“I sure did.”
“Do you still have it?”
“I ate it already.”
“Crap. Really?”
“No. You want it back?”
“Yeah. It got put in your bag on accident.”
Allen turned and walked to the little fridge and took out the brick of Colby. He tossed it to Jacob. “What's the cheese for?”
“Cheeseburgers. Hey, Frankie.”
Frankie jumped off the sofa and ran to the young boy. Jacob scratched his head.
“You got a dog?” Allen asked.
“No, not anymore. We had one, but he got hit by a car last winter.”
“That sucks. Sorry to hear it.”
“We had him since I was born.”
“What was his name?”
“Schultzy. He was a German shepherd. Can I take Frankie for a walk after dinner?”
“Sure.”
“Okay. I better get this cheese to my mom.”
Jacob turned and hurried away.
Twenty minutes later the pizza arrived. Allen put two pieces on a plate for himself and put half a can of Alpo on another plate for Frankie.
“Eat everything on that plate, dog, and I'll give you some pizza.”
Frankie had licked the plate spotless before Allen had filled his glass with Coke.
“Was that shit that good, or were you just really looking forward to the pizza?”
Allen grabbed a slice and tossed it onto Frankie's plate.
“Are dogs supposed to eat mushrooms?”
He hoped so, because the slice of pizza didn't stay on the plate any longer than the dog food.
Allen picked up his glass and plate and walked outside onto the walkway. He placed his glass on the end table and sat down in one of the two chairs in front of the picture window. A few minutes later Frankie walked outside as well. The dog stood next to Allen, staring at his plate.
“You're not getting any of this,” said Allen.
Frankie continued to stare.
“Seriously, dog, lie down, or I'm putting you back in the room and closing the door.”
Frankie glanced over at the door and then lay down.
“Good boy.”
Allen took a bite of the pizza, chewed it, swallowed, and bit into it again.
“Pizza from anywhere other than New York just doesn't taste quite right, Frankie. Why do you think that is?”
Frankie had no answers.
Allen had another bite. “Don't get me wrong, boy. It's good. It's like they say, pizza's like sex. Even if it's not very good, it's still pretty good.”
As Allen enjoyed his pie, he caught sight of Cam crossing the street. He was holding hands with a woman a good deal shorter than him, who seemed to be favoring one leg.
“That must be Mildred, Frankie.”
He watched as the two septuagenarians stepped up on the curb and stood atop the seawall. They continued to hold hands as they gazed out over the water. The clouds on the horizon before them were beginning to take on a pinkish hue as the sun went down behind them.
The construction workers were putting the yellow plastic tape back up. Two of the men weaved it in and out of the plastic saw horses, and around sticks that had been stuck through the holes in the top of the orange cones. There were only four men left on the site. When the two men finished with the tape, they walked to a white Ford F-150 and drove away. The two remaining men spoke for a few minutes, and then the one Allen figured was the boss got into a black Dodge Ram 3500 and drove off.
The last man standing removed his hard hat and looked over at the motel, and then walked over to Cam and Mildred. They chatted for a while. It looked as though they laughed a few times. Allen wondered if Cam had told Mildred about the altercation with Tubbs and Spoon.
At one point all three of them looked in Allen's direction. Allen waved, and all three of them waved back. It was a good bet that the construction worker was Jacob's father. It was also obvious to Allen that Cam was filling the construction worker in on the new guy who had moved into room number eleven. He wondered what Cam was saying about him.
Jacob's mom caught Allen's attention. She was crossing the parking lot with a small hibachi charcoal grill. Allen remembered his family having one just like it when he was a kid. She placed the grill at one end of the picnic table.
Jacob's dad shouted something to her. He shook Cam's hand and hurried across the street to his wife. Together they walked back to the motel. Jacob's dad returned to the picnic table a few times carrying a bag of charcoal, lighter fluid, ketchup, mustard, a couple bags of chips, and finally a plate of raw hamburger patties.
Allen went back inside and grabbed two more slices of pizza. He returned to the walkway and sat back down.
Jacob's dad lit the charcoal and sat down on the bench. He glanced up at Allen a few times. From that distance Allen guessed the man's age at around thirty-five or six.
A little while later Jacob's mom brought the baby out. She spread a blanket on the grass, put the baby down, and tossed a few toys on the blanket. The kid crawled over and picked up a ball about the size of a baseball. Mom went back into their room and came back out with some paper plates and a plastic container of something. Allen wondered if it was potato salad.
When the fire had gone down and the coals had turned white, Jacob's dad tossed the patties onto the grill.
Allen stuffed the last bite of crust into his mouth, and he and Frankie walked back into their room.
“Shall we watch a little television, Frankie” Allen asked. He sat on the bed and leaned against the headboard. He snatched up the remote and hit the power button.
“What should we watch?” He flipped through the channels. “Family Guy? The Office? Doesn't look like they get the YES Network here. Too bad. We could have watched the Yanks every night.” He stopped on a classic episode of The Andy Griffith Show on Sundance TV—the one where Barney brags he can still remember the preamble to the Constitution of the United States word for word.
