Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller

by Dave Daren

  “That’s good,” Bam remarked as he stepped outside and pulled the door shut.

  “There was one thing, though,” I added. “It looks like kids have been inside.”

  “Kids have been sneaking in for ages,” Bam replied. “Hell, it was the biggest disappointment in high school to find out that everyone just wanted to sneak into the mines. I had to convince ‘em to try something new.”

  “But shouldn’t Carl be keeping them out?” I pressed.

  “Oh, I’m sure he scares them away,” Bam replied as he brushed past me and walked towards the Toyota.

  “Not very well,” I muttered as I followed in Bam’s wake.

  I barely had my seat belt fastened before Bam was swinging the truck around and heading towards the gate. We arrived in a cloud of dust and Bam put the truck in park so fast that I was thrown forward against the restraint. Bam chuckled as he stepped down from the Toyota and opened the gate once again. At least when he pulled the truck forward, he did so at a normal pace, but once he had closed the gate behind us, he took off down the slope like he was trying to break the world record in the two-man bobsled.

  Even if I had wanted to mention the microphone, I don’t think I could have without biting my tongue. The truck bounced down the road as Bam guided it through the ruts and the debris while I tried not to start cursing aloud. At the bottom of the hill, we were briefly airborne and I half expected Bam to hit the horn and hear the opening sounds of ‘Dixie’ play as we slammed into the decaying road with a hard thud.

  “I love that hill!” Bam declared happily as he finally started to slow the truck.

  “You don’t say?” I murmured.

  When we were back on the road and heading towards Marion at what now felt like a sedate pace, I finally decided I could speak without risking injury. I glanced at Bam, who had started to hum a few erratic notes, and decided that I would leave the question of the wiretap for later.

  “So who told you who was buying the land?” I asked.

  “It’s right there in the papers,” Bam said in feigned surprise. “Cam..something Oil.”

  “Campania Olio,” I said automatically. “But that’s not what I meant. All of the papers list the name of the company. That’s it. There’s not a single individual named anywhere. And yet, you’ve clearly decided you know the person behind the company.”

  “Maybe I went on the interweb,” Bam chuckled.

  “That information isn’t publicly available,” I pointed out.

  Bam huffed and slowed down so he could wave to a trio of men standing around an old muscle car parked in front of one of the Marion shacks. The men raised their beer cans to the passing truck before returning to their examination of the car’s engine.

  “I don’t really know anything,” Bam announced as he tried a different tack.

  “You’ve made it abundantly clear that’s not true,” I replied. “At the very least, you have a suspicion about the buyer’s identity, and one you’ve clearly linked to one of the Mafia families.”

  Bam almost looked relieved that I had finally said it out loud. He risked a glance in my direction, before he returned his eyes to the road with a nod.

  “Well, I might have heard a rumor,” he replied.

  “Was this one from the good ‘ol boy network?” I asked.

  Bam went silent for several minutes, and I wasn’t sure he would even answer. He started to hum again and I decided that Bam wasn’t ready to divulge his source. I pondered how best to press him on the issue, but as we turned onto Digger’s Creek Road, the man huffed again and glanced in my direction once again.

  “It was the Sheriff,” he said.

  “Sheriff Harris told you the buyer’s name?” I pressed.

  “He did,” Bam said with a nod. “Gave me the background on how they were one of the big Mafia families in New York. Wouldn’t say how he knew, just that the information was reliable. Then he told me that he and Hup had already discussed it, and they didn’t think that was the kind of people we needed around here. Now, me and Tater and Hup had been on the outs a bit already, but that really got my goat. I decided I wasn’t gonna listen to those two rats any more, and I told Shifty where he could stick it.”

  “Sounds like I need to talk to the Sheriff,” I mused.

  “Good luck with that,” Bam snorted. “That man’s good at sayin’ a whole lotta nothin’ when he wants.”

