THE MAINE EVENT
By Alex & Barbara Wilson
Copywrite 2012 by Alex Wilson
Smashwords Edition
It was a moonless night in Compton, California. Missing streetlights near Paul’s Diner made the littered parking lot even more dreary. Two gang banger staff cars – a blacked-out Escalade with 24” spinner hubs and a lime green ’63 Chevy lowrider that skims the pavement – enter at opposite ends of the lot and back in facing one another across the expanse of bombed-out asphalt. Engines and music are killed and they sit for a few minutes with the headlights on each other. Soldiers emerge from each car, step into the headlights and stand with feet planted firmly apart and arms dangling. They glare but do no further posturing. A soldier opens the rear door of the Escalade and a tall black man saunters to the front of the vehicle and stands in front of the headlights. He opens his expensive coat to show no weapons. The rear door of the Chevy is opened and a short, bullet-headed muscular Hispanic man with full body tattoos showing from his tank top emerges to take his place in front of his car and spreads his hands to the side.
Thus assured, the two men stride slowly towards Paul’s and enter 30 seconds apart.
The diner is almost empty. One white man, Josh Malley in a plaid work shirt over a dark tee occupies the corner booth and is working at an open laptop with the plates of a just-finished meal shove into the middle of the round table. He looks up to see the approaching men, smiles, shuts the laptop and says, ‘Jesus, Jamal. Want something to eat?’
They slide into opposite sides of the table.
Jesus Rodriguez, ‘We’re busy men, Malley. What chew want with us?’
Jamal Blackburn, ‘Yeah, don’t give us that somethin’-to-eat foreplay. Your meeting. Get to it or I’m gone.’
‘Cold, dudes. No ‘how you been’ or ‘how’re the kids, Josh’?
‘You too ugly to have kids. Are we through?’ Jamal starts to slide out.
Josh’s voice drops to a cold-edged business tone. ‘This meet is for you guys so drop the ‘tude. Let’s see if we can bring a ray of common sense into the situation that’s bubbling towards a boil. Your Bloods, Jamal, have a beef with Jesus’ Aztecs. Let’s see if we can work something out without bloodshed, shall we?’
‘How we gonna do that when the Aztecs don’t respect our turf?’
‘Your turf? We ain’t talking’ ‘bout no turf here, shine. We’re talking about your sister.’
‘Damn right we are, wet. Since when you be touching our ladies?’
‘Bull shit, motherfucker. What our women want with Mex scum?’
Both men begin to rise. Josh raises both hands. ‘Let’s rein in our ponies, pals. This won’t solve our problem, will it? Just simmer down a bit and let’s go at this like people, not man dogs.’ The men settle down but continue to glare across the table.
‘Let me ask a simple question. Anyone asked the couple, Billy and…?’
Jamal speaks through clenched teeth, ‘My sister be Delila.’
‘Okay, Billy and Delila. Has anyone asked them what they want? You may not get this yet but in the 21st century, we normally let men and women decide for themselves who they want to couple up with.’
‘Yeah, but he’s a spic!’
‘Nigger!’
The men once again rise out of their seats. Josh brings his hands down like lowering a curtain and the men once again sit back down, fuming.
‘I’m guessing that you guys don’t read a lot of Shakespeare, am I right?’
Jesus snaps his look from Jamal to Josh. ‘What you talkin’ Shakespeare, honkie? We’re talkin’ war here. Pay attention.’
‘The Billy and Delila story has been done. Nothing new.’
Now Jamal glares at Josh. ‘Have you left us? You in this conversation, Malley?’
‘Ever hear of Romeo and Juliet? It’s a Shakespeare play about Billy and Delila.’
Jamal rolls his eyes. ‘What you talkin’, man? There’s a play about Billy and Delila?’
‘Yep, escept Shakespeare called the dude Romeo and the fox was Juliet. Their families were warring factions only the Aztecs were called Montgues and the Bloods were called Capulets. You know how it enede?’
Jesus, ‘Tell us, teach.’
‘Both dead.’
The men sat silent with only background sounds of dishes going into the dirty dish bins and the cashier settling up a bill with a customer.
Josh let it sit for a long 20 seconds or so, then said, ‘While we’re talking literature here, have either of you ever seen a play called ‘The Fantastics’?’
Jamal was resenting being toyed with with rhetorical questions. ‘Cut the crap. We’re talkin’ gang warfare if we get up from this table. Why am I wasting my time with you, Malley?’ and makes movements to slide out.
Jesus, however, raises his hand to stay Jamal. ‘Okay, Malley, I’ll bite. What’s with ‘The Fantastics’?’
Josh takes a deep breath and squints over their heads. ‘Let me tell you the story. It’s about these neighbors who decided that their kids were perfect for each other and wanted them to fall in love and marry. BUT, they were smart enough to know that the kids would want to have it their own way and that telling them to be interested in each other would be unacceptable and would just drive them apart.’
Jesus, intrigued, ‘So what’d they do?’
‘The neighbors agreed that the best way to get the kids together would be to tell them they couldn’t and, sure enough, it worked.’
Jamal, ‘What worked?’
‘As soon as the parents said NO, you can’t go out with the other, the kids naturally said, hey, you’re not going to tell me who to date, who to love. I’ll do what I want. That drove them right into each other’s arms.’
‘Okay, I think I’ve got it but line it out for me’, said Jamal.
‘Look, you guys don’t want a big bloody gang war. You know from the last one that once it starts, too many get killed. Why bury your brothers over this? My suggestion, for all it’s worth, is this: tell the kids you don’t care, they can make up their own minds. If you forbid it, you have about 100% chance they’ll do it anyway. If you let them sort it out, you have probably better than 50% chance they’ll move on and look for someone in their own tribe. I like you guys and don’t want to see you hack each other up. Be cool and let the kids sort it out.’
With that, Josh starts to gather up his laptop and phone and look at the check. ‘Anyhow, that’s how I’d do it.’
Jamal looks at Jesus. ‘So, whadda ya think?’
‘I’m willing if you are. But, any monkey business and the deal’s off.’
Josh with equipment in his arms and the check in his hand, ‘Anyone want any food? My treat.’
