The Maine Events

by Rodney Riesel

“What can I do for you today?” Doris asked, the smile still plastered across her face. She reached up and adjusted her bra strap through her T-shirt.

  “My name is Allen Crane and—”

  “The writer.”

  “That's right. You've heard of me?”

  “Just from Mr. Jordan.”

  “Oh,” Allen responded. “Anyway, I'm trying to get in touch with Bobby. Is he here?”

  “No, Mr. Jordan is out of the office at the moment.”

  “Is there any way you could contact him and let him know that I'm trying to get in touch with him?”

  Doris picked up a pencil and readied herself. “May I ask what this is about?”

  “It's a personal matter.”

  Doris looked Allen up and down. “I see,” she said. “If you leave your contact information, I'll have Mr. Jordan give you a call when he returns.”

  “I'd like to speak with him now, if that's at all possible.”

  The smile left Doris's face. Her tolerance level was very low. “I've already explained to you that Mr. Jordan is not in the office,” she said sternly. “If you leave your—”

  “I heard you the first time lady.” Allen stepped closer to the desk. “Now, get Jordan on the phone right now.” Allen stepped even closer.

  Doris reached inside the top drawer of her desk and pulled out a revolver. “Take one more step in this direction, shit stain, and I'll blow your goddamn head off.” She pulled back the hammer.

  “Whoa!” Allen said. “I'm not here to cause any trouble.”

  “Then you're using the wrong tone of voice.”

  “Listen,” Allen said calmly, “it's very important I speak with Jordan. If you could give him a call and let him know it's about the piece of paper he was looking for the other day, I'm sure he'll want to speak with me.”

  “Piece of paper, you say?”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Sit,” she said, pointing the barrel of her of her .44 across the desk at one of the chairs, “and keep your mouth shut.”

  Allen did as he was ordered. Doris kept the weapon trained on him as she dialed the phone, pressed the speaker button, and placed the handset back in the cradle.

  “What's going on, Doris?” Bobby answered.

  “You're on speaker, Mr. Jordan. That writer's here. He has the paper.”

  “I don't have it,” said Allen.

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut,” Doris reminded him.

  “Allen?” said Jordan.

  “Yeah, Bobby, it's me.”

  “You know where the paper is?” Jordan asked.

  “I think I might.”

  “You think you might.”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan groaned. “I'll be there in fifteen minutes,” he said.

  “Can you tell Doris to put away the gun please?”

  Jordan chuckled. “She'll put it away when she's ready.” He hung up.

  Allen sat still in the chair for a few minutes, afraid to speak. Finally he asked, “Are you ready yet?”

  “Nope.”

  Allen sighed. “Can you at least release the hammer?”

  Doris thought about it for a second. “Yeah, I guess,” she replied. “My hands aren't as steady as they once were, and we wouldn't want another accident.” With her thumb she released the hammer.

  “Accident?” Allen asked.

  With a nod of her head, Doris motioned behind Allen. He turned around to see that one of the 6”x8” glass panes had been replaced with a piece of cardboard. The repair job was eye level to where Allen now sat. He swallowed hard, as he inspected the wall and ceiling for blood spatter.

  *****

  Fifteen minutes turned into a half hour; finally, Bobby Jordan walked through the front door. He was holding a slice of pizza in his left hand.

  “… and that's why I became a writer,” Allen said, finishing the one-sided conversation he and Doris were having. She still held the revolver. Allen was oblivious to the fact she looked like she wanted to shoot herself with it.

  “Wow, that's fascinating,” said Doris in a weary monotone, slipping the gun into the drawer. “I'll be sure to look for your books the next time I'm at the Book Warehouse.”

  “Thanks, I'm flattered,” said Allen, beaming.

  “Good afternoon, Crane,” said Jordan. “Right this way.”

