then,” Glen says to Louisa. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“We’ll see,” she answers. “Let’s talk in the afternoon.” Her glance at me is almost imperceptible. “I have a rather busy morning.”
Glen Powers seems eager to take his leave. He bids all of us good-bye, even Lucifer, and then heads out of the room far more quickly than he entered. “I’ll see you out,” Louisa says.
The Kydd turns to me as soon as they’re gone. “I’d better get started on that research,” he says. His eyes, though, send a more desperate message. Let’s get the hell out of here, they scream. Fast.
I couldn’t agree more. I’ve had about enough of Family Feud too. I nod at him and we both stand to repack our briefcases.
Lance and Lucifer remain stationed against the far wall as we pack up, Satan’s namesake momentarily soothed by Lance’s constant stroking. Anastasia strolls to the kitchen sink, where she yanks the curtain aside to watch Glen Powers and Louisa in the driveway. When a car door slams, she drops the curtain and shakes her shiny hair. “ That guy,” she says to no one in particular, “is a special kind of stupid.”
C HAPTER 13
Monday, October 16
Harry’s old Jeep sits alone in the office driveway when I arrive at eight o’clock. It looks worse than usual, as it often does on Mondays. Whenever he has a free Sunday, Harry four-wheels down Nauset Beach and stakes out a remote spot. He spends the day, the evening, and sometimes the wee hours of the next morning surf casting for stripers, blues, or whatever’s biting that week. He went yesterday. The Jeep’s mud flaps are sand-caked and the bottom half of its olive green chassis is white with the chalky residue of salt water.
The front office is empty. I leave my briefcase and jacket on one of the chairs and head for the kitchen in search of coffee. Harry’s office door is open and he’s laughing out loud on the telephone. Harry is one of the only people I know who’s immune to Monday-morning malaise. I wave to him as I pass, fill my mug from the pot he’s brewed, and return to lean in his doorway. He gestures for me to come in and sit.
That’s more easily suggested than done. The two chairs facing his desk are piled high with files, legal pads, and photocopied cases. One is topped off with a crumpled deli bag and an empty chocolate milk carton, litter from a prior day’s lunch. We all suffer from a chronic lack of administrative help in this office. Harry’s case is critical.
I lean against his wooden bookcase instead. He tells the person on the other end of the line to forget it, he’ll take his chances in court. He hangs up and laughs again. “She’s a piece of work,” he says.
Enough said. The person on the other end of the phone was Geraldine Schilling, Barnstable County’s District Attorney. She’s a piece of work by anybody’s standards; a pain in the ass by Harry’s. He must be feeling charitable this morning.
“She wants Rinky to do time,” he reports. “Sixty days.” He shakes his head at the telephone.
Rinky is Chatham’s only homeless person and he’s homeless by choice. He’s a tortured soul who prefers the streets and the woods to the shelter repeatedly offered by locals. He also prefers the voices in his head to anyone else’s conversation. Rinky rarely speaks to anybody the rest of us can see. Court documents dub him Rinky Snow, but no one seems to know where the surname came from. I secretly harbor the notion that it stems from the stuff he sleeps on half the year.
“He could do worse,” I tell Harry.
“Not in October, he couldn’t.”
Rinky has lived on Chatham’s streets since his return from the Vietnam War in the mid-sixties. It didn’t take long for the year-rounders to recognize his latent wounds. By unspoken agreement, we look the other way when Rinky spends the night in the woods on town-owned property, and when he drinks from a brown paper bag in public, and when he
“We’ll see,” she answers. “Let’s talk in the afternoon.” Her glance at me is almost imperceptible. “I have a rather busy morning.”
Glen Powers seems eager to take his leave. He bids all of us good-bye, even Lucifer, and then heads out of the room far more quickly than he entered. “I’ll see you out,” Louisa says.
The Kydd turns to me as soon as they’re gone. “I’d better get started on that research,” he says. His eyes, though, send a more desperate message. Let’s get the hell out of here, they scream. Fast.
I couldn’t agree more. I’ve had about enough of Family Feud too. I nod at him and we both stand to repack our briefcases.
Lance and Lucifer remain stationed against the far wall as we pack up, Satan’s namesake momentarily soothed by Lance’s constant stroking. Anastasia strolls to the kitchen sink, where she yanks the curtain aside to watch Glen Powers and Louisa in the driveway. When a car door slams, she drops the curtain and shakes her shiny hair. “ That guy,” she says to no one in particular, “is a special kind of stupid.”
C HAPTER 13
Monday, October 16
Harry’s old Jeep sits alone in the office driveway when I arrive at eight o’clock. It looks worse than usual, as it often does on Mondays. Whenever he has a free Sunday, Harry four-wheels down Nauset Beach and stakes out a remote spot. He spends the day, the evening, and sometimes the wee hours of the next morning surf casting for stripers, blues, or whatever’s biting that week. He went yesterday. The Jeep’s mud flaps are sand-caked and the bottom half of its olive green chassis is white with the chalky residue of salt water.
The front office is empty. I leave my briefcase and jacket on one of the chairs and head for the kitchen in search of coffee. Harry’s office door is open and he’s laughing out loud on the telephone. Harry is one of the only people I know who’s immune to Monday-morning malaise. I wave to him as I pass, fill my mug from the pot he’s brewed, and return to lean in his doorway. He gestures for me to come in and sit.
That’s more easily suggested than done. The two chairs facing his desk are piled high with files, legal pads, and photocopied cases. One is topped off with a crumpled deli bag and an empty chocolate milk carton, litter from a prior day’s lunch. We all suffer from a chronic lack of administrative help in this office. Harry’s case is critical.
I lean against his wooden bookcase instead. He tells the person on the other end of the line to forget it, he’ll take his chances in court. He hangs up and laughs again. “She’s a piece of work,” he says.
Enough said. The person on the other end of the phone was Geraldine Schilling, Barnstable County’s District Attorney. She’s a piece of work by anybody’s standards; a pain in the ass by Harry’s. He must be feeling charitable this morning.
“She wants Rinky to do time,” he reports. “Sixty days.” He shakes his head at the telephone.
Rinky is Chatham’s only homeless person and he’s homeless by choice. He’s a tortured soul who prefers the streets and the woods to the shelter repeatedly offered by locals. He also prefers the voices in his head to anyone else’s conversation. Rinky rarely speaks to anybody the rest of us can see. Court documents dub him Rinky Snow, but no one seems to know where the surname came from. I secretly harbor the notion that it stems from the stuff he sleeps on half the year.
“He could do worse,” I tell Harry.
“Not in October, he couldn’t.”
Rinky has lived on Chatham’s streets since his return from the Vietnam War in the mid-sixties. It didn’t take long for the year-rounders to recognize his latent wounds. By unspoken agreement, we look the other way when Rinky spends the night in the woods on town-owned property, and when he drinks from a brown paper bag in public, and when he
Similar Books