  We finally arrived at the Tudor house, and I debated one last time whether I should ask about the microphone. I watched Bam as he stepped from the Toyota and decided against it. If anyone around here had planted that microphone, it was probably the Sheriff, and the last thing I wanted right now was for Bam to get back in the truck and hunt down Tater Harris. Besides, the microphone might be a useful wedge to use against the Sheriff, so I dropped from the truck, nodded to Bam as I walked to my own ride, and kept my parting words to the basics.

  As I bounced down Digger’s Creek Road at a much slower pace, I tried to decide where to head next. I finally settled on the Sheriff, since so many of the questions I had centered around him, and he seemed slightly less dangerous than Hup. I wasn’t sure where to find him, though the government building seemed like a good place to start, which also seemed a lot safer than driving out to the lonely place that Hup called home. It also gave me a chance to check my phone for any messages that might have piled up while I was out of range.

  I parked at the inn and ventured across the street to the building. Almost as soon as I pulled my phone from my pocket, it started to ding as several messages arrived. There was one from Liz, one from my parents, and a couple from friends. I scanned each quickly, but none required any sort of response at the moment. There was one from Anthony that advised me to keep working on the deal and that he would soon have something to show to the Sheriff and the appraiser.

  For the first time since I had arrived, I stepped inside the government building. It was cool inside, thanks to a row of ceiling fans that rotated slowly overhead. It was also quiet except for the buzz from the fluorescent lights and the sound of a copy machine coming from an open door down one of the hallways. There was a staircase to my right and a podium with a list of offices at its base. I saw that Hup had an office on the second floor of the building, but the Sheriff wasn’t listed as one of the tenants.

  I still hadn’t seen an actual person since I stepped inside the building, so I followed the sound of the copy machine towards the end of the hall and peered around the open door. The room, at least, was well lit though there was just enough space for the copier and the foldable table that the young woman manning the machine was using to organize her files. She was in her thirties, and to judge by her tan, she spent a lot of time outdoors. Her strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, and the pink skirt and yellow top she wore hadn’t seen an iron in some time.

  I knocked on the door, then spotted the cell phone on the table and the air bud in her ear. I knocked harder and she looked up slowly, as if she wasn’t sure she he’d something. When she saw me in the door, a look of surprise washed across her face before she tapped her phone and pulled one of the buds from her ear.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “But I’m trying to find the Sheriff.”

  “Oh, his office isn’t here,” she said. “He’s at the other end of the park.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  She nodded and waited politely for me to leave before she returned to her music and her copying. I left the government offices and walked through the park where a group of toddlers ran in circles while a group of women looked on. The wisteria had started to bloom and the whole green space had started to fill with the sweet scent. I stopped to take several deep breaths and enjoy the moment, but I noticed that the women had all turned to watch me and their laughter had given way to whispers. I smiled at the group as I walked by but no one acknowledged me or offered a response.

  With a sigh, I arrived at the other end of the park and examined the row of buildings on the
other side of the street. It was easy enough to spot where the old hardware store had stood, since there was only one empty lot, and then there was a yarn store, a dentist, a chiropractor, and a lamp store. That just left one other building, which didn’t have any identifying signs, though I spotted the back end of one of the cruisers in the lot behind the building.

  I crossed the street and peered inside the windows at the unnamed building, but it was almost impossible to see anything inside. I could make out the edge of a desk near the window and a coffee machine on the window sill, but that was about it. I stepped to the door and found that it was unlocked, so I stepped inside and peered around the Folsom Sheriff’s Office.

  “Was wonderin’ if ya were gonna come in,” the Sheriff drawled from the back of the room.

  There weren’t any offices that I could see, just a pair of desks, a long line of filing cabinets along the walls on either side, and a vase of silk flowers covered in dust. There was a door behind the Sheriff’s desk that led to the back of the building, but again, there were no signs to indicate what lay beyond.

