Bowled Over

Chapter Sixteen

Ocean City was a pleasant metropolis, if rather thin of company in the winter months, but it didn't hold a patch on Brighton, where Saint Just had often been a guest of the Prince Regent during the Season.

The prince's pavilion, of course, had been an architectural marvel. Why, his royal majesty's horseflesh had been housed better than most of his majesty's subjects, their stalls lit by the huge crystal chandeliers that hung suspended from the vaulted ceiling.

And the food? Ah, say what you will about the spendthrift heir to the throne, the man most certainly knew how to entertain. Course after course, delicacy after delicacy. Poor Sterling, he ate with his eyes, often allowing much more to be piled on his plate than he could possibly consume comfortably. But, if it was on the fine china plate, it must be eaten, unless he wished to insult his host. Sterling had always persevered, even if he had to take to their rented townhouse for the entirety of the next day, existing on nothing more than watered wine and bits of toast.

Of course, none of it was real, not to Saint Just, because the Viscount Saint Just was not real. The pavilion? Yes, that had been real, was still real. The Prince Regent had been real, or as real as historical research could make him. It had been Maggie, however, who had given poor Sterling his uncomfortable post-banquet bouts of dyspepsia.

Maggie had taken her creations, Sterling and himself, and paged through her research books as she recreated the pavilion and the prince and all the others.

It was still difficult, from time to time, to wrap his brains around all of it—what had been real, what he had only lived, experienced, courtesy of Maggie's imagination. They'd have to travel to Brighton one day, tour the pavilion, and he could then see for himself how correct Maggie's descriptions had been.

Or perhaps not. He had memories of the prince's Carleton House, too, but that had been ripped down not too many years after the Regency had ended. So depressing.

Still, he was here, and not in Regency England, and he should enjoy this seaside resort for what it was.

He'd come up onto the Boardwalk to reconnoiter, as it were, the Eighth Street Music Pier, where Mr. Novack had suggested they meet tomorrow night. The assignation might have ended in being canceled, but it was always best to be prepared for any eventuality.

The pier jutted out toward the shoreline, but didn't quite reach it, unless a higher tide might push water against the large pilings upon which it had been built. A cursory inspection, however, was all Saint Just needed to ascertain that there would be precious little space for Novack or anyone else to hide, as three sides of the Pier were fenced off, unavailable to the public.

There was only an area to the right of the structure, lined with wooden benches, where a person might hide himself in the shadows. It had a clear view of anyone approaching from either side or from the front, via a long ramp leading off the far side of the Boardwalk and down to Eighth Street itself. A convenient access for Mr. Novack's go-cart?

Saint Just raised his cane, let it rest on his shoulder as he looked up the Boardwalk that ran to Twenty-sixth or Twenty-eighth Street—not that it mattered—and then to the north until it reached past First Street. There were a few other people braving the wind off the water and the winter chill, riding on bicycles or in wheeled surreys they propelled with pedals.

A young boy on Rollerblades skated by, calling for Saint Just to get out of his way—how Sterling had failed at that particular mode of transportation brought a smile to Saint Just's face. Perhaps, next time they visited the resort town, Sterling would wish to bring his motorized scooter with him?

Most of the shops had closed for the season, but there seemed to be life going on inside a shop bearing the sign Mack and Manco's, and Saint Just made his way there, now lured by the aroma of freshly made pizza.

The place had the look of a local eating spot, a year-round place for tourists and the citizens of the town. Saint Just was not surprised to see the tables nearly all occupied, and more than a few gentlemen sitting on stools, their elbows on the counter, chatting among themselves.

He joined them, tipping his hat to the red-haired man who turned to look at him curiously before returning to his conversation.

Saint Just ordered a slice, amended that order to two slices, added a request for a glass of ice water, and then pretended an interest in the plastic-coated menu.

He listened to the conversation going on beside him. After all, two things were certain to him: men gossip as much or more than women; and two, the murder was probably the main topic of that gossip in a town as small and quiet as this one.

And his deductions were quickly rewarded.

