Pot Shot

by Gerry Boyle

  “Right. You’re a grown man. You can bail yourself out.”

  “Damn straight,” I said.

  The phone booth had obscenities gouged in its burnished metal with a knife or a nail and they stared me in the face as I dialed Roxanne’s number, then punched in the number of my credit card. I waited. It rang. Rang again.

  “Hi,” Roxanne’s voice said. “J. M., if this is you, that matter we talked about needed some more observation. Don’t worry. I’m fine. I’ll be back by one. Call me in the morning. Please.”

  I banged the receiver down and dialed Roxanne’s office number, my credit card number again. Waited again. It was busy.

  “Damn it,” I said.

  Clair was sitting in the truck. I dialed the office number. Again it was busy. I dialed Roxanne’s number and got the recording again, so I told the machine I was fine and on my way back to Maine. I was in Portsmouth and Clair was fine, too, I said, and I hoped she was okay. It was a little after eleven and I’d be in Portland by one.

  And then I got back in the truck and started to worry.

  We stayed on Route 1, crossing the Piscataqua River on the old bridge so we could bypass the tolls at Kittery. It started to rain and I looked out at the strip malls full of factory outlets and the shoppers trotting from store to store like looters.

  “You okay?” Clair said, as we pulled up to a red light.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Can’t complain. Doesn’t do any good anyway.”

  “Sorry to drag you into all this.”

  “Beats watching TV,” Clair said.

  I looked out the window.

  “I hope Roxanne’s all right.”

  “She’s a big girl,” Clair said.

  “Yeah, but she was going out late to check on this drugged-out mother. See if she was leaving her kids alone.”

  “She knows what she’s doing.”

  “I know, but she didn’t change the message.”

  “Maybe she’s been busy.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I said.

  We rolled north with the traffic, through Kennebunk, where the gentry lived, on to Biddeford, where they didn’t. The river in Biddeford had a different name, but the mills were the same, big and brick and still.

  “So what if they’re both dead?” I said. “Coyote and Bobby.”

  “Then you can write about their demise,”

  “It’s not the story I thought I’d be doing.”

  “You didn’t know where it was headed, did you?”

  “I thought it was just going to be the world of these backwoods hippies. Instead, it’s this. A line right to the hard-core drug trade. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “The common denominator isn’t drugs. It’s money.”

  “Easy money.”

  I thought for a minute.

  “That’s what doesn’t add up,” I said. “These people—the Mullaneys, I mean—they didn’t seem to care about money. I mean, if you want to make a lot of money you don’t live in Florence, Maine.”

  “You don’t choose to live in Florence,” Clair said.

  “I don’t think they chose it. I think they were running from something.”

  “But they didn’t stay hidden, if they were doing all this pot stuff,” Clair said. “Recruiting at fairs and all that.”

  “Maybe whatever they were hiding from went away. Somebody died. The statute of limitations ran out. I don’t know.”

  “So they get back into it? Start selling pot and getting back in with the drug types in Massachusetts?”

  “But you know what?” I said. “If they knew the drug types, why would they go plunging right in there? Bobby, I mean. The guy wasn’t stupid, but you go rousting these major dealers, you’d better have an army behind you.”

  “And he had one guy.”

  “Coming along behind him. Looking for his body.”

  “Doesn’t seem very helpful,” Clair said.

  We were in South Portland by quarter to twelve. Clair pulled in at Roxanne’s condo but her car wasn’t there. I scrawled a note on a piece of notebook paper and unlocked the door and started to stick it inside. I started to leave and then stopped.

  I walked into the hall, then into the living room. The air was still. There was no odor of her. No lingering dampness from a shower. No waft of stale morning coffee. I went up the stairs two at a time.

  There was a black skirt on the bed. Stockings and a red blouse. Her shoes were kicked off on the floor. The bed was made.

  Roxanne had come home and changed her clothes. She hadn’t slept here.