Allen chuckled. “Watch this, Frankie. This is hilarious.” He glanced over at the dog. Frankie was staring at him. “I know, I'll start writing tomorrow. I promise. Just watch this.”
Frankie turned his head toward the TV, and the two watched as Barney pretends to recite the preamble, even while Andy, using an old textbook, has to prompt him on the very first word, and every phrase thereafter. Barney gets so frazzled in his charade that by the end of the scene, his hair looks like he stuck his finger in a light socket.
“I don't know how Andy keeps a straight face, Frankie.” Laughing, Allen turned to the dog. Frankie had fallen asleep. Again.
Less than an hour later, Allen was awakened by a knock at the door.
“It's Jacob!”
“Come on in!” Allen called out.
“The door's locked.”
Allen scooted off the end of the bed. “I gotta teach you to open doors, Frankie.”
“Is it still okay if I take Frankie for a walk?”
Allen turned to the dog. “You wanna go for a walk, Frankie?” he asked.
Frankie leapt off the bed and ran to Jacob's side.
“I guess that's a yes,” said Allen. He grabbed the leash off the table and handed it to Jacob. “Where are you taking him?”
“Just over to my friend's house,” Jacob replied, pointing. “He lives over that way, behind the motel. It's just like a block away.”
“Is this the friend you weren't looking at that piece of paper with yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“He live here in town, or is his family here on vacation?”
“He lives here all the time.”
“What's his name?”
“Oliver.”
“Last name?”
“Dutcher.”
“How'd you meet him?”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“It's the only way to get a lot of answers.”
“He was riding his skateboard out front one day and so was I.�
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“How long you think you'll be gone?”
“I don't know.”
“Okay, try not to be any longer than that.”
Jacob nodded, and he and Frankie ran down the walkway to the stairs.
Allen looked over at his laptop. Maybe I could write a book about a family who comes to Maine, he thought. Maybe they come up to visit the dad while he's away at work. Bor-ing!
He left the door open and walked back to the bed, falling face first into the blankets. His arm hung over the edge of the bed. Think, think, think! he lay there thinking. Maybe I should write a book about an old man named Cam who can kick the shit out of armed bad guys.
“Mr. Crane?” said a voice from the doorway.
“Yeah?” Allen replied, still face down, his voice muffled. “What can I do for you?”
“My name is Bobby Jordan.”
“The Bobby Jordan? I've waited so long for a formal introduction.”
“Now is not the time for tomfoolery.”
“Tom Foolery is in the next room down. This room belongs to Wise N. Heimer.”
“Turn over, Mr. Crane.”
Allen's right arm hung over the bed. He knew he could roll over and yank his 9mm. out from under the mattress. He also knew that if he didn't do it now, he may never get another chance. Allen slowly turned halfway onto his right side. He left his arm over the edge of the bed.
Bobby Jordan stood in the doorway. Maybe someone else was on the walkway, but it looked like he was alone. He was dressed in blue jeans and sneakers, with a red and blue windbreaker zipped almost to his chin.
“May I come in?” Jordan asked.
“Me casa is your motel,” Allen responded. He decided not to pull the weapon and sat up on the edge of the bed.
Jordan stepped inside and shut the door behind him. Without the backlighting, Allen could see Jordan's two black eyes, his stitched chin, and the purple lump on his forehead.
“Jesus,” Allen said. “Is that from hitting the deck?”
“It is.”
“Well, now I feel bad.”
“It wasn't your fault, Crane. My doctor has been telling me to cut down on salt and fatty foods for years. He told me this was my warning sign. He said it's time to start living a healthier lifestyle.”
“So, you could say I actually saved your life.”
“Let's not go that far, Crane.”
“I thought they said you would be in the hospital for a few days?”
“I left against the doc's advice. I came straight here from the hospital.”
“I'm honored. But, why are you here?”
“I think you might have something that belongs to me.”
“What might that be?”
The gangster stared into Allen's eyes for a second without saying anything. It was obvious to Allen that Jordan didn't believe him.
“I'm a reasonable man, Crane. I got no ill will about what happened between us up the street. Forgive and forget, that's my motto … or my creed—whatever the hell the correct word is. You're a writer, what word is it?”
“Either, but I guess creed would be the best fit.”
“I'll remember that.” Jordan brought up his hands and began turning the gold ring on the middle finger of his left hand. “I bet ya gotta be pretty damn smart to be a writer.”
“Nothing is further from the truth, Jordan. I just make up lies and write them down. Then an editor fixes all the mistakes.”
“I bet you're real good at making up lies.”
“I'd like to think so.”
“I bet if you were lying to me right now, I wouldn't even be able to tell.”
Allen nodded. “You'd probably have to torture me to get the truth.”
Jordan grinned. “And you probably wouldn't believe how well that would work, or how good I am at it.” He put his hands on his hips. “You have nothing that belongs to me?”
“I absolutely do not have anything that belongs to you.” Allen waved his arm around the room. “Feel free to look around if you don't believe me.”
“That won't be necessary.” Jordan scanned the room. His eyes lit up when he saw the pizza box. “Where's that pizza from?”
“York House Pizza.”
“Any left in that box?”
