The Maine Events

by Rodney Riesel

  Their excitement deflated; the lookie-loos returned their attention to their breakfasts.

  Allen returned to the picnic table, sat down, and gazed at the ocean. After a few seconds he felt eyes boring into the side of his head. He looked over at the young redhead sitting down from him. She studied him as if he were a deep-sea cryptid that had just beached itself.

  “What?” Allen asked.

  “Nothing.” She continued to stare.

  “It's not nice to stare.”

  “Do you really think your dog told you to do that?” asked the young woman.

  “No,” Allen replied.

  She grinned nervously. “That's good.”

  “He told me to drive it over the seawall.”

  The smile left her face. “Seriously?”

  “No, dogs can't talk, sweetheart.”

  “I know that.”

  “I can read his mind.”

  “Are you making fun of me?”

  “Yes.”

  “That's what I thought.”

  Allen looked down at Frankie. “What's that, Frankie?”

  “What did he say now?”

  “He told me not to pick on you.”

  The woman leaned back and looked down at Frankie. “Thank you, Frankie,” she said.

  Frankie barked.

  “He said you're welcome,” Allen informed her.

  “Number fifty-six!” the woman at the window shouted.

  Allen glanced down at his ticket. “Hey, that's my number too.”

  The red head chuckled.

  Chapter Five

  “What'er ya smokin' there?” asked Cam Owens.

  Not what I wish I was smoking, Allen thought.

  Allen was seated at one of the picnic tables out front of his motel. He looked over to see Cam crossing the grass. The old man was carrying two cans of Bud Light, one in each hand.

  Allen took a long drag on the cigar and blew the smoke into the air. “This here is an Isla del Sol Toro,” he said. “And if you smoke cigars, this is your lucky day, because I brought an extra one down with me.”

  “I do smoke cigars,” Cam replied. “What're ya drinkin'?”

  “This is just a Coke.”

  “I brought you a beer.”

  “And now I'm drinking a beer.”

  Cam sat down on the same side of the picnic table as Allen, facing away from the table. He set one beer on the table, and popped the top of the other. “Hep yerself.”

  “Thanks. You help yourself as well. Cigar, lighter, and cutter are right there on the table.”

  Cam groaned and his back cracked when he turned around on the bench to grab the cigar behind him. “Where's the pup this evening?” he inquired.

  “Lying on the bed watching TV,” Allen replied.

  Cam snipped off the tip of his cigar, put it between his teeth, and lit the lighter. He sucked in a mouthful of smoke and let it out slowly through his mouth and nose. When all the smoke had escaped he said, “Nice stogie.”

  “Yes, they are.”

  Allen popped the top of the other beer and took a sip.

  “Gettin' any writin' done?” Cam asked. “I only ask 'cause Mildred told me to.”

  “Not a bit, but you can tell Mildred I was banging away on that keyboard all morning if you like.”

  “I'll do that. Listen, I didn't know about your wife when I asked earlier. Mildred told me when I got back to the room.”

  Allen nodded.

  “She reads all the tabloids,” said Cam, “and watches that Entertainment Tonight quite a bit, so she knows what goes on with all the celebrities.”

  Allen grinned. “Celebrity, huh?”

  “Hey, to Mildred you're the cat's ass. She's got a couple of your books with her. Wanted me to ask if you'd sign them.”

  “Of course,” said Allen. “Believe it or not, Cam, I've never been called the cat's ass before.”

  “Well, now ya have.”

  “Why didn't Mildred walk over with you?”

  “She's watching her stories. Don't matter where we are in this great nation, when her stories come on, Mildred drops everything and plops down in front of the telly.”

  “I'm guessing that's usually when you fly the coop.”

  “Oh, yeah. If I don't, she sits there the entire time givin' me the play-by-play. I tell her, 'Mildred, I don't give a yak's b-hole what Hope, Roman, Curly, Larry, or Moe is up to.' But, she don't stop. I always told her she'd make a great ball game announcer.”

