I found him bludgeoning the sandbag with little effect.
“You ought to keep your elbow a little higher with that right hand,” I told him. “It’ll put more shoulder into the jab.”
“Not interested in any of that Marcus of Queensberry shit.”
“Tough talk with Marcus out of town.”
“Stinkin’ French.”
“Some of my best friends have been French.”
“Yeah? Who?”
“Three out of four grandparents. Though to be fair I only met my old man’s mother once or twice. Hard woman. Could have shown Marcus a thing or two.”
Sullivan stopped slogging at the bag and held it with both gloved hands, steadying himself.
“You want to crap all over the Irish for a few minutes so we can call it even?”
“I want to talk about Jonathan Eldridge. After I get a little time on the bag. Now that you got it softened up.”
“Have at it.”
I caught up with him about an hour later at a diner on Montauk Highway in Hampton Bays. When I was growing up it was open twenty-four hours, making it a prime late-hour destination, a way station for teenagers and husbands
to sober up a little before sneaking into the house. Now it was going the way of all local joints within striking distance of the beach, serving Belgian waffles with strawberries along with the standard greasy eggs and ham. I mostly went for the French roast coffee served in a china cup and saucer.
“I wondered when you were going to turn up,” said Sullivan, squeezing himself into the booth.
“Frank asked me to do some trim work. But I talked to some people before that.”
“Yeah? What do you think?”
The waitress came by so I had to wait while he ordered a few tons of carbohydrates with a side of ham.
“Be still my heart.”
“All that bag work, man. Gotta feed the engine. So, what do you think?”
“I think we’ll never know who killed Jonathan Eldridge.”
“There’s the old can-do spirit.”
“Jackie told me we were in way over our heads. She’s right. The best investigators in the world were on this thing when it was still hot. They got nowhere and now it’s ice cold. The whole thing has the stink of professionalism.”
“In your educated opinion,” said Sullivan.
“Yeah, actually. All the reports you gave me said it was a car bomb. That’s what your people concluded. Unless the Feds and Staties are blowing smoke up Ross’s ass, that’s what they think, too.”
“Tell me what I’m missin’ here, but I think a car actually blew up. With plastic explosives.”
“Much later. Maybe twenty, thirty seconds after the fire.”
“What fire?”
“Read my witness report. First there was a fire inside the car. A very hot fire. Explosive, though not all the way to the boom stage. That’s a very difficult thing to achieve,
even in a controlled environment, like an industrial furnace or kiln.”
“You told em that?”
“I thought the explosion was caused by whatever started the fire, after the windows gave out and a flood of oxygen was introduced. I didn’t know about the C-4 until I read the files. Makes a lot more sense, given the force of the blast.”
“I’m already confused.”
“Jonathan gets in his car and shuts the door. A fire erupts inside the car that instantly reaches super-hot temperatures. Consumes all the oxygen in the passenger cabin, feeds off whatever air the subsequent vacuum sucks in through the ventilation system, gets hotter, finally hot enough to melt the glass in the windows, causing a burst of flames that sets off the C-4. At least that’s what it looked like to me.”
“You know this from looking?”
“You really want the technical version?”
Sullivan used both hands to ward off the thought.
“No, that’s okay. Science shit is your deal.”
“This is very sophisticated stuff. Not beyond the forensic capabilities of the FBI, but unless they’re holding something back, I don’t think they found evidence of anything beyond the C-4, which leaves a pretty distinct marker. Or they just ignored my statement. Who the hell am I.”
“You talked to his wife. The whack job.”
“Appolonia. And it’s an anxiety disorder. Your instincts were right. You shouldn’t bother her. I’m in there for now, but I’m on thin ice. She’s not opening up to any cop. Or any kind of authority.”
“Guilty conscience?”
“Fear. Lots and lots of it. More than you can imagine. But she did agree to let me pose as a guy valuating Jonathan’s business. For estate purposes. Gives me an excuse to bother people.”
Sullivan sat back in the booth so the waitress could drop a small mountain of eggs, toast and hash browns in front of him. Then she poured a glob of their regular burnt-bean coffee on top of my French roast. And they tell you service isn’t what it used to be.