  Allen rose and followed Jordan into the hall and through a door on the right. Jordan sat down and put his feet up on his desk. Allen surveyed the room. It was the same white walls, ceiling, and trim as the reception area. There was no curtain on the one window in the room. To say it was nothing fancy would be an under-statement. It didn't really look to Allen like this was an office where Jordan spent much of his time.

  “Close the door behind you, Crane.”

  Allen did as he was told.

  “Take a load off,” Jordan said.

  Allen sat down in the only other chair in the room, a metal folding chair.

  “Nice chair,” Allen said. “Is this real metal?”

  Jordan shook his finger at Allen. “You're a funny guy, Crane. Now, where's that paper?”

  “I don't know.”

  “You said you had it.”

  “No, I told Doris I had information about it.”

  Jordan scratched his head. “If you don't have it, or at least know where it is, then how do you even know it exists?”

  “I guessed.”

  “Guessed? Guessed about what?”

  “That it was a piece of paper you were looking for when you came to my motel room last week.”

  “You guessed right. What do you want, a prize?”

  “No, I just want to know where Jacob Palmer is.”

  “Who?”

  “Jacob Palmer.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “He's the boy who's missing.”

  “Oh yeah. I heard something about that. Found him dead behind the high school, or something.”

  “That was Oliver, a friend of Jacob's, and it was the elementary school.”

  “Then who's Jacob?”

  “He's the other boy that went missing. The two boys were together. You met Jacob in my motel room last week.”

  Jordan snapped his fingers. “The dog walker!”

  “Yes, the dog walker.”

  “I liked that kid. What about him?”

  “Where is he?”

  “How the hell would I know? I'm a lot of things, Crane, but I ain't no kiddie toucher.”

  “I didn't think you were,” Allen said. “Listen, Jordan, I haven't told the cops what I know, and I won't. I just want the boy back. I won't say a word to anyone. I swear on my life.”

  “Want the boy back? Won't say a word? A word about what? So, I came to your room looking for a sheet of paper. That's not exactly a felony, Crane. I'll be the first to admit, I ain't the sharpest bulb in the crayon box, but tryin' to figure out what you're talking about is giving me a headache.”

  “You don't know where Jacob is?”

  “No!”

  Allen sighed and slumped down in the chair.

  “Start from the beginning, Crane. What made you think I knew the whereabouts of that kid?”

  “Because I thought the boys disappearance had something to do with the paper, and if it did, that would mean it had something to do with you.”

  “A little less confusing, but why would them kids goin' missin' have anything to do with that paper?”

  “Because, Mya Duffy remembered seeing Jacob and Oliver at Stones Throw the same day you, Vinny, and I were there. She saw them under the deck, below the seating area. They were looking at a piece of paper. She chased them off.”

  “Who's Mya Duffy?”

  “The hostess at Stones Throw.”

  “Ya mean, that broad you been tryin' to bang?”

  “Um … yeah.”

  “She saw them with my paper.”

  “Yes—well, maybe.”

  “Musta blowed off the table.”

  “That
was my thought.”

  “And those little bastards picked it up.”

  “Yes.”

  Jordan grinned and shook his head. “I knew there was something I liked about that dog walker. He knew that paper was mine. He looked me straight in the eye and asked who Mr. Strong was. The little shit was pumpin' me for information.”

  “And then I saw them later that day—after they were at Stones Throw—reading the paper.”

  Jordan shrugged. “Ain't great readin',” he said.

  “What was on the paper?”

  “I told ya that was none of your concern. Besides, them having that piece of paper don't pose no danger to them. They wouldn't even know what it was, and neither would anyone else.”

  “Except you and Vinny.”

  “That's right.”

  “If it's not important, then what is it?”

  “I didn't say it wasn't important. I said it was nothing to them, or anyone else who might look at it. The only people that note meant anything to was me and Vinny.”

  “So, you don't want it back now?”

  “Nope. Too late.”

  “Too late for what?”

  “Can't tell ya.”

  There was a knock at the door and it opened a few inches.

