by Nic Saint
“Chazz Falcone is a rat. He’s a crook who managed to muscle into the New York real estate business by strong-arming the competition and amassing a small fortune in the process. I’ve been working on a story about his shady dealings for weeks now, but he’s got so much pull that he’s convinced my editor to drop the story—and me.”
Everything was becoming clear now. Rick Dawson had lost his job. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said, placing a comforting hand on his arm.
He stared at her hand and she quickly removed it. “Whether Falcone wants to or not I’m going to publish that story. As a book if I can, on my blog if not. The story is pretty much done. And if Vale and Carew try to get at it, they’ve got another thing coming. I’ve got the whole thing in the cloud.”
He smiled triumphantly, as if this should mean something to her. It seemed to her the man had his head in the cloud instead of his cockamamie story.
“That is so great!” she said, as if speaking to a six-year-old.
“So even if they manage to steal my laptop, that won’t get them anywhere!”
“Super,” she murmured, darting a quick look around and measuring the distance to the exit. If she made a run for it now, she could just make it.
The same idea seemed to have occurred to Rick. He sprang to his feet, suddenly animated. “Look, I’m sorry about the blog post. I’ll remove it.”
She blinked. “Great. Thanks, Rick.”
He looked sheepish for a moment. “It’s just that when I heard you and Vale, I thought—I figured—I believed—” He sighed. “Anyway, I’m out of here.”
And with those words, he stalked away, looking left and right as if expecting a slew of police detectives to pop out from behind the coffeemaker. Then, just as abruptly, he turned on his heel and returned to the table.
“If those two goons ask about me, just tell them you haven’t seen me.”
She blinked at the intensity with which he was fixing her gaze. “Sure.”
He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “And please be careful. They’re lowlifes of the first water. They’d just as soon hit you over the head as look at you.”
She watched him streak out of the dining room with some amusement. She really couldn’t make heads or tails of the whole story, but then she figured that was probably the reporter’s life for you. After a while these hardened newshounds had a hard time distinguishing fact from fiction. She just hoped it would never happen to her.
Chapter 25
Jerry sat back with a contented sigh. He’d just polished off three blueberry muffins, a chicken omelet, two gauffres and six chocolate croissants, all washed down with three cups of coffee. He patted his toothbrush, which he kept in his shirt pocket. A real lifesaver, it was. Last night, upon discovering he’d left home without it, he’d dropped by an all-night convenience store to pick up a new one. He’d brushed his tongue just the way Alice had advised, and Marlene hadn’t noticed a thing. As usual, she’d pulled out his tongue for inspection the moment he walked through the door, and had actually raved over the pinkness of the thing, telling him his fast was already working its magic on his liver.
“Johnny, buddy, I think I could get used to this town.” He gestured to the tea room. “This haven of peace, this wonderful idyll. The best people, the best ambience, and above all, the best food in the world.”
Johnny gave him an approving glance. “I’m so glad to hear you say it, Jer. I was really worried about you. Are you feeling up to snuff now?”
“Never felt better. Never felt better. All the old strength has returned.” He gave Johnny the once-over. His comrade in arms looked genuinely perturbed and it pained him. Feeling on top of the world himself, he wanted to spread joy and good cheer to all mankind. “What’s the matter? Don’t tell me your wife has sprung this fast thing on you as well?”
“No, thank God she hasn’t.”
“Well, what is it then? You look like something from a horror movie.”
“It’s just that…shouldn’t we be looking for Rick Dawson? I mean, that is the reason we came down here in the first place, right?”
“I guess so,” he admitted. He’d been enjoying his return to eating form so much he’d all but forgotten about the sleazeball they were supposed to find.
“You had to feed yourself, Jer, you really did,” Johnny immediately countered. “You were skin over bones, you were. Had lost all your strength.”
“Yeah, no use going up against a guy like Dawson feeling like something the cat dragged in.” He stretched out his arms, a wide smile on his face. “But I’m up for it now, buddy. Line up all the Rick Dawsons in the world and I will punch their lights out one by one.”
Johnny plastered a tentative smile on his face. “So we’re back in business?”
“Damn skippy we are!”
“Great.” Johnny heaved a deep sigh of relief. “Just for a moment there I thought we were in a sticky situation. What with the boss’s phone call and all.”
“What? No, that had nothing to do with the mission at all!” He expelled a hacking laugh. “Falcone wanted to know about the Bell woman.”
Johnny’s look of concern returned. “Why did he want to know that?”
“Oh, you know the boss. Always going on about something. He read that article on Dawson’s blog and got curious is all. Perfectly understandable.”
“So you told him she’s got nothing to do with Dawson, right?”
Jerry frowned. He hadn’t told Falcone a thing. Just that he’d look into the matter. No reason to explain the whole story. “Sure, sure. Of course I did.”
“Good. I don’t want any harm to come to that nice girl. Not after everything she’s done for us.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Jerry vaguely. He recalled that the boss had told him he’d come down to Happy Bays to look into the Bell woman personally. He didn’t see any need to trouble Johnny with such minor details. If the boss wanted to come to Happy Bays, let him. He’d probably come to the same conclusion: that she was a harmless kook. Meanwhile, he thought it wise to get a move on and find out where Dawson was hiding out. Preferably before Falcone landed in the small town and discovered that his two underlings had spent most of their time—and his precious dime—studying the local cuisine.