“Never needed an excuse before,” said Sullivan.
I was never very good at getting along with people. At least not according to ordinary rules of engagement. I used to tell myself I was too busy to attend to the relentless clamor and clatter of human interaction. To indulge the compulsive infantilism of the emotionally needy, the indignation of the disenfranchised, the crafty connivers and brainless bullies. Or even the sainted ones, the selfless and thoughtful. I only wanted to know the people I already knew. Those I loved. Loved so completely no surplus attention was available to divert to other purposes.
You can’t call it a philosophy because the word implies forethought, deliberation. It was just the way I was, which I didn’t understand entirely until it all tumbled and fell. Or, more accurately, disintegrated before my eyes.
“How those eggs going down?” I asked him.
“Like butter through a goose.”
“Good. Keep chewing so I can tell you what else I’m thinking.”
He took another mouthful and nodded.
“One of Jonathan’s clients was Ivor Fleming.” Sullivan’s eyes registered the name, but I kept talking. “For whatever reason, it looks like he’s only one of two clients unhappy with Jonathan’s investment advice. Unless you count his brother, though that’s a different kind of thing.”
“Fleming’s got a lot of juice, or so they say. Never had a twitch out of him since he moved into Sagaponack. You’d never know he was there. Not that guys like that are big on
high profiles. I can find out easy enough from the boys up island. Who’s the other unhappy one?”
“Joyce Whithers.”
“Well, there’s a big surprise. Owns the Silver Spoon, which makes sense since she was born with one crammed up her ass. I heard she called 911 over a guy bucking his check. Has to replace all the waiters and bartenders every season. Nobody ll work for her. Pays cash for everything ’cause she’s stiffed every supplier from here to Brooklyn. I never understood why the ones who got it all can just stick it to somebody who’s actually working for a living. Shit like that really works me up.”
“Have another bite of eggs. Cholesterol has a calming effect.”
“Yeah? Never knew that. What about the brother?”
“I don’t know. I’ve only talked to Fleming.”
“And?”
I told him about my visit to Fleming’s house in Saga-ponack. The only thing I left out was the iced tea. Too damaging to my credibility.
“Shit, Sam, should we be liking this guy?”
“Maybe. I don’t put a lot of stock in reputations. Just because he’s got some dumb punks working for him. I knew a lot people like that in the Bronx. Liked to play the part, push people around. Makes it easier to get a table at the Knuckle Buster Bistro on Saturday night. The real ones you don’t know about unless you’re inside. But I wonder about him.”
“I’ll see what they say up island. Not a lot about him in the case files.”
“Yeah. I read that—air-tight alibi. Which is one reason I wonder about him. You wanted an angle on Mrs. Eldridge, but I think you’re better looking at Fleming. He seemed to
think I was trying to peddle him something. I thought at the time he meant Jonathan’s business. But maybe there’s something else. You could apply a little heat, see what cooks.”
“I like that. Gives me something.”
“Just
tenga cuidado.”
“Huh?”
“That’s Spanish for watch your ass. Don’t underestimate him, or his meatballs.”
“Nobody’s stupid enough to mess with a cop.”
“Right. And keep your elbow up with that right. You’re just tiring yourself out without really hurting the other guy.”
Sullivan sopped up the rest of his grease-sodden eggs with the crust of a piece of toast and stuck it in his mouth. Then he made a gesture most people even outside of New York would understand.
“Yeah, and this is Irish for who gives a fuck.”
—
“I want to start over,” said Amanda, speaking through the screen door and looking down at Eddie, who was trying to push it open with his nose. I let her in and poured her a cup of coffee and one for myself while she scrunched around with Eddie’s ears. It was late morning and I was just back from helping Frank estimate a new job. She was wearing an oversized men’s dress shirt over a white bikini. I could smell freshly applied suntan lotion.
“Okay” I said, and led her out to the screened-in porch. The day was warming up quickly, but at least on the porch we’d have a fighting chance at a little breeze.
“I have a proposal,” she said, blowing across the top of her coffee mug. “Let’s say we just met. I’ve recently moved in next door. I used to work in a bank, but now I don’t have
to, so I’m just hanging around trying to figure out what to do next.”
