I knelt beside poor Paul and patted him down, finding his little Saturday afternoon special — a 6.5mm Beretta — tucked in the inside pocket of his windbreaker. I took the magazine out and emptied it putting the rounds in my pocket. I cleared the chamber, replaced the magazine, and returned his piece.
I looked through his wallet — some cash, credit cards, driver's license, medical card, a Plum Island ID card, and a Connecticut pistol permit that listed the Beretta, a.45 Colt, and a.357 Magnum. There were no photos, no phone numbers, no business cards, no keys, no condoms, no lottery tickets, and nothing of any special interest, except the fact that he owned two big-caliber guns that we might not have turned up if I hadn't cold-cocked him and rummaged through his wallet.
Anyway, I put the wallet back, stood, and waited patiently for him to bounce up and apologize for his behavior. But he just lay there, his stupid head rolling from side to side, and dopey sounds coming out of his mouth. There was no blood on him, but a red spot was starting to form where I'd hit him. Later, it would be blue, then an interesting purple.
Anyway, I went over to a coiled garden hose, turned on the faucet, and spritzed Mr. Stevens. That seemed to help and presently he staggered to his feet, sputtering, wobbling and all that.
I said to him, "Did you find my partner?"
He seemed sort of confused, reminding me of myself this morning when I woke up with a size ten hangover. I could sympathize. Really.
I said, "Well water. Jeez, I never thought of that. Hey, Paul, who killed Tom and Judy?"
"Fuck you."
I squirted him again and he covered his face.
I dropped the hose and moved closer to him. "Who killed my friends?"
He was drying his face with a corner of his windbreaker, then he seemed to remember something and his right hand went into his jacket and came out with the peashooter. He said, "You bastard! Hands on your head."
"Okay." I put my hands on my head and that seemed to make him feel a little better.
He was rubbing his jaw now and you could tell it hurt. He seemed to be realizing in stages that he'd been tricked, cold-cocked, and doused with the hose. He looked like he was getting angry, working himself up. He said to me, "Take off your jacket."
I took it off, revealing my off-duty.38 in the shoulder holster.
"Drop the jacket, and slowly unstrap the holster and let it fall."
I did as he said.
He asked, "You carrying anywhere else?"
"No, sir."
"Pull up your pants legs."
I pulled up my pants legs, showing him I had no ankle holster.
He said, "Turn around and pull up your shirt."
I turned, pulled up my shirt, showing him I had no holster in the small of my back.
"Turn around."
I turned and faced him.
"Hands on your head."
I put my hands on my head.
"Step away from your gun."
I stepped forward.
"Kneel."
I knelt.
He said, "You shit — you bastard. Who the hell do you think you are coming here like this and violating my privacy and my civil rights?" He was really, really pissed and used a lot of profanity.
It is almost axiomatic in this business that guilty people proclaim their innocence and innocent people get totally pissed off and make all sorts of legal threats. Alas, Mr. Stevens seemed to be falling into the innocent category. I let him vent awhile.
Finally, I got a word in edgewise and asked him, "Well, do you at least have any idea of who could have done it?"
"If I did, I wouldn't tell you, you wiseass son of a bitch."
"Any ideas why they were killed?"
"Hey, don't you question me, you shit. You shut your fucking mouth."
"Does that mean I can't count on your cooperation?"
"Shut up!" He thought a moment, then said, "I should shoot you for trespassing, you stupid bastard. You're going to pay for hitting me. I should make you strip and dump you in the woods." He was getting worked up again and also creative about ways of getting revenge and all that.
I was sort of getting cramped in the kneeling position, so I stood.
Stevens screamed, "Kneel! Kneel!"
I walked over to him, and he pointed the Beretta right at my dingdong and pulled the trigger. I winced even though the gun was empty.
He realized he'd done something very bad, trying to shoot my balls off with an empty gun. He kept staring at the Beretta.
I used a left hook this time, not wanting to reinjure his right jaw. I hoped he'd appreciate that when he woke up.
Anyway, he toppled back onto the grass.
I knew he'd feel really terrible when he woke up, really stupid and embarrassed and all, and I felt sort of bad for him. Well, maybe not. In any case, he wasn't going to volunteer any information after the second KO, and I didn't think I could cajole or trick him into talking. Torturing him was really out of the question, though he was tempting me.
Anyway, I gathered my gun and holster and my jacket and then, fun guy that I am, I tied Mr. Stevens' shoelaces together.
I walked back to my Jeep, got in and drove off, hoping I'd get some distance between me and there before Stevens woke up and called the cops.
As I drove, I thought about Paul Stevens. The fact was that he was borderline crazy. But was he a murderer? He didn't seem to be, yet there was something about him… he knew something. I was convinced of that. And whatever he knew, he was keeping it to himself and that meant he was either protecting someone, or blackmailing someone, or maybe he was trying to figure out how to turn a buck on this thing. In any case, he was now a hostile witness, to say the least.
So, instead of taking the New London ferry back to Long Island — which could put me at one of the points of an all-points bulletin and subject to a hassle by the Connecticut fuzz — I drove west through some scenic back roads, singing along to some dopey show tune station — Ooowk — lahoma! where the wind comes sweeping down the plains, and all that.
Meanwhile, my right hand was aching and my left hand was stiffening up. In fact, my right knuckles were a little swollen. Jeez. "Gettin' old." I flexed both hands. Oow!
My cell phone rang. I didn't answer it. I crossed into New York State where I had a better shot at jukin' and jivin' the fuzz if they were on my case.
I passed the Throgs Neck Bridge exit where most people would cross to Long Island, and I continued on and crossed at the Whitestone Bridge, which may have been appropriate. "The Emma Whitestone Bridge." I sang, "I'm in love, I'm in love, I'm in love with a wonderful girl!" I love soppy show tunes.
Over the bridge, I headed east on the parkway, back toward the North Fork of Long Island. It was a very roundabout way because I had to avoid the ferry, but I couldn't judge what Paul Stevens was going to do about being decked twice in his own backyard. Not to mention falling on his face when he tried to take a step with his tied shoelaces.
My guess, though, was that he had not called the cops. And if he did not want to report a trespassing and assault, then that was very suggestive. Paul conceded this round, knowing there'd be another. My problem was, he'd pick the next time and place and sort of surprise me with it. Oh, well. If you play hardball, to switch sports metaphors, you have to expect a beanball now and then.
By seven p.m., I was back on the North Fork, having driven some three hundred miles. I didn't want to go home, so I stopped at the Olde Towne Taverne and had a beer or two. I said to the bartender, a guy named Aldan, whom I knew, "Did you ever meet Fredric Tobin?"
He replied, "I bartended a party he had once at his house. But I didn't exchange five words with him."
"What's the story on him?"
Aidan shrugged. "I don't know… I hear all kinds of things."
"Such as?"
"Well, some people say he's gay, some say he's a ladies' man. Some people say he's broke and owes everybody. Some people say he's cheap, others say he's easy with a buck. You know? You get a guy like that, comes here, starts a whole business from scratch, and you're going to get mixed reviews. He's stepped on some toes, but he's been good to some people, too, I guess. He's tight with the pols and the cops. You know?"