LCole 07 - Deadly Cove (25 page)

Well,
I thought,
most everything …

“Can I ask you some questions about the violence?”

“What violence?” he asked with an innocent tone of voice.

“Ah,” I said, looking down at my notes. “A few days ago I was at a rally, at the Yankee Fisherman's Cooperative. Saw you talk there for a bit before a couple of antinukers jumped up and started protesting. Last I saw, they were getting hammered by some of your fellow union members.”

I could hear murmuring from behind Joe's booth, from his two companions, but Joe didn't seem to mind. “That might be your memory. I just remember that they were interrupting a meetin' that they had no right to interrupt. They were disturbing the peace, they were interfering with our peaceable right of assembly. They were the ones who started it, not us.”

“Still, they were beat up, weren't they?”

More murmurs from behind Joe. “They were jostled around some, but yeah, maybe they got tuned up a bit. Why not?”

“Why not let the cops handle it?” I asked, pen still in hand.

“You were there, right? You know how crowded it was. Besides, it was our place, and our time to speak. What, we should have waited five or ten minutes for a couple of cops to work their way through the crowd to get up onstage? Let those clowns have the floor? Why in hell should we do that, then?”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said. “Maybe a little waiting would show a willingness not to go to the fists right off the bat.”

He leaned a bit over the booth's light orange tabletop. “Look. Unions and their brothers and sisters didn't get here, and get what was owed them, by being nice, by lettin' people step over them, talk over them. Okay? They did it by voting, by organizing and yeah, sometimes, by doing a little direct action. Maybe that was wrong. I'll admit it. But you know what? Since those creeps got tossed out in the parking lot, roughed up a little bit, maybe them and their friends will think twice about crashing a gathering like that and trying to take over the stage.”

I looked at his sharp eyes and said, “You folks really don't like those activists, do you.”

He snorted. “Here's a story for you, and how come this story never gets out in the paper? Hunh? Who are those protesters out there, anyway?”

“They'd say they're just concerned citizens, that's all,” I said. “Petitioning their government and their neighbors.”

“Hah. Citizens. I'll tell you who they are. High school students or college students. Or dropouts. Or senior citizens with their brains a bit scrambled. Or professional leftists or people who just love to join each other for a party and a good time and to tell each other how much they miss Vietnam or Woodstock.”

I said, “I saw some of them yesterday. They were getting tear-gassed, shoved around, pepper-sprayed. Didn't look like a party. Or a good time.”

“So you say,” he said, “but on the news, it looks like a ragged band of losers. And you know what?” Now his voice was getting heated. “Let's say you're one of my union brothers, a guy trying to raise a family. You've been on welfare for six or eight months, or living off whatever savings you got. Or you're a union sister, a single mom, trying to raise a couple of kids on your own. Then you get word from your union hall. If a couple more federal agencies just sign off on a couple of permits, then, boom, the hiring is going to start up again.”

I said, “I think I know where this is going.”

“Maybe you do, but I'm gonna tell you anyway. They get word that hiring is gonna start, good jobs at good wages. Maybe they don't have a college degree, but they're smart where it counts, in their craft, whether it's welding or painting or carpentry. Then just as the news gets good, the Russkies act like the idiots they are, the feds get cold feet, and these pampered high school and college kids come out of the woodwork, ready to march around, smoke dope, and get laid at night in their tents. One big fucking party. And if the second unit gets canceled, they can go home and tell their trust-fund moms and dads how special they were, while thousands of workers out there across New England look to see when their food stamp eligibility runs out.”

I was scribbling so fast that my hand nearly cramped. He paused, his face even more red, and I knew he was losing patience with me, so I had just one more thing to ask him, which I had the feeling would set him off like a vial of nitroglycerin dropped from the top of a building.

