The Maine Events

by Rodney Riesel

  Allen followed her across the alley, onto a brick sidewalk, and up the stairs. She led him to his table, and he sat down facing the water. Behind him was the motel. The decking was gray composite. The railing posts were covered in white vinyl. The railings were thin steel cables.

  Mya bent down and scratched Frankie's head. “Beautiful dog,” she said.

  “Well, he's a dog supermodel, so …”

  “Is he really?”

  “No. Frankie's just a regular dog model, and an actor.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. You've probably seen him in a few commercials.”

  “Oh my God. What ones?”

  “Let's see … there was the one for Gullible Hostesses Anonymous. He was also in—”

  “Very funny.” Mya was grinning but at the same time trying to look angry.

  “I'm just joking with you. He's actually never had a call back.”

  Mya rose and put her hands on her hips. “Are you finished?”

  “I had a few more, but we can do it tomorrow.”

  “I'm off tomorrow.”

  “Your loss. It was gonna be some real funny shit.”

  Mya just shook her head and turned back toward the steps. Before she ascended, she looked back over her shoulder. Allen gave her a big grin … purposefully too big.

  Allen noticed a table of college-age guys to his right, staring at Mya as she crossed the deck. They were the only other customers on the deck. One said something, but Allen couldn't hear what it was. It was obviously hilarious, based on the other four's reaction. One of the kids looked over at Allen. Allen nodded; the kid nodded back.

  “Looks like everyone loves Mya,” Allen said, mostly to himself.

  He crossed his legs and picked up the menu, as he leaned back in his chair. “Another nice view,” he said to the dog.

  “Welcome to Stones Throw,” said a tall, skinny twenty-something with a man bun and black, thick-rimmed glasses.

  “Welcome to my table,” Allen replied.

  “Can I start you off with something to drink?”

  Allen quickly scanned the cocktails. “Um … yeah. I, uh, I'll have one of these Painkillers.”

  “Good choice.”

  “Is booze ever a bad choice?”

  The kid chuckled. “I guess not.”

  “Oh, and some water for Frankie.”

  The kid glanced down at the panting dog. “Of course.” He turned, and then spun back around. “I'm Cal, by the way.”

  “I'm Allen.”

  Cal walked into the building through a set of glass French doors, at the rear of the deck. Allen looked up over the doorway at a second-floor deck. There were no tables on that deck, only white plastic lounge chairs, and a couple end tables. There were stairs leading from the lower deck to the upper deck. Underneath the stairs was a door that said restroom.

  “You think you can hang here for a second, pal?” Allen asked. “I gotta hit the head.”

  Frankie's eyes were closed.

  “So … that's a yes?”

  Allen got up, crossed the deck, and pulled open the door. He was a little startled to see two men already standing in the small 4' x 5' restroom. One of the men, the larger of the two, was about Allen's height—almost six feet, but about a hundred pounds heavier. He clutched the front of the other guy's T-shirt in his right fist and had him backed up against the sink. His stubbled face was red. The other guy looked nervous but not really scared. The smaller guy was bald and had a scar under his right eye.

  “What the hell do you want?” the bigger guy demanded and brought up his left forearm to halt Allen.

  Allen grinned. “I just needed to pee.”

  “We're in here.”

  “I see that.” Allen glanced down at the deadbolt. “If you turn this knob, no one will disturb you and … whoever this guy is.”

  The goon released his grip on the smaller guy and reached for Allen. He had fire in his eyes.

  “You smart mouth—”

  Allen took a step back, and when the guy's arm cleared the doorway, he swung it closed as hard as he could on the angry man's bicep.

  “Ahhh!” the guy cried out.

  Allen smacked the bottom of the door with the tow of his sneaker, and with very little effort, wedged it into place. The guy was moving his hand around in every direction and opening and closing his fist, trying to grab hold of Allen.

  “Open the door!” the guy hollered. “Goddammit!”

  “Calm down and I'll let you out,” Allen responded. “If not, I can stand here all day.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  “Sticks and stones,” said Allen. He looked to his left at the college guys. They didn't know what to think.

