Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  “Brooklyn?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

  “Brooklyn,” I agreed as I caught his glance in the rearview mirror.

  The driver had light brown eyes and heavy black eyebrows that seemed to cover most of his forehead. He was a nice kid with a love of all things car and the son of a longtime Febbo man, which is why Salvatore had hired the youngster when he graduated from high school the previous year. He would probably never be anything more than a driver, and the kid seemed completely happy with that.

  And he was a good driver. The trip back to my apartment was so smooth, despite the traffic, that I nodded off in the backseat to the soothing sounds of a piano concerto. I awoke with a start when I heard someone call my name, and I realized it was the kid. We were, somehow, back at my apartment building and I checked my watch just to make sure that time had actually passed.

  “I’ll see you in the morning,” the kid said as I opened the door. “Five a.m., just to make sure you have enough time to get through security.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “See you then.”

  The car pulled away as I stepped inside the lobby. I waved to the doorman, confirmed that there were no envelopes waiting for me in my mailbox, then trudged up the stairs to my apartment. I managed to toss together a dinner, while I puttered around my tiny space and tried to decide on what to pack. There was the standard lawyer attire of a suit and tie, though I had the sneaking suspicion that would only stand out in the town of Folsom. It also wasn’t the most comfortable option for traveling on a plane, but, as I reminded myself, I was supposed to be representing Campania Olio on this trip.

  I finally settled on chinos and button down shirts with a pair of jeans and a couple of t-shirts thrown in for good measure. After checking the weather report for the Folsom area, I tossed in a jacket as well. It still felt too early to go to bed, so I read through the file while the TV played in the background, then thought about calling Liz. I thought she’d get a laugh out of my first big trip for my client, but then realized it was way too early in London to call.

  Eventually, I drifted into the bedroom and tucked myself under the covers. I was still disappointed at my destination, but the idea of leaving the city kept me from outright sulking. I tossed and turned for a bit until I chided myself for being so self-centered. My client had asked me to do this because he believed in me, and my one obligation was to perform this simple task. I would do so, gladly and to the best of my ability, and that was all that was important.

  I woke early enough to gulp down some coffee after my shower, and then I trotted back downstairs and out into a day that hadn’t quite broken through yet. The pigeons, at least, were out in force, and I had to wade through an ocean of them to get the car. The kid was back, as promised, and he passed me yet another cup of coffee and a donut as I slipped into the backseat. I munched and slurped as we made our way to LaGuardia which was already busy despite the early hour.

  I climbed from the car, waved away the baggage handler as I pulled my duffle from the trunk, and made my way to the check-in area. My flight would get me to Morgantown, but from there I had to drive. That, too, had been taken care of by Anthony, though the reservation didn’t list what kind of car had been reserved. I kept myself entertained during the boarding process and for most of the flight trying to guess what the younger Febbo had settled on. Maybe a Land Rover, to handle the mountainous roads? Or something sporty?

  By the time we touched down, I’d decided Anthony would have gone the traditional Febbo route and reserved a Chrysler 300. There was something soothing about arriving in a strange town in a car that, at least to me, said Febbo, and as I bypassed the luggage carousels and went straight to the rental counter, I imagined a black 300 with satellite radio, GPS, and a charger for my phone.

  “Oh, Mr. Morgan,” the woman behind the counter said as she typed away at her computer. “You’re in luck. We have a brand new car for you.”

  “Excellent,” I replied.

  “Now, there’s a note here that you’re driving to Folsom?” she asked.

  “I am,” I agreed.

  “Let me just get you a map then,” she said. “I can show you the fastest way to get there.”

  I nodded in appreciation since I figured the locals might know a few shortcuts that wouldn’t be on the GPS. The clerk produced a map from one of the shelves beneath the counter and drew a line with a red pen along the route. I was happy to see that a good chunk of the trip could be made on the interstate, since that usually meant a faster and smoother trip, but then it was onto small, local roads.

