Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  Unconvinced that the Sheriff would have done anything more even if the townspeople had descended on the Inn with pitchforks and tiki torches, I returned to my room to grab my jacket and put on my shoes. I picked up my phone as well, though I wasn’t sure what time the box would be turned on at the government building. Still, I should probably let Anthony know that the company was about to rack up a substantial charge for damage to the rental vehicle.

  By the time I made it back to the parking lot, a small crowd of onlookers had gathered around the Chevy. I recognized a few other guests and the large man with black hair in the apron and grease-stained pants was probably the Inn’s breakfast cook. They were all staring at the paint job and speaking quietly to each other, with a few sad nods mixed in.

  “Damn kids,” I heard someone mutter as I joined the group.

  “The Sheriff is on the way,” I remarked.

  “Shifty will know where to find them,” the cook assured me. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “In the meantime, I don’t have a car,” I pointed out.

  There were some murmurs and shaken heads, but no one offered up any solutions.

  “I gotta get breakfast on,” the cook announced.

  The rest of the crowd trickled after him and soon it was just me in the parking lot. I sighed and watched the road in some forlorn hope that I would soon be greeted by the sound of a siren or at least the flashing lights of a patrol car. Instead, after a very long, cold wait as the sun inched over the horizon, I saw the Sheriff’s car drive slowly past the park along Jenkins Road, then turn towards the Inn after stopping to let a family of ducks cross the road and head for the pond.

  The Sheriff pulled into the Inn’s lot and parked directly behind the Chevy, so even if I had wanted to move the car, I was now effectively boxed in. The Sheriff took his time exiting his cruiser, though he still managed to convey a sense of menace as he walked slowly around my car and shook his head at the damage.

  “This is a mess,” he declared when he stopped in front of me.

  “It is,” I agreed. “And as I mentioned on the phone, I don’t think it was teenagers.”

  The Sheriff nodded and turned around enough to take another look at the car. I realized it was the first time I had seen him without his sunglasses, and I was startled to realize just how large and expressive his hazel eyes really were. I could see the moment when he’d figured out who his main suspects were and how much he really wanted to share with me.

  “There’s a group of tree huggers,” the Sheriff said as he pointed to the ‘Coal is Murder’ slogan. “They showed up a while back to protest the mines. We haven’t had much trouble with them locally since the last mine closed, but they probably figure you and your company plan on reopening things.”

  “Oy,” I muttered.

  The Sheriff shot me an inquisitive look, then turned around to study me more closely.

  “You Jewish?” he asked in surprise.

  “No,” I said. “That’s just a common expression in New York.”

  “Huh,” was all he said.

  We stood there for almost a full minute before I finally huffed in exasperation.

  “So are you going to talk to these tree huggers?” I asked.

  “I guess I should,” the Sheriff mused. “Course, I might be more inclined if I had more of a reason than just some paint on a car.”

  “This is a crime,” I pointed out. “It’s your job to investigate.”

  “Sure, sure,” the Sheriff said. “But you’ll be gone in a couple of days, and I doubt you’ll give another thought to the car or this town once you leave. We’ll probably never see you again once that company of yours starts doing whatever it is they plan to do.”

  “You’re really going to do this now?” I demanded.

  “Bam told me you weren’t reopening the mine,” the Sheriff replied. “But Bam’s a bit like a little kid. Course, with all that money he inherited, he can afford to be.”

  “And your point is?” I asked.

  “Bam wouldn’t tell me much more than that,” the Sheriff replied. “Which got everyone thinking about what someone from New York City would want with that land if he wasn’t going to open the mine. Now see, we’ve seen this kind of thing before. These rich people come here and build these big homes that sit empty most of the time, places they can move to in case there’s another pandemic or riot or something.”

  “That’s not--” I started to protest.

  “Thing is, that doesn’t do anything for the community,” the Sheriff talked over me. “Hell, they even have a bunch of fancy lawyers like yourself to make sure they don’t pay any taxes.”

