The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 6

I took the long way back to North Beach, winding up unnamed roads through the countryside. I went miles out of my way, but I didn't care. I had a nearly full tank of gas and didn't feel like being anywhere anytime soon.

Antoine Fugard was, for lack of a better word, a friend of mine. In the nine months I spent under cover he and I spent a lot of time together. We argued about sports, hit on women, bought each other drinks, and occasionally pissed in alleys together while his limo waited at the curb. Antoine liked to party and we frequented all the trendiest nightclubs, striding past those waiting in line to sit at tables that magically appeared just for us. Women flocked to us when he beckoned, and then disappeared at a gesture from him when it was time to talk business. Antoine was generous with his money, loyal to his friends and good-natured with the people who worked for him.

But he was also coldhearted in running the family business and had personally participated in at least five murders which we knew about but couldn't prove, and he probably gave the order for a dozen others. He employed a legion of drug traffickers and loan sharks and various tough guys who collected on bad debts. In my mind I never lost track of the fact that Antoine was one of the subjects of my investigation, and had he lived my testimony would have put him in prison for twenty years or more. But he treated me like a favored friend and I know he felt betrayed as if by a brother when he learned the truth.

It was really Antoine's father, Claude, who was the main subject of the investigation. Claude Fugard was the head of a crime network which was in the same league as the Italians. The Fugards were French-Portuguese, but they operated with the same ruthless violence, strict silence and familial loyalty which was at the core of the Sicilian families.

If things had gone according to plan I may never have had to testify at all. We were accumulating key circumstantial evidence, including financial records and tape recorded conversations, and we had a good plan to squeeze a couple of key underlings into turning in the boss to save their own skins. But that plan fell apart when word was leaked to Antoine that I was a cop. As it turned out Claude Fugard had a pretty good suspicion that he was under very close scrutiny, so he decided to plant a mole of his own. To this day I don't know how he did it, but the information had to have come out of my precinct or out of the organized crime unit at police headquarters.

We had Antoine's phones tapped and his home, office and car bugged as well, so my boss at the squad knew right away when my cover was blown. He tried to page me with the code number we had set up for this, but I was in the hotel suite Antoine used for socializing. We had arranged to play golf and I had just taken a shower and was dressing for the game. Antoine came into the room with a look on his face I couldn't read. But he was moody and often brooded over some slight, and for a moment I didn't pick up on the danger.

He was standing by the dresser, on which lay my wallet, pager and my weapon. I was sitting on the bed putting on my shoes and just starting to senseˆ something wrong in the air. Antoine picked up my pager and tossed it at me. "You got a call," he said.

I looked at the code and tried not to react to what I saw. "It's that girl I've been seeing," I said, standing up and casually moving towards the dresser. "That's her little code for she's horny and I should find time to drop by."

He didn't laugh. "I was more loyal to you than they were," he shouted, tears suddenly on his cheeks. He stood between me and my weapon and pulled his own from his jacket.

I didn't waste time trying to bluff my way out of it. I grabbed his gun hand in both of mine and shoved him against the wall. The gun went off and I didn't really feel the bullet that passed through my side. Antoine was left-handed and I had my right hand on the gun, pushing it upwards while with my left I grabbed him by the neck. We fell against a couch by the window and he leaned his weight against his left hand, slowly pushing the gun toward my head.

And I pushed his head up in front of the window, hoping that by this time we had someone outside watching and help would come. In my memory there was a brief moment when he seemed to realize what was about to happen. His left hand relaxed slightly and the anger seemed to leave his face. I can still see his expression in the final second before his head exploded. Realization. Fear. Resignation. Forgiveness?

Maybe I imagined it. I know I spent a lot of time trying to describe it in post-trauma counseling sessions. As it turned out we had uniforms and detectives coming up the elevator at that moment and they'd have broken down the door in seconds. But seeing us struggling near the window the captain told the sharpshooter to fire at will. So maybe if I'd done things differently Antoine would just be in jail, instead of getting half his head blown off. I shouldn't care. He was a murderer and the puppeteer of countless drug dealers. He was a criminal whose own acts brought about his death. He deserved what happened to him. So why did I still feel I betrayed him?

By the time Claude Fugard went on trial more than a year later I had survived two assassination attempts and was living under 24-hour protection. I had been decorated, but also forced to take a medical retirement because of my injuries -- and maybe also because I didn't do so well on my psych debriefing. But for whatever reasons I was off the job for good. Retired at 36 from the only profession I ever really considered. At that time in my life I no longer had any family and my only friends were on the force -- and some of them I wasn't too sure about. Despite an intensive internal investigation it was not determined how Antoine found out about me, but we all knew it came from inside. I was worn out and tired of expecting a hit every time the doorbell rang. So when I was offered a new identity and a lump-sum payment in lieu of a full retirement, I took it.

It was evening by the time I came up the access road behind the North Beach shops. As I turned past Jockamo's I could see a TV camera crew on the deck interviewing Rita. In the parking lot I saw two other media vans with satellite dishes. I puttered up to my back door, parked the bike and went inside, locking the door behind me. I lowered the front blinds in the shop and kept the Closed sign in the window.