Jesus to Jamal, ‘Naw, man. We gotta go.’
Everyone scoots out of the booth and stand awkwardly in a group. Josh heads for the cashier. The two gang leaders look at each other head-to-toe for the first time. They don’t shake hands but Jamal says, ‘Catch you later’ and walks out the door. Jesus nods and walks out the other door.
* * * * * * *
The editorial floor of the LA Times is a massive bull pen like most reporters’ corrals. The editor has a glass walled office to separate him from the hoi polloi but close enough to allow on-the-fly conferences and quick approvals. But lounging in the editor’s office is rarely allowed. Josh is lounging in his boss’s office, a rare privilege reserved for favored staff members. Josh is 38, average height with sandy hair, piercing blue eyes and the light complexion that belies his Irish ancestry. He is wiry and muscular, a man who looks ordinary until a second look. Randy Duke is an administrator with some extra girth to show for it.
Duke speaks, ‘I’ll probably regret this because you’ll start hounding me for a raise but that Romeo and Juliet in the ‘hood story was just terrific.’
Josh nodded. ‘You know, if it wasn’t for the drugs and car thefts and murders, I could actually like these guys. They’re pretty smart people and there are execs in this town who could learn a thin or two by the way they run their gangs.’
‘You scare me, man. I thought you might ease up on going into the deep ‘hood after the expose of the Mexican Mafia in South Central. I’m not wild about losing my Pulitzer provider to some drive by.’
‘Gotta go where the action is, Randy.’
‘What are you, an adrenalin junky? How about something safer like unexploded bomb disposal or alligator wrestling or fixing high tension lines? Let some younger man go in there, one who’s not as well know as you. Do some DAR meetings or dog shows.’
‘Not my style.’
Duke shakes his head knowing that he was not likely to change this leopard’s spots. ‘Okay, change of subject. Since you seem to be the man in the know, what have you heard about our paper?’
‘What, the Times? What are you picking up?’
Duke leans forward with his arms on the desk and lowers his voice. ‘Let’s keep this between us for now but I think the little health problems that Otis has been having are not so little.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I know he’s been badgered to sell the paper by every leveraged buyout firm in the northern hemisphere and, with his health getting iffy, he might just do it.’
Josh chewed on this and looked at the ceiling. ‘Otis Chandler put together a world class news operation. That’s why I’m here and you, too, I’ll bet. I can’t imagine anyone – especially anyone from the vulture capital world – supporting us as he has. This can’t be good.’
‘Well, it’s all above my pay grade but keep your ear to the rail.’
* * * * * * *
Several weeks later, a group of men are in the editor’s office, some seated, some standing, all showing sadness and anger. Josh was moving around the office, fuming.
‘Goddamn it. Don’t these new owners know jack shit about running a first class newspaper? They bring in this dickhead publisher and he starts throwing our best talent out the door. What are they thinking?’
‘Calm down, Josh,’ says Randy Duke, his hands in the air in an appeasing gesture. ‘You can see the deal. They paid too much with borrowed money and now they can’t pay the bills, including payroll. They suddenly need cheap and that’s not us. I don’t know about you guys but my resume has been floated.’
Josh stops his stalking around the room and nods. ‘You’re right, Randy. I’m flat disgusted and I don’t think I’ll wait around for the whisper of the axe’, and storms out.
* * * * * * *
Josh’s apartment is small but well situated overlooking the Disney Concert Hall with a view westward to the last glorious rays of the sundown under the clouds over the Pacific. He has been stewing and mulling through three scotches. Having made a decision, he puts down his glass, comes in from the balcony, goes through some drawers until he finds the US map he wants. In the lowering light, he takes it to the kitchen table, turns on a light and traces a route to Maine.
* * * * * * *
At a US Navy pistol range on the Coronado base, a handsome, six foot tall woman with her honey blond ponytail protruding from her ball cap is blazing away at a target and chewing holes in it at the strategic locations. She empties her magazine, secures the weapon, puts it on the shooting bench and removes her ear protectors. A man in a naval officer dress uniform approaches, touches her shoulder and motions with his head for her to join him in the soundproof arming room. Recognizing them, she smiles as she enters.
‘Hey, John. Hey, Phil. You guys here to requalify?’ But, something’s wrong. Their solemn demeanor and dress uniforms bring a horrible recognition. ‘Oh, wait…’ Her legs buckle and they help her to a chair murmuring, ‘We’re so sorry, Dana.’
* * * * * * *
Late in the afternoon, women friends are cleaning the detritus of the after-funeral reception at Dana’s. The tightly folded flag is in a place of honor on the table by the wall and the last straggler friends, many in uniform, stop by for their mumbled ‘if-there’s-anything-we-can-dos’ before leaving. Dana’s two true blue pals flop onto easy chairs while she stays curled up on the couch.
Her best friend, Lillian, says, ‘Well, you got through that well.’
‘Yep, it’s a set piece and had to be observed. I’m not a fan of funerals and the reception is really for the friends more than for the …widow. God, I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to that label.’
‘Okay’, says Lillian, ‘we’re through that. May be time to turn your thoughts to what’s next.’
Dana’s second best friend, Sue, speaks up, with hopeful cheeriness. ‘At least you have a full plate of activities here and lots of supportive friends.’
Dana smiled at both of them. ‘I’m not going to stay.’
Sue is agast. ‘What?! Where would you go and why? You’re the backbone of the book club, the martial arts group, the pistol and skeet teams, out beach volleyball league.’
‘Well, when I learned that I couldn’t have children, I had to immerse myself in those activities…any activities. That and taking courses. As you know, most of the Navy wives have children and I’m just not part of that world. I needed those activities to fill my time.’
‘But, the teams, the clubs…’
Lillian interrupted, ‘Let’s hear more about Dana’s needs and wants and the clubs and teams be damned. They’ll survive.’
‘I’ve discovered a passion I intend to pursue. Besides all the courses the Navy provided, God bless them, I have been quietly pursuing the study of history through online course and have actually acquired a bachelors and masters degrees and intend to get a Ph.D.’
Lillian’s jaw dropped. ‘Fantastic! You’ve been doing this on top of all the base activities you’ve come to lead? Aren’t you the stealthy one? You go, girl!’
