The Maine Events

by Rodney Riesel

  Allen and Rose both looked at Tucker.

  “Vinny Tubbs,” said Tucker.

  “Bobby had Vinny by the front of his T-shirt. It looked like he was threatening Vinny.”

  “Did you hear any threats?” Rose asked.

  “No,” Allen answered. “It was just the way he was looking at him. Bobby was really pissed about something.”

  “Then what happened?” Rose asked.

  “Bobby got after me for opening the door, so I made a smart-ass remark about locking the door. He reached for me, and I shut the door on his arm. I wouldn't let him out until he promised to calm down and apologize to me.”

  “Did he?”

  “Yeah.”

  Rose chuckled. “You got a lotta balls, pal.”

  “Why's that?”

  “Bobby Jordan isn't someone ya want to mess with.”

  “Based on the outcome,” said Allen, “I guess I'm not someone he wants to mess with.”

  Tucker snorted again.

  “The guy's got a list of priors as long as my arm,” said Rose.

  “Hey!” said Tucker.

  Allen and Rose looked over. Tucker was scrolling through Allen's laptop.

  “I didn't mean to pry,” Tucker said, “but you've got this file on the desktop—Untitled Reed Templeton Mystery. You Allen Crane, the writer?”

  “I sure am, Tuck. You've heard of me?”

  “Heard of ya? Hell yeah, I've heard of ya. I've read all your books.”

  “All four of them?”

  “What are you, famous, or something?” Rose asked.

  “Kinda.”

  “How famous?”

  “Less than Stephen King, more than Charlie Hewitt.”

  “Who's Charlie Hewitt?” Rose asked.

  “Exactly.”

  “It's been, like, three years since your last book,” Tucker pointed out.

  “Yeah, it's been a while.”

  “You haven't put out a book since—” Tucker cut himself off. He knew right away he'd put his size ten foot in his mouth. He looked back at the computer screen and scratched his head. “Sorry about looking through your laptop.”

  “Don't worry about it.” Allen turned back to Rose. “They say when Bobby'll be getting out of the hospital?”

  “A few days. How long you in town?”

  “Two weeks.”

  “If I were you,” said Rose, “I'd think about getting out sooner than later.”

  “Are ya tellin' me to be outta town by sundown?” Allen asked with a grin.

  “No, sir,” Rose replied. “Not at all.”

  “Was it a stroke?” Allen asked.

  “No. The doc says it was a mild myocardial infarction.”

  “A slight heart attack,” said Tucker.

  “And a few stitches in his chin and over his eye where he drove his mug into the deck,” Rose added.

  Allen grinned. “Good thing he was already ugly. A few scars won't matter.” He glanced back at Tucker; he was still scrolling through the laptop.

  Tucker quickly pulled his hand back when he noticed Allen looking.

  “Sorry,” he said again.

  “Don't worry about it.”

  “Is that why you're in Maine? Are you doing research for this book?”

  “That, and I thought it might help to try writing in a different location.”

  “Writer's block?”

  “No.”

  Rose cleared his throat. “Well, Mr. Crane—”

  “Allen.”

  “Allen. We'll get out of your hair so you can get some writing done. If I have any other questions, I'll give you a call.” He pulled a business card out of his vest pocket. “And if you think of anything, give me a call.”

  Allen nodded. “I sure will,” he said, taking the card.

  Tucker stood. “I can't wait to read the new book,” he said. He reached out and shook Allen's hand. “I really am a big fan.”

  “Thanks, Tuck.”

  Rose opened the door and stepped out onto the walkway. Tucker followed, and Allen shut the door behind them. He watched as the two officers passed the picture window. Tucker turned and said something to Rose. Rose had no reaction. Allen wondered what the younger officer said.

  Frankie let out a big yawn and his throat squeaked.

  Allen looked over. “You slept through all of that, dog,” he said. “Are ya going deaf, or ya just don't give a shit?”

  Frankie barked.

  “Whatever.”

