Black Star Bay

by T C Miller

  She stopped walking and looked up and down the street. “Don’t know…It’s so idyllic here, yet I feel an undercurrent of some kind…Call it intuition.”

  “I feel it too…Maybe we need to ask Jack Banner to look into this Druid thing.”

  She slipped her arm in his and looked up as they walked. “Good idea…Anyway, it’s a starting point.”

  They stopped again when they heard Joe Barsconi’s voice behind them. “Beg pardon, folks…Mighta led yous on a bit.”

  “What makes you say that, Joe?” Bart asked as he turned to face the old man.

  “’Cause I’m jest an ol’ timer runnin’ off at the mouth… ‘Specially ‘bout them Druids and all.”

  “I see.” He looks spooked. “What difference does it make? We were only chatting…Or is there something else?”

  “Well, I gets to thinkin’ ‘bout some of the things you’s askin’…Sounds like you might be some kinda lawman or somethin’…You takin’ a look-see at them Druids?”

  Nora spoke up, “Come on now, Joe, do we look like cops? We’re just curious about the building, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” The wind seemed to go out of his sails. “I was kinda hopin’ yous was cops…Not that I got no solid proof or nothin’…But I ain’t the only one in town what’s keepin’ an eye on ‘em…I guarantees you that.”

  “If we were cops, and I’m not saying we are, who would we talk to here in town to find out more?”

  Joe looked furtively up and down the street and leaned in a little closer—bringing with him a fetid smell of coffee and tobacco. “A body what wants to know more’d be chattin’ with that fella Doug Martinez…the one what owns the Seawind Motel, right nigh the edge a town. ‘Course, if anybody was to ask, you ain’t heerd it from the likes of me.”

  “Sure, but why should we talk to this Martinez?”

  “’Cause he’s the one what kept the books for the Druids… Leastways, ‘til he got hisself shoved out by askin’ too many questions. Bein’ the last one of the old timers what saw the books, he might put you on the right track.”

  “Thanks for telling us. We’ll pass that on to the right people if we get the chance.”

  “All right, then. You watch yourselves now, hear? Some folks in this here town ain’t what they ‘pears to be…‘specially that Peters fella…Somethin’ ‘bout him jest ain’t on the up and up.”

  “What do you mean, they aren’t ‘on the up and up’.”

  “You figger it out. Said more’n I should…won’t say no more.” He looked over Bart’s shoulder and spotted one of Peter’s men looking at them from in front of the hardware store. “Gotta go.”

  “Come on now, Joe…You can’t stop now.”

  “Shore can.” Joe turned and walked away.

  ***

  CHAPTER 15

  MOTEL ROOM

  SEAWIND BAY, CALIFORNIA Rick Eichner’s appearance changed between Humboldt County, Nevada and Seawind Bay, California and the new identity of Bill Martin began to emerge. A buzz cut in Elko, Nevada and the application in a hotel room in Reno of hydrogen peroxide to the remaining hair turned it white. The two-week old beard was trimmed to a goatee and also treated with peroxide, as were his eyebrows and the hair on his arms. Hardly recognize myself. A slightly cloudy contact in one eye lent the appearance of an advancing cataract, and a colored contact in the other turned his hazel eye brown.

  The background of the fictitious Bill Martin included a brief stint in the United States Navy, so Rick carefully applied a henna tattoo to his left forearm that featured an anchor and chain with the initials “U.S.N.” below. Should last a couple of weeks. He slipped a worn ring unto his finger that also said “U.S.N.” around a fake stone. Thank you, pawnshop in Deadwood.

  Worn work boots were carefully crafted to hide a four-inch lift in the right boot, and a two-inch lift in the left boot. Makes for a nice limp.…Explains the cane. The bottom of the cane was modified to include metal electrodes in the center that could deliver a seventy-thousand volt shock to an attacker. Hundred years ago, would’ve had a spring-loaded blade in the tip.

  Worn-out jeans and a rumpled fishing hat with lures stuck in it completed the disguise and few people would suspect the stooped over old man who walked into Peters Hardware of being anything other that a retiree seeking a part to fix something.

