Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the place. The sign over the door had identified the store as Nellie’s Emporium, which conjured up images of ladies in large hats cooing over clothing while hordes of children stood around the candy counter in the hopes of scoring something sweet. What I found when I stepped inside was more of a hodgepodge that included canned goods, fireworks, a wall of refrigerated units filled with milk, beer, and Pepsi products, fishing rods and lures, and a self-help nacho station.

  “Don’t have any change, huh?” the woman who had tapped on the glass asked with a sad shake of her head.

  She was probably only a few years older than me, but stress had worn deep lines across her face, and her curly hair hung limply to her shoulders. She wore a cardigan over her dress even though the store was on the warm side and the temperature outside was pleasant. She folded her arms across her chest as she studied me with the gaze of someone who had fought a lot of battles in her lifetime, and probably lost more than her fair share.

  “I think I have a dollar,” I said as I pulled out my wallet. “If I could get some change…”

  She held up her hand and shook her head.

  “Nope,” she said. “Boss is very clear about that. You have to buy something before we can give you change.”

  “Ah,” I said as I looked around the store and tried to figure out what I could buy. “Do you know Mr. Bluefeld?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed as she tried to figure out what trick I might be about to pull on her.

  “I’m going out to see him after lunch,” I explained. “I could take him some of his favorite beer, if he has one, or something else he likes?”

  The woman perked up at that, and after checking around the store for spies, she stepped around the counter and led me towards the last row of shelves. This held an impressive collection of spirits, mostly whiskeys and bourbons, but my guide ignored all of those and selected a bottle of marshmallow flavored vodka.

  “Really?” I asked.

  She nodded before she darted away, and I followed the sound of rustling to the candy aisle. She held up a package of classic Jolly Ranchers, then retreated to the counter with me in tow.

  “This is what he likes?” I pressed as I placed the vodka on the counter.

  “It’s the only reason we carry it, really,” she said as she leaned closer to me. “Though some of the teenagers will pick up a bottle now and then. Bam likes to drink it while he sucks on the jolly ranchers.”

  “That… doesn’t seem right,” I finally said.

  The woman shrugged and rang up my purchase. I dug a twenty out of my wallet and then pocketed the change while she placed the bottle and the candy in a paper bag that thanked me for buying local. I collected my purchase, nodded to the woman, then returned to the street. There was no ticket under the windshield wiper, so I placed the bag in the backseat, and dropped a quarter in the meter which would get me two hours for lunch.

  Satisfied that I was safe from parking enforcement for the time being, I walked across the street and stepped inside the tobacco shop-cum-diner. The place looked like every greasy spoon I’d ever been in, with booths along the walls, tables squeezed in wherever they would fit, and a row of stools at a shiny countertop. The walls were painted a pale yellow, a pleasant contrast to the dark blue floor and the white cloud of steam that floated out from the kitchen. Old black and white photos that showed Folsom in its heyday had been framed and hung in random places around the room while a clock over the cash register marked the time of day. I sniffed the air and recognized the scent of grease, bacon, onion and the usual hodgepodge of spices that these places always seemed to use.

  The place was noisy when I first stepped through the door, and it looked like every booth was occupied. I spotted a few empty stools at the counter and started in that direction when I heard the noise die away and felt every gaze in the place shift towards me. Even the two waitresses were frozen in place, one as she placed a plate on a table and the other as she carried a tray of drinks across the room.

  I glanced around at the other diners and tried to look nonchalant, though all those staring eyes were disturbing. Most of the other diners looked like average people, though I spotted a man in his thirties in a booth wearing what looked like a sheriff’s uniform, and a guy in a blue grease-streaked jumpsuit at the counter who was probably one of the local mechanics. There was no one in a suit, I noted, just a mix of blue jeans or chinos with dabs of camouflage mixed in and lots of t-shirts. I was glad I’d left my own two-piece in Brooklyn, though even my neatly pressed khakis and polo shirt made me feel overdressed.

