Deadly Nightshade (11 page)

“Whaddaya say, Cap'n?”

“Hey, Dorothy!” a bald guy with a fringe oi sandy red hair and bushy coppery eyebrows shouted to the woman in the kitchen. “Bring Meatloaf a double order oi sausage and gravy.”

“With fried potatoes and onions,” said a cadaverous-looking man with prominent cheekbones, who was wearing a greasy red baseball cap with GEORGE'S AUTO BODY printed on it.

“Add a couple of rashers of bacon to the order, Dotty'” said Red, the guy with the bushy red eyebrows. “Put it on my tab.”

Meatloaf shambled over to the round corner table. Lunch patrons in the diner looked up and moved aside to let him pass. The diner had five small tables in addition to the big corner table, and a counter with five stools that ran partway across one side. Meatloaf squeezed past the counter, pushed his baseball cap up on his forehead, and took off his sunglasses.

“You guys cut that out,” Dorothy, a sturdily built woman in her forties, called out from the kitchen. “You wanna kill him?”

“Yeah,” said one. “Why not?” said another. “Who'll know the difference?” asked the third.

Meatloaf pulled out one of the captain's chairs around the big table and sat down with a grunt.

“So, you're dieting, I hear,” said Red. “Have a carrot stick, Meatloaf.”

“It wasn't funny.” The three men at the table laughed. The one sitting to Meatloaf's right slapped him on the back.

“How many EMTs did it take to carry you in?” asked the first man, a graybeard wearing the ubiquitous baseball cap, this one emblazoned with MARTHA'S VINEYARD SHIPYARD.

“One to screw in the lightbulb and four to turn the stretcher,” Red said.

Shipyard brayed with laughter.

“Wrong joke,” said Meatloaf, his mouth turned down.

More raucous laughter.

“Whatsa matter, baby?” Beanie, the cadaverous man, who was sitting on Meatloaf's left, asked solicitously, putting his arm partway around Meatloaf's broad back. “Can't take a joke anymore? Diet getting to you?”

“Lay off me.” Meatloaf's face was getting red.

“Temper, temper!” sang out Shipyard.

“Yeah, lay off him.” Dorothy set in front of Meatloaf a plate with a hamburger patty, a tomato slice, and a dab of cottage cheese.

“Oooh, girls!” Shipyard looked at Meatloaf's plate.

“I mean it,” Dorothy said. “Lay off. The guy almost died.”

“Almost died, my aunt Fanny,” Beanie said.

“Almost killed the EMTs who had to carry him in is more like it,” Red said.

“You about finished with your witticisms?” Meatloaf stabbed the hamburger with his fork held tines down and carried a chunk of it to his mouth. “Real funny guys, you are.” He chewed the bloodred meat. “Real funny.”

“What's the news at the harbor with that nigger spick?” Beanie leaned forward, bony elbows on the table.

Dorothy scooted out from behind the counter, grabbed Beanie's collar. “You watch your goddamned mouth around here.” She shook him. “Hear me? Nobody talks like that in my place.”

“Awright, awright.” Beanie shrugged her off and straightened his collar.

“I mean it.” Dorothy scrubbed the table in front of Beanie with her wet dishcloth, then flicked it at him.

“You trying to put me back in the hospital?” Meatloaf said, mouth full of hamburger. “That guy is screwing things up.”

“Cutting back the wife's shopping money, is he?” Shipyard said. “Everybody knows you was on to a good deal.”

“The black guy is smarter than you give him credit for,” Beanie said. “Smarter than all of yous put together.”

“Anything new with the murder investigation?” Red asked.

Meatloaf choked suddenly, coughed, his face turning red. Beanie slapped him on the back. Meatloaf coughed a few more times and wiped his watering eyes.

Shipyard brayed. “Almost got you that time.”

“What about the old lady who saw it all?” Red said. “Mrs. Trumbull, wasn't it? West Tisbury?”

“She has no idea what she saw or heard. She's in her nineties, for God's sake.” Meatloaf coughed a couple of times. “She doesn't know diddly-squat. Medeiros, the cop, not the plumber, talked to her.” He chewed. “Whaddaya expect from an old bag?”

“She's a pretty damn smart old bag,” Shipyard said. “Not much gets past her, from what I hear. She rides around with West Tisbury's police chief.”

“So?” Meatloaf said.

“Writes the West Tisbury column for the paper, don't she?” Beanie said.

“Don't give me any more shit about Mingo or the old lady. Let me eat my lunch in peace, will you?” Meatloaf jabbed another hunk of hamburger with the fork and carried it to his mouth.