  “Now, they had some rock fall a couple of days ago here on twenty,” the clerk said as she tapped at the map, “so you should just keep an eye open for that as you’re driving along.”

  “Oh, ah, thanks,” I said.

  The clerk smiled as she handed me the keys and the map and directed me to the minibus that would take me to the car lot. I thanked her and then followed the slow moving crowd from the terminal. The minibus was easy enough to find and the ride to the car lot was so fast that I wasn’t sure why it required a minibus. I stepped from the bus and studied the signs until I saw the row marked ‘D’. I hummed a bit as I carried my bag towards spot ‘D15’ and wondered if I should drive straight through to Folsom, or stop somewhere to get a real breakfast.

  “This can’t be right,” I muttered when I arrived at the assigned spot.

  I checked the packet the clerk had handed me and saw that I was at the right spot, but the car parked there was definitely not a 300. It was a two door Chevy hatchback in a flat white color, with a shape that looked like it couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a car or an SUV, and a suspiciously small looking trunk. Not that I was planning to haul huge piles of coal around, but it was still nice to know you had the space if you needed it.

  I pressed the key button on the fob and was disappointed when the car in front of me beeped meekly in response. With a sigh, I opened the hatchback, which turned out to be a bit larger than I had thought, tossed my bag inside, then moved to the driver’s seat. The interior was fine, with a satellite feed and a decent sized screen, and it was clean and smelled vaguely of mint. I found the charger and plugged my phone in, then turned the key in the ignition. The engine didn’t roar to life but made something more like the grumbling sound I sometimes make when I don’t want to get up in the morning.

  I glanced around the lot and wondered if it was too late to ask for a different car, but none of the other options looked any better. With another sigh, I backed out of the spot and followed the signs to the exit.

  I found the interstate easily enough, and as I’d hoped, there wasn’t much traffic, and what there was, moved quickly. We swept around the edge of the city, though there wasn’t much to see from the interstate besides rocky hills and lots of trees. Traffic picked up as we neared the merge with seventy-nine, and for the briefest of moments, I had a glimpse of Morgantown. There was a fleeting impression of buildings in the distance, and a large structure that had to be the football stadium, and then I was turning south to route twenty.

  I fiddled with the radio a bit, but had to give up when I couldn’t find anything besides a station playing fifty year old country music. I pulled up my own playlist and drummed along with the White Stripes just to keep awake. As I drew closer to my turnoff, I tried to use the car’s GPS, but all I got was a message that it was searching for a signal. I should have taken that as a warning sign of things to come, but at that moment, I chalked it up to cheap rental car amenities and turned my attention back to the road.

  I was glad I had the map from the clerk because navigating the turnoff and finding the right road was not a simple thing. At one point, I found myself in the parking lot of a discount liquor store while I tried to sort through the morass of road signs nearby and compare them to the map. A few people ventured in and out of the store while I sat there, and one or two gave me a suspicious look, but no one ventured over to find out who I was or why I was there. I wa
s used to that in the city, but I was a bit surprised to find that out here.

  Still, I didn’t let that get me down. When I’d finally found the correct course, I set off for Folsom and promised myself that I would enjoy a large lunch once I had arrived safely. The relatively flat roads of the interstate had lulled me into believing that I could handle the ‘mountainous’ roads of West Virginia without any problems and that I would arrive in Folsom in plenty of time. Away from the wide lanes and the gently cresting hills paid for by federal money, however, the roads narrowed and wound between the hills, often along a narrow ledge with a hard rock face along one side and a sheer drop on the other. It was a tense drive, especially when I reminded myself to keep an eye out for falling rocks, and there were climbs that I wasn’t sure the car would make. Despite that, I had to admit, it was probably easier in the Chevy then it would have been in the 300 or even the SUV I had fantasized about on the plane.