Sue looked confused. ‘Can you even get a Ph.D online or will you have to hook up with UCSD or another local college?’
‘Much as I’ve enjoyed San Diego and California in general, I’m going back home to Maine. I’ve sent inquiries to a school there that I’ve always had a thing for, Bowdoin College. It’s close to where I grew up and where my dad lives and he’s not getting any younger.’
Lillian lit up. ‘Whoa. This is spooky. I’m about to move back to Maine.’
Sue was incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? You have some seniority with the JAG unit. Why throw that away?’
‘Two reasons…actually three. One, I’ve about had it with the military and, since my divorce, it’s getting creepy working in the same office with my ex. Two, I have a civilian job waiting for me in Portland as a paralegal in a successful law firm that my uncle heads. I’m not above nepotism, girls. And, third, my high school flame, the love of my life, has just lost his wife to breast cancer and hunted me up.’
‘Bingo!’ said Dana, clapping her hands together. ‘The real reason emerges.’
Lillian, somewhat blushing, ‘Well, at least I have to give it a look-see, don’t I? Maybe yes, maybe no but I have to give it a shot.’
Sue, suddenly feeling excluded from dramatic new ventures, ‘Geeze, I’m feeling left behind…’
‘Hardly,’ said Dana reaching over and touching Sue’s arm. ‘You have a loving husband, some cute kids and you live in the paradise of SoCal. What’s not to like, Sue?’
Lillian cocked her head and turned to Dana, ‘I don’t know about your timing but, if things fall right, how’s about we do the cross-country move together. The Navy will move your stuff across country but not mine. What would you think about helping me drive a Ryder truck across this great land of ours as a therapeutic exercise?’
It was Dana’s turn to cock her head. ‘Hmmm. Let me sleep on that, Lil, but, at first blush, I’m inclined to say yes. Let’s talk.’
* * * * * * *
At a desert truck stop, Josh was fueling his slick and shiny F-150 Eddy Bauer with the U-Haul trailer when a Ryder box truck pulled up to another pump and two women jump out. One goes to the pump and the other, a very tall honey blond with a ponytail, emerges from the driver side and indulges in a luxurious stretch and a few toe touches. Their eyes meet and Josh goes back to fueling his truck.
* * * * * * *
Later on the Interstate, Josh punches up a number on his built-in BlueTooth phone.
‘Hello’, says a gruff and businesslike voice.
‘Excuse me. I was trying to contact a cheerful, sunny friend but have obviously misdialed and got a grouchy ogre by mistake.’
‘Josh,’ blurts Ted Ryan with obvious pleasure. ‘Hey, buddy, good to hear from you. One minute you were here and the next you’re gone, gone. You still in town?’
‘Actually on the road, Ted, somewhere east of Albuquerque and headed towards Maine.’
‘So, what do you need? Directions?’
‘A good guess. Actually Rand McNally will get me to Maine, my destination, but I just realized I don’t know where to alight once there so I’m calling upon the famed and credentialed travel writer to give me some suggestions. You been to Maine?’
‘Of course. One of my faves. Both on assignment and on my own dime. Wadda you need to know?’
‘This will sound really stupid but in my impulsive rush, I didn’t zero in on where to live or even where to look for where to live. Suggestion?’
‘Well, there’s lots of parts of Maine but, for me, the prettiest and most interesting is right along the south coast from Kittery to Bar Harbor.’
‘That’s what I thought. Can you be more specific?
‘Kennebunkport in the south and Bar Harbor in the north may be too dear. But there are lots of special places in between. I’d start at Bath, Brunswick and Rockland. Somewhere in there, you’ll find your sweet spot.’
‘I owe you, good buddy. Let’s keep in touch. Best to Agnes and the kids.’
After the initial nervous chatter when they began the trip, Dana and Lillian allowed the flow of the trip and the unrolling of the landscape to provide long and strangely satisfying stretches of quiet contemplation.
Lillian broke one of those quiet times. ‘Lovely drive. So, this is the USA we’ve heard so much about and fight to defend. Very spacious once we cleared the outskirts of San Diego. I’m so glad that you decided to do the drive with me.’
‘Looks like we’ll be on the road for 5 or 6 days. You may get sick of me before it’s over. If so, just let me off at a truck stop and I’ll hitch a ride with the next big rig going east.’
‘Brilliant plan, Dana, but not entirely original. It’s been done by most of the missing women of America.’
‘No problem. I have a method to assure safety.’
‘Which is...?’
‘I’ll be sure the driver’s tattoos include one saying ‘Mother’ and/or a crucifix.’
‘I agree. That’ll keep you safe, fur sure. Now that that’s settled, let’s talk about your housing and such. Want to share an apartment?’
‘I think not, Lil. Your job is in Portland and I’ll be immersed at the school in Brunswick. Besides, the doctoral studies will require a hermit-like existence, solitude, concentration that would be a drag for a roomie. And, you have your old love to tend to. Who knows, maybe you won’t be single for long.’
‘Always the practical one but I can’t disagree. Will you bunk with your dad? But wait, he’s in Portland, too.’
‘Right. I want to be close to dad and his wife but not on top of them. I need my space and I’m sure they do, too, now that they’re getting used to being empty nesters. No, I’ll be looking for a student hovel in Brunswick close to the U, preferably within walking distance.’
‘I hope this doesn’t mean we’ll stop being best buds.’
‘Not a chance, girlfriend.’
* * * * * * *
In contrast to the basic, ongoing perpetual just-another-perfect-day of LA, Josh had to learn seasonal differences of Maine. Summer days rarely get hot. Nice, clean air with a bit of San Francisco snap. Nice, crisp foliage valued all the more for the short season of refulgence. All in all, bracing.
There are two things that Josh marked as being clearly summer coastal Maine. One was the infusion of ‘summer people’, tourists or vacation home owners. The easterners – particularly New Yorkers – came with a ‘tude of entitlement and energy and spending. The locals were only too happy to see the spending in their economically modest area but the brusqueness could grate. It was suffered mostly with philosophical good humor by the natives but heavy, winking stereotyping was alive and well off stage.
