Two Time

FOURTEEN

JACKIE SHOWED UP at the end of the next day with a stringy, straight-faced kid in a black baseball hat, sunglasses and a dark gray suit. I was in the outdoor shower, or more precisely, just emerging while I toweled off my hair, so I didn’t immediately know they were there.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of you lately,” said Jackie. “More than I ever wanted to.”

“That explain the bodyguard?” I asked, wrapping the towel around my middle.

“Sam, this is Agent Webster Ig.”

The kid had been leaning over to pet Eddie’s head. He stood up straight and offered me his hand.

“That’s two letters,” he said. “I and G. Ig.”

“I called, but nobody answered,” said Jackie. “Did you know you’re the only person left on the planet without an answering machine? So don’t blame me.”

“Agent? For the government?”

“FBI. Nice dog,” he said, yielding to Eddie’s persistent attention. Jackie stood back slightly, rolling her eyes and pointing at the guy while mouthing the word “cute.”

I let them follow me into the cottage so I could get dressed and put together my first drink of the day. I’d wanted to stay completely sober to hear that Sullivan was dead, but he didn’t die. He was still unconscious, but Markham thought he’d come most of the way back.

“I told his boss to give it a few days, though, before he start bugging him,” Markham had told me. “And not be surprised if he don’ remember anyt’ing. That’s usually the case with head trauma and blood loss.”

Jackie and Agent Ig were out on the screened-in porch. Jackie was sprawled on the daybed and Ig sat stiffly at the shaky pine table where I ate most of my meals. His face was fresh as a baby’s behind and the dark brown hair revealed when he took off his cap was just long enough to allow a precisely drawn part. You didn’t always get the kind of law enforcement performance you might want from the FBI, but you couldn’t fault the grooming.

“I need to tell you, as I did Miss Swaitkowski, that I can’t discuss any details of the Eldridge bombing,” said Ig, just to get the ball rolling.

“So you’re just here for the view?”

“It’s very nice, Mr. Acquillo.”

“How bout a beer to go with it. Unless you’re on duty”

“Two beers,” said Jackie.

Once he had a beer in front of him, Agent Ig unbuttoned his jacket and sat back, crossing his legs. Discipline gone all to hell.

“But I can speak in generalities. And considering the two of you were the only witnesses, I suppose that’s not entirely inappropriate.”

Try as I might, I could never listen to stuff like that from people wearing business suits. There’s something about official language when it’s all dressed up. Though Ig looked earnest and open faced enough to get away with it. Like the top salesmen I used to know from our company’s mid-western region.

“I told him generalities would be fine,” said Jackie, pointedly.

“Absolutely Engineers hate details. You know, like who did it.”

Agent Ig started to speak, but Jackie cut him off.

“They don’t know.”

“But we’re fairly certain who didn’t,” said Ig, taking a pull on his beer. “No terrorists, no foreign involvement of any kind. Nothing like that. The Bureau’s determined it’s a simple homicide.”

“Not to the dead people.”

“From a national security perspective,” he said flatly.

“How old are you?” I asked him.

Jackie jumped to her feet.

“You got anything to munch on, Sam? Chips or anything?”

“Twenty-eight,” said Ig, without hesitation. “Old enough to know the propriety of certain questions.”

“Then you won’t mind me asking why Ivor Fleming just tried to kill a cop.”

“Sam?”

“Joe Sullivan. Stabbed in the gut. Knocked on the head. Left here in one of my Adirondack chairs. Another hour and he’d be dead.”

Ig didn’t flinch or hesitate. “That’s a question for the local people,” said Ig. “As is anything relating to Mr. Fleming. All of that was referred to the state and local levels.”

“All of what?”

“Matters regarding Mr. Fleming uncovered in the investigation. All referred to local racketeering authorities. Nothing of interest at the federal level.”

“I’m sure as hell interested.”

Jackie stood in front of me so Ig couldn’t see her face and scowled meaningfully.

