The Boardwalk Bomber

By Michael Jesse

Chapter 14

It was near dark and I took a long run down the beach, past all the shops and cottages and into the long stretch of boardwalk that winds through Whyde Creek Wetlands. Reeds and other marsh grasses grow taller than a man and are so dense you don't see the water in which they grow. But if you'd step off the boardwalk you'd be waist-deep in water and muck and vegetation.

Ray Hulman and Bigfoot Demphle were about as opposite as two men can be. It seemed pretty clear that what you saw was what you got with Bigfoot -- a big, hot-tempered type who never felt the need to be shifty or deceptive. Simple -- not in the sense of simple-minded; I didn't think he was unintelligent -- but having a personality that was straightforward and uncomplicated.

Hulman, on the other hand, seemed absolutely twisted up in knots of intricately woven fears, desires, self-deceptions, insecurities -- he was a mess. On the one hand he seemed too spineless to ever actually hurt anyone -- that was Brinckman's assessment anyway -- but sometimes the tightly-wound wallflower is chewing on so much anxiety inside that anything is possible. And certainly he was more likely to do something devious like plant a bomb than attack someone face-to-face. If the victims had been strangled or beaten to death you'd tend to look at Bigfoot while this kind of crime might be more suited to Hulman's personality.

I was running along the boardwalk through the reeds, dragonflies hovering like helicopters everywhere. On a bench a college girl sat meditating with her legs crossed, back straight and palms open to the sky at her sides. I ran past her on the balls of my feet to make less noise.

Of course, the Hulman-Bigfoot personality types were somewhat superficial as far as really assessing who might have done what. Bigfoot was probably more complex than he appeared and most people like Hulman are no danger to anyone except themselves.

And then there was Brinckman, of course. Although he couldn't have physically set the bombs he could potentially have masterminded something, with Brandi as his assistant. You always have to look at spouses in situations like this. If, for example,  Brinckman and Brandi were more than just employer and employee -- though the way he treated her that seemed unlikely -- then getting rid of the wife is always a plausible possibility. But he didn't need her money, and I couldn't imagine he'd be too shy to tell her he was divorcing her if that's what he wanted. Going to the trouble -- and risk -- of murder would seem unnecessary in his case.

I ran through the wetlands to the college, then turned around. The meditating girl was still there and I ran softly past her. By the time I got back to the bend, occupied by I Spy, Woodman's Marina, and Jockamo's in a crescent moon curve around the water, I was walking and absorbed in some idea or other and not thinking about exercise. Before I was close I could hear the music from Jockamo's.

It was dark, the moon was out and Rex was playing out on the deck. Actually he was in pretty much the same location as when he plays indoors, but on nice summer nights they open the accordion garage doors along that wall and open the stage to the deck which was filled with college students listening attentively as Rex peeled his guitar raw on something that sounded like Jimi Hendrix.

They gave him a big ovation and he immediately launched into "Do You Wanna Dance?" -- a song he only did when he felt he had a dancing crowd. Tonight he obviously did. In moment there were eight or ten college girls on the deck along with three or four self-conscious boyfriends and a few older people including the Woodmans doing a smooth jitterbug.

I was still on the beach and stood there under the moon watching the scene at Jockamo's and remembering that night when Angela and I had been dancing under another moon on the same deck to the same music.

That was our high point, only I didn't know it at the time. I thought it was just the beginning. After we danced until we were sweaty and necked on the beach park bench in the rain, after I touched, just briefly, her small breast through the wet fabric of her blouse and she pushed my hand away, after I said goodbye to her on the boardwalk and we kissed a long time again in the rain, after I watched her disappear into her apartment above the cafe, and I stood there in the rain for what seemed like half the night, after that, the next day, when we had lunch in the sun, her wearing that peach dress with skimpy straps showing off her shoulders and arms, that's when things began to go wrong.

I had been in this situation before, of course. The get-to-know-each-other lunch after the almost-steamy first date the night before. I love second dates. But I'd never done one as Jack Durham before and it was harder than I'd expected. I had made up a detailed personal history of Jack Durham, using my own experiences when possible, and I had already told some of it to other friends I'd made. But now with Angela it was different. I could be pretty honest about my childhood, my parents and my grandfather and working in his shop and all that. But when it came to talking about the past 15 years I had trouble finding anything to say. I felt like shit telling her lies and yet I also couldn't tell her the truth, so I ended up being evasive and distant and she knew it.

We had a few more "dates" but each one became less of a romance and more of a friendly encounter between friends. Being a dancer, she was adroit at extracting herself from any situation in which I might try to get physically close. I felt there was an intricate choreography going on which I knew nothing about. Very quickly I gave up, not wanting to pursue someone who evidently did not want to be caught. I knew there was no point in continuing until I could deal with who I now was and who I had been and how to somehow tell her without quite ... telling her. A year later I still had no idea how to do that.

Rex finished a song with a flourish and the college kids whooped and applauded until he launched into another one, an old Junior Walker tune called "Clinging to the Thought that She's Coming Back."