The other notable feature of summer Maine was the light, especially at twilight. It was a magical, slanting, Northern light. Scandinavian twilight that turned still water silver and was particularly appreciated by B&W photographers.
The winters were notable for the requisite raw cold and snow but also the reemergence of community. Maine people knew they were a bit of a clan and interacted with brotherhood and the air of shared exclusivity. There were no strangers in Maine bars, churches or diners. In winter, doors were left unlocked and slightly-known folks were welcome at the kitchen table. Even accented New Yorkers like Josh, once recognized as a year around person without arrogance, became ‘one of us’. Josh was oft referred to as ‘The New Yorker’ or ‘Brooklyn Boy’ with affection and acceptance.
* * * * * * *
It’s lunch time at a modest but bustling Brooklyn neighborhood bar and restaurant. Josh walks in, scans the scene, spots his friends and strides towards them. One burly man in a rumpled suit with his tie down spots Josh approaching and roars out a greeting.
‘Holy mackerel, look who’s here. Josh. Josh Malley, c’mon over. Where you been, you old jar head?’
‘Hey Ray, Sandy. What’s the haps?’
‘No shit, where you been?’ asks Detective First Grade Ray Mancuso, NYPD. ‘Last I heard, you was working’ for that paper in LA. What happened? They catch on to ya’?’
‘Well, sort of. You know what’s happening with the paper biz…going down the tubes and I was part of the extra baggage they had to throw overboard.’
‘What? You? Didn’t you get a big award for uncoverin’ a mess in city hall or something? You step on too many high priced toes?’
‘No, just economics this time, not politics. Anyhow, I’m in Maine now, as far from LaLa as I could get. Just here to visit mom.’
‘Your mom still lives here? On what, Atlantic? How’s she doin’?’
‘She’s getting on, Ray, but seems to be happy in a rest home over on Hall near Pratt with most of her old buddies. Still has her marbles, though.’
‘Well, give her our best. She was good to me and, hell, a lot of the guys. Fed us when we needed it. Gave us what-for when we needed that. Wish all our old gang had listened better to her.’
‘Who do you see from the other side?’
‘Benny’s up state. Joey’s out and keepin’ low but I think he has another scam going. Something with fake handbags but that’s just chin music. Hasn’t raised my flag yet. But, we’re cordial. Saw him at Angels’s daughter’s wedding last month.’
‘Jesus, Angela has a kid old enough to marry? You’re puttin’ gray hair on my head, Ray. So, how’s your family? Rita? The boys are, what, maybe 8 or 9?’
‘Don’t I wish. They’re 16 and 15 now, Josh. Pressin’ the old man for the car. Girl crazy. Where do they get that shit?’
‘Yeah, where indeed?’
‘Worst part is that we have a bad situation here that keeps me on the job more than I like. Should be helpin’ Rita more to keep a lid on those young punks so they don’t do something stupid. Your mom kept us from goin’ too far off the rails.’
‘What’s the bad situation?’
‘Josh, it’s no secret that we have a new and serious drug inflow that the department can’t get our arms around. It’s in the papers and we get a lotta heat from downtown. We had a good fix on the last drug epidemic – mostly from Central America – that came in by long-haul truckers through Red Hook. We got inside that one and pretty well mopped it up. Now we got this g0ddamned flood of fresh stuff, maybe from Canada or Maine, of all places. Peaceful old Maine, fer Christakes. Hey, you’re in Maine now. What part?’
‘On the southern coast; Kittery to Bar Harbor mostly.’
‘Well, keep your eyes open. Maybe you see something, maybe you don’t. Drop a dime. You got my card? Here, take another. The city pays for ‘em. Lemme buy you a beer.’
* * * * * * *
Happy Days Rest Home on Hall St. in Brooklyn is not new and slick. It’s a converted elementary school from the Victorian era and the conversion was done in the ‘60s so it had dated furniture and an old timey feel. That suits the inmates fine as they were mostly raised or raised their families in similar modest housing of dated vintage. It’s homey and they like it although it can be somewhat abhorrent to some visiting relatives. It suits Marion Malley just fine. Josh’s mom pulled her wheelchair up to a card table in the common room so they could talk while people shuffled in and out slowly.
‘So, you’re 3000 miles closer but still not close enough for me…but, that’s just a mother talking. I’m eager to hear why Maine and what you’re doing up there. Did you pick up another gig with a newspaper?’
‘LA was great, Ma, but it got to be too much city for me. I was deeply offended by the collapse of the LA Times and decided I needed some fresh scenery and peace and quiet. Even Brooklyn’s too busy for me right now.’
‘I understand. Brooklyn’s sure bubbling with action but, in here, it’s pretty peaceful so I don’t mind. I have good friends here and we keep each other going. So, what are you doing? Another, smaller newspaper?’
‘I’m off newspapering. The whole newspaper world is getting roughed up by newer media and it’s shrinking before our eyes. Oh, there’ll always be a place for them and certainly the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal have legs but the rest are not doing well. I’m still looking for a full time gig but, meanwhile, I have a gouse to build and I’m helping sme new friends with their little businesses.’
‘After that girl you brought home from Asia treated you so shabbily, have you found a new lady?’
‘That’s something else I’m off of right now, Ma. I’m still getting over that betrayal and, besides, my mind is elsewhere. Maine is so different and I’m still learning it so no romance for now.’
‘You’ll get back in the game at your own pace, son. I’m not worried about you. Some alert girl will get hold of you ‘cause you’re the best.’
‘Says an unbiased source,’ as they shared a laugh.
* * * * * * *
Although the ocean-based enterprises of Maine have taken hits, the marine life still permeates the spirit of the coast. Lobsters are picked over, the deeper ocean fishing is under control lest whole species be depleted to nothing and even the government boat building contracts are scarce. Nonetheless, old line watermen’s bars like The Flying Bridge in Bath still have a smack of salt water in their DNA. It’s a working man’s bar and none too fancy, just the way the patrons preferred. With a sparse afternoon crowd taking in a Red Sox game on the pre-flat screen TV, the owner/bartender, Bill Ross, has time to linger for chat with one of his newly favorite patrons. He stops wiping and cleaning and just folds his arms and leans against the backbar.
