Off Season (9 page)

Until Bob blew in, in ‘91, we hadn't had much in the way of hurricanes on the Vineyard for several
years, so there was considerable discussion about this one between those who figured that since we'd only had Bob lately, we probably wouldn't get this one either, and those who figured that since we'd only had Bob lately, the law of averages said that we should be getting one and that maybe this was it.

Mimi Bettencourt was with the first group and Nash Cortez, as soon as he learned this, was loudly a member of the second.

“What's a damn off-island woman know about it, anyway?” he liked to ask anyone who was nearby.

I happened to be nearby one day. It was one of those sharp, clear, late fall days when the water is dark blue and Cape Cod looms at you across the Sound, dancing on a layer of air between it and the water. We were on the beach at the end of Fuller Street wading on the flats outside of the lighthouse. Nash was dipnetting for his family bushel and I was just strolling around with my Buck Rogers, checking out the size and number of the scallops there, in case Dave Mello and I ran short of them in Cape Pogue Pond, where we'd been dragging since the commercial season had opened. You can't know too much about where the scallops are, after all.

“Doesn't look much like hurricane weather to me, Nash,” I said, waving an arm in a gesture that took in the bright sky and water and everything else in sight.

“You're a damned off islander yourself,” said Nash. “What do you know about it?”

It was true that I was an off islander. To be an islander, you had to be born there. Some said that your parents had to have been born there, too. I had been born in America, over on the mainland, and thus would never really be an islander, no matter how long I lived on the Vineyard. I figured that Nash's people
must have been islanders for at least a couple of hundred years.

I said, “I know that when a hurricane tracks up toward Bermuda, it goes out to sea and never gets close to New England.”

“Doesn't mean a damn thing. Hurricanes do what they want to do. Remember that one back in—when was it, fifty-four?—that looped out to sea, then came back in again and tore things up? They're like women. You never know. That's why they used to name them after women before these women's rights people raised a stink about it.”

I wasn't even alive in 1954, so I didn't remember the looping hurricane. “You're just hoping it'll bring some bad weather with it up the coast so you won't have to go bow hunting this week.”

“No sir, we're gonna get a real blow. You mark my words. A real blow.” He emptied his net into his heaping basket, then shook the load down. He was one of those guys who stacked his basket as full as he could get away with.

I was about through with my explorations when he had his basket piled to his satisfaction, so I waded ashore with him, got hold of one handle of the basket and helped him carry it across the little bridge and up to his pickup, which was parked beside my old Toyota Land Cruiser at the end of the street.

“Come on by for coffee,” he said. “Damned house is empty since the cat ran off and never came back.”

That sounded good, so I followed him to his house and helped him put the scallops out back in his garage, where he could open them later. It was sunny and comfortable, a good day for opening scallops.

Nash's house was neat and still showed his late wife's hand in its decor. Her curtains were still in the
windows, her lace still decorated the arms of the overstuffed chairs in the sunny living room, her collection of china knickknacks still lay in their glass-fronted cabinet across from the fireplace.

Nash had a coffee maker, and pretty soon we had cups of strong brew in front of us on the kitchen table. Nash found some day-old doughnuts to go with them. Not a bad meal.

“Lot of guys out with commercial licenses,” he observed, sitting down across from me. “Must be good dragging.”

“There are always a lot of guys out there while the picking's easy. When you have to actually work for your limit, there are a lot fewer boats.”

“True enough,” he nodded. “If I was a young guy trying to make a living down here, that's the way I'd do it. I'd scallop as long as I could get my limit quick and get back ashore to do my normal work. Big jump in my income. When scalloping began to cut too deep into my other work, I'd give it up.”

I nodded.

“Depends on the price of scallops, of course,” he went on. “The higher the price, the longer I'd stay out there. Common sense. How'd you know I was going bow hunting?”

“I figured you'd do it just to be ornery.”