  Rick shuffled up to a couple of men lazily stocking a shelf with plumbing pipe joints. He addressed one of them in a practiced voice that cracked slightly and sounded inherently weak. “Excuse me, young man.” In reality, they were probably close to the same age. “Can you tell me where I might find the owner?”

  “Da, old-timer,” he answered in a heavy Slavic accent. “He is back in office…I can help you to find something?” “I’m not shopping…But I would appreciate you telling Mister Peters that Bill Martin, from Garland, Texas is here to see him…I could walk back with you.”

  “Mister Peters don’t like nobody in office.” “He’s expecting me…So, run ahead and tell him I’m here…You should get there long before I do.”

  “Is okay you follow, but don’t be upset if my Bacc don’t want to see you.”

  “Certainly…lead the way.”

  The young man moved faster than his shelf-stocking would indicate possible. Perhaps he was worried that his boss was watching on one of the many surveillance cameras. He disappeared through a set of double doors with windows at the back of the store and came out less than a minute later—meeting Rick halfway to the back of the store. “I am sorry, Mister Martin,” he said with the most ingratiating smile he could muster. “I am Sergei…Mister Peters says to show you the way to office right away.”

  “Thought he might,” and the old timer’s voice slipped a little. He followed quickly toward the double doors, no longer using the cane.

  They entered a dusty storage area that smelled of old cardboard and even older wood and walked past shelves of boxes waiting to be stocked to a dirty, pockmarked metal door that once might have been gray. “Mister Peters is right in there, sir.”

  “Thank you, Sergei.” He knocked and waited for an answer.

  “Yes, yes, I am coming,” shouted an excited voice with a Russian accent from the other side.

  The door opened to reveal what had once been a walk-in cooler converted into a wood-paneled office. The view was blocked by a bear of a man who filled the door. Bigger than the last time I saw him.

  Nearly seven feet tall, he appeared to easily pass the four hundred pound mark. A thick shock of unruly hair the color of cinnamon looked like the fur of a bear. Gregori grabbed him in a massive hug and addressed him in Russian, “Yuri, my old friend, it has been too long since I last saw you…How do you fare in this foreign land?”

  “As well as one might expect…and you?”

  “Eh, I grow tired of living in this land of spineless sheep…So I am happy to have new bosses and new mission. You would like good vodka? We can drink, sing patriotic songs and share old memories, yes?”

  “That would be good, my old friend…We have much to talk about.

  SEAWIND BAY, CALIFORNIA

  “Well, that was like a bucket of cold water in the face,” Bart said as he turned to Nora.

  “And Peter’s guy seemed to be the root cause,” she replied. “So what do we do now?” “Don’t think old Joe’ll talk to us at the moment, and you’re right, he was definitely worried about being seen talking to us.”

  “Maybe because we’re strangers…But it’s weird…How could Peters have that strong a grip on the town?”

  “No way of tellin’, except maybe with the mysterious deaths and all… Although Joyce didn’t seem to be bothered about talking to us, did she?”

  “No, but that could be because she didn’t answer any questions and pushed us toward Joe.”

  “Good point…Not sure exactly how to pursue it, so let’s follow a time-tested rule of mine when I run into a brick wall…Let’s take a break…follow the path down the cliff and play on the beach fo
r awhile.”

  “Good idea, you handsome devil. We can always talk to him later.”

  They took each other’s hand and started down the twisting path to the water below. The wooden stairs creaked and groaned with each step and swayed a little. Seagulls circled in the updrafts from the beach and challenged each other with high-pitched screeches. The roar of the surf below grew louder with each step. The primordial smell of tidal pools and the unmistakable scent of ocean life—alive and dead—were almost overwhelming.

  “Not sure where it’ll lead, but guess it won’t hurt to ask some more questions…Just don’t see how it ties in with Rick Eichner…Guess we’ll just have to follow our gut.”

  “I’ll follow your gut anywhere…long as it doesn’t get too big for your britches.” She ran playfully down the beach and he followed in close pursuit.

  PETER’S HARDWARE

  SEAWIND BAY, CALIFORNIA Gregori leaned over the desk and spoke, “When I receive letter from Montana ranch speaking of guest who is old friend, I think maybe it could be you.”