  The tide had started its journey inward, but not far enough to reach the seawall. Allen was already halfway through his beer. He thought about the bottle of tequila in his room. He hoped Cam would make the trek back to his hotel to get them another beer, but that was too much to expect.

  Just then a shiny, black Lincoln Continental pulled into the parking lot from the north and came to a stop with the driver's side tires on the grass. The tinted window lowered. The driver had long, greasy black hair, combed back tightly to his head. Allen knew right away what it was about.

  The front doors opened, and two men climbed out of the front seat. The man who came out of the passenger side was Allen's bald little friend from the Stones Throw's restroom.

  Vinny Tubbs was dressed in black slacks, black loafers, and a black turtleneck. He looked like Johnny Cash, if Johnny Cash was a member of a New Jersey crime family, shaved his head, and got down on his knees. The driver was wearing a dark gray suit. His jacket was unbuttoned. They shut the doors and walked across the grass. The bald guy stepped in a pile of dog shit.

  “My bad,” Allen called out. “I forget to pick that up. I didn't have a bag with me and I—”

  “Shut up,” said the driver.

  “Who the hell are these turds?” Cam whispered.

  “Maybe you should take off, Cam,” Allen whispered back.

  “I'll stay right where I am, thank you.” He placed his beer can on the table behind him.

  Vinny wiped his foot on the grass and moved along. “Freakin' dogs,” he grumbled.

  “How are you gentlemen this afternoon?” Allen asked. “You're just in time. The tides coming in, and when the waves crash against the—”

  “This is the last time I'm going to tell you to shut up,” said Driver.

  “You're probably right about that,” said Allen. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

  “We'd like you to come with us,” said Driver. “Mr. Strong would like to speak with you.”

  “Mr. Strong? Is he the guy that stroked out?” Allen asked, knowing full well it wasn't.

  “Yeah.” said Vinny. “I mean—”

  “No,” said Driver.

  “Which is it?” Allen asked.

  “He's Mr. Strong's brother,” said Vinny.

  “I'm confused. The guy at the restaurant is Mr. Strong's brother?”

  “Yes,” said Driver.

  “If they're brothers, wouldn't they both be Mr. Strong?” Allen asked.

  Vinny looked at the driver. “Would they?”

  “No, you idiot,” Driver shot back. “They're half-brothers.”

  “That's right,” said Vinny. “He's confusing me too.”

  “You boys gotta get your stories straight,” said Cam. “You should've started with—”

  “Shut up, old man,” said Driver. He looked back at Allen. “Get up.”

  “What if I don't want to?”

  “Get up.”

  “I think I'll stay right where I am.”

  “Listen, mister,” Vinny said, “it'll go a lot better for you if you do what he says.”

  Driver stepped forward and squared off. He opened his jacket just enough for Cam and Allen to see the 9mm strapped to his hip.

  “I'm s-scared,” said Cam, his voice suddenly reedy and desperate. “I'm just a decrepit old man.”

  “Calm down,” said Vinny. “No one's going to hurt you if your friend just does what he's told.”

  Cam's left hand went to his chest. “My heart …” He slumped forward. Hi
s right hand went to the bench to help support his weight. “My heart.”

  “Christ,” said Driver, walking over to Cam. “Just what I need.”

  “He's having a heart attack,” said Vinny.

  “Now you've done it,” said Allen.

  Driver stepped toward Cam. “Calm down, old man.”

  As Driver leaned forward, Cam's right hand came up with a snub-nosed .38. Driver's eyes widened and he took a step back.

  Cam hooked the toe of his cowboy boot behind Driver's ankle, sending him tumbling backwards to the grass. Cam jumped off the bench and landed on Driver's chest. He shoved the barrel of the .38 up under Driver's chin.

  Vinny went for his weapon.

  “Don't do it!” Cam shouted. “I'll blow what little brains this turd has right through the top of his skull!”

  Vinny froze.

  “Get his weapon, Allen,” said Cam.

  Allen lifted Vinny's sweater and pulled his .38 Special out of its holster.

