Buried Dreams

by Brendan DuBois

  "You seem to like that phrase a lot, William," I said. "Don't you know any others?"

  His tone became defiant, but I noticed the knife was lowering.

  "I know a lot, that's what. I know what it's like to be born poor in potato country, up in Aroostook County. I know what it's like, being bounced around, foster home to foster home, learning to do everything on my own. That's what I know. And I know that when I did things on my own, I screwed up a couple of times. I admit it. And I know how I got my act together, after Warren, and started doing good, trying to help out the shattered remains of my people. And damn you, you're still trespassing."

  "That's right," I said. "And if you answer me two questions, I'll leave and that will be that."

  "Not a chance."

  "Oh. Really?"

  "Yeah, really."

  "Okay," I said. "Then how's this. You don't answer my questions, and I talk to a police detective acquaintance of mine in Porter. Detective Joe Stevens. I think he'd love to know about your background, what you've been doing, especially when it concerns sexual relations with a high school student. How do you think that will impact your fund-raising, William? Especially if some of the local papers --- like The Porter Herald ---- decide to dig into your background and find out just how legitimate a Native American leader you really are? Do you think any plans for a casino or museum on Peavey Island will progress after that?"

  He started to say something --- I think it was going to start with "you" and end with an obscenity --- but he said instead, "All right. Two questions. Then get the hell out."

  Gagnon made a show of returning his knife to a leather scabbard on his belt, obscured by his gray sweatshirt, and I made a show of lowering the Beretta. "First question. Ray Ericson."

  "Who?"

  "Ray Ericson. Ran an antique store in Porter. Brother of Jon Ericson, the guy I was interviewing you about. Now considered a suspect in his death. He's disappeared since his brother's body been found. Where is he?"

  "How the hell should I know?"

  "Because you know him, that's why."

  "Who?"

  "Ray Ericson."

  Gagnon shook his head. "Nope. Never heard of him."

  "He served time with you, up in Warren. You telling me you never ran into him, never had any dealings with him, didn't know him at all?"

  He folded his arms, smiled. "Man, you ever serve time?"

  "So far, I've been lucky to miss that particular life experience."

  "Then here's an education. You're in a concrete and steel hell with a couple of hundred other guys. All right? And there's county time and there's state time, and state time --- which is Warren --- is a hell of a lot harder and dicier than county time. And when you're doing state time, you're concerned about one thing, and one thing only. Survival. You case out your cellmate, your corridor, your wing. You see who's running the show, who's doing things, and you form alliances, agreements. And once that's done, you coast. You do your time, keep your head down, and keep things cool with other guys in your alliance. Doesn't matter what they are. Drug dealers, Aryans, bikers... whatever... and you're doing that, your whole fucking universe is about twenty or thirty guys. Everybody else don't matter. So sure, maybe this Ray character was doing time the same time I was, but that doesn't mean shit."

  "How come I don't believe you?" "How come I don't care?"

  I shifted weight from one foot to the other, thought about what he was saying. Hard to prove a negative. Maybe if I was lucky and talked to the guy from the Maine Department of Corrections again, maybe a little more digging could show that Gagnon was lying and that in fact he did know ---

  "Hey."

  I snapped back. "Hey, yourself."

  "Two questions. I took care of the first one. What's the other?"

  "Oh. This one's easy. Lift up your left pants leg?"

  "Say what?"

  ''Your left pants leg. Lift it up."

  “Why the hell should I do that?"

  I said, "Because I'm concerned about your limping, that's why."

  Gagnon said, "It's an old scar."

  "Then show me and I'll be on my way."

  I wondered what I was going to do if he told me to stick it in my ear, but I was pleasantly surprised when he muttered something and bent down, and lifted up the pants leg, exposing his lower leg, all the way up to the knee.

  With one hand I kept holding onto the pistol, with the other, I took out my flashlight, clicked it on, and played the beam over Gagnon's lower leg.

  And there it was.

  An old, purple and pink, round scar.

  "Satisfied?" he said.