That seemed pretty appropriate so I decided to have a beer before going home and went up to the bar where Rita was singing and dancing along with Rex's music. She and Rex usually went together up or down in their moods, and while it could be really ugly when they were both in a bad mood, their good moods were Party Central. She and Rex were exchanging glances and they sure weren't acting like a couple married 20 years. Their oldest daughter, Rachel, had recently turned 18 and was waiting tables. She rolled her eyes, another teenager embarrassed by her parents.

I drank my beer and watched Vi and Fred on the dance floor. Just as the song was ending they gave a flourish that made it clear that every generation that followed them really missed out in not learning to do real dance steps.

Rex took a break and the college students chanted his name. He seemed indifferent but I was pretty sure he loved it. Rita left the bar and sent Rachel to cover for her. She and Rex were both gone for the next twenty minutes and you didn't have to be a detective to figure out what was going on. I don't think Rachel picked up on it, but her brain probably filtered out any hint that her parents ever had sex.

I drank a quiet toast to their complex marriage and as I set my glass on the bar Fred Woodman pulled up a barstool next to me. We nodded hellos and even he seemed to be in a good mood too -- almost giddy, which is unsettling on Fred. I started wondering about the local water supply.

"Well, I see you and Vi have been cutting a rug," I said. "Where'd she go?"

"Ladies' room," he replied. "Powdering her nose or whatever it is they actually do in there."

"Networking. They run the world from the Ladies' Room. It's like Command Central with periscopes and radar equipment and hot lines to all the women running things in other countries."

"I suspected that."

"Miss Rachel," I called. She was a sweet kid but not terribly attentive as a bartender. "We got a dancin' machine over here who needs a cold one."

"Comin' right up," Rachel said and drew a draft that was half foam. I sent her back to overflow some of it and after a moment she set a sloppy glass in front of Fred who drained half of it without further discussion.

"Ahhhhhhh," he sighed dramatically, setting down his glass.

I gave him a wink. "You look like a man in charge of his world," I said.

He nodded. "That I am, young man."

"I heard about your 'I Scream' deal. Good move."

He nodded again and gave me a shrewd glance. "That ain't the half of it, Jack."

"Oh?"

"You bet. Times like these separate the wheat from the chaff."

"Uh ... I'm not on the chaff team am I?"

Fred threw back his head and laughed. "No, not as far as I'm concerned, son. You're sticking around and tending your business. I am too, but I'm also seizing the moment to make a few investments. Expanding my marina was one of my goals and now I'll be able to do that by next summer when this bomb scare business is long forgotten. And I have another iron in the fire."

He gave me a shrewd look and I could tell he was eager to brag about it and just relaxed enough to do so.

"Well," I said, "I thought the smart thing for a businessman to do at a time like this was just to dig in and ride it out."

Fred shook his head and clucked disappointedly.

I hung my head. "Let me guess," I said. "Chaff Team thinking, right?"

"'Fraid so, son," he said.

"Okay then," I said. "What would the Wheat Team do then?"

"It's like the stock market," Fred said wisely. "When the market seems to be in trouble, the timid people sell. The tough investor -- The Wheat Team as you call it -- invests at such times. You might lose money in the short term, but the market will rebound."

I put on a confused expression. "We're not talking about the stock market, are we?"

Fred smiled and looked around to make sure no one could hear. "No, that was just a metaphor. I'll tell you what I'm investing in, Jack, if you'll give me your word you won't repeat it to anyone."

I held up one hand. "Promise."

"And it's too late for you to invest yourself for that matter. I just don't want this to be general knowledge for a while. You see there's going to be off-shore gambling on the lake next year."

I blinked. "Oh? Aren't they still arguing about that down at the Statehouse?"

"They are, and maybe it'll be voted down. But I don't think so. I'm not saying the 'fix' is in or anything of that nature, but there's considerable pressure being brought to bear and my partners and I are confident of the outcome."

"And so you're planning ahead."

"We are indeed. By the time that bill becomes law -- and in fact by the time that bill is even passed -- the Lighthouse Point Cruise Casino Company will be fully operational and ready to conduct business."

"So you're investing in a ship that'll dock on Lighthouse Point and take folks out on the lake to gamble."

"In a nutshell." He waved his empty glass at Rachel and she waved back cheerfully and continued chatting with two college boys at the other end of the bar. Fred and I exchanged a glance and I slid off my barstool and went behind the bar to give Fred a refill. Rachel didn't notice. She had her elbows on the bar and her bluejeaned butt jutting out, shifted on one leg as she chatted with the college boys.

I gave Fred his glass and put a couple bucks next to the register. He winked and drifted away to where Vi was now standing. Just then two other guys came up to the bar and I went over to Rachel and dragged her by the elbow back to her work. She came with an embarrassed giggle and one of the college boys said something to me but I gave him a steady look until he became interested in the pretzel bowl.

Rita and Rex came back from wherever exactly they'd been and both resumed their usual places. Soon Rex was blazing out a Danny Gatton tune and Rita was bustling up and down the bar. I put a couple dollars under my beer bottle and was getting up to leave when I happened to glance up at the TV. Clint Brinckman's face was on the screen and the words "professor arrested" under it.