  Cam reached down with his left hand and removed Driver's 9mm and tossed it under the picnic table.

  “Now, I know this is gonna be real embarrassin' for you boys, but now you gotta go back and tell Mr. Strong that a seventy-two-year-old man took your weapons away from you.” Cam pulled back the hammer on his revolver. “I'm gonna get off ya and I want you to get to your feet real careful like. I'm an old man and this trigger finger's a lot shakier than it used to be.”

  Cam pulled the pistol away from Driver's chin and climbed to his feet. “Get up, and get outta here,” he said, kicking Driver in the leg.

  Vinny was halfway back to the Lincoln by the time Driver climbed to his feet.

  As Driver turned back toward the car, Cam gave him a swift kick in the ass. “Giddy up!”

  Allen and Cam watched as the two men climbed back into the Lincoln.

  “This ain't over,” said Driver, as he put the car in reverse. He backed into the street and spun the tires.

  “I gotta sit down,” said Cam. “I don't want to have a real heart attack.”

  Allen chuckled. “I'm just a decrepit old man,” he parroted. “That was beautiful.” He looked around to see if anyone had seen what had just transpired. The walkways of the Sunrise Motel were empty. His eyes went to the office window. No sign of Crystal. Even the construction workers were too involved in their work to notice.

  “Oscar winning performance, if I do say so myself,” said Cam. “Hey, let me see the gun you took off that goombah.”

  Allen handed Cam Vinny's weapon. The old man shoved it into his waistband and bent down to grab the other gun under the table. He stuck that one in his waistband as well, then struck a heroic pose, flexing his wiry muscles.

  “Look, I'm Rambo,” he quipped. “Now all I need is a camo headband.”

  “You look like Rambo's grampa to me,” said Allen. Cam's hackles rose. “His grampa? I think me and Sly Stallone are about the same age now.”

  “Oh yeah, I guess you are.”

  “So, what was that all about?”

  Allen spent the next few minutes telling Cam what had taken place at Stones Throw the day before. They discussed what they should do with the guns, toying with the idea of tossing them into the ocean at low tide., or maybe surrendering them to the police. They decided Allen should hold them for safekeeping for the time being.

  Cam handed over the two handguns, then walked back to his hotel. Allen took the guns up to his room. Before stowing the 9mm under the mattress, he removed the shells from the magazine. He hadn't brought any extra shells with him for his own gun, so why throw them out? Better to be safe than sorry. After all, the man with the slicked back hair said it wasn't over. He opened the drawer in the nightstand and dropped the shells inside. With the shells in his own clip, he now had fifteen rounds. If Vinny and Driver tried to settle the score, he'd be ready.

  Allen slid the 9mm under the mattress alongside the .38 Special.

  “What do ya think, Frankie? Maybe I should give Sergeant Rose a call and let him know what's going on.”

  Frankie yawned and returned his attention to the television.

  “That's what I think too. Throwing the guns in the drink was a half-assed idea anyway.”

  Allen picked up the business card off the table, took out his cell phone, and dialed.

  “Sergeant Rose.”

  “Rose, this is Allen Crane.”

  “No kidding! Would you believe you're the most famous person who has called me today?”

  Allen sensed the sarcasm in Rose's voice. “Yes.”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Crane?”

  “Vinny Tubbs and another man just paid me a visit.”

  “That was fast. What happened? Did they make any threats?”

  “Not verbally, but the other guy—not Vinny—pulled his jacket open to show me his weapon.”

  “What did you do?”

  Allen thought it best not to bring up Cam's name. “I took their guns away from them and told them to beat it.”

  Rose laughed. “Sure ya did.”

  “I did, and now I need you to come over here and pick up their guns.”

  “Are you shittin' me?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did they say why they were even there?”

  “They wanted me to accompany them to see a man by the name of Mr. Strong.”

  “Benny Strong—that's Bobby Jordan's half-brother.”

  “So they said. What is it you think they want with me? It wasn't my fault the guy had a heart attack.”

