Chapter 7
Mid-morning on Friday and the beach was already starting to fill up. Dan Marlowe was walking north on Ocean Boulevard on his way to work. Occasionally he had to step off the sidewalk and weave around people; it was that crowded. The sun shone hot and bright and he was feeling pretty good, considering.
Enough time had passed since the murders down at the jetty that they weren't the only topic of conversation among the regulars at the bar anymore. And that was all right with Dan, he was sick of hearing about it anyway.
When he arrived at the High Tide, Dan went through the motions getting the bar ready for the day. Shamrock wasn't about, but a couple of the waitresses were setting up the tables over in the restaurant side of the building. He could see the waitresses moving around on the other side of the shoulder-high partition. He made small talk each time they got close enough while doing their setups. And he felt like he was forcing himself to even do that, his heart sure wasn't in it. He'd do okay for a couple of minutes or so, but then his mind would drift back to the same thing it always did–his wife and kids. The waitresses knew the score–he used to be their boss, after all–but they didn't bring it up. They weren't the kind to kick him when he was down, a fact he was definitely thankful for.
Dan was making the cash banks for the waitresses when he heard someone call his name. He'd already let in a couple of regulars, so when he looked up from the cups he was filling with bills and change, he expected to see one of them waving their beer glass for a refill. But it wasn't one of the customers at the bar.
Two men stood just inside the front door. Cops, by the look of them. In fact, Dan would've chugged a fifth of Seagram’s if the pair turned out not to be cops. Both stood over six feet tall, a bit on the stocky side, sporting shades you could see your reflection in. They both had on short-sleeve sport shirts and ties. Only plainclothes cops and real estate agents wore ties at the beach in the summer. He closed the cash register. "Can I help you?"
"We'd like to talk to you for a minute," the older one with the gray hair said, flashing a badge too fast for Dan to make out. His tone of voice didn't sound like he was asking either. "Outside." He nodded toward the door.
Dan called to one of the waitresses behind the partition. "If Dianne comes in, tell her I'll be right back," he said, referring to the owner. "I have to step out for a second."
The two cops walked outside. Dan started to follow. As he passed the customer side of the bar, Paulie, a long-haired retired mailman nursing a beer, grabbed Dan's arm.
"Be careful," Paulie whispered. "That's Plainview Bartolo, a state cop."
Dan pulled his arm free from Paulie's grip and gave a tight smile. "Thanks for the heads up."
Dan shoved through the front door and nodded at the two cops waiting outside. When they saw Dan they resumed walking. He followed them around the corner to the rear of the High Tide where there was no one to hear their conversation.
"I'm Lieutenant Conover and this is Sergeant Bartolo," the older cop said, jerking his thumb toward his dark-haired companion. Bartolo stood there not saying a word, a real tough guy look on his face. Dan knew even before the introduction that he had to be the one Paulie had referred to as "Plainview."
"New Hampshire State Police," Conover added.
Dan nodded. His stomach felt like it had an ulcer in the making.
"We'd like you to tell us everything you know about Michael Kelly," Conover said in a businesslike tone.
"Who?"
"Come on, come on," Bartolo suddenly said. "Don't fuck around with us. Kelly. Shamrock Kelly."
For a moment Dan hadn't realized that they were talking about Shamrock. It was rare that anyone used the Irishman's real name.
"I don't know much," Dan said warily. "Why?"
"Never mind fucking why,” Bartolo growled. "What do you know about him?"
Dan didn't like this a bit. He had no idea what was going on, but it didn't sound good for Shamrock. So he decided not to give them any information they probably didn't already have. "He's the dishwasher and maintenance man at the restaurant."
Bartolo suddenly shoved his face close to Dan's. So close Dan could smell the coffee and cigarettes the man had for breakfast still lingering on his breath.
"What are you, a smartass?" Bartolo said through clenched teeth. "There are two dead people and we think this Shamrock buddy of yours is involved. We know he's a goddamn dishwasher. Tell us something we don't know. Like why the hell a dishwasher's telling certain people he's got a lot of cocaine to sell?"
"Shamrock?" Slowly the puzzle began to slip into place. Shamrock hadn't been trying to get Dan to talk about the past this morning. The Irishman had been talking about the future–a future that suddenly looked pretty dicey if Dan was doing his math right.
"You got wax in your ears?" Bartolo said. "Tell us what you know or you're going down for withholding information."
"Shamrock's never said a word to me about having any coke." Not exactly the truth, but close enough. Dan forced himself to look the detective in the eye.
"Bullshit," Bartolo said. "Word on the street is that you two are closer than gum on shoe leather."
The cop was fishing, Dan was almost certain of it. Didn't make all this questioning any easier on his nerves. "Look, I told you what I know. Yeah, I work with the guy. I guess you could say we're friends. Work friends. But when work is done, we both go our separate ways."
"I don't believe you," Bartolo said, sticking his thick index finger into Dan's chest. "You're involved in this thing, and you're going to tell us what you know. Otherwise, we're gonna bust your ass from here to Kingdom Come. How's obstruction of justice sound? And that's just for starters." The last few words were emphasized with hard pokes to Dan's chest.
"Keep your finger to yourself," Dan said. "Or you'll be wearing it in a cast."
"And you'll be wearing an 'assault and battery on a police officer' charge. I'd love to have that leverage on you, punk."
"Screw you."
"Why, you little asshole." Bartolo lunged towards Dan.
Dan tensed, but just before Bartolo got a chance to strike, Conover stepped between them. The older cop grabbed Bartolo by the shoulders and told him to cool down. Dan had seen this routine a few times on the Late Show but he was glad to see it again, especially now.
