The Ambassador, page 9
The room was warm and there was a long wooden counter that ran the width of the room. The end closest to the wall was hinged so that people could go behind it. There was a phone on the counter and a doorway leading to the rest of the building. I noticed the blinking red light on the camera mounted high in the corner facing downward at the door I had just walked through.
A tall man with salt and pepper hair walked through the door I was facing and came up to the counter. He was wearing glasses, blue jeans, work boots, and a plaid flannel shirt. He looked at me skeptically over his glasses.
‘Can I help you?’ His voice gave away hints of Portugal.
‘Yes, an old army buddy of mine said if I was on the east coast, I should look up Arno Kovach,’ I said with more false warmth than one of the Santa Clauses at the mall at Christmas. ‘He said old Arno drives trucks. I saw a whole bunch of trucks coming and going and figured, heck, old Arno might work there.’
‘You’re looking for guy named Arnold Kovaks?’
‘Yep, I’m looking for a long-haul driver looking to make a little money taking a rig out to California for me.’
‘Can’t help you mister. Never heard of no guy named Kovaks.’
‘Kovach, Arno Kovach. Buddy of mine was in Vietnam with him.’
‘He might have been in Korea, too, but I still haven’t heard of him. That all you want? We’re kind of busy in here.’
‘Yeah, thanks.’ I let myself out, hoping that I would get a better reception at the bar. It was still windy and chilly outside but definitely a lot warmer than in the boatyard’s office. I wondered idly why they needed a camera facing the door? Were they worried about being robbed? Did they keep a lot of cash on hand for things like payroll? Maybe he made a lot of enemies with his friendly demeanor and wanted to be able to record them telling him what an asshole he is?
I faced into the wind as I crossed the wide-open parking lots and streets, like some sort of black tar prairie land. The wind slicing through my ironically named windbreaker made it feel like the end of November, when winter is lurking like a mugger in a dark alley. I like winter, the stillness and quiet of it, the snow touching up the faded class of Boston like a fresh coat of paint on an old house.
The bar, when I got to it, was like everything else I had seen in this part of Fairhaven, run-down. It had a couple of bay windows on either side of the door. They had dark curtains strung across them, blocking the view of the inside. There were neon signs between the curtains and the windows advertising Budweiser and Michelob beers. Judging by the look of the place, those were probably their ‘top shelf’ beers. There was a faded sign swinging above the door with ‘The Reef’ painted on it.
The door was a color that might have been a faded black or an aggressive dark green once. In either case, it was faded and peeling too. I put my hand on the door. There was no question in my mind that the place would be open before lunchtime. The fishing fleet and the boatyard both could provide ample day drinkers. The door pulled open with the squeal of rusty hinges.
If the diner had forsaken the nautical theme, The Reef had doubled down on it. There were old fish nets hanging in the corners of the large room. There were pictures of all sorts of fishing boats and cargo ships on the walls. On one wall was a large clock made from a ship’s wheel, and I counted no less than three brass barometers on three different walls.
The bar was long and made of dark wood that had once been shined to perfection. Affixed to the wall next to the bar was a weathered brass bell with a braided rope pull. If The Reef had been on Cape Cod, it would have been kitschy, almost cute. Here, it was what was left of someone’s dream which had been kicked around by a shit economy and generations of despair.
There were half a dozen or so patrons scattered between the tables and the bar. According to the ship’s wheel clock, it was just coming up on noon. Most of them were men, rough-looking types who worked on the fishing boats or in the boatyard. None of them was under forty, and they all looked as weathered as the building we were in.
I made my way to the bar and slid on to a stool by the wall with the bell. Beyond that was a small hallway where there were doors with signs reading, ‘Sailors’ or ‘Mermaids’. If Watts were here, she might point out that women were ‘Sailors’ now too. The bartender came over, polishing a glass with a rag.
‘What can I get you?’
‘Pabst?’ I asked.
‘Sure.’
‘And a shot of Wild Turkey, please.’ I rubbed my hands. ‘Cold out there with the wind.’
