Free Vulgar Boatman by William G. Tapply

do you want me to do?”
    “Hell. Find my boat.”
    “I said seriously.”
    “Okay. Seriously? Seriously, if she doesn’t turn up, there’ll be insurance adjusters who’ll want to screw me. If she does turn up, her hull all stove in, all that lovely stuff stripped off her, same thing. Mainly, I want her back, and I want to know that the Coast Guard is doing its thing.
    “I’ll make a call,” I said. “And try to relax, Frank. It’s only a boat.”
    “Like hell it’s only a boat.”
    “I know, I know.”
    I finally hung up with Frank. I don’t think he felt any better, but I did keep my promise to call the Coast Guard. I was shunted from the commander’s office to the legal office to the search and emergencies group to intelligence and law enforcement before I found someone who would talk with me. He said they had the particulars on Frank’s Egg Harbor and would keep an eye out for her. I supposed that was all they could do.
    It occurred to me that twice in the same day the Coast Guard had entered into my conversations—first with Harry Cusick, in speculating about cocaine traffic on the North Shore, and then with Frank Paradise.
    Maybe I’m unusual, but whole months go by when I don’t even think about the Coast Guard. I suppose that means they’re doing a good job at whatever it is they do. If they didn’t come up with Frank Paradise’s Egg Harbor, I suspected I’d be giving the Coast Guard more thought.
    I got back to my apartment a little after six. Except for the dishes that had been cleared and stacked in the washer, and my bed, which had been made, it was as if Sylvie had never been there. There are times when living alone is downright lonely, and none more so than coming home to a neatly made bed in an empty apartment.
    I climbed into my jeans and sweatshirt and slid a frozen pizza into the oven. I sloshed some Jack Daniel’s into a glass, dropped in three or four ice cubes, and settled down in front of the television to catch the evening news.
    The weatherman was cautiously predicting clearing and cooler—he didn’t seem too certain as to when this weather would actually arrive—when the phone rang. I hoisted myself off the sofa and padded in stockinged feet into the kitchen to answer it.
    “Mr. Coyne?” said a voice I didn’t recognize.
    “Yes?”
    “This is Buddy Baron. I heard you wanted to talk to me.”

Six
    “B UDDY,” I SAID. “WHERE the hell have you been?”
    “Around.”
    “Where are you now?”
    “I’m in town.”
    “Here? In Boston?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, tell me where and I’ll come and get you. We’ve got to talk.”
    “No, I’ll come to your place. Is that okay? Are you busy?”
    “I just put a pizza in the oven. I’ll throw together a salad. You can join me.”
    “Yum, yum,” he said. “All right. I’ll be right over. And Mr. Coyne?”
    “What?”
    “I know they want to arrest me. I hope you don’t plan to play games with me.”
    “No games, Buddy. We’ll talk. I’ll have to take you to the police.”
    “That’s what I figured. Okay. Fifteen minutes.”
    “Wait,” I said. “Have you talked to your parents?”
    “No. Should I?”
    “They’re worried about you.”
    “You mean they’re worried about scandal. I don’t want to talk to them.”
    “I intend to, then.”
    “Go ahead,” he said. “Tell them I’m all right.”
    “Is it true?”
    “Sure. I’m fine. Never better.”
    After I hung up with Buddy, I called Tom Baron’s house. Joanie answered. Her voice was soft and slurry. She had been taking brandy in her morning coffee. I supposed it was martini time, now.
    “It’s Brady,” I said. “I just talked to Buddy. He’s okay.”
    “He’s not okay,” she said. “They want to arrest him. They think… Brady, it was nice to see you this morning. You should have stayed longer.”
    “Listen to me, Joanie. I’m going to bring Buddy to the police, do you understand? Is Tom there?”
    “Tom’s on the road. On the road