Read Online Goofy Foot by David Daniel - Free Book Online Page A

Standish police had faxed her a missing persons form to complete, which she was doing now and was going to fax it back. She said the jacket sounded like her daughter’s.
    â€œDoes she wear purple lipstick?”
    â€œI’ve never seen her. Black, sometimes. Why?”
    â€œJust curious.” No need to air my vague wonderings about her daughter’s smoking dope. “You spoke to Delcastro for the first time when?” I asked.

    â€œThe day before yesterday.”
    â€œHow did he react to learn Ben was in Standish?”
    â€œHe seemed matter-of-fact about it. He did give me the impression that he thought I was being premature about this.”
    We talked a minute more and agreed to be in touch immediately if either of us learned anything. I thanked her again for arranging the use of the house. Back in Standish center, I noted there were lots of vehicles with out-of-state plates. Still, if Nickerson’s Jeep was around, it shouldn’t be too hard to spot. I walked around in the heat shimmer, looking, when someone said, “Hi, there.”
    It was the young cop again, Ferry. He was on a foot patrol. Beneath the mesh front of his blue baseball cap, his brow glistened. I asked him if he’d recommend someplace for a late lunch. Before he could say, a gray van with “Point Pines Development” and a pine-tree logo painted on the door in red and green went past.
    â€œThat’s the outfit building the new golf course out on Shawmut Point,” Ferry told me. “Eventually, it’ll also include that whole stretch out there on the breakwater—a new marina, shops, restaurants.”
    â€œI can’t wait that long. I’m hungry now.”
    â€œDimitri’s is good,” he said seriously. “Though that’s best in the evening. Try the Storm Warning, right over there.” He indicated a small wooden building near the base of the jetty, by a big rusted anchor.
    â€œThe name’s no commentary on the food, I trust?”
    â€œNo, sir. It’s just a—” This time he caught on and grinned.
    The wait-staff wore yellow oilskin hats, and the menus were carved on oar blades, but the food was good anyway. As I ate a clam roll, I noticed a person standing alone far out on the granite jetty where Point Pines would evidently transfigure the town. Something in his stillness as he stood gazing at the horizon under the flat of his hand, drew me. After a few moments, he went down the far side of the jetty and was gone.
    After eating, I scanned the square for a public booth, but I might as well have looked for a white whale. I got my cellular phone from the car and called the Coast Guard station in Scituate Harbor. An efficient-sounding guardsman told me my call was being recorded
and took my questions. “No, sir, no one by those names has been rescued, and there’ve been no accidents reported at all in the past forty-eight hours. Are you reporting them overdue or missing, sir?”
    Was I? “No, I just wanted to be sure. Thanks for your help.”
    â€œWe’re here to serve, sir. Thank you.”
    I called the Lowell Police Department and asked for Ed St. Onge. “Who’s this?” a woman asked sharply.
    â€œJohn Updike,” I said.
    â€œThe baseball player? Oh, sorry, I didn’t realize you knew Ed. He’s not in right now. Take a message?”
    â€œNo, thanks.” If Francis X. Droney was as interested in my doings as St. Onge had hinted, I wasn’t going to make it easy. I said I’d try again.
    The woman cleared her throat. “I0f I may ask, how’s your season going, John?”
    â€œRead my latest and see.” I hung up, dug out my notebook, and called the number for Ben Nickerson’s marine supply company. It would be noon in California. After a few rings, a machine picked up. A man’s recorded voice said, “South Coastal Marine Supply will be closed for vacation until July