He rose with some effort, and threw a couple of bills on the table. “Let’s go find us a Dawson, buddy.” Then he ambled over to the counter, where Mrs. Bell was presiding over the proceedings. “Mrs. Bell,” he said in his most gregarious voice, “I was wondering if I could perhaps trouble you for some information?”
“Oh, of course, Detective,” said Mrs. Bell with that charming smile of hers.
“If one were to come to Happy Bays on vacation, let’s say, where would one go for accommodation, as it were?”
“Well, we do have the Happy Bays Inn, of course,” she said with a frown, thinking hard in an effort to accommodate this exceedingly nice police detective. “There are other hotels in neighboring towns, but if you wanted to stay right here, the Inn would be your only choice.”
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Bell.”
“You’re most welcome, Detective. Will we be expecting you for lunch?”
With a pang of regret, he said, “I don’t think so. Police business waits for no man, I’m afraid. It’s time we headed back to the good old Big Apple.”
“In that case…” She disappeared behind the counter for a moment, then came back with a paper baggie, and handed it to him.
“What’s this?”
“Apple pie. For the road.”
He sighed as he gave her a lopsided grin. “I’m sure gonna miss this place.”
Chapter 26
Bomer hummed a cheerful tune as he stepped inside his friend’s apartment. He was carrying his laptop under his arm. Checking out Rick’s pad, he was gratified to find it neat and tidy. Rick, in spite of being a reporter, was a stickler for cleanliness, and had a maid come in every couple of days, even when he was out of the country for the paper.
He eas
ed the door closed, and smiled at the fond memories this place brought to mind. Since they were kids, he and Rick had been best buds, had survived college together, and even after graduating, the bond between the two men had never wavered. Many was the night they’d watched football games together in this very apartment. Or Bomer had nursed one of his legendary hangovers hiding from his old man.
Though they’d obviously gone in very different directions in life—Rick quickly making a name for himself as a reporter and Bomer as Manhattan’s most fearless party animal—the respect and mutual admiration had always remained.
Curmudgeon Rick and the ever charming Bomer were an odd couple, to be sure. What provided the foundation for their unusual friendship was perhaps a mutual understanding that to be truly happy, a man should be free and uncommitted.
Rick had managed this by remaining a staunch bachelor, practically living like a Trappist monk, whereas Bomer had gone to town on Manhattan’s female population with the idea that he could bed them all before he was through. And he’d practically succeeded when he’d run into Charlene Falcone, who had managed the one thing none of the others had: she’d stolen his heart, and refused to return it.
Bomer’s dad had seized this opportunity to start steering his wayward son in the direction of the family business, and now Bomer, who’d shirked work as if it were the plague, had actually buckled down and was trying to meet Dad’s demands.
His was a simple mind, and his father had given him no opportunity for misinterpretation. Bomer wanted to marry Charlene. Charlene wanted to marry Bomer under the assumption that Bomer was filthy rich. If Bomer wanted to remain filthy rich, he had to work like a dog, and work like a dog he had.
Not that anything had come of it yet, but Bomer was nothing if not an optimist, and he kept thinking that if only he kept staring at that blank document long enough, something had to give. Wasn’t that what all great men did?
He set foot for the bar, thanking his lucky stars and Rick for this opportunity to be alone for a couple of days, and examined Rick’s storage of liquor. Even though he might have given up his serial womanizing, there were still plenty of vices left to enjoy, one of them being alcohol.
He poured himself a stiff drink, gulped it down in one go, then provided a refill. After repeating this procedure three times, he took his glass and ambled over to the window providing a look at Manhattan and the Hudson River.
He sometimes envied Rick this stunning view. Not many reporters were able to afford an apartment like this, but then Rick wasn’t a mere reporter, of course.
He took his drink to the dining room table, plunked it and himself down, and with a deep sigh opened his laptop, prepared to dive into his work again, this time interrupted by no one.
He’d stared at the blank document for about ten minutes when he rubbed his eyes and sat back. His stomach was grumbling so he crossed the room to the kitchen and inspected the contents of the fridge. A smile spread across his features at the veritable feast. Even though Rick hadn’t been home, the fridge was fully stocked. He took out the necessary ingredients for a turkey sandwich and set about preparing the humble feast.
And he’d just shoved the first part of the self-made meal into his mouth, when the doorbell rang, and he uttered a loud curse.
Fully expecting this to be the maid, he wandered over to the intercom, and started violently when he saw the familiar form of Charlene Falcone gazing back at him. She was looking peeved, and he inwardly cursed Rick.
The doofus must have given him away!
Shaking his head, he saw no other course of action than to bid the girl of his dreams entry. It looked like work would have to take a backseat for the rest of the day. And night.
He pressed the buzzer. Quickly devouring the rest of his sandwich, he strode to the door. If he knew Charlene well—and after their six months engagement he considered himself an expert on all things Charlene—she would be pretty pissed that he’d ignored her last couple of messages.