  Allen adjusted the chair that Tucker neglected to return to the position it was in when he arrived. He sat down and scooted closer to the table. He readied his hands for the flurry of words that was sure to escape his mind at any moment. Dialogue was always Allen's strong point, but no one in his head was speaking. His fingers hovered above the keyboard.

  Come on, he thought. Write something.

  Allen's eyes wandered to the bottle of rum on the sink, and then to the digital clock on the microwave.

  “Whaddaya think, Frankie, rum o'clock?”

  Allen didn't wait for the dog's answer. He walked to the sink, took an 8-ounce glass out of the cabinet, and filled it to about the halfway point.

  “Remind me to get some soda and a bag of that ice out of the freezer in the office.”

  Allen walked back to the table and stood behind the chair, staring out over the ocean. He leaned forward and to his right to see if he could see the lighthouse. He couldn't.

  “I'm gonna walk across the street and sit on the seawall. You want to come with me?”

  Frankie didn't move.

  “The tide's coming in. I can see the water crashing against the wall from here.” Allen sipped his rum. “Fine, I'll go by myself. Don't piss on the floor.”

  Allen walked back to the sink and added another two shots to the glass. He looked back over his shoulder at Frankie to make sure the mutt wasn't giving him a look of judgment. Frankie's eyes were closed. Allen felt as though he'd gotten away with something. He tiptoed to the door and walked outside, pulling the door quietly shut behind him. When he heard the doorknob click, he continued on his way.

  Crossing the parking lot, Allen noticed Jacob and another kid about the same age sitting at one of the picnic tables on the grass. The two boys sat on the same bench, facing away from the table. Jacob held a piece of white paper in his hands. The other boy pulled the paper over so he could get a better look.

  “What do you have there?” Allen called out. “A treasure map?”

  The boys looked in Allen's direction. The other boy yanked the paper out of Jacob's hand and shoved it into the side pocket of his black and yellow board shorts.

  “No,” said Jacob. “It's just a piece of paper.”

  “Okay,” Allen replied. He figured he wouldn't press it. After all, it was obvious the boys didn't want him to see whatever it was on the paper—and it was none of his damn business anyway. He looked back at the boys a couple times as he crossed the street. They kept their eyes on him until he sat down on the seawall. The last time Allen looked back, the two boys were looking at the paper again. He sipped his drink and turned back to the rising sea.

  The top of the seawall was about fifteen feet above the waterline. Allen wondered how high it would eventually get. He watched the murky green sea water crash against the first two steps, recede, and then do it all over again. When the waves hit the wall, the spray would shoot ten or twelve feet into the air. A few times, when the breeze blew just right, Allen could feel the mist hit his face.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Allen caught sight of an elderly man to his right. He was tall, around six-three, Allen guessed, and probably in his mid to late seventies. He wore tan Levi's, a butterscotch Western-style shirt with pearl snaps rolled up to his elbows, and a scruffy John Deere cap perched atop his head. His heavily scuffed Justin boots fit him like a second skin. The duds looked natural on his wiry, work-hardened frame; Allen's writer's eye identified a man who had worked close to the land all his life, took no guff from
anyone, and could handle himself in most any situation.

  The old gentleman sat down about ten feet to Allen's right, near one of the plastic sawhorses. Allen nodded, and the old-timer nodded back. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and gazing over the water.

  After a few minutes, the old guy said, “Fire and water.”

  Allen turned his head. “How's that?”

  “Fire and water,” he repeated. “Two things people can stare at for hours.”

  Allen nodded. “Waterfalls,” he added.

  “There's them.”

  “Of course, I guess that would fall into the water category.”

  “I wasn't gonna bring that up.”

  “Bridges?”

  “I could stare at a bridge for a while,” said the old man. “And the stars.”

  “Oh, yeah, the stars. Can't believe I didn't think of that. You staying at the Sunrise Motel?”

  “Nope.” He gestured south along York Street. “Me and Mildred is stayin' at the Grand View.”

  “How long you staying?”

