He talked a lot; about the corruption on the docks, the stealing and dope racket, the gangster control. “And the stoolies,” he said. “We had this white joker started to hang around our group, and the sonofabitch turned out to be a dick, like I suspected.”
“From one of these un-American committees?” I asked, because I had to say something. I relit my pipe and watched the muscles of his big face as he talked. I had his head firmly in mind, but didn't want to look like an “artist” and start sketching as we were bouncing around on the waves.
Sandler laughed. He didn't have white teeth or a flashing smile, merely bad teeth. “That's what we thought. Like to give us a fit. But turned out he was just a private dick hunting for a punk. Seems there was a hold-up and a killing in New Jersey and... I don't know what made them think a longshoreman did it, but this guy was just nosing around. So we...”
I didn't move. I bit through the stem of my pipe and my guts began turning over and I thought I was going to puke.
For a while I didn't say a word, let him talk on. But when we ran into a school of king fish and Sandler started remembering the fishing he did in Trinidad as a kid, I said, “This fellow hunting for a murderer—what did you say his name was?”
“You mean the guy who was killed? Some clown who ran a jewelry shop over in Newark.”
“I mean the dick?”
“Used a phony name with us, of course, but when we got suspicious of him, he was ducking too many real jobs, we did a little snooping on our own. Name is Harry Logan. Why do you ask?”
“No special reason,” I said, hoping my voice wasn't shaking. “Don't have much to read out here in the winter, so we read every line in the papers, including all the murders. Remember that case.”
Sandler reeled in a two-pound king, said, “All you see is crime headlines. I say only way to cure crime is to cure the society that makes it necessary to rob to eat or...”
I waited till he was done making his speech, asked, “And that dick, he was a real cop or a private snooper?”
“Private dick. We got the whole story out of him. Some woman in Newark had hired him, given him a few bucks and offered a reward. He told us everything—to get off the stoolie hook. That's the trouble, always suspect hard working people, especially black people, although it turned out he was looking for a white man. But of course they never investigate the gangsters who run the docks and...”
I had a nibble but didn't even bother hitting the line. So Mama Morse had to put a dick on my trail! Things were going too well for me, something had to spoil it. Nothing was over, forgotten, that bastard, Mac, was still harassing me—us, even from the grave.
A sudden cramp nearly doubled me up. I started to sweat and Sandler asked what was wrong and I told him, “Nature is calling. Get your line in for a moment.”
Peeling off my trunks, I jumped over and holding on to the anchor rope, I relieved myself, which isn't as easy as it sounds.
The water brought me back to my senses. Climbing back into the boat, I put my trunks on and started to make a lot of chatter—getting Sandler to talk about the islands, fishing, anything... And all the time I was frightened stiff at how close I'd come to giving myself away. We hadn't talked about Mac's death in Sandyhook, of course, but the postman knew Elma's “maiden” name was Morse, and all Sandler had to do was hear that, or notice my sudden nervousness, tie it up with my sudden interest in the dick and... it wouldn't take much to add that up.
After awhile we cleaned our fish and, like all newcomers, Sandler was amazed at how close the gulls came around us—fighting over the fish heads and insides. Cleaning fish is an aid to thinking, just as I find sweeping or mopping a floor helps me think.
I did some furious thinking.
So there was a private dick named Harry Logan on the case. Mac's mother had said she didn't think much of the police efforts, so she had hired this detective. But what did I have to worry about? This... Logan... was obviously running around in little blind circles, still going for that freight hook, the longshoreman idea. Actually he had nothing to connect me with the killing—if I played it smart. He was getting paid, so of course he'd run down any clue. Well, let him run himself crazy, use up the old lady's dough looking for a fat, dark-haired longshoreman with an accent— that guy was another world removed from me.
Sure, I was safe. Even if he came out and questioned Elma for possible clues, there was little chance of his getting suspicious of me... there were millions of short guys. And he mustn't have considered Elma as having any leads, or he would have been out long before this.
By the time we docked, I felt fine, had convinced myself I had nothing to worry about. Hell, these private dicks were known to charge thirty to fifty bucks a day and Sandler had said this incident happened a month ago. By this time the old lady had probably spent all she was going to spend on the case and Harry Logan was off her payroll. Anyway, long as he was fooling around the water front, I was safe.
But I had a few uneasy nights over it, started worrying about fingerprints again, then forgot it. I had other things on my mind—we had an auto accident.
We had invited Sid and his wife over for supper and Elma thought we ought to have lobsters. It was a bright day, with little breeze, and we took the baby and headed for Three Mile Harbor, where you can buy lobsters weighing from one to twenty pounds. Three Mile Harbor is past Easthampton and would be a nice ride for us. They also sold excellent crab cakes and we usually stuffed ourselves with half a dozen or so on the spot, like hungry kids... which was the real reason we drove out there instead of trying one of the markets in Riverhead.
As we were nearing Riverhead, a low slung foreign car tried to pass me, cut in ahead of us sharply, taking off our left fender and bumper and giving us a severe jolt.
Happily Joan was sleeping in Elma's arms, so nobody was hurt. But I was angry because the bastard never even stopped. His car was one of these very light jobs and I figured he'd probably done more damage to his buggy than to our heavier Chewy. I stepped on the gas—after we tossed the fender and bumper in the back of the car— and sure enough, less than two miles down the road I overtook him, his right wire wheel wobbling like crazy.
Forcing him to the side of—the road, I jumped out. A pale, thin fellow of about 22—one of these bow-tie and crew-cut lads with a silly face—sat behind the wheel. He stuck a whole pack of butts up to his thin lips, then jerked it away, leaving a cigarette pasted to his mouth, waved at me and mumbled, “Sorry.” He must have practiced that cigarette deal for a long time.
“Sorry? You didn't even bother to stop, you dumb sonofabitch!”
“Stop? I nearly turned over, took me a mile to get the car under control and...”
“Send that crock of crap C.O.D. to somebody else!”
He looked me over, decided I was too short, said, “No need for all the big talk. I'm insured.” He crawled out of his car and I don't know how he ever got in it—he was six feet tall, but all skin and bones.
We went through the routine of taking each other's license number. I told him I wasn't insured but it didn't matter, since it was clearly his fault. He was getting up more courage by the second, said, “No insurance? And driving a wreck like that? Why even the potato pickers have better cars than your...”