“There is. Help yourself.”
“That hospital food is shit.” Jordan walked to the sink and picked up the box. He carried it to the table and sat down in one of the chairs. He tossed the box on the bed, opened it, and pulled out a slice.
“You can heat that up in the microwave if you want,” Allen told him.
“Cold's fine.” He took a big bite. “What're ya saving that tequila for?”
“I'm not saving it for anything.”
“Can I—”
“Help yourself.”
Bobby Jordan was one of those guys who didn't have to speak if he didn't want to. With the tilt of his head, a look in his eye, and just the right eyebrow maneuver, he could get his point across just fine. The look he gave Allen said, I'm a guest here. I've got a handful of pizza, so get your ass up and pour me some tequila.
Allen got up and went to the cupboard. “You want ice in that?”
“No.”
Allen poured two shots into the glass and handed it to Jordan.
“You ain't drinking with me?” Jordan asked. “I hate drinkin' alone.”
“Yeah, why not.”
Allen poured himself a drink, returned to the bed, and sat down.
“Can I ask you a question?” Allen asked.
“Sure. Don't mean I'll answer it.” He sipped his tequila and took another bite of the pizza.
“If Vinny Tubbs works for your brother, and the two of you don't get along, why was Vinny with you at Stones Throw?”
Jordan was impressed. “Who you been talking to?”
“Paul Rose.”
Jordan chuckled. “Sergeant Rose. And what exactly did the good sergeant have to say?”
“He said you and your brother used to spend summers here when you were kids and that you were always getting into trouble. He said Benny moved up here with your mother after your father's death, and you soon followed. He said the two of you own a couple night clubs and—”
“Okay, okay, I get it.” Jordan bit into the crust. “You eat the crust, Crane?”
“Always.”
“Yeah, me too. My brother always wasted the crust. I hate that.”
“Me too. Is that why you never got along?”
“No. That's a whole 'nother story.” Jordan finished the second piece of pizza and downed the rest of his tequila.
“If the two of you don't speak,” Allen asked, “how do you do business, and how does that work with your mother?”
“We communicate through others, and as far as my mom, I visit her when Benny ain't home.”
“Seems like it'd be easier to just start talking again.”
“One might think, but if we start speaking, eventually we start yellin'. Then we start hitting, and that upsets Mother. So for now, we keep our distance.”
“Rose said he was sending an investigator over to your brother's place.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Who's that?” Jordan asked.
“Probably the kid who took my dog for a walk,” Allen said. He got up and opened the door.
Frankie ran into the room.
Jacob looked over at Bobby Jordan. “Hey,” he said. His eyes went from the bruise to the lump to the stitches.
“What's up, kid?” said Jordan.
“Nothing.”
“This guy pay you to walk his dog?”
“No, but he paid me to run to the store for him.”
“That's good kid. A man ain't a man if he ain't earning his own dough. I was running numbers when I was twelve.”
“What's running numbers?” Jacob asked.
“Never mind,” Allen cut in.
Jordan laughed. “Different time and location, kid.” He turned to Allen. “Why would Ro
se be sending someone to my brother's?”
“Because Tubbs and a guy named Myron Spoon paid me a little visit. They said Mr. Strong wanted to speak with me.”
“Huh. Probably wants to know what the altercation between you and me was about. Nosy bastard.”
Jacob's head went back and forth, and his mouth hung open as he listened to the two men's discussion. His curiosity got the best of him. “Who's Mr. Strong?” he asked.
Both men looked at Jacob with a smirk.
“Benny Strong's my brother, kid,” said Jordan. He leaned in close to the young boy and showed off his best Jersey gangster impersonation. “But if any uh dis leaves dis room, you'll be sleepin' wit da fishes.”
Allen laughed. “Jesus! Don't tell him that.”
Jordan burst out laughing. “I'm just bustin' your balls, kid.” He stood and pointed at the last piece of pizza in the box.
“It's all yours,” said Allen
Jordan snatched up the slice. “You supposed to speak with Rose again?”
“I'm sure I will at some point.”
“I'd appreciate it if you kept this little meeting to yourself.”
“Sure thing.”
“Rose won't be gettin' anything outta my brother either. For a few days at least. He took our mom up to Augusta for the week. He won't be home until Saturday night.” Jordan stepped through the door. “You want this door open or closed?”
“You can leave it open.”
Jordan nodded and walked away.
Jacob waited until he was sure Jordan was out of earshot before he asked, “Is he a real Mafia guy?”
“That's the word on the street.”
“You think he's as tough as he looks?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Me too. I better get going.”
Jacob scratched Frankie on the head and told him he'd see him tomorrow, and out the door he went.
“I was going to eat that pizza later, Frankie,” said Allen. “I can't believe he didn't leave me one slice.”
Allen flipped the lid closed on the pizza box, picked it up, and threw it like a Frisbee toward the trash can. The box hit the side of the can and dropped to the floor. He placed the untouched glass of tequila in the fridge.
“Maybe I should write a book about a writer who goes to Maine and gets accused of having something that belongs to a gangster.” He stared at the laptop. Think, think, think!
The Maine Events Page 6
