Part 50 (1/2)

”These things are embarra.s.sing,” he said as we entered the room. ”If anybody else read them, they'd swear Salvatore and Zapata were illiterate. ” Then he looked up at me and said, ”What's wrong with you?”

I handed him the Polaroid of Tony Lukatis.

”Know him?” I asked.

He took a look. ”Sure, that's Tony Lukatis. He did a deuce for smuggling gra.s.s. t.i.tan nailed him.”

”t.i.tan? I got the impression he more or less tolerated pot.”

”Smoking, not smuggling,” Charlie One Ear said. ”What's this all about?”

”The white guy that floated up with St.i.tch Harper, it could be Lukatis,” I said.

”Why?” asked Dutch.

”Hunch,” I said. ”He's been missing since Sunday. His sister thinks he may have been involved in smuggling.”

The first photo rolled off the tube twenty minutes later.

”St.i.tch,” Dutch said, ”or what's left of him.”

Crabs or sharks or both had done a lot of damage to the black man's face but there was enough left to tell who he was. The white man was not as lucky. He was missing a foot, his face was nibbled to bits, and he was badly bloated. I hoped the dead man would be someone else, anybody else. I remembered DeeDee's picture of Tony, pleasant, dark, good-looking kid. And I was thinking about DeeDee, to whom life so far had been one bottom deal after another. First her father, now the brother she adored, warts and all. I didn't hope for long.

”It's Lukatis,” Dutch said.

”You're sure?” I asked.

He nodded. ”There isn't much, but there's enough.”

I turned away from the photo. I knew I would be the one to tell DeeDee. And now something new was gnawing at me.

Who had Tony Lukatis been working for? Longnose Graves or the hijackers?

55.

OBIT.

The Quadrangle was a gra.s.sy square formed on three sides by old brick warehouses that dated back to the Federalist period, and bordered on the fourth by the river. Cobblestone walks crisscrossed the park; a sundial at its center gleamed under a broiling, bronze sky. In one corner of the green oasis was a large oak tree, k.n.o.bby with age, that shed what little shade there was, although n.o.body had sought its comforting shadows yet. There was hardly a breath of wind.

It was five to twelve when I got there. The park was beginning to fill up with pretty young girls in cotton summer dresses and men who looked awkward and uncomfortable in their business suits, most of them with their jackets tossed over their shoulders. A hot dog stand was doing record business. It was a pleasant enough place to enjoy lunch, despite the heat.

The Seacoast National was on the ground floor of one of the buildings. Facing it on the other side of the Quadrangle was Warehouse Three, where I was to break bread with Sam Donleavy the next day. The third building, which ran lengthwise between them, facing park and river, turned out to be an old, one-story counting house that was now a maritime museum.

I sat on a concrete bench near the corner of the bank, so I could watch both entrances, and waited for DeeDee. I didn't have to wait long. At about five after, she and Lark came out, a striking pair that turned heads like waves as they walked by.

She eyed me uncertainly as they came toward me, as if she wasn't sure whether we were still speaking. I broke the ice.

”I thought maybe we could get back to being friends and forget business,” I said.

Lark took the hint.

”Hot dogs and c.o.kes, anybody?” she asked brightly. ”I'm buying.”

DeeDee and I both ordered one of each and Lark slithered off toward the hot dog stand, stopping conversation all along the way.

”You were right this morning,” I said. ”It would've been a dishonest thing for you to do and I'm sorry I asked.”

”What's the difference,” she said, still edgy. ”You got the numbers anyway. Your friend convinced Lark it was the patriotic thing to do.”

”Obviously he has more of a way with women than I do,” I said jokingly.

”Oh, I wouldn't say that,” she said, without looking at me.

We started walking and I took her by the arm and guided her under the large oak, away from the noonday sun wors.h.i.+ppers. She turned suddenly and faced me, looking up straight into my eyes and sensing my anxiety.

”There's something wrong,” she said. ”I can tell.” And then after a moment she added, ”It's Tony. Something's happened to Tony!”

I nodded and said awkwardly, ”I'm afraid it's bad news.”

Her eyes instantly glazed over with tears. Funny how people know before you ever tell them.

”Oh my G.o.d,” she said. ”He's dead, isn't he?”

I nodded dumbly, trying to think of something to say, some gentle way of putting it when there wasn't any.

”Oh no,” she said. Her voice was a tiny, faraway whimper.

She sagged against me like a rag doll with the stuffing punched out of it. I put my arms around her and stood under the tree for a long time, just holding her. I could feel her body tightening in ripples as she tried to control the sobs; then the ripples became waves of grief that overwhelmed her and suddenly she started to cry uncontrollably. I lowered her to the gra.s.s and sat beside her, clutching her to me, rocking her back and forth, as if she were a child who had just lost her first puppy dog.

I saw Lark walking back across the square, engrossed in a hot dog. When she saw us, I waved her over. She knew what had happened before she got to us. She stared at me, her eyebrows bunching up into question marks. She didn't say anything, just sat down next to DeeDee and began to rub her back, trying to fight the tears captured in the corners of her own eyes.

As we sat there I looked over at the bank and caught a glimpse of Charles Seaborn staring out the window. He stepped back into the shadows when he realized I had seen him. I looked back at the third-floor windows of Warehouse Three. I don't know what I expected, perhaps Donleavy sending semaph.o.r.e messages across the park to the banker. The windows were empty, like blind eyes staring sightlessly out of the old building. All the power that had once ruled Dunetown seemed focused on this gra.s.sy flat, only now it seemed to be replaced by fear.

We sat under the tree for fifteen minutes, trying to console DeeDee. Finally she got the courage to ask what had happened.

”A boating accident,” I lied. I didn't seem to have the guts for the truth at that moment. For the first time since Nam, I felt desperately sorry for someone on the bad side of the law.

Regardless of what Tony Lukatis had done, I knew what demons had taunted him to his death. Doe, the promise of Windsong, the easy life, the same demons that had taunted me, distorted my values, left me emotionally barren after Nam. I remembered the day I wrote the letter to Doe and Chief. It was like history repeating itself, except this time I couldn't escape behind a letter. DeeDee was here and I had to face her grief, to touch it, to feel her tears against my face.

Finally she started asking the inevitable questions, questions for which I didn't have answers yet.

Where? When? Did he drown? Probably. Was he doing something wrong when it happened? I wasn't sure. Where was his body now? I didn't know. Was it terribly painful? No, I said honestly, I didn't think so, it was very quick.

”Look,” I said. ”There's something I have to do. I'll tell Seaborn what happened. Take her home, Lark. Call the doctor and get her a sedative. I'll be over as soon as I can get there.”