Eddie jumped up on the daybed where Amanda had settled with her coffee. He wanted her to do that thing again with his ears. I was at the beat-up pine table in the corner where I could keep an eye on her and the Little Peconic at the same time.
“That’s an Oak Point tradition.”
“Exactly. After getting settled in, I managed to strike up a conversation with my reclusive next-door neighbor. They say he’s a hard case, but he talks to me. So we get to hang out a little, keep each other company. Almost like we’ve know each other for a few years.”
“And you’re bribing his dog.”
“Not a difficult task.”
“Okay” I said. “So what do we talk about?”
“Whatever we want. As long as it isn’t emotionally challenging.”
“Like the pennant race,” I offered.
“Or the collapse of the stock market.”
“You’re asking a lot,” I said. “You know how much I love to dwell on painful recollections.”
“I know that. But there’s so much else we can talk about.”
“Like car bombings?”
“That’s entirely up to you,” she said.
She looked at me expectantly. I didn’t know if I really wanted to tell her anything, but I found myself telling her anyway. I always had trouble shutting up around Amanda. Maybe she knew that.
“I have been giving it some thought,” I said.
“Get out of here.”
“You might be curious yourself,” I said.
“I am. I want to know who blew up that man.”
“Jonathan Eldridge. Plus four customers, a waitress and a guy counting the till.”
Eddie had enough with the ear thing. He shook his head and jumped off the daybed. She gave him a little pat on the rump to send him off.
“Any theories?” she asked.
“None they’re sharing with me.”
“Not them. You. What are your theories? And don’t insult me by saying you don’t have any.”
“I think it’s one of his clients. The whole market’s taken a dive. Have to blame somebody. Why not your investment adviser? Especially a solo operator like Eldridge. Unobscured by a big organization. Makes it more personal.”
“But a car bomb? Seems like overkill. Literally.”
“When you kill to make a point, you want the point unambiguous. We’ve certainly learned that by now.”
Amanda thought about it for a minute.
“So it should be easy,” she said. “Just grill all his clients.”
“You working the case?”
“No. Are you?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it.
“Don’t try to Dan Rather me, Mrs. Battiston.”
“Miss Anselma as of two weeks ago. Mr. Acquillo.”
I took another sip of my coffee to buy time. For over twenty years I’d have conversations with Abby that always left me feeling hollow and unfulfilled. I think because she never quite understood what I was talking about. Or she’d leap to interpretations that had no basis in what I was trying to say.
So after a while, I just gave it up. Somehow after that I lost the facility for communicating with other people, especially women. I thought forever, until I met Amanda. Now there she was, back sitting on my screened-in porch, raising new questions about natural affinities, affection and trust.
“Yes,” I heard myself saying, “it should be easy to figure out, but it’s not. Anyone capable of a hit that flagrant, and sophisticated, probably knew it was completely untraceable.”
“You know this?”
“Just a guess. But I do wonder about one of the clients. You might know him.”
“From the bank?
“From the bank. Ivor Fleming.”
“Don’t know him from the bank. Heard of him from my real-estate buddies. Overpaid for a place in Sagaponack.”
“Overpaid?”
“I sound like a gossip.”
“Overpaid how?”
“The rap was he wanted to keep a low profile. No disputes, no ripples. Just walked in, plunked down the cash and moved in.”
“The rap?”
“Real-estate talk,” she said, cocking her head at me in the condescending way you do with a child. Or a tourist.
“The house is tucked well out of view. Flag lot,” I said.
“Right. Low profile.”
“Does the gossip say why?”
“He’s a gangster.”
“Of course.”
“Has a business, buying old junk cars or something. Right. Pure front. Has to be a gangster.”
“You’ve thought about this.”
“I didn’t know he was Eldridge’s client. Anyway, you asked.”
“I did. Maybe you know another client. Butch Ellington.”
She’d been leaning out from the wall as we talked about Ivor Fleming. Now she dropped back and shooed me away with her hand.
“Oh, Butch. Absolutely. Love Butch.”
“Love Butch?”
“He’s a hoot. Crazy artist. The definition thereof.”
“From the bank?”
“Definitely from the bank. I was Dione’s personal banker.”