‘Well, Josh, despite the Brooklyn accent, I hear you moved here from California. I’ve lived here all my life but hope to get out there sometime to visit those surfer girls. How do you compare Los Angeles and Maine?’
Josh, with a chuckle, ‘Hard to know where to start, Bill. First, the similarity: both on vast bodies of water.’
‘No shit, Sherlock. Dig deeper.’
‘Well, LA is packed with energy, traffic and hard working people.’
‘Wait. I thought it was the land of fruits and nuts and everyone smoked weed and hung out at the beach.’
‘Common misconception, my friend. LA smog disappeared with catalytic converters and a bulldog of an air quality commission.’
‘No kidding? No smog?’
‘About as rare as Maine hurricanes.’
‘What about movie stars? You ever see them?’
‘Yep, you actually do but mostly in their high buck neighborhoods. They go to Starbucks and Trader Joe’s…’
‘Trader…?’
‘It’s a grocery store.’
‘So, can you say ‘howdy’ to them?’
‘Some. Some are shy and some are friendly like any other mix of people.’
‘Fancy cars? Fancy homes?’
‘All those rumors are true. There are lots of castles behind security gates and the best cars in the world are running around on the streets. They use their Ferraris and Maseratis and Bentleys and Cobras like we use our pickup trucks. They use ‘em to go to the bodega for milk and beer.’
‘Bodegas?’
‘Ah. You know that California was Mexican before we took it away from them. Well, they’ve come to take it back and we have learned to live with their names and food and holidays. A bodega is just a Mexican convenience store like Seven-Eleven or Circle K.’
‘How about crime? I’ve seen pictures of LA on fire.’
‘Oh, there’s violence and crime there and I guess there always will be but it’s not like the ’64 civil rights riots or the Rodney King explosion. Today it’s mostly gang-on-gang stuff fighting for drug turf. I got in the middle of that when I was a reporter looking into the Mexican Mafia, a nasty bunch of thieves and killers.’
‘You must miss all the drama now that you’re in sleepy old Maine.’
‘Sleepy old Maine is wonderful. I love that most people don’t even lock their doors and, after the tourists go home, it’s like a small town where nobody ‘s a stranger. Love it.’
‘Thanks, Josh, we enjoy having you here. Excuse me while I serve the other sots on down the bar.’
Josh turns back to solitary drinking and glances at the TV as a hulking man enters the bar. He looks like the pro football tackle he once was. He scans the scattering of drinkers, spots Josh, approaches and lays a friendly hand on his shoulder. Josh turns to see his real estate agent, Moose Kleppinger.
‘How’s tricks, big guy?’
‘Look who’s talking. Which tricks need reporting?’
‘First, let me buy you a beer. Yours looks alarmingly empty.’
‘Offer accepted. I can’t be expected to answer questions with a parched throat, now can I?’
Moose, calling to Bill, ‘Barkeep, this man is dangerously dehydrated. Set us up quickly as an act of mercy.’
After a nice, long pull on the fresh one, Josh nods satisfaction. ‘Ah, thus fortified, Brooklyn boy stands ready to answer your incisive questions, oh Grand Inquisitor.’
‘Okay, so I’m nosy. It’s what I do.’
‘Hey, I’m just messin’ with you. I owe you a lot, in fact. You were uncomplainingly patient when I was unfocused and you showed me houses upon houses until I realized I wanted to build my own. Then you were patient all over again to find me a great building site. I took up a lot of your time.’
‘Owe me a lot? All I did was help you find a place you liked for which you paid my commission promptly and in full. What’s to owe?’
‘Moose, you set off a chain of events that has taken me from an outsider with a Brooklyn accent to a fully integrated citizen. Okay, still with the accent.’
‘What chain?’
‘Well, you recommended the builder, Brad Nelson, who let me join the construction crew that not only saved me money but led me to being hired to join some other crews which led me to know a bunch of the local subs, some of whom had problems with managing their businesses. Working with the subs got around and MidMaine Bank and Trust hired me to look into some of their shaky loans in the building trades. They liked the work and passed me on to other small banks as an outsource turnaround guy and to a couple of equity players with investments going south. In short, I have a new career because of you.’
‘Yeah, I have some buddies in the trades who told me you had become the go-to guy to get their businesses under control. That’s why I asked the leading question. How’s the log home working out?’
‘Great. Love the location; quiet but with a bit of a view to the river. Sturdy little house. Still furnishing it but have all the basics; cook stove, chair, bunk and latrine. What more does a guy need?’
Moose chuckles, ‘Wait ‘til you get married, mister eligible bachelor, and you’ll see soon enough what you need that you never knew you needed beyond an entrenching tool and field rations.’
‘Married? Don’t hold your breath. Did that once and learned my lesson.’
* * * * * *
Dana is working in the reading room of the Bowdoin library with her laptop open, files surrounding as Josh approaches tentatively. He has an appointment but isn’t 100% sure he has the right person.
‘Mrs. Ward?’
Dana looks up, takes off her reading glasses and closes the computer. ‘You must be Josh Malley, my e-mail pen pal.’ She indicates a chair and motions for him to sit. ‘I know you want to continue to discuss historical aspects of coastal Maine. Happy to continue to help but I have some time pressures so let’s make it quick.’
‘Yes, of course. I apologize if this is an imposition.’
‘Not at all but let's move on. My time is limited as I'm sure is yours.’
‘Right. As you know from our e-mails, I’m trying to better understand the Maine coast; waves of prosperity, the character of the people and such. In our correspondence, you’ve told me that this was your 'hood.’
‘Yes, but it would help if I knew the purpose of your interest. Are you an amateur historian? Is this curiosity or is there some application?’
‘I’ve been an investigative reporter, on sabbatical, you might say. As such, I have this insatiable curiosity that gets lit off by the darnedest things. In this case it’s the big houses in an area of otherwise modest economy. And, yes, I could just read up on it but, being a lazy and impatient man, I am not above short cutting the process by tapping those better informed than I. That's you, by the way.’
‘Got it.’
‘So, application? I'm not sure yet. Perhaps a book is festering about in there. Too early to call.’