  “Mr. Jordan, I'm takin' off,” Doris said.

  “Okay, Doris. Lock the door on your way out.”

  “Yep.” She shot Allen a half-assed smile and pulled the door closed.

  “We'll go out the back door,” said Jordan.

  Allen nodded. “Doris is pretty quick with that pistol,” he said.

  “Sometimes ya gotta be in this business.”

  “Properties?”

  Jordan looked momentarily puzzled, then grinned slyly. “Oh, yeah, properties, like the sign says. Is there anything else I can do for you, Crane?”

  “If you're not going to tell me what was on that note, then no, I guess not.”

  Jordan clapped his hands together. “Okay then, we'll wrap this meeting up.”

  Allen started to stand. “Wait,” said Jordan.

  Allen sat back down.

  Jordan pulled open his desk drawer. Allen prepared himself to look down the barrel of another gun, but instead, Jordan pulled out two cigars. He tossed one across the desk; it rolled to the edge.

  “I know you like cigars,” Jordan said. “Try that one.”

  Allen picked up the cigar and read the band. “Arturo Fuente Opus X. This is a fifty dollar cigar.”

  Jordan tossed a lighter and punch onto the desk. “Light up.” He pulled an ashtray out of the same drawer and laid it on the desk halfway between them. Then he leaned over and opened a door in the right side of the desk. He reached inside and took out a bottle of Booker's Bourbon, and placed that on the desk, along with two rocks glasses.

  “Geez,” Allen said, as he unwrapped his cigar, “properties really pays well.”

  “Yes it does.”

  Jordan poured them each two fingers and put the bottle away. They both lit their cigars and blew the smoke slowly into the air.

  “Wow,” Allen said, “that is really good.” He took another drag, and this time held the smoke in his mouth a little longer.

  Jordan lit his stick, had a puff, and picked up his glass. “What should we drink to, Crane?”

  Allen lifted his glass. “How about we drink to Jacob, and hoping that he's okay.”

  “Good idea. Here's blood in your eye.”

  “You mean mud.”

  That sly grin again. “Maybe.”

  The two men clinked their glasses together.

  “The cops have no leads?” Jordan asked.

  “There've been a few calls to the tip line, but none of them amounted to anything.”

  “And the other boy, what did the autopsy show?”

  “Head trauma, broken arm, dislocated shoulder. Looks like he was beaten pretty bad, and then just dumped there behind the school.”

  “He wasn't killed there.”

  “No.”

  “And no sign of the other boy, ya say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don't know how a parent can survive something like that,” Jordan said.

  “Me neither.”

  “You lost your wife awhile back.”

  “Yes.”

  “I looked you up on the interweb. Said she died of cancer.”

  “That's right.” Allen sipped his bourbon.

  “How long from the time she found out she had it till she died?”

  “Not long enough.”

  Jordan turned his head and gazed out the window. “The big C took my stepdad down in nine months. He was a big man. Went from 350 pounds down to 175 in those few months. The last month I wanted to put a bullet in his head just to put him out of his misery.”

  “It's tough to watch someone you love die like that.”

  “Love? My old man was a fuckin' prick. A real son of a bitch. The only thing me and my brother ever agreed on was how much we hated that bastard.”

  Allen tried his hardest not to laugh, but he couldn't hold back the snort. “Sorry,” he said. “I don't mean to laugh.”

  Jordan waved him off. “Don't worry about it.”

  “Do you have any contact with your biological father, if you don't mind me asking?”

  “My real dad was gunned down right outside a Wegmans when I was only a year old.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “You didn't do it.”

  “I probably wasn't born yet.”

  “The perfect alibi,” Jordan said. “A buddy of mine back in Jersey got me a copy of the police report. Witnesses said my dad walked out of the store with two bags of groceries in his arms. Someone called out his name. He stopped and turned around. The gunman put three in his chest, and when he went down”—Jordan cocked and fired a finger gun—“pow! A fourth an fatal one in the back of his head.”

