The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 7

I woke up on the same couch the next morning, in my clothes and with a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich on my chest. The TV was still on CNN and I caught a glimpse of Rita just before they switched to the weather. I had to pee like a racehorse, but that's not what woke me up. There were voices, not just on TV but outside. An argument. Women's voices. Angela.

I struggled to stand up, noticing the sandwich as it fell to the floor, and headed on stiff uncertain legs toward the back door. My head hurt and my mouth tasted like something that died last week and was left out in the sun too long. I opened the back door and the sunlight was so intense it was painful. Squinting, I made out four people and a big burgundy car and as my eyes adjusted I could see it was Angela and Benita and an older man and woman who I suddenly realized were their parents.

"Jack?" Angela said, walking up to me. "Jack you look terrible. Are you ill?"

"Jacque?" repeated a woman's voice. "Dees is de yong mon you tell us about, sweetie?" Angela's tiny mother stepped toward me and I felt painfully conspicuous. I was wearing clothes I'd slept in, my hair and beard were disheveled and I could only assume I looked as rotten as I felt. And I had to pee.

Angela gave me a two-second stare that bore through me with disfavor as she reached out and brushed breadcrumbs off my shirt. I hurriedly brushed at my chest and tucked in my shirt as Angela turned to her mother.

"Momma, this is Jack. He usually looks better than this."

I shook Mrs. Dawes' hand and tried to be gracious without breathing on her. With my free hand I quickly combed my fingers through my hair. I really had to pee. She smiled sweetly at me and I could see Angela in her eyes. Mother and daughter exchanged a meaningful glance and for a moment I thought it might be okay, but behind them I saw Papa.

Edmund Dawes was a small man, perhaps 5'6" and 130 pounds. His face was as dark as anyone's I have ever met and deeply lined from his eyes to his mouth, and again horizontally across his forehead. They were not laugh lines. His hair was gray and short, and he wore a very expensive double-breasted suit. His eyes were black as night and the stare he shot at me nailed me to the wall.

"Daddy," Angela said, her voice quivering a little. "This is Jack Durham. He's ... my neighbor."

Papa took two steps forward and reached out and shook my hand, maintaining as much distance between us as possible. "Veddy glahd to meke your aqueentahnce," he said in a disinterested monotone, being polite but making no effort to sound like he actually meant it.

Hearing him speak I was suddenly aware of how fiendishly on target Angela's frequent mimicry had been. I could have laughed out loud but my instinct for self-preservation reminded me that any sign of disrespect would result in laser-like glares from father and daughter simultaneously -- and that after such a crossfire it would probably take dental records to identify my remains.

"I am honored to meet you, sir," I said quietly with grave respect and the most dignified eye-contact I could muster. He seemed microscopically impressed. God I had to pee.

"Ahnd now eef you weel excuse us, Meestor Dooorahm," he said, dismissing me. "Thees ees a fahmaly mahtter."

"Daddy," Angela interrupted. "Couldn't we at least wait a few days to see what happens?"

With a glance he silenced her. Papa placed the last suitcase in the cavernous trunk of his immaculate Lincoln and closed it with finality. There would be no more discussion. He held open the back door of the car and waited. Benita stepped up to me and handed me a key. "I already called Rita about closing things up," she said. "Use this if you need it for anything, and look after Andy, okay?"

I nodded and she marched over to her father and slid into the big Lincoln without a backwards glance. Angela started to follow her and then came to me and hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. And with her eyes inches from my own she said, "Jack, you smell."

And then she was gone. I watched the big Lincoln sail grandly up to the North Beach Road and disappear.

I went back inside and peed with such climactic relief it was practically a sexual experience. Washing my hands I looked at myself in the mirror, relieved to see that I didn't look quite as bad as I felt. I brushed my teeth and got the shower going, nice and hot. That's when it started to sink in. She was gone again. She'd only been back a couple of weeks after the whole winter season and I still hadn't decided what to do about it. I thought I had all summer to get things going with her again; maybe find a way to tell her without quite telling her. Over the long winter I had considered all variations. I could tell her I was in the witness protection program but that I couldn't tell her any specifics. That seemed reasonable, except that I knew -- and maybe she would too -- that most people in the program are sleazy underworld types who only got the deal because they ratted out a higher-up. If I was going to tell her at all I'd want to tell her I was one of the good guys. But that would pretty much mean saying I was a cop, and she already knew I was from New York City so if she made much of an effort she could probably figure out who I had been by searching the New York Times archive for organized crime trials. After all, why else would a cop be in the witness protection program if not for organized crime? So should I tell her the whole thing? That seemed reckless -- not that she'd call up the Fugards or anything, but I didn't want to put her at risk by letting her know. Which left what?