‘Good enough.’ Dana looks at her watch. ‘I have about 30 minutes to do a memory dump about the various phases of coastal prosperity; timber, whaling, clipper ship building, quarrying, fishing, kelp harvesting and processing and, of course, the current biggie, tourism. And, oh yes, unfortunately, slaving. Ready? Here we go…’
Josh scrambles to get his pen and notebook ready.
* * * * * * *
A few weeks later, Dana hurries into the coffee shop, places her order and takes her place at the delivery counter. While waiting, she does a sweep of the room and spots Josh at a small corner table working intently at his laptop. She wanders over.
‘Where you been, stranger?’
Caught deep in thought, Josh looks up somewhat confused and not immediately recognizing her. ‘Oh, hi. Um, wadda ya mean?’
‘My e-mail is suddenly manageable. Have you lost interest in Maine history?’
‘Not at all. I just realized that, with your dissertation and all, you have more pressing matters than to put up with another drooling nincompoop taking up your time. Besides, your briefings and answers have urged me to do my own research. I’m learning.’
‘Sorry if I seemed inhospitable. Sometimes the pressure of deadlines gets me cranky. But, hey, you’re an old newspaper man, if I recall, and probably know a bit about deadlines.’
‘Good memory. Yes, I toiled in the vineyards of the LA Times until, in their wisdom, they threw a whole bunch of us overboard. That’s why I’m here as far from LA as I could get and still claim citizenship.’
‘The dissertation monkey is off my back or at least more manageable. If you still want to talk history, rattle my cage.’
‘Cages? Monkeys? Perhaps that dissertation has done lasting damage. Return to the living, Mrs. Ward.’
‘Look, I’m a widow so Mrs. isn’t appropriate and I don’t go much for Ms. so just make it Dana.’
‘OK, Dana. You’re way too young to be a widow. What happened, if I may ask?’
‘It was Afghanistan. My husband was a SEAL officer and was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess.’
‘Guess?’
‘A black op. I don’t know the specifics and probably never will.’
‘My sympathies. I’ve spent some quality time on black ops in ‘stan myself. Force Recon Marines.’
‘Well, maybe we’ll swap war stories some other time. My latte’s up. Gotta go. See you around the parade ground, Marine.’
* * * * * * *
Several months later,Josh is studying the menu in a diner when he sees Dana about to pass his booth. He touches her hand as she passes and she quickly looks to see if she has bumped into something or someone.
‘Come here often?’, he says while making a gesture to invite her to join him.
‘Oh, have I heard that line too many times.’
‘Seriously, this is my first time at...’ (he turns the menu to read the name of the diner)
’...Miller's Best Damned Diner. Anything on the menu I should avoid?’
She slips into a seat across from him. ‘Avoid the Catch of the Day. It's probably from some bygone era but the lobster roll is to die for, not die from.’
‘Lobster roll it is. What thrills and chills are emerging from your historical research?’
‘Haven’t you heard, all great, exotic and dramatic plots and themes emerge from history? It's a cornucopia of daily thrills. And your work? What excitement this week from the dizzying world of corporate public relations or whatever you call it?’
‘I wish I could say great themes of our times are flowing from my work. Pretty pedestrian, sadly, but, it pays well and on time. Just a hack ex-journalist trying to make his way in this cold, cold world.’
‘Poor baby. Should I send over food stamps?’
‘Actually, I’m flush at the moment so the lunch is on me…if you refrain from the 'chocolate death' cake.’
‘Oh, darn. I was feigning anorexia to justify that little pig out. Sigh.’
* * * * * * *
The student union cafeteria is not in one of the classic historic buildings on campus. It is modern and efficient and convenient and cheap. But, it’s just right for Dana and her visiting friend, Lillian, to get some passable chow on the run. They tune out the background din of the students swirling around them and had a good old catch up.
‘It’s been too long, Lil. We needed a good catch-up. Thanks for letting me know you’d be in the area. Next time I’ll pop over to your turf. So, how’s the transition from military to civilian law?’
‘A bit of a culture shock, predictably. The playing field is broader and more interesting but the office politics makes the Navy seem like kindergarten. Whew! Naked ambition on parade.’
‘So?’
‘So, I’m hunkering down to get my law degree so I can boss around my own paralegals and get the big bucks, that’s what.’
‘Excellent! I know you can do it, too. And that old school chum you came to reunite with?’
‘There’s an old saying, ‘You can’t reuse a Kleenex’. It was an out-of-date notion. We’re not in the high school fling stage anymore. We’ve grown to be totally different people. Oh, he’s a nice guy and all, just not my kind of guy, you know?’
‘Gee, I’m sorry it didn’t work out.’
‘Don’t be. I didn’t say I don’t have action. Just not with him. So, what about you? Found a playmate or still in the grieving widow phase?’
‘More the latter, I guess. I’m really too busy finishing up my doctoral dissertation so romance just isn’t on my scope right now. But, I have male friends. I’m not a bitter recluse. One guy in particular has become a good pal.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘He’s a guy who was flushed out of his job at a newspaper in the epidemic of downsizings that seem to be all-too common in that industry. Moved here to get as far away from LA as possible and developed an active interest in the history of this area. He’s using me as a source of local lore.’
Lillian shoveled in a few bites and asked, ‘Does your amateur scholar friend have a name?’
‘Josh Malley.’
Lillian inhales some roll, drops her fork and gasps for breath. With some hacking and a half glass of water, she regains her composure. ‘Are you kidding me? Josh Malley? Did he work for the LA Times?’
Dana is astonished at Lillian’s reaction. ‘Yes, I believe so. Why, do you know him? Is he a fugitive from the law?’
‘Honey, this guy’s a powerhouse. L et me tell you about Josh Malley. When I was with the Judge Advocate General office, we got wind that there was a coven of bad apples in the Marine Corps that was running a drug ring. We needed evidence and secretly enlisted a squeeky clean Master Gunnery Sergeant from Force Recon to go under cover. At first he was reluctant about ratting on fellow Marines but came to the conclusion that they were a cancer on his beloved Corps. He was brilliant. His documentation showed a facility for writing precision. It was the irrefutable evidence we needed. Total success thanks to him.’
