Third Strike (18 page)

Her face seemed to harden. “That? That is Harry Doyle. He works for Mortison. Eduardo didn't like him.”

I wondered if I should be wearing a dunce cap. “That's Harry Doyle? I thought Harry Doyle must be Irish. That man looks like a Latino. Are you sure?”

She gave me a look of gentle irony. “Do you think the Irish all stayed in Ireland? O'Connor was Simon Bolívar's Minister of War and O'Higgins was the liberator of Chile. Harry Doyle's people live in Guatemala or Nicaragua, I believe. Am I not right to think that there are even some Irish here in America?”

I gave her a smile. “Yes, I believe that's the case.” Across the parking lot, Mortison and Doyle were looking at the church door. I followed their gaze and saw Brady Coyne, testimony of the Irish presence in America, shaking hands and talking with Zapata. Brady then walked toward Zee's Jeep, unaware of the attention he was getting from Mortison and Doyle.

As Brady left the church steps, Zapata looked at Mortison and Doyle and nodded toward Brady's back. Then he looked at me and, seeing that I was watching him, waved and smiled before turning away and shaking the hand of the next person coming out of the hall.

Brady walked on to the Jeep, where he paused and glanced around a bit before spotting me. Then I looked again at Mortison and Doyle and saw that they were no longer studying Brady, but were staring at me. They held my gaze for a long moment, then climbed into the Mercedes and eased out of the lot.

Hmmmm. Something had just happened, but what was it? Had we caught Mortison's attention because we were strangers? Had Zapata signaled them to take note of us, or was that just my imagination?

Gloria Alvarez touched my arm again. “There, coming out now. You see that man? His name is Norman Frazier. He worked with Eduardo in the restaurant. They were friends. Perhaps he can help you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I want to talk with him.”

I left her and crossed the lot to intercept Frazier. I caught him at his car, an elderly sedan.

“Norman Frazier?”

“Yes?” He was a young guy with a shock of yellow hair. His name, skin tone, and hair all set him apart from most of Zapata's flock, and I wondered if he knew Portuguese. He gave me an uncertain smile.

I told him my name and that I was looking into the death of Eduardo Alvarez, and I watched his face change.

“Terrible thing,” he said, opening his car door. “But I'm afraid I can't help you.”

I put my hand on the door and held it open. “You were his friend. You worked with him at the Wheelhouse, but the night he was killed you didn't show up for work. Were you with him?”

“No.” He slid into the driver's seat.

“Do you know where he went?”

“No.”

He tugged at the door, but I held it. “Why so great a no?” I asked.

He'd probably never read
Cyrano
but he knew what I meant. “Let go of the door.”

“A man is dead. He was your friend. What happened to him?”

Frazier's face was full of fear. “Stop this. They'll see us.”

“Who? Who'll see us?” I looked around, searching for, but not finding, eyes upon us as I held the door open against his yanks and pulls.

“I don't know who they are,” he said, “but I know what they'll do if they think I'm talking to you. They did it to him, and they'll do it to me. Let me go!”

“You can talk to me or to the cops,” I said. “It's up to you.”

“The cops? You think I'm afraid of the cops? Let go! Please!”

“Who are you afraid of?”

“Doyle is one of them. I can feel his eyes on me right now. He's watching me all the time.” He gave up tugging on the door and started up the car with a roar.

“Doyle is gone,” I shouted over the sound of the engine. “He drove away.”

His eyes were wild. “There are others!”

He slammed the car into gear, and the door jerked out of my hand and slammed shut as he spun his wheels and sped, bouncing and sliding over the potholes, out of the lot. I watched him roar away, then walked across to where Brady stood by the Jeep.

“What was that all about?” he asked. “You got everybody's attention, even Zapata's. Most people don't confuse church parking lots with the Indianapolis Speedway.”

I looked back at the church, but Zapata was gone, and the last of the worshippers were headed toward their cars, some looking at me as they went.

I told him what had passed between Frazier and me.

