The Maine Event, Page 2

  ‘Guess?’

  ‘It was a classified mission. I wasn’t given details.’

  ‘Special Forces?’

  ‘My husband was a Captain in the SEALs. Thanks for asking. Shall we get to your historical interest?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I apologize if I intruded.’

  ‘Not at all, but let’s move on. My time is limited as I’m sure is yours.’

  ‘Right. As you know, I am trying to better understand the Maine coast, its waves of prosperity, the character of the people and such. You’ve indicated that this is your ancestral stomping grounds. Is the Maine economy part of your studies?’

  ‘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, now on sabbatical, you might say. As such, I have this insatiable curiosity that gets lit off by the darnedest things. The big houses in an area of otherwise modest economy, for instance. And, yes, I could just read up on it, but being a lazy and impatient man and more adept at interviewing, I’m not above shortcutting 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.’ Looking 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…’

  * * * * * * *

  Brunswick, Maine is a college town in the winter and a tourist town in the summer. Like so many small towns --population of about 15,000 -- there is a main route through town, in this case, the classic and actual Route 1. The main drag provides the expected string of student and tourist-serving bars, bookstores, clothing boutiques and coffee shops. As in any small town, people are constantly bumping into one another; in the independent grocery, at the bookstore or at one of several diners. Dana and Josh would likewise see one another casually here and there. One time, Josh was sitting at Miller’s Best Damned Diner when Dana came stomping in from the cold. He waved her over and invited her to share his booth.

  ‘Come here often?’

  ‘Oh, have I heard that line too many times.’

  ‘Seriously, this is my first time at Miller’s. Anything on the menu I should avoid?’

  ‘Avoid the Catch of the Day. It’s herpes.’

  ‘Talk about tired lines…’

  ‘Okay, try the lobster roll. It’s to die for, not die from.’

  ‘Lobster roll it is. So, how you be? What wild and crazy things are emerging from your historical research?’

  ‘As you know from the headlines, all great, exotic and dramatic plots and themes emerge from history. It’s a cornucopia of daily thrills. And your work? What thrills this week from the dizzying world of consulting or whatever it is you do?’

  ‘I wish I could say great themes of our times are flowing from my work. Pretty pedestrian, sadly, but, it pays on time and well. 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.’

  ‘Darn. I was feigning anorexia to justify that little pig out. Sigh.’

  * * * * * * *

  Now that his home was complete and furnished, Josh had occasion to go to the local scrap yard in search of ‘found’ materials from which to craft a mailbox. Scrap yards exude a mixture of failure and promise; failure of the offal from its original purpose and promise of the second life for the material. Despite the initial impression of chaos, it is actually well organized with separate areas for steel, iron, aluminum and copper. There were several other men poking through the cast off fixtures and metals in the form of pipes, sheets and fenders. Josh’s eye was caught by a three-man group inspecting some copper piping. He recognized tattoos identifying them as members of a Brooklyn gang. He approached them.

  ‘Hey, you guys from Brooklyn?’

  They immediately bristled with defensiveness.

  ‘Who’s asking?’

  ‘No offense. I’m from Brooklyn and miss seeing people from the old ‘hood.’

  ‘Well, whitey, we ain’t yo’ people, in case you hadn’t noticed. Why don’t you just go mind yo’ own business, like a good boy.’

  ‘Hey, I said ‘no offense’. I just moved here. You guys live here too?’

  Now the three turned their full attention on Josh. ‘I said move along, honky. Be showin’ us your heels if you know what’s best for you.’

  ‘Well, enjoy your stay. Good to hear a familiar accent. See ya’.’

  Josh knew gang behavior and the hostility told him clearly that these were not tourists. He got his steel and left the yard. He parked down the road and, when the gang bangers left, he followed them. They turned down Murphy Lane.

  * * * * * * *

  With the ongoing series of e-mail exchanges, Josh and Dana felt comfortable to hold their sporadic face-to-face meetings at Starbucks instead of the nearby library. It was an easy routine that served them both until Dana’s curiosity bubbled over during a Starbucks visit. She spotted him sitting alone and flopped down unannounced in the open chair.

  ‘So, Mr. Investigator, how’s the book coming?’

  ‘You’re feeling frisky today.’

  ‘I am and I’m tired of getting the runaround on what you are 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 the 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 travelogues. So, what is the real purpose here? Who are the baddies this time?’

  ‘I’d like to tell you, but...’

  ‘No tellee, no helpee from an already overworked doctoral candidate. 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?’

  Josh sat back, takes a long pull on his coffee with his eyes over the rim of the cup never leaving her. He sits the cup back on the table slowly, still with his eyes looking unblinkingly at her. She waits, knowing the process that was churning behind those eyes. She knows a decision is being formed. She waits, calm, returning his gaze passively, neutral, but without retreat. Decision made, he leans forward, does a quick glance at the room with its mix of regulars – students, locals and teachers -- and says, ‘Want to talk? Okay, but not here. Not even the library.’

  ‘I haven’t even had my coffee yet. I’ll make a pot at my place.’

  Dana has a modest apartment close to campus, somewhere between a student hovel and housing for lower-tier faculty which she is destined to become. It’s an outside-stairway walk-up duplex , but has all the necessities, tidy and orderly. Josh notes the work desk made of a rescued solid wood door on carpenters’ trestles. The work is obviously orderly with files where files should be and a coffee mug overflowing with pens and pencils, a laptop docked. Several shelves of the homemade bookcase are devoted to sports gear. The kitchen is small but complete and Mr. Coffee is quickly activated and bubbled along as Josh begins his summary. Dana pours the coffee easily during his review and automatically puts in the creamer she had noted Josh using at Starbucks. He almost missed this touch…almost.