Dana was wide eyed. ‘I had no idea. I knew he was in Force Recon and had done tours in Iraq and Afghanistan but he never let on...’
‘No, he wouldn’t. I’ll give you another hint at his character. When he was posted in the Philippines, he found a girl whose family was badly abusing her. He tried to intervene in the normal ways, through the police and so forth, but got nowhere with it. So, to save the poor girl, he married her so he could bring her back to the states.’
Dana shook her head in wonder. ‘That’s creative but he’s never mentioned a wife.’
‘With good reason. No good deed goes unpunished and she did a real number on him. She ran off with a mortgage broker from Oceanside and dear John’d him while he was deployed in Afghanistan.’
‘Poor guy.’
‘I’m sure it left a scar but he left the Corps awhile later when he got his fourth Purple Heart and found a job with the LA Times doing investigative reporting like he had done for us at JAG. And, boy, was he good at it.’
‘Like, how good?’
‘Two Pulitzers good.’
Now it was Dana’s turn to drop her fork. ‘What?!’
‘Well, yeah. Honey, he’s a super star, didn’t you know? And, a hunk. I’m sure you’re not so blind as to miss that.’
‘Gosh, I guess I’m just not paying attention. The intense schoolwork has dulled my senses or something.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up over it. He’s such a low key, self-effacing guy. Maybe I should come over here more often and get to know your friends.’
‘Hold up, hoss. I said I wasn’t seeking romance, I didn’t say I have totally withered away. Let me reevaluate. And, thanks for the heads up. I had no idea...’
* * * * * * *
Several weeks later, Josh is sipping a Misto Grande and scanning a newspaper when Dana enters the coffee shop, spots him and flops uninvited on the open chair at his small table. He smiles and folds the paper away.
‘So, Mr. Investigator, how's the book coming?’
‘Well, you seem to be feeling frisky today.’
‘I am. And tired of being given the runaround on what you’re actually trying to accomplish with your research. Don't kid a kidder, my friend. You have an agenda and it's not likely a book.’
‘Now why would you say that?’
‘I'll tell you why. After doing a bit of backgrounding on you and your pattern of investigations -- successful, dramatic, award-winning, yes - but always on the undoing of baddies. You have a bit of the Samaritan in you...or, is it Robin Hood? Anyhow, you don't seem to waste your time on flower shows and ribbon cuttings. So, what’s the real purpose here? Who are the baddies this time?’
Josh doesn’t answer right away. She waits. ‘I'd like to tell you, but...’
‘No tellee, no helpee from an already overworked doctoral candidate…unnamed, of course. What in your previous glory days you have referred to as your 'unnamed source' ain't gonna play no more unless she’s in on the game. Capish?’
This time he took even longer to respond. After a long sip of his coffee during which his eyes never left her, ‘Want to talk? OK, but not here. Not even the library.’
‘I haven't even had my coffee yet. I'll make a pot at my place.’
Dana lives in a little development built in the ‘70s as grad student and junior faculty housing. It’s a collection of stand alone duplexes scattered among trees with small paved parking lots serving each cluster. It’s a modest but adequate neighborhood. Dana’s apartment is on the second floor with an outside stairway leading to her door. Josh takes in the modest but well-organized apartment while Dana gets Mr. Coffee going. He notes her squared away work area and files, the sports equipment, mountain bike, the framed picture of her ex-husband in dress Navy uniform, the tri-cornered folded flag in its glass-front box. Dana pours them mugs of steaming coffee. He almost missed that she added milk to his…almost. They settle in at the kitchen table.
‘I’m not a conspiracy hound but I am a nosy old warhorse so I notice things. While poking about to better understand my new ‘hood, I began trying to understand how such a rocky, infertile, mostly cold and unwelcoming locale could have generated waves of prosperity evinced by the gorgeous period homes. You’ve helped me greatly with this. But, I’ve also noted an anomaly. There are unmarked trucks coming and going and driven by swarthy folks who don’t seem to belong to the local populace which is pretty lily white, you have to admit.’
‘That's it? Trucks you don't recognize driven by immigrant labor? Aren't most trucks driven by immigrant labor?’
‘Well, actually, no. But I have more. I have long-term and ongoing connections with my old pals in Brooklyn, on both sides of the law. Yes, some are crooks and some are cops. Both sides are bemoaning a current flood of hard drugs they suspect of coming from 'the North', maybe from Maine. Are these connected? I don't know yet. I’ve tried to discretely follow the trucks around here when I see them. They come out of a little warehouse that is tucked away down Murphy Lane next to the water. In fact, it has a small loading dock right on the water. It’s only active about once a month or so and other times it’s locked up tight with nothing happening and the trucks parked inside for weeks on end. Look, I have to admit I’m somewhat hamstrung from not having many local contacts who I can enlist to help get to the bottom of this. Would you know someone who can introduce me to some long-term residents, preferably some with street smarts?’
Dana sits back in her chair and puts her hands on the table. ‘Well, me bucko, you have come to the right student hovel. I is your man.’
‘Hey, I don't want to get you into this, I just want a recommendation, an introduction, maybe to some rough types.’
‘You want rough types? Let me make some calls. I’ll show you rough types, coastal Maine style.’
‘I think you’re just humoring me and have doubts that this may be something tangible. Want to take a little field trip with me? Maybe it will open your eyes and make me seem a little less ridiculous.’
‘Now that’s overstating it a bit. I don’t think you’re ridiculous but I admit to some skepticism...and curiosity.’
‘Come on, then. Let’s take some air.’
They finish their coffee, rinse the mugs and leave them in the rack and head out in Josh’s truck. They motor through town and down an overgrown drive that ends in a locked chain link fence. Dana looks at the almost obscured and abandoned industrial building with painted over windows and faded signage saying ‘Everfresh Seafood, Inc’.
Dana is surprised by the building. ‘I’ve never been down here. It really is out of the way, isn’t it? Looks like it hasn’t been used in years.’
‘I think it’s intended to look that way. Come on...’