  “Just grab any open spot, hon,” an older waitress told me as she emerged from the kitchen and brushed by with a bowl of chili. The scent of cumin trailed after her and reminded me that I hadn’t eaten anything since my 5 a.m. donut in the car, and all I could think about was the fried chicken the clerk had recommended.

  I started moving again, and after exchanging smiles with a pair of women at a table, I dropped onto an empty stool and grabbed the laminated menu from the caddy. Conversation slowly resumed, though it was more of a low level hum than the raucous buzz that I had walked into.

  “What can I get ya’?” the waitress who had delivered the chili asked as she pulled a pencil from her bun and flipped to a clean page on her order pad. Her name tag said Joelle, and she looked at me expectantly as she waited for me to speak.

  “I hear the fried chicken is good today,” I replied.

  “Ooh, that’s the truth,” Joelle agreed as the man next to me nodded as well.

  “So, fried chicken then,” I said.

  “You get two sides with that,” Joelle said as she tapped at the bottom of the menu with her pencil.

  I glanced down the list of sides and decided that health food was definitely not the order of the day in Folsom.

  “Mashed potatoes,” I said as I studied the list and tried to find something else I’d eaten before. “And, um…”

  “The black-eyed peas are real good,” the man on my right suggested.

  And healthy, I added silently. Possibly the only healthy side on the list.

  “They cook ‘em up with a ham hock and a dash of cream, so it’s not too thin,” the man added.

  Or not, I sighed.

  “Black-eyed peas, then,” I said aloud.

  Joelle nodded in approval and then plunked a glass in front of me that she filled with water from a pitcher.

  “You want a Coke?” she asked. “We’ve also got some iced tea and lemonade.”

  “They make the lemonade every mornin’,” my lunch companion added. “Not too much sugar, so it’s nice and tart.”

  “That sounds good,” I replied. “I’ll try the lemonade.”

  Joelle nodded and sauntered back to the kitchen with my order. I tried to look around the diner as surreptitiously as I could, and then wondered if it would be rude if I pulled out my phone to check the headlines and maybe read a few pages in the novel I’d just started.

  “So you’re here to buy Bam’s old mine,” my companion on my right said as he poked his fork at something green and slimy in a bowl. It looked like some kind of vegetable but not one I recognized.

  “It ain’t none of your business,” the man on my left chided.

  “Just bein’ friendly,” the one on my right replied.

  Both men were of a kind, with greasy hair, acne-scarred cheeks, and large, round eyes the color of tilled soil. Neither man had looked at me as they spoke, though they did exchange stares with each other.

  “I’m here to look at the mine and decide whether to conclude the deal,” I said, which wasn’t that far from the truth. This was clearly the kind of town where gossip spread quickly, and I didn’t see any need to let the locals know that Anthony really wanted the land.

  Both men nodded and turned back to their plates. The one on my right still had half of a sandwich to finish along with his green goo while the one on my left had a bowl of the chili that he had buried bene
ath a heavy coating of crushed crackers. A small plate sat nearby with the remains of a single piece of fried chicken, and as I watched, the man on my left pulled the last bits of meat from the bone and stirred it into the bowl.

  “I’m Hunter Morgan, by the way,” I said by way of introduction.

  “Jimmy Walker,” the one on my right said as he finally turned to look at me.

  “Darryl Jenkins,” the one on my left said.

  “Nice to meet you,” I replied.

  The two men frowned as they considered whether that was true or not. I watched them until Joelle returned with my lemonade and set it in front of me.

  “Now what’s wrong with you two?” she huffed.

  “I said ‘nice to meet you’ after we exchanged names,” I explained. “They’ve been like this ever since.”

  “It’s called being polite,” Joelle snapped as she poked each man with her pencil. “You’re supposed to be polite back and say something like, ‘It’s nice to meet you, too.’”

  “But we just met him,” Darryl protested. “How do we know that?”

  Joelle rolled her eyes before she flashed a sunny smile in my direction.

