by John Etzil
I set the record straight. “Um, it won’t be a week, gentlemen, and I swear on my mother’s grave that she’ll come back to you.”
Frances opened the screen door and pointed to an oversized piece of black luggage at her feet. It reminded me of one of those trunks that you’d see the porters on the Titanic struggling with. She called out to Max and Gus, tapping the trunk with her walking stick. “Little help?”
They nearly tripped over each other and spilled their coffees in their zeal to race up the steps. Frances stepped out onto the porch, and the three embraced in a group hug. After they finished their goodbyes, Max and Gus each grabbed one end of her luggage and wrestled it down the steps.
“Pop the hatch, Sheriff.” And with a grunt and a few whispered and out-of-breath curse words, they hoisted the mega trunk into the back of my X5, which, despite being an M version with a racing suspension that puts an Indy car to shame, sank under the weight of Frances’s goodies.
Frances hiked up her dress and hopped into the passenger seat. Max and Gus buckled her in. “You take good care of her now, Sheriff.”
“Yes, gentlemen, I will.” I tried not to sound too condescending.
And with that we were off, heading north on Route 10 to pick up I-88W in Richmondville. From there we’d pick up I-81 near Binghamton and head south to Centralia. The whole trip was 218 miles and took three hours and thirty-one minutes according to Google Maps, but in my rocket-ship X5 M, I was counting on making it in under three hours.
This was a recon-only road trip, as opposed to my normal hunt-and-kill missions. The proverbial milk run, a serene walk in the park on a sunny spring morning. Despite Frances’s apparent lust, and my burning need to kill bad men, we’d both have to be satisfied with just gathering intel.
Right…
12
Centralia, PA
Frances commented that she’d only gotten a few hours’ sleep last night and wound up napping for most of the trip. She murmured in her sleep for Andre, or something like that, to behave, and I turned the radio on low to drown out her “Oh! Don’t do that,” followed by a soft giggle.
Oh well, at least she’s not Chatty Cathying me.
Despite my lead foot and the X5 M’s 567 horsepower, it took me three hours and four minutes before we pulled onto Locust Avenue, which is the main drag in Centralia. We were greeted on the left by the majestic steeple of a large white church, the First Unitarian Covenant of Friendly Friars, or FUCOFF, which was the church that Jeffrey Wells ran.
I continued down Locust Ave, rolling along at a slow pace to scope out the town. Two-story buildings, retail on floor one and residential apartments on floor two, lined both sides of Locust Ave. They were all closed. It reminded me of downtown Richmondville, but with less traffic. One stoplight hung in the still breeze at the main intersection of town, Locust Ave and Center Street, but it wasn’t needed since I was the only car on the road.
A small bank, a gas station, a convenience store, and Marty’s Diner occupied the four corners. The diner had a few cars in the gravel parking lot, but other than that, there wasn’t much happening in the center of Centralia, Pennsylvania, on a Sunday morning.
I continued on past the light to get a feel for the rest of the town, which consisted mostly of little shops, all closed, and then eventually some small homes before we reached the outskirts. I drove down some small side streets and worked my way back through town before pulling into the gravel parking lot of Peter’s Motel. I was the only car there.
“Peter’s Motel? We’re staying here?” Frances scoffed. “Looks like the Roach Motel to me.”
“Only place in town. For the purpose of our visit, you’re my mom, and we’re just passing through on our way to Pittsburgh to visit some relatives.”
“I’ve got relatives in Pittsburgh. My older sister.”
I looked at her to see if she was joking. She wasn’t.
“Tara. She’s ninety-six. She’s not doing too well, though. Poor thing. The last few years have been really tough on her, after Mom moved in and all.” She leaned over to whisper in my ear. “Mom’s a bit senile.”
The motel looked like it was built in the 1940s, a long L-shaped single-story building. One unit deep, with parking in the front and back. Maybe twenty-five rooms in all. The front desk was in the center of the L, and a little cowbell above the wooden door shook the young fellow behind the desk awake when I pushed it open. With his mullet haircut and Elvis sideburns, he reminded me of David Spade’s character in Joe Dirt. I almost laughed out loud, but caught myself so as to not hurt his feelings.
Mullet Joe stood up as soon as we walked in, all one hundred and thirty pounds of him, and, with way too much enthusiasm and in a voice deeper than his scrawny twenty-year-old body had a right to possess, he bellowed, “Good morning, sir. Sorry to say that we have no vacancies.”
“What? There aren’t even any cars in your parking lot.”
“Everyone’s at Sunday service.”
I walked up to him and looked down at the small face that peered up at me. His fake smile disappeared and he took a small step backwards. I dipped my hand into my pocket for my wallet. “This might help.” I took out a crisp new fifty and placed it on the counter. “I need two rooms for a few days.”
He looked down at the fifty and seemed to be struggling with his decision. “I, uh, I might be able to convince one of our guests to check out early if I gave him a hundred, but that’s the best I can do.”
Smart kid.
“Fine.” I took out another fifty and dropped it on the counter. “What time will our room be ready?”
“Couple of hours.” Mullet Joe reached under the counter and came up with a paging device the size of a brick, holding it out for me. “We’ll page you when the room’s ready.”
