Theses by Frederick Chalmers and O. Winston Chastain were present, but Gretchen's rightful place between them was unfilled. I checked and double checked the Library of Congress number but that was a fruitless ritual: The Brindamoor study was gone.
I went back to Plaid Shirt and had to clear my throat twice before he tore himself away from a piece on Billy Al Bengston.
'Yes?'
'I'm looking for a specific thesis and can't seem to find it.'
'Have you checked the card file to make sure it's listed?'
'The card's there but the thesis isn't.'
'How unfortunate. I would guess it's been checked out.'
'Could you check for me, please?'
He sighed and took too long to raise himself out of his chair. 'What's the author's name?'
I gave him all the necessary information and he went behind the checkout counter with an injured look. I followed him.
'Brindamoor Island - dreary place. Why would you want to know about that?'
'I'm a visiting professor from UCLA and it's part of my research. I didn't know an explanation was necessary.'
'Oh, it's not,' he said, quickly, and buried his nose in a stack of cards. He lifted out a portion of the cards and shuffled them like a Vegas pro. 'Here,' he said, 'that thesis was checked out six months ago - my, it's overdue, isn't it?'
I took the card. Scant attention had been paid to Gretchen's masterpiece. Prior to its last withdrawal a half year ago, the last time it had been checked out was in 1954, by Gretchen herself. Probably wanted to show it to her kids - Mummy was once quite a scholar, little ones…
'Sometimes we get behind on checking on overdue notices. I'll get right on this, Professor. Who checked it out last?'
I looked at the signature and told him. As the name left my mouth my brain processed the information. By the time the two words had dissolved I knew my mission wouldn't be complete with a trip to the island.
24
The ferry to Brindamoor Island made its morning trip at seven - thirty.
When the wake - up call from the desk came in at six it found me showered, shaved and tensely bright eyed. The rain had started again shortly after midnight, pounding the glass walls of the suite. It had roused me for a dreamlike instant during which I was certain I'd heard the sound of cavalry hooves stampeding down the corridor, and had gone back to sleep anyway. Now it continued to come down, the city below awash and out of focus, as if viewed from inside a dirty aquarium.
I dressed in heavy slacks, leather jacket, wool turtleneck, and took along the only raincoat I had: an unlined poplin doublebreasted affair that was fine for Southern California but of uncertain utility in the present surroundings. I caught a quick breakfast of smoked salmon, bagels, juice and coffee and made it to the docks at ten after seven.
I was among the first to queue up at the entrance to the auto bay. The line moved and I drove down a ramp into the womb of the ferry behind a VW bus with Save the Whale stickers on the rear bumper. I obeyed the gesticulations of a crewman dressed in dayglo orange overalls and parked two inches from the slick, white wall of the bay. An ascent of two flights brought me on deck. I walked past a gift shop, tobacconist and snack bar, all closed, and a blackened room furnished wall to wall with video games. A waiter played Pac Man in solitude, devouring dots with brow furrowing concentration.
I found a seat with a view at the stern, folded my raincoat across my lap and settled back for the one hour ride.
The ship was virtually empty. My few fellow passengers were young and dressed for work: hired help from the mainland commuting to their assigned posts at the manors of Brindamoor. The return trip, no doubt, would be filled with commuters of another class: lawyers, bankers, other financial types, on their way to downtown offices and paneled boardrooms.
The ocean pitched and rolled, frothing in response to the surface winds that drag - raced along its surface. There were smaller craft at sea, mostly fishing boats, tugs and scows, and they danced in command, curtsying and dipping. For all the ferry moved it might have been a toy model on a shelf.
A group of six young men in their late teens came aboard and sat down ten feet away. Blond, bearded in varying degrees of shagginess, dressed in rumpled khakis and dirt - grayed jeans, they passed around a thermos full of something that wasn't coffee, joked, smoked, put their feet up on chairs and emitted a collective guffaw that sounded like a beery laugh track. One of them noticed me and held up the thermos.
'Swig, my man?' he offered.
I smiled and shook my head.
He shrugged, turned away and the party started up again.
The ferry's horn sounded, the rumble of its engines reverberating through the floorboards, and we started to move.
Halfway through the trip I walked over to where the six young drinkers sat, now slumped. Three of them slept, snoring open - mouthed, one was reading an obscene comic book, and two, including the one who'd offered me the drink, sat smoking, hypnotized by the glowing ends of their cigarettes.
'Excuse me.'
The two smokers looked up. The reader paid no attention.
'Yeah?' The generous one smiled. He was missing half of his front teeth: bad oral hygiene or a quick temper. 'Sorry, man, we got no more Campbell's soup.' He picked up the thermos and shook it. 'Ain't that right, Dougie?'
His companion, a fat boy with drooping mustaches and mutton chop sideburns, laughed and nodded his head.
'Yeah, no more soup. Chicken noodle. Ninety proof.'
From where I was standing the whole bunch of them smelled like a distillery.
'That's all right. I appreciate the offer. I was just wondering if you could give me some information about Brindamoor.'
Both boys looked puzzled, as if they'd never thought of themselves as having any information to give.
'What do you want to know? Place is a drag,' said Generous.
'Fuckin - A.' Fat Boy nodded assent.
'I'm trying to find a certain house on the island, can't seem to get hold of a map.'
'That's 'cause there ain't any. People there like to hide from the rest of the world. They got private cops ready to roust you for spittin' the wrong way. Me 'n' Doug and the rest of these jokers go over to do grounds work on the golf course, pickin' up crap and litter and stuff. Finish the day and head straight back for the boat, man. We want to keep our jobs, we stick to that - exactly.'
'Yeah,' said the fat one. 'No shootin' for the local beaver, no partyin'. Workin' people been doin' it for years and years - my dad worked Brindamoor before he got in the union, and I'm just doin' it until he gets me in. Then, fuck those hermits. He told me they had a song for it back in those days: Heft and tote, then float on the boat.' He laughed and slapped his buddy on the back.
'What you interested in findin'?' Generous lit another cigarette and placed it in the snaggled gap where his upper incisors should have been.
'The Hickle house.'
'You related to them?' Doug asked. His eyes were the color of the sea, bloodshot and suddenly dull with worry, wondering if I was someone who could turn his words against him.
'No. I'm an architect. Just doing a little sightseeing. I was told the Hickle house would be of interest. Supposed to be the biggest one on the island.'