Brady thought for a moment, then said, “Do you know where he lives?”

“No, but I can probably find him.”

“I'd say it's pretty clear that Mr. Frazier knows something about Eduardo Alvarez,” he said. “I think you should squeeze it out of him before Doyle or one of those other people he's afraid of gets to him. Remember what happened to Larry.”

How could I forget? “I think you're right,” I said, “although I didn't see anybody looking at Frazier. I did see several people who seemed to be interested in you and me, though.”

Brady allowed himself a small smile. “Maybe it was because we're an unexpected sight in church, especially one where we stick out like sore thumbs. You know the names of any of the interested parties?”

“Three,” I said. “Bob Mortison, Harry Doyle, and Georgio Zapata.” I told him what I'd seen pass among them and of their interest in him and me. “And there's another thing,” I said. “I'm pretty sure that I saw Mortison up in Chilmark last night, listening to Lundsberg.”

His brows arched. “Really? How sure are you?”

“Fairly but not absolutely.”

“Enough to act on the assumption that he was?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “that adds spice to the stew, doesn't it? Mortison was in Chilmark, Doyle works for Mortison, and Frazier is afraid of Doyle. How do you suppose Zapata fits in?”

“They all go to his church.”

“So did Alvarez,” Brady said, “and he's dead.”

“Maybe Frazier knows how and why,” I said. “Let's try to find out.”

As we drove out of the lot I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that Father Zapata had come back out of the church and was watching us leave.

“I don't suppose you have a phone book in this car,” said Brady, peeking into the backseat. “If you do, I can see if Frazier is listed there and learn where he lives.”

“We don't have phone books in our cars,” I said, “because we almost never use our cell phone except to call home, and we know that number.”

“In another generation or two,” said Brady, “babies are going to be born with one hand fastened to an ear, and all the parents will have to do is slip a phone into the hand.”

“We'll stop at a filling station and peek at their book.”

We drove toward Vineyard Haven while Brady told me what he'd seen when he went to look in the back of the church building. It was just what we'd guessed: two bathrooms, one for men, one for women, a combination kitchen-pantry on one side of the hall, and another room on the other side, notable for the padlock on its door. A storage area, probably, with stuff no one wanted stolen. Did each group that used the building have a key, or was the locked room used by only one organization? If you knew who to ask, you could find out, but who knew who to ask? Zapata, maybe.

On Beach Street we stopped at the first filling station, and while Brady was looking with horror at the price of island gasoline, I was failing to find a single Norman Frazier in the station's phone book.

“My God,” said Brady when I climbed back behind the wheel. “How can you people afford to drive cars down here?”

“Prices have gone up even more than usual because of the strike,” I said, “but everything on the island costs more than on the mainland because of freight charges. Gasoline always costs fifty cents a gallon more.”

“But gasoline comes here by tanker,” said Brady, “just like it does to every other part of New England. The delivery cost is no greater here than it is anywhere else.”

I ignored this appeal to reason. “Liquor costs several dollars more a bottle because of freight, food costs more because of freight, shoes and socks cost more because of freight. Fortunately for us islanders, we're all multimillionaires, so we can afford the necessities.” I pointed to the left as we drove toward Oak Bluffs. “There's the
Trident
. She doesn't look too bad, but there's not much left of her engine room.”

“So that's where Alvarez died.” Brady looked at the boat as we passed.

“So they say.”

“Where are we going?”

“To a restaurant called the Wheelhouse in Edgartown,” I said. “Frazier worked there with Alvarez. The woman who runs the place may know where Frazier lives.”

Nellie Gray did know. Frazier lived out on West Chop.

We turned around and drove back the way we'd just come, passing the line of cars parked beside the beach between Edgartown and Oak Bluffs, and going on through downtown Oak Bluffs and Vineyard Haven out toward the West Chop Lighthouse. Near the library I pointed out the street at the end of which, long before, Lillian Hellman and Dashiell Hammett had cohabited in a house overlooking the outer harbor. The island now crawled with more celebrities than ever, but Lillian and Dash were still my favorites.

