«Someone may have called already then,» interrupted Jennifer. «That boat came up to the beach.»
«Yes, but Sam went out to get on board, no one got off.»
«Then we have the why-get-involved syndrome?» concluded Jennifer.
«Exactly.»
«Still, why not call the Coast Guard?»
«I would in a second if I knew what kind of boat it was, even its size or shape or color or the marina where it’s berthed.» Pinkus reached for the telephone, adding as he dialed. «But I just remembered, I do know something else, someone else.»
One of the secluded crowns of Boston is an isolated patch of ground on top of Beacon Hill called Louisburg Square. It is a compound of elegant town houses originally built in the 1840s, its small, manicured park guarded at the north end by a statue of Columbus, at the south by a monument to Aristides the Just. It is not isolated physically, of course: Mail must be delivered, garbage picked up, and the daytime servants have to get there as best they can without leaving their distressed vehicles among the Rolls-Royces, Porsches, and whatever cute, new American pretenders catch the fancy of the lairds of Louisburg. These lairds, however, are demographically semi-democratic—small d, presumably—for there is old, old money, old money, first-generation money, and newly acquired cash. There are inheritors, stockbrokers, lawyers, several CEOs, and doctors, especially one doctor who is also a major American novelist the medical profession would like to put into a coma, but he’s too good at both professions.
However, again, demographics notwithstanding, only one telephone rang at this moment, and it was in the tastefully ornate town house of the oldest old money in Boston, specifically the residence of R. Cookson Frazier. As the phone rang, the spry elderly gentleman in red, sweat-stained gym shorts sank a basketball accurately into the net of the small court he had built for himself on the top floor of his home. His sneakers squeaking on the hard wood beneath, he turned quizzically at the shrill intrusion. The momentary indecision ended when he remembered on the third ring that his housekeeper was down at the market. Wiping his brow beneath his white hair, he walked over to the wall phone and picked it up. «Yes?» he said, partially out of breath.
«Mr. Frazier?»
«This is he.»
«It’s Aaron Pinkus, Mr. Frazier. We’ve met several times, the last being at the Fogg Museum charity ball, I believe.»
«It was, indeed, Aaron, and why the ‘Mr. Frazier’? You’re damn near as old as I am and I believe we both agreed you wouldn’t look it if you exercised more.»
«Too true, too true, Cookson. There never seems to be enough time.»
«There won’t be for you, although you’ll probably be the richest man in the graveyard.»
«I’ve long since given up such ambitions.»
«I know that, I’m just goading you because I’m sweating like a pig, which is a poor metaphor—I’m told that pigs don’t sweat… What can I do for you, old fellow?»
«It concerns your grandson, I’m afraid—»
«You’re afraid?» interrupted Frazier. «I’m terrified! What now?» Pinkus started to tell his story, but within eight seconds, at the mention of the speedboat, the old man broke in, shouting triumphantly. «That’s it! I’ve got him!»
«I beg your pardon, Cookson?»
«I can put him away!»
«What …?»
«He’s not permitted by law to drive his boat—or his car or his motorcycle or his snowmobile. He’s been deemed a menace on land, sea, and snow!»
«You’d have him sent to jail?»
«Jail? Good Lord, no. Simply to one of those places that can straighten the boy out! My attorneys have already arranged it. If he’s caught in even one of the violations, and there’ve been no injuries or legal redress from second parties, the court will permit me to take my own custodial measures.»
«You want to place him in a sanitarium?»
«I’d prefer to use another term, like a ‘rehabilitation center’ or whatever the code words are.»
«To go that far, he really has grieved you then.»
«He certainly has, but perhaps not in the way you think. I know that boy and love him dearly—my God, he’s the last of the male Fraziers!»
«I understand, Cookson.»
«I don’t think you do. You see, whatever he is, we made him that way, our family did, just as I did with my own son, and I’m far worse because at least I was around, alive. But, as I say, I know him, and underneath that besotted exterior oozing with charm is a brain, Aaron! There’s another man beneath the overindulged boy, I sense it, I truly believe it!»
«He’s a very likable person and I certainly couldn’t contradict you.»
«You don’t believe me, either, do you?»
«I don’t know him that well, Cookson.»
«The newspapers and the television people obviously think they do. With every scrape he gets into, the labels are there. ‘Scion of wealth in drunk tank again,’ and ‘Playboy of Boston a disgrace to the city,’ et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.»
«The events apparently took place—»
«Of course they did! That’s why your news is the greatest gift you could give me. I can now take control of that overage delinquent!»
«How? His speedboat’s on the water and we don’t know where he’s going.»
«You said he pulled up to the Swampscott beach about twenty minutes ago—»
«Or slightly less.»
«To get back to the marina will take him at least forty to forty-five minutes—»
«Suppose he’s not heading for the marina? Suppose he’s going the other way?»
«North of Swampscott, the nearest refueling dock that permits outsiders is at Gloucester, and those cigarette boats drink fuel like six Arabs with straws in a single pot of tea. Gloucester’s about a half hour away.»
«You know all this?»
«I was commander of Boston’s Power Squadron for five consecutive terms; of course I know it. We’re wasting time, Aaron! I’ve got to call the squadron and our friends in the Coast Guard. They’ll find him.»
«One thing, Cookson. On board is an employee of mine named Devereaux, Samuel Devereaux, and it’s imperative that he be held by the authorities for me.»
«Bad business, eh?»
«No, not bad at all, merely impetuous. But it’s vital that he be held. I’ll explain later.»
«Devereaux? Any relation to Lansing Devereaux?»
«His son, actually.»
«Damn fine man, Lansing. Died much too young for a fellow of his abilities. For a fact, he led me into several lucrative investments.»
«Tell me, Cookson. After he died, did you ever make contact with his widow?»
«Could I do otherwise? He was the brains, I was merely some minor money. I transferred my profits to her accounts. As I say, who could do otherwise?»
«Apparently a number of people.»
«Damned thieving bloodsuckers… I’ve got to get off the phone and make some calls, Aaron, but now that we’ve talked, let’s have dinner some evening.»
«A great pleasure.»
«With your lovely wife, Shelly—such a tall and graceful woman.»
«It’s Shirley, and, actually, she’s not tall, it’s her—never mind.»