“Getting some pretty big boats in the harbor this year, ain't you?” Shipyard said. “I see that professor's boat is next to the fuel dock.”

Dorothy brought a fistful of heavy white mugs of steaming coffee from the kitchen and chunked them down on the red-checked vinyl tablecloth in front of each of the men.

“Which one's his boat?” Red put his hands around his mug and turned to Shipyard. “That big motor sailer?”

“Yeah.” Shipyard stirred a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee. “His boat's the sixty-five-footer with the black hull, teak deck.”

“Dawn Chorus,” Meatloaf said through his hamburger.

Shipyard pulled a paper napkin out of the black dispenser in the middle of the table and wiped his own face vigorously. “Hey, Meatloaf! Can't you keep your food in your own mouth?”

“Professors make enough money to keep a boat like that?” Beanie asked.

“He's got plenty of money. You know which house he bought, don't you?” Shipyard looked at Beanie over his mug.

“That big house on the Sound, backing on Lake Tashmoo.” Beanie dumped two spoonfuls of sugar into his mug.

“Yeah, five million dollars' worth,” Red said. “Let me have the sugar when you're through, if you left any.”

“That what he bought it for?” asked Beanie. “God Amighty! Real estate prices are outta sight.”

“Definitely not a professor's salary.” Red looked toward the kitchen. “Hey, Dotty, how about some cream?”

Dorothy returned with a small stainless-steel pitcher and plunked it in front of Red. “Sorry, boys, forgot all about it.”

“Where does he get his money?” asked Beanie.

Red shrugged. “Someone said he developed some astrophysics software program.”

“You mean there's enough call for astrophysics computer programs to make someone a millionaire?” Beanie said, looking at Red in astonishment.

“Astrophysics ain't what you think,” replied Shipyard. “No one looks through telescopes anymore. It's stuff like Star Wars.”

“That's old hat now.” Beanie sipped from his mug.

“Yeah, well, it's other shit like that. Greenhouse effect. Ozone layer. Somebody told me he was working in Puerto Rico on a big radio telescope.” Shipyard looked at Meatloaf, who sat there chewing. “Guess we finally shut him up.”

“Where's he teach, Harvard?” Beanie stirred his coffee.

“MIT, I think,” Red said.

“He used to,” Shipyard said. “I heard he got fired.”

“Professors don't get fired.”

“Something about the guy ain't right,” Shipyard said. “He's too good to be true.”

“You're jealous,” said Red.

Meatloaf wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, then reached for a second napkin and wiped his forehead. “Can't you guys think of anything else to talk about?” He balled up the napkins, dropped them on his plate, and pushed his plate away from him.

Dorothy bustled over to the table. “You done, Meatloaf? You left your cottage cheese.”

“Yeah. I lost my appetite. Don't need a special diet when I'm around them.” Meatloaf jerked his head at the others.

“Poor dear.” Shipyard brayed his short laugh. Dorothy took Meatloaf's plate with its balled-up napkins, pool of blood, and dab of cottage cheese, then wiped the vinyl cloth in front of him. Meatloaf leaned his elbows on the table, small hands dangling in front of his gut.

“So what are you doing about the harbormaster?” Red said.

“You can't hardly fire the guy. He's doing a pretty good job, from everything I hear.” Beanie moved his coffee mug in circles on the vinyl cloth.

“Don't you worry your sweet asses. We'll get rid of him,” Meatloaf said, reaching for the cream pitcher. “And the old lady, too.”

Shipyard leaned back on two legs of his chair to talk to Dorothy. “Better bring two more pitchers of cream for Meatloaf. Another bowl of sugar, too.”

“And two jelly doughnuts,” Beanie said loudly.

“And a double slice of your banana cream pie,” Red said.

“With two scoops of vanilla ice cream,” Shipyard added.

“Holy smokes,” Meatloaf said. “There are ways to get rid of you guys, too.”

Louie, the green-haired dock attendant, sat back in the aluminum lawn chair in the harbormaster's shack.

“That computer guy must put in some kind of code word,” he mumbled to Allison, who was sitting on the desk, kicking her feet, her boating shoes dangling off the end of her toes. “I can't get into the program.”

Allison snapped her chewing gum. “So” Who cares” She was sketching something in a stenography notebook.

“I want to see what Mr. D. is trying to hide. What's he got in there? Why does he need to keep everyone out of the program?”

“To keep you guys from, like, messing it up?” Allison swung her feet.