  ‘I’m not a conspiracy hound, but I am a nosy old warhorse who notices things. While
poking about to better grasp my new home area, I began trying to understand how such a rocky, unfertile, 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 also noted an anomaly. There were 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. I have more. I have long-term and ongoing connections with 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. Then I spotted Brooklyn gang bangers at the local scrap yard and I followed them. They come and go out of a little warehouse that’s tucked away down Murphy Lane with a small loading dock right on the water. I checked with my savvy real estate pal who knows the chapter and verse on every structure around here and in the three surrounding counties. He says that the warehouse has been closed and inactive for decades since Everfresh Seafood went bust and he keeps close track of local real estate. But, my snooping counters that. There’s activity there although it seems there’s an effort to mask it. It’s only active about once a month and other times it’s locked up tight with nothing happening and with trucks parked inside for weeks on end. Look, I have to admit I’m somewhat hamstrung from not having any local contacts who I can enlist to help get to the bottom of this. Do you know someone who can introduce me to some long-term residents with street smarts?’

  ‘Well, my buddy, you’ve come to the right student hovel. I’m your guy.’

  ‘Hey, I don’t want to get you into this, I just want a recommendation, perhaps an introduction to some rough types.’

  ‘Well, you just don’t know Dana very well. You’ve just stirred my juices. History studies can be deadly dull at times and I need a break anyhow. A team, I can pull together. 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, Dana, and have doubts that this may be something tangible. Want to take a little field trip with me? Maybe it’ll 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, leave them in the rack and head out in Josh’s truck. They motor through town and down an overgrown drive at Murphy Lane 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 Company’.

  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 but check out the tire tracks in the driveway. Come on...’

  Josh drives down along the fence until there is a shallow opening in the woods where he pulls his truck out of view. 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 going to get in trouble?’

  ‘Only if we’re caught. I’ve 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 blind side of the building where a steel ladder is attached leading to the roof.

  ‘Up you go.’

  Dana is hesitant. ‘Where, to the roof?’

  ‘Yep.’

  She’s 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 both freeze when they hear the gate chain rattling through its hasp. They flatten themselves on the roof and remained quiet. They hear the door of the warehouse sliding open and indistinctly hear conversation in Spanish. Although Josh understands Spanish, he is unable to hear the conversation clearly. Dana looks uncomfortable and scared but Josh makes reassuring hand signals urging her to stay still and quiet. The men conclude whatever business they have inside, leave, lock the building and soon Josh and Dana hear the sounds of the chain being reapplied to the gate and a motor receding up the lane. Dana breathes a deep sigh of relief.

  They retrace their steps and get back on the main road without being observed. Once motoring along placidly, Dana begins 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 study 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 an 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 keeps him on retainer because he knows everything about our roads and more.’

  Josh, continues 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. Meet them and 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 or go get your own over-the-hill gang. Your call.’

  As Josh thinks it over, 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.

  * * * * * * *

  The evening meeting was at Hairy’s boat repair shed after the employees had departed.

  Hairy’s Yacht Club is not, of course, a yacht club. It’s a boat yard that serves whoever needs boat yard services. A few big pleasure boats are stored on the grounds during the winter and prepared for cruising in the summer, but the core of the business is repairing and maintaining work boats. Although the lobster fleet has shrunk, there are still working lobstermen and women in the region and Hairy has earned their trade.

  Approaching the yard, a visitor first sees masts. Then hulls propped up high enough to keep their keels off the ground. When negotiating the road in, a couple of large loft buildings appeared in which infrequently-comm
issioned boats are built or existing boats are dragged in for repairs. Inside, the center of the main building is a large open area with a 30 foot headroom with sub-shops around the outside walls for various kinds of specialized work or inventory. There are large, sturdy work tables, strong enough to support a car or, more typically, a diesel engine.

  It was around one of these tables that Dana’s team has assembled, sitting on whatever stool, crate or barrel is handy. The battered old fridge in Hairy’s office has been raided for frosty long neck Sam Adams and distributed, a comfortable routine among these old friends.

  Harold Rogers was the son of a lobsterman and a bit of a jokester and hellion in high school, at least seen through his teachers’ eyes. Fellow students, however, found him full of life and humor and just not cut out for academic pursuits. Once he got into the boat building and repair business, however, he found need for those ‘useless’ subjects of math, geometry, communications with clients, suppliers and, eventually, with employees. Against all prior evidence, he quickly mastered what needed to be mastered to make his boat repair business, Hairy’s Yacht Club, a solid success and key to keeping the regional water trades cooking. His nickname, Hairy, was natural and unavoidable. Before his classmates’ voices had changed or they exhibited any other visages of puberty, Harold had thick, black hair in all the appropriate places and some not so appropriate. Ironically, he was early bald which only added to the humor of his moniker.

  Wendel ‘Wheelie’ McDonald was, in his youth, a hot rodder. He was immersed in the motor mystique and pretty much built his own cars, three in high school. As the Northeast had scant outlet for racing in those days, it was hard to see where his passion could lead other than to become a garage mechanic. The draft expanded his world and put him into an MP occupational specialty that he followed after his service was over. He became senior deputy of one of the coastal towns and on track to become chief when circumstances allow. He parlayed the military experience into a respected civilian law enforcement position, but has been unable to shake the oft-reminded vehicular lawlessness of younger days. He has been embarrassed at being called ‘Wheelie’, but his dearest old pals are allowed to get away with it as it is applied affectionately. Of course, he always has a ‘project car’ in his garage for winter entertainment. Gasoline still runs in his veins.