  “I'll rip you apart!”

  “Threats will only lead to more pain,” Allen warned, and then threw his shoulder into the door.

  “Aargh!” the big guy cried out again.

  “Excuse me, sir,” said the waiter.

  “Yes, Cal?”

  “Were you ready to order?”

  “I haven't looked at the menu yet.”

  “I have your drink.” In his other hand, Cal held a bowl of water.

  “Fantastic. Can you just hold the straw up to my mouth so I can take a sip?”

  Cal did as he was asked. Allen took a long sip.

  “Oh, that's good, Cal. Did you make that?”

  “Yes, I did,” Cal said proudly.

  The man with his arm stuck in the door continued to scream threats and obscenities as Cal and Allen conversed.

  “Quiet down!” Allen hollered, and hit the door with his shoulder again. “This guy is so rude.”

  “Um, are you going to let him out of the restroom, sir?”

  “As soon as he settles down. Can you put my drink on the table and grab the menu please?”

  Cal walked the five steps to Allen's table. He placed the drink on the table, the bowl in front of a still sleeping Frankie, and picked up the menu.

  “I swear to God,” the rowdy yelled, “when I get out of here, I'm gonna rip your head off!”

  Allen looked at Cal and rolled his eyes. “Hold the menu up so I can read it please.”

  Cal held it up to Allen's face.

  “Back it up there a bit, Cal. I'm not a young man anymore, and I left my reading glasses in the car.”

  Cal pulled back the menu and Allen looked it over.

  “I'll just have an order of those wings.”

  “Great choice,” said Cal, and he once again disappeared through the French doors.

  Allen returned his attention to the arm. “If you want me to release the door, all you have to do is promise not to touch me.”

  The guy was silent for a few seconds, and then Allen heard the two men whispering. He put his ear closer to the door, but couldn't make out what they were saying.

  “It's not nice to whisper,” Allen said. “It makes others feel left out.”

  “Okay, let me out,” the guy said calmly. “I won't touch you.”

  “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “I think you also owe me an apology.”

  “I'm sorry,” the guy said, obviously through clenched teeth.

  “Now see, that wasn't so hard, was it?” Allen released his toe hold on the door and readied himself for what he knew was a phony apology.

  The ruffian shoved open the door with both hands. It slammed against the wall behind it. The guy may have looked angry before, but it was nothing compared to the look on his face when he stepped out of the restroom. His eyes bulged, his face was almost as red as his eyes, and a massive vein protruded from the center of his forehead. A single drop of sweat ran from above his left eye, around the brow, and down his cheek. He took one step toward Allen, froze, and grabbed his chest.

  Allen stepped aside as the three-hundred-pounder toppled forward and hit the deck face first. The entire lower deck shook, waking Frankie. The do
g jumped to his feet.

  Allen glanced over at Mya, who was just then bringing a party of four up the steps and onto the deck. She looked at Allen, and then down at the guy on the deck.

  “Looks like you just missed the show, folks,” said Mya. “Today's act was a supermodel dog and his comedian owner. Some real funny shit.”

  “Should we call 911?” one of the ladies in the group asked.

  “Probably be a good idea,” Mya replied.

  The second man stepped out of the restroom. He stared down at the unconscious man. “The boss ain't gonna like this,” he said, straightening the front of his T-shirt. “Nope, he ain't gonna like this at all.”

  “Cal!” Allen hollered through the French doors, “Can I get those wings to go?”

  Chapter Two

  It was two thirty by the time Allen and Frankie returned to the Sunrise Motel. The paper sign that had been taped to the office door was gone, and a tall thin woman stood behind the reception desk looking down at some paperwork.

  “Looks like the manager is in, Frankie,” Allen said. “Let's see if our room is ready.”

  Allen led the dog across the parking lot to the office door, and they went in. By the time they got inside, the tall woman was bent over a chest freezer, to the left of the counter, with the lid open. She was shoulder deep in the old Kenmore.

