37.
Brewster Trimmingham is sitting up in bed, doing much better than the day before.
"Umph-emmph," he says.
With his jaw wired shut, it's hard to make out exactly what he's saying, but I'm pretty sure he's cussing me.
"Easy there, Brew," I say. "I'm doing you a big favor."
"Oddy-astad," Trimmingham says.
"I am not a sorry bastard. I'm the guy who rescued you after you got your head cracked. And I'm the guy who is going to relieve you of your financial responsibilities to whomever did the cracking. Plus, I intend to make sure it doesn't happen again. You should be thanking me."
I turn to Daniel Denton. He's sixtyish, a tall man with a patrician's bearing. He wears a good suit and an expression that says he would rather be anywhere else but here.
"You're up," I tell him.
Denton edges to Trimmingham's bed and presents him with a thick stack of papers.
"Now, please listen very carefully, Mr. Trimmingham, as I explain in more detail the proposition that Mr. Chasteen has just laid out," says Denton.
Denton launches into a protracted lawyerly lecture that boils down to this: For the token amount of one dollar per unit, I will become the proud owner of six condominium residences at Governor's Pointe. I will assume the mortgages with the National Bank of Bermuda. And I will further assume, as Denton has so craftily phrased it, "any prior debts to parties mentioned or unmentioned herein that are directly or indirectly related to the purchase of said units."
There's also a lot of legal rigmarole that I interpret to mean that neither Daniel Denton nor his firm can be held liable in the event that this whole deal blows up in our faces. It's all so guardedly worded that I'm surprised Denton isn't wearing gloves out of fear his fingerprints might be traced back to these documents.
Denton hands Trimmingham a pen.
"Now, sir, if you would just sign your name at those places which I have highlighted."
Trimmingham slings the pen across the room. It almost hits Boggy, who is standing by a window.
I tap Denton on the shoulder.
"If you don't mind," I say, "I'd like a few moments alone with Mr. Trimmingham."
Denton steps away from the bed. On his way to the door, he leans close to me and speaks low.
"I will not be a party to coercion," he says.
"Coercion sounds so harsh, don't you think? I prefer to think of it as playtime."
The moment Denton leaves the room, Trimmingham launches into a tirade. I can't make out a word he says.
When he's done, I pick up the pen from the floor and grab a notepad from the bedside table. I hand them to Trimmingham.
"Might help if you wrote down what it is you're trying to tell me," I say.
Trimmingham scribbles something on the pad and shoves it at me.
I LOSE $200,000!!!, it says.
"Sorry, but I'm afraid that's the cost of doing business, Brew. Consider that two hundred thousand dollars your payment for my services. The way I look at it, you're getting off pretty cheap."
Trimmingham rips the sheet off the notepad. He wads it up and throws it at me. He writes something else.
not fair!!!!
"Not fair? Come on, Brew. You took two million dollars of mine and it's sitting out there. You want not fair? That's not fair. So I am assuming my role as majority partner in this little enterprise you've gotten us into. And I'm calling in the chits."
Trimmingham starts in on another rant. I grab a pillow from the bed and shove it down on his face. Trimmingham shuts up. I remove the pillow.
Trimmingham glares at me. But at least he has the good sense to be quiet.
"Look at it this way," I say. "Sign these papers and you're home free. No overhead to worry about. No bad guys on your tail. Everything is on my shoulders. All you have to do is take it easy and get well."
"Goosh-gotumpph," Trimmingham says. "Izznot-tokus ..."
I move in with the pillow. Trimmingham shuts up.
"Of course," I continue, "if you refuse to sign then that means your ass is in a sling. You still owe all that money. To the bad guys. And to me. And I'm a whole lot badder than they are. You might as well take up permanent residence in this hospital. That's if you're lucky."
Trimmingham seethes. He starts to say something, thinks better of it. He scribbles on the notepad and holds it up so I can see.
I WANT ALL MY MONEY!!!!.
"Sure, no problem." I take out my wallet, pull six dollar bills from it. I put them on the bed. "There you go. Now sign the papers."
I pick up the pen and hold it out to Trimmingham.
"Gafuk yusef," he says.
I fluff the pillow, move in with it again.
He reaches for the pen.
38.
Despite my success in getting Brewster Trimmingham to sign the papers, I have no luck on another front: Getting him to tell me who beat him up.
He stonewalls. And keeps stonewalling. And when his blood pressure spikes so much that a buzzer goes off, a nurse comes in and asks Boggy and me to leave.
"These people, the ones Trimmingham owes money to, don't you think they will soon reveal themselves?" asks Boggy as we leave the hospital.
"Yeah, I do. But I prefer they reveal themselves on my terms. And I prefer they do it sooner rather than later."
I drive to downtown Hamilton and park in the alley behind Benny's Lounge. We step inside. Not much of a crowd. A few people occupying booths. No one sitting at the bar.
The same bartender from a couple of days earlier is wiping down the bar, talking on his cell phone. Boggy and I take stools near him. If he recognizes me, he doesn't show it. He flips shut his phone.
"What can I get you?" he asks.
"A name."
Blank stare from the bartender. He's a big, pig-faced guy, clearly not hired for his looks.
"What name is that?"
"Whoever it was you called the other afternoon when Brewster Trimmingham got his butt kicked in the alley."
"Don't know what you're talking about," says the bartender.
He gives me his bad-ass look. It's a good one, as looks like that go. I'd rate it about number 713 out of the 10,000 or so I've been given in my life. I hope he doesn't see me quivering in my sandals.
"Gee," I say. "I must have made a mistake."
"Yeah," says the bartender. "You must have."
I smile.
"In that case," I say, "my friend and I will each take a pint of Guinness and review our options."
The bartender isn't sure he likes the sound of that, but he draws our pints anyway. He sets them down in front of us.
I pick up my mug and study it. There's at least three inches of brown foam sitting on top of the black stout.
"You know, you really rushed this one," I say.
"Oh, yeah?" says the bartender. "How's that?"
"Well, the right way to draw a Guinness, it takes time. You pour a little, let it sit. Then pour a little more, and let it sit. Maybe scrape off the head with a knife. I don't like it when my Guinness is rushed," I say. "I can't possibly drink this."
I toss the Guinness in the bartender's face.
As he sputters, I grab Boggy's mug.
"You mind?" I ask Boggy.
"I hate Guinness," he says. "Gives me gas."
"Then 'tis a far, far better thing I do."
I give the bartender another faceful of stout.
He reaches across the bar to grab me and I slam the mug against the side of his head. He drops like a bag of bricks.
The people in the booths eye me with no small degree of alarm. Can't say that I blame them.
"Big guy like him," I say, "you'd think he could hold his liquor."
I vault over the bar. The bartender lies groaning on a plastic mat. I roll him onto his back. I sit down on his chest.
There's a red welt near his temple. He'll be all right.
I give his right cheek a slap.
"A name," I say.
"No way, I can't."
"Oh, but you can."
A backhand slap to his left cheek. Then another to his right.
"I'm just getting into my rhythm," I say. "Maybe you'd like to hum along."
Left, right, left...
"OK, OK," the bartender says.
I stop slapping.
"They're Papi's guys. That's all I know. Swear to God."
"Who's Papi?"
"I don't know. I've never met him. Just heard about him. Everyone's heard about Papi Ferreira. He's, like, the local Godfather or something."
"What's he got to do with Brewster Trimmingham?"
The bartender shakes his head.
"All I know, these guys they come in the other day and they tell me that I'm supposed to call them whenever Trimmingham gets here and whenever he leaves."
"You ask them why?"
The bartender snorts.