A Matter of Mercy by Lynne Hugo Page B

up between Mario and shore for the third or fourth time that afternoon. “Man, you gotta back off. We’ve gotta go with Tomas, with the lawyer stuff. That’s the way to fight this.”
    Privately, though, he felt the same rage, the same urge to strike back. Visceral prison memories—the slide and clang of an auto lock steel door, the smothering closeness of the cement walls and ceiling—kept him in check.
    When the tide came after dark or was small—meaning it didn’t drop below the mean low-tide mark because the moon was waning or new—Rid, Tomas and Mario met early to drink at The Reading Oyster Restaurant, across from the town pier and the shellfish warden’s office. “The Oyster” was where they always went, where everyone went, but now they sat apart, not at the bar with the others, but at one of the high tables along the wall. When the others came in, it was later, and earlier when they left. Everyone spoke to them. They were slapped on the back, cheered on, given sympathy, outrage, and thumbs up variously. But then they veered off, as if discreetly trying not to catch a communicable disease.
    The main topic for Tomas was raising money. “I don’t think you two are adequately aware of how far this may go. The retainer is just the beginning.” Tomas had gone into his children’s college fund for his share. So far, his wife was with him, but the children came first for her. Tomas didn’t think Marie would be willing to follow him into a hole. “If we don’t fight it, obviously we lose everything. But we may lose everything anyway, because it may take all we’ve got and more. That’s why we’ve got to decide now exactly how far we’re willing to take this.” Tomas spoke in his patient, cultured voice, usually looking at Mario.
    For Rid, the issue was trying to keep Tomas from giving up on a joint defense because Mario was such a wildcard. Mario had more money than he did, and he was hoping that Mario would advance some of his share until he could come up with it. There was a question in his mind—probably in Tomas’ mind too—about the source of Mario’s money. They all had side jobs; they had to. Tomas and Marie ran a bait shop with Marie’s brother in Eastham. Some cut and sold firewood, or jumped on a scallop or shrimp boat out of New Bedford for a week or ten days, which would bring in a quick couple of thousand extra in the winter. Rid had done both, depending on the year.
    It wasn’t impossible that Mario ran some drugs. He reminded Rid of himself ten years ago, which ran up a red flag or two. But there wasn’t room to worry about that. For one, he and Tomas needed the money, for all of Tomas’ talk about going it alone. And Rid had more than enough to worry about. He should have been home repairing cages. He hadn’t fixed all the damage from the hurricane tail swipe last month, and winter was coming on. There was no way he should have been sitting on a bar stool.
    It was mid-October. The summer tourists were long gone, and it was the local fishers and year-rounder business people in the restaurant. The fishermen were in the bar; the tide had been at five-fifteen and had run them into darkness. Most had come in for a drink right off their grants. On the other side, the restaurant served a couple celebrating an anniversary, a lone man in a suit, a smattering of nondescript others. The bar, as usual on weeknights, was the heartbeat of The Reading Oyster, which was the heartbeat of the town, especially in the off-season.
    The restaurant was named for the dark and dusty bookstore at its rear, crammed with ancient paperbacks and magazines and rare books, some suspended over string along the beamed ceiling, many stacked precariously along the narrow aisles. Old, yellowing movie posters were tacked to any wall space not covered with shelves from which old, random books tumbled, here and there an astonishing treasure surrounded by garage-quality junk. The family that owned the restaurant kept