It was almost exactly a year since the first time I saw Angela. I had only been Jack Durham a few months and was just starting to feel comfortable in the role. Rex & Rita, the Woodmans, Benita and other merchants along the strip had welcomed me as one of them and it helped me a lot to make new friends after having had to give up every friendship and connection I'd had in my life. I still didn't sleep well, half expecting someone to break down my door and put a bullet in my face as I slept.

Half the time I was paranoid or consumed by loneliness for my former life, and the other half of the time I was giddy with the pleasure of creating Jack, who was so fucking much more fun than I'd ever been. Making up a new life is actually quite therapeutic. You have to be realistic, but you can try to fix things about yourself that you've never liked.

What I didn't like about my old self was that I never had much fun, never relaxed much or just goofed off. I was a damn good cop, but that's about all I was. I went out for beers and pool with my friends from the squad, played baseball, went on vacations and had a couple of pretty nice romances, one of which almost became a marriage. But those things were squeezed into maybe 15 percent of my waking hours, and during a lot of that I was talking about work or thinking about work, or being concerned that having too much fun in public was somehow in appropriate because of my work.

After my father died it got worse, and after I was recruited into the organized crime unit it got really bad. I worked -- and that was all there was in my life. I suppose you could say on one hand it got better, in that while I was hanging with Antoine we had some pretty good times. But I was pretending to be someone else, and the me inside was working, dead-serious and with no rest.

So as it turned out I had practice creating a character and living inside him. I used a lot of that experience when I came out here. But this time there was no pressure and no responsibility and no danger, except the hit that I frequently imagined. When that could be set aside Jack Durham could do any damn thing he wanted, except talk about John Dirkson or get his picture on the cover of Time magazine. Other than that it was pretty much up to me. I had enough money from my retirement that I didn't really have to make money with the shop. I was content just to not lose money on it -- breaking even is all I really need.

So Jack Durham didn't have to work very hard. And according to my revised biography he never did. I had begun letting my hair and beard grow right after the last Fugard trial, when I spent a few months living in motels all across the country. It took me a while before I could settle anywhere, so by the time I showed up here I was already starting to look the part. I decided Jack Durham took life pretty easy. He worked as much as he needed to, partied when he felt like it and didn't own any neckties -- except that one black one for the occasional funeral or wedding.

I gave him an elaborate history, mirroring mine wherever possible. Jack was from New York and his grandfather owned a bookstore, etc. When Gramps died, Jack took over the shop and it never burned down. Dad had still been a cop and he still died of a heart attack, but Jack never followed him into the job. There's something in Jack's past that he doesn't like to talk about, a loved one who died probably, but he doesn't say. That way he can clam up sometimes when the conversation gets too personal. But most of the time he just makes a joke and turns the conversation to something else. I've been surprised at what a good sense of humor Jack has.

And yet, none of that worked with Angela. All my stories about Jack's life sounded good when I told them to other people. But when I told them to Angela they just sounded like lies.

After showering, I went downstairs to get the coffee going, then climbed back upstairs to put on shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt. The weather report said hot. I went out and got the papers.

USA Today played the story on page one -- "Vacation community terrorized by serial bomber" -- and jumped to a fairly long spread inside, with photos of tourists packing their cars. They even ran the picture of Angela behind the counter at the cafe, with the back of my head behind her. I sat there for a few minutes looking at that picture of her. She'd hardly been back and now she was gone again because of some little prick who probably needed to blow things up get an erection. I still wasn't sure what I felt for her or what I wanted to do about it, but as disappointed as I was that she was gone again I was also glad that she was safe back home with her formidable father and that nothing had happened to her.