“While you're sitting there doing nothing, check the desk drawers, will you? See if they left any loose money in there, or any receipt books.”

“They lock them up. Only Mr. D. and Elizabeth have keys.” She swung here feet, hand on the edge of the desk, and snapped her gum.

“Try the drawers, I want to see what's in there.” Louie typed a word into the computer nad hit the enter key. The computer beeped.

“I'm not touching a thing. I don't want Mr. D. on my case again, you know?”

“What would he have used for a code word?” Louie said, half to himself, trying another combination. “You got nothing to worry about, Allie.” He paused to look at her. “Your aunt is about to sue him, isn't she? Because he hassled you? He wouldn't dare touch you.” He hit the enter key again. The computer beeped.

“I got plenty to worry about. He didn't harass me. He hollered at me is all.” She swung her feet, and one of her boat shoes fell off. “I don't really blame him, you know? My father woulda smacked me if I gave him the lip I give Mr. D.” She slipped off the desk, put her shoe back on, and lifted herself onto the desk again. “Mr. D. isn't so bad, you know?”

Louie tried another word, and when the computer beeped yet again, he said, “Shit. I'll never figure it out this way.” He turned to Allison. “Your aunt was hoping for something to nail him with. Damn that guy. There's no way to figure out what code word he used. I tried all the obvious things.”

“Maybe he wrote it down somewhere.”

“I doubt it.” Louie looked up from the computer. “What're you drawing?”

“None of your, like, business,” Allison said.

Louie looked toward the parking lot. “Here comes Howland now, with Mr. D.”

Allison glanced over her shoulder and got off the desk in a hurry, gathered up her receipt book and a pencil, and scuttled out the door.

Domingo was ambling from the parking lot along the catwalk that led to the shack over the water, feet splayed out. Allison moved to one side to let him pass. He stopped.

“Did you clean up the mess in the shack?” His thumbs were hooked in his trouser pockets. He looked at her intently.

“No.” She peered down at the wooden decking at her feet.

“ 'No' what?”

“No, sir.” She emphasized the last word.

“And why not?” Domingo looked at her.

“It's, like, already perfectly clean,” she said. “Sir.”

“Come back to the shack and we'll take a look.”

Allison shrugged, tossed her long hair back from her face, turned, and retraced her steps to the shack.

Louie was standing as far from the computer as he could get, paging through his receipt book, apparently counting.

Domingo looked at him, and Louie avoided his eyes.

“Still haven't figured out the code word, eh?”

“Who gives shit about some code word?”

“Watch your language.” Domingo stared at him. “Get out of the shack and patrol the harbor. Pick up the trash, empty the barrels into the Dumpster, and check boat lines.”

Louie slapped his receipt book against his hand and avoided Domingo's eyes. “This isn't a job; it's slavery.”

Domingo's eyes got brighter. “You don't know what slavery is, kid. Get out of here before I kick you someplace the bruises won't show, give your father something to complain about.”

Louie hitched up his shorts and mouthed something.

“You say, 'Yes, sir,' understand?”

“Yeah.”

Domingo grasped Louie's upper arm and looked at him. Domingo grinned, teeth white against his dark face.

“Yes, sir,” Louie said hurriedly. Domingo released him, and the dock attendant scurried out of the shack and joined Allison on the catwalk. The two flew past Howland, who was giving directions to a tourist, pointing toward something on Circuit Avenue. Howland glanced at them as they passed.

“You abusing those poor children again, Domingo?”

Domingo stood in the middle of the floor, thumbs in his pockets, feet apart, toes facing out, looking at the computer, at the desk, at the window locks.

“So it would appear.” Domingo reached into his shirt pocket for his cigarettes. “You sure the program is safe from them?”

Howland stood in front of the computer and entered a series of words. “They're not likely to hit on the code word. I'm more concerned that they'll accidentally erase something or hang up the hard drive. I don't suppose we can ban them from the shack?”

Domingo didn't reply immediately. He shook out a cigarette, then put it back in the pack. “My assistant's got me afraid to smoke in my own office.” He put his hands in his pockets and paced the small shack. “We can't lock them out, if that's what you're saying. They have to come in here with receipts, fill out time sheets, check the schedule. We can't keep them out.”

“A pity.” Howland sat in front of the computer and entered a string of words. “When did that motor sailer come in?”

“
Dawn Chorus
. This morning, early. Owned by T. R. Folger, old-time summer family. A couple years ago, he bought that big house on Tashmoo.”