tell you?”
She brought him a bourbon so I wouldn’t feel bad being the only one with a drink. We talked about nothing for a while, then migrated into the realm of the merely inconsequential.
Then I made the mistake of telling him about Amanda’s house.
“No kidding. Wow. There’s a pity,” he said. “How’s she taking it?”
I told him what happened after Sullivan woke us up, including what led to my decision to jog home. He maintained a look of neutrality, which I appreciated. I was less sure how Dorothy, who was nearby pretending not to listen to the conversation, took the news.
“At least she can afford to start over,” said Hodges. “Even without insurance, though I guess that’s not much of a consolation.”
“No. Apparently not.”
“That girl’s had more than her share of trouble.”
“There’s something wrong with this drink,” I said, holding the empty glass up to the light.
Dorothy plucked it out of my hand and filled it with a handful of fresh ice. Hodges took the cue and launched down a different conversational byway. I don’t know how it happened, but something led to something that caused me to mention Robbie Milhouser.
“Knew his father,” said Hodges. “Quite an operator.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Okay, sleazebag. But looked good, you know? Handsome. Like that Bouvier guy. Jackie’s old man. Slick.”
“A dickhead with a pretty face is still a dickhead,” I said.
“Easy to say when you got a nose that’s always signaling a right-hand turn. No offense.”
“Why would I be offended at that?”
The fragrant and boisterous arrival of a pack of fishermen drove Hodges back into the kitchen, giving me a chance to finish off my meal and a few more drinks. Dorothy occasionally slid over to give me an installment of her moonshinerstory, trying to persuade me to search Jacob’s Neck for evidence of contraband booze. I told her I’d investigated the WB property personally two years ago and found only abandoned machine tools and bowling trophies. And if there was anything in the muck of the lagoon, it could stay there until it turned into fossils.
“Besides,” I told her, “who’d drink eighty-year-old booze?”
“You see who comes in this place?” she said, nodding toward the fishermen, now crowded around a pair of tables pulled together in the center of the room, drinking bottled beer and shoving handfuls of fried clams into their mouths.
“If I ever find anything, I’ll turn it over to you. For the sake of history or commerce, whatever your mood at the time.”
When Hodges came back he still had Robbie Milhouser’s old man on his mind.
“You know he was a Town Trustee for a while,” he told me, settling in with his second bourbon on the rocks. “Proof that politics is the last refuge of scoundrels.”
“I thought that was patriotism.”
“The Town had its share of crooks in those days. Not that there was much to steal. Mostly a little skim here and there and a chance to get out of parking tickets. Milhouser still managed to get caught scamming the highway department. I think it was over road salt. I don’t remember the details, but he had to quit the board and was lucky to stay out of jail. Still alive, you know. At least as of a month or two ago. Saw him in the hardware store. All grins and handshakes. Good old Jeff Milhouser.”
“Jeff. Didn’t remember his first name.”
“Short for Jefferson. Folks had a lot of money. Or used to. Lost it in the Depression or something. Had the Ivy League airs. Used to see that a lot around here when the place was full of Waspy old money. Not so much anymore.”
“You knew this guy?” I said.
“Only for a while. When I was working for him at the Esso station out on County Road 39.”
“That’s where I worked for him.”
“Get out of here. Don’t remember you. What was it, early sixties?” Hodges asked.
“I was there a little later. You wouldn’t have seen me anyway. Always had my
She brought him a bourbon so I wouldn’t feel bad being the only one with a drink. We talked about nothing for a while, then migrated into the realm of the merely inconsequential.
Then I made the mistake of telling him about Amanda’s house.
“No kidding. Wow. There’s a pity,” he said. “How’s she taking it?”
I told him what happened after Sullivan woke us up, including what led to my decision to jog home. He maintained a look of neutrality, which I appreciated. I was less sure how Dorothy, who was nearby pretending not to listen to the conversation, took the news.
“At least she can afford to start over,” said Hodges. “Even without insurance, though I guess that’s not much of a consolation.”
“No. Apparently not.”
“That girl’s had more than her share of trouble.”
“There’s something wrong with this drink,” I said, holding the empty glass up to the light.
Dorothy plucked it out of my hand and filled it with a handful of fresh ice. Hodges took the cue and launched down a different conversational byway. I don’t know how it happened, but something led to something that caused me to mention Robbie Milhouser.
“Knew his father,” said Hodges. “Quite an operator.”
“That’s one way of putting it.”
“Okay, sleazebag. But looked good, you know? Handsome. Like that Bouvier guy. Jackie’s old man. Slick.”
“A dickhead with a pretty face is still a dickhead,” I said.
“Easy to say when you got a nose that’s always signaling a right-hand turn. No offense.”
“Why would I be offended at that?”
The fragrant and boisterous arrival of a pack of fishermen drove Hodges back into the kitchen, giving me a chance to finish off my meal and a few more drinks. Dorothy occasionally slid over to give me an installment of her moonshinerstory, trying to persuade me to search Jacob’s Neck for evidence of contraband booze. I told her I’d investigated the WB property personally two years ago and found only abandoned machine tools and bowling trophies. And if there was anything in the muck of the lagoon, it could stay there until it turned into fossils.
“Besides,” I told her, “who’d drink eighty-year-old booze?”
“You see who comes in this place?” she said, nodding toward the fishermen, now crowded around a pair of tables pulled together in the center of the room, drinking bottled beer and shoving handfuls of fried clams into their mouths.
“If I ever find anything, I’ll turn it over to you. For the sake of history or commerce, whatever your mood at the time.”
When Hodges came back he still had Robbie Milhouser’s old man on his mind.
“You know he was a Town Trustee for a while,” he told me, settling in with his second bourbon on the rocks. “Proof that politics is the last refuge of scoundrels.”
“I thought that was patriotism.”
“The Town had its share of crooks in those days. Not that there was much to steal. Mostly a little skim here and there and a chance to get out of parking tickets. Milhouser still managed to get caught scamming the highway department. I think it was over road salt. I don’t remember the details, but he had to quit the board and was lucky to stay out of jail. Still alive, you know. At least as of a month or two ago. Saw him in the hardware store. All grins and handshakes. Good old Jeff Milhouser.”
“Jeff. Didn’t remember his first name.”
“Short for Jefferson. Folks had a lot of money. Or used to. Lost it in the Depression or something. Had the Ivy League airs. Used to see that a lot around here when the place was full of Waspy old money. Not so much anymore.”
“You knew this guy?” I said.
“Only for a while. When I was working for him at the Esso station out on County Road 39.”
“That’s where I worked for him.”
“Get out of here. Don’t remember you. What was it, early sixties?” Hodges asked.
“I was there a little later. You wouldn’t have seen me anyway. Always had my
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