The Dog Who Ate The Flintlock

by Edward Coburn

  “No,” Larry said almost immediately, confirming Adam’s supposition Larry would understand. “I actually want you to be a participant this time. I think that will be the best way to truly understand what goes through the minds of the people who get some kind of kick out of these reenactments.”

  “I take it you’re not a fan of reenactments?” Adam asked.

  “It’s not that. I simply don’t understand what motivates normally intelligent adults to want to give up their weekends to dress up and play soldier. That’s one of the things I want the article to reflect, the motivation that drives the participants. I assume you can do that if you’re one of the insiders.”

  Adam knew Larry was not actually casting aspersions at Adam’s abilities as a reporter, but he could never pass up the opportunity for a jab at his old friend. “Are you seriously questioning my ability to get inside the minds of the participants?”

  “All right,” Larry said in a huff, waving at a member of his staff that happened to walk by his door, “you know I didn’t mean it like that. Hang on a minute…”

  Larry spoke to the reporter briefly about his story, telling the reporter to turn it in by deadline and then was back on the phone with Adam. “Will you do it?”

  Larry knew Adam well enough to know Adam would never turn down any kind of participation assignment. It was the type Adam liked best. Though Adam wouldn’t be searching out the truth in a criminal investigation, Larry knew the story would still have a lot of meat into which Adam could sink his reporter’s teeth. Yes, Adam would relish taking on the assignment.

  “You knew before you called that I’d do it. So, yes, I’ll do it.” Adam was already formulating pertinent questions to ask the participants that would allow him to get to the heart of the story. But first, he would have to know more about the reenactment society itself. “Got a number so I can get the lowdown on the organization and their first battle?”

  “I do.” Adam could hear Larry shuffling papers on his desk. He then gave Adam the phone number for the president of the West Virginia Reenactment Society.

  Adam was almost to his desk when Larry blurted out the number. “Just a second. Let me grab a pen and some paper.”

  “Okay,” Larry said. “Let me know when.”

  Adam sat down at his desk and pulled a pad of paper from the other side and picked up a pen. “Okay, shoot.”

  Larry gave him the phone number again as well as the name of the president. “When you find out when and where the reenactment is to be held, let me know. I might want to go if I can get away.”

  Adam was surprised that Larry might actually be willing to take time away from his desk—especially to watch a bunch of guys “dress up and play soldier.” “Are you actually interested in being a reenactor?” Adam couldn’t hide the disbelief in his voice.

  “No, of course not. I just thought it might be interesting to see what the attraction is for myself. There are, apparently, quite a number of reenactments going on in this area of the country every year.”

  Adam had heard about some of them and, like Larry, had been interested in seeing what they were all about. However, they were generally quite a distance away, and Adam never found the time to go. He was glad this one would be closer. “I think most people participate for a better understanding of history plus the fact it’s probably a lot of fun. I imagine it’s like being an actor in a play. I guess I’ll find out when I do it.”

  “I guess you will. There isn’t anyone else on the staff who could make that kind of comparison.” None of the other staff members on the Tweet had been actors in high school much less in college and later in life as Adam had and none of Larry’s other reporters had gone undercover. After all, Canary Corners was only a small town in West Virginia not the wilds of some war-torn country.

  “Oh,” Adam said. “So that’s why you want me on this story—because I was an actor in high school and college.”

  “No, of course not—at least not only that—but it certainly can’t hurt.”

  “I suppose it might give me some insight that other reporters might not have.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking. Now, get to work.”

  “Yes boss,” Adam said as he closed his flip phone.

  Next Adam dialed the phone number Larry had given him.

  “Yes,” came the sleepy voice from the other end of the line.

  Adam checked his notes and then asked, “Are you Arnold Nephers.”

  “I am.”

  “I’m sorry,” Adam said. “Did I wake you?” Adam glanced at the clock, but it was only a few minutes before ten on a Thursday—hardly early for a workday.

  “Yes, but don’t worry about it. I was up late last night rewatching a movie about the war. I have Thursdays off.”

  Adam didn’t think he really needed to ask but thought he would anyway. “What war, if I may ask?”

  “The war,” Arnold said as if there had only been one war that mattered. “The revolutionary war.”

  “Oh,” Adam said as if surprised, which he wasn’t. “What movie.”

  “The Patriot with Mel Gibson. And before you say anything, I know the movie isn’t an accurate portrayal of the war, but I still like the movie.”

  “I agree. I think it’s a good movie too,” Adam said even though he’d never actually seen the movie. “Let me tell you why I bothered you so early in the morning. But first, I have a question. You are doing a reenactment of one of the battles in the revolution soon, are you not?”

  “We are.” Arnold mentioned the name of the battle and Adam jotted it down promising himself he would research the battle. “Why do you want to know? Do you want to join our society?”

  “Yes and no. I’m a reporter for the Canary Corners Tweet, and we want to do an article on your society and the reenactment. To lend authenticity to the article, I’d like to be a participant if I could.”

  Arnold’s voice seemed much livelier now. “Of course you can participate. We’d love the publicity. What paper did you say you were with?”