  “Well, you did provoke him and get him all worked up.”

  “But I didn't think he was going to have a heart attack.”

  “Anyway, I don't know what Strong wants with you. He and Bobby have never gotten along. Not even when they were kids, according to my chief. The two haven't spoken in years. Maybe he wants to give you a medal.”

  “Your chief has known them since they were kids?”

  “Yeah. They're originally from Jersey, but the boys’ mother and Strong's father vacationed here for a month every summer. Chief said the boys were always getting into trouble when they were here, but Strong's old man had enough money to keep them from getting into any real trouble.”

  “That's handy.”

  “The two had a falling out after Strong's old man passed away. Benny moved to York soon after and brought his mother with him. Bobby moved up here a few months later.”

  “Even though they don't speak.”

  “My guess is that Bobby wanted to keep an eye on the old lady. She's got a shit ton of money. Probably didn't trust his brother alone with her.”

  “So Strong and Jordan live off of her?”

  “No, not really. They were each able to muscle their way into a few businesses in the area. Strong has a couple strip clubs in Portland and Augusta, and one down in Boston. Jordan's part owner in a couple night clubs as well. They've also got their hands in drugs, prostitution, and loan sharking.”

  “Why aren't they in jail?”

  “Just because we know something doesn't mean we can prove it. Neither one of them is as stupid as they look. They always seem to be one step ahead of us.”

  “If Strong and Jordan are on the outs, and Vinny Tubbs works for Strong, why were Vinny and Bobby in that restroom together?”

  “That's the million dollar question, Crane. You write mysteries—maybe you can figure it out and let us know.”

  “No thanks. Are you going to stop by and pick up these weapons?”

  “I'm walking up the stairs as we speak.”

  “You're here?”

  “I'm here.”

  Allen hung up the phone and went for the guns. He pulled the two pistols out from under the mattress just as Rose knocked on the door.

  “Shit, it's the fuzz, Frankie.”

  Allen tossed the weapons on the bed and answered the door. He pointed at the bed. “There they are.”

  Rose stood in the doorway staring at the two pistols. “You really took the weapons away
from them, huh?”

  “I said I did.”

  “Yes, you did say you did.” Rose walked to the bed and picked up the revolver. He opened the cylinder and ejected the shells. He slipped the shells into the front pocket of his pants. He tossed the revolver back on the bed and picked up the 9mm. He ejected the magazine.

  “It's empty,” said Rose.

  Allen shrugged. “Huh. That's weird.”

  “Why would it be empty?”

  “Maybe he forgot to load it before he left the house this morning.”

  Rose slid the magazine back into the grip. “I ran your name, Crane.”

  “No kidding?”

  “You're licensed to carry a handgun in New York State.”

  “That's right.”

  “You own a .22 and a 9mm.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You're not licensed to carry here.”

  “I know.”

  “You don't have that 9mm. with you, do you?”

  “Of course not, Sergeant Rose. That would be against the law.”

  “Just seems odd this 9mm. would be empty.”

  “It's strange alright.”

  Rose scanned the room. “Don't do anything that might get you into trouble.”

  “I wouldn't think of it.”

  Rose picked up the revolver and carried both weapons back to the door.

  “Who was the guy with Vinny today?” Allen asked.

  “Myron Spoon. He's a collector for Strong.”

  “You think they'll come back?”

  “Of course, but I'm sending a couple investigators out to Strong's this afternoon. See if we can find out what's going on.”

  “Where's Strong live?”

  “None of your business.” Rose walked out the door and down the walkway.

  “Nice doing business with you,” Allen mumbled. He walked to the door and pushed the door closed with his foot.

  Chapter Six

  At four o'clock, Allen ordered a large pizza with pepperoni, mushrooms, and black olives. At four twenty there was a knock at the door.

  Frankie barked.

  “That was quick,” Allen said.

  He hopped off the bed and answered the door. It wasn't the pizza, it was Jacob.

  “What's up?” Allen asked.

  “Did you find some cheese in one of your bags?”