The Collectibles (24 page)

“Then there's Harry. Harry is a professional photographer, when he's able to work. He's also an expert marksman, an award-winning trap and skeet shooter. He also likes to fish, hunt, camp, anything in the outdoors. He's bipolar. So you have to get used to the mood swings. Sometimes they're pretty severe. When he's down, he's really down. He has a psychiatrist, and he has medication – which, when he takes it, seems to work pretty well for him. But he needs somebody to talk to and somebody to listen.”

Joe wondered whether he was going too fast. While he understood Preston's conceptual difficulties and need to process, he found Preston's resistance annoying.

“There's Missy, a former dancer in Las Vegas who's now working as a waitress. She divorced a husband who was too quick with his hands and battered her around a lot. When she's not scared to death, she's a delightful lady.

“Then there's Tommy Greco. He's a little too fond of the crap tables, and he has a bit of a problem with gambling across the board. But he's fun, a good guy at heart, and would do anything for you.

“Another one is Corey, a wonderful older gentleman and a highly skilled finish carpenter. He learned woodworking from his father, who used to build yachts north of Charleston. He's a lovely man, but he has the beginnings of Alzheimer's. He has a daughter who looks after him, but she has a family to take care of as well, and it's quite a burden. He, like the rest, can really use a friend. And the last one is a person who . . . ”

At this point, Preston jumped up from his chair, looked at Joe and said, “Wait a minute, Joe. You must be crazy. What are you doing?”

“This is not about what I'm doing, Preston. This is about what I'm asking you to do. Go find these people. Alice has their addresses and phone numbers and I will ask her to give them to you. Find them, earn their trust, and help them. That's what I ask.”

Neither spoke for a long time.

 

Preston paced around the cockpit, and sat down again. He stared at Joe, looked down at the floor of the cockpit, gazed up at the stars, back at Joe, and down again. Finally, he turned to Joe and said, “I don't mean any offense, Joe, and I'm well aware of how much you have done for me. I'll never be able to repay you. But what are you doing with these people? If I heard you right, you're talking about a retard, a Vegas showgirl, a manic-depressive photographer, some Italian gambler, and an old man with Alzheimer's. And you're telling me these are your friends, and you want me to help them? Forever?”

Joe shifted quickly in his chair, spoke in a different voice. Buck's ears shot up as he recognized Joe's tone. “Let's get a few things straight. I don't believe Johnny is a retard, Preston, although he is, fortunately or unfortunately, depending upon your point of view, classified as
mildly retarded
. In fact, I don't look at any of these people the way you've described them. But you know, Preston, it really doesn't matter. It doesn't matter how I view them. What matters is how you view them. I'm not asking you to sponsor them in your country club or even take them to your charitable balls. I'm asking you to go to them, earn their trust, and take care of them. Forever.”

The conversation stopped for a few beats, with only the whine of a distant outboard motor being heard.

“Joe, I want to be honest with you. I don't think I can do that.”

“Preston, I want to be honest with you. You don't have a choice.”

Joe got up, patted Preston lightly on the shoulder and went to bed. Buck got up and followed.

 

Preston sat in the cockpit, staring at the stars as if they could give him some answers.

I can't believe Joe has gotten himself involved with these people
, these ‘collectibles,' whatever the hell that means. Why? Why would he do it? Why would a man like Joe, a guy with a career like his, assume responsibility for them?

And now, he asks me to do it. And
just when my business looks like it's going to go and things are looking up. Even if I could offer money to these people or to Joe for these people
. I know what Joe's going to say. “This
is not about money.” And then he'd remind me that none of this is negotiable anyway. I gave him my word that I would do whatever he asked. I can still hear him up in those damn mountains, “Are you willing and able to make a firm, irrevocable commitment to me on each of these three conditions
? . . . Maybe you can't.
Sometimes in life you have to have enough faith to make an irrevocable commitment. Some
can, some can't . . . This .
. . is about personal integrity . . . goes directly to you.
To who and what you are.
” I'm screwed.

I've got to do something. Joe's over the top . . . but there's something about him . .
. what will he do if I don't come through? I hate it, but I've got to do it. Joe's right. I don't have a choice. The question is . .
.
what is it I actually have to do?
I'm going to bed.

J
oe woke at six, saw Preston was still asleep, and took Buck for a long walk to one of his favorite beaches. Eventually, Preston, looking as if he were still half asleep, wandered down the dock and joined them at the Jib Room.

“Morning,” Preston said, as he poured himself some coffee and waited for the young owner's helper to come back in from the kitchen.

“Good morning. Sleep okay?”

“Fairly well,” Preston replied. “I tossed and turned a bit. A lot to think about. I'm embarrassed about last night, Joe. I sincerely don't get what you're doing with these people or why you're doing it.”

“I believe that,” Joe said.

“In any event, the bottom line is, on this one, it's mine to do or die, not to question why.”

“I believe that, too.”

“So, I'm in, Joe. Where and when do you want me to start?”