  I hurried back downstairs and went to the phone and hit the playback button. The tape rewound with a high-pitched whine and slammed to a stop. It hissed, then beeped.

  “You bitch.”

  A woman’s slurred, sobbing voice.

  “I hope you die, you bitch. I hope you break your neck. I hope you get pregnant and you have a baby and your goddamn baby dies. You bitch, I want you to know what it feels like, you goddamn bitch, you goddamn dirty bitch. I’ll kill you. Give me my kids or I’ll kill you. You’re gonna die, bitch. I hope you die. I’ll kill you. I’ll find you and I’ll follow you and I’ll kill you dead. I’ll come in your house and cut your throat, you bitch.”

  There was a click. Dial tone. The machine stopped, and I popped out the tape and put a new one in.

  I grabbed the phone and dialed Roxanne’s office. The number was busy. I dialed again. Busy. I tried a third time. A fourth. It rang.

  “Child Protective.”

  “Roxanne Masterson, please.”

  “I’m sorry but—is this Jack?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Jack, this is Kathy. We haven’t met but I’ve heard lots about you. Well, Jack, Roxanne’s in the hospital. She’s in Maine Med.”

  23

  We left the truck illegally parked, took an elevator up, and looked for room 305. It was on the end. The door was closed. There was a Portland patrolman sitting in a chair beside it.

  I started to explain.

  “Jack, is that you?” Roxanne called.

  The patrolman put his head in.

  “Go ahead,” he said.

  She was on the bed. Her left thigh was in a cast. There was an intravenous tube in her right arm, a bag of clear liquid hanging from a hook.

  Roxanne turned her head.

  “Hey, baby,” she said.

  “Playing hooky, huh?”

  She smiled weakly.

  “How are you doing?” I said.

  “Okay. I’m all doped up. Hi, Clair.”

  “Hello, Roxanne,” Clair said.

  “How’d you guys do in Massachusetts?”

  “Better than you did in downtown Portland.”

  Roxanne looked down at her leg.

  “Yeah, well, I’ll set off airport metal detectors now. They put pins in my leg.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Knocked on the wrong door, I guess.”

  “Looking for the mother?”

  “Yeah. Me and a detective. We found the kids alone, again. We wanted . . . we wanted to catch her in her altered state.”

  “Did you?”

  “Oh, yeah. And four guys doing coke.”

  “And they did this to you?”

  “They went down the stairs and took me with them. They thought it was a drug bust.”

  “What about the detective?”

  “She shot one of them.”

  “My God.”

  “Oh, yeah. You want to interview me? The Press Herald has been calling. Channel Thirteen. Oh, I’m quite the celebrity.”

  “Was the guy killed?”

  “No. I think he’s in here somewhere.”

  “I’ll go strangle him.”

  “I think he has a cop, too.”

  “Deluxe service.”

  “Nothing but the best.”

  She smiled, her lips dark against pale skin. I took her hand. Clair stood back
shyly.

  “Is it a bad break?”

  “Yeah. I got knocked down the stairs and sort of trampled. They said the femur was broken and then probably stepped on. They did surgery. This morning, it was.”

  “We should leave.”

  Roxanne squeezed my hand.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” she said. “No, you shouldn’t.”

  “You sure?”

  She nodded.

  “They broke your collarbone, too?”

  “I guess. It’s all kind of a blur. Happened fast.”

  “When was this?”

  “About one-thirty, I think.”

  “Where’s the mother now?”

  “Last night she was in jail, but she probably got out this morning. They don’t like keeping women in.”

  I hesitated.

  “We stopped at your place on the way up,” I said.

  “Oh?”

  “There was a message on your machine. I was worried so I played it.”

  “TV people?”

  “No, I think it was the mother. She made threats.”

  “She’s full of it.” Roxanne said.

  “I don’t know about that. She sounded pretty serious.”

  “But was she drunk and stoned?”