‘Uh huh.’ He was in his sixties, wearing faded khaki pants and plaid wool shirt. His face had the tracery of small, broken veins that spoke of more than a casual relationship with drink. There was a mirror behind the bar, and on stepped shelving in front of it were dusty bottles of liquor. The higher the shelf, the dustier the bottle, leading me to believe that no one was coming to The Reef looking for unpronounceable scotch.
The bartender came back and put a glass in front of me and a shot glass. He then took a bottle from in front of the mirror and poured a healthy slug of the bourbon into the chunky shot glass. I picked it up and made an almost toasting motion to him.
‘Thanks.’ He nodded to me. Behind him, next to the bottles, was a TV playing reruns of Gunsmoke. The sound was down, so James Arness was drawing silently, then a puff of smoke from the muzzle, and the bad guy would collapse silently. Bloodlessly. It would be nice if it was like that in real life.
I drank half of the bourbon in one draft, then turned my attention to the Pabst, which tasted as good as it always did. No one came or went, and I killed time watching James Arness and his silent duels.
By the time James Arness had shot the bad guy and the credits rolled, I had finished my beer and my shot. The bartender walked over and asked, ‘You want another round?’
‘Please.’ He shuffled off to get my beer and was back a few seconds later. He reached back on to the shelf for the bottle of Wild Turkey. He poured more of the bourbon into my glass from the bottle topped with the ubiquitous metal spout. When he finished, I offered, ‘You want one yourself? On me.’
‘Sure, thanks.’ He reached under the bar for a shot glass of his own, which he plunked down on the bar and poured some of the amber fluid into. He held his glass up toward me and I did the same. We drank.
‘Hey, man, I’m looking for someone. Arno Kovach. An old Army buddy told me to look him up if I was ever in Fairhaven.’
‘Yeah, sure you are.’ He moved off without saying anything else. James Arness continued his silent rampage across the black-and-white television landscape in a new episode. A couple of guys came and went from the bar, but otherwise we all just sat there drinking in relative quiet. When my beer and shot were gone, the bartender drifted up.
‘Time to settle your tab and be on your way.’ His tone left no room for debate. I left a ten-dollar bill on the bar and went to the ‘Sailors’ room before leaving. It was almost an hour to Boston. Nothing had changed when I went back into the bar on my way out. No one said ‘goodbye’ or ‘come again’ as I pushed the squeaky door open.
The gulls were still wheeling and crying overhead. The clouds had moved in, and the sun was playing hide-and-seek behind them. The wind hadn’t slackened at all. And to add to all that ambiance, there were two local lads leaning on the hood of my Maverick. By lads I mean big, brawny, tough-looking guys who were dressed like they worked in the shipyard and spent their spare time lifting weights. They were big enough that there wasn’t much of my windshield showing behind them. I stopped ten feet from them.
‘What can I do for you boys?’
‘Do for us? Huh. Nothing. It’s what we can do for you.’
‘And what can you do for me?’ The one talking was the bigger of the two. He was used to having the advantage of size and the willingness to do violence to people he had just met. I got the feeling that he rather enjoyed it. The other guy was slightly smaller but still big. He didn’t say much but his eyes didn’t miss anything. He was the more dangerous of the two.
‘We can let you leave here with most of your teeth.’ He smiled. Enjoying himself, confident in his size and strength. The playground may change as we get older, but the bullies only seem to get bigger.
‘That’s mighty generous of you.’
‘Why are you looking for Arno Kovach …’ this from the smaller guy, ‘and don’t try and sell me that bullshit about you’re looking to hire him for some work.’
‘You’re right, I’m not looking to hire him.’
‘Why are you looking for him?’ I just shrugged, not saying anything. There wasn’t any point, as this was only going to go down one way, whether I told them everything or nothing.
‘Kid, you don’t get it. We’re asking you nice like. You tell us or we’re going to mess you up.’ This from the bigger guy.
‘You always let him talk? Pretty sure he hasn’t read How to Make Friends and Influence People. Or any books for that matter.’ The smaller guy shrugged.
