Shark City Harbor

By Darryl Pickett

The Summer of 1974 Could Be Their Last!

The island of Martha's Vineyard is buzzing with the novelty and chaos of hosting a Hollywood movie crew. After young scuba diver Connie Barnett rescues a drowning boy, she is offered a unique reward from a well-connected talent agent; the chance to work under the table, and under the water, on a soon-to-be-legendary shark movie. Meanwhile, rock musician Jonathan Cose Barnett has made bad decisions and dangerous connections in Manhattan. After witnessing a violent gangland shooting, he must flee the big city. Returning to the island where he grew up, he finds himself estranged from his family, and entangled in a criminal conspiracy he thought he had left behind. It's going to be an unforgettable summer, if anyone survives it. Content Notice: Profanity, Drug Use, Graphic Violence

• Language: English
• Publisher: Odsmil Press
• Release date: Jul 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9780578915593

Darryl Pickett

Darryl Pickett is a former writer for Walt Disney Imagineering, and a creative consultant for the themed entertainment industry. He has written numerous theatrical works, including the 2018 Analog, a time-portal homage to vinyl records and J.S. Bach. Recent works include his crime thriller novel Shark City Harbor, and the score for the musical Trollop, premiering in 2013.

Book preview

Book One: Manhattan

FRIDAY, JUNE 7, 1974

Manhattan

A year ago, Cose and Jockley used mob money to purchase the amps and bass guitar. They sat side by side, signing the loan papers under the eye of two small-time Manhattan gangsters.

Today, Cose Barnett loaded the equipment into the back of a shitty van they bought with that same loan. He had nobody to help him. None of the other guys were answering their phones today.

Cose smiled and whistled as he shut the dented steel grey door to the otherwise puke-green van. He believed in optimism. And he knew the others would need some of it. The gig last night was a washout.

But today, he had good news. A private event at CBGB, happening tonight! An instant karma yin to balance out last night’s bad news yang.

Cose drove the three blocks to Emerald Tower, drumming his hands on the steering wheel and singing his band’s best-known song, The Highest I’ve Been, eager to rouse Stephen out of bed and tell him to get ready for the show.

He ran up the stairs to the third floor of the tenement Stephen called home. He pounded a drum roll rhythm on the door. Hey! Kitzler! Wake up! We have a gig!

Stephen Kitzler came to the door, red-eyed, looking wrecked in a tattered bathrobe. He swallowed and coughed before delivering the bad news.

Jockley OD’d last night.

THEY SAT AT STEPHEN’S cheap folding table and drank coffee. His sister called early this morning. I only got back to sleep an hour ago.

But he’s okay? asked Cose.

No, he’s not okay. He’s in the intensive care ward.

All right, Cose said, and flashed a smile. It was his automatic response to the shock of bad news. As if his reflex cheerfulness could alter harsh truth.

Okay. Okay, we can handle this. Let’s call Matt, tell him to get ready.

Cose, we can’t do that gig.

We have to, Stephen. It’s a big one. CBGB’s. The pay is gonna be good. We got a referral from a legit talent agent, man!

What agent? said Stephen.

I tried to tell you last night. I was waiting for a call from Ben Peller. You’ve heard of him.

Yeah, so there’s no way he called you. He signs real people.

Jeff made some good connections.

And we play this gig without him? Stephen shook his head. I don’t think so.

It’s do or die, Stephen, said Cose, a little desperate now. I don’t want to go into it. We gotta do this.

THE CALL HAD COME JUST two hours ago, from Ben Peller himself. Just give ‘em twenty minutes of your best stuff. You’ll do fine. He spoke quickly, as if impatient to give Cose the details and be on his way. It’s a private event, you make them happy, they’ll probably be generous. Oh, and you’ll see a familiar face. He’ll meet you there, give you the run down.

A familiar face. No name. Cose knew it was likely to be somebody from Kaplan’s operation. He had worried to Jeff about the day they might show up. Jeff always told him the same thing. "You let me handle that. You just keep playing that magic guitar and smiling at the ladies."

But now, Jeff wouldn’t be there to handle it. This was the first gig Jockley would miss. Cose and the rest of the band were going to have company.

MATT ARRIVED HALF AN hour later, He didn’t feel any better about it than Stephen.

Who’s going to sing lead?

I am.

No offense, Cose, but you suck. Without Jockley, we got no real singer and we got no bass.

You can play bass, Matt.

Then who plays drums?

Cose shook his head. Shit! Let me figure this out. He got a beer out of Stephen’s leaky refrigerator, closed and leaned against its door. Stephen plays keys, and you play bass. I play guitar and sing the best I can.

Who plays drums! Stephen said, losing patience with the whole idea.

Nobody, Stephen. No drums.

That’s gonna sound like crap.

It’s the only way, Cose said, bringing back the smile.

"I won’t do it, Cose. Not without Jockley. You shouldn’t either. He’s your best friend." Stephen’s voice shook as he tried to pour some Apple Jacks into a bowl. His hands shook, he spilled the milk, knocked the bottle onto the floor, where it shattered. It was a lousy start.

THEY PARKED IN A GARAGE, and carried their instruments. Stephen’s keyboard was packed in a traveling case with wheels, which thunked out a clunky beat as he dragged it along the sidewalk.

See, said Cose. Who needs drums? Your keyboard can do the rhythms.

Stephen stopped and gave him the finger.

They reached the club at 315 Bowery. The event was scheduled to begin in forty-five minutes. Matt had never heard of the place, and sighed when he saw the rounded canopy above its door.

CBGB - OMFUG

"That is a dive, my friends. And what the hell is an OMFUG?

A hand-lettered sign on the door announced Private Event - Invitation Only! Below that, a dozen identical mimeographs with a line-up of tonight’s bands.

Magic Tramps

Squeeze

Television

And Introducing

The Dog Boys

Is that supposed to be us? Matt shouted. They got our name wrong! It’s the High Bridge Hound Dogs, assholes!

Don’t worry about it, said Cose. We’ll tell them.

The front door was locked. They found their way to the back entrance.

Inside, the place was so dark, Cose had to keep an arm extended, to feel his way along a narrow corridor. His eyes started to adjust once they finally reached a dimly lit bar. Half a dozen people clustered around one corner where Cose thought he could just make out a platform stage. Behind the bar, a woman in a ripped shirt called out to them.

Are you the new band? She sounded incredulous.

We’re the High Bridge Hound Dogs, Cose answered. The sign out front has our name wrong.

Yeah, of course it does, she said with a world-weary mien. You’ll have to take it up with Hilly. He’s asleep in the bathroom, she said.

Cose slid an old backpack off his shoulders, unzipped one of its pouches, and took out a cardboard box. We have some publicity pictures, if you think we should put them out somewhere.

If you want ‘em to get torn up, knock yourself out.

Hilly, the owner, emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later. By then, Stephen had unloaded and set up the portable Rhodes piano.

You guys got drums?

No, answered Matt. We had an overdose.

Hilly nodded at the non-sequitur as though it made perfect sense to him.

We’re gonna try going on without, Cose said, flashing his ‘everything’s okay’ smile. He handed the man one of the prints. This is our band.

You got the longest hair I’ve seen in a while, Hilly said, pointing at Cose in the photograph. And this guy here, with the beard? He either looks like Jesus Christ or Charles Manson. Where’s he?

That’s Jeff. He’s in the hospital.

Okay. You all do your best. If Ben Peller sent you, I’m sure he had a reason.

WHEN THE PARTY STARTED, the announcer brought them on by saying,Ladies, and Gentlemen, the Dog Boys! Cose glanced at the other two, they all shrugged, and then took up playing Bummer of a Summer.

The results were loose, sloppy, nervous and poorly coordinated. And it worked. The growing crowd yelled their approval and threw their beers, even their food, at them. Between the wonky rhythm, Cose’s nervous warbling and the devil-may-care attitude the band arrived at by default, it was like they were inventing a new sound.

They continued the set with the ballad Nervous Veins, recently written by Jockley. Cose preceded to holler out the words, all the while wishing Jeff could be here. It was his song, meant to be sung by Jeff, not Cose.

Nervous veins betray the pain

When I got nothing more to gain

The slower tempo didn’t suit the wobbly style the band had opened with. So, Cose cut it short, yelled to the other two, "Suffer My Love, guys!"

The crowd loved it. The drummer from Television stepped out and started wailing on his own kit, adding a beat to their loopy chords. The throwaway song became an epic ten-minute encore. Magic happened, and Cose felt it.

After the set, Cose and his incomplete band went back to the tiny and unsanitary dressing room. It was nearly too crowded for all three of them.

But a hand clapped Cose on the shoulder.

How are you doing, kid?

The man from Kaplan’s group. Cose had seen him once before. He wore a nice suit. An Egyptian ankh hung from a gold chain around his neck. The man smiled with confidence and a row of brilliant white teeth.

You all did great out there, he said, his smile spreading wide beneath eyes that looked amused, and also predatory. Not what I was expecting, but the guys liked it. Guess your partner couldn’t make it, huh?

Cose shook his head. No. He’s not feeling well.

Most junkies don’t. It’s noisy in here. Come talk to me outside

The man in the suit pressed him gently toward the stage door that led back to an alley.

You guys earned your money, he said as he pushed the door open. You remember me, Cose? He said it as if it rhymed with nose.

It’s pronounced Cose. Rhymes with gross. Gross Cose.

Lovely. Do you know who I am, Cose? Still mispronouncing it.

You’re with Kaplan’s syndicate.

That’s right. I sat with you and Jockley when the two of you signed on with us.

The back door to the club was shut. Now Cose had the darkness and dank of the alley to compare with the chaos inside. It was quieter here, but it smelled worse.

Are you Adam? Cose asked. Jeff used to say his contact was ...

Yeah, that’s me. Official point of contact.

Nearby, a derelict slumped against the wall. Two men stood over him, trying to hustle him. Adam called out. Hey! Show some respect to a goddam war veteran!

One of them started to shout back, but the other said, It’s cool, we’re leaving.

They made their way back to the street. The man they had been harassing thanked Adam.

Don’t thank me. Get your own shit together and get out of here, too!

And the man dutifully scurried away.

I don’t know why my guys wanted to party at this particular shithole. But they did.

Cose was impressed by how easily Adam had cleared the area. Also, a little more nervous than he had been before it .

You talked to Ben Peller today.

Yeah.

Hope you appreciate how rare it is for him to make a call like that. He did it as a favor. He talk to you about payment?

No.

You’re getting a cut of the door, plus a consideration from my friends who are here tonight. Your band just earned two hundred dollars. Not bad, right?

Cose smiled. No, not bad.

Could you do another set? I could round up another hundred apiece if you do.

Yeah, Cose said, pleased that this was the reason for their talk. We could do that.

Just don’t do that weepy druggie shit again. Keep everyone boppin’ around. Make ‘em want to get high or fuck. Don’t make ‘em cry, you know?

Sure, that’s fine.

So, here’s how it goes. You give a hundred to your bass player, you give a hundred to the guy on the electric piano. I keep your hundred.

You keep it?

Yes, Cose. I keep it and it comes out of Jockley’s debt. You understand that?

Cose understood, but in the moment, his nerves worked against him, and he smiled, gave the happy-go-lucky grin and said, What?

Adam shoved Cose against the brick wall and punched him three times in the gut. The initial shock didn’t hurt, but in the seconds that followed, a broad, dull ache kicked in and stole the strength from Cose’s body. He went limp and slid to the ground, his jeans jacket scraping against the coarse brick.

Adam sat next to Cose, and leaned back casually.

Don’t worry, Cose. That’s all the rough stuff I have for you tonight. It’s gonna hurt for a few minutes. You’ll have a bruise or so tomorrow morning. But you’re not in any danger.

Cose brought his knees up and moaned as he leaned forward to hug them.

Are you gonna be okay to play?

I don’t know, Cose groaned. Maybe you should have waited till after our set to do that.

No. That had to happen now. So, you pay attention and do what I say, we can make sure that never happens again. First things first. I think it’s safe to assume that Jockley is out of your band.

Cose closed his eyes and dropped his head against his knees. Did you do something to him?

No! Everything that’s happened to Jeff Jockley, he did to himself. It’s a disappointment to all of us. Obviously, he won’t be making any payments for awhile. And time is up. That puts me in a bad position. I took on the responsibility for his debt. Do you know how much he borrowed from us?

Cose knew, but pretended not to. I can’t remember.

Adam lit a cigarette and savored a couple of draws on it. Two thousand dollars, Cose. Jeff Jockley made an agreement with us, use that money to further the success of your band. You know when the due date was?

A couple of months ago.

"Six months ago, Cose. We gave Jockley as many chances as we could. He hasn’t paid back any of it."

None?

Zero!

If that was true, Jeff had lied to him. I didn’t know that, said Cose.

We can’t wait any longer. The burden falls on you.

I have sixteen dollars in the bank. Maybe eight bucks on me.

Yeah, I figured, Adam said. You chose a lousy career path if money is what you wanted.

Cose looked at Adam. His sharp-cornered smile looked both demonic and perpetually amused. He had smart eyes, active and aware.

Here’s what’s gotta happen. In a few days, you’re going to talk to Kaplan.

Cose felt an involuntary shudder tear through him. As he understood, those were words nobody in the syndicate ever wanted to hear.

Hey! That’s a good thing, said Adam. Normally, Kaplan wouldn’t give his personal attention to a contract that small. That means it’s important to him, for some reason other than money. Which means he’s probably figured out a way you could help us out.

Oh Jesus, Cose heard himself whisper.

And maybe we could help you in return. I recommend you keep an open mind, Cose.

The back door opened and three party-goers stumbled out. One of them pitched a glass bottle against the wall and howled with joy when it shattered into a wet mandala of warm beer. The others laughed and took turns with exuberant hoarse-throated yells.

It’s getting noisy out here, Adam said, snuffing the recently-lit cigarette on the ground. We ought to go in. But first, tell me something. Do the other two guys know? About the loan, I mean.

Steve and Matt? No. We never told them.

I’m glad to hear that, Cose. I really am. It’s gotta stay that way. If they ask, you and I were out here negotiating the pay for tonight, okay?

Yeah.

Now, go back in. Play a real good set. I wanna hear something new. Something I never heard before. I’ll give you my review when I talk to you later.

Adam stood and slipped back inside. Cose slowly made his way to his feet, then slouched into the building and the narrow, dark corridor. The pain in his abdomen felt three sizes bigger than his body, like it radiated out, adding to his girth. Like it needed its own space.

He cringed with advancing discomfort as he pressed his way into the shared waiting area. He felt awful, but even so, he could tell the music being played onstage was really good, raw and energetic.

Matt found him a few minutes later.

Cose? You okay?

No. I will be.

Cose, listen. Stephen went out to make a call. We should probably go now.

We need to do one more set, Matt. You’ll get an extra hundred.

Cose, listen to me. We just found out...

Cose could barely see him in the dim light. Could barely hear him over the din of music and shouting. He raised his voice to ask, What is it?

Jockley died today! Matt said, raising his voice enough to be clear. With all the noise, Cose barely heard, but he understood. Stephen just talked to Jeff’s mom. Jockley died!

SUNDAY, JUNE 9

Three days later, the desk attendant at Montgomery Arms flagged Cose down and handed him a note, scrawled in red ink on lined yellow paper.

Cose,

Go to Union Square, 14th street station. Look for me at 11 am. Don’t be late.

Adam Kapulski

At the appointed time, Cose spotted Adam sitting on a crowded bench, sipping coffee from a Styrofoam cup. Cose approached and waved a friendly hand, flashed the affable smile that sometimes got him into trouble.

Adam grinned back, that same wicked leer he had showed just before he slugged Cose in the gut the other night.

Hey! It’s my favorite Dog Boy! Adam stood up and handed the coffee cup over to Cose. Here, finish this. It’s not very good. Let’s take a walk.