The corner of his mouth flicked up and then down again. “Can't stand those animal rights types. Jesus, pretty soon you won't even be able to swat bugs! What's the world coming to? Women's rights, animal rights, these rights, those rights! I tell you, J.W., pretty soon the rest of us won't have any rights left at all.”

“Oh, I don't know,” I said. “I want women to have any rights that I have.”

“Don't rile me, now. You don't rile a man when you're drinking his coffee.”

“You don't look too riled to me. As I remember Joan, she and you didn't play slave and master.”

His wife had been dead for several years, but even now Nash's eyes seemed to sadden for a moment when I mentioned her name. Then he gave a little shake of his head, and grinned. “Well, Joanie wasn't any ordinary woman, remember. She was special. Did you know that we left out that obey part when we got hitched? Now'days everybody's doing that, I guess, but back then it was pretty rare. Had to talk the priest into it. Joanie's idea, and it seemed all right to me. Later on there were a couple of times that I sort of wished we'd left it in, Joanie being strong-minded like she was, but . . .” He sipped his coffee. “But these animal people, they're something else. They're like those crazy tree people I read about out west. Want to save the trees, so they blow up sawmills and burn down offices, and like that. Pour sand into people's Caterpillar tractors and wreck the engines! Why, I just read about some rancher got thirty of his cows shot dead by somebody who doesn't think he should be grazing them on government property! Damn dirt and trees and wild animals are more important to these people than people are, for God's sake! Nuts! All of them!”

There was a knock on the front door. Nash yelled, “Come on in!”

But no one came. Grunting, Nash got up and disappeared toward the front of the house. A moment later I heard a muttering of voices. Then I heard Nash's voice rise angrily, and could catch his words.

“Oh, he doesn't, eh? Well, tell him that if he doesn't like it, to keep those women home where they belong!”

Low, indistinct speech, then Nash's angry voice again:

“Is that a fact? And just what's he plan on doing about it? This is a free goddamn country, and I'll say what I think and do what I want to do when and where I want to!”

More muttering. I stared at my coffee cup and shook my head. Nash was at it again. He was making enemies faster than any man needed to, I thought.

Then I heard a sodden sound from the living room. A piece of glass shattered and a weight thudded against the floor, causing the coffee in my cup to vibrate. I heard a groan as I was going out toward the front of the house.

I came into the living room and saw Nash on the floor. There was blood on his lip and he was trying vaguely to get up. Beyond him the end table on the far side of his sofa was overturned, and there were broken pieces of china on the rug. I remembered a figurine that had stood on the end table. One of Joan's collected works. Beyond the broken china, just inside the front door, stood a lean, pale-faced man about my age. As I came into the room, he looked up at me and frowned. He wore neat but nondescript clothes. His hands hung by his sides. He wore black gloves. I had seen gloves like that before, when I was a cop in Boston. In fact, I had seen the man before.

“Joey Percell,” I said. “You're a long way from home. I heard that after they kicked you off the Boston P.D. you found a job in Providence, working for the mob. What are you doing down here on the Vineyard this time of year?” I gestured toward Nash, who was trying, in slow motion, to make his arms and legs work. “I can see you're not here on vacation.”

He stared at me, trying to remember my face.

“I was just coming on the force when you were leaving,” I said. “I doubt if you remember me. But I remember you. Tough guy. Liked those gloves with powdered lead on the knuckles. Good for knocking people around and not leaving much in the way of marks. I see you still favor them.”

“Who are you? I thought this poor sap lived alone.”

“You're the sap. You just assaulted a man in his own house. Now your lawyer's going to have to bail you out of jail, and your name will be in the papers. Your boss is not going to be happy, Joey.”

Percell made a fist out of his right hand and smiled at me. “As your friend on the floor asked me a minute ago, is that a fact?”

He didn't look frightened.

I walked across to the fireplace and picked up the poker. “I don't happen to have my pistol on me, or I could just shoot you where you stand,” I said. I hefted the poker. “I don't have a baton, either, but I think this will do.”

Percell looked a little less comfortable. “Wait a minute,” he said, holding up an open, gloved left hand.