“As I said last night, Alice can give you the contact details. She has their full names and addresses, telephone numbers, all their contact information. The one I'm most concerned about at the moment is Missy. I saw her not too long ago in Vegas. She's the one I would look up first, because she's under a lot of stress, which she gets directly from her former husband. While you're out in Vegas, you'll probably be able to connect with Tommy Greco, too. I'd start there. As far as when, I'd like you to start right away.”

“Okay,” Preston said. “Let me ask you this. What are you going to do?”

“Well, I'm going to give Harry a call today, see if he might want to take a vacation and fly down here for a few days and relax. Depending on where he is with himself, he can be a hell of a lot of fun. Once you've connected with these people, it can sort of take its course. I have faith in you, Preston. I believe once you get going with them, you'll know what to do.”

Joe paused, noticing Preston drop his head, and then went on. “I'm at the point in my life where I'm into the moment, sort of taking it a day at a time. You know, I've spent a lifetime trying to . . . ” Joe could still see his Uncle Howard's face that evening on the mountain, his words burning into Joe's head . . .
Do what the other fella can't. Be what the other fella ain't. And then help the other fella .
.
. “do what I could to accomplish some things and help some people along the way. There comes a time when a man just has to go fishing or play golf or climb a mountain or whatever. I've done my mountain climbing, and now I just want to fish.”

“Sounds good to me. I'll give Continental a call and see if I can get a flight out today. If not, tomorrow.”

 

Joe knew the moment Harry answered that he was up. “How you doing?”

“Great, Joe. Good to hear from you. Where are you?”

“That's why I'm calling you. I'm in the Bahamas on my boat. The weather's good, and I was wondering whether you might be interested in flying down and joining me. There's an airport right in Marsh Harbour, and several flights directly from West Palm and Fort Lauderdale. What do you think?”

“Wow! I hadn't thought about that. I've got some time. Actually, the timing's great. I finished two weddings last week, and I don't have anything scheduled right now. I'd have to check out . . . ”

“Don't worry about the cost of the airlines,” Joe said. “I've got tons of frequent flyer miles that I'll never use up. I'll arrange the tickets from here and have them electronically transferred to you there.”

“Man, that's great, Joe. Just let me know when.”

“Today's Saturday. I'm thinking Monday. The flight gets in at 10:35 am. Get your gear together, and I'll meet you at the airport. Don't forget to bring your scuba gear.”

“Great, Joe. Great! I'll see you then. And thanks for the tickets. I can't wait! See you soon.”

“See you soon.” Joe and Buck went back to the boat and, in an hour, were joined by Preston.

“I've made some calls to my secretary and checked in with Casey. Still no word from Marcia. She's been gone awhile. Anyway, I've made arrangements to fly out today, Joe, four-thirty this afternoon. I called Alice and got Missy's address and phone number. She works at the Frontier.”

“I know.”

“Are you going to talk with these people ahead of time, or am I going to just call them cold turkey and introduce myself?”

“I'll try to call them and tell them that you're somebody I'd like them to meet and vice versa.”

“That's all you're going to say?”

“That's enough,” Joe replied. “Get to know them.”

“I know, get to know them, have them get to know me, earn their trust, and take care of them.”

“Good, Preston. You're doing good.”

W
hen Harry arrived Monday morning, Joe was at the airport to greet him. He could see Harry squeeze his oversized frame through the doorway and down the steps. What was left of his thin, blond hair was combed across his large head, trying to hide the baldness. His face, rounded by too many years of eating too many Snickers bars, had closed around his bright blue eyes, seeming to reduce them in size. He wore his khaki trousers high around his waist with a large belt, an attempt to contain his huge belly.

After Harry had cleared customs and come through the door, Joe was amazed by the size and volume of his luggage. In addition to the gigantic backpack he wore and the bag in his left hand, he was rolling an outsized bag with his right hand, and a porter was following behind with a huge cardboard box.

“Joe, great to see you!” Harry exclaimed, setting his bags down and throwing his big arms out. At that moment, as many times in the past, Harry reminded Joe of the beefy, uninhibited men he knew as a boy in the Adirondacks, full of energy, wearing a smile, always looking ready to pick up a chainsaw and take down a gargantuan tree.

“Harry, good to see you again,” Joe said, shaking his hand. “You sure you brought enough gear?” he asked, laughing. “Where's your lab?”

“I left Scooter with a friend at home. I didn't want to put him through the hassle of flying, cooped up in a cage with the luggage.”

“How's he doing?”

“Great, Joe. Really great.”

“So what's in the box?” Joe asked.

“Surprise for you,” Harry said as they made their way to the taxi and, with the help of the driver, loaded all of his luggage.

They had barely left the airport when Harry reached in his backpack and pulled out a Cannon XL Rebel digital camera, quickly attached a 300-mm lens, and began shooting. “Great spot, here. Look at those buildings. Look at the color of that water.”

When they arrived at the Marsh Harbour Marina parking area, Buck was waiting in the cockpit, tail wagging.

Joe and Harry grabbed some lunch in the Jib Room – Greek salads with fresh fish on top – and caught up. Harry did most of the talking, and Joe was delighted to see him so upbeat, particularly remembering their last conversation. After eating, they sat watching the boats come and go in the harbor. Then Harry looked up at Joe with a peculiar expression that Joe couldn't read and asked, “How far are we from the ocean?”