  “Are you stuck?” Allen joked.

  The woman raised up, smacking the back of her head on the half-closed lid. “Ouch.”

  “Sorry about that. Didn't mean to startle you.”

  The woman rubbed the back of her head and checked her fingertips. “No blood,” she said. “We're all good.” She closed the lid. “Just making sure there's enough ice. Machine's broke, so I gotta put bags in here till we get her fixed.” She walked across the office, went through a door, and reappeared behind the reception desk.

  “Hi,” Allen said. “I just talked to your twin sister about the ice.”

  “That was me. I don't—oh, you were pulling my leg.”

  “Yup, just pulling your leg.”

  “Good one. What can I do for ya? Checkin' in?”

  “I am … if my room is ready.”

  Allen stared at the woman's face as she pecked away on the computer with her long, bony fingers. Although she didn't seem to be elderly, her face, arms, and hands were wrinkled and dotted with liver spots, telling the story of a woman who'd seen a lot of sun, booze, and cigarettes. Her crow's feet and laugh lines were deep. Her hair, a pinkish bouffant with random flecks of black and gray, suggested a wad of cotton candy in which hapless insects had gotten entangled. She had bags under her eyes and her cheeks and jowls were deflated, as though the day before she had weighed a hundred pounds more. She hummed an unfamiliar tune while she stabbed at the keyboard.

  Allen Crane,” she said to herself. “Knew some Cranes once up in Bangor.

  Allen primed himself to reply to the Are you Allen Crane, the writer? Reaction he sometimes got—and was always vaguely disappointed when he didn't. The manager obviously needed some prompting.

  “I'm a writer,” he said. “I came here to try and knock out a new book. A change of scenery's supposed to be just the ticket for curing writer's block.”

  “Uh-huh. I'll put you in room number eleven, Mr. Crane.”

  Allen's ego deflated like a balloon. “Okay. Thanks.”

  She handed him an old-fashioned metal key on a plastic fob stamped with an image of the Nubble Lighthouse.

  “I'm in the room right next door. If ya need anything, just knock.”

  “I'll be sure and do that.” Allen looked down at the dog, who was out cold again. “Get up, Frankie.”

  The dog opened his eyes and yawned.

  “Frankie, ya say?” the manager asked.

  “That's what I said.”

  “Like Frankie and Johnny?”

  “Nope. Like Frank and Lola.”

  “Who's that?”

  “Just a couple I met in Pensacola. They were on their second honeymoon.”

  “Frank and Lola, in Pensacola,” she said with a grin. “It rhymes.”

  “Huh. So it does. Someone should write a song.” Allen turned and headed back to the Jeep.

  Allen's luggage consisted of a green nylon duffle bag, a small black suitcase on wheels, and a leather satchel for his laptop and other writing supplies. He put the duffle bag strap around his neck and hung it to the right, and the leather satchel strap around his neck and hung it to the left. He raised the handle on the suitcase, closed the door, and walked back toward the office.

  “No, no, Frankie,” he said. “Don't worry. I can get all the luggage. You just get the doors.” He looked down at the dog when they arrived back at the office door. “I gotta get the doors too?”

  Frankie had that expression on his face that all good dogs have when their master speaks to them. It's that look in their eye that says, “I know what you're sayin', man, and I'd answer you if I could.”

  “I got it,” said Allen.

  He looked over at the manager and nodded, turned to his left, and walked up the stairs to the second floor.

  Each room had two lawn chairs and an end table sitting on the walkway. They sat under a picture window that looked out from the room over the parking lot, the street, and eventually the ocean. Allen slid the key into the doorknob, turned it, and pushed open the door. The first thing he noticed was that the room had been completely remodeled since the last time he visited. There was new sheetrock and paint. The furniture appeared to be new. To his right, past the table and two chairs, was a small kitchenette with a sink, a two-burner stove, a small refrigerator, a microwave, and a coffee pot.

  “Nice.”

  Allen shut the door behind him and walked to the bathroom.

  “Everything in here is new as well, Frankie.”

