavour, once again circling the globe from more than 160 miles up. I crossed my arms and just stared at that little dot, signifying more than a spaceship, signifying a little bubble of air and pressure and light where seven people were living up there for a week. Impressive, but yet, when I was a child, we had the energy and will to send similar little bubbles of humanity more than a quarter million miles to another world.

A similar trip wasn't on the agenda tonight. Tonight we were just busy orbiting the blue planet, and I kept on watching, paying tribute in my own little way, as the bright dot descended to the northwest and then faded from view. I sighed and got up and rubbed my face, and then started walking. 

But not home.  I walked across the street, to the bright lights of the Lafayette House.

I was lucky, for the main lobby doors to the Lafayette House were open, and there was no security on duty this early in the morning. Maybe in a couple of months, when the thousands of tourists and the assorted hangers-on showed up, those few who try to take advantage of the tourists and their money, then would security be an issue. But at this early hour on this April morning, I took the elevator to the fifth floor without any problem, any challenge.

At room 5121 started pounding on the door, and when no one came to answer in a minute or so, I resorted to using my feet.

Then the door popped open and one of the musclemen --- Clem, I think his name was ---- stood there, barefoot, wearing a white terry-cloth robe with the Lafayette House crest over the breast. Quite a cheerful sight, if you overlooked the black automatic pistol clutched in his large right fist.

"You ... Jesus, what the fuck are you doing here?" he asked.

I stepped in, trying to act confident, trying to look like I belonged. "I need to see Laura Reeves. Right now."

He rubbed at his eyes, stepped back. "Christ, do you know what time it is?"

"The time doesn't matter," I said. "The fact that I need to see Reeves does. Take care of it, will you?"

"She's next door, you jerk," he said. "Why did you come here?"

"Made a mistake, I guess," I said, as I stood by one of the tables set up in the room. I looked about. A bedroom door was open, which probably belonged to Clem, who was now on the phone, a grumpy look on his unshaven face. I looked down at the table. Writing pads, more photos of Romero, and a pile of badly photocopied documents. They were upside down but still, looking at them, I could see that they weren't in English.

But they weren't in Spanish, either. Clem hung up the phone, yawned. "She'll be right here, you moron, and it better be good."

“It’ll be better than you expect,” I said, and then the adjoining door to the other room opened up, and Reeves was there.  She also had on a white terry-cloth robe but she looked awake and alert, as if she didn't need sleep at all, just a dusting and an oil change every ten thousand miles.