  “Don’t worry, hon,” she said in a confidential tone. “Your lunch will be right out. And then you won’t have to talk to these two any more.”

  Joelle swept away while Darryl and Jimmy grumbled under their breath. I took a sip of my lemonade and found that it was as tart as promised, but delicious nonetheless. I studied the dinner menu, conveniently printed on the back of the lunch menu, and tried to decide what looked good. After that, I studied the photos that hung behind the counter while I listened to Darryl and Jimmy work their way through their food. I then risked a glance at my watch and saw that only three minutes had passed, and wondered if I should get my order to go and sit in the park.

  Joelle saved me as she returned to the counter with a large plate heaped with two pieces of fried chicken, a towering serving of mashed potatoes with gravy, and a bowl of blackeyed peas. There wasn’t a speck of green in sight, and while my friends in New York would probably be horrified at how many calories sat in front of me, I grinned at the waitress, then set to work on my meal.

  The chicken was as spectacular as promised, with a crunchy, spicy skin wrapped around tangy, tender meat. Grease dribbled down my chin and I finally tucked an extra napkin into my shirt, just as everyone else in the diner had done. But it wasn’t just about the chicken. The potatoes were silky smooth and loaded with butter, and the gravy actually had a meaty flavor. The black-eyed peas were just firm enough and the sauce was so good that I sucked down the last bits with my spoon.

  “I guess that means you liked it,” Joelle observed as she took in my empty plates.

  “I did,” I agreed as I finally sat up. I hadn’t even realized that I had been hunched over my plate like Darryl and Jimmy until that moment.

  “Got room for dessert?” Joelle asked.

  I checked my watch and patted my stomach. I still had plenty of time left on the meter but I wasn’t so sure that I had enough room in my stomach.

  “You get a free cup of coffee with dessert,” Joelle added.

  “Maybe a small piece of cherry pie,” I suggested.

  Joelle smiled and swept away again. I glanced at my two lunch companions, both of whom were still deciding how to address the issue of ‘nice to meet you’.

  “Now, look here,” Jimmy began. “How do you know it’s nice to meet us?”

  “Well,” I replied. “You did offer the tip about the black-eyed peas, and those were really good.”

  “That’s a good point,” Darryl noted.

  “And you seemed to approve of the fried chicken that the clerk recommended,” I continued.

  “Lurleen does a nice job with the chicken,” Jimmy agreed.

  “Now, the clerk recommended the cherry pie as well,” I mused. “How do you feel about that?”

  “Best cherry pie anywhere,” Jimmy said as Darryl nodded enthusiastically.

  “So, after eating all this really good food and enjoying this lemonade, all of which you recommended, I can honestly say that it was nice to meet you,” I replied.

  That seemed to win Jimmy and Darryl over. They both nodded in approval of my logic, and after polishing off the last of their food, they summoned Joelle with a short, sharp whistle and ordered their own pieces of cherry pie and free coffee. The pie and coffee for all three of us arrived at the same time, and like the three best friends we suddenly were, we exchanged grins before we attacked the pie.

  I have no idea if the ingredients were all locally sourced or grown without the use of pesticides or non-GMO, but I do know that the cherries were perfectly balanced little worlds of tart and sweet, wrapped up in crust so flaky and buttery good that I didn’t care. I no longer bemoaned the fact that I hadn’t gone to Italy or California, and instead, I wondered if there was some way to bring a few cherry pies back to Brooklyn when I left.

  “Damn good pie,” Jimmy sighed as he scraped his plate clean.

  “Damn good pie,” Darryl echoed as he licked his fork.

  “Damn good pie,” I agreed as I stared sadly at my pristine plate.

  The three of us sipped our coffee, and then Joelle swept by with our checks. We studied the bills as we finished our coffees and I tried not to laugh out loud when I saw the amount. On a good day, I could have bought a small salad at a city diner for what I’d paid, and that was if I didn’t order a drink. I grinned at my two companions, and then we all stood up and shuffled towards the cash register together. One of the other waitresses, a teenager with red hair, ducked behind the register and rang us up. Darryl and Jimmy both dumped their change in the tip jar, and I followed their lead.