“Come on, Sam. He’s trying to help. You didn’t tell me about Sullivan.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Why?”

“It’s getting too dangerous. You said it yourself. We’re way over our heads.”

“He’s certainly right about that, Miss Swaitkowski.”

“Too late,” she said. “You think it was Fleming?”

“Who else?” I told her about my conversation with Sullivan at the diner. And about Amanda’s invitation to the fundraiser and meeting Jonathan’s brother and sister-in-law. And how we found Sullivan on the lawn. I left out a few other details concerning Amanda, in the spirit of sticking to generalities.

“Holy cow, you actually went on a date,” said Jackie. “Probably the first time in your life.”

I looked at our agent.

“Any of this do anything for you, Web? Spark anything?”

“I sympathize with your situation. I do. As I said, any information we had that would help advance the cause we’ve already passed along. It’s now in different hands.”

“Then what’re you doing here?”

“I asked him,” said Jackie, gaily. “I wanted him to meet you.”

“And what about the data on Jonathan’s hard drives?”

“State’s got everything,” said Jackie. “And they aren’t giving it up to me or you, or anybody else.”

Agent Ig leaned forward so he could get in the middle of our conversation. He looked at me.

“I think you’re giving too little significance to what I’m saying.”

“Exactly,” said Jackie.

“Exactly what?”

“The FBI thinks the whole thing is home grown,” said Jackie. “We don’t have to look anywhere else.”

“We’re not looking anywhere else.”

She swatted me on the arm.

“Of course we’re not, because it’s all we have. But this confirms we’re at least in the right neighborhood. I think it’s very helpful,” she added, smiling broadly at cute Agent Web.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Just for clarification,” said Agent Ig, jumping in again, “I’m not saying you should look anywhere. I think for your own safety you should stay as clear as possible from the whole matter.”

“Well I can’t do that now that I know it’s a local thing,” I told him. “I’m head of the neighborhood watch.”

“Am I the only one who wants to eat?” asked Jackie.

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Not the damn Pequot.”

“Come on, a little fish’ll do you good. Web, you hungry?”

They followed me over to Sag Harbor in a mid-sized Ford that matched the color and ostentation of Ig’s summer suit. Though I really liked seeing him in my rearview mirror. Comforting to know that if anybody tried to shoot me over dinner I had my own FBI agent along to shoot back.

“Dinner for four, Dot, counting Eddie,” I said to Hodges’s daughter when we got to the Pequot.

“Dorothy,” she said, waving at a cluster of empty tables near the back of the restaurant without looking up from her book.

“Why it pays to be a regular,” I said to my party.

“Nice place,” said Agent Ig, admiring the sepulchral gloom that distinguished the Pequot’s interior, accented by dirty brown natural-wood paneling, and dirtier brown tables and chairs, lit by wall-mounted fixtures shaded with red whorehouse globes and a few flickering fluorescents hanging above the bar.

Hodges came out from the kitchen to help get us settled. He wiped his hands on his apron before offering to shake.

“You look better,” he said to Jackie.

“Thanks, I think.”

“This is Webster Ig,” I said, “friend of Jackie’s.”

“Two letters,” Jackie told him. “An I and a G.”

“Feel free to lose the tie, son,” said Hodges. “Been a while since we had a dress code in here.”

“And the fish of the day?” I asked.

“Cooked.”

“Excellent. Cooked all around. And a burger for the pup.”

I spent the rest of the night trying to squeeze more information out of the FBI, while giving up as little as possible to Jackie about my recent night out. The two of us never shared any kind of romantic life, which I think gave her the idea she could nose her way into mine. None of which right at that moment mattered a whit. All I cared about was that I was alive, eating at a friend’s crappy little joint, watching another friend try to flirt through a layer of unhealed plastic surgery, feeling my little mutt pressed up against my leg and, for a moment anyway, not afraid for life, limb or soul.