He looked relieved.
“Talking’s okay.”
“Not accusing anybody.”
“Accusations, not okay.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t talk to you once in a while so somebody other than me knows what I’m thinking. Even if it’s nuts.”
“Like I said, talking’s okay.”
“Like getting an autopsy report. No big deal.”
He made a noise and stood up.
“Okay. Jesus, what a pain in the ass,” he said as he walked away, trying to maintain a little obstinacy, keeping the narrow, ill-fed portions of his mind in reserve. The cloud cover broke at about the same instant, and the sun tossed a few splashes of brilliance on the sidewalk to help light his path back to the cruiser.
I spent the late afternoon and evening at the Pequot. I thought it would help me think. Or, better yet, not think at all.
That’d been my plan, if you could call it that, when I moved into my parents’ house. I didn’t have anywhere else to go, or anything else to do. Or, rather, I didn’t want to do anything else. I was expected to find another job, which I probably could have done. Some type of job. I still had a good name in the industry. Outside the management of my own company. Abby had kept me somewhat involved in professional organizations, and in contact with people who could help my career, in her opinion. But I let those contacts lapse.
The divorce from Abby was a sleepwalk. My terms were so generous her lawyer really had nothing to do until I gutted our house, which got things a little livelier. If I’d tried to get work at that point, it might have been harder, but I still had a few friends around the business. They took it on themselves to try on my behalf, but I kept my head down until they went away. I started to really like wearing blue jeans and sweatshirts every day. And once I got to Southampton, all the old links just evaporated. I calculated how long I could live on whatever money was left after the carnage and figured if I kept down expenses I’d almost make it to early retirement age. Or, with a little luck, I’d be dead by then.
Now, four years into it and for the first time I didn’t like the mood I was working myself into. I was getting nervy. It was messing up my sleep, nagging at me in the middle of the night.
Dotty Hodges had the old place under control. She wore a tight T-shirt that rode up above her belly and matched her raven-black hair. Her jeans were cut like pedal pushers, and accentuated a clunky pair of yellow- stitched Doc Martens and blue and white horizontally striped socks.
I ordered the fish of the day without further inquiry and pulled out good old Tocqueville to give it another try. I had a rule not to quit a book after I started it, no matter how daunting it got.
The fish took a long time, but it was delivered by the chef.
“It’s the baked.”
“Great.”
He let me take a few bites of the fish before interrupting.
“That Miss Filmore’s a hard on, isn’t she?”
“I don’t think I made her happy.”
“It’s like her little empire. Likes to keep things under control.”
“Always been there?”
“Nah, I’ve been through a bunch of directors. Used to be all volunteer till the widow of a guy who’d cashed out his potato farm left money for a professional staff. It’s a good place, though, Sam. Don’t take a broad like Filmore too seriously.”
I got in a few more mouthfuls while he talked. Dotty brought him a beer and refilled my glass.
“Didn’t learn much,” I said.
“I called a few people I know from over there. They’ll ask around. Never know.”
“Thanks, Mr. Hodges,” I told him, pleased.
“Paul.”
“Paul.”
“You spooked her with that thing about recent deaths.”
“Didn’t mean to.”
“She thought you were Social Services heat.”
“Nope. Just nosy.”
He took some time out to drink his beer and let me finish my meal. Dotty swept up the plates the moment I put down my fork and recharged our drinks. It struck me she liked seeing her father talk to somebody. That it was me showed how out of touch with people Hodges probably was. Would’ve given my own daughter a good laugh.
“I did find out a few things, though” said Hodges. “I was hoping you’d come in so I could tell you.”
“Really.”
“Regina and Mrs. Anselma hated each other’s guts. It was like a blood feud, some thought, only way below the surface. You know, act all civil with each other, but the air’s filled with little invisible daggers.”
“That fits.”
“It fits with Broadhurst, but Mrs. Anselma wasn’t that way. A sweet lady, refined. You know, maybe a little higher class, but everybody liked her. Never had a bad word for nobody but Regina, who she’d stick it to whenever she got the chance.”
“Raised a daughter on her own.”
Hodges was warming to his subject.
“Yeah, well, that’s the other interesting thing. No dad in the picture. Ever. Back then this wasn’t something that went unnoticed. But Mrs. Anselma was such a class act nobody’d talk her down, though it sorta hung around her all the time.”
“Amanda. The daughter. Married Roy Battiston.”
“I knew most of the Battistons. Lowlifes.”
“You think?”
He raised his hand.
“Just an opinion. Shouldn’t say that kind of thing about people.” He glanced over at Dotty. “I just never liked them much. Used to be a passel of them livin’ year round in an old summer colony in Noyac. All the houses up on cinder blocks. Shacks is what they were.”
“Roy runs the local Harbor Trust.”
“No shit. Must’ve got the brains in the family.”
“Must’ve,” I agreed. “So you knew him.”
“Yeah, though mostly his family. I crewed with his uncle and grandfather out of Montauk. They were serious hard cases. Only worked off and on. Construction labor. Pumping gas. Cheating County Welfare. Kind of like me, without the style.”
“Amanda said Roy worked his way out of it.”
“Roy didn’t talk much. Big fat serious kid. Looked like a bed-wetter to me. But yeah, hard worker. Stuck to himself. Stayed clear of his grandfather’s backhand. Grandmother was no better. Big-time drunk. Had a huge rosy face—nose full of busted capillaries. Beautiful people.”
“Including his mother?”
“Oh yeah, Judy Battiston. Worked at the Anchorage for years. Another drinker. Anybody that could stand her could take her home. Ended up at the 7-Eleven. Pretty sad.”
Hodges waited a moment before adding, “Now they’re all dead.”
“Who?”
“The Battistons. The whole clan. Including his mother. Everybody but Roy.”
He had to leave after that to look after the other customers. I was able to concentrate on forgetting about everything but my vodka and Alexis de Tocqueville, who was having a great time boppin’ around the old U.S. I guess I could see some relevance to the country that’s here now, but a lot of it seemed alien. I wondered if he ever made