‘You’re not gonna make this easy for us, are you?’
‘Nope, not really my thing.’
‘Shame.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ I said to myself. The bigger guy shot off the hood of my car with more agility than I would have expected. He moved toward me with his fists balled and his arms up. I didn’t want to try and box with him. It would be like trying to punch a small tank.
I stepped to my right, off his line of attack. I was not in the mood to fight fair with him. I pivoted on the ball of my left foot while raising my right foot, bending it at the knee, and I swung it at his leg in a scything motion. I threw the kick from my hips as I pivoted into him, bringing my leg in a downward arc toward his knee, simultaneously snapping my right arm down, following through the motion of the kick. My shin connected solidly with the side of his left knee, and I could feel it give.
His knee made a loud crunching noise and he screamed. He flailed his left fist at me, which hit my forehead, and I staggered back. It had been a glancing blow, but even a glancing blow from a bowling ball still hurts. His left leg gave out completely, and he crashed to the pavement with a cry of pain.
The second guy tackled me, and I hit the pavement hard enough to knock the wind out of me. I instinctively curled my shoulders and neck, and that saved my head from being smashed into the parking lot. The second guy was sitting astride of my hips, raining blows down on my arms which I was using to guard my face and body. With my fingers touching my temples and my hands protecting my face, this left my bent arms to protect my chest. His blows, while powerful, weren’t doing much real damage.
I got my feet flat on the ground and arched my back then rolled hard to my right. I pushed off hard with my left foot and launched him off me. I rolled up into a crouch and he did too. We circled each other, and he reached under his shirt and came up with a vicious-looking filleting knife. I reached under mine and came up with my .38 snub-nose.
He looked at the gun in my hand, thinking. I shook my head side to side. He thought a half-second more and dropped the knife on the ground. ‘Fuck it. It isn’t worth it.’
‘Almost never is.’
‘You a cop?’
‘No. I’m just a guy looking to talk to Arno, that’s all.’
‘He lives around here. Keeps to himself.’
‘Then why all this nonsense?’ In the background the big guy was rolling on the ground, crying, moaning. ‘Seems to me this could have been avoided.’
‘No one likes a stranger asking questions around here. It makes people nervous. Type of people who don’t like cops.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Did you have to break his knee?’
‘No, but he is an asshole who likes pushing people around.’
‘Yeah. You should go, more people are gonna be coming. You’ve done enough damage today.’
‘Yeah, you too.’ I could feel the various bruises beginning to take shape. I went back to the Maverick, never taking my eyes off him. The car started and in the rear-view mirror as I was already a block closer to Boston, I saw a group of hard cases from the shipyard around the big guy. I drove the speed limit through the neighborhoods of Fairhaven and eventually got on the highway out of town.
I didn’t see any police cars flying lights and sirens by me. Nor were there any ambulances rushing by to help Thug 1. All I saw was Fairhaven going from seedy to nice as I made my way away from The Reef and shipyard. Everything grew less ocean industrial, and the foliage with its bright colors emerged more fully as I headed back to Boston.
EIGHT
My ride home turned out to be uneventful, which was just as well after my trip to Fairhaven. I wasn’t sure why anyone would send two heavies to beat me up for asking questions about Arno. I couldn’t tell if this made Arno a more or less likely suspect. According to Thug 2, Arno lived there and kept to himself. That didn’t seem worth beating someone up over or possibly inviting unwanted police attention. Unless, of course, Arno didn’t just quietly keep to himself. Maybe he was into something that no one wanted anyone poking into? But if he was into some heavy stuff, why risk exposure by sending letters to Stevenson, shooting up the house? It was all as clear as mud.
On the drive home I thought about getting off at the Furnace Brook Parkway in Quincy and taking the scenic route. I used to spend a fair bit of time in Quincy, but ever since a good friend had been killed in shootout there six months ago, I hadn’t been back. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I had survived that same gunfight, minus a bit of earlobe, and I couldn’t face running into his family. Maybe they didn’t blame me for his death, but I couldn’t say the same.