"I told you—I told him. Saw him yesterday, showing up to buy donuts, just like regular people. I went up to him and I said—I said, 'Evan, you're gone. Out. Tossed. His-tor –ee.' "

"Damn! Just like that?" the man beside him asked, hunching his shoulders as he cradled a mug of coffee between his hands. "After all these years? Man, that's tough. I'd go nuts, Joe, you know?"

"Yeah? Well, we're going nuts, so just screw Evan. We've got the New Year's tournament coming up with Sea Isle, and we've got to go with two alternates. Raw, untested."

"I know who one of them is. Frank Kelso, right? He's first alternate?"

"Eight years now, right. He should be okay, I guess. He took over those two weeks last year when Pete had that gall bladder thing, remember?"

"So who's the other guy? Tiny?"

"No, not Tiny. He's third alternate. Barry Butts." Joe made a face.

"Oh, man, that's rough. Butts isn't as good as Tiny."

"Tell me about it," Joe said, and then drained his coffee cup, held it out to the kid behind the counter for a refill. "But seniority is seniority, Sam, and rules are rules. Butts has been on the list for eight years, too, but six months less than Frank. It's his turn."

"I can't believe you guys. You're all so good, you know? What other team could have a waiting list eight years' long? And keeping the trophy from the New Year's tournament all those years, too. Man, it'd be a pisser, having to give it up."

"Tell me about it," Joe said, obviously a man with a limited repertoire of verbal comebacks. "I'm the captain, and it's me who'd have to turn over the trophy to those bastards if we lose. Fourteen years we've held that trophy. Fourteen frigging years. Makes me sick. So you want to talk tough? That's tough." He repeatedly poked at his chest with one pudgy index finger. "I'm the one who's got tough."

"You still got Pete, though, right? Between the two of you, you should be all right. You know, carry the new guys?"

"I don't know," the one named Joe said sourly. "Pete's such a woman. Saying we should cancel. You know, out of respect for Walter's passing."

"Pete is a woman, Joe," the other guy said, laughing. "At least she was, last time I checked."

"You checked? Jeez Louise. Then you're a braver man than I am, Sam. Especially with her sprouting that mustache a couple of years ago. Walter used to say she was a—well, you know. But he probably said that because he couldn't get her into the sack. Not that anyone I know would ever want to get Pete in the sack. But you know Walter."

The other man chuckled again. "Yeah, we all knew Walter."

The aproned youth behind the counter slid a paper plate containing two hot slices of pizza in front of Saint Just.

"May I have a knife and fork, please?"

Joe and Sam leaned forward on their elbows, eyes shifting left, their amazed gazes on Saint Just.

"Excuse me," Joe said, grinning. "You English?"

"Why, yes, how astute of you. I am."

"So you English eat pizza with a knife and fork?"

Saint Just reached for the utensils. "I cannot speak for the general population, but I do, yes."

"Tastes better when you eat it with your hands," Sam told him.

"Then I'll have to try that, won't I?" Saint Just said, laying down the knife and fork and lifting the first piece of pizza. He took a healthy bite and spoke around it. "Hmm—good."

Inwardly, Saint Just was cringing. He imagined the one hundred or more guests at one of Prinney's Brighton Pavilion banquets all eating with their fingers, and then smiled. He wasn't in Regency England anymore, was he? And he wasn't going back. He took another bite.

"So, what're you doing here, in Ocean City?"

Now this could be tricky. If he said he was here with Maggie, visiting with the Kelly family, Joe and his friend Sam could back away from him. As it was, they were being quite friendly.

"Indulging in my love for baccarat, actually. My travel agent told me it would be less costly to book a room in a hotel in Ocean City during the off-season, rather than to stay at one of the casinos."

Joe nodded. "Yeah, that's true enough, I guess. Where ya staying?"

Saint Just hooked his thumb toward the south. Lord knew there were hotels enough to make it a reasonable gesture. "Oh, about a block that way," he said, and took a drink of water.

"Ninth Street? Oh, okay. My cousin's wife's aunt—something like that—she owns that place."

"What a splendid coincidence, then." Saint Just beat down the urge to wipe his fingers on the—unfortunately—thin paper napkin. "Lots of excitement here, isn't there?" he asked. "I mean, the murder?"