I went upstairs and stretched out on the bed for a while, tired but sleepless. I might have dozed a little, but after a while my stomach started arguing with me and I decided to venture out for a bite to eat. I'm a notoriously lazy cook and rarely have anything worth eating in my kitchen other than peanut butter and the occasional frozen pizza. So I slipped out the back door again and walked down to Jockamo's. It was dusk and the≈ media folks were nowhere in evidence. I pushed through the door, ready to turn around again if the place was full of TV cameras.

It wasn't, though there was a table of eight or nine media types, but they were just drinking beer and talking to each other. I glanced over to the side wall where we North Beach regulars hang out. Curt was there, along with Benita and Fred and Vi Woodman. Angela wasn't, of course, but I wouldn't have expected to see her inside the bar. She rarely drinks anything more than a single glass of red wine and she finds the air inside Jockamo's intolerably smokey, even though there are rarely more than a couple people actually smoking and the place has good ventilation.

Rex was at the table too, but his guitars were lined up on the small stage. He follows no particular schedule and tends to play a set when he feels like it, much to the irritation of Rita who is always after him to be more businesslike.

Rita was behind the bar as usual and I stopped there first.

"Hey there," I said.

"Hi Jack. Did you see me getting interviewed by CNN today?"

"I did. Has it been on yet?" Behind the bar she had the TV on to the news with the sound down.

"Nah. I might have missed it though. Lazy-Ass won't come help me when it gets busy."

"Well you know those guys shoot a lot of video and only use part of it."

"I know," she said, waving it off. "It's not like it's a big deal to me or anything. I looked like shit anyway. You want a scotch?"

"Desperately. I'm hungry too. Got anything."

"Just these." She reached for a basket of pretzels on the bar and slid them in front of me. "We're a fine dining establishment you know."

I munched pretzels while Rita poured my drink. She scooted down the bar to another customer and I carried my pretzels and scotch over to the table to a general chorus of incoherent greeting noise.

"How's everyone?" I asked.

"Going rapidly bankrupt, thank you," answered Fred Woodman. "The season has barely begun and people are departing in droves. I had three cottage cancellations today and there will no doubt be more tomorrow."

Fred is in his 70s and a retired bank executive. Vi is about 20 years younger and the two of them have run the marina here for ten years or so. They also rent cottages. I don't know for certain but my impression is they've got tons of money, but Fred is parsimonious and acts as if they'll be eating dog food if they have a bad week.

Rex laughed. "Christ, Fred. It's not that bad."

Fred glared at him. "That's easy for you to say. You make your living selling alcohol. The tourists are leaving, but you have the news media drinking in their place. I doubt many of these journalists will be renting my boats."

–"Well they might rent your cottages," Benita put in. "They have to stay someplace."

Fred shook his head. "Unlikely."

Benita looked at me for confirmation, but I couldn't really give her any. "Fred's right," I said. "The whole attraction of his cottages is they're simple and remote without fax machines, Internet connections and all the other electronic crap people are trying to escape when they come here. Isn't that right, Fred."

"Aptly put, young man. I'll use that on my next brochure."

"Maybe if they were on vacation they'd stay there, but not while they're working I wouldn't think."

Rex got up and strolled up to the stage. He picked up one of several guitars and launched into "Iko Iko," which he always starts with. He manages to play a lot of songs alone that would normally be done by a small band. He starts out playing the song's rhythm, recording it into a playback loop and then starts playing along with it. On weekends when the crowds are larger he usually has a few other players.

"I heard they're all staying at Hil-ton Point," Curt said, pronouncing the hotel's name derisively. Knowing him I could guess that his disdain was about equal for the national news media as for the trendy shops and hotels and bed & breakfast places on the Point -- which even I would agree is pretty excessive. Other than seagulls and perhaps microscopic organisms -- and of course people -- not much else has a chance of maintaining a habitat out there.

"Hey news media!" Curt shouted over to the other table. Benita and Vi shushed him but he ignored them. "Hey media!," he called again. Heads turned around. On stage Rex looked annoyed.

"Where you guys staying? Hilton Point?"

There were nods and vocal affirmations around the media table.

"See?" Curt said. "That's what's wrong with the media -- well, one of the many things wrong with them. They go into places and stay at expensive hotels and talk to the powers that be and then, after they decide what 'the story' is, only then do they look for real people who fit into the preconceived idea. And they think they know what's going on."

"You got that right," Fred agreed.

I laughed a little, but only Benita noticed. "What's so funny?" she asked, pushing her shoulder into mine.

"Curt and Fred agree on something," I stage-whispered. She laughed. Although Benita is not breathtakingly beautiful like her sister -- and in fairness, what mortal could be? -- she's plenty attractive in her own way, and she has a great laugh. It happens way down in her chest somewhere and comes out an octave lower than her regular voice -- a rich, sexy, oboe sound.

Rex finished a song and we clapped and banged on the tabletop. The media table was focused in on itself and didn't seem to notice that the music was live.

