who may be plotting the destruction of all life in North America”? That
would cause a little dip in the Dow at the opening bell, not to mention a stampede for the airports and a sudden urge for
a South American vacation.
Anyway, it was a nice morning, so far. I spotted a big pumpkin field to my right, and I recalled the autumn weekends out here
as a kid, going nuts running through the pumpkin patches to find the absolutely biggest, roundest, orangest, and most perfect
pumpkin. I remember having some disagreements with my kid brother, Jimmy, on the choice every year, but we settled it fairly
with a fistfight that I always won since I was much bigger than he was. At least the kid had heart.
The hamlet after Peconic is Southold, which is also the name of the whole township. It’s about here where the vineyards end
and the land narrows between the Sound and the bay, and everything looks a little more windswept and wild. The Long Island
Rail Road tracks, which begin at Penn Station in Manhattan, paralleled the highway to my left for a while, then the road and
the tracks crossed and diverged again.
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour except for a few farm vehicles. It occurred to me that if any of my fellow travelers
to Plum Island were on the road, I might see them at some point.
I drove into the village of Greenport, the main metropolis on the North Fork with a population, according to the sign, of
2,100. By comparison, Manhattan Island, where I worked, lived, and almost died, is smaller than the North Fork and has two
million people piled on. The police force I work for has thirty thousand men and women, making it bigger than the entire population
of Southold Township. Max, as I said, has about forty officers, if you include me and him. Greenport Village actually had
its own police force once, about a half dozen guys, but they pissed off the populace somehow and were voted out of existence.
I don’t think that can happen in New York City, but it’s not a bad idea.
Sometimes I think I should get Max to hire me—you know, big-time, big-city gunslinger rides into town, and the local sheriff
pins a badge on him and says, “We need a man with your experience, training, and proven track record,” or something like that.
I mean, would I be a big fish in a small pond, or what? Would I have ladies stealing glances at me and dropping their handkerchiefs
on the sidewalk, or what?
Back to reality. I was hungry. There are virtually no fast-food chains out here, which is part of the charm of the place,
but also a pain in the ass. There are, however, a few convenience stores, and I stopped at one at the edge of Greenport and
bought a coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich of mystery meat and cheese product. I swear you can eat the shrink wrap and
Styrofoam, too, and not notice the difference. I grabbed a free weekly newspaper and had breakfast in the driver’s seat. The
newspaper, coincidentally, had an article on Plum Island. This is not uncommon as the locals seem very interested in this
mist-shrouded island of mystery and all that. Over the years, I’d picked up most of my information about Plum from local sources.
Now and then the island made the national news, but it was safe to guess that nine out of ten Americans never heard of the
place. That might change real soon.
This article I was now reading had to do with Lyme disease, another obsession of the residents of eastern Long Island and
nearby Connecticut. This disease, carried by deer ticks, had assumed plague-like proportions. I knew people who had Lyme;
though rarely fatal, it could screw up a year or two of your life. Anyway, the locals were convinced that the disease came
from Plum Island and was a bio-warfare experiment that had gotten loose by mistake or something. I would not be overstating
if I said the locals would like Plum Island to sink into the sea. In fact, I had this image— like the scene
would cause a little dip in the Dow at the opening bell, not to mention a stampede for the airports and a sudden urge for
a South American vacation.
Anyway, it was a nice morning, so far. I spotted a big pumpkin field to my right, and I recalled the autumn weekends out here
as a kid, going nuts running through the pumpkin patches to find the absolutely biggest, roundest, orangest, and most perfect
pumpkin. I remember having some disagreements with my kid brother, Jimmy, on the choice every year, but we settled it fairly
with a fistfight that I always won since I was much bigger than he was. At least the kid had heart.
The hamlet after Peconic is Southold, which is also the name of the whole township. It’s about here where the vineyards end
and the land narrows between the Sound and the bay, and everything looks a little more windswept and wild. The Long Island
Rail Road tracks, which begin at Penn Station in Manhattan, paralleled the highway to my left for a while, then the road and
the tracks crossed and diverged again.
There wasn’t much traffic at this hour except for a few farm vehicles. It occurred to me that if any of my fellow travelers
to Plum Island were on the road, I might see them at some point.
I drove into the village of Greenport, the main metropolis on the North Fork with a population, according to the sign, of
2,100. By comparison, Manhattan Island, where I worked, lived, and almost died, is smaller than the North Fork and has two
million people piled on. The police force I work for has thirty thousand men and women, making it bigger than the entire population
of Southold Township. Max, as I said, has about forty officers, if you include me and him. Greenport Village actually had
its own police force once, about a half dozen guys, but they pissed off the populace somehow and were voted out of existence.
I don’t think that can happen in New York City, but it’s not a bad idea.
Sometimes I think I should get Max to hire me—you know, big-time, big-city gunslinger rides into town, and the local sheriff
pins a badge on him and says, “We need a man with your experience, training, and proven track record,” or something like that.
I mean, would I be a big fish in a small pond, or what? Would I have ladies stealing glances at me and dropping their handkerchiefs
on the sidewalk, or what?
Back to reality. I was hungry. There are virtually no fast-food chains out here, which is part of the charm of the place,
but also a pain in the ass. There are, however, a few convenience stores, and I stopped at one at the edge of Greenport and
bought a coffee and a plastic-wrapped sandwich of mystery meat and cheese product. I swear you can eat the shrink wrap and
Styrofoam, too, and not notice the difference. I grabbed a free weekly newspaper and had breakfast in the driver’s seat. The
newspaper, coincidentally, had an article on Plum Island. This is not uncommon as the locals seem very interested in this
mist-shrouded island of mystery and all that. Over the years, I’d picked up most of my information about Plum from local sources.
Now and then the island made the national news, but it was safe to guess that nine out of ten Americans never heard of the
place. That might change real soon.
This article I was now reading had to do with Lyme disease, another obsession of the residents of eastern Long Island and
nearby Connecticut. This disease, carried by deer ticks, had assumed plague-like proportions. I knew people who had Lyme;
though rarely fatal, it could screw up a year or two of your life. Anyway, the locals were convinced that the disease came
from Plum Island and was a bio-warfare experiment that had gotten loose by mistake or something. I would not be overstating
if I said the locals would like Plum Island to sink into the sea. In fact, I had this image— like the scene
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