  “That's horrible.”

  “I always wonder what my life would be like now if he hadda lived.”

  “The friend that got you the copy of the police report, was he a cop?” Allen asked.

  Jordan delivered another one of his signature sly grins. “Yes, he was, Crane.”

  Allen sipped his bourbon, puffed on his cigar a few times, and contemplated his next question.

  “What are ya thinkin' about, Crane?” Jordan asked.

  “A lot of things.”

  “I told you before, you can ask any question you want, but that doesn't mean I'll give you an answer.”

  “Does Jim Tucker work for you?”

  “Where did that come from?”

  “I know he was a cop in Boston. I also know you have a few business interests in Boston. Tucker moved back here to his hometown around the same time you, your mother, and your brother moved here. Sergeant Rose told me your family has always been one step ahead of the cops. That would be a lot easier if one of them worked for you.”

  “You put all that together and came to the conclusion that Tucker works for us? Maybe you should be a detective.”

  “So, I'm right?”

  “I didn't say that.”

  “Has Tucker said anything to you about Mya Duffy and me?”

  Jordan took a long drag on his cigar and let the smoke out slowly as he spoke. “Nothing I say leaves this room, Crane. You understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I mean, do you understand?”

  “Uh … yes.”

  “Tucker asked Myron Spoon to put a bullet in your head.”

  Allen felt the color drain from his face as he choked on his drink. “W-what?”

  “Tucker asked Spoon to kill you. He said he wanted it to look like a robbery gone bad. He doesn't want you anywhere near Ms. Duffy. Spoon came to me first, and I put a stop to it. I explained to Tucker that you would be leaving in a few days, and that everything—”

  “Would be back to normal.”

  “Correct.”

  “Um … thank you?”

  “You're welco
me. You will be leaving.”

  “Yes.”

  “Without the beautiful Ms. Duffy.”

  “Isn't that up to her?”

  “No, it's not, but don't worry about it. From what I hear, she would never move away and leave her grandmother anyway.”

  “You're probably right.” Allen downed the rest of his drink and pulled out his cell phone to check the time. “Well, I better get going, Jordan. Thanks for the cigar.”

  “Anytime.”

  “Where's that back door?”

  Both men stood.

  “Follow me,” Jordan said.

  The two men walked out of the office. Jordan pointed to the end of the hall.

  “Right through that door,” Jordan said. “It'll lock automatically. Just make sure you pull it shut.”

  Allen and Bobby shook hands and Allen walked to the exit door.

  “It was just numbers,” Jordan said.

  “Allen turned around. “Excuse me?”

  “On the paper, it was just numbers.”

  “Like phone numbers?”

  “No, like a combination to a safe—my brother's safe.”

  “You were going to rob your brother, but you lost the combination.”

  “You got it.”

  “You were going to do it when he and your mother were gone. He came home, and that's why it was too late.” Grinning, the gangster tapped Allen's cheek in a gesture that was half slap, half creepy caress. “On the nose, Crane. Must be why you're such a good mystery writer.”

  “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Like I said, it's not going to happen now, and I didn't want you to think those boy's disappearance had anything to do with that piece of paper.”

  Allen nodded. “Thanks.” He pushed open the door and squinted when the sunshine flooded the hall.

  “I hope you find that kid.”

  “Me too, Jordan. Me too.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Did you hear me? Are you awake?”

  Allen hadn't heard anything. “Who is this?” he asked. He looked over at the alarm clock on the nightstand. It was six o'clock.

  “It's Rose.”

  “Oh. Hold on.” Allen yawned and rubbed his eyes. He cleared his throat. He sat up and scooted back against the headboard.

  Frankie was lying on the sofa, his undivided attention on the phone call.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Rose asked again. “Jordan's dead.”

  “Dead?” Allen yanked back his covers and put his feet on the floor. “What are you talking about? I just spoke with him yesterday.”