  “The Canary Corners Tweet.”

  “I know that paper. Who did you say you are?”

  “Actually, I haven’t said. My name is Robert Adam Madigan, but everybody just calls me Ram.”

  “Of course, I’ve read your column and your blog when I couldn’t get my hands on the paper. I like your articles. We would definitely appreciate it if you would join our society and report on the reenactment.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much of a joiner. But I would love to participate in your reenactment if I could do it without having to join your society,” Adam said. He would join the society if Arnold insisted joining was necessary to participate in the reenactment, but he preferred not to do so.

  “Generally we like our participants to be members of the society. But in your case, I suppose we could make an exception.”

  He sounded as if he really didn’t want to agree so Adam thought he should plow on ahead and get the particulars while not giving Arnold the opportunity to change his mind. “I would appreciate that. What all is involved, other than the reenactment itself? I don’t know much about the inner workings of reenactments.”

  “To start with, you will need to attend an organizational meeting four weeks before the reenactment. You will need to be introduced to the battle and choose a group to participate with. After that, the four groups will split up to discuss things like costuming, strategies, timing, and so on. An elected leader of each of the groups will get together during the week with the other leaders to coordinate efforts. Then, in the weeks before the actual reenactment, everyone will get together to finalize arrangements—maybe more than once. We’re not sure yet, but one or more of the groups might need to meet again during the final week before the reenactment if any timetable adjustments need to be worked out.”

  “Excuse me,” Adam said. “Did you say four groups?”

  “I did,” Arnold said. “There were four groups involved in the revolution—the colonists, the Britis
h, known as the redcoats, the various Indian tribes, basically Iroquois, and the loyalists who were colonists who wanted the colonies to remain under British rule. Naturally, because the society is basically historical in nature, we want our reenactments to be as historically accurate as possible. We know that West Virginia was actually part of Virginia originally, but we can’t do anything about that part of history. The battle we’re going to portray was not a major one in the war and few records of the period even make reference to it, but we believe it was important to this area. Another member of the society and I have done extensive research on the battle, and we will all do our best to carry the reenactment off with the utmost attention to detail.”

  “Naturally,” Adam said not exactly sure what all that really meant. “Would it be permitted for you to send me an email explaining all this in as much detail as possible including dates, times, and places of meetings?”

  “Certainly,” Arnold said. “I have several of the original organizational emails sent out to anyone who expressed interest. We originally recruited members at a meeting of the West Virginia Historical Society, and many of our members are also members of that fine organization. I will also send you a couple of brochures we have been handing out at meetings of other organizations where we were allowed to make presentations. All I need is your mailing and email addresses.”

  “Just send whatever you have to the Canary Corners Tweet,” Adam gave Arnold the mailing address of the Tweet along with his own email address.

  Chapter 16

  Once Marco was outside the warehouse, he pulled out a cell phone and speed dialed Carlo Donati. “The meeting is over.”

  “And Varkot is still alive?”

  “He didn’t tell Mardoff anything except the name of a child-trafficker from long ago.”

  “And who might that be?” Donati had ordered Marco to only kill Varkot if he sold him out directly. But he didn’t want any of his associates to be given up either. However, he had several soldiers to which he could give the job of getting rid of Varkot if he had to.

  “Some guy named Harold Morgan. I never heard of him.”

  Donati chewed on his pencil eraser as was his habit when he was deep in thought. “He worked for me a long time ago, but he hasn’t been around for years, so I guess no harm was done.” He was actually pleased that the only name Varkot gave up was Morgan because he would have hated to order Varkot’s execution. He would have done it if it had proved necessary, but he wouldn’t have enjoyed it as he had other assassinations he had ordered or carried out himself.

  “I recorded Varkot’s meeting as you asked.”

  Donati hadn’t asked. He never asked. He ordered. But he would give Marco that one. It was a minor blunder. He ordered Marco to send the recording with Varkot’s weekly payment. Once a week one of Donati’s men showed up in Charleston to deliver drugs and pick up Donati’s share of the profits from Varkot’s lucrative drug empire.

  Two weeks later Varkot placed his pistol and his cell phone in the plastic tub that was held in front of him by one of the largest men Varkot had ever seen. He stood about six foot eight and must have weighed in at a minimum of four hundred pounds, most of it muscle but some of it gone to flab. Varkot had seen Erik before but still marveled at the man’s size. He knew Erik had been a professional wrestler and couldn’t imagine who would have been brave enough to get in the wrestling ring with someone of Erik’s mass. He knew he certainly wouldn’t have. He’d have found a new job before climbing into the ring with Erik if he’d been a wrestler.

  Erik had taken the place of Alfred, the butler that had worked for Carlo for several years and Carlos’s father before that. Alfred had died a little more than two years ago from some mysterious illness. Varkot didn’t know what it was and didn’t care.

  “You know the way,” Erik said with a voice Varkot equated with the rumble of an erupting volcano.

  Varkot nodded and walked down the extremely long hallway. He knocked softly on the gilt-edged door. Donati had called for him so he knew Donati would be expecting him.

  “In,” Donati said in response to Varkot’s knock.