With that thought I looked over at my stack of newspapers for recycling and on top was the front page from the day before with Barbara Brinckman's photo. She smiled back at me, head tilted to one side, eyes shining optimistically even in gray newsprint. I went over and picked up the paper, found some scissors and cut out the picture. Across from the cash register, near the front door, I have a little cork bulletin board where people post notices for roommates wanted, lost dogs, etc. I tacked up her picture so everyone who came into the store would have to look at it, and where I'd have to look at it too. And I made her a promise.

I went back to my desk and looked through the rest of the papers. The New York Times had a small story inside with no photos. I usually spend an hour or so with the Times but I tossed it on the recycling stack and went on to the local papers. I read the Brayton Journal first. The main story detailed what happened across the bay the previous morning, the basics of which I already knew from the local TV news. The dead guy was Chad Taylor, 34. There was a picture of him astride one of the jet boats grinning at the camera. He had long blond hair, a deep tan and perfect teeth, as if he were Barbie's beach-bum brother.

The story listed several "championships" Taylor had earned in various speedboat races. He was co-owner of Bigfoot's and had been lining up the jet boats on the beach when a bomb planted under one of them went off.

The story quoted Ervin "Bigfoot" Demphle saying Taylor had been a good partner and a nice guy and so on. There was a headshot of Bigfoot too. He had a massive bald head and neck muscles like a bull. He had a couple days' beard growth and thick chest hair sprouting above the top of his shirt. I figured he probably acquired his nickname in his younger days, when he still had hair on his head as well.

The story included no description of the bomb except a comment from McCain that it was "consistent with" the other explosions.

There was also more coverage on Barbara Brinckman. As director of the Brayton Bay Partnership she was a well-known figure among local business and government circles. There were more quotes from various public officials and CEOs in the area, and details on a planned memorial service.

Another story was about Mrs. Brinckman's husband, Dr. Clint Brinckman, a well-known physics professor at the university, and how the two of them had coped with his debilitating accident five years earlier. Before a skiing accident left him a quadriplegic, Clint Brinckman had been an Olympic swimmer, a tri-athlete, a kayaker and, the article hinted, a ladies' man of legendary reputation -- preceding his marriage of course. There was a recent photo of him and he was quite handsome still, his expression both penetrating and self-confident, though his lifeless body was strapped in a hi-tech wheelchair. His wife knelt on one knee at his side, their faces close, her hand on his shoulder.

I had a handful of customers that morning, mostly students who drank coffee and looked at books they didn't buy. After I finished the papers I spent an hour or so sorting through a box of books I'd picked up at an auction just before my place got blown up. I penciled prices just inside the covers, stopping now and then to do a little homework on a particular edition before judging its value.

But I couldn't concentrate. I was ticked off -- angry at whatever dickless anarchist was going to such trouble to ruin this pleasant little corner of the world where I'd finally begun to relax. I'd shrugged off the damage to my own place, but now people were dead, my friends were scared and Angela was being carted off to Cleveland for who knew how long. She was only here for the summer as it was and then she'd be traveling again when the dance season began.

It was just past noon when McCain came in the door. She took a good look to see if anyone was close enough to hear. "Is it okay to talk here?" she asked.

I nodded. "I keep my business success strategically lousy so it doesn't get in the way of private conversation."

She looked around the empty shop. "You're doing a good job of it. I thought you'd want to know I confirmed your identity with both Justice and NYPD. Your former captain seems quite fond of you."

I snorted. "He never showed it at the time. So, am I off your suspect list?"

"For the moment," she said with a rare smile. "I've been as discreet as I felt I could about your ... situation. I had to tell my own supervisors at the state police, of course, but so far the only thing I've said to the people at county is that your background checked out and that you're not on my suspect list."

"Thanks," I said.

She gave me another smile. "If I get desperate I'll put you back on."

I should have left it at that, but I found myself asking, "So where's your partner, the charming Detective Arkin?"

She bristled a little. "You know he's
not my partner. He's county and I'm state police. You did figure that much out, didn't you Mr. Big-City Detective?"

I smiled, accepting the jab. "I was just wondering why he was still on the case at all. Are you fighting over jurisdiction or what?"

