When The Bough Breaks

"You related to them?" Doug asked. His eyes were the color of the sea, bloodshot and suddenly dull with worry, wondering if I was someone who could turn his words against him.

"No. I'm an architect. Just doing a little sightseeing. I was told the Hickle house would be of interest. Supposed to be the biggest one on the island."

"Man," he said, "they're all big. You could fit my whole fuckin' neighborhood in one of them."

"Architect, huh?" Generous's face brightened with interest. "How much school it take to do that?"

"Five years of college."

"Forget it," the fat one kidded him. "You're an airhead, Harm. You got to learn how to read and write first."

"Fuck you!" said his friend, good - naturedly. To me: "I worked construction last summer. Architecture's probly pretty interestin'."

"It is. I do mostly private houses. Always looking for new ideas."

"Yeah, hey, right. Gotta keep it interestin'."

"Aw, man," chided Dougie. "We don't do nothing interestin'. Clean up goddam garbage - hell, man, there's fun going on there at that club, 'cause last week Matt 'n' me found a couple of used rubbers out by hole number eleven - and we're missin', it, Harm."

"I don't need those people for my fun," said the generous one. "You want to know about houses, mister, let's ask Ray." He turned and leaned across one sleeping boy to elbow the one with the comic book, who'd kept his nose buried in his reading and hadn't looked up once. When he did, his face had the glazed look of someone very stupid or very stoned.

"Huh?"

"Ray, you dumbshit, man wants to know about the Hickle house."

The boy blinked, uncomprehending.

"Ray's been droppin' too much acid out in the woods. Just can't seem to shake himself out of it." Harm grinned, his tonsils visible. "C'mon, man, where's the Hickle place?"

"Hickle," Ray said. "My old man used to work there - spooky place he said. Weird. I think it's on Charlemagne. The old man used to - "

"All right, man." Harm shoved Ray's head down and he returned to his comic book. "They got strange names for streets on the island, Mister. Charlemagne, Alexander, Suleiman."

Conquerors. The little joke of the very rich was evidently lost on those who were its intended butt.

"Charlemagne is an inland road. You go just past the main drag, past the market, a quarter mile - look hard because the street signs are usually covered by trees - and turn, lemme see, turn right, that's Charlemagne. After that you'd best ask around."

"Much obliged." I reached in and pulled out my wallet. "Here's for your trouble," I said, taking out a five.

Harm held out his hand - in protest, not collection. "Forget it, mister. We didn't do nothin'."

Doug, the fat boy, gave him an angry look and grunted.

"Up yours, Dougie," said the boy with the missing teeth. "We didn't do nothin' for the man's money." Despite his unkempt hair and the war zone of a mouth, he had intelligence and a certain dignity. He was the kind of kid I wouldn't mind having at my side when the going got rough.

"Let me buy you a round, then."

"Nah," said Harm. "We can't drink no more, mister. Got to hit the course in half an hour. Be slick as snot on a day like this. Bubble Butt here, drink any more, he could fall and bounce down and crush the rest of us."

"Fuck you, Harm," said Doug, without heart.

I put the money back. "Thanks much."

"Think nothin' of it. You build some houses that don't need union help, you want reliable construction muscle, remember Harmon Lundquist. I'm in the book."

"I will."

Ten minutes before the boat reached shore the island emerged from behind a dressing screen of rain and fog, an oblong, squat, gray chunk of rock. Except for the coiffure of trees that covered most of its outer edges, it could have been Alcatraz.

I went down to the auto bay, got behind the wheel of the Nova and was ready when the man in orange waved us down the ramp. The scene outside might have been lifted off the streets of London. There were enough black topcoats, black umbrellas, and black hats to fill Piccadilly. Pink hands held briefcases and the morning's Wall Street Journal. Eyes stared straight ahead. Lips set grimly. When the gate at the foot of the gangway opened they moved in procession, each man in his place, every shiny black shoe rising and falling in response to an unseen drummer. A squadron of perfect gentlemen. A gentleman's brigade…

Just beyond Brindamoor Harbor was a small town square built around an enormous towering elm and rimmed with shops: a bank with smoked glass windows, a brokerage house, three or four expensive looking clothiers with conservatively dressed, faceless mannequins in their windows, a grocer, a butcher, a dry cleaner's that also housed the local post office, a book store, two restaurants - one French, the other Italian - a gift shop, and a jewelers. All the stores were closed, the streets empty and, except for a flock of pigeons convening under the elm, devoid of life.