  Varkot pushed open the massive door which pivoted with surprising easy. “You called for me,” Varkot said as he closed the door behind him.

  “I want you to listen to something,” Donati said as he turned on the tape player. Varkot’s voice boomed forth telling Mardoff about Harold Morgan.

  “Where did you…get…” Varkot stammered.

  “What does it matter,” Donati interrupted. “What matters is you gave up the name of one of my people.”

  “But…But… But Morgan’s dead. And I was only trying to get Mardoff off my back. If his meddling cuts into my business it cuts into your profits too.”

  “True enough.” Donati smiled without mirth. Absolutely no merriment showed in Donati’s cold, dead eyes. Varkot had seen that smile before. Usually right before Donati ordered somebodies death. It didn’t give him a good feeling. “However, there’s one thing you need to know and remember. Morgan isn’t actually dead, and even if he were, nobody and I mean nobody gives up the names of my people—alive or dead.” Donati stared daggers at Varkot.

  Varkot instantly broke out in a sweat. He had no idea Morgan was alive. His death must have been faked, but Varkot hadn’t known. “But boss, I really didn’t think it would matter. And what do you mean Morgan is alive? I thought he died in that fire more than ten years ago.”

  “That’s what you and everybody else was supposed to believe, especially the cops. But if your stupidity gets this private dick on Morgan’s trail, maybe he’ll uncover something nobody has yet to uncover.”

  “But boss…how was I to know Morgan’s still alive? I…”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Donati interrupted again with a dismissive wave. “Lucky for you Morgan is out of reach. But I think you’d better take care of this…this Madoff character.”

  “Mardoff,” Varkot corrected without thinking. It wasn’t wise to correct Donati. People had ended up dead for lesser offenses. Varkot hoped Donati had missed or would ignore the correction, so he hurriedly added, “I presume you mean to get rid of Mardoff.”

  Donati didn’t miss but did ignore Varkot’s slip. “Do I have to spell it out to you?”

  “No, sir. I’ll handle Mardoff.” The idiotic idea of telling Donati that Varkot doubted Donati could spell anything passed through his mind, but he quickly threw it away. Talk about a death wish comment.

  “See that you do. And don’t forget what I said. Just because I’m giving you a pass for your big mouth this time doesn’t mean I’ll ever do it again. Do I make myself clear?”

  Yes, sir, you do.”

  “Okay then. Get out of my face.” Donati waved dismissively again.

  “Yes, sir. And I’ll certainly take care of Mardoff.”

  “You already said that. Now get out.”

  Varkot turned and exited the room closing the door quietly behind him. He retrieved his gun and cell phone from Erik and was back in his car before he stopped sweating.

  Jenny glanced to the right and left on the first floor of the hospital. She didn’t see anyone so she slipped into the linen closet using a handkerchief so she wouldn’t leave fingerprints. Once inside, she located a supply of rubber gloves and carefully pulled out a pair being careful not to touch the box. She pulled on the gloves and then sat her large floppy straw hat aside. Ronald had assured her the cops wouldn’t be able to pull fingerprints from the straw hat, but Jenny wasn’t about to take any chances. She had worn gloves when she bought the hat and when she handled it at home. She had worn the hat to hide her face from the large number of cameras that continuously monitored the doors, hallways, elevators, and other areas of the hospital. She quickly found a nursing gown and slipped it on over her clothes. She stole the gown at the hospital so she wouldn’t have inadvertently worn one that might have a slight color variation that someone might notice. It was important that no one take notice of her.

 
She took off the long, blonde wig which she carefully placed in her bag and replaced it with a shoulder-length, brown-haired wig that she pulled from the bag. She had worn the brown wig for the photo ID that she also removed from her bag and pinned on the gown. There was nothing else in the bag. She’d also always worn gloves when handling the bag. Ronald had given her the expertly created ID tag she now pinned on the gown. The ID designated her as a member of the maternity ward staff by the name of June Henderson. Ronald had assured her that it would get her past the card reader on the door into the nursery. She had no idea how he managed to get her an authentic-looking ID so quickly after they discussed the card reader, but she really didn’t care how he got it as long as it worked. She picked up her bag and placed it and the floppy hat behind a stack of towels in the closet. She stood back a few steps and was satisfied that no one would be able to see either the bag or the hat in their hiding places.

  She thought back to the time several weeks ago when Ronald had approached her on the street. She initially thought he was just another john. However, he said he was looking for someone with nursing experience or training, and he’d been directed to her by her pimp. He expressed his need for someone like her to do a special job and would pay her well for her help. At first, she had declined his proposition and the five thousand dollars he offered as it went against what she’d been taught in her two years of nursing training.

  Unfortunately, she’d had to drop out of school when her parents died in a car wreck, and she could no longer afford the tuition. Her father had been an auto mechanic who never made much money, and her mother had never worked. Neither of her parents had had life insurance. They’d always lived in small apartments as she grew up, so she inherited very little. She sold off most of their meager possessions to help finance her education but that money was quickly gone, and her car had been repossessed because she could no longer make the payments. Now she was on the streets getting money any way she could.