“Not far, really. We can go out this harbor, up the sound past Treasure Cay, then a straight shot. We can probably be out there in less than an hour. You want to go fishing this afternoon?”

“Really just like to ride out there this afternoon, if you think it would be fairly calm.”

“We can do that. I think today will be surprisingly flat.”

Looking at the camera around Harry's neck, Joe asked, “You want to take some shots? You want to go now?”

“Yeah, I'd like to do some shooting. Let's go.”

Buck, hearing the word “go,” was already up, tail wagging.

Joe headed out the harbor, up the sound, past the rocks at Whale Cut, and into the ocean. He was right, it was flat, the sun high and strong, bouncing off the water. The engines purred along at cruise, and before Joe knew it, they had gone five miles. He brought the boat down, put the engines in neutral, and climbed down in the cockpit to see whether Harry was getting the shots he wanted. He couldn't believe what he saw.

“What are you doing, Harry? What is this?” Joe asked, looking at Harry assembling some kind of metal frame in the middle of the cockpit.

“This is just somethin' I thought you might like to have,” Harry said with a big smile. “It's what was in the box. Have you figured out what it is?”

“Not yet. What the hell is it?”

“Well, see if this helps,” Harry said as he placed the top piece on the contraption, bolted it down, and attached a heavy, coiled spring.

“Sorry,” Joe said, “no clue.”

“Okay, see if this helps,” Harry said, reaching in his bag and pulling out a round clay pigeon. He told Joe and Buck to get back a little, as he set the pigeon in the handle at the end of the swinging arm on the frame and pulled it back against the frame. Then he pulled a small lever on the left, the arm swung out swiftly, and the clay pigeon was hurled out of the cockpit and into the air.

“Whoa!” Joe exclaimed.

“That's trap,” Harry said with excitement in his voice. “Now, all you've got to do is hit it.”

“Great. With what?”

“With this,” Harry said, opening the door to the salon and bringing out a single-barrel shotgun, unlike any Joe had ever seen.

“How the hell did you get that past customs?”

“It didn't seem to be a problem,” Harry said. “I had it checked on the plane, noted as a shotgun, with the shells in a separate shotgun box, all properly declared. I showed all that to the customs guys, signed the forms, no big deal. They said if I had any handguns, they would confiscate those, but I told them I just had the shotgun. Are you gonna talk all day, or try to hit a pigeon?”

“So this is the shooting you had in mind? Yeah, I'm ready. Give me a second and let's put Buck inside, though, to protect his ears.” Joe opened the salon door, hopped up to the bridge, killed the motors, and climbed down the ladder.

“I brought along a pair of noise shields, too,” Harry said, handing the headset to Joe. “You stand to my right and I'll load her up.” Harry brought over an open box of clay pigeons neatly stacked between dividers, took a pigeon from the top, and placed it in the device. Harry handed Joe his shotgun. “When you're ready, say ‘pull.'”

Joe admired the shotgun. “Tell me about this gun. I'm used to a Remington 1100, and I've seen several other shotguns over the years, but none like this.”

“It's a Perazzi MX-3. As you can see, it's single-barrel. It's got a great feel, a great weight, and the sights are unbelievable. We're using standard trap load. Put one shell in at a time.”

Joe held the gun up, sighted it, brought it back down, and then did it again. It felt amazing in his arm. He put a shell in the chamber, locked it back down, and sighted it one more time. “Pull!”

Harry pulled the lever, the pigeon went flying, Joe fired, and the pigeon exploded. Before long, Harry and Joe were haggling over the size of the bet, Joe wanting it as high as he could make it, sure that Harry would win. Joe hit the majority of his, missing when Harry sat on the side of the boat, rocking it. “You're throwing the game!” Joe complained with a smile. Joe couldn't count the pigeons he and Harry shot that afternoon, taking turns working the trap-shoot device. They shot until the entire bag of pigeons was finally emptied. Joe could not remember having so much fun in a long time. Harry did do some shooting with his camera, too, including candid shots of Joe.

 

Sitting comfortably in the new Stidd seats, they laughed and joked all the way back to Marsh Harbour. Joe was always amazed at what an interesting guy Harry was, all the things he had done, which he was glad to hear about again – the trap and skeet shooting contests; his photography underwater on scuba; his cabinetmaking and woodworking; the instruments he played; his hiking; camping; fishing for trout in the mountain streams and making his own flies; his cooking and baking – on and on. The list seemed endless.

“You know, Harry, there's something to be said for diversity of interests.”

“What do you mean?”

“I was just thinking how fortunate you are to have such a wide variety of interests, so many different things that you know how to do. A lot of people are good at one thing or another, but that's all. Or at least that's all they're interested in. Sometime I'd like to have you meet a guy I recently did some work for. His name is Preston. He owns automobile dealerships and is all tied up in his business. I've mentioned you to him.” Harry nodded.

When Joe pulled into his slip, Harry was busy taking shots with his camera. It had been a long day and a good day.