Finally Conover got his hot-headed partner under control. He told Bartolo to wait back at their car. Bartolo glared at Dan, leaving behind the impression that Dan definitely hadn't made a new friend here today.
No problem there. Dan had never been one to make friends easily.
After Bartolo stalked away, Conover turned back to Dan. "He can cause you a lot of trouble. I could probably convince him otherwise, but you've got to give me something."
Dan waited. No use saying anything more until he heard what the cop had in mind.
"We know this Shamrock character's trying to move a lot of cocaine," Conover continued. "Coke that was probably ripped off during those murders down at the harbor. Doesn't sound like he's smart enough to do all of that himself. Somebody else a little more savvy has to be in with him. You look like a good candidate: You lost your business due to your coke problem; Kelly works with you. The way my partner has it figured is that you're trying to get that business back by moving one big load of stuff. I haven't decided yet if my partner is right. I'm leaving it up to you to convince me otherwise."
Conover stared hard at Dan for a long moment. "You know we can make things real warm for you, buddy. Shut down whatever action you got going on for yourself. Matter of fact, we plan to make it real uncomfortable for every dealer on the seacoast until we wrap this thing up."
Dan couldn't believe what he was hearing. Dealer? Did they really think he was dealing coke? "I haven't touched that stuff for a long time, for Chrissake," he said. "And there is no action." Somehow he didn't sound convincing even to himself.
; "Sure," Conover said. He gave Dan the once-over, like he was measuring him for a prison jumpsuit. "Once a junkie, always a junkie."
Unfortunately for Dan the man looked like he believed it. And this was the more reasonable cop?
"I don't care what you believe," Dan said. "But I'm telling you, I'm clean. Haven't touched the stuff in a long time."
"One thing about junkies that always stays the same. They're always innocent. Doesn't matter if you catch a guy with a needle in his arm or snow all over his nose. You're gonna have to prove yourself to me, you hear? Give us something, something we don't already know–like where your buddy was when the bullets started flying or where he stashed the coke–and maybe, just maybe, I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." Conover turned like he was going to leave, then turned back. "Otherwise, we'll have no choice but to assume you're more than just a bartender. Know what I mean?"
Yeah, Dan knew what the man meant. Made him sick to his stomach. This clown was going to use Dan's past to justify what? Harassing him? Or worse, have his pal "Plainview" plant something on him? Hell, Dan wasn't a kid. He'd been around a while and he was anything but naive. He knew what was possible when the cops wanted somebody bad. Nailing a double murderer in New Hampshire would definitely make their day.
Once again Dan was in trouble up to his neck. If Sharon could see him now, she'd nod her head in that I-told-you-so way that always made him feel like he was at fault no matter what the circumstances.
He had to be careful. Wouldn't be good to antagonize this cop. Not now. So all Dan said was, "Yeah, I know what you mean."
"Good," Conover said. He took a business card from his shirt pocket and handed it to Dan. "When you got something, call. But you better make it quick, for your own sake."
Dan shoved the card into his jeans pocket and nodded. He watched as Conover turned and walked up the side street back to Ocean Boulevard and wherever his car and Bartolo were waiting. Dan stayed put until Conover was out of sight, then gave him another minute. By the time Dan worked his way to the main drag the two cops were nowhere in sight.
He should get back to the bar. Instead, Dan found himself gazing across Ocean Boulevard at the water. Clouds had rolled in and there was no sun shining off it now, so the water looked dull. People milled about on the beach and along the boulevard. Across the street, leaning against the gray metal railing that separated the parking lot from the sand, stood a local character everyone called the Bird Man. He was feeding the pigeons just like he did every day. But Bird Man didn't feed pigeons like an ordinary person. He treated the birds like they were his kids, letting the damn things sit on his arms and eat right out of his hands. Dan usually got a chuckle from watching the guy, but today the strange sight didn't even make him smile.
Dan was in big trouble. If he didn't come across with something for this state cop, Conover, the outcome wouldn't be pleasant. One of those Catch 22's. If Dan had known anything, he still wouldn't have told the cops. You just didn't rat. But he didn't have a clue what Shamrock might be up to anyway, which somehow made the whole situation feel worse. Hard to believe that Shamrock would be involved with anything having to do with cocaine. And he definitely wasn't the type to get himself wrapped up in a double murder. Hell, Dan had been around the Irishman long enough to know the man wasn't capable of hurting, let alone killing, another person.
So what the hell was going on?
And more importantly–considering the threats made by Conover and his partner– what would be the repercussions for someone who wasn't even involved. Namely one extremely nervous Dan Marlowe.
No matter what the answers to those questions turned out to be, Dan was still stuck right smack dab in the middle of the mess. And what a mess it was–king-size. Had him worried plenty. He didn't have to be a rocket scientist to know whatever happened wouldn't be good. For anyone involved. Including himself.
He had to do something and quick, but what? He might as well get back behind the bar–a man could think there as well as anywhere else, sometimes even better. It was that kind of work. Besides, the last thing Dan needed now was to lose his job. After all, he didn't have much else left.
Before he turned to go back in, he gave the Bird Man one more glance. The icon stood posed like a scarecrow on the sand with his arms extended out from his sides. And the pigeons? For God's sake, he had one perched on each arm and a third plunked down on his noggin, right on top of a big-billed baseball cap. Seagulls strutted around him on the sand. Dan wondered if he got shit on much and if the man knew pigeons were filthy birds? He shook his head, turned, and headed back to the Tide.
~*~*~