  "Unfortunately, yes," I said.

  He dropped the pants leg and I switched off the light and said,

  "Sorry."

  "Hah. Not as sorry as I was when I got it."

  "What happened?"

  "A little lesson on being careful when taking your first shower in prison, when someone performs a public display of affection upon you. I punched him in the nose, he fell, and he nailed me with a shank made from a shaved toothbrush handle. Had it concealed in his other hand. Anything else you want to see? My naked and hairy ass, for example?"

  "Nope, that'll do," I said.

  We stood there for a moment, and then I took a step back and put the Beretta away in the rear waistband. "Guess it's time for me to head on out."

  "A good friggin' guess," he said, heading toward the trailer. "You got any more questions, submit them in writing or something. You stay the hell away from my home."

  "Good suggestion. And you should stay away from high school girls."

  "Hah. I'll think about it. If they're near or over eighteen, they know what they're getting into."

  As I started going back up the driveway, and he made his way to the front door, I turned and said, "Oh. One more thing."

  "What? Another question?"

  "No," I said. "It's just that I'll be calling you in a couple of weeks, that's why."

  There was a look of confusion on his face, and it was funny how much that amused me. "Why in hell would you do that?"

  "Because I said the other day that I'd do a column about you and your council, that's why."

  "You mean... you're still going to do it?"

  I shrugged. "I made a promise to you, William. I intend to keep it."

  "Man, you are some friggin' piece of work."

  "So I've been told."

  He went into the trailer and then I went up the steep driveway, stumbling a bit on a rough patch. I thought about taking out my flashlight and lighting the way, but for some irrational reason, I didn't want Gagnon to see me do that. Even after everything that had just happened, I didn't want him to think I was weak.

  Strange, but there it was.

  While going home I swung by the Weathervane Restaurant in Kittery, which is directly across the street from the Kittery Trading Post, one of the largest firearms retailers in this part of the seacoast. Yet another example of guns and butter, separated by a few lanes of asphalt. I ordered a take-out meal of a lobster pie- --- the meat of two lobsters with stuffing and drawn butter, a meal guaranteed to make a vegan faint on sight --- and it sat next to me on the long drive south. The drive wasn't long due to its length, but because of what was rattling around in my mind. I had struck out, and even the delicious smells of the dinner sitting next to me couldn't take that away.

  For I had staked everything on William Bear Gagnon and his possible relationship with Jon's brother, and the fact he and Jon had exchanged words during their sole meeting. Plus, I could see how it could have happened: Jon finds the artifacts and decides to brag it to Gagnon, pointing out that, see, his ancestors had been here a thousand years ago. And Gagnon, upset that his plans for a casino, a center for his people, would be overshadowed by the story of the Vikings, well, maybe he had lost his temper.

  And the artifacts? Somehow, in Ray Ericson's hands. A debt paid from some prison experience. Maybe.

  But that was done. Maybe I would
dig more into Gagnon's past, see if in fact he had been telling the truth about his lack of connection with Ray Ericson. I could try to scam that nice young fellow from the Maine Department of Corrections. But I still felt that taste of disappointment, at seeing Gagnon roll up his pants leg and expose that old scar. I had been so certain that I would see a fresh wound there, a wound I had caused, and that hadn't happened.

  What now, then?

  Home and dinner, that's all. Home and dinner.

  I pulled into the Lafayette House parking lot, flashed my headlights in appreciation at the Duffy cousin keeping guard on me, and drove the last few yards to my home.

  Maybe I had been sleeping in. I don't know. All I do know is that I was woken up by banging on the front door of my house, and the red numerals on the clock radio told me it was 7:30 in the morning. I rolled over and grabbed my Beretta, and then put on a robe as the banging continued. I kept the pistol concealed behind me as I went down the stairs, figuring that whoever was out there had to have been cleared by one of the Duffy cousins before coming down to my house, and that if someone really wanted to cause me harm, he wouldn't be announcing himself so openly.

  I unlocked the door and opened it up, and there he was, looking fresh and clean and full of energy, carrying a plastic bag in one strong hand.