  “We aren’t--” I tried again.

  “My own kids have left town,” the Sheriff continued, “Moved away to find jobs. And now my nephew Jake is saying he’s going to do the same thing. All the kids are moving away, and this town is going to die.”

  I waited until it seemed like the Sheriff had finished. By that point the sun was up and people were moving around the town. Not many, but enough that people saw the Sheriff’s car in front of the inn and I had no doubt that word would soon spread through Wetzel’s and beyond of our meeting in the parking lot.

  “It’s not going to be a home,” I said quietly. “The company is expanding its line.”

  “You said the company imported olive oil,” the Sheriff huffed.

  “Among other things,” I replied. “But, yes, olive oil is the primary import. The company wants to add balsamic vinegar to their list of products, and if this goes the way it’s supposed to, the company can do that more cheaply here than in Italy.”

  The Sheriff actually gaped at me for a moment before he remembered who he was and how he was supposed to look. He put his fierce warrior face back on a moment later and scowled at me.

  “I don’t understand,” the Sheriff said firmly. “Is that some sort of new slang for heroin or something?”

  “No, no,” I said quickly. “We really are going to make balsamic vinegar. We’ve got a grape grower and an expert all lined up. All we need is the facility.”

  “So...your plan is to make vinegar?” the Sheriff pressed, a note of uncertainty still in his voice.

  “We need a place that maintains a constant temperature in order to age the vinegar,” I explained. “You could do that in a temperature controlled building, but that’s expensive. So we’ve decided to borrow from the family run places in Italy and find caves that can keep the correct temperature and other conditions without having to buy a bunch of expensive equipment.”

  “That’s…” the Sheriff paused as he tried to think of the right word. He looked like he didn’t believe that a bunch of New Yorkers wanted to make balsamic vinegar in the old mines, yet he clearly wanted to.

  “I don’t know how many people will be hired,” I added. “It won’t be a large operation to start, but it could expand as we find more buyers for the balsamic. And with the client base we already have with the olive oil, I expect that will happen quickly.”

  “Yeah, okay,” the Sheriff finally replied as the idea started to sink in and a glimmer of hope appeared in his eyes.

  “And I’m sure we could find a spot for your nephew,” I added. “Maybe moving barrels or something. But he could learn the whole process from the expert we’ve hired and move his way up to a position with real authority.”

  The Sheriff blinked in surprise, and I could tell that he was envisioning a place where his nephew could be more than just some guy who moved stuff around. And maybe even his own kids would have a reason to move back to town if the balsamic vinegar took off.

  “Well,” the Sheriff muttered.

  “So, about the car,” I said as I pointed to the now day-glo Chevy.

  Ol’ Shifty grunted and studied the car for a moment.

  “Yeah, I can head out to the commune, see if anyone’s willing to talk,” he replied. “Doubt I’ll get much though.”

  “The commune?” I asked. It was my turn to look dubio
us.

  “Where the tree huggers live,” the Sheriff explained. “Just outside of town. They built it a couple a years back when they started showing up in force. Said they wanted to live green.”

  “Oh, that makes sense,” I admitted. “So, I’m guessing solar panels and rain barrels?”

  “That’s about it,” the Sheriff agreed. “Though I have to admit that they sell a gardenia perfume that’s mighty fine. My wife loves it.”

  “I’d like to come with you,” I announced.

  The Sheriff looked startled for a moment, and then shook his head.

  “That’s not really procedure,” he said.

  “I’ve only been here a day and I can already tell that procedure isn’t a big part of the job,” I replied. “Besides, I’m the one who saw them. I can point out the two I saw.”

  “In the dark?” he scoffed. “Wearing black clothes?”

  “I saw their faces,” I insisted.

  “Barely,” the Sheriff pointed out.

  “I’ll recognize them,” I added.

