"Yeah, but nothing serious. Not so serious that Bill wouldn't let Ned keep on taking out the boat. But he did start charging him gas money after that. He hadn't done that before."
A couple of people stop by the table to offer their condolences to Polly. She introduces them to Fiona, who tells them about plans for the burial at sea.
While they're chatting, I spot Michael Frazer walking in the door. The tall, bearded curator of wrecks stops to talk with a few people at the bar, eventually making his way to our table. He says hello to Polly and me, then introduces himself to Fiona.
"I was so sorry to hear about Ned," he tells her. "I didn't know him well, just the few times he dropped by my office. But I was impressed by his intellect, his zeal. He'll be missed."
"Thank you," Fiona says. "You're more than welcome to sit down and join us if you like."
"Well, just for a moment," Frazer says, "I really need to be off. Early morning and all that."
He takes a seat. I pour him a glass of beer.
"Too bad we had to meet the way we did," Frazer tells me. "But if there's one thing I've learned in my years on this job, it's that I have to keep an eye on Sir Teddy."
"The two of you have had some run-ins in the past?" I say.
"To put it mildly," Frazer says. "We're natural adversaries, I suppose. My job is to preserve and protect. Teddy takes a more, shall we say, proprietarial view."
"Meaning ..."
"Meaning, Sir Teddy has this notion that everything out there in those waters belongs to him and him alone and that he should be able to plunder as he pleases, like he did in the past," Frazer says. "It just doesn't work like that anymore, I'm afraid."
Frazer turns his attention to Fiona, smiles.
"And how long will you be in Bermuda, Miss McHugh?"
"As long as it takes," Fiona says. "Until my brother's murderer is found."
"I understand that you are a police detective back in Australia?"
"Not exactly," Fiona says.
As she tells Frazer about her job with the water police, Polly fetches us another pitcher of beer.
Belleville stops her as she walks past his group at the bar. They speak for a moment, then he gets up and heads to our table.
He stands by my chair, looking down at me. Fiona and Frazer are wrapped up in their conversation, not paying any attention to us.
The cut on Belleville's cheek is festering even worse than before. If things turn ugly, I figure I'll aim for it with the first punch.
"Look," Belleville says. "About what happened earlier on the dock ... I'm sorry about that. I kinda lost my head."
Not what I was expecting.
"Don't worry about it. Strange situation."
"Man, you can say that again. The whole thing with Ned, the cops, the boat-it stressed me out. I'm sorry, man."
He sticks out a hand. I shake it.
"You mind?" he says, nodding at an empty chair.
"No, have a seat."
Polly arrives with another pitcher of Newcastle and I pour it around. Fiona and Frazer nod our way, then return to whatever it is they're talking about.
Belleville clinks his glass with mine. We take long sips. He grins at me.
"You used to play for the Gators, didn't you?"
"Sure did."
"The Dolphins, too."
I nod.
"Fucked up your knee or something, didn't you?"
"I did."
"The 1986 AFC championship. I remember. I lost a shitload of money on that game. You guys broke my heart."
I hear it a lot. I never know what to say. So I just shrug and don't say anything.
Belleville says, "You dive?"
"Yeah, when I get a chance."
"How about you come out diving with us while you're here? My treat. I'd consider it an honor hosting you, a former famous football player and all that."
"Well, I kinda have a lot going on right now."
"Sure, man, I understand. But when things free up, you give me a holler. We've got a couple of night dives scheduled out at Bird Reef. That place gets wild after dark. Killer dive. You'd like it."
We talk. About this and that. I finally get around to asking Belleville how he got the gash on his cheekbone. He seems embarrassed by it.
"Oh, it was nothing. Something stupid," he says. "A hazard of the trade."
We talk some more. We finish the beer. Belleville returns to his group at the bar.
Frazer stands up from the table, takes Fiona's hand in both of his.
"A pleasure," he says. "I'll give you a call then."
"I'll look forward to it," she says.
He gives me a nod good-bye.
I watch Fiona watching him walk away.
"Seems like a nice-enough fellow," I say.
"Quite nice," Fiona says. "And fair spunk to boot."
"Translation, please."
Fiona smiles.
"Good looking as all hell."
55.
Before they head off to run errands the next morning, Barbara and Aunt Trula join Boggy and me on the back lawn. We've just set the sixth Bismarck in the ground.
Boggy and Cedric are backfilling the hole. The auger crew is moving its equipment to the spot marked for the seventh palm. Two days until the party. We'll be jamming, but we'll make it.
"So what do you think?" I ask Aunt Trula.
Aunt Trula cocks her head and studies the palms. She cocks her head the other way and studies them some more.
"You have planted them too close together," she says.
I glance at Barbara, but she looks away, at the ocean. Boggy and Cedric keep shoveling dirt, pretending like they aren't listening.
"They aren't too close," I say. "You see, the idea is to create a critical mass."
"Hmm," Aunt Trula sniffs.
"Space them any further apart and it takes away from the impact."
"Well, have it your way then. I suppose there's no turning back now." She turns to Barbara. "We really need to get going, dear, if we are to get everything done before we go out on the boat for the memorial service."
As Aunt Trula marches off, Barbara steps beside me. She rubs my back, gives me a nuzzle.
"Don't mind her. I think the palms are magnificent." She gives me a kiss. "See you at Teddy's."
She heads after Aunt Trula. I help Boggy and Cedric finish backfilling around the palm.
When we're done, Boggy scoops up a handful of dirt. He dabs the tip of his tongue to it, tastes it.
"You want, I can bring out some salt and pepper, and you can make a meal of it," I say.
"Magnesium," Boggy says. "The soil is lacking in it."
"And you can taste that?"
Boggy nods.
"Maybe could use some potassium, too," he says. "Otherwise the palms, they will yellow."
Cedric gives us directions to a garden store. Boggy and I take the Morris Minor, find the place, and arrange delivery for enough fertilizer spikes to keep the Bismarcks well fed for the foreseeable future.
When we step out to the parking lot, I see that a gray van has pulled up next to the Morris Minor. Paul Andrade, the short thug whom Boggy had relieved of his gun two nights before, leans against the passenger door, watching us as we approach.
He slides open the van's side door.
"Get in," Andrade says.
I look inside the van. Hector Moraes is at the wheel. Luiz Barros is in the very back seat. Beside Barros sits yet another bruiser. They seem to keep getting bigger and bigger.
I look at Andrade.
"After that ass-kicking we gave you the other day, you only brought along one more of your buddies to help out? I'm deeply offended."
Andrade edges back his jacket just enough to let me see the pistol in a shoulder holster. I let out a low whistle.
"Whoa, went out and got yourself a new one, huh?" Andrade doesn't say anything. "Why didn't you pick out one with a brown grip? It would match your outfit so much better."
"Get in the fucking van," Andrade says.
I slide into the middle seat. Boggy sits down beside me. Andrade slides the door shut, gets in up front, and Moraes puts the van on the road.
56.
We ride for twenty minutes and no one talks. We take the detour around Hamilton and keep heading east on Middle Road until we come to Flatts Village.
We wind through narrow streets, past houses built close to the road, slowing every now and then to dodge old women walking with parasols and kids kicking soccer balls.
This is not the rich man's version of Bermuda. It's off the tourist grid, a zone where only locals tread.
Moraes stops the van in the dirt parking lot of a shabby concrete building. A faded sign reads: FERREIRA'S-GROCERY, CAFe, PAPER GOODS.