  'Well, good morning to you, Felix," I said.

  "Ah, bonjour, man enfant," he said, smiling widely. "C'est temps pour aller, n'est-ce pas?"

  "Is that French?"

  "It sure is," he said.

  "I thought you'd be speaking Italian, if anything."

  "Well, I'm learning all sorts of new talents. Hey, I'm freezing my tail off here. Are you going to let me in or not?"

  I stepped back as he walked in, wearing khaki pants, black turtleneck sweater, and long leather coat. He took the coat off, tossed it on a nearby chair, and I said, “When did your flight come in?"

  "About ten last night. Got home by eleven, decided not to ring you up."

  "Thanks. I appreciate it."

  "You're welcome. And I'd appreciate it if you'd put that pistol away. Loaded firearms in somebody's hand tends to kill my appetite for breakfast."

  I put the pistol down on the same chair he had flung his coat on, and I said, "Where in hell did you learn to speak French?"

  He went into the kitchen and I followed. He dropped the plastic bag on the counter. "Just the other day, back in St. Pete," he said. "Remember the two sisters I was telling you about?"

  "The ones with the orange and green bikinis?"

  "The same," he said, pulling two containers of coffee from the bag. "Well, they both come from Quebec City, and instead of competing against each other for my attention, let's just say that they decided to cooperate. I taught them the joys of... well, let's say I taught them some joys. And I got a language lesson in return. Plus a cooking lesson and... well, let's leave it at that."

  "I can see. What did you say to me when you came in?"

  He started going through my refrigerator, and then my cabinets, shaking his head now and then, I guess, at the paucity of materials there. Besides his real work, Felix prides himself on his skills in the kitchen, skills I've never once called into question.

  "Oh, I said good morning, my child, it's time to get moving," he said, his head in the open refrigerator. "You got eggs around here?"

  "In the back of the first shelf. What else did they teach you?"

  "Ah, monsieur; tu es bien servi en faisant l' amour."

  "And what does that mean?"

  He came out of my refrigerator, expertly juggling a single egg.

  "Sorry, Lewis, that's a bit personal, even for you. I believe it's a compliment on my prowess, and I don't mean on the firing range."

  I got up on one of the kitchen stools and said, "All right, besides the French lessons, what in hell did you accomplish down there?"

  "Two more things, as you will shortly see," he said, taking down a container of flour from one of the cabinets, and then a mixing bowl. "One is a wonderful recipe for crepes, which we will shortly be having for breakfast. Bacon. Got any bacon?"

  "Some in the freezer."

  He made a face. "Fresh would be better. Oh well."

  Felix opened up the freezer compartment to the refrigerator, moved some items around, and came out with a plastic-wrapped package, which he tossed in my direction. "See if you can't defrost this and get it cooking. Least you could do is be helpful in the kitchen."

  "And the second thing?"

  "Hmmm?"

  I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to get my pistol and wave it under his nose, to get his attention, when he looked up at me, eyes twinkling. "Ah, you are so demanding. Not like Quebec City, from what I understand. Or so Nicole and Monique would have me believe. They say it's like Paris up there, slow and peaceful, and... you're about five seconds away from beating my head in with this frozen bacon, am I right?"

  "Correct."

  "Very understandable. All right, my friend, the second thing I learned down in St. Pete is where your buddy Ray Ericson is residing, right at this very moment, and after you and I are fortified by some French crepes and some bacon --- that is, if you get off your ass and start cooking it --- we'll go for a nice drive and pay him a pleasant visit. That sound all right?"

  I nodded. "That sounds fine. Why in hell didn't you say that when you first came in?"

  Felix started measuring out Hour into the mixing bowl and his voice took on a hurt tone. "And not let me have any fun? That's not very nice, Lewis."

  "You're right," I said, finally smiling. "It's not very nice."

  "There you go. Oh. How about a quick favor, first?"

  "Name it."