“A pager? Can’t you just call my cell phone?”
“Cell service is pretty spotty. We’re a traditional town, and techie advances come real slow here.” He opened a large hardcover sign-in book and spun it towards me. “Care to register now?”
I took the gigantic pager, clipped it on my belt, and signed us in.
I stepped outside and climbed into my X5 M. “Room won’t be ready for a while. Let’s go to the diner and see what kind of food they have.”
Frances looked at me funny. “What the hell is that on your belt?”
13
The Little Rat
Mullet Joe watched through the lobby windows as the BMW exited the parking lot and headed towards the center of Centralia. When it was out of sight, he frowned and picked up the phone. His call was answered on the second ring.
“Buford. How can I help you?”
“It’s Willard, down at the motel. We got a problem, and I can’t tell you on the phone.”
A big sigh followed. “Fine, I’ll be right there.”
Ten minutes later, Willard watched Buford pull into the parking lot, and the big man with the tall hat strode into the motel’s lobby. He took his hat off and nodded to Willard. “So, what’s up?”
“We have a visitor from New York.”
“So?”
“He’s law enforcement. I can smell ’em a mile away.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.” He reached across the front desk and grabbed the pad that he’d written Jack’s license plate number down on. He tore off the sheet and handed it to Buford. “Run his plate, you’ll see.”
Buford looked at the paper and nodded. He walked out to his car, ran the plate, and came back in. “It’s registered to a Jack Lamburt. He’s a sheriff in Schoharie County, New York.”
“I knew it.”
“But he’s driving a BMW X5 M. That’s got to cost a heck of a lot more than he can afford. How does a sheriff pay for that kind of car? Something’s not right. Maybe he’s on the take. You think that he’s onto us, and that he’s here to shake us down? Extort some cash from us to keep his mouth shut?”
“I don’t know. He was with an old lady. Maybe she’s his sug
ar momma?”
“Shit. Now we might have two people we have to take care of?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you can handle the old lady.”
“Did they get a room here?”
“Yeah. I gotta page ’em and let ’em know their room is ready.”
“Put them in the usual room.”
“Of course. You’d better let the Prophet know about this right away. Boy, is he gonna be upset.”
Buford shook his head and sighed. “Nothing’s easy these days. I sure do miss the good old days, before our Prophet arrived to save us.” He turned, put his hat on, and walked out.
14
I Take Frances to Church
I pulled up to the diner and stepped out into the humid air. I offered Frances my hand to help her out of the SUV, but she waved me off with a scoff. “I’m not helpless. I just hope they have a smoking section here.”
Fortunately, they didn’t. We wound up in a booth by the front window, overlooking the parking lot. The breakfast menu was typical diner fare—eggs, bacon, toast, waffles, pancakes, etc. I ordered a couple of scrambled eggs with some bacon and coffee. Frances got the same, but with extra bacon. The food was good, but the coffee sucked compared to what I was used to.
In between mouthfuls, we talked about our plan.
“So what’s next, Chief?” she asked.
“We go to church. I saw their sign when we arrived in town. Their next service is at one.” I looked at my Omega Speed Master to confirm the timing. “We need to leave in fifteen. Maybe we’ll get lucky and Menthol Man will be there.”
“And if not?”
“We keep looking. We start by staking out the rectory and watching for activity.”
“I’m already tired of this small town. Did you notice they don’t have a bar? Or even a liquor store?”
“Yeah, I noticed. Maybe it’s a dry town.”
“Dry towns are stupid.”
“Perhaps. But we’re not here on spring break, so let’s not worry about the bar scene.”
Frances huffed and grew quiet as she wolfed down the last of her bacon. I finished up and paid the bill, and we headed over to the FUCOFF church.
We arrived a few minutes before the start of the service. Several people were making their way through the front door, and a man of the cloth was busy welcoming each one with a handshake and a nod. By the time we made it up to the steps, he’d gone inside.
Frances denied my offer of assistance in escorting her by the elbow up the steps, threatening to whack me with her walking stick, and we made our way inside with her leading the way. The interior was small, with a basic no-frills appearance. A big room with some stained-glass windows and a ceiling slightly higher than your average house. About ten rows of pews were on each side of the main aisle, and a simple altar was at the far end. None of the trappings of some churches, with their gold ornaments and such. That was okay; we weren’t there for the atmosphere.
The only seats left were in the last row on the left side, so we grabbed them. I looked around at the parishioners, and nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Just a bunch of folks in their Sunday best in a house of worship. Mostly older senior citizens with a sprinkling of youth every few pews.
A few minutes after the service started, I felt the motel’s pager vibrate, and I reached down to my belt and turned the brick off. I leaned over towards Frances and whispered, “Do you recognize the pastor?”
She squinted through her glasses and shook her head. “He’s too far away, I can’t tell. But his voice doesn’t sound like a match.”
That was discouraging, but I had to be sure. When the time came, I asked Frances to go up and take communion and get a close-up look at him. When she came back, she scowled at me and was all pissy. “Worst wine I ever tasted. They should be ashamed of themselves. I’m never coming back to this church.” Without batting an eye, she took out her Harley Davidson flask and took a long swig while the rest of the congregation bowed their heads in silent prayer.