  “Probably.”

  “The hell with her.”

  “I’m going to tell the police.”

  “Fine. We’ll get her for criminal threatening, too. That’s good for the kids.”

  “How were they this time?”

  “Hungry and dirty and the little one had two black eyes and handprint bruises on her backside. It could have been the mother, it could have been some other burnout. I think we got them just in time.”

  “You’re pretty amazing.”

  I held her hand. Clair discreetly stepped out.

  “So,” Roxanne said softly. “Will you still make love with me with screws and bolts in my leg?”

  “Even if I have to bring my toolbox.”

  “I’m going to have a scar on my thigh.”

  “My bionic woman.”

  “The Bride of Frankenstein.”

  “Lucky him.”

  “Will you still love me all busted up?”

  “You’re not busted up. You’re gorgeous.”

  “But will you still love me?”

  “Even more,” I said. “And that’s saying something.”

  I kissed her.

  “Now sleep.”

  I told the patrolman that there had been threats on Roxanne’s life. He was young and solid and serious, and when I left, I felt she was in good hands.

  We went out to the truck and drove downtown and out Forest Avenue to Roxanne’s office. Clair waited in the truck while I went in. I told the receptionist who I was and what I wanted, and he looked concerned. He hurried me back between the fabric partitions to a glass-walled office. A silver-haired woman was sitting behind a desk. The receptionist showed me in and introduced me. The woman behind the desk came around and clasped my hand in both of hers.

  “We’re all so sorry,” she said. “We’re going over this afternoon. It’s just terrible. Roxanne is so dedicated and so wonderful.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess there’s a dissenting opinion on that.”

  I handed her the tape.

  “It’s from Roxanne’s answering machine. I think it’s the mother. I figured you’d be the one to take it to the police.”

  “Is it threatening?”

  “Yeah. I don’t know that she’d ever follow through.”

  “You never know,” the woman said. “We take all threats seriously and prosecute them to the fullest extent possible. We’ll go after her on this.”

  “Will this keep the mother away from her kids longer?”

  “It’ll help. Depending on what she said.”

  “She said she wanted to kill Roxanne.”

  “She belongs in a rehab hospital,” the woman said.

  “Roxanne said she was getting into crack.”

  “We’re seeing more and more of that; you know, it’s worse because it completely consumes people. But drugs are drugs: crack, coke, pot, alcohol. It’s all a variation on the same old theme. They take you somewhere else when you should be right here, taking care of your kids.”

  I looked at her. Nice tweed suit. Hair just so. And a fire burning inside her.

  “You ever get sick of doing this?”

  “I’m always sick of doing this, Mr. McMorrow. But I’m never sick enough of it to stop. Things like this, with Roxanne, push me close.”

  “She’s okay. She was sleeping when I left.”

  “The doctor this morning said she’s going to have a long road back. Physical therapy and all that.”

  “She’ll get through it,” I said, managing a smile. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

  Roxanne was still asleep when we got back to the hospital. I wanted to stay, but Clair needed to get back to Prosperity and I did, too, at least to get clean clothes and my computer. Clair pointed out that this might be the time to go, while Roxanne had visitors and would be sleeping a lot anyway.

  So we drove north on the interstate to Augusta and then on up Route 3, back to Waldo County. After Massachusetts and Portland it was like driving back in time, trading malls and parking lots and frantic traffic for the lonely, bristling, dappled hills.

  I wouldn’t be staying long.

  Turning off Route 3, we began to get the nods and waves that were rites of passing in central Maine. A log truck driver who recognized Clair’s truck and waved as he passed. A white-haired woman coming out of the Prosperity road in a small black pickup. A game warden in his green state truck on the edge of town. On the end of the dump road, an older guy named Percy who’d just lost his wife of fifty years. He was on his front lawn with his remaining companion, a poodle. The college kids from up the road went past, banging along in their Jeep.

