The Boss of Hampton Beach

by Jed Power

  Chapter 38

  When he got back to Hampton Beach, the first thing Dan did was shove the blue gym bag up into the small attic of his cottage. It would be safe there temporarily and he could figure out what to do with it later. Right now he had something else on his mind.

  Revenge.

  What he was contemplating was crazy. He could've chalked it up to some sort of delayed stress reaction from seeing brains blown out down on Singing Beach. But he'd been considering the same thing every day since the incident at Boar's Head. Only difference was that now he had the energy–and the attitude–to actually pull something off.

  Look out Tony Peralta. Here comes Dan Marlowe.

  It wasn't just because of the beating. It was more because of the feelings and thoughts that the coke he'd been forced to consume had awakened in him. They weren't good, those feelings. They hurt. And they'd keep on hurting for a long, long time. It was like dragging yourself through Hell, then making it out only to find someone on the outside who picked you up and dropped you back at the beginning again. A rotten thing to do to a man. Time to settle the score.

  Dan waited until dark. Then he got out a gas can he kept under the cottage for the weed whacker, slipped on a pair of gloves, and filled six empty green Heineken bottles with the fluid. He stuffed a rag in the opening of each, then put the bottles in a six-pack holder. He took out a newly purchased .38 revolver and loaded the chambers. Then he looked up Peralta's phone number, dialed it, let it ring. When the answering machine picked up, he smiled. He was going to do this thing and he didn't feel a bit nervous. He stuck the gun in the back of his waistband, slipped on a light jacket, and carried the six-pack of Molotov cocktails out to the car.

  Before he got in the driver's seat he looked up at the sky. It was a cloudless night, so clear it seemed like he could see every star that could possibly exist. The ocean thundered just over the dunes and a snap of salt hung in the air. It was the type of night that usually beckoned him out for a walk on the beach, but not tonight–he had something much more satisfying to do. He started the car and took off for Boar's Head.

  Ocean Boulevard was a madhouse packed with people and cars. Dan was immediately stuck in the traffic. He zigged around one car, zagged around another, then got stopped along with half a million other cars waiting for tourists to cross the boulevard. For some reason the traffic didn't bother him tonight. Maybe because he wasn't really in a rush. He'd never burned down a mansion after all, or even a small house for that matter. But he'd been brooding about what had happened to him ever since he woke up in the dumpster behind the High Tide. And he knew if he didn't take care of business tonight, he'd go right on brooding about it forever. That was for sure.

  Traffic inched forward, carrying Dan along with it. He passed, in very slow succession, Buc's Lagoon, Le Bec Rouge Restaurant, and Blink's Fry Dough before getting stopped again.

  He'd been wronged quite a few times in his life, like most people he guessed, and he'd let most of those incidents slide. Most of the time, the incident hadn't been worth risking any more trouble over. A few times he'd been just plain scared. But the incident up at the big house on Boar's Head was different. It wasn't going to leave him alone and it wasn't going to let him go. Unless he did something about it.

  If he sat back now and did nothing, it would be like putting a big sign on his back that said, Kick Me, World. If the world didn't beat on him, Dan would do a pretty good job on himself.

  He didn't have a choice. Not really.

  And knowing that made him feel good–relieved–that it soon would be over.

  When he'd finally made the short distance to the Casino, Dan broke free of traffic and headed north. A short time later he'd reached Boar's Head, a peninsula with a few dozen homes that jutted a hundred yards out into the Atlantic. He banged a right onto Boar's Head and drove up the slight incline until he was within a couple of houses of the mansion, about halfway up the peninsula.

  He pulled over to the side and just sat there for a minute staring at the mansion. No lights, no sign anyone was home. Just looking at the monstrosity brought back painful memories. Dan shook his head. He couldn't take the chance of someone seeing him here and calling the cops, he had to move quickly.

  Dan got out of his car and popped the trunk. He removed a large adhesive mailing label he'd brought from the cottage, tore off the backing, and stuck it on the license plate obscuring the figures. Then he pulled on the gloves, grabbed the six-pack of firebombs, closed the trunk, and started walking towards Tony Peralta's.

  He stayed close to the houses on his right, out of the street lights. He didn't see anyone else out on foot; Boar's Head was good that way.

  There was a large fence surrounding the mansion. Again, Dan lucked out. The main gate for cars was closed and locked, but the small gate for foot traffic was slightly ajar. He pushed the gate open and walked through. No cars. No lights. No sign of life.

  The building was an imposing sight in the dark. Because land was at a premium on Boar's Head even a mansion like Peralta's was on a small lot. That made the structure seem like it was right on top of him. He inched his way closer, gravel from the driveway crunching under his feet, until he could see that the two floors of the building facing him were covered with glass windows. Easy targets, but they weren't what he was looking for.

  He skulked around the side of the building in the dark, watching his step carefully. He could see the Atlantic and the lights of the beach off to the south. When he turned back and looked at the mansion, there it was–the window that looked into the room where he'd been imprisoned. He wanted to make sure, so he walked up to the window, shaded his eyes, and peeked in. It was definitely the room–right down to the chair that the bastard had had him secured to. Dan moved back away from the building and placed the six-pack on the ground. He took out one of the bottles, lit the cloth wick with a lighter. He gazed at it for a second, then took two steps toward the house, and heaved the bottle with all his might. It felt like the best pitch he'd ever thrown; he knew it was good the instant it left his hand. The Molotov cocktail arced through the dark like a fireworks rocket and crashed through the glass. It exploded somewhere inside the room, against a floor or wall, he guessed. It wasn't a large explosion as far as noise goes but he could see the flames start to catch on something, so he was pleased. He grabbed another cocktail, lit it, and tossed that in too for good measure.

  Dan walked quickly around the house and threw the last four firebombs through four different windows on a couple of different sides. Then he proceeded to get out of there. On his way past the first window, he noticed that the fire was picking up speed. The ground in that area was illuminated like it was daylight. He tucked the empty six pack container under his arm, went back through the gate, and walked to his car.

  The road was one way, running up one side of the peninsula, around, and down the other side. When Dan pulled abreast of the burning building, the inside of his car was as bright as noon. He didn't notice any new activity from any of the other houses around. From the looks of it, it was going to be a big one, a real conflagration. Nice.

  Just before pulling out onto Ocean Boulevard, Dan stopped the car and got out. He ripped the label off the license plate and threw the label, the empty six-pack, and the gloves into the trunk. He hopped back in the driver's seat, pulled out onto the main drag, banged a u-turn, and headed south toward the beach and home. He rolled down the window, took a deep breath of the sea air, and grinned like a little boy. Felt good too, not scared at all.

  Dan turned on the radio in time to catch the afternoon bulletin. "Police shootout . . . three dead . . . 200 pounds of cocaine."

  Not much time to think about it because seconds later, near the Ashworth Hotel, fire engines and police cars passed him going the other way. It looked like every piece of equipment on the beach was headed up there. Within a short time they'd be sending for help from all over th
e seacoast, after they saw how bad it was. But he also figured by then it'd be too late to save the mansion on Boar's Head. And damn if that thought didn't make him feel better than he already did.

  At least until he got home and he could hear the phone ringing from the driveway. By the time he ran onto the porch, fumbled with his keys in the dark, and finally got inside to answer it, he was so out of breath all he could do was listen to the voice on the other end tell him what the speaker wanted and what was going to happen to Dan and his family if the caller didn't get what he wanted. It was déjà vu. And that made him feel not so good all over again.

  ~*~*~