  At last, I crossed a bridge that spanned a river somewhere far below me in the canyon. Folsom, according to the map from the rental agency, was just ahead. The road dipped down into what passed as a valley in this part of the world, and I could see a collection of one and two story buildings scattered around a park of green grass. The whole scene looked like it had been the model for a Rockwell painting, with white picket fences, American flags hanging proudly in front of most of the homes, and a town hall at the far end of the green with a statue of what was undoubtedly the town founder out front.

  The trees thinned out and became less ominous as I neared the town, and sprays of wildflowers grew along the hillsides. I could hear birds chirping nearby and a pair of butterflies danced past the Chevy. I spotted a dog loping slowly down the street and a cat sprawled on a porch. I felt a sense of peace sweep over me, and I had to admit that West Virginia was lovely.

  I found my hotel, which turned out to be the only hotel in town, at the other end of the park near the town hall. It looked like it had been built in the 1960’s, and to judge by the roof of the lobby, it had probably been a Howard Johnson’s in a previous life. But now it was the Folsom Inn, home of the county’s best breakfast bar and proud sponsor of the local basketball team. It also offered discounts during fishing season, and I wondered briefly if Anthony had thought to ask if there were any currently available.

  “Oh, hello,” the man behind the desk said when I ambled inside.

  The lobby was clean and polished though it definitely showed its age. Everything, from the curtains on the windows to the chairs grouped around the fireplace, was faded. Even the linoleum on the floor had a yellow tinge and I had to skirt around a section that had started to peel away from the concrete below.

  The clerk fit right in as well. He looked like he was in his early sixties, with dark brown locks that were fading to gray and pale blue eyes behind a pair of black plastic frames that the nerds always wore in movies set in the 1960’s. His voice had a drawl, not quite southern exactly, but certainly a lot softer and pleasanter than what one usually heard in the city.

  “Hi,” I replied as I stepped across the lobby.

  The counter I stopped in front of was a slightly paler shade of HoJo orange, also apparently a victim of the same circumstances that afflicted the rest of the lobby. I could just pick out an old Howard Johnson’s logo beneath a layer of beige paint on the wall behind the clerk though someone had tried to conceal it with an old clock that didn’t seem to be working.

  “You must be Mr. Morgan,” the clerk said cheerfully.

  “I am,” I agreed with a note of suspicion.

  “We don’t have many guests right now,” the clerk chuckled. “Mostly just traveling salesmen passing through, and I know all of them.”

  “Are there still a lot of traveling salesmen?” I asked.

  “Around here there are,” the clerk replied as he pulled out an honest to god ledger and started to write in it. “I’ve got you in room two-oh-four. It’s nice and big and it’s on the front side so you’ll have a nice view of the town.”

  “Sounds nice,” I said as I glanced out the large picture window.

  A few people had emerged from their homes and businesses and stared down the street towards the hotel. Word of my arrival was clearly spreading even as I waited for the clerk to finish whatever he was doing.

  “So, there are stairs just back there,” the clerk said as he pushed a key on a plastic ring towards me. “Now, we still do breakfast in the morning, but since trout season is over, you’re on your own for lunch and dinner.”

  “That’s fine,” I said as I accepted the key.

  “If there’s anything else we can do for you…” the clerk began and then trailed off.

  “Actually, there are a couple of things,” I said. “If you could direct me to a good place to grab some lunch?”

  “That would be the diner,” the clerk replied. “Just at the other end of the square, and make a right on Jenkins. It’s just down at the next corner. Got a big ol’ sign that says Wetzel’s Tobacco.”

  “That’s an interesting name for a restaurant,” I replied.

  “Oh, that’s just left over from its previous life,” the clerk explained. “It’s been through a couple of owners since then but no one ever bothered to take the sign down. It’s just easier that way. Everyone knows where Wetzel’s is.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Um, I would also like to visit someone. I have the address in my phone….”

  “Oh, that would be Bam Bluefeld,” the clerk said with a wink and a smile.

  I stared at him for a moment, then checked the information Anthony had sent.

  “William Bluefeld,” I read off. “On Digger Creek Road?”