  Frankie was already on the bed with his eyes closed.

  “Asleep again? I think the people at the animal shelter lied to me, Frankie. I don't think you're really four years old. You act like an old man, for chrissakes. I wonder if there's a butcher knife in one of these drawers. I'll cut ya in half and count the rings. See how old you really are.”

  Frankie opened his eyes.

  “I knew that'd get your attention. Don't worry, I wouldn't do that. Too much of a mess. If I've learned anything from writing mysteries, ya gotta freeze the body first and then cut it up with a band saw.”

  Frankie closed his eyes and covered them with his paw.

  While Frankie slept, Allen unpacked the duffle bag and hung up anything that needed to be hung up and put in a drawer anything that needed to be put in a drawer. He grabbed the suitcase next and tossed that on the bed. He removed a couple shirts to reveal a 12”x9” humidor. He removed the humidor and placed it on the bed. He opened the top. Inside were twenty-four cigars ranging in length from four to six inches. Most of the cigars had a ring gauge of fifty. He closed the lid, and then pulled out a bottle of Kraken Rum and a bottle of Don Julio tequila. He scanned the room.

  “Where should we set up the bar, Frankie?”

  Frankie didn't answer of course, but it was nice to pretend.

  “No,” Allen argued, “I'll need the table to write. How about the sink?”

  Allen walked to the sink, put the coffee pot on top of the microwave, and slid the microwave closer to the wall.

  “There,” he said. “Perfect bar.”

  Allen returned to his suitcase and unpacked the rest of his stuff, including his Smith & Wesson 9mm, that was wrapped neatly in an old Boston concert tee. He removed the stainless steel weapon from its cloth wrapper and slid it under the edge of the mattress. Lastly, he took his laptop, notebooks, and a few pens out of his leather satchel. He set the laptop on the table, and the notebooks and pens to the left of it. He pulled out one of the chairs, sat down, and hit the power button on the laptop. The screen lit up just as two uniformed police officers walked past his window.

  “Shit.”

  Knock, knock!

&
nbsp; Allen stood and answered the door.

  “Yeah?”

  “Are you Allen Crane?”

  “Who wants to know?”

  The two officers looked at each other, and then back at Allen.

  “I'm Sergeant Paul Rose with the York Police Department. This is Officer Jim Tucker. We'd like to ask you a few questions about what transpired at Stones Throw this afternoon.”

  “Did the guy die?”

  Rose shook his head. “No, he's in stable condition at York Hospital.”

  “Well, that's good, I guess.” Allen pulled the door open the rest of the way. “Come on in.”

  “The two men entered Allen's room.

  “Sit down, if you'd like. I only have two chairs.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder. “And that little sofa.”

  Tucker grabbed the back of the chair Allen had been sitting in, pulled it backwards a few feet, and sat down. He looked over at the sleeping dog.

  “You're not in any trouble,” said Rose.

  “I didn't think I was,” Allen responded.

  Tucker snorted quietly.

  Rose said, “The waiter—”

  “Cal Watters,” said Tucker.

  Rose shot him a look. “He said you were just defending yourself.”

  This caught Allen a little by surprise, since he knew Cal hadn't seen what started the altercation. If anyone had seen everything, it was probably one of the college guys.

  “Other witnesses—” Rose began.

  “Mya Duffy, Trey Turner, Steve—” Tucker interrupted.

  “He doesn't need to know everyone's name, Tuck.”

  “Right, Sarge.”

  “They all corroborated Cal's account.”

  “That's good,” said Allen.

  “We just wanted to get your side of the story,” Rose said.

  “Well, I gave my drink order to the waiter.”

  “Cal Watters,” said Tucker.

  “That's right, Tuck,” Allen said, “Cal Watters. Then I got up to use the restroom. I opened the door and there were already two guys in there. The guy that stroked out, and another guy. The stroker had—”

  “Bobby Jordan,” said Tucker.

  “Bobby Jordan?”

  “The stroker.”

  “Oh. Anyway, Bobby had the little guy—”