Ed Lacy - Shakedown for Murder

“Keep still, Andy. Matt, you didn't start this horrid rumor?”

“Isn't a rumor, but murder. I told you this morning that hit-and-run business didn't rest right with me. Newspapers to the contrary, most people aren't hit-and-run drivers. At least the guy would have stopped and....”

“Guy?” Bessie asked, opening the car door for us. “We women drive, too, remember?”

“.... slowed down, even if he didn't stop. Once he saw the wrecked car, knew he wouldn't be blamed for hitting the doc, he certainly would have reported it.”

Driving away Bessie said, “A murder in End Harbor, in this quiet little village... Matt, are you positive?”

“Let's put it this way: Certain factors point to murder, and until they're investigated and explained, the case should be handled as a homicide.”

“Tell Mom about the door locks,” Andy called out from the back seat. “Grandpa, how many killings you been on?”

“None.”

His “Oh” oozed with disappointment.

Bessie's knee nudged mine and she made a waving motion with her little finger. Andy must have been watching her in the windshield mirror, for he asked, “Who you telling to shut up, Mom?”

“Nobody, mister big eyes and ears. I don't like all this murder talk. I don't want to hear another word about it —especially from you.”

“Can I ask Grandpa one last question?”

“Go ahead. Lord, you should have heard the way the gossip spread through the supermarket. An absolute stranger, a woman, came up and whispered it to me as if....”

“You said I could ask the question,” Andy cut in. “Grandpa, when are you going to catch the killer?”

“Andy, all I plan to catch is some sleep. I'm on vacation.” I tried to change the subject. “Clouds seem to be lifting; don't you want to try your spinning reel?”

“Sure, but I thought....”

“Andy, police work is exactly that—work. I merely put my two cents in because I didn't like the way that young cop was pushing you around. We'll let the End Harbor police do their own work. You and I are going to pack a few sandwiches, take our lines and see what's in the bay.”

Bessie groaned. “Don't know where my head is, I forgot bread. We'll stop at Tony's.”

She drew up before a small store and I said, “I'll get the bread.” A beefy young man was leaning across the counter, looking bored. He straightened up slowly when he saw me, said, “Now that you're here, I know it's summer.”

“What? Let me have a loaf of whole wheat.”

“Yes, sir. And what else?”

“That's all. Give me a couple cans of beer, any brand.”

He looked bored again as he got the beer. “Tell you, mister, business ain't worth getting out of bed for these days. It's after nine and I just broke the ice with you. That goddamn supermarket is squeezing out every merchant. My folks made a good living from this store as far back as I can recall but now... big chains put the whole town on its back. Oh, they give jobs to a few people, bat they drain all the money out, spend it elsewhere and.... Sorry, didn't mean to cry on your shoulder. Suppose you heard about Doc Barnes' accident? Now I hear some state trooper says it's a murder. Gives you the creeps.”

“Murder always does,” I said, paying and taking my bag.

Reaching the cottage, Bessie found Matty sleeping on the couch. When she pushed him off, the cat arched his back and spat at her. “Give me any back talk, you fat tom, and you'll be crab bait. Andy, go down to the Johnsons' and borrow their oars.”

“You bet,” the boy said, dashing out.

As I helped Bessie put things away she told me, “Matt, I don't like all this murder talk around Andy. He sees enough violence on TV. Thank God he's getting a summer off from that.”

“Don't shield him too much, this is a pretty violent world.”

“Matt, you're not taking part in this... murder, are you?”

“Hell, no. It's none of my business. Technically I am a peace officer but I only opened my yap to show off for Andy, I suppose. The local cop was a young snot.”

“Let's not talk about it in front of Andy. And don't let him horse you into rowing way out—the weather can change fast here. And take it easy rowing, you've done enough grandstanding for one day.”

I patted her cheek. “Since when did you become such a worry bug? Matter of fact, I don't intend to touch the oars; about time Andy got rid of his baby fat. He's growing up fine, Bessie.”

“Of course. It's been fourteen months since my miscarriage. We're trying hard for another child.”

“Don't worry about it. If it happens, it happens. And if it doesn't—you have Andy. Martha and I had two kids within three years and after that, nothing.”

“It isn't a fixation with me, or anything. But I do so want a girl. Would you like to play bridge tonight? I can ask John Preston over.”

“I don't care. Better make it tomorrow night, I didn't sleep much last night. Guess I'll get into my trunks.”

“Take pants along, in case the sun comes out and cooks that pale skin of yours.”

I changed while she made lunch. Then I fed Matty and cleaned out his box, stretched out for a snooze just as Andy returned with the oars. He got his fishing tackle together, including a pair of old metal binoculars. I picked them up, hung them around my neck.

Andy said, “Dad's letting me use them this summer. They're powerful.”

“I know.” They were good glasses, cost five dollars— back in 1929 when Martha gave them to me for Christmas. I gave them to Danny on his sixteenth birthday. Now Andy had 'em. It gave me a happy warm feeling—and made me feel old.

I carried the oars and the lunch while Andy took the fishing gear. As we walked to the beach he asked, “Grandpa, why do people kill each other?”

“Because we haven't learned to control our anger, I suppose. We're all under tensions which....”

“What's tensions mean, Grandpa?”

“I thought I told you to call me Matt?”

“Mama says not to. What's tensions?”

“Oh... people worry too much,” I said, wondering what I'd started. “They worry about a job, money, even clams. Then maybe they start fighting and one party gets so angry he doesn't realize what he's doing, swings the clam rake... and the other man is dead. Or two countries start shouting over a boat or something, and then there's war. Remember, never let your anger master you. These glass rods any good?” I asked, changing the subject with a clumsy hand.

He was a true fishing nut, talked rods and reels all the way to the beach. I hoped he would outgrow that soon, I've always found guys who go in for a lot of fishing gear to be bull artists—and not just about fish, either.

In the light of morning, even a dull one, the bay seemed far prettier than last night. It was a large rough circle of water opening on the Sound, or maybe the ocean. Andy started swimming out to get the rowboat. While I didn't want to get wet, I couldn't let him swim alone. The damn water was still ice cold. When we got the boat ashore, Andy wanted to empty some of the water and I almost broke my back tipping the heavy tub. We finally pushed off, and to my surprise the boy rowed well. As I lit my pipe the sun came out for a spell. I examined some of the anchored yachts through the glasses, and if it wasn't for my damp trunks, I would have enjoyed things.

Dropping anchor outside the breakwater, we got our hooks over. Fishing wasn't exactly a success. Not only didn't we catch anything but Andy's spinning reel wouldn't work. The fish kept eating my bait without my feeling a bite. I realized I was getting a burn and put on my pants and shirt. I didn't have to worry about the kid, he was brown as coffee. He was upset over the reel. I tried to monkey with it but mechanical gadgets are always over my noggin. I gave it up, asked if he wanted a sandwich. He pointed at the remains of a rotting dock, told me, “Pops usually fishes there. The reel was working for him yesterday. You should have seen him cast with it—sent it out a mile.”