Andrade opens the van door. We get out. The four of them herd Boggy and me toward the store. Along the way we pass a group of men clustered around a picnic table watching a furious game of dominoes.
Our arrival draws only scant attention, but one of the men lets his gaze linger on us as we pass. I recognize him-the young man who was at the wheel of Michael Frazer's boat when they came across us diving with Teddy Schwartz at Sock 'Em Dog.
I give him a nod. He turns back to the dominoes.
We step inside the grocery store. It's neither a clean nor well-lit place, short on shoppers, the shelves not exactly bursting with goods. A bored middle-aged woman, a kerchief around her hair, sits on a stool by the cash register, reading a newspaper.
Boggy and I follow Andrade to the rear of the store. His three beefy associates bring up the rear. I hear music playing-acoustic guitar, the tinkling of a piano.
Andrade opens a door that leads to a back room. The music becomes louder. And now it is accompanied by a woman singing. The words are in a language I don't recognize, but the woman's voice is rich and full and as mournful as anything I've ever heard.
We step into the room. Cardboard boxes are stacked along the walls. A single fluorescent bulb flickers from the ceiling.
Behind a cluttered wooden desk sits an old man, eyes closed, hands folded atop his chest. On a nearby credenza, an LP spins on a turntable, the woman's voice resonating from a pair of speakers.
Andrade motions Boggy and me to step closer to the desk. He and his cohorts maintain their positions behind us.
The old man remains in peaceful repose, a look of contentment on a bourbon-brown face etched deep with lines. His hair is white, and so is his droopy mustache.
As the song reaches its finale, the woman seems to have reached into the depths of her soul-despair, agony, loss.
The music stops. The old man opens his eyes. He looks at Andrade and the others.
"Wait outside," he says.
When they are gone, the old man creaks up from his chair. He is barely five feet tall. Round, but not too round. A bit wobbly on his feet. He keeps a hand on the desk for balance as he steps to the credenza.
He turns off the record player, slips the LP into its jacket, and carries it with him when he returns to the chair.
He pulls a cigar from a desk drawer, clips off the end, takes his time lighting it. He enjoys the first draw. Then another.
He picks up the album and turns it so we can see the woman's face on the cover. It is an old photograph, from the 1950s maybe, judging by the woman's hairstyle.
"Amalia Rodrigues," he says. "The Queen of Fado. Do you know fado?"
I shake my head, no.
But Boggy says: "It is music of Portugal, no? Music of the streets."
The old man smiles.
"Yes, yes," he says. "But it is more than just music, fado. It is the expression of the Portuguese soul. We have a word-saudade. It means, well, it is like no word in English. It is about longing, about yearning for something that always seems to be just out of our reach. That is saudade"
The old man smiles again, takes a draw on his cigar.
I look at Boggy.
"The music of Portugal? Where did you pull that one from?"
Boggy shrugs.
"I met this woman once, from Lisbon. She used to sing to me."
"She sang to you? How sweet."
"Yes, it was very nice. Her name was Bettina."
The old man coughs. It is one of those coughs that says: OK, enough fooling around. I want you to pay attention.
"I am Manuolo Ferreira," the old man says. "Where is my money?"
He smiles the same smile he has been smiling all along, but there is something now in his eyes, something cruel and cold.
"Look," I say. "Let's start by you telling me exactly how much you think Brewster Trimmingham owes you."
"He owes me one hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars."
"He only borrowed seventy thousand."
"And he was three weeks behind in paying. Thirty percent. Per week. He knew that. It is the way we do business. He must pay the gorjeta"
"Gorjeta? What's that?"
Ferreira smiles.
"It is the tip. The gratuity. For the pleasure of doing business."
"I don't think Trimmingham got that much pleasure out of it," I say. "But I tell you what. I'll pay you the seventy thousand. Plus ten percent interest. That makes seventy-seven. And because you're such a nice guy, what the hell, I'll round it up to an even eighty."
The smile leaves Ferreira's face. He glares at me.
"You have no room to bargain here. I am doing you a favor just to talk."
"And I'm doing you a favor by offering to settle Trimmingham's debt. You aren't going to get anything from him. He's tapped out."
Ferreira puts the cigar in his mouth. He chews on it, spits out a piece of tobacco.
"We have other ways to settle his debt."
"Fine," I say. "Have it your way. Get rid of Trimmingham. It saves me eighty grand."
I turn to go. Boggy follows me.
Just as we reach the door, Ferreira says, "One hundred thousand. Even."
We stop.
"Sixty-five," I say.
"Sixty-five? But you just offered eighty."
"Yeah, I know. But if you're lowering your offer then so am I."
Ferreira starts to say something, stops. He throws up his hands.
"That is not the way to bargain."
"It's the way I bargain."
"Then you are a fool."
"Heard that before."
I reach for the doorknob.
"OK, then," says Ferreira. "Eighty thousand dollars."
I walk to Ferreira's desk, stick out my hand.
"Deal," I say.
Ferreira stands. His grip his firm. As we shake, he says, "You will pay the money now."
"No, I will not."
Ferreira releases my hand.
"What do you mean, you will not?"
"I mean, I will pay you the money as soon as I can."
Ferreira shakes his head.
"No, this will not work. You walk in here, you say you are paying another man's debt to me, I want the money now."
I pick up the record album from his desk, hand it to Ferreira.
"You need to put this back on, get in the saudade mood," I say. "Because you are wanting something that is still way out of reach."
Ferreira snatches the album away from me.
"One day," he says. "That's what I am giving you."
"And then what?"
"Then, my people, I send them to see you."
"Didn't work out real well for them the last time you did that." Ferreira puts the cigar in his mouth, sucks on it, but it has lost its fire. He flicks a hand to the door. "Get out," he says.
57.
It takes an hour chugging on Miss Peg to reach a site far enough offshore to commend Ned McHugh to the sea. It's a full boat, with Bill Belleville and a bunch of folks from Deep Water Discoveries aboard, too.
Polly has brought along a CD player. Ben Harper's "In the Lord's Arms" plays as the funeral director and an assistant lift the canvasshrouded body to the gunwales.
Fiona breaks out a bottle of champagne. She pours it around and raises her glass.
"To Ned," she says. "I know you would have preferred a pint of Victoria Bitter, but I'll buy one for you when we meet on the other side."
Belleville and some of Ned's diving buddies make toasts. And Polly says simply: "I love you. I miss you. May you know eternal peace. Namaste"
She folds her hands by her heart and bows her head.
Fiona gives the funeral director a nod and Ned's body is slowly lowered into the water. It sinks in an instant and is gone.
Aunt Trula has had her florist prepare a wreath-leatherleaf fern, red and white roses. She hands it to Fiona, gives her a hug. Fiona reaches over the gunwale and rests the wreath on the water. It bobs over waves, drifting slowly away.
Teddy cranks the engine on Miss Peg and we head back to shore.
I sit on a bench near the transom, between Fiona and Barbara. Everyone is quiet, the drone of the engine filling the void better than conversation.
Then, as we pull around Daniel's Head and make a line for Mangrove Bay, Fiona leans to me and says: "I've decided to wait until everyone else is gone."
"To talk to Teddy you mean?"
She nods.
I say, "So how do you plan on broaching the subject?"
"Head on," she says. "I'm just going to ask him why he never mentioned that he had met with my brother."
"It does seem curious."
"Damn curious," Fiona says. "He's hiding something."
"Be interesting to hear what he has to say."
But it never comes to that.
As we near Teddy's house, I spot three figures on the dock-Chief Inspector Worley and two patrolmen.