Class Act

5

Jack Coulter was wakened by his nurse on the day of his discharge. She shaved him, changed his bandage, and set out his clothes, which had been laundered, dry-cleaned, and pressed, and his shoes polished. She helped him dress and get seated in a wheelchair, then a breakfast cart and table was wheeled in and he had a sumptuous breakfast.

When he was done, the nurse took away the cart, set his trench coat and hat in his lap, and pushed his wheelchair to the porte cochere, where his Bentley awaited. He said goodbye to the nurse and gave her an envelope of hundreds to be shared as she saw fit, then he gave his coat and hat to the driver and got into the rear seat beside Hillary.

“Well, you look fresh and almost new,” she said, kissing him carefully, to avoid a nose bump.

“Never better,” Jack said.

They were driven to Teterboro and thence to Jet Aviation, where a Citation CJ3 awaited them, one owned by the office supply company now owned by Hillary, and one of two available for their use. Minutes later, they were climbing through clouds, then, finally, in clear blue skies. Jack dozed off.

An hour later, Jack awoke when he felt the landing gear come down and five minutes after that they coasted to a stop at Columbia Aviation at Bar Harbor Airport, where they and their luggage were loaded into a Range Rover and driven to the charming village of Northeast Harbor, where they occupied a charming house overlooking the charming harbor. Jack settled into an armchair with a view and allowed the New York Times to be placed in his hands. He was brought a cup of tea, then Hillary settled into a chair opposite him and opened the island newspaper.

“Was there anything in the New York papers about my, ah, mishap?” he asked.

“Nothing that could identify you,” she replied. “You know, the Post said something like, ‘Man mugged on Lex, assailant sought.’ ”

“No photographs?”

“Oh, some tourist got a snap of you being loaded into the ambulance, then shopped it to the Post. You were unidentifiable.”

“Has anyone been sniffing around our building?”

“Nothing the deskman couldn’t handle.”

“I expect O’Brien will be asking.”

“Let him ask.”

Mickey O’Brien flashed his gold badge at the doorman and entered the building without being stopped. He got only as far as the desk, where he flashed it again.

“Hello, O’Brien,” the deskman said. “Don’t they make you turn in your badge when you retire?”

“Usually,” O’Brien said, “but not detectives. I need to see Jack Coulter.”

“Mister Coulter is not at home.”

“Yeah, I know what that means.”

“He left the city this morning.”

“For where?”

“His summer home.”

“And where’s that?”

“Now, that’s not a question you expect to have answered, is it?”

“I expect to have all my questions answered.”

“Dream on, Mickey. We all know what you did, and if you walk in here again, I’ll have Internal Affairs on your back, and you know how they cling.”

“Fuck you,” O’Brien said, but left. He crossed Fifth Avenue, and found a bench against the Central Park wall with a view of the building. Now, where would a gent of Coulter’s station have a summer house? Hamptons? Nah, too flash. Cape Cod? Maybe that or the Vineyard or Nantucket. He needed to narrow the range. As he thought about it, a blue Bentley with Florida plates turned the corner and entered the building’s garage.

Florida plates? Jack had a place in Palm Beach, didn’t he? He trotted across the street and into the garage. The Bentley was parked near the entrance, and Mickey checked the plate. It was in a dealer’s frame with a West Palm address, and he jotted down the license number, then trotted back to his bench and got out his phone. He got himself connected to the West Palm Beach police and gave them another detective’s name, at the 19th Precinct.

“What can we do for you, Chief?” the cop asked.

“I need a little info on a man named Jack Coulter, lives part time in P.B., drives a Bentley from the local dealer.” He spelled Coulter for the man.

“Okay, let’s see. What d’ya know? Man had a couple parking tickets on Worth Avenue.”

“Where does he live?”

“Local address at a big hotel called the Breakers.”

“Any other address?”

“One on Fifth Avenue, New York City, one in Northeast Harbor, Maine, on Harborside Road. That’s it.”

“That’s all I need,” O’Brien said and hung up. Maine! Why didn’t he think of that? He went to the maps on his iPhone and looked up the address. Harborside Road was fairly short, and there was an airport less than ten miles away: Bar Harbor Airport.

He called a travel agent. He could get to Northeast Harbor by flying to Boston and changing for Bar Harbor, where he could rent a car. He looked at his watch: a little late in the day. He made a reservation for tomorrow, then started looking for a bar where he wouldn’t stand out too much.

Late in the evening, Mickey got out of a cab into pouring rain and ran for the door to his basement apartment. He stuck in his key, but it wouldn’t turn in any direction. Befuddled, he searched his brain for some reason. Then he remembered what his mother had screamed at him before he left the house. The locksmith had done his work and replaced the old lock with one set to unlock on a timer.

He checked his wristwatch for the time, but couldn’t see it. The bulb under the main staircase had burned out. He walked around trying to find a ray of light to reveal his watch, then Nature obliged with a quick bolt of lightning. Eleven-forty, it read, so he was required to shelter under the stairs for another twenty minutes before his key would work.

It didn’t work then, either, but finally, after another three minutes the key opened the door. He left his sodden clothing in a pile by the front door and got into a hot shower, to warm his bones. That accomplished, he set up a clothesline in the kitchen and hung his clothes there to drip dry, then got into a bed that eventually became warm.