  The deputy was at his desk near the door, and he studied me for a moment before looking towards his superior for instructions. The Sheriff smacked on something that could have been gum or maybe chewing tobacco, then waved me over to the hard plastic guest chair in front of his desk.

  “What can I do for ya, Mr. Morgan?” the Sheriff asked when I was seated.

  “I wanted to talk about your source,” I said.

  The Sheriff’s eyebrows went up, but that was the only reaction he had.

  “You mean at the commune?” the Sheriff asked.

  “Well, that one, too,” I said. “But I’m more interested in the source who told you about Campania Olio.”

  The Sheriff made a few more smacking sounds, then picked up an Icee cup and spat into it. Definitely chewing tobacco, I realized.

  “What does that matter?” the Sheriff asked.

  “It matters if the purpose was to try to end the deal,” I replied. “Which, I gather, was what you planned to do in the beginning.”

  “Bam told ya that, huh,” the Sheriff noted. “Hey, Ken, why don’t you go check on those new tires we ordered. They were supposed to be here yesterday.”

  The deputy scowled, but he stood up slowly and stomped from the office. When the door had closed behind him and his figure had walked past the window, Tater Harris turned to look at me again.

  “There were quite a few people opposed to the deal,” the Sheriff said. “The last thing this town needs is the Mafia to move in.”

  “Yes,” I noted. “That might upset the current power structure that you and Hup have.”

  The Sheriff’s eyes narrowed, and his jaws clenched tight. I could see the bulge in one cheek, and after a moment, the Sheriff picked up his Icee cup and spat out another stream of black juice.

  “Nothin’ good comes of having the Mafia in town,” the Sheriff replied.

  “And yet, you and Hup are now willing to let the deal go forward, as long as your requests are met,” I pointed out.

  “We’re a small coal town, Mr. Morgan,” the Sheriff said. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

  I knew the basics, of course. I knew about company towns, hardscrabble lives, black lung, and a fading industry that left its one time employees desperate for a new start. But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I waited for the Sheriff to speak, which he clearly wanted to do.

  “We’re dyin’,” he began. “And I don’t just mean people are movin’ away. Cancer takes a lot, and opioids take the rest. Young, old, it don’t matter. Do you know how I spend my weekends? Mostly ridin’ around and lookin’ for people who have od’d. I can’t even tell you how many people I’ve had to send to the emergency room in Fairmont this year, but I can tell you that most of them don’t make it.”

  “That’s terrible,” I replied when he stopped to spit into the cup again.

  “It is,” the Sheriff snapped. “And then I got a friend of a friend tellin’ me that this new land deal is gonna bring a bunch of gangsters into my backyard.”

  “That isn’t the plan,” I said.

  “So you say,” the Sheriff snarled.

  “What changed?” I asked.

  The Sheriff rubbed his forehead and then sat back in his chair. He stared at the front window for a moment, and I could see something flicker in his hazel eyes. Pain, maybe, or disappointment, it was hard to tell for sure.

  “We need the jobs,” he said quietly. “We need the money. And at this point, it don’t really matter where it comes from. Hell, I’d welcome the Chinese Communist Party and throw them a parade if they said they were bringing jobs back.”

  “Your friend of a friend must be disappointed that you’ve decided to let the deal go through,” I remarked.

  There were any number of people back in New York City, from the NYPD to the District Attorney’s office, who would have been happy to see the deal fall through, and I had no doubt that at least one of them was the friend the Sheriff had mentioned. The more interesting question was who was the middleman in all of this.

  “Maybe,” the Sheriff acknowledged. “But we’ve got to do what’s right for Folsom.”

  “You still haven’t told me how you learned about any of this,” I pressed.

  “No deal,” he said. “It’s an ongoin’ investigation.”

  Which was interesting in itself, since I couldn’t picture what kind of ongoing investigation with ties to New York City could take place in Folsom, West Virginia. It was tempting to keep after the Sheriff, but his face was set in a frown and he crossed his arms in front of his chest. He wasn’t going to say another word, and I had no doubt that he would forcibly remove me from the office if he decided I was too annoying, or even toss me in the local jail.

