The Boss of Hampton Beach, Page 2

  Chapter 2

  Dan Marlowe had heard all about Bill McGee and his crewman, Harry Something or other. He'd heard little else since the news broke yesterday morning. Working where he did, all people did was talk. In between that, a little eating, and a lot of drinking.

  He batted his lips just as much as anyone else on the beach. How the two men were found dead, both shot in the head, sprawled in McGee's boat. The boat had cracked up on the jetty at the south end of the beach sometime during the night, and the police supposedly didn't have a lead.

  According to the news there were no known enemies or hints of anything shady. That didn't keep Dan's customers at the High Tide Restaurant and Saloon from speculating on possible motives. Everything had been tossed around–drugs, gambling debts, fooling with the wrong woman, and other theories so out there they weren't worth repeating.

  The incident was as hot a topic of bar conversation as Dan could remember. After all, double murders weren't everyday occurrences at Happy Hampton Beach. So Dan engaged in the conversation as much as any of the customers, except when it veered toward names. He stayed away from dropping names, thank you. He'd been in the bar and restaurant business long enough to know it didn't pay to bad-mouth people, especially local people, and especially when you didn't know what the hell you were talking about.

  And most of these people, including Dan, didn't know their facts from their fiction. Still, it was part of his job, chatting customers up. He was interested, so it was easy, so he did. Just made sure to keep away from any name dropping.

  Besides, it wouldn't last. Not even a double murder was likely to hold a bar crowd's attention for too long. Sooner or later the newspapers, radio, and TV would stop flogging the case, and then some other topic would become hot. That's when most people would slowly forget about McGee and his buddy and the fact they'd been shot in the head. Dan would, too. After all, people had their own problems to think about. And so did he. Brother, did he.

  That's what Dan was trying not to think about now–his own problems. Easier to think about two guys getting their heads blown off a few blocks away than the unpleasant things going on in his life. Sure, McGee and his buddy had lost their lives, but at least they probably hadn't suffered long. Dan had lost his family and his restaurant. That tormented him every day.

  He stood behind the foot end of the L-shaped mahogany bar of the High Tide Restaurant, hands resting on the polished surface like he was having a manicure, staring out the big front picture window. Outside was Ocean Boulevard, the main thoroughfare through Hampton Beach. Just beyond the boulevard was the municipal parking lot, the beach, and then nothing but Atlantic Ocean. The ocean looked as black as he felt today.

  It was nine o'clock on a summer morning and the humidity was already building. Dan frowned. No good dwelling on circumstances he couldn't control. He came around the bar and flicked on the switches that controlled the two large wall air conditioners just like he did every summer morning.

  Same routine every day, opening the bar and getting it ready for the day's customers. If it was going to be a hot one, turn on the A/C; if not, open the windows. Then he'd do all the other little things that had to be done to get the bar ready for business. He'd do them one right after the other, the same way every day. In fact, he figured he could do them with a bag over his head. He'd been doing it that long–back when he'd owned the Tide and still now when he no longer did.

  The routine used to be how he made sure everything stayed in order. Now the routine kept him sane.

  He was the second one in every morning, right after Shamrock, the Irish dishwasher and the High Tide's jack-of-all-trades. Shamrock came in at the ungodly hour of around 4 a.m. Dan wasn't sure exactly. After all, he didn't have to pay the man anymore. The only thing the new owner cared about was that no matter what crazy time he got in, Shamrock got all his work done. And he did. Always. The man was a workhorse. He'd clean the floors, do the rugs, empty all the trash, shovel snow in the winter, and do any of the handyman jobs that were always popping up. Then he'd do a shift, sometimes two, on the dishwasher.

  And when they needed someone to go through one of the trap doors in the floor that led into the dark, dirty crawl space beneath the building, who’d they get? Certainly not Dan–he definitely wasn't paid enough to go down into that pest hole. Even the plumbers didn't want to go down there. Shamrock was the man. He didn't think anything of jumping in with whatever the hell crawled around down there.

  Yeah, Shamrock did everything, and he'd been around quite a while now. He'd worked for Dan when he'd owned the business and stayed on with the new owner, just like Dan had. Most days when Dan came to work the first thing he'd hear was Shamrock greeting him with that County Cork brogue of his. Not this morning though; he wasn't there. But Dan could tell he had been and that he'd probably be back soon. He could see the mop and bucket down at the kitchen end of the bar and the vacuum sitting in the middle of the dining room floor. The Irishman had most likely gone for coffee and donuts, Dan figured. Hell, the little guy lived on coffee and donuts. He'd be back. Shