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    Cape Light
    Cape Light
    Cape Light
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Cape Light

    By Edward Norton

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    About this ebook

    It's 1933. The nation is in Depression. Prohibition is skidding to an end. A New York City lawyer, takes a "collection" assignment on Cape Cod. He's either to find a missing shipment of scotch, or to collect its worth from the locals who for years have paid bills with nighttime work. The lawyer finds a lost love and a couple of young summer actors, and a new President.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherEdward Norton
    Release dateSep 9, 2011
    ISBN9781465868718
    Cape Light
    Author

    Edward Norton

    Edward C. Norton, author of more than 10 novels, was an award-winning reporter/editor in New Jersey and New York. He was named a Nieman Fellow at Harvard University.Norton left daily journalism to write about public affairs and business issues for Mobil Corporation in op-ed ads in Time, The New York Times and Reader’s Digest. He retired as communications manager from Hoechst Celanese Corporation.As a free lance, Norton has had articles published in various magazines, including New York. and the first daily internet newspaper on Cape Cod. His novel, Station Breaks , was published by Dell [1986] and The House: 1916, [1999] was also published by RavensYard. His novels have been published under pen names, such as Adrian Manning, Lane Carlson, West Straits and Ted Neachtain.Norton can be reached at ecnorton@meganet.net

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      Book preview

      Cape Light - Edward Norton

      Cape Light

      by Edward Norton

      Copyright 2011

      by Edward Norton

      Smashwords Edition

      Chapter 1

      The men wore weather slickers even though it was late June.

      The wind off the sound was strong, kicking up waves and spray. The old coastal steamer was anchored, so it did not roll much, while the smaller fishing trawlers alongside bobbed as the men worked on the decks. Weak spotlights on the steamer illuminated the men at the forward cargo hatch as they eased the wood boxes out of the hold in cargo nets and then moved them over the side to the waiting trawlers, where seamen stacked them on deck.

      Watching the men work were two other men, a white-bearded fellow in a black slicker, and a shorter man in a poncho. The taller man was obviously captain of the old steamer.

      Well, Joe, now that beer's legal, it's only time before this scotch'll be...

      We're out of business, then, cap. This stuff is paying our bills. I got a son married next month. The fishing's all gone to hell. Folks ain't even eating cheap fish anymore, 'cept on Fridays.

      Well, the good times paid good. Bought my house in Halifax. Don't mind these times, though. Coast Guard ain't chasing us. They know repeal is just around the corner.

      Yeah! Good times're just around the corner. Hoover said that.

      Now you have this Roosevelt. Maybe he can fix things.

      Before the shorter man could reply, there is a thud as a wood box spills from its sling and crashes to the deck. The box splits open with shattered glass and curses.

      Dammit! Watch that load. That's money you're droppin'. The younger man yelled. The captain turned to the shorter man. Can you handle all hundred-sixty cases with these boats?

      Yeah, they'll ride low, but we're close to the beach. You never know who's up late, watching, but I don't give a damn anymore. He moved to the gangway and turned. Back. We got shanties all over the bay. The trucks won't be down till after six or so. Takes less than an hour to unload. And you're right, we got no one to bother us now. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a brown envelope. Here’s the usual check. They said it’s on some Montreal bank. They’re always right for it.

      The older man turned toward his wheelhouse. Well, rum row is sure different from the old days. He extends his hand, Have a lucky run. We bluenoses will have to go back to hauling lumber, if there's anyone down here wants wood.

      Ain't many new houses building these days, cap. Ain't much of anything.

      When the sun rose over the sand dunes, the small boats and few trucks were gone. So was the scotch.

      Chapter 2

      Myles Finucane let the young couple have the first hack, a faded blue Packard, a 1925 model, he guessed. The couple had been on the train with him from Providence, the young man nattily dressed in a blue blazer and white linen slacks, the young woman in a matching white dress and small pink hat. They looked like newlyweds, Finucane guessed, from the way they nuzzled each other.

      A second cab pulled into the station parking lot that was oddly empty this warm summer day. Finucane watched the train making its way south to the final stop at Woods Hole. The second cab was elderly, too, to match its scrawny driver, who pulled to a stop and climbed down from his seat to get Finucane's single suitcase. The old fellow silently strapped it to the grill on the rear of the vehicle and motioned for Finucane to get in the back seat.

      Mekasset Inn, Finucane said.

      The driver rearranged himself behind the large wheel of the rumbling cab. As he drove out of the lot and picked up speed, Finucane was glad for the breeze of the open vehicle. The train had been hot, even with the windows open. Providence had been hot. Manhattan the day before had been hotter. Manhattan, Fincuane mused, was always ten degrees warmer in summer and ten degrees colder in winter than anywhere else. Or so it seemed.

      The driver trailed the first hack up the macadam highway to the turnoff, and then over a wood bridge across the rail tracks and onto a dusty, sandy unpaved road. Finucane could see the couple in the car ahead, he with his arm around her. Lovebirds.

      Finucane was glad to finally be at Cape Cod, after a long train ride to Providence the day before, and the stay in the cheap commercial hotel where he met his principals. It wasn't a pleasant meeting, all told, as they did all the talking, and he did all the listening.

      You got this assignment only because Owney called us. We owe him one. You're it.

      The hotel bed had been lumpy and Finucane was irritable because he had stopped drinking two days before. He needed this job and it wouldn't do to get gin sloppy.

      The cabs began to climb a long hill and without seeing it, Finucane could smell the salt water. Then through the trees in full summer leaf, he saw the bluff on which sat a large Victorian-style wood building with its covered porches.

      The cab skidded some making the grade to the inn's entrance. Bad tires, Finucane thought. As he stepped from the hack, Finucane shaded his eyes from the glare and took in the view from the bluff out toward the water and surrounding woods. It looked to him like the resort had seen better days.

      It took a few moments for the old man to free Finucane's suitcase, and for Finucane to put a 50-cent piece in his withered hand. Without as much as a nod, the old man climbed back into his hack and punished the gears to make his getaway.

      The young couple were about to leave the registration desk when Finucane made the steps into the cooler lobby. He took a seat in a large oak chair to wait his turn, and studied the room. Aside from another chair, it was bare, without as much as a picture of a sailboat on the plain wood walls. The only thing on the wall is a large calendar behind the desk that read June 1933. Not his best month.

      Dinner is from twelve to one, the woman clerk behind the counter droned to the couple. You've missed it. Supper is six to seven. Tonight is fish night. She handed the young man his key. You have room fourteen, for the week. Let me know if you plan to stay longer.

      Finucane watched the couple move toward the stairs before he stirred. The clerk nodded to him, but Finucane took his hankerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his forehead before standing.

      I called yesterday. Finucane.

      Oh, yes, and how long will you be staying, ah, Mr. Finucane?

      Maybe a day or two, maybe longer. Does it matter?

      Well, we like to know for our scheduling.

      Finucane rose and approached the counter.

      I didn't see all that many cars in the driveway, except for those cabs. Or folks on the front porch, or on the tennis court. And here it is the end of June. Almost July fourth. Are they all at the beach?

      The woman became flustered. Our season usually starts on the fourth...

      Well, then I have a few days to linger a while.

      "I'll have to ask

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