"Yeah, me and Sam were just talking about it. Can't remember the last time we had a murder around here."

"And they were bowling companions, I believe?" Saint Just prodded, hopefully not too hard, but just enough to keep the men talking. "Would that be lawn bowling?"

"On the grass? Hell, no. It's regular bowling. You know, American bowling? With lanes? We're in the middle of the season."

"Ah, I see," Saint Just said, shaking his head. "And you lost two of your company, then, didn't you? That must be a great loss."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Joe said, shaking his head. "They were both on the Majesties. That's my team. One dead, one arrested. Whole damn team's been des-des—you know."

"Decimated," Saint Just provided helpfully.

"Yeah, that. I had no choice, you know, being the captain. I had to throw the guy off. I mean, he killed Walter, right?"

"Did he? I thought the American way of justice was innocence until proved guilty?"

Joe leaned closer, rolled his tongue around the inside of his lower lip. Obviously some sort of information was about to be forthcoming. "They found Walter on the beach. Right down there, between Seventh and Eighth. Head bashed in, Evan Kelly's bowling ball just sitting there in the sand, right beside the body. Doesn't take a genius to know who done it, right?"

"On the beach?" Saint Just knew as much from the articles in the morning papers, but feigned surprise. "What on earth would lure a man onto the beach in this weather?"

Sam leaned back, put his hand on Joe's back to hold him in place, and whispered, "We heard it was drugs. You know, making a deal down on the sand? Walter liked his weed." The man then brought his point home by holding his forefinger and thumb to his lips and audibly sucking in air. "Our guess is Evan was his contact, and the ... the meet, you know? It went bad."

Saint Just attempted to picture Evan Kelly selling marijuana. No, the image wouldn't come. "So this Walter person—the victim?—was a drug user? He doesn't sound like a very exemplary citizen."

Joe hit at his friend, pushing him forward on his stool once more. "Jeez, Sam. You don't know Walter was using drugs."

"I do, too," Sam protested. "He offered me some, just a couple of weeks ago. Said it, you know, enhanced the experience."

"I thought he took those little blue pills," Joe whispered, but the man's whisper wasn't all he'd probably hoped it could be, because Saint Just had no trouble hearing him. "You know, that Vigor thing?"

"Had to stop. Woke up half blind one morning. Bummed him out, because he liked the pills, but he told me he likes to see who he's doing. Get it, Joe? See who he's doing? A real card, that was Walter, all right."

"Wow," Joe said, shaking his head. "Okay, so maybe it was a meet for drugs. But I don't know, Sam, I don't see Evan pushing weed. Had to be something else. Something bigger."

"Yeah, like that fight they had, remember?"

Joe turned to glance at Saint Just, who still maintained his look of polite interest, and then leaned in close to his friend.

"We told the cops, Sam. We don't have to tell the world."

"A fight? A disagreement of some sort?" Saint Just asked, starting on his second piece of pizza. "I don't think I read that in this morning's newspaper. You all must be very close to the investigation. I'm impressed, truly."

It would seem that Joe was not immune to flattery. "Yeah, well Walter and Evan, we all go back a long way. On the Majesties, you know? Coulda knocked me down with a feather when I came out of the lanes, saw the two of them rolling around in the parking lot like a couple of kids. But they made up. Hell, they went bowling together Christmas Eve—just before Evan killed old Walter."

"You coulda gone, right, Joe?" Sam asked. "Free bowling and all. You coulda seen them go off together, maybe? A witness, right?"

Joe shook his head. "The wife would have had my head in a sling if I said I was going to the lanes on Christmas Eve, free or not. I had to put together that wagon for little Joey, remember?" He swiveled back to Saint Just. "My grandson. He's three. Wanna see a picture?"

"I would greatly enjoy viewing a photograph, thank you," Saint Just said, and spent the next five minutes looking at an entire foldout string of pictures of a rather pudgy little creature sitting naked in a metal washtub.

But he and Joe were friends now—pals, he imagined Joe might say—and that made it easier to ask the man more questions.

One of the answers Saint Just received two cups of coffee and an hour later, however, shocked even the usually unflappable perfect hero ...