  The Sheriff adjusted his belt and peered around the parking lot. As the sun moved higher, he slipped the sunglasses from the front pocket of his shirt and slipped them on his face. He sniffed the air, exchanged nods with a man walking his dog, and waved to a woman with a gaggle of kids.

  “If you don’t take me with you, I’ll just find out from someone else where this commune is and go there myself,” I said.

  “Without a car?” the Sheriff asked.

  “I can rent another car,” I replied.

  The Sheriff sniffed the air again, then looked towards the glass doors of the inn. I saw a couple of guests cross the lobby and head towards the breakfast buffet that had no doubt appeared in the dining room.

  “Tell you what,” the Sheriff said. “We’ll get some breakfast to go and eat on our way out there. You’re paying.”

  I nodded though I was surprised the Sheriff wasn’t treated to free meals at the Inn. Then again, he probably was but making me pay for it was another small way to assert his authority.

  Our entrance into the dining area was greeted with hushed voices and a lot of finger pointing. The Sheriff took a long, slow walk past the buffet display, then strolled over to the lone waitress who was busy carrying beverages to the tables.

  “Sally, why don’t you see if Clete can rustle up a couple of those breakfast sandwiches that he makes,” the Sheriff said, “and toss in a few of those breakfast potatoes. We’ll get that in a couple of to-go boxes. Oh, and you can put that on Mr. Morgan’s tab.”

  Sally, a pleasant looking woman with white hair and a double chin nodded.

  “Need some coffee with that as well?” she asked.

  “That would be great,” Shifty replied.

  Sally distributed the two juice glasses she had left on her tray, then retreated towards the kitchen. The Sheriff nodded pleasantly to the other guests as he ambled towards an empty table, and I followed in his wake because I really didn’t have anything else to do. We sat together in an awkward silence until Sally returned several minutes later with two styrofoam boxes and a paper cup holder with two jumbo sized cups.

  “That smells good,” the Sheriff drawled as Sally placed our to-go order on the table.

  “Forks are in the boxes,” Sally replied as she retreated to one of the other tables.

  The Sheriff picked up the boxes while I grabbed the coffee, and the two of us returned to the parking lot and the Sheriff’s cruiser. For a moment, I thought Shifty was going to make me ride in the back, but he pointed to the passenger side door instead, and I slid into the car with a sigh of relief.

  While the Sheriff focused on driving, I opened the tops on the coffees and placed one in each cup holder, then opened the styrofoam boxes to reveal fried egg sandwiches smothered in cheese and wrapped in wax paper to make them easier to handle. A pile of fried potato chunks and grilled onions were included, along with plastic forks.

  “Just hand me one of the sandwiches,” the Sheriff instructed. “I’ll eat the potatoes when we get to the commune.

  I did as instructed, making sure to close the lid on the box so the potatoes wouldn’t go cold. The two of us ate during the entire trip, which saved us from conversation but left me time to wonder what my cholesterol level would be when I finally left Folsom.

  The road wasn’t terrible, with only a few ups and downs and one hairpin turn along the edge of a hill, but of course, we left the main road and bounced along a rutted path filled with small rocks that cracked against the car and the trunks of the trees near the road. We soon lost the sun as the branches of the trees bowed over the road and left us in a green tunnel, and I gave up on trying to eat the potatoes because I couldn’t get anything to stay on the fork, much less get the fork to my mouth without stabbing myself.

  And then the tunnel ended and the dry, rocky road turned into a muddy path. I spotted several buildings and a large barn along a hillside and several people in a field full of cows. The Sheriff pulled over near an old picnic table and turned off the engine.

  “Grab the rest,” he said as he picked up his coffee and opened his door.

  I grabbed the boxes and my coffee and followed him to the picnic table. I handed him the box with his share of the potatoes, which he accepted as he took a seat. I glanced towards the people in the field and saw that someone had left the group and was moving slowly towards the buildings, but otherwise our sudden appearance seemed to go unnoticed.

