Giving the last melon a feel he took the bait, told me, “My vegetable man comes from there. You know Larry Anderson?”
“I've seen his truck. Hard worker.”
“Kills himself three times a week, and of course he's the mailman, too. But in the winter he only makes a trip here once a week. Me, I stand on my feet all day long, winter and summer.”
“I bet,” I said, trying to turn the conversation around to something—and not knowing what “something” was. “Guess you know Pops is sick? Larry must have his hands full.”
“I know. Larry takes good care of old man Watson. Tell you, you won't find many people these days giving a hoot about anybody else or.... Up early, Mrs. Kane.”
A young woman customer was at the door. “I have the baby in the car, Joe. Give me a bottle of milk, package of bacon, two packs of cigarettes. Put it on my tab.”
I waited until he had taken care of her, feeling excited. Then I asked, “Did you say Pops' name was Watson?”
“Sure.”
“Of course I'm only down for a week, but my son knows him and I thought his name was Pops Brown?”
He shook his fat head. “Naw, not the old man living with Larry. Used to help him out. His name is John Watson, I know.”
“I suppose you do, but I'd have sworn it was Brown.”
“Well, you have him mixed up with somebody else.”
I considered flashing my badge to get more dope, but tried talk. “I don't want to contradict you, mister, but I never forget a name. I'm sure it's Brown.”
The storekeeper sighed. “Look, I know, every month I cash his Social Security check. John Watson—no middle name. For seven years I been cashing them every month. Mister, if I was on Social Security I'd sit for the rest of my life.”
A horn honked twice outside. “None of my business, but why does... eh... Watson come all the way over here to cash his check?”
He shrugged. “Maybe he don't want the End Harbor bank to know his business. Maybe it's a habit—I started cashing the checks when old man Watson was helping Larry on the truck. Now—every month Larry brings me the check. It's for... I don't even know why I'm telling you this, Larry always says he don't want people knowing his business. But like I said, that's how I'm sure his name is Watson.”
The horn sounded again. “Guess you have me,” I said, making for the door. “First time I've been wrong on a name in years.”
“Always a first time for everything,” the storekeeper said, opening another crate.
Jane's car was down the road. When she saw me she turned around and as I slid in beside her she said, “Larry's about seven miles from here, making a delivery to a roadside diner, having breakfast there. Learn anything?”
“I don't know. What did you say Pops' name was?”
“Brown.”
“Are you positive?”
“Certainly. Why?”
“Nothing, I couldn't remember it. We'll wait until Larry leaves the diner then do the same thing—you go on to the next stop, come back for me.”
The diner was a fancy chrome job at a road intersection, and seemed too imposing for the orange juice I ordered. I said I noticed Anderson's truck leaving, were these his oranges? The place wasn't busy and the counterman bent my ear explaining how all juices come canned these days and a what a great timesaver it was. I had to order another juice before I could turn the talk around to Pops. But he only knew Pops as Pops.
Jane returned to tell me Anderson was at a store a dozen miles away. At this store and the next one, as I stocked up on tobacco, and cigarettes for Jane, I found out nothing. One storekeeper was a newcomer, the other knew Pops, but had no idea of his last name. I was beginning to think the first storekeeper had been batty, when at a few minutes before eight we stopped at a small store outside Riverside, several minutes after Larry pulled out. The store was run by a skinny Jewish woman who insisted Pops' name was Robert Berger. When I started my polite argument about having a memory for names, she cut me off with: “Mister, I don't like to contradict a customer, especially you, for now I know the summer has started well, but on this I'm sure. Berger himself wanted it.”
“Wanted what?”
“When he was driving around with Larry, years ago, he personally asked me to cash his Social Security check. I remember, it was the first time I'd known the old man's same and I asked if he was Jewish—a name like Berger. He told me he was part Jewish on his mother's side. Tell you the truth, I admire Larry for being nice to the old man, all this time, even though they're of different religions. And every month Berger insists Larry bring his check here for me to cash,” she said, proudly—I thought.
“Doesn't he trust the End Harbor banks?” I cornballed.
“Berger doesn't want his business mixed up with Larry's. That's smart, I say.”
“I suppose so. Do you go into the Harbor to visit Berger often?”
“Me? Mister, I'm lucky to have time to read a book. My husband takes care of the chickens, I run the store, and any free time we have isn't for visiting—we rest.”
“This Anderson certainly sounds like a good soul. Does he have many old men living with him?”
“Look, he isn't running a hotel. Just Pops Berger, and believe me if others looked after their old workers the way Larry does, this would be a better world.”
I said it would; wanted to add it would be a world full of cemeteries.
Anderson made a fast stop in Riverside and Jane told me, “Now he'll go home, leave his truck, and take out the mail for an hour. Shall we follow his mail route?”
“No, that would be too obvious, a store is a public place, a home isn't. Let me talk to the guy in tins Riverside store.”
I bought some bacon and eggs and learned nothing—the storekeeper vaguely remembered Pops—but as Pops.
Back in the car I asked Jane. “How often do you go to these little villages we've stopped at?”
“Never. I don't know anybody there.”
“Do the people in these villages, the storekeepers, do they come to End Harbor much?”
“Of course not. They might go into Riverside or Patchogue at times, to the bigger stores, once in a while. Like on Christmas. What's the bacon and eggs for?”
“I had to buy something. Thought we might have breakfast at your place, then pick up Anderson when he starts on his route again.”
“Worried about taking me into a restaurant?”
I heaved the package of eggs and bacon out the open window. She stopped the car, got out and pulled the drippy package of bacon from the mess, wrapped it in the remains of the paper bag, slid back in the car. As we drove on she said, “Waste is stupid.”
“So was that crack of yours. Stop at any diner or restaurant you wish.”
“I'd rather make us breakfast,” she said. And I didn't make any remarks about understanding women—even to myself.
We put away a healthy snack of blueberry pancakes and coffee, although I'd eaten so much junk at the stores I had to force myself. When we finished she said, “You look tired, lay down while I do the dishes.”