Adam led Cose along the east side of the park. Cose sniffed at the cup. It smelled sour and rancid. He pitched it into an already heaping steel trash barrel.

I appreciate you guys went ahead with that last set, Adam said. You all got hit with some bad news about Jockley. You didn’t let it stop you. You played like champs.

Thanks. The other guys didn’t like me much for insisting on it.

I’m sorry to hear about Jeff. I liked him, you know. Before he lost himself. He was kind of a friend of mine. I mean, he’s the whole reason you ever got mixed up with the syndicate, right?

Yeah.

This might sound a little harsh, but I think it was the best thing that could happen for you. With Jockley, you guys were just another band trying to sound like the Rolling Stones. Now, Dog Boys! That was some wacky shit! I mean, it was like watching something from another planet. I don’t even know if it was good. But it was different, and it was fun, you know?

It was really just an accident.

Accidents can turn into money. Now, I said I’d give you my opinion. Get rid of all Jockley’s old songs. He was writing songs for druggies. Look where it got him.

It was honest, said Cose. He was suffering.

Adam led Cose to East 17th Street, past the Irving Square houses, to a building that looked like a tornado had singled it out from among the nicer ones around it. The door was closed behind a rusted metal grating.

Press the buzzer, Adam said. Someone will let you in and tell you where to go. Maybe I’ll see you later, maybe I won’t.

Okay.

One more thing, Cose. Don’t lie. Not that you’ll have any reason to. But if you ever do, Kaplan will see through that, and it will make him very unhappy. Watch yourself. It’s your game now.

KAPLAN SAT AT A DECREPIT desk in a small office on the second floor. The wood was riddled with wormholes, carved with initials and at the left end, it looked as though someone had once taken a sledgehammer to it. A small window looked back down onto East 17. A mesh of safety wire ran through the glass, covered in spider-web cracks.

In contrast, Kaplan was impeccably well-groomed; a dress shirt and tie, and an elegant Italian jacket slung over the back of his chair. He held a folder in his left hand.

Come in, Cose, he said, standing and gesturing to the nearest chair. He set the folder down on the hideous desktop, extended his hand. It’s nice to see you. Adam tells me you guys played a hell of a show.

You could say that. Cose said, trying to return the same firm grip that Kaplan had on him.

I’m proud of you, Cose, Kaplan released his hand, then sat back down. When Adam suggested I work with you, I wasn’t sure. Rock bands are as common as piss in an alleyway around here. Please, have a seat.

Kaplan glanced out the window, then drew down a flimsy rollaway shade.

This place? It’s a disgraceful rathole. I apologize for that. Someday, maybe you’ll get to see our uptown office. It’s nice.

Kaplan opened the folder and looked at the papers within. Cose saw that the contract he had co-signed was among its contents.

Kaplan read out loud. Jonathan Cose Barnett. You go by your middle name. You don’t like Jonathan?

It’s okay. It just never fit.

Where does Cose come from?

My grandparents. They came over from Poland. Their name was Kozlowski, but the guy at Ellis Island changed it to Cose.

Is your mom Jewish?

Her father was. But my grandma was Catholic, from Gdansk. They moved to America in the early twenties.

Classic. I got a Jewish father and a Puerto Rican mama. We’re a fucking rainbow coalition around here, right? Let’s look at this contract. Kaplan shook his head and tsk’ed. Oh Cose, you two could have made things so much easier on yourself. Even a few payments and you wouldn’t have all this interest.

We didn’t know what we were doing.

Kaplan sighed. Tell me straight, Cose. Of that initial two grand, is there any of it left?

No, sir.

How much of it went to Jockley’s drug habit?

I don’t know. I took over control of the band’s account about three months ago. At that point, there was about seven hundred left.

And where has that gone?

Cose had nothing to say but the unfortunate truth. I don’t think you’ll like the answer. We’ve basically been living off of it. Using it to survive until more work comes along.

Kaplan stood slowly, walked around the desk, then sat on the edge of it. His eyes never left Cose.

You’re right. I don’t like that answer.

Kaplan placed his hands on Cose’s shoulders and shook him, just once. One firm, angry shake. "That was stupid, Cose! You should be dead!"

