Saturday, August 11, 1956
By eleven o’clock on a hot, muggy morning, when the Fitzgerald family arrived at the Fishermen’s Fair in Springs, the crowd had filled the grounds of Ashawagh Hall and was spilling onto Parsons Place and Amagansett Road, which were cordoned off with snow fencing. With its display of handmade crafts, tables laden with baked goods, preserves, and other local delicacies, children’s rides and games, and an exhibition of reasonably priced works by many of the well-known artists who lived in the area, the fair was the acme of the East Hampton hamlet’s summer season.
Fireplace Road was already lined with parked cars. Fitz was waved on by a local uniform and had to park nearly a quarter mile north of the fairgrounds. Not so bad, he thought as he opened the car door for his wife, Nita, and their eight-year-old son, TJ. A bit humid, but it sure beats the steamy city. When I was a beat cop I used to dread days like this. By the time I finished my rounds I’d be sweating like a pig.
In the thirteen years since Brian Fitzgerald and Juanita Diaz had tied the knot, this was their first real family vacation. For the first couple of years they’d take off from their duties as New York City police officers for a week in a Rockaway Beach boardinghouse. As their careers advanced—his to sergeant, then captain; hers to detective—they spent their holidays studying for exams and doing the volunteer work that earned brownie points with the promotions board.
Now they felt they’d earned a two-week stay at the Sea Spray Inn in East Hampton, a charming beachfront resort with a string of reasonably priced housekeeping cottages adjacent to the main building. They could come and go as they pleased and economize by cooking most meals for themselves. Plus TJ could have his own room. The town had a convenient Long Island Rail Road connection to Pennsylvania Station, but Fitz’s father had told them to forget about the train and lent them his Chevy coupe for the duration. If they got tired of the beach, they could drive into the village to shop, out to the fishing port at Montauk, over to Sag Harbor to catch a movie, or to sightsee along the country lanes with a picnic lunch. For the first few days they took advantage of all those options.
On Saturday, when the innkeeper, Arnold Bayley, told them about the fair in nearby Springs, and how much fun it was for the youngsters, TJ was out the door and in the car in record time. The entire six-mile drive was spent assuring him that he could see and do everything the fair had to offer. Fitz had to hold his hand to keep him from racing down Fireplace Road toward the colorful booths and lawn games packed with excited children.
At the intersection they stopped to chat with the officer directing traffic. Anxious to try his hand at the ring toss he could see in progress on the lawn, TJ tugged at his father’s arm. But neither Fitz nor Nita could pass up the opportunity to spend a few moments socializing with their country colleague.
Patrolman Earl Finch greeted them with a smile, silently admiring the yellow gingham sundress that showed off Nita’s figure—Curves in all the right places, he decided—and complemented the highlights in her lush auburn curls. At five-foot-eight she was nearly as tall as her husband, whose ginger hair their son had inherited. Together they made up what Finch described to himself as a handsome family of redheads.
“You folks from away?” he asked. “First time at the fair?”
“Yes to both questions, Officer Finch,” replied Fitz, reading the name on his uniform patch. “On vacation from the city. Both my wife and I are NYPD.”
Finch was naturally surprised. “You don’t say? Well, we get lots of vacationing cops and firemen out this way, but I can’t say I’ve ever met a married pair of city cops before.”
Fitz made the introductions. “I’m Captain Brian Fitzgerald of the Sixth Precinct, in the West Village. My wife, Juanita, is a detective with the Two Three, up in East Harlem. And this is our boy, Timothy Juan Fitzgerald, TJ to his friends.”
Finch bent down and shook TJ’s hand. “Glad to know you, young fella. I hope I can call you TJ.”
“Sure, sir. You can be my friend.”
“That’s swell, TJ. You’ll have a great time at the fair,” said Finch. “Us Bonackers know how to throw a party.”
“What’s a Bonacker?” asked the boy.
“Bonackers are the folks who come from this neck of the woods,” Finch explained. “See that little crick over behind the chapel?” He gestured behind him toward a body of water just visible on the other side of the Springs Community Chapel. “That’s Accabonac Crick. Anybody born within spittin’ distance of that little crick is a Bonacker.”
TJ was still confused. “What’s a crick?”
“That’s what we call a stream, like a river only much smaller. You got a big river back where you come from. That little crick is the best us Bonackers can do. It ain’t much, but it suits us fine. We get clams and scallops and oysters and fish out of it, and fresh water from where it rises over there in Pussy’s Pond. There’s two or three springs that feed into it. That’s why this neighborhood’s called The Springs. That’s the official name, anyhow. Folks ’round here just call it Springs.”
Nita smiled down at her son. “You’re getting a real geography lesson, TJ. Something to tell your class when you get back to P.S. 40.”
“You’ll want to tell ’em about our local specialties, too,” Finch continued. “You mustn’t miss the food tent. Wait ’til you try the Bonac chowder, clam pie, and roasted corn on the cob. And save room for the peach cobbler.”
“I want to try the ring toss first,” said TJ, pulling his father by the hand.
Just then Finch snapped to attention. “Look out!” he shouted, and shuttled the family aside as an Oldsmobile convertible barreled up Fireplace Road, apparently oblivious to the pedestrians. The officer shook his fist at the car as it shot past.
“Hey, you, Pollock, slow down!” he called out to the driver, without apparent effect. The car continued north, then swerved into a driveway on the right, tires screeching.
“Who the heck is that?” asked Fitz.
“Crazy artist,” was the reply. “Always drives like he owns the road. Even when he’s sober, which ain’t often. One of these days I’ll yank his license.”
Nita looked at Fitz. “Pollock? Not Jackson Pollock, the friend of that artist who was killed in the Village in ’forty-three?” She turned to Finch. “Fitz and I were on a case together back then—in fact that’s how we met. An artist named Jackson Pollock was questioned. Turns out he wasn’t involved, but I remember the name. He’s pretty famous now, but in those days he was just starting out.”
Finch nodded. “That’s him. Around here he’s famous, all right. Notorious, more like.”
TJ was getting impatient. “Dad, let’s go. I want to pet the goat and ride the pony.”
“You two go ahead,” said Nita. “I’ll catch up in a minute. Just want to satisfy Officer Finch’s curiosity.” She had correctly perceived that her rural colleague was eager to hear the details.