“You've made a good point, about how your workers don't particularly like the activists,” I said. “When it comes to the shooting of Bronson Toles, did—”

Surprise of surprises, he didn't explode, or try to throttle me, or stomp out. He just held up a callused hand and said, “Sure. Easy excuse. Pin it on the nutso union guy. Look, Lewis, there's a hell of a lot of difference between roughing up a couple of college kids who jump up on your stage and try to interrupt a news conference and blowing off some character's head. What the hell would that gain us? Nothing, that's what. In fact, the state police came by and some detective, Italian guy…”

“Renzi,” I said. “Detective Renzi.”

“Yeah, that's right. He talked to me and my leadership council about the shooting, and I said, have at it. Here's a membership list. Talk to anyone you want. Anybody gives you grief, talk to us and we'll bring 'em in to talk to you. We don't have anything to hide.”

“So did the state police do just that?”

He said, “Talk to the cops. I don't want to say anything to screw up their investigation. But c'mon, think about it. What kind of benefit would it be if it happened that one of our brothers whacked that antinuker? You think if one of my guys got arrested, that it would be a good thing? Hell, no. It'd just piss off the antinukers and anybody who was on their side. Plus, it'd also piss off those folks that are on our side, like the businesses lining up to get the contracts if the licensing goes through. So if that's what you're driving at, Mr. Cole, that one of our guys shot down that antinuker, forget it.”

“You sound pretty confident,” I said.

“Confident, sure,” he said, “but hell, not one hundred percent. Maybe somebody out there with a grudge against Toles, or a score to settle, or something to do with the unions and protesters, some nutcase, okay. I'll give you that. But we're a pretty tight-knit group, Mr. Cole, and I can almost give you a one hundred percent assurance we had nothing to do with Toles getting killed.”

I wrote some more in my notebook, and he said, “That's it, isn't it.”

“Excuse me?”

He grinned, leaning back against the fake wood seating. “All those polite questions earlier, about me and where I grew up, and my first job, and my first union elections, that was just a setup. The real meat of what you were looking for, it was all about Bronson Toles getting murdered. Right?”

“I like to be thorough,” I said.

“Yeah,” Joe replied, looking at his wristwatch, “and I like being prompt for my next meeting. So if you'll pardon me, we're done here.”

“I guess we are,” I said, folding my notebook shut. “Thanks for your time.”

“Good luck in whatever the hell it is you're doing,” he said, and behind him I saw one of his two companions making a call on his cell phone. I walked out of Uncle Paul's Diner, with Felix Tinios glancing at me with a bemused look on his face, gathering up his coat, ready to do his job, as I was wrapping mine up.

I got into my Ford Explorer, started her up, and backed out onto the street. It was dusk, and my plan was to head back home to Tyler, look at my notes, and write something vaguely interesting and noncontroversial for Denise Pichette-Volk down there at
Shoreline
.

That was my plan.

Funny thing about plans. They often don't take other people and interests into consideration.

 

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I traveled north a bit on Route 1, the traffic sparse at this time of night, and up ahead were some flashing amber lights. I saw a pickup truck with the logo of the Salisbury Public Works Department straddling the road, with a man in a reflective orange vest directing me off to a side road with a flashlight with an orange cone at the end of its lens. I made a turn to the right, down a country road with no streetlights and not much in the way of houses. I'd driven about a hundred yards when a car pulled out and got in front of me. Right about then, glancing at my rearview mirror, I spotted a set of headlights behind me, accelerating.

Then I braked, for the car in front of me started slowing down just as the one behind me kept on speeding up, and in about fifteen seconds—and about the time I recalled Joe Manzi's buddies had been working their cell phones—I was boxed in. The car in front of me, an old Chevrolet Impala with a dented trunk, slowed down, as did the vehicle behind me, a dark blue Ford pickup truck, and then I had to hit the brakes hard as the Impala in front of me and the Ford behind me came to a stop.

Despite what was going on, I had to admire their technique. I unzipped my jacket, waited.

The Impala's door opened, and a man came out carrying a tire iron. He came up to me, and in my side view mirror, I saw another man get out and come in my direction, also carrying something.