  “That’s Bam,” the clerk assured me. “Digger Crick’s just off the same road as the diner. You just follow it out of town a couple of miles until you get to the sign for Marion. Then you make a left. Bam’s place is the one with the camel out front.”

  “The… camel?” I asked because I wasn’t sure I’d heard the man correctly.

  “Yep,” the clerk agreed.

  The clerk smiled but didn’t offer anything else, so I gathered my key and my duffel bag and started to step away from the counter.

  “Is there anything you would recommend at the diner?” I asked.

  “The cherry pie,” the clerk said. “Oh, and the fried chicken. Lurleen was in this morning doing the prep so it’ll be really good.”

  I nodded and then walked towards the stairs. They were definitely left over from an earlier era, and the sagging steps didn’t inspire much confidence. However, the hotel didn’t appear to have an elevator and I didn’t feel like trying to find another pair of stairs before I’d even found my room. On the other hand, this could all be some sort of elaborate prank that the clerk liked to pull on out-of-towners for some reason, like telling me to look for the camel.

  I glanced back towards the desk, but the clerk had disappeared and a large, brown, woolly-haired dog had taken his place. The dog stood on its hind legs, front paws propped on the counter, and looked around the lobby as if it was trying to pick someone out of a crowd. I watched the dog for a moment, until its large, fluffy head swung towards me and I saw that it was missing an eye. The dog opened its mouth and drooled, and I heard a thumping noise from behind the counter. It took me a moment to identify the sound as the dog’s tail hitting the floor as he wagged it.

  “Hi,” I said to the dog.

  The dog made a gentle ‘woof’ sound and the thumping sound picked up speed for a moment.

  “Come on, Jess,” I heard the clerk call from somewhere. “Time for your walk.”

  Jess dropped to all fours behind the counter, then reappeared a moment later as he or she ambled towards the clerk’s voice. No, I decided, not ambled. Rolled. There was so much fur that it was hard to distinguish the legs and paws, so that Jess appeared to be little more than a giant fuzzy ball. I watched the dog until it was out of sight, and then turned my attention back to the stairs.

  I decided i
t probably wasn’t a prank, since the clerk wasn’t there to watch the outcome. Of course, he could be sitting in a back office somewhere watching me on a video feed, but I couldn’t imagine that anyone had bothered to install hidden cameras in the Folsom Inn. I drew one deep breath, then placed a tentative foot on the first step. It held, even if it did squeak in protest, and so I placed my other foot on the next step.

  I made it to the top without injury and found my room on the front of the inn with a view of the park. I dropped my duffel, checked the charge on my phone, then grabbed the backpack I’d brought instead of my briefcase. I was tempted to leave the car at the hotel since the diner was so close, but if I was going to visit Mr. Bluefeld after, then it made more sense to take it with me.

  My decision made, I locked up the room again and picked my way down the stairs. The air was startlingly fresh when I stepped into the parking lot and I had to stop just to inhale the scent that reminded me of clover and blueberries. A couple walking by stopped to stare at me, but the few other residents who were out and about didn’t pay any attention. I shrugged off the staring couple, then stowed my backpack, climbed back into the Chevy and drove past the park again.

  There was no street sign when I reached the end of the park, but there was a nice wide street that appeared to be a main street of sorts. I made a right turn, amazed that there wasn’t even a stop sign, much less a stop light, and puttered down the block until I saw the life-sized Indian statue holding a sign that said Wetzel’s Tobacco.

  There was no parking lot, but plenty of empty spaces along the street. I pulled into one across from Wetzel’s, and checked the meter in front of my car. I had my wallet out and was ready to slide in my credit card when I realized it only took coins. Flummoxed for the moment, I patted at my pockets as if that would somehow magically make a quarter appear.

  I was debating what to do when I heard someone tapping on a window. I looked up and saw a woman on the other side of the store window where I had parked. She signalled me to come inside, and after a quick glance around the street to check for anyone in uniform, I trotted towards the door and stepped inside.