Cose felt his insides collapse. He choked, and his eyes began to water.

Kaplan stood. But you’re not dead. I need you to know how serious this is. I don’t come down to this shitty office for just anything. Now, listen. Your contract has accumulated three thousand in interest. You’re completely under water. Kaplan went back to his chair.

Then he smiled. His face and voice brightened, a transition so abrupt it might have been funny in any other context. Now, here’s the good news! There’s something you can do for me. It’s easy, and I think you’ll even enjoy it. You do it for me, and I’m waiving the interest. Does that sound good to you?

Yes, said. Cose. It came out strained and weak.

Three thousand gone, but you will still be responsible for the two grand. You got that?

Sure.

I’m doing this at some risk to myself, you understand? I may be in charge of this little operation, but I have people I answer to. They frown when I get soft like this. I hope you appreciate that.

I do, Mr. Kaplan. He decided to stop staring at his knees and lift his upper body, sit upright and look at the man directly.

That’s more like it. Face me like a goddam man. You don’t need to worry, Cose. I like you. You’re gonna be fine.

Cose nodded. It crossed his mind that he was lucky to be here, lucky to be alive at all.

I’m going to put you to work for me. Nothing scary. I’m not going to ask you to break any laws or anything. If it doesn’t suit you, we figure out something else. But it’s going to be so easy, I bet you’ll decide I’m actually an okay guy to work for. Maybe you’ll stick around long enough to work off that two grand with me. Maybe I can help you achieve some of those new goals you made for yourself and your band.

He looked at Cose with an expectant smile. Cose felt his throat knot. He cleared it and tried to speak, but a quiet wheeze had to suffice in lieu of words.

You need something to drink?

Cose nodded his head. Kaplan pointed at a Styrofoam cooler on the floor. Help yourself.

Cose leaned over, dug out a beer, pulled off the metal tab. Then sat still, doing nothing but holding onto it.

It looks like you got something to say and you’re afraid to say it. Don’t be.

Thanks, his voice sounded as a near-whisper. Listen, Mr. Kaplan. I have a debt of honor that I owe you. And whatever this job is, I’m going to do it. But after that, well ... He took a long sip before he continued.

This is kind of personal. If I work for you, I can’t be involved with drugs. Not because I care about if it’s legal or not. It’s just that, I screwed up once. Real bad. So bad that my family basically wants nothing to do with me. And now, ever since what happened to Jockley, I’ve decided, I can’t be an honorable person if I ever have anything to do with narcotics again. He felt a thin streak of cold sweat roll down from his temple to his chin.

Kaplan sat back in his chair. You telling me you don’t use?

No, sir. I used to do a lot of coke. Took heroin once, decided it scared me too much to do again. Took speed sometimes. But, the last couple of years, the more I saw how hooked Jeff was, the more I decided I needed to be clean. And I am. I still smoke pot once in a while. That’s all. I’m serious about it, though. Clean and straight.

Kaplan opened a drawer and produced a small case. Let me tell you something, Cose. You just won my respect. And I don’t give that out to very many people, all right? What you just said to me, that took balls. Most of my guys don’t have those. I’m glad to know that you do.

Cose couldn’t keep eye contact with Kaplan’s anymore. He looked over to the drawn blind, and the abstract shadows playing on it.

I want you to know something, said Kaplan. I don’t put drugs on the street. Okay?

Cose looked back at Kaplan, who was leaning across the desk.

I promise you, no job I ever send you on will have anything to do with narcotics. I don’t deal them, I don’t buy them. If you keep your nose out of them, you and me are always going to get along.

Cose nodded. What do you need me to do for you?

I’m forgiving three grand in interest. The job has to be worth that. And it is. It’s worth more than that. But for reasons that have nothing to do with monetary value.

Cose’s stomach growled. It was no gentle groan. It was an epic rumble, an aria from a grand opera.

So, that’s kind of embarrassing, Cose said. Kaplan smiled and laughed.

That’s because I’m scaring you, Cose. I’m sorry about that. Hey, I can tell you’re a musician. You got real good tone.