The moment she stepped into the hallway, he approached with outstretched arms. “Darling!” he cried.
Charlene, far from looking peeved, looked positively flabbergasted. “Bomer?” Almost immediately surprise gave way to pique. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Bomer now saw all. Rick Dawson was innocent. His friend hadn’t given him away after all. Charlene, when frustrated in her attempts to collar her fiancé, had simply decided to pay a visit to the next best thing: her fiancé’s best friend Rick, hoping he could enlighten her about Bomer’s whereabouts.
“I—I can explain,” he quickly said, hoping to ward off the irritation that was rising rapidly to Charlene’s reddening features.
“I thought you were working!” she exclaimed. “I called your father and he said you were holed up in your office working like a maniac. But when I called your secretary she said you went completely off the grid and even she didn’t know where to find you!” She gestured to Rick’s bachelor pad. “And now I find you here, probably entertaining a dozen women and planning to spend the night with a dozen more!”
“Darling, it’s not what you think,” Bomer tried feebly to inject himself into the conversation.
“What I think doesn’t matter!” she screeched, stomping her foot.
She looked so cute when she was mad, he thought, though he refrained from voicing the sentiment. “I was just trying—”
“To get away from me!”
“Well, yes,” he admitted, then realized his grave error when her eyes widened and her jaw dropped.
“I knew it!” With a rapidity that was only matched by her forcefulness, she stalked to the door.
“Charlene, honey!” he cried desperately. “I can explain!”
“Tell it to your whores!” she screamed, then practically leaped out the door, only to turn around and present her closing statement. “The wedding is off!”
“Darling!”
But he was talking to a closed door.
Chapter 27
“So. Young man. What can I do you for?”
The graybeard at the desk eyed him with a kindly eye. Jerry didn’t really know where to begin so he decided to use the old NYPD gag that had worked so well before. He quickly flashed his badge, just long enough for the initials NYPD to make their usual impression but not long enough to figure out the thing was a badly produced replica of a badly rendered fake he’d once found on the internet.
“NYPD,” he coughed. “Detective Jerry Vale. I was wondering if you have a Richard Dawson staying here. Also known as Rick Dawson.” The way he said it gave every indication this Rick Dawson was a villain of the worst kind, which was exactly what he meant to convey.
“Police business, eh?” the old man asked with a frown. “Well, did you bring a warrant, Detective?”
Jerry goggled at the man. This was the first time in his long career that he’d been asked to produce a warrant. Usually people simply blanched and gave at the knees. This old geezer, on the other hand, was determined to play it rough.
“I don’t need a frickin’ warrant to inquire whether a guest is staying at this establishment or not,” he said officiously.
“Oh, yes you do,” the old guy countered, fixing him with an unfriendly glare. “The privacy of our guests is very important to the Happy Bays Inn, and unless you have some paperwork on you to establish legal grounds for obtaining such information, I suggest you think things through and try again some other time. With some luck, you might catch my wife.”
“Would she be willing to divulge the information I desire?”
“Nope. But she’d be willing to get in touch with Virgil Scattering. In case you didn’t know,” he clarified when seeing Jerry’s blank look, “Officer Scattering is by way of being Happy Bays’s resident copper. Something you would know if you’d gone through the proper channels and not proceeded half-cocked.”
“I see,” he said, wondering whether he should give the old guy a knuckle sandwich or simply show him his gun and tell him to
quit stalling and hand over the registery. He decided it wasn’t worth getting into trouble with local law enforcement, so he merely gave the man a dirty look, and went about his way.
“Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered as he returned to the car.
“The bird has flown?” Johnny asked.
“No, some old guy wants to play hardball. Won’t tell me about Dawson without a warrant.”
“Tough guy, huh? You want me to beat it out of him?”
“Better not. He threatened to call in the local heat.”
“That thin fellow. Virgil something. I’ve seen him.” He reflected for a moment. “I can take him.”
Jerry shook his head. “And where would that get us? You can’t go around beating up local coppers, Johnny. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a hundred times. We need to be inspicopous.”
“You mean inconspicuous, Jer?”
Surprised that his partner would know a ten dollar word like that, he grumbled, “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever.” Splitting hairs wasn’t bringing them any closer to Dawson. He sank in his seat and gave the matter some thought. Then it dawned on him. Dawson had become some sort of acquaintance of the Bell woman. In her own admission she’d been in touch with him a couple times. He hit the steering wheel, elated with this sudden brain wave. “Felicity Bell.”
“Yeah, what a coincidence, huh? We do keep running into her.”
“Huh?” Looking up, he perceived that Johnny was right: before his very eyes, he saw Felicity Bell stepping from the Happy Bays Inn and walking over to a white van parked a little ways away. The decal on the van read ‘Bell’s Bakery & Tea Room.’
A delivery van. Of course. Hadn’t she mentioned Bell’s delivered bread to the home? He hopped from the car, and called out, “Hey, Fee!”
Felicity turned, and saw Detective Vale approaching her at a gallop. She smiled a knowing smile. So according to Rick this detective really wasn’t a detective but a guy working for Chazz Falcone, huh? Only one way to find out.