Black Sunday

14

RACHEL BAUMAN, M.D., SAT BEHIND a desk at Halfway House in the South Bronx, waiting. The addict rehabilitation center held many memories for her. She looked around the bright little room with its amateurish paint job and pickup furniture and thought about some of the ravaged, desperate minds she had tried to reach, the things that she had listened to, in her volunteer work here. It was because of the memories the room evoked that she had chosen this place to meet with Eddie Stiles.

There was a light rap on the door and Stiles came in, a slight, balding man looking around with quick glances. He had shaved for the occasion. A patch of tissue was stuck to a nick on his jaw. Stiles smiled awkwardly and fiddled with his cap.

“Sit down, Eddie. You’re looking well.”

“Never better, Dr. Bauman.”

“How’s the tugboat business?”

“To tell you the truth, dull. But I like it. I like it, understand,” he added quickly. “You done me a good turn getting me that job.”

“I didn’t get you that job, Eddie. I just asked the man to look you over.”

“Yeah, well, I’d never have got it otherwise. How’s with you? You look kind of different, I mean like you feel good. What am I talking? You’re the doctor.” He laughed self-consciously.

Rachel could see that he had gained weight. When she met him three years ago, he had just been arrested for smuggling cigarettes up from Norfolk in a forty-foot trawler, trying to feed a seventy-five dollars a day heroin habit. Eddie had spent many months at Halfway House, many hours talking to Rachel. She had worked with him when he was screaming.

“What did you want to see me about, Dr. Bauman? I mean, I’m glad to see you and all and if you was wondering if I’m clean—”

“I know you’re clean, Eddie. I want to ask you for some advice.” She had never before presumed on a professional relationship, and it disturbed her to do so now. Stiles noted this instantly. His native wariness warred with the respect and warmth he felt for her.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” she said. “Let me lay it out for you and see what you think.”

Stiles relaxed a little. He was not being asked to commit himself about anything immediately.

“I need to find a boat, Eddie. A certain boat. A funny-business boat.”

His face revealed nothing. “I told you I would tugboat and that’s all I do is tugboat, you know that.”

“I know that. But you know a lot of people, Eddie. I don’t know any people who carry on funny business in boats. I need your help.”

“We level with each other, always have, right?”

“Yes.”

“You never blabbed none of the stuff I told you when I was on the couch, right?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, you tell me the question and who wants to know.”

Rachel hesitated. The truth was the truth. Nothing else would do. She told him.

“The feds already asked me,” Stiles said when she had finished. “This guy comes right on board in front of everybody to ask me, which I don’t appreciate too much. I know they asked some other—guys of my acquaintance.”

“And you told them zip.”

Stiles smiled and reddened. “I didn’t know anything to tell them, you know? To tell you the truth I didn’t concentrate too hard. I guess nobody else did either, they’re still asking around, I hear.”

Rachel waited, she did not push him. The little man tugged at his collar, stroked his chin, deliberately put his hands back in his lap.

“You want to talk to the guy who owns this boat? I don’t mean you yourself, that wouldn’t be—I mean, your friends want to.”

“Right.”

“Just talk?”

“Just talk.”

“For money? I mean, not for me, Dr. Bauman. Don’t think that, for God’s sake. I owe you enough already. But I mean, if I was to know some guy, very few things are free. I got a couple hundred. You’re welcome, but it might—”

“Don’t worry about the money,” she said.

“Tell me again from where the Coast Guard first spotted the boat and who did what.”

Stiles listened, nodding and asking an occasional question. “Frankly, maybe I can’t help you at all, Dr. Bauman,” he said finally. “But some things occur to me. I’ll listen around.”

“Very carefully.”

“You know it.”