Instead, I just rode the highway into town. I crossed over the Neponset River and past the Boston Gas tanks. The one with the picture of Ho Chi Minh on it always stood out, standing high above the neighborhoods that had sent poor kids like me from Boston to Vietnam. It probably hadn’t been meant as an insult to us, but it felt like a big Fuck You that was wedged between the Old Colony and Dorchester Yacht Clubs.
I took the exit for Chinatown and made my way through the streets congested with people and cars. They were walking to and from class or work or late lunch. Just normal people leading normal lives. I skirted around the Combat Zone and made my way to my office and was lucky to find a parking spot in front, a little bit up from the video store. Other than a few bumps and bruises and breaking a guy’s knee, the day was shaping up to be an OK one. When I got out of the car, I realized that the pocket of my windbreaker was ripped and hanging down, flapping. Another casualty of my chosen career.
I went up the stairs to my office. I unlocked the door and opened it slowly, but there were no hand grenades wired to the door. I wondered how long it would take me to get over that habit. I settled in, which amounted to ignoring the coat rack in the outer office and throwing my ripped windbreaker on the chair in front of my desk. It was a blue nylon one, and there were only a few million of them to choose from if I wanted to replace it.
I busied myself by making an espresso. When the demitasse cup was filled with a steaming shot of life-restoring juice, I took a sip. It was hot and bitter and good. It went a long way to easing the chill out of my bones from the wind down in Fairhaven, and was worlds better than the diner coffee I had there.
I settled at my desk with my espresso and took out the yellow legal pad with my case notes on it. I jotted down everything that I saw or did in blue felt-tip pen. Then I used a red pen and wrote down everyone I saw or met. I spent some extra time on the shipyard and The Reef. Almost an hour and three pages later, I put my pens down. I pulled the phone over and dialed Watts at the Federal Building. I was in luck because she answered. I listened to her say her name, rank, and all that other stuff they have to say pro forma. I said, ‘Hi, Brenda, it’s Andy.’
‘You sound smug. Did you find something out?’
‘I don’t think you can sound smug. I think one can look smug, but I’m not sure smug is a sound.’
‘What are you, an English teacher?’
‘Good point. First, can you call around to the local hospitals around Fairhaven, probably New Bedford.’
‘Oh god, did you shoot someone again?’
‘No, no, nothing like that.’
‘Good.’
‘You’re looking for a big guy with a lateral fracture of his left knee. Pretty sure he will have a criminal record.’
‘You broke someone’s knee?’ She sounded mildly annoyed.
‘You have to agree, it is better than shooting someone.’
‘Marginally better. Are you going to tell me how all this went down?’
‘Sure, over dinner or drinks?’
‘Drinks. You drive me to drink. Anything else?’
‘Can you look up a guy named Arno Kovach? He is a Vietnam vet, probably a naturalized citizen. I don’t have DOB, but I can give you his current-ish address and phone number.’ Which I did. We agreed to meet at the bar across the street from my apartment around six.
‘You sure I can’t interest you in dinner at the Café Budapest … very romantic this time of year. They even have a guy who comes around and plays the violin at your table.’
‘I’ve been to the Budapest before. I wasn’t that impressed with the violin player and no. I need a romantic dinner with you like I need a bullet in the head.’ Maybe she had a point. I wasn’t good for her career, and I was pretty sure that I wasn’t much better for her romantically.
‘You can’t blame a guy for trying.’
‘A guy, no. You …’
I said goodbye. Even I know when to quit when I’m ahead. I put the phone down in its cradle and sat back. She had only just started talking to me again. No point in screwing that up.
I got up, retrieving my tattered windbreaker, and left, locking the office behind me. I had enough time to head home, grab a quick shower, and a change of clothes. Between fighting and rolling around on the grime-covered parking lot, I could use it. Most people have never been in a real fight and don’t appreciate how winded you get, how much of a sweat you work up. There is a reason why boxers do so much road work and jump so much rope.