  We stepped outside together and stopped at the corner. A few more people went into the diner as we stood there, and Darryl and Jimmy exchanged greetings with each one while I stood between them and nodded. I could see the other locals were curious about me, but they were too polite to say anything while we were in public view.

  After a few minutes, the pair nodded to me, then ambled away in opposite directions. I sucked in another large lungful of the wonderful air, then walked slowly across the street to retrieve the Chevy. I saw the bag was still in the backseat, and wondered if I should have brought it with me instead. It didn’t seem very neighborly to show up with a bagful of melted candy, but as I opened the driver’s door and slipped inside, I decided it wasn’t hot enough to melt a Jolly Rancher.

  The woman in the emporium was back at the window as I started to back out of my spot, so I waved and smiled at her. Unlike Darryl and Jimmy, who had become my new best friends, the woman in the emporium checked the streets quickly for passersby before risking a quick wave in return. But it was hard to be offended after enjoying such a delicious meal, so I shrugged and pulled into the road.

  I saw a few other cars heading into town as I followed Jenkins Road past the roller skating rink, a Gas-and-Go, and Babes! Babes! Babes! Gentlemen’s Club. I spotted driveways and dirt roads that wound their way up steep cliffs and a trailer park tucked beneath a ring of ancient oaks.

  I was so enjoying my role as sightseer that I nearly missed the sign for Marion. It was an old wooden sign tacked up on what looked like a repurposed flag pole. There was an arrow pointing to the right, followed by the note ‘about three miles or so’.

  There wasn’t any other traffic, so I stopped long enough to snap a picture, then turned to the left on what I hoped was Digger Creek Road. It was paved, though littered with potholes, and the slope wasn’t nearly as severe as some of the other roads I had seen. I was trying to decide what the clerk had meant by the camel, when I heard a siren behind me and saw the flash of police lights in my rearview mirror.

  There weren’t a lot of options for pulling over, since the shoulder was about two inches wide on both sides and then ran right into a granite wall, but I spotted a turnoff and pulled in as best as I could without blocking the road. The officer didn’t sha
re my concerns, obviously, as he parked his vehicle in the lane I had just left and blocked everyone’s access to Digger Creek Road and whatever road I was on at the moment.

  I watched as the officer climbed from his vehicle, which I could now see said Sheriff on the side, and walked slowly towards me, with one hand near the gun he carried and the other on the transmitter that was pinned to his shoulder. His lips were moving, so he was talking to someone, and I wondered if it was the deputy I’d seen in the same uniform back at the diner.

  And the young man at the diner had to be the deputy because I had no doubt that the man approaching me was the sheriff. He looked like the stereotypical country sheriff, with a wide girth, reflective sunglasses that hid half his face, a flat top haircut, and a large side arm that had to be from his personal stash. But more telling than all of that was the power and menace that seemed to flow from him, and he was still several feet behind me. I sighed, and wished I’d stayed with Darryl and Jimmy at the diner, and maybe invited Bam to join us for a piece of cherry pie while we signed the last few papers to complete the deal. It had to be easier than dealing with whatever the sheriff was about to throw my way.

  Chapter 3

  “Do ya know why I pulled you over?” the Sheriff asked as he lurked just outside my car door.

  I had rolled the window down as he approached the car and pulled my driver’s license from my wallet. I also had the rental agreement handy, in case the man asked for registration.

  “I don’t,” I replied as I held up my license.

  “Ya didn’t signal for a turn back there,” the Sheriff replied as he accepted my license.

  I tried to remember if I had seen the sheriff’s car near the sign for Marion, and then shook my head. No one else had been on the road at that moment, which is why I had taken the picture of the sign. It was always possible the Sheriff had been hiding somewhere nearby, though I didn’t remember there being a lot of spots for concealing a car along that stretch.