“Well?” I asked.
“Damn, that’s good. Got that awful cheap wine taste out of my mouth real quick. That Debbie’s a lifesaver. A real keeper. I hope you’re taking good care of her. A woman like that always has men chasing after her, lots of options. God bless her.” She did the sign of the cross, raised the flask in tribute to my Debbie, and took another swig.
“What about the pastor?”
“Oh, yeah, that’s not Menthol Man.” She tucked the flask in her purse and zipped it up, patting the side to verify its safety. “We best be getting out of here before this building comes down on us. You and I both know that our kind aren’t welcome in a house of the holy, especially after taking communion without going to confession first. And I’ll be damned if I’m gonna die in a place that pushes rotgut wine.”
We struck out at the church this time, but it was our best lead, and I wasn’t about to give up on it. Time for a stakeout.
I pulled out of the parking lot. On our initial drive through town, I’d noticed a quiet tree-lined street with a view of the rectory and church parking lot, so I headed over to it. There were a few cars parked on the street, so we’d blend right in except for the fact that my BMW cost more than most of the homes here. I pulled over and cut the engine.
“Lower your seatback a little so we’re less conspicuous,” I told Frances. The windows of my BMW were tinted, so we had some privacy there, and pushing the seatback down would hide us a little in case someone drove by and looked through the windshield. “And be prepared to duck if I see a car coming.”
“Roger.”
After ten minutes, Frances asked, “So now what?”
“We wait.”
“For how long?”
“Until we see something.” I retrieved my binoculars from my go bag and eyed the rectory windows. I didn’t see any movement inside.
Frances placed a hand on her stomach. “Oh my…”
“What?”
“It’s nothing. Max and Gus made me a going-away snack last night, and it’s not sitting right.” She let out a burp.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“No.” She raised her hips in her seat and released a loud fart. “Now I do.”
“Do you need me to take you back to the motel?”
She looked at me, her eyebrows bunched in confusion. “For what?”
“I thought maybe you needed to go to the bathroom.”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“No. I’m wearing Depends. So we don’t have to go back to the motel.” She looked at me with a big grin. “I read that story in the news about that lady astronaut who drove cross-country to kidnap her lover’s girlfriend. Time was of the essence, so she wore diapers so she wouldn’t have to make a pee stop. If it’s good enough for an astronaut, it’s good enough for me.”
God help me.
15
Roach Motel
“Are we done yet?” Frances asked, sounding more and more like a tired child. I guess that’s what three plus hours of sitting in a car does to a ninety-year-old.
“Yeah, let’s head back to Pete’s.” I started the X5 and headed over to the motel. Frances took a few sips of whiskey, followed by deep sighs of pleasure.
When we arrived, Mullet Joe opened the lobby door for us. “Greetings, folks. Welcome to Peter’s! Your room’s ready. Number 19.” He pointed to the hallway on the right. “Make a right, and it’s all the way down at the end. Or if you like, you can pull your car around to the end of the building, and I’ll buzz you in the side door.”
“We’ll walk, thanks.”
He handed us our keys, asked if we needed help with the bags, which I declined despite Frances’s oversized trunk, and bade us an over-enthused “Okay, great! Have an excellent day!”
Frances wasn’t buying any of it, and when we were out of earshot, she let me know. “Friendly bastard, ain’t he? I’ve been a people watcher for a long time, Jack. Don’t trust him.”
“I got th
is, no worries.”
Except I didn’t.
I wheeled Frances’s trunk down the hall, which was dimly lit and of similar decor as the lobby. Old, beige wallpaper with little birds fluttering about; a piece of cheap art in brown, wood frames between every room; and a light brown carpet that had a path worn down the center. We reached the end of the hallway, and I keyed open the door and stepped aside to let Frances enter first.
The room was larger than what you find in modern hotels, with a single queen-size bed on the right side and a small couch against the far window that overlooked the parking lot. There was a stale odor to the room, like it hadn’t been used in a while. I found it odd that someone had been staying in this room; the old air told me otherwise.
Frances picked up on the single bed right away. “Only one bed.” She shook her head. “You better not tell Debbie that we slept together.”
That visual flashed through my mind, and I shivered in mental anguish. “No worries, I’ll take the couch.” I set the mega trunk down in the corner and checked out the bathroom. More of the same. Simple, old, with more crappy decorations. This whole place was a depressing array of things that had outlived their usefulness twenty years ago.
I went back into the room, and Frances was curled up on the bed, snoring, both arms wrapped around her flask like a baby holding a bottle of warm milk. I took out my laptop, and of course they had no Wi-Fi. My cellular router was of no use—not a single bar on the reception meter lit up. That meant that my cell phones wouldn’t work either.
I decided to do a little more recon of the town, and maybe I’d get lucky and find a cell bar or two. I slid my laptop into my go bag and headed out to my X5 M.
I drove around the outskirts of town to get a better feel for it and weaved my way up and down some local streets. Other than the lack of people, I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, so I went back to the diner to grab some chow, hoping that I could fight back the fatigue that crept over me.