  “Sit, eat,” the Sheriff commanded. “It’ll take them a few minutes to find someone who will talk to us.”

  “You’re not going to just barge in there and demand they talk?” I asked in surprise as I sat down.

  “Tried that when they first arrived,” the Sheriff admitted. “Didn’t work too well. They all clam up and refuse to talk, and then the leader starts going on about divine rights and mother earth. Works better if you just let the designated speaker come to you.”

  I studied the Sheriff for a moment, surprised to see this side of him. Everything about him screamed head-bashing tough guy, even the bribery scam that he and Hup were apparently running, yet here he was, content to eat fried potatoes on a picnic table while we waited for someone to emerge from the commune and speak to us.

  “I’m a little surprised,” I said as I finally took my first bite of the potatoes.

  “I’m not so old I can’t learn a few new tricks,” Shifty replied. “And I’ve learned how to deal with these folks.”

  I pondered that while I polished off my potatoes and gulped down my coffee. By the time I had finished, I spotted someone emerge from the largest building and start in our direction. The sheriff grunted, then pushed his empty styrofoam box towards me.

  “Toss those back in the car,” the Sheriff ordered. “Unless you want to listen to a fifteen minute lecture on the horrors of styrofoam.”

  I snatched the boxes and trotted back to the car, where I dropped them on the floor, and then draped the Sheriff’s jacket over the top, just to be sure they were hidden from view. Satisfied that the offending styrofoam wasn’t visible, I returned to the picnic table and the remains of my coffee.

  “Sheriff Harris,” the approaching man called out in a heavy Boston accent.

  “Definitely not local,” I murmured.

  “Hell, no,” the Sheriff agreed.

  “You’re out early this morning,” the man said as he stopped in front of the picnic table. “And you have a guest.”

  “This is Mr. Morgan,” the Sheriff said blandly as he waved a hand in my direction. “He’s here from New York.”

  “Is that right?” the man said as he smiled at me. “I’m Richard Kerry. I’m one of the team leaders out here.”

  Richard Kerry was my height, with braided blonde hair, dark blue eyes, and a very thin frame. He wore soft, loose fitting clothing in various shades of brown and thick socks with leather sandals.

  “Team leaders?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” Richard said with s
everal quick bobs of the head. “I know people usually think of communes as just a bunch of people wandering around aimlessly, but there’s so much work to be done, and we need to be sure that it gets done or no one would eat. Now, everyone has their regular tasks, but we elect team leaders to serve as coordinators.”

  I glanced towards the Sheriff during this speech, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, it wasn’t hard to imagine his reaction. I’d spent time on a farm, and I would guess the Sheriff had as well, and just on the short trips I had made, I knew it was hard work. Generally, though, farmers didn’t need team leaders to coordinate the work that needed to be done.

  “Now, Mr. Morgan had some visitors this morning,” the Sheriff cut in. “Wondering if maybe some of your folks went for a walk last night.”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” the man replied.

  “You sure about that?” the Sheriff pressed. “Because they left some anti-coal messages on his car.”

  “Oh dear,” Richard fumbled. “Though, of course, you know how I feel about coal, but I don’t believe in violence.”

  “Just protesting,” the Sheriff replied.

  “Peaceful protesting,” Richard corrected.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding,” I added.

  The Sheriff grunted but didn’t say anything while Richard turned a puzzled expression in my direction.

  “How so?” Richard asked.

  “We aren’t going to reopen the coal mines,” I said. “At least, not for mining purposes.”

  Richard turned to look at the Sheriff, but Harris’s expression was unreadable behind his glasses.

  “Is there some other use for mines?” the tree hugger asked.

  “We need a temperature controlled area to make balsamic vinegar,” I replied. “It’s easier and more eco-friendly if we use caves instead of a building.”

  “You’re making balsamic vinegar?” Kerry said in disbelief.