  “Is safe to talk in here?”

  “Yes, of that you can be sure…Very thick walls and is soundproof…Signal-blocker stops electronic spying…Maybe, I should sweep it now?”

  “No…is not necessary.”

  He maneuvered his huge bulk around Rick’s chair to a bookcase on the opposite wall and pressed a disguised switch. A hidden panel next to it opened and revealed, among other things, a liquor shelf. He ignored the automatic weapons mounted on the wall and grabbed a bottle of clear liquid—blew a thick layer of dust away and stared fondly at the handmade label. “This, my friend, is vodka I have saved for very long time…From grandfather’s farm near Rybinsk…Not like cough syrup they peddle here.”

  After pouring two glasses full, he recited a toast, “Za vashe zdorovye.”

  “Vashee zdarovye.” Rick waited until Gregori began drinking and followed suit. “This is most excellent testament to your grandfather’s skill. Thank you for sharing the honor of this drink and the Russian language…It has been far too long…In fact, I often find myself thinking in English, like our instructors said we would.”

  “Sadly, I fear I am also losing old ways…A burden assumed when we volunteered for mission. Let us ignore these things…Drink more vodka and share memories.”

  “Excellent idea.”

  They spent the next hour reconnecting with their young lives on the Russian steppes and in the training camp where they learned to become totally immersed in their American cover stories.

  They had not seen each other since Gregori left Vladivostok on a trawler and Rick left Moscow on the chartered plane of a touring ballet company headed to Toronto, where he slipped away from the group and entered the United States.

  He told Gregori of his manipulation of the Thursday Night Mafia, and how he used them to rob Lake Tahoe casinos of nearly a half-million dollars.

  Gregori comment when Rick described how he killed all of them to conceal his escape was pragmatic. “Sometimes difficult choices must be made. They were unwitting martyrs to our cause…Puppets, nothing more. You are alive and operation was success…That is most important.” His voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “So, my friend, where are nuclear devices?”

  “In safe place known only to me.”

  “Good…and what of old couple at ranch? I have not heard from them for more than two weeks.”

  “Sadly, they perished in automobile accident.”

  “You are sure was accident?”

  “Like me, you are suspicious…But, yes…a drunken driver hit them head-on and also died. I will miss their help, but I had grown tired of listening to their complaints about weather and taxes. I decided to seek more pleasant company…Their death only moved up date.”

  “Is good to see you, old friend…But I think there is business to talk about, yes?”

  “Will it not wait while we drink?”

  “Yes.” Gregori wrapped his huge hand around the bottle of vodka, leaned forward and filled Rick’s glass to the brim. “To comradeship and prosperity.”

  Rick raised his glass, “And good times to come.”

  Bart stood on the top step from the beach, pulled Nora toward him and kissed the top of her head. “Okay, break’s over…Let’s get back to business.” He led her toward Joe Barsconi’s gas station. “We’ll go around back and approach from the opposite end of town.”

  Joe was bent over a workbench in the service bay working on an old carburetor when they entered. He heard their footsteps and whirled around with a screwdriver pointed at them like a weapon. “Damn it all to hell…You tryin’ to give a man a seizure or somethin’?”

  “Sorry, Joe…Thought you might feel better if nobody saw us come in, that’s all.” “Well, that’d be the truth…but sneakin’ around like some low-down connivin’ thugs…Oughtta be glad I don’t have no gun…Whatchu want, anyway?”

  “Kinda had the feeling there was more you wanted to say to us earlier. The way you reacted just now tells me you’re maybe a little frightened by some things going on around here.”

  “Ain’t skeered of nobody…jest careful.”

  “Still, there something else you want to tell us?” Joe stood still for a minute, rubbed his chin and finally

  spoke, “Most of it’s knowed by the whole town anyways, so guess it don’t matter…You gotta swear, though, not to tell anybody where youheerd it from, understood?”

  “I won’t tell anybody, I swear…So what is it that has you spooked?”