“We can do this with trouble or without,” I said. “it's up to you.”

He glanced behind him. Through the window I could see a car at the curb. It had Rhode Island plates.

“This is Martha's Vineyard,” I said. “Even if you get to the car, you can't go anywhere. It's not like home. There's water all around you. And we've got more police forces on this island than you can count. Sit down while I call the local cops.”

“Who the hell
are
you?”

“My name's Jackson. Sit down.”

He unbuttoned his jacket with his left hand. “I've
had enough of you,” he said. “Put down that goddamned poker before I blow a hole in you.”

I took the poker in both hands and stepped toward him. “I'm scared stiff,” I said. “I don't think you've got a gun, but if you do, you'd better haul it out, because I'm about to break both of your arms.”

He stepped back. “Wait a minute.”

But I kept coming.

“All right,” he said. He moved to the couch and sat down. His face registered annoyance.

Nash had rolled over and was trying in a punchdrunk way to get up onto his hands and knees. Having been knocked silly a couple of times myself, I knew how he felt. You didn't hurt, but your head was ringing and your body seemed far away and out of your control.

“Look,” said Percell, “maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I owe this man an apology. I think I do.”

Nash was up on his hands and knees, looking as if he was made out of rubber.

“You made a mistake, all right.” I picked up the telephone, called 911 and gave my message. Then I pointed my poker at Percell. “Leave your gloves on. I want the cops to see them, so they'll know what kind of a guy they've got on their hands.”

Nash looked up at me, focused and looked some more. Then he bent his head and threw up on the rug.

Percell leaned forward. “When you have the rug cleaned, Mr. Cortez, send me the bill. You're going to be fine, sir. Awfully sorry about this. Let's settle this thing. No hard feelings, eh? Why cause trouble when we don't need to? You know what I mean, Mr. Cortez?”

Nash looked at him.

“Hey, I'm really sorry,” said Percell, leaning toward him. “I was wrong, and I apologize. What do you say? A hundred bucks and we call it square.” Then he gestured at his own chin and put a grin on his face. “Or you can take a swing at me, too. A swing and a hundred. What do you say?”

Nash's eyes glazed and he fell in his own vomit and lay there.

“You pack a good punch,” I said. “You had it back in Boston and you still have it.”

I heard sirens. Percell studied me with cold, irked eyes. “I think I can take you,” he said.

“We have about one minute to find out,” I said, as the sirens grew louder.

His face made me think of a snake. His head thrust out of his shoulders like the head of a coiled rattler. I tightened my hands on the poker. Then, having changed his mind, he settled back.

“Later,” he said.

Two squad cars pulled up outside and four policemen, including Tony D'Agostine, got out. I went to the door and waved them inside. I told them my story while two of them worked on Nash.

When I was through with my tale, they looked at Percell.

“He's lying,” said Percell.

“I like your gloves,” said Tony D'Agostine, getting out his cuffs. “Put your hands behind you, please. Mark, take Nash up to the emergency ward and make sure he's okay. Nash, you okay?”

Nash looked vaguely at him. When you're hit just right, it takes a long time to get your brain working again. Sometimes you never do. I thought it might be hard to tell with Nash.

Tony and another cop took Percell and led him out
to their car. Two other cops took Nash off to the hospital.

I put the poker away, cleaned up Nash's vomit and straightened up the living room, washed up the coffee stuff and went out to the garage. I opened Nash's scallops and put them in his refrigerator, then went home and called the hospital.

Nash was being held overnight. I could see him in the morning.

It was barely noon, and already I'd had a full day.

Down at the county jail, Joey Percell made his phone call and went to his cell. About the time Nash was getting out of the hospital the next morning, Joey's lawyer had showed up in Edgartown, bailed him out, and Joey was headed back to America.

I had thought that sooner or later somebody might take a swing at Nash Cortez, but I'd never guessed that it might be someone like Joey Percell. Why was the Providence mob mad at Nash Cortez? I thought I'd ask him, as soon as his brain stopped spinning, if it ever did.