  “This is our third night—got four more to go. You?”

  “Just got in today, and we're staying for two weeks.”

  “You and the missus?”

  “Me and my dog. There's no missus.”

  The old man scooted down a few feet and held out his hand. “The name's Cam Owens.” The man's grip was warm and firm. Allen felt ancient callouses digging into his own tender flesh. He felt a little sheepish, thinking the hardest work he ever did was pecking away on a keyboard.

  “Allen—Allen Crane.”

  Cam thought for a second. “Allen Crane, the book writer?”

  Allen nodded. “Yes, sir.” He couldn't help but grin. It had been a while since two people had recognized him on the same day.

  “Oh Lordy,” said Cam, slapping his knees. “Mildred is gonna be tickled when I tell her I shook hands with Allen Crane.”

  “You read my books?”

  “God, no. I'm more of a wait till the movie comes out kinda guy. Mildred's read all yer books though. She just loves 'em. Of course, I might as well read them. She yaks on and on about 'em while she's readin'. At this point I feel like I know Reed—what's his name?”

  Allen smiled again. “Templeton.”

  “I feel like I know Reed Templeton personally. He's quite a character—drinks too much. Sometimes I wonder if a man could really partake at that level and still function.”

  Allen glanced down at his glass of rum. Oh, it's possible, he thought.

  “How many books ya got?” Cam asked.

  “Four.”

  “That it?” Cam asked surprisedly. “Mildred must have read them more than once then. Say, how come they don't make a movie?”

  “They must be crazy,” Allen joked.

  Cam laughed. “Yeah, they must be.”

  The two men turned back toward the sea and quietly absorbed its mammoth beauty. The next time Allen looked down, the water had risen to the fourth step in the seawall. He picked up his glass and sipped. He watched as a seagull dove into the water and resurfaced with a tiny fish in its bill. A pod of five pelicans soared past only inches above the water, looking as prehistoric as any pterodactyl Allen had ever seen in a museum or a movie.

  Allen glanced over at Cam a few times without turning his head. At one point it looked as though the old guy had fallen asleep.

  What if he topples over and rolls down the concrete steps into the water? Allen thought. Should I say something to wake him? Would that scare him and cause him to fall in? Should I quietly get up and hurry back to my room, so I'm not here to witness the old guy's death?

  Finally, Cam let out a snort, waking himself. For a second it looked like he had no idea where he was. He sat up straight and looked around.

  “How long was I out?” Cam asked.

  “Not long,” Allen replied. “I was a little nervous.”

  “Yeah, Mildred gets nervous too when I doze off. I've told her a hundred times, 'These vehicles nowadays practically drive themselves.”

  Allen laughed.

  “You can use that line in one of your books,” Cam said.

  “I just might do that,” Allen responded. He picked up his glass and downed the rest. “Maybe I'll run into you again out here.” He climbed to his feet.

  “Maybe you will.”

  “Don't fall asleep.”

  “I ain't promisin' anything.”

  By the time Allen walked back across the parking lot, Jacob and his friend were gone. He was almost to the office door when the door to room four opened. Jacob's mom stuck her head out and looked around.

  “He was out here a minute ago,” Allen said, pointing at the picnic table. “Him and some other kid.”

  “Thanks,” said the woman. “If you happen to see him again, tell him I'm looking for him.”

  “I'll do that.”

  She pulled her head back and shut the door. Allen lifted his glass to his lips before remembering he'd already emptied it. He looked around to make sure no one had witnessed the faux pas. A dark haired man sat on one of the chairs outside of room two. He was sipping a glass of red wine. He wore a tan cardigan and deck shoes with no socks. His legs were crossed. He hadn't noticed Allen until Allen noticed him.

  “Well, hello there, Blue Eyes,” said the man.

  Flattered, Allen puffed out his chest. “No one ever called me that before.”

  “Oh, I find that hard to believe. Last time I saw eyes that blue, they were on Paul Newman. Now that was a good-looking man.” His eyes traveled up and down Allen's body. “You're not so bad either.”