Cose laughed. His internal meter eased off a bit. Kaplan was manipulating him. He knew his only choice was to go along with it.

You know what I want you to do? I want you to play a gig. Not your band. Just you. Can you hold a room, just you and your guitar?

Yeah. Oh, hell yes. I can do that.

Good. Mostly, all you have to do is go to a party and play. Sing a few songs, make people feel good. You got your own guitar, right?

Yeah, I sure do.

After spending two thousand dollars of my money, I’m glad to know that. He smirked, then laughed. Let me tell you something. Your friend Adam? He got into a hell of a lot more trouble with me than you ever could. But I gave him a chance, he proved he could step up and take charge of his own destiny. He rolled up his right sleeve. Now he wears one of these.

Kaplan showed the tattoo on his right wrist. It’s a kanji symbol, for loyalty. Not many people I trust enough to give this to. He covered it again. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to get any ink, Cose.

Phew, Cose replied, in an exaggerated way, hoping to sound light-hearted.

I need to spell out a few things, and they’re very important. First of all, the place I’m sending you? I won’t be there, and neither will any of my guys. It’s a party, but you would be most unwelcome if they knew who sent you. And they won’t know. They’re gonna think you’re the entertainment they hired from Ben Peller. You don’t have to pretend anything. No disguise, you’re just you, there for a gig. Easy enough, right?

Sure, Cose said. Easy enough.

It’s no different than any other party. Kaplan drew another paper from the folder and put it in front of Cose. It was a drawing, a crude floor plan of a house.

This is the house you’re going to. There are two floors. The party itself is probably downstairs. I bet that’s where you’ll be playing. But up here... He tapped on the second-floor diagram. Up here, there are four doors. On the right is the john, straight ahead is the master bedroom. Getting in that room should be no problem. My guy tells me the door was open all night last time they got together. I just need you to make your way up there one time. Act like you’re going upstairs to use the can. Get into this room. I need you to do one thing, and it’s very simple, but you must not screw it up.

Kaplan reached into his case and brought out an envelope. It was small and elegant, the sort that might contain an invitation to a nice dinner party. It was sealed with red wax.

"This envelope needs to make it to the master bedroom. It would be great if you could tape it to a mirror. But only if you know you won’t be caught. At the very least, lean it against the lamp on the nightstand if there is one. Put it somewhere that it will be found. Don’t let anyone see you put it there. If anyone does see you, you found it there. You did not bring it."

Cose had to remind himself to breathe. This was no easy gig.

Somebody sees you with this, you have no idea where it’s from or how it got there. And this is very important. You don’t give a shit about it. Your face has got to show that. It has to seem as unimportant to you as every other matchbook, hash pipe or used rubber that might be lying around. You got that?

Cose nodded. His gut growled again, even louder than before. Kaplan smiled.

"And if that happens, you’re gonna be very conspicuous. Try to eat something before you get there, okay?"

Kaplan’s smile was so friendly, Cose almost tricked himself into thinking everything would be fine. But he knew he had stepped in the shit.

Once you’ve placed the envelope, your job is done. If you want to disappear, you can, though that might not be the best idea. You could go back downstairs and play a couple more songs, or maybe just hang out and see if you meet a cute girl you can take home. Do whatever you would do if you had not dropped off this very insignificant little envelope. Now I need to ask you, can you handle this job?

Yeah, Cose said, but it sounded strained. Yeah, that’s not too hard.

Not at all. Oh, and you see that wax seal? I’m sure I don’t have to tell you, but don’t break it. What’s in here is of no concern to you. The less you know, the safer you are. And I want you to be safe.

Yeah. Me too.

What’s in here is my business. Now, if you were stupid enough to try to look ... well, let’s just say, I would know about it. And that would be a terrible breach of trust. You understand that?

Kaplan put the envelope into a larger manila one, and wrapped the little red string around the paper hub. He placed the package into Cose’s hand. It’s time for me to go. You’ll get a call from Ben Peller. He’ll tell you the time and place for the gig. This job pays off the interest. Any tips they throw at you, those are yours to keep. If you put them in a good mood, it might be pretty generous.