I rolled down my window. Their second mistake of the evening. They should have flanked me, on either side of my Ford, because I wouldn't be able to keep my eye on both of them. This way, coming at me on the same side … they just made my task that much easier.

I decided to open the door and get out.

Yes, their first mistake of the evening was forcing me over.

*   *   *

I stepped out, and the man in front called, “Did we tell you to get out, asshole?”

“I guess you didn't,” I said, and he said, “Damn straight,” and with a sharp blow of the tire iron, he smashed my left headlight.

I turned and saw that the other guy approaching had a baseball bat in his hands, and I recognized him as the unsuccessful gatekeeper from the other day. He called out, “I knew you was going to be trouble the moment I saw you, back at the fishing co-op, you asshole.”

I said, “Then you're a perceptive fellow.”

I kept my head moving, one to the other, one to the other, and the guy with the tire iron decided to take one more whack at the broken headlight, like poking at a sore tooth or something. The man with the baseball bat said, “We heard the questions you were asking Joe back there at the diner, we know what kind of jerk you are. So we're here to tell you you're not gonna write any story about the unions, you got it? We've had enough with the out-of-towners raising hell, with the newspaper reporters raising hell, with the TV stations getting all soft and moist about those poor protesters. It ends here tonight, got it?” To emphasize his point, he rapped the side of my Ford.

“Ever hear of the First Amendment?” I asked, keeping my head moving, back and forth, back and forth. The guy with the tire iron was standing still by the left front fender.

Baseball bat man laughed. “Ever hear of getting your head busted? You will, 'cause it's gonna happen, right now, and there's no wop around to save your ass like last time.”

I felt like sighing. So it would have to come to this. I reached under my coat, pulled out my 9 mm Beretta, and said, “Funny thing, guys, Italians sometimes do show up when you really do need them.”

There was a round in the chamber, so I didn't have to work the action, but I did pull back the hammer, so it made a loud and satisfying click. I turned to the guy up front and said, “Drop the tire iron. Hands behind your head, and get over there with your friend.”

Another turn, and I said, “Baseball bat, on the ground, now.”

With my pistol out, the whole atmosphere changed, and so did the demeanor of my new best friends. The guy up front dropped the tire iron with a loud clang, and he shuffled over to his buddy and said to me, “Look, let's be reasonable here, okay? We were just funnin' with you, that's all, and—”

“Quiet,” I said. “Just keep your mouth shut.”

Now, with them standing side by side, it was easier to cover them. Baseball bat man, without the bat, looked slumped and smaller, and he said, “Pal, look, we were just—”

“Shhh,” I said. “Please don't insult me. You've just threatened me, but insulting me … just making it worse. So do be quiet—and I'm not your pal. Got it?”

The one on the left nodded, but the one on the right stood there, legs quivering a bit.

I kept the pistol aimed at the gatekeeper. “Joe sent you after me?”

“Christ, no,” he said.

“Who was the Public Works guy out there, directing me down here?”

“Donnie, my cousin. He owes me one, for something I did for him last year … Christ, leave him out of it, okay? Don't want him to lose his job. 'Bout the only member of my family's got a reasonable job this year.”

In the sharpness of what was going on, with the Italian-made pistol in my hand and with the two men in front of me, I suppose I should have been frightened, or stoked up, or angry. Instead, I almost felt sorry for them. “One more question,” I said. “You tell me the truth, then we can all go home and forget this ever happened.”

The guy on the right looked relieved, but then looked suspicious. “Suppose you don't think we're tellin' the truth?”

“Then you both better do a good job convincing me,” I said.

“Go on,” the first one said. “What do you want to know?”

“You heard what Joe said, back at the diner, about the shooting of Bronson Toles. Was that straight up?”

“What do you mean?” the second one asked.

The first one interrupted and said, “Yeah, that was straight up. Nobody knows nothing about that guy's shooting.”

That was a double negative, but I wasn't going to press him. “Tell me more.”