The Whale's Footprints - Rick Boyer by Rick Boyer

Author:Rick Boyer
Format: mobi, epub
Published: 2011-08-29T14:24:08.328796+00:00

SIXTEEN

JOE'S KNOCKING at our door woke us up a little after eight. It was Wednesday morning, the day after the whale watch. I was tired after our day on the water, still feeling stunned by the experience. I had been dreaming about the whales sliding along through the swells, their dripping tails following behind . . .

"C'mon you two—get up. I just got a call from Keegan. He says Slinky and company are on their way up here from Providence. Mary, you keep saying you want to see a real mobster—

"I do, I do," she said, bounding out of bed bare-ass.

I still can't get used to the way these two siblings parade around naked in front of each other. We WASPs frown on such impropriety.

"Keegan's a wonder kid," I said. "How'd he manage to collar Slinky anyway?"

"Let's just say, diplomatic pressure applied by our Rhode Island counterparts. But I think the kid's cooperation makes him look pretty good, frankly. Although Keegan warned me Slinky will have his mouthpiece with him. I'll go down to town and get coffee and rolls. You guys hurry up and be ready when I get back."

Keegan joined us over coffee, and the four of us were waiting on the steps of Lillie Hall when the big white Caddy slid up Water Street and came to a halt in front of us. It was a Mafia wagon all right. The windows were so dark you couldn't see inside. I noticed two fancy antennae riding on the rear deck, right in front of the continental kit holding the spare tire. The spoked wheels were all shined up. The driver's door opened and a huge man got out, walked across the street, and positioned himself nonchalantly on a bench overlooking the beach. Nobody would notice him, of course, just your average 270-pound chauffeur wearing shades, a cream-white tropical wool sport coat, burgundy slacks, and alligator shoes so shiny they gave off sunbeams. He didn't stand out in Woods Hole. Nooooo. Not any more than the Colossus of Rhodes . . .

"He's packing iron," whispered Joe to Keegan. "Only reason anybody wears a friggin' coat in the summertime is to hide artillery. There! See the bulge?"

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