“Maybe the falcon is hidden somewhere here on the Vineyard,” said Brady.

“Could be.”

“We could use Sam Spade on this case.”

“I think Sam works in California,” I said. “Maybe we can bring Stoney Calhoun down from Maine. He's as good as Spade.”

Brady gave me a blank look. “Who's Stoney Calhoun?”

“I'm not absolutely sure, and neither is he.” I slowed down. “In any case, we're here, so it looks like we'll have to handle things ourselves.”

Norman Frazier lived in a small house not too far from where Harry Doyle lived. I wondered about that. Did they socialize? Did they even know they were almost neighbors?

My mind was filled with questions and memories. I remembered what Doyle's boyhood pal Steve had said about Doyle asking him to help on a job and the two of them being seen together by Bonzo and Eduardo Alvarez. I remembered, too, Steve's suspicion that Doyle might have been involved with the explosion on the
Trident.
And I remembered Bonzo saying that Steve and Eduardo often argued but never came to blows, because Eduardo didn't believe in fighting.

What were Steve and Eduardo arguing about? Union violence? Blowing up the
Trident
? Maybe Norm Frazier knew. He and Eduardo were friends, and Eduardo might have confided in him. Was that the reason Frazier feared Doyle? Because of what Eduardo had told him?

Frazier's house was on a narrow dirt lane leading off of West Chop Road. It was surrounded by trees and in need of paint. His car was beside the house. I parked in front, and Brady and I went to the door.

I think that if Frazier had had a peephole he probably wouldn't have opened the door, but when I knocked he did open it, just far enough for him to peek out and for me to slide a sandal between the door and the jamb.

He pushed, but Brady and I pushed harder, and we were in his hallway before he could even yell for help, if that was his inclination.

I kicked the door shut and said, “We need to talk, Norm.”

He backed away. “No.”

We followed him down the hall and into his dingy living room. He backed into an overstuffed chair and sat down hard, seeming to sink into the cushion. I ignored a wave of guilt because I was exploiting his fear.

“I need to know about Doyle and the others,” I said in my hardest voice, leaning over him.

He cowered. “Leave me alone. I can't tell you anything.”

I poked a thumb toward Brady. “You may not be afraid of me or the police,” I said, “but my friend, here, is down from Boston. You don't want to know what he does there, but he can do it here too, if I ask him to. You're playing with the big boys now. Do you understand me?”

He threw a frightened glance at Brady, who, I hoped, was looking tough.

“Jesus,” said Frazier, “I don't know what to do. I'm in a mess, but I never done anything.”

“You don't have to do anything to be in trouble,” I said. “You just have to know something. What is it you know? Tell me quick and save yourself some grief.”

“If I say anything,” he said, “they'll do something to me! Something bad!”

“We'll do something worse if you don't, and we'll do it right now. Isn't that right, Bruno?”

Brady made a choking sound that he turned into a growl.

“Oh God,” moaned Frazier.

“I'm running out of patience,” I said.

“All right, all right,” cried Frazier, putting up his hands as if to protect himself from attack. “Eddie Alvarez and me were buddies. Hell, he even got me to go to church with him and tried to teach me Portuguese, you know what I mean? I mean, we were close, and we talked about everything. Some of it was union stuff he wouldn't even tell his wife because, you know, he didn't want her to worry. Well, he told me that he seen Steve Bronski talking with Harry Doyle, and he said Doyle was a bad apple. Eddie was afraid that Steve might get involved in some shenanigan that would hurt the union, and so he tells Steve not to get mixed up with Doyle. So him and Steve get nose to nose, and Steve tells him to mind his own business, says he don't know nothing about Doyle's plans and he ain't gonna get involved anyway, but that he don't want Eddie or that Bonzo guy talking about him and Doyle, because Doyle is working for Mortison, and Mortison ain't helping the union any, and Steve don't want the other union guys to think he's pals with a scab.”