Kaplan stood, and went to the door. It was a real pleasure talking to you, Cose. Then he disappeared down the hall. A man wearing a tie-dyed Mr. Natural shirt and a black neck tie arrived to see Cose back downstairs and to the street.

Let’s go, Dog Boy. We’ve all got work to do.

TUESDAY, JUNE 11

Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts

Connie Barnett floated blissfully, twenty feet below the surface of the cold water. The Gulf Stream currents had arrived a few weeks late, and Cow Bay was still too cold for many. Connie loved it. She had been diving in far colder water than this.

She found peace here, just the sound of her own breathing, the muffled clack of the regulator and the rapid burble of air as it escaped and rose back to the noisy world above.

She came from a noisy house, occupied by a noisy family. The underwater stillness and silence cleansed her mind and renewed her will. She wanted to grow gills and live in the stillness. A few times, she had even drawn sketches of herself, evolved into a fish-human hybrid, like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, but friendlier, and with her trademark curly brown hair.

She was nineteen years old, and still living on the island. Her friends had gone to college on the mainland. Connie had stayed here, tried to take a few classes at Cape Cod, did poorly. Her small circle of close friends had come back last December, and were already different people. Connie knew she was stagnating here. But beneath the surface, it didn’t matter. She fit right in.

She had fallen in love with diving while in the Bahamas, during a vacation in July of 1972. Her stepfather had taken them to Nassau. Connie signed up for a snorkeling excursion, a two-hour activity that she approached with low expectations. She underwent a transformation the instant her face went mask-down into the clear, warm waters. She looked at it now as her true baptism, a first glimpse at a real sense of purpose for herself.

In the two years since, the pursuit of her own diving gear and training consumed her time and energy. A hundred odd jobs and a non-binding loan from her dad the following May got her a wet suit from a discount diving shop in Boston. During her eighteenth summer, she had earned her PADI certification.

She was in love with the sea, but she knew it did not love her back. It offered a magnificent embrace and nothing but cosmic indifference to her survival and well-being.

Never go diving alone. This mantra had been drilled into her, by her instructors, her friends, her family. She professed it herself. And yet it was true that she loved best to be under the water with no other company than herself.

This evening, there was someone looking after her, from above the surface. Sullivan Krayt had brought her out aboard his sailboat Destino. Not that he would be any help if she did get into trouble.

Sullivan had offered her a cool hundred bucks if she could find and retrieve his wedding ring. He didn’t even seem embarrassed to ask, just casually admitted he had lost it while fooling around with an old flame while his wife was out of town.

I couldn’t wear my wedding band while I was messing around, right?

Sure, said Connie. "Taking it off makes all the difference."

Exactly, Sullivan replied, missing her tone completely. I wrapped it in a towel and set it down here on the deck. I guess it slipped out while we were rockin and rollin, you know?

And you think this is the right spot? Connie asked.

I know this is the place, cause we could see the lighthouse just over there. He pointed to shore. I have a good sense for where I am.

I can’t make any guarantees, Connie told him. I want fifty bucks just for looking. The full hundred if I bring it back. The tides could have carried it anywhere by now. It’s a big ocean, and a ring is a pretty small target.

No deal. You just gotta find it! My old lady gets back tomorrow night. No ring, no cash.

She didn’t like Sullivan much. She didn’t know anyone who really did. Not even her friend Kendra, who had once dated him, and apparently joined him at this spot the other night.

There was another hour or so of sunlight, but she only had thirty minutes of air, and less time than that before the evening chill would make the water more perilous.

She held a hot-spot lantern in her hands, scanning it across the sandy bottom, looking for a shred of towel or a telltale glint of metal.

These waters were never sparkling and clear as they had been in the Bahamas. Visibility didn’t extend much past 100 yards. But she glimpsed a shadow moving in the far reach of the beam. She trained the light forward, and kicked slowly.

Thirty yards away, she could see the outline of a cluster of rocks on the ocean floor. A few scraggly weeds grew from it. Large enough to be a decent landmark.

A shape darted by, just three feet in front