  He looked at me and then ran some water from the sink. "Go on upstairs and get dressed, will you? I don't mind half-naked breakfast guests. But I do mind half-naked male breakfast guests. No offense."

  I got up. "None taken. But you'll have to start the bacon on your own."

  "That I can certainly do," Felix said.

  A half hour later, the kitchen was still filled with the scents of bacon frying and crepes expertly cooked by Felix on my stove. He washed the few dishes and said, "I can't see how you can survive with a frying pan like that. Ugh."

  "You have a better idea?"

  "Yep," he said, drying a bowl. "Nice steel crepe pan. Makes the best crepes you've ever had. Nicole and Monique brought theirs down on vacation. Used it at their rental place."

  "These were pretty good," I said. "Thanks."

  He wiped his hands dry, and I said, "Your information as good as your crepes?"

  "Oh, you know it," he said, opening up my refrigerator again, pouring the two of us fresh glasses of orange juice. "Here's the story. I go down to St. Pete, I run into Old Pete Tringali. Old Pete's been retired for a bunch of years, but like most with that background, he likes to keep his fingers in a few pies. Keep him sharp, you know? Besides dying in a federal prison somewhere, most of these guys are afraid of getting old and senile, spend their time playing bingo and planning their days around the early-bird specials. Even if they don't need the money or attention, they like to keep active."

  "Sounds fair to me."

  "Oh, you know it. And seeing Old Pete was a real break for me, Lewis, like you wouldn't believe."

  "Tell me, then."

  Felix took a swallow of his orange juice. "All right. When I was a young pup, learning my way around, Old Pete was in charge of a portion of Providence."

  "Rhode Island? Really?"

  "Oh, Christ, yes. Some parts of Rhode Island are more mobbed up than New Jersey. I was near Providence, feeling my way around, when something bad happened to Old Pete's daughter, Krista."

  "How bad?"

  He gently put the glass down on the counter. "Pretty bad. Was at some party at Brown University, a couple of guys slipped something in her drink. Date-rape drug, you know? Three of them were involved. Took her to an off -campus apartment and took turns with her, later dumped her
in a restaurant parking lot. Old Pete heard about it and there was a row, 'cause at that time, Old Pete knew he was under some serious Fed surveillance, and the Feds, my, they thought they were going to get a break. Have Old Pete on some surveillance tape, ordering hits against these three characters. Old Pete didn't care, I remember him saying. He'd do whatever it took to get his family honor back, to avenge his daughter. But some of the guys in his organization, they wanted him to take his time, do it right. They didn't want him to chance getting nailed by the Feds."

  I took a sip from my orange juice. It was cold and tart and cut nicely through the aftertaste of the maple syrup. "I take it you offered your services."

  "In a way. You see, I was new to the area. Feds and cops didn't know me, didn't know anything about me, and they didn't care. So I found out who these three characters were, their names, and where they were living. And I took care of it, over a weekend. End of story."

  I shook my head. "Nope, that's the start of a story, Felix. What happened?"

  "They left town. Were never seen again. Got it?"

  I looked at that calm face, the brown eyes, the strong arms, wondering again what went on in that mind of his. "I guess... I guess there's no statute of limitations on some... matters, right?"

  He offered me a thin smile. "Very good. On some matters, there is no statute of limitations. Which brings me back to Old Pete Tringali, who has no statute of limitations on gratitude. I looked him up, paid him my respects, he asked me what he could do for me, and I told him. Took him a couple of days, but your man Ray Ericson is living up in Sanford, Maine. In a little house at the end of a certain dirt road. And he's right there, right now, and will be there all day."

  "How the hell do you know that?"

  Felix leaned over the counter. "Because Old Pete has pull with the group that Ray was working for. Ray knows he's being hunted, knows he's the suspect in his brother's death. And he's been hiding out at this house ever since then, and his boss just talked to him last night, told him to stay put. That a couple of young fellows were going to arrive there today to pick him up, and bring him to a safe house somewhere in New York."

  "I don't feel that young," I said. "Too bad."

  "Why in hell did we just have breakfast, then?" I asked.