"Well, I think they're gonna catch this idiot," I said. "And then things can go back to normal."

"Oh I hope so," Vi said in a worried voice. Vi Woodman is a sweet woman. She is in her late 50s and was -- I've been told -- Fred's "trophy wife" back when she was in her 20s and he in his 40s. But as pretty as she is, even now, she's no airhead and without her Fred would probably have died of a stress-related heart attack or else he'd still be working at the bank in his 70s. He is officious and pompous, but sometimes I think she is the one really in control.

"Wanna know what I think?" Curt announced, slurring the words into about four syllables. None of us jumped at the offer, but he went on anyway. "I think it's an act of environmental terrorism -- a desperate last shot at stopping developers from eating up every goddamn scrap of land around here."

Benita laughed. "Curt, you think everything is about the environment."

"Yeah, well that's what that whole thing in the Middle East is really all about," I said. "That's all about water quality in the Jordan River and habitat for some rare and endangered variety of scorpion. Other than those two environmental disagreements the Israelis and Palestinians probably would have had all this worked out by now."

"Oh yeah," Benita said, "and the JFK assassination was like that too I bet."

"That's quite correct," Fred put in. "I remember the big fuss over the Grassy Knoll condominium project -- before your time of course."

Pretty soon everyone at our table was rewriting bits of history to fit Curt's supposed worldview. None of our suggestions were really all that clever, but we howled at every new one. Curt sputtered an argument for a minute or two but no one was listening. He stood up and I was kind of hoping he was mad enough to leave, but he just said "I have to piss" and headed toward the john.

Benita called after him, "Do it in an approved container, baby."

Onstage Rex finished up "Big Chief," and started packing up his guitars earlier than usual. Our table whooped up an ovation for him but the media table was still oblivious.

I went up to the bar for another scotch and a draft for Rex. "He doesn't deserve it," Rita said, but she poured it anyway. "The little shit quit early again. I work my ass off all night and he plays 30 minutes and quits if he doesn't get enough applause. Here, give Mr. Entertainment his beer and tell him I could use a potty break."

Rita talks that way about Rex pretty much all the time, and she wasn't even particularly mad at him. She doesn't really seem to mind the division of labor. When he does try to help she tells him he isn't doing it right and shoos him away. She seems content to do most of the work provided she can maintain a constant stream of denigrating comments about her husband. And he doesn't seem to mind being called "shit-for-brains" twelve times a day since otherwise he actually has it pretty easy.

I walked over to Rex and handed him the beer. "You pissed about the crowd?" I asked.

"Not really," he said. "But I don't do background music. If people want to listen, I'll play. If they don't I stop." He took a long swallow of the beer, draining half the glass. "And what the fuck was Curt yelling about?"

"He's drunk. He was baiting the reporters. Thank god they ignored him. I'm sure he was hoping to get into an argument over whether they're puppets of the 'economic power-elite status quo' or whatever."

Rex nodded. "I've heard that speech."

"Yeah, me too. Many times." I helped Rex pack up his guitars and walked back toward the bar. "By the way, Rita wants you to cover so she can go to the bathroom."

Rex exhaled audibly. "Do I have to do everything around here?"

He and Rita exchanged a few swear words and a kiss and she went off to the ladies' room. I sat at the bar and Rex topped off my half-empty glass of scotch. One reason Rita doesn't let him tend bar much is that he gives away too much free booze. I can never get him to take my money and I usually just drop the appropriate amount in the tip jar to make up for it.

I really didn't need any more to drink on a still-empty stomach, but every time I took a few sips he'd top me off again. Rita was on her way back but stopped at the townie table to chat for a few minutes. When she came back to the bar my glass was still magically full and I carried it carefully back to the table, walking as if on a tightrope to keep from spilling it.

I sat next to Benita, who looked suddenly very attractive. "Hey," I said. "I hear Papa wants you girls to move back to Cleveland."

"Sure 'nuff he does," she said. "We might do it too, baby."

Benita, like Angela, was a Smith girl, born of a prosperous family. But when she drinks she drifts into a thicker black dialect. You can always tell if Benita has a buzz on if she calls you 'baby'.

"Really?" I said.

"Well business is gonna dry up real bad," she went on. "I know, I know," she said. "We grown ups. We don't have to do what he tells us. But what you don't understand is family is very important to Angela and me. And we honor our father in a respectful way that sometimes includes doing something he really wants even though we don't have to. But we'll probably hold him off another week or so and see how it goes. But if there is one more bomb we outta here, baby. And if we don't got no customers we outta here anyways."

It was past 1 a.m. when I left Jockamo's, way too drunk and suddenly famished again, having eaten nothing but bar pretzels since lunch. Back at my place I made two peanut butter sandwiches on stale bread. There was a little cold coffee left in the pot from morning and I poured it in a cup, not bothering to heat it up.

Although my official living space is small, when I'm closed I treat the shop itself as a big living room and now with my sandwiches and cold coffee I plopped down on one of the shop couches to watch a little news before turning in. My only TV is the little one behind the counter and I positioned it so I could see from one of the couches and settled in to watch a little news before turning in.