  I decided it was time to do a little more fact gathering of my own, and after a nod to the Sheriff, I stood up and made my way back to the door. I glanced back once, but the stoney look was still on the older man’s face and his hazel eyes had narrowed to mere slits. His hands, at least, were still crossed on his chest and not near his gun, so I stepped outside and looked around the town while I tried to decide who to talk to next.

  And then a few pieces clicked into place as I spotted Lila and some of the other environmentalists walking along one of the streets, each carrying a hemp bag that appeared to be full. I replayed my earlier conversation with Lila in my head and knew I was on the right track.

  Eliot, the unpleasant commune leader who met secretly with the Sheriff, who had arrived only recently and had vague ties to other groups, who would be well positioned to keep the Feds updated on the group’s plans, was a perfect candidate for the Sheriff’s source. And if he was a federal agent, he would have the kind of friends in New York City who would warn him that the Mafia was starting to sniff around. Now, it was possible that the Feds were only concerned that a Mafia presence might draw more attention to Folsom then they wanted, but I would be willing to wager that the real reason was that someone wanted to see the deal fail just so they could hurt the Febbos.

  I trotted down the sidewalk towards the group. A man and a woman waved goodbye and stepped into the yarn shop, but Lila and the other two women kept walking. I picked up my pace until I was just behind them, then tapped the woman with the long brown hair on her shoulder.

  Lila turned around in surprise, though her brown eyes were warm and welcoming rather than fearful. She flashed her perfect teeth at me, and I found myself smiling back.

  “Hi again,” she said as the three women all stopped.

  “Hi,” I said. “I, um, I saw you walking by so I just thought I’d, um...”

  “Say, hello?” she suggested.

  “Right, yeah,” I replied as I tried to think of a way to get Lila away from the other two women.

  “We’ve got to get to the bath shop,” one of the women announced. She was older, with gray curly hair that looked like a piece of steel wool and blue eyes that watched me w
ithout blinking.

  “You guys go on ahead,” Lila replied as she handed her bag to the third woman, a redhead with piercings in her eyebrows and nose. “I’ll catch up with you later.”

  “Lila,” the older woman said in a warning voice.

  “It’s fine,” Lila insisted. “He’s a friend.”

  The older woman began to sputter, but Lila looped her arm through mine and started to walk away.

  “I feel like some cherry pie,” she declared.

  “I know just the place,” I laughed.

  We found a booth at Wetzel’s, where we were greeted by a few curious stares but at least the hostility was gone. We ordered pie and coffee, and I added a salad to mine since I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. We talked quietly as we ate, and after the last plate had been cleared and the coffee cups refilled, I studied my companion until she lowered her eyes and smiled into her cup.

  “Do you like it here?” I asked.

  She nodded, but rather than look at me, she gazed at some of the pictures on the wall.

  “I do,” she said. “It’s very quiet and very peaceful.”

  “Except when you’re protesting,” I teased.

  “Oh, well, yes, there is that,” she acknowledged. “But we spend most of our time on the farm, and I find that work very pleasant.”

  “Really?” I asked as I remembered chasing a pig that had gotten loose. The fun had worn off pretty quickly once the pig had gotten into the trees and I’d returned to the farmhouse hours later with skinned knees and plenty of bruises.

  “Some of it’s hard,” she admitted. “But the regular routine is peaceful. It gives me time to think.”

  “About what?” I asked.

  She shrugged and turned her gaze into the coffee cup again.

  “Things,” she said vaguely.

  “Have you spent much time in Folsom?” I asked. “Have you met many of the people?”

  “Only a few,” she replied when she looked up. “I know Greta. She runs the yarn store. And Luellen at the Emporium. She buys a lot of our cider whenever she goes to visit her sister in Parkersburg. I know all of the people who work here. And a few others, mostly people we sell stuff to.”