possessed, stopping every few minutes to bark at me where I’d settled into the Adirondacks with a cup of hazelnut, as if insulted by my lack of appreciation for the change in meteorological circumstances.
I’d finished prefabbing the main components of Melinda McCarthy’s garden extravaganza the day before, when it was still hot and humid, but that was all right. The blessed change was part of my reward—deferred compensation. I took advantage of the air to take a run over to Hodges’s boat. The parallel tracks in the sand road that ran along the bay were worn down to the rocky substrate by the summer traffic heading out to the waterside cottages, and now the occasional behemoth crammed into every square inch of building envelope after the original shack had been bulldozed and carted away. I stayed on the grassy median and worried about twisting my ankle. Eddie crisscrossed in front of me, occasionally disappearing into the underbrush to flush out a bird or disrupt the tranquility of the amphibian population.
I could smell breakfast half a mile before we got there. It was the specialty of the house. Some sort of indefinable multicolored protein swirled around a cast iron grill. Though unfortunately mostly all consumed.
Instead he offered up a few chunks of fried chicken hash brought home from the Pequot and the usual bucket of wretched coffee, served in a cracked plastic mug swiped from the Chowder Pot Cafe, Wildwood, NJ.
“Salt and pepper are over there. Season to taste.”
“Not sure the word taste’ applies in this context.”
“Drink plenty of coffee. Takes some of the sting out.”
He took a handful of dog biscuits and threw them into the scrub woods on the other side of the docks, occupying Eddie and the Shih Tzus and giving me a little peace and quiet so I could eat.
After a while, I asked him.
“Say Hodges. You know a guy named Ivor Fleming? Owns a scrap-metal business up island.”
“Don’t know him. Heard of him. Gangster.”
“Everybody but me knows about this guy.”
“Not a made guy. What we used to call a punk. Not connected but runs the same kind of deal. Got his own corner of the market. At least that’s the story. Could be all talk.”
“Whose talk?”
“Guys chartering boats. From up island, Nassau County. Like to chat up the tough stuff. Most of it’s bullshit.”
I told him about my visit to Ivor’s house in Sagaponack. And the escort Ike and Connie gave me off the property. I left out our little dance at the lumberyard.
“Well, shit, Sam, that’s what I’m talking about. Be careful. Guys like that always have something to prove.”
I let it drop at that and concentrated on getting through the over-spiced conglomeration on my paper plate. Hodges watched me attentively.
“If I’d known you were coming I’d have saved some eggs Benedict.”
“Chicken’s great. You can keep your traitorous eggs.”
“If you’re thinking Benedict Arnold, that’s a myth. It was actually a secret recipe of the Benedictines. The monks. The ones in France.”
“I thought they were into brandy.”
“Made it to wash down the eggs.”
The northwesterly breeze, concentrated by the narrow channel that led into the marina, was strong enough to flip Hodges’s baseball cap into the water, which he deftly retrieved with a dock hook. All the sailboats, laying perpendicular to the breeze, were heeled slightly to starboard. Unfettered halyards smacked against the masts, laying down a syncopated rhythm over which a low, steady whistle played through the shrouds and stays. Down in the semi-protection behind the dodger the wind cooled the sweat off my forehead and combed stylish waves into the black-and-white manes of Hodges’s frantic Shih Tzus, who’d rejoined us in the cockpit. Eddie went out to the bow to stare at the water in an effort to conjure up a swan.
“I think that Polish girl’s in a lot better shape,” said Hodges. “She was all over that goofy secret agent.”
“She’s Irish. Ig’s FBI.”
“That’s just my impression, technicalities aside.”
Eddie trotted back down the deck, poking his head through the lifelines to check for infiltration along the freeboard. I tossed a hunk of chicken into the water to see if I could stir up a little action.
“She brought him around again the other night. Said it was his idea, which definitely plays in his favor.”
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
“New customers always welcome.”
“For her. You got all the trade you can handle.”
“True. It’s important to keep at least half the seats available at all times. In case a bus tour comes through.”
The swans didn’t go for the bait, but a family of Canada geese came out of nowhere, snaking along in single file, a string of furry gray-brown goslings bookended by their parents, the showy male in the lead, the female, unadorned but attentive, bringing up the rear. Eddie grumbled and snorted, but was clearly ambivalent about the prize. Like me, he fared poorly with upended expectations.
“How’s her face?” I asked him.
“She’s going in for another round. The last one, supposedly. Somewhere in the City.” He looked at his watch. “Sometime this week if I remember right.”
“Didn’t tell me.”
Hodges arched his oversized eyebrows at me.
“Why would she tell you?”
“I don’t know. Give her a pep talk.”
“Which is why she didn’t tell you.”
“She might even look better when it’s all over with. I could tell her that.”
“Yeah, that’d buck her up.”
I scooped the rest of the chicken off the plate and tossed it at the Canada geese.
“How’s that coffee?” he asked me.
“Still expressing its unique character.”
“The secret’s in the beans.”
“I thought it was the presentation.”
“The fishing crews really go for it. It’s an important topic of conversation around the bar. I try to tell em the principles behind the ideal coffee bean, but I lose them somewhere between soil composition and sub-equatorial temperature oscillation.”
“I can always spot a premium coffee by the inflated price. You might consider that. Goes directly to the bottom line.”
Hodges pursed his lips in thought.
“I’ll take it up with Dotty. She’s the one who buys the shit. God knows where.”
“Or consult Joyce Whithers. I can get you an introduction.”
He looked mildly surprised.
“Isn’t that a little uptown for you, no offense?”
“I’ve been helping with her fig tree.”
“Figs, coffee beans, nobody knows more about food.”
“Really.”
“The price of a meal is about my gross take for the whole weekend, but they say it’s worth it. Can’t testify from personal experience.”
I told him about her connection to Jonathan and Appolonia Eldridge.
“So she’s a friend of Appolonia’s? Hard to imagine,” he said.
“How come?”
“The waitstaff calls her the Queen of Darkness. Apparently isn’t much better with the customers. I’m trying to picture her as somebody’s chum.”
“I think it’s a socioeconomic thing.”
“Could be, though by my lights, a bitch is a bitch.”