They exit the truck and Josh leads the way down the side of the fence to a pulled-back panel and indicates for Dana to squeeze in. She does it but once inside says, ‘Isn’t this breaking and entering or something? Are we gonna get in trouble?’
‘Only if we’re caught. I have snooped around here enough to see that they have bursts of activity about once a month then long stretches of inactivity. This is one of those inactive times. I think we’re safe.’
Dana grumbles, ‘Think…?’ but continues to follow him looking around frequently. Josh leads Dana around the side of the building to where there is a steel ladder attached to the side leading to the roof.
‘Up you go.’
Dana is hesitant. ‘Where, to the roof?’
‘Yep.’
She is still hesitant. ‘Why?’
‘The skylights are the only way to see inside.’
Dana sighs, takes one last look around and scrambles up the ladder and walks across the flat roof to where a glass skylight gives them a good view into the interior of the building.
‘Holy moley! Look at all those trucks. Have you counted them?’
‘There are over sixteen I can see and maybe more we can’t see from here. While we’re here, let’s get a plate number off one.’
They retraced their steps and got out of the drive and back on the main road without being observed. Once motoring along placidly, Dana began to relax and breathe normally.
‘Okay, I’m impressed. But, how did you get on to this?’
‘Have I mentioned a long and bloody career in Force Recon? And, ‘recon’ stands for...?’
‘Reconnaissance. Duh. Okay, I get it.’
* * * * * * *
Dana is working at her carrel in the stacks of the library when Josh arrives with papers in hand. She slides her computer aside and smiles up at him. He’s agitated and waves the papers at her and hisses with intense whisper, eyes blazing. ‘Bloody hell, Dana. You’d involve your father in this?’
Her calm and smiling countenance contrasts with his anger. ‘Ah, you’re questioning my selections? You don’t know my dad. He’s cool.’
‘But, he’s a retired older gentleman...’
‘Again, you don’t know my dad. He’s semi-retired, yes, but pretty darned vigorous. Besides, he cares deeply about Maine and our coast. The Department of Transportation won’t let him go because he knows everything about our roads and more.’
Josh, continuing to brandish the papers at her, ‘And, these other two look like old high school buddies. One a cop and one a boat yard owner? What is this, a slice of the Dirty Dozen? Are you kidding? A guy named ‘Pop’, another called ‘Wheels’ and one named ‘Hairy’? Is this something out of Damon Runyon?’
Dana sits back in her chair and folds her arms over her chest. ‘These guys are true blue, Malley. Here’s my suggestion: let’s meet and you judge for yourself. No, they aren’t the Special Forces jocks you’re used to hanging with but they have skills and knowledge and I can vouch for them to my last genome. Just look ‘em over, huh? Look ‘em over or go get your own over-the-hill gang. Your call.’
Josh thinks it over and his anger subsides. ‘Okay. Let’s have a little tea party and see how it goes.’ He mumbles to himself as he retreats through the stacks, ‘Oye! What am I doing?’
Dana turns back to her work smiling smugly.
* * * * * * *
Hairy’s Yacht Club is a not-too-fancy boat yard. The approach shows masts then boats out of water propped up with makeshift beams and platforms. There are two wooden buildings; a low one and another with a central bay with 30 foot overhead to accommodate boats that must be dragged inside, especially in winter, a favorite time for repairs and modifications. Inside, there are rails down the center for the winch trucks to bring boats in and massive work tables strong enough to hold a diesel engine or two. The men gather around a work table on cast off chairs in the main bay of the repair shed. Three men know one another and are being polite but wary of their visitor who is wary back. Despite the industrial nature of the shed, there is a homey, lived-in feel with a vintage refrigerator, pinups on the wall, a motley collection of tools and mismatched furniture, including some vagrant upholstered pieces.
Dana chairs the meeting. ‘Thanks, guys, for getting together to hear our concerns. I’ve told you all about our new friend and neighbor and now you get to meet him in the flesh. Josh has spotted something that I think will be of interest to us all. Josh, tell ‘em.’
‘Dana tells me that you’ve lived all or most of your lives here and care about the area. I’m new but already I’m hooked on it. Maybe it’s my new guy’s eyes but I’m seeing something that just doesn’t seem to fit the community. Maybe you know all about it and can put my nosy mind at ease.’
‘We’re all ears, as Prince Charles says. Let us in on what you’ve seen’, says Rudy Ward, Dana’s father. He is a man of 66 with close-cropped white hair and a twinkle in his eyes over rosy cheeks, Santa style. He’s not built like Santa, though, being lithe and fit for his age.
Josh clears his throat and speaks without belying a slight nervousness. ‘There’s some sort of a shipping operation that works periodically out of a warehouse down at the end of Murphy Lane. You know the place?’ The men mutter among themselves until everyone nods. ‘There’s a small fleet of delivery vans that live in there all locked up until every now and then, ethnic types with gang tattoos show up and drive away. My guess is that something’s coming in by water and gets hauled out right away. Does this ring any bells?’
After a few moments of thought, the man who had been introduced as Wendell -- or ‘Wheels’ – a local policeman, spoke up. ‘We know the warehouse. It was the old Everfresh Seafood operation. Has a loading dock right on the water from when it was a fish processing plant but we thought it was locked up and inactive. If something’s working there, I don’t know about it.’
‘Well, I can attest that it’s locked up but not inactive,’ Dana asserted. ‘Josh showed me that it’s full of fairly new trucks, maybe 15 or 20.’
The men showed some surprise at this.
Hairy chimed in, ‘Dana mentioned that you think dark skinned ethnic types are suspicious. We have lots of seasonal workers here to serve the tourists and we have foreign students over at Bowdoin. We’re not xenophobic.’
‘Hey, neither am I but I worked the gangs of South Central LA and I know the signs of gang affiliation. These are not nice college kids or summer bus boys. I can spot hardened criminals two states away. These are baddies, trust me.’
Wendel reentered, ‘Granted, we don’t have big time city crime here so we’ll take your word on that. If there’s criminal activity operating right under our noses here, you’re damned right we want to dig it out. Dana tells me you’re looking for some foot soldiers to get to the bottom of this. Why not local law enforcement?’
Download this book for your ebook reader.
(Pages 1-35 show above.)