  Waves. Nods. Beeps. Signs of community.

  “Up here we wave,” I said. “Down there they have gang colors.”

  “Maybe we ought to get some of those colors for Prosperity.”

  “Anything in mind?”

  “I don’t know,” Clair said. “Is green taken?”

  I smiled.

  “It’s good to be back.”

  “I’m ready to hide away,” Clair said.

  “Yessuh,” I said. But I knew the time for hiding had passed.

  Clair dropped me off and headed down the road, the bullet holes showing in his truck tailgate as he pulled away. I went across the road to the mailbox and pulled out a sheaf of stuff I didn’t need. Then I went inside and tossed my bag on the kitchen floor, the mail on the counter, and hit the button on the answering machine, which now didn’t seem so harmless.

  It whirred. Beeped.

  “Mr. McMorrow. This is Joe Mendoza. Valley Chronicle. I’d like to talk to you about the body found in the car here. My number is . . .”

  Another beep.

  “Mr. McMorrow. Joe Mendoza calling. Could you please call me at the Valley Chronicle? I really need to talk to you. The number is . . .”

  Beep again.

  “Mr. McMorrow. Could you please call me? Joe Mendoza. The number is . . .”

  I could run but I couldn’t hide. I dialed and the receptionist connected me to the newsroom. I asked for Joe and the phone clattered and clicked and Joe answered.

  “Newsroom. Joe Mendoza.”

  “Jack McMorrow.”

  “Jesus, man. I gotta talk to you.”

  “About what?”

  “About the body. The body in the car.”

  “What about it?”

  “This was the guy you were looking for, right? I told my editor I talked to you, and he told me it was page one. The same guy, right?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. Who was it?”

  “I don’t know yet. But the car was registered to that guy you were looking for. Mullaney. Robert Mullaney.”

  “I know.”

  “So it is the
same guy?”

  “Is this on the record?”

  “Well, yeah. Is that all right?”

  I thought for a moment. Felt myself slip into his cub reporter’s shoes.

  “Yeah, I guess. But you shouldn’t ask if it’s all right. You should ask why I wouldn’t want it to be. Sound a little surprised that it would even be a question.”

  “I think you’re evading the question,” Joe Mendoza said.

  “You might be right.”

  “So it is the same guy, right? The guy you were looking for?”

  “It’s his car.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The guy I’m looking for is Bobby Mullaney. I don’t know who the guy in the car is.”

  “A crispy critter,” Mendoza said. “You see him?”

  “No. The car was gone.”

  “So what can you tell me about this guy?”

  “What do you know?”

  “I don’t know anything. Zero.”

  I thought. Considered my own story. If my story for the Globe tracked Bobby from Florence, Maine, to Valley, Massachusetts, from activist to “crispy critter,” what should I tell the Valley Chronicle? How much was too much?

  “I’ve got a deal for you,” I said. “I’ll give you stuff from my end. But you’ve got to give me what you know from down there. Deal?”

  Mendoza didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m supposed—”

  “If there’s no deal, I don’t say another word.”

  “Okay.”

  “Mullaney’s from a little town called Florence in western Maine. Northwest Maine.”

  I heard the sound of tapping on a keyboard.

  “What’s he do?”

  “Not much.”

  “How’d you get on to him?”

  “He’s a legalize-marijuana type. Goes around collecting signatures on petitions.”

  “That big up there?”

  “Not really. But it’s growing. A lot of old hippies live up here. A lot of locals grow it. Drug cops came in and started hitting these little places pretty hard. People got pissed off. People in Maine question authority anyway.”

  “Mullaney married?”

  “Yup.”

  “Kids?”

  “One step.”

  “Doesn’t work? What does he do? Deal dope?”

  “I don’t know. He cuts wood. Works here and there. A lot of people do that up here. They build their own houses, have a garden, raise pigs. They’re homesteaders. They don’t need forty hours a week in an office.”