  “Everythin’s changed since that Peters fella gits here fifteen years ago…Comes in packin’ a wad of moola that’d choke a mule…Claims it comes from sellin’ a bidness up Portland way…Only thin’ is, Spellman, the banker man in Point Arena, says they weren’t no such bidness.

  “Peters buys out the hardware store…I heerd he gave ol’ Bill Shipman two hundred and twenty thousand smackeroos, cash money, an’ got hisself the place lock, stock an’ barrel. Runs it like some kinda club fer hisself and his buddies…Cain’t hardly walk in there leastwise you’s trippin’ over one a ‘em.”

  “You mean they work for Peters?”

  “Says they does…Funny thin’ is, Bill an’ his son run the place by theyself…Peter’s got seven or eight men on his payroll…An’ they’s a changin’ all the time…Comes and goes like the tide. I even heered a coupla ‘em talkin’ like Russkies one day.”

  “Russian? Do any of them have Russian names?”

  “Not so’s a man can tell…Let’s see, they’s a Johnson, a Rager, coupla brothers called Provost, and one goes by Maron, or somethin’ like that…Jest know they ain’t from ‘round these here parts…Gets a bad feelin’ in my bones.”

  “Have you told the authorities about your suspicions?”

  “If you mean the law…no siree. I recollect back in Pro’bition when many a good man kept his fam’ly fed by bringin’ in a load of hooch now and agin on they fishin’ boats…Been taught since I was a young’n to keep my mouth shut ‘bout ‘nother man’s bidness.

  “And the law comes outta Point Arena…Never know jest whose payroll they might be on. Besides, ain’t much I can tell ‘em…No solid proof of any wrong doin’s…An’ I might could get myself turned sidewayslookin’ for some.”

  “I see what you mean, Joe, and I understand. Still, if some of those accidents you talked about earlier were crimes, you’d want somebody to look into it, wouldn’t you?”

  “Reckon I would…Does that mean you’re law men?”

  “You’re better off not knowing.”

  “That’s prob’ly true…Now, I told you all I know…So I best get back to work…Do me a favor an’ leave the way you come.”

  Bart and Nora opened the back door and the sound of waves crashing on the beach below greeted them. Joe lit a cigarette and went back to work on the carburetor.

  ***

  CHAPTER 16

  SEAWIND BAY MOTEL “You okay, babe?” Bart asked Nora as they walked toward the office o
f the Seawind Breeze Motel. “You slowed to a crawl…something on your mind?”

  “Wondering what a real vacation would be like…We’ve been so tied up with work and volunteering we haven’t left time for ourselves.”

  “That’s for sure…How ‘bout we take some time off after this and get away?”

  “Really?”

  “Sure. ‘Course, we need to catch Eichner and his buddies first…But getting away after that’d be a chance to sit down… talk about whether we want to keep doing this.”

  “You usually jump into a new venture with both feet and never look back…You saying maybe this isn’t right for us?”

  “No, what I’m saying is we need to look at how this mission goes and figure out if we want to keep doing it…There’s plenty of danger and I sure wouldn’t want anything to happen to the best thing I’ve ever had.”

  “Awfully sweet of you, kind sir.”

  Bart held the door for her as they entered the lobby. “Man, what a beautiful view.” A sofa, two overstuffed chairs and a coffee table formed a U-shape in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over a cliff to the rocky shoreline below and a magnificent view of the white-capped Pacific Ocean.

  “I like the fresh clean smell in here…like someone’s living room.”

  “Comes from real cleaning, not just spraying air freshner.”

  They were greeted at the front desk by a willowy, fresh-faced girl with dark hair, very little makeup, and no need for it. “Good afternoon, you folks have a reservation?”

  “No,” he answered. “We’re looking for Doug Martinez…He here, by any chance?”

  “Sort of. I mean, he’s here, just not right here.” The young woman laughed at herself. “What I meant to say is he’s working down on the beach…Should be back any minute. There, did that come out better?”

  “Yes, it did. I’m Nora, and you are?”

  “Licia Martinez…Doug’s my dad. Something I can help you folks with?”

  “Possibly…We received an anonymous call with complaints about a businessman in town…Know anything about it?”