"I do." I asked Aidan, "Where does he live?"
"Oh, he's got a place down in Southold by Founders Landing. You know where that is?"
"No."
Aidan gave me directions and said, "Can't miss it. Big, big."
"Right. Hey, somebody told me that there's pirate treasure buried around here."
Aidan laughed. "Yeah. My old man said there used to be holes dug all over the place when he was a kid. If anybody found anything, they're not talking."
"Right. Why share with Uncle Sam?"
"No kidding."
"Have you heard anything new about the double murder at Nassau Point?"
He said, "Nope. I think, personally, those people stole something dangerous, and the government and the cops are making up a lot of crap about some vaccine. I mean, what are they gonna say? The world's coming to an end? No. They say, 'Don't worry — it can't hurt you.' Bullshit."
"Right." I think the CIA, the FBI, and the government in general should always try out their bullshit on bartenders, barbers, and taxi drivers before they try to sell it to the country. I mean, I usually bounce things off bartenders or my barber when I need a reality check, and it works.
Aidan said, "Hey, what's the difference between Mad Cow Disease and PMS?"
"What?"
"There is no difference." He slapped his rag on the bar and laughed. "Get it?"
"Yup." I left the OTT, saddled up, and drove to a place called Founders Landing.
CHAPTER 28
It was getting dark when I got to Founders Landing, but I could see a waterfront park at the end of the road. I also saw a stone monument that said, "Founders Landing — 1640." I deduced that this was where the group from Connecticut first landed. If they had stopped at Foxwoods first, thev would probably have arrived here in their skivvies.
To the east of the park was a big, big house, bigger than Uncle Harry's and more colonial than Victorian. The house was surrounded by a nice wrought iron fence, and I could see cars parked in front of it and some cars up on the side lawn. I could also hear music coming from the rear of the property.
I parked on the street and walked down to the open wrought iron gate. I wasn't sure of the attire, but I spotted a couple in front of me, and the guy was dressed pretty much as I was — blue blazer, no tie, no socks.
I found my way to the back lawn, which was wide and deep, sloping down to the bay. There were striped tents, colored party lights strung from tree to tree, blazing tonga torches, hurricane candles on the umbrellaed tables, flowers by Whitestone, a six-piece combo playing Big Band stuff, a few bars, and a long buffet table; the very height of East Coast seaside chic, the very best that the old civilization had to offer — and the weather was cooperating. Truly F. Tobin was blessed.
I noticed, too, a big blue and white banner strung between towering oak trees. The banner read, "Peconic Historical Society Annual Party."
A pretty young woman wearing a period costume came up to me and said, "Good evening."
"So far."
"Come and choose a hat."
"Excuse me?"
"You have to wear a hat to get a drink."
"Then I want six hats."
She giggled, took my arm, and led me to a long table on which were about two dozen idiotic hats — tricornered hats of various colors, some with feathers, some with plumes, some with gold braid like navy hats of the period, and some black hats with the white skull and crossbones. I said, "I'll take the pirate hat."
She picked one off the table and put it on my head. "You look dangerous."
"If you only knew."
Out of a big cardboard box she fetched a plastic cutlass, such as the one Emma had attacked me with and she slid it into my belt. "There you are," she said.
I left the young lady so she could greet a group who had just arrived, and I walked farther onto the sweeping lawn, hatted and armed. The band was playing "Moonlight Serenade."
I looked around and saw that there weren't too many people yet, about fifty, all hatted up, and I suspected the big crowd would arrive after sundown in about half an hour. I didn't see Max, Beth, Emma, or anyone I knew for that matter. I did, however, locate the closest bar and asked for a beer.
The bartender, dressed in a pirate costume, said, "Sorry, sir, only wine and soft drinks."
"What! That's outrageous. I need a beer. I have my hat."
"Yes, sir, but there's no beer. May I suggest a sparkling white? It has bubbles, and you can pretend."
"May I suggest you find me a beer by the time I get back here?"
I wandered around, beerless, and checked out the acreage. I could see the park from here, the place where the first settlers landed, sort of the local Plymouth Rock, I guess, but virtually unknown outside of this area. I mean, who knew that the Fortune followed the Mayflower? Who cares about second and third place? This is America
I watched Mr. Tobin's guests spread out over his broad lawn, standing, walking, sitting at the white round tables, everyone wearing a hat with a feather, glass in hand, chatting. They were a sedate group, or so they appeared at this early hour — no rum and sex on the beach or skinny-dipping or naked volleyball or anything like that. Just social intercourse.
I saw that Mr. Tobin had a long dock, at the end of which was a good-sized boathouse. Also, several boats were tied up at the long dock, and I assumed they belonged to guests. If this party had been held a week earlier, the Spirocbete would have been here.
Anyway, curious sort that I am, I walked the length of the dock toward the boathouse. Right before the opening of the boathouse was a big cabin cruiser, about thirty-five feet long. It was named the Autumn Gold, and I assumed it was Mr. Tobin's boat, named after his new wine, or named after Mr. Tobin's as-yet-to-be discovered treasure. In any case, Mr. T liked his toys.
I entered the boathouse. It was dark, but there was enough light coming from both ends to see two boats, one on either side of the dock. The boat to the right was a small, flat-bottomed Whaler of the type you could take into shallow water or wetlands. The other on the left side of the dock was a speedboat, in fact, a Formula 303, the exact same model as the Gordons'. For a half second, I had the spooky feeling that the Gordons had returned from the dead to crash the party and scare the crap out of Freddie. But it wasn't the Spirochete — this 303 was named Sandra, presumably after Fredric's current squeeze. I suppose it was easier to change the name of a boat than to get a tattoo off your arm.
Anyway, neither the cabin cruiser nor the speedboat interested me, but the flat-bottomed Whaler did. I lowered myself into the small boat. It had an outboard motor, and it also had oarlocks. There were two oars lying on the dock. More interesting, there was a pole, about six feet long, of the type used to move a boat through bulrushes and reeds where neither oars nor motor could be used. Also, the Whaler's deck was a little muddy. In the stern was a plastic crate filled with odds and ends and among them was a compressed-air foghorn.
"Are you looking for something?"
I turned to see Mr. Fredric Tobin standing on the dock, wineglass in hand, wearing a rather elaborate purple tricornered hat with a flowing plume. He was stroking his short beard as he stared at me. Mephistophelian, indeed.
I said, "I was admiring your boat."
"That boat? Most people notice the speedboat or the Chris-Craft," he said, indicating the cabin cruiser docked just outside the boathouse.