Third Strike by Philip R. Craig Page B

you think?”
    He put his hands on his chest. “Our Savior tells us to judge not, that we be not judged.”
    â€œThat’s probably good advice,” I said, “but I’d still like your thoughts about Eduardo. You don’t have to judge him. Just describe him. Was he as gentle as his wife says he was? Or was he capable of violence?”
    Zapata looked around the yard at his workmen, then brought his eyes back to mine. “Even Christ grew angry at the money changers.”
    â€œI can refer to scripture, too, and the devil can quote it,” I said a little impatiently, “but I’m asking about Eduardo Alvarez.”
    He held up a hand. “Peace, Mr. Jackson. Peace. All I mean to say is that even the best of us are capable of almost any act if the circumstances are right. Eduardo was probably no different. But if you’ll grant me that caveat, I will say that he was the very last person I would have thought of as a potential bomber. He supported the union out of loyalty, but he hated the anger and violence that pervaded the strike. He wanted the strike to end before anyone got hurt.”
    â€œIronic.”
    â€œYes. I never heard him say a bad word about anyone on either side of the issue.”
    I didn’t know what I expected to learn from Zapata, but whatever it was, I hadn’t gotten much that was new. I asked, “Do you have any idea what he might have been doing in the engine room of the Trident ?”
    â€œI do not.” His hands opened to show they held nothing.
    â€œDo you know of any friend who might have led him to do something he otherwise would never have done? Some more passionate partisan, perhaps.”
    Zapata shook his head. “My people rejoice in their feelings, but few of them have close emotional ties with the boat line. They’re concerned about the strike because it may make their lives more difficult, but no more or less than other people on the island who have the same concerns.”
    â€œIs there anyone in your congregation who might know why Eduardo was on the docks that night and not at work at the restaurant where he was supposed to be?”
    He was silent for a moment, then said, “No, I can’t think of any such person. Perhaps you should make inquiries at the restaurant.”
    â€œI plan to do that.” I scribbled my name and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to him. “Well, thanks for your time. If you think of anything, please let me know. Gloria Alvarez hates these rumors about her husband.”
    He shook my hand. “I will. You are doing a good thing. It is a blessing for those who mourn to have one who comforts them.”
    â€œThat’s a twist on the beatitude,” I said. “Besides, I haven’t comforted anyone yet.”
    â€œYou’re trying,” he replied. “God gives you credit for trying.”
    â€œThat’s good,” I said.
    I’m leery of anyone who presumes to know God’s desires, and Zapata seemed to read my mind. “It’s called faith,” he said, smiling and pointing a forefinger toward the sky.
    It was mid-morning, but not too soon to visit the Wheelhouse, since the restaurant served breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Most tourists were not yet up and about, so I figured I might even find a parking place.
    On Martha’s Vineyard, certain locations attract restaurants that go out of business within a couple of years only to be replaced by other restaurants that go out of business a couple of years later. According to my friend John Skye, who is a professor of things medieval at Weststock College, a lot of people who love food are sure that they would find bliss in opening a restaurant and running it the way it should be run. The problem, he says, probably correctly, is that a love of food and cooking is not a guarantee of a successful restaurant any more than a love of books is a guarantee of a successful bookstore. What any