"Politics," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know how it was in New York, but out here in the boonies we have to share jurisdiction on cases like this. It's our case 90 percent, but we have to let the local cops participate in the investigation. This is my case, not Arkin's. I just let him tag along sometimes because that keeps my bosses happy."

"So Arkin doesn't know my background."

"Not from me he doesn't, but he's not as dumb as he looks."

After she left I realized I was famished. With the Canary Cafe closed there weren't a lot of convenient alternatives. There was "Enchante," a snooty French restaurant and "Big Dick's Dogs," a hot dog stand, but not much else in between, unless you want to go all the way down to the college. I put the closed sign in the window and walked down to Woodman's Marina store to pick up some groceries.

I took the back way toward the marina, walking behind the shops along the access road. Most of the foot traffic goes along the boardwalk between the shops and the beach. The back way is mostly for vehicles delivering supplies.

I'd come the back way on purpose. I wanted to have a another look under Jockamo's deck and this was the most discreet way of doing so. There was a big open space where it was easy to slip under the deck unnoticed by the people above. From the litter of beer bottles, cigarette butts and a few used condoms it was pretty clear this wasn't exactly a secret place.

But the part of the deck that blew up was not over land but a little inlet of water that starts at Woodman's Marina but arcs up under Rex's property. From what I'd heard the neighbors had squabbled a bit at one point over the property line, but had eventually settled things with Rex building his deck over a waterway used by the marina. I could see where Rex had replaced the damaged deck boards. The rest of the beams were weathered and there were numerous nail heads sticking out on which one could have hung a bomb. That's how it would have been done. Someone could have put a bomb on one of the boats moored near the deck, but the blast would have mostly damaged the boat. This one was placed right under the deck, probably in a plastic grocery bag hung from a nail just inches from the underside of the deck.

I slipped back out again and walked on toward the Marina store. Inside, — I found Vi Woodman humming to herself as she filled the candy bar bins near the checkout.

"Evening Vi," I said.

"Hello, Jack."

I grabbed a couple of frozen pizzas, some baloney and bread and a couple boxes of macaroni and cheese and took them to the counter.

"You sound happy today," I said, mostly just making conversation.

"Oh I guess I'm just relieved that this situation isn't as bad as we thought."

"No kidding? Well my business is in the tank. What's your secret?"

She laughed. "We're doing terribly also, thank you. But Fred decided it was a good time to act boldly and he made another offer to 'I Scream' and they accepted. So we're finally going to expand next year. Fred says this'll all blow over by then."

"I Scream" was the ice cream shop just south of Woodman's. Fred had long wanted to expand the marina, but couldn't go north because of Jockamo's. I Scream was little more than a clapboard stand decorated with classic horror movie posters, but had been there for decades.

"Well that's great," I said. "Is it a done deal?"

"Pretty much. They agreed on a price this morning and Freddy says the lawyers will have it all worked out by the end of the week."

"Well geez," I said. "I'm not used to seeing Fred spend money so ... voluntarily."

"Oh he's not that stingy. You guys just tease him about that. Really he's just smart and has a great sense of timing. That's why he was such a good investment banker. He can feel when the right time is to make a move, and he guards his resources until he sees the right opportunity. That's why you think he's a tightwad. But he's not, really. When he saw what was happening because of the bombings he said he was going to find the silver lining and he did. That's my Freddy."

"Well good for him," I said, taking my bag of bachelor food. "Seeya Vi."

I walked back the front way and as I passed Jockamo's deck again I glanced at the lattice that shielded the underside of the deck. I couldn't see through it; not without really trying. So whoever planted that bomb could have done it at almost any time. As I looked up at the people scattered around the deck I caught a glimpse of a blonde woman wearing sunglasses and holding a cigarette. And for a bizarre second or two my mind saw Barbara Brinckman sitting there, and the people around her were the same people who'd been there that day -- Ray's newspaper flapping in the breeze. Something inside my head was screaming at me to save her before the bomb goes off.

I was too slow this time too, which was just as well. The moment passed and I stood there on the deck with my heart beating in my ears and some blond chick I never saw before staring indignantly back at me like what are you looking at?"