  “Uh … thanks. I think.”

  “Looks like your glass is empty, Blue Eyes,” said the man.

  He looked back into the glass. “Yeah, someone needs to invent the bottomless glass.”

  “Wouldn't everything just fall right through?”

  “What?”

  “If the glass was bottomless.”

  “Oh, yeah, I guess it would.”

  Allen turned his back to the man and pulled open the office door.

  “Mmm-mmm, you're definitely not bottomless,” said the man.

  Allen looked over his shoulder. The guy was grinning slyly. He winked.

  “Um, okay,” Allen responded, and ascended the stairs to the second level.

  When Allen opened his door, Frankie was on the floor between the bed and the sofa. He lifted his head and climbed to his feet.

  “What's going on, dog?” Allen asked. He pushed the door closed. “I think the guy downstairs just hit on me.” He walked to the sink and refilled his glass. “I wish it was the brunette in room four, but I think she probably has a husband. I haven't seen a husband, but she's got two kids. She's really pretty. Long brown hair with a few of those light streaks in it. What do they call those? Highlights.” He moved to the table and stared at his laptop screen. “Would it hurt you to write a little of this for me when I'm out?”

  Allen sat on the bed with his back against the headboard and grabbed the remote control off the nightstand. He switched on the television and surfed through the stations. He settled on the fourth season opener of The Big Bang Theory. It was the one where Howard builds a robotic hand to pleasure himself, and it gets stuck grasping his willie. Geeks are funny, Allen chuckled. And clever. Who couldn't use a robotic hand every now and then?

  Over the next four hours Allen polished off the bottle of rum. At some point during the evening he had carried the bottle of tequila from the sink to the nightstand. He didn't open the bottle. He didn't even remember putting it there.

  The last thing Allen remembered thinking before he passed out was: I wonder how far someone usually swims out into the ocean before drowning? On television you see the person walk into the water and then it cuts to a commercial. When the show returns, the cops are looking down at the body on the sand. How far did they swim?

  Chapter Three

  At nine thirty on Monday morning Allen was awakened by
a pounding. He opened his eyes and stared at the base of the toilet. The pounding quickly became two poundings—one on the door, and the other in Allen's head. He turned his head so his forehead was flat on the cool tile. It felt good, but not good enough.

  Who packs two bottles of booze but no aspirin? he wondered. That would be me.

  Allen got to his knees during the second knock on the door and crawled into the bedroom. He paused in front of the picture window, realizing he'd never closed the curtains. The motel manager started to walk away but then noticed Allen through the window, on all fours. She cocked her head quizzically.

  Allen lifted his arm and gave the manager a wave. She waved back. Allen crawled pathetically to the door on his hands and knees and opened it.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Crane?” asked the woman. “Did you lose something?”

  “Just my dignity.”

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I'm okay. What can I do for you?”

  “There were two men here earlier. They were asking about you.”

  “What did they ask?”

  “If you were staying here.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them it was none of their business.”

  “What were they driving?”

  “Real nice car—black Lincoln.”

  “What did they look like?”

  “One guy had long black hair slicked back to his scalp, and ears that stuck way out. The other guy was about my height, and bald.”

  “The bald guy have a scar under his right eye?”

  “Yeah, he did.”

  “Okay, thanks, um—I didn't get your name.”

  “Crystal … Foster.”

  “Thank you, Crystal.”

  “Are they friends of yours, Mr. Crane?”

  “No, Crystal.”

  “Good, because the bald guy said my face looked like a wadded-up road map.”

  “Well, that wasn't very nice.”

  “No, it wasn't.”

  “I'm sorry about that, Crystal.”

  Crystal shrugged. “It's not your fault.” She continued to stare down at Allen. “Do you need help getting up?”

  “No thank you, Crystal.”

  “Okay then,” she said, turning. “I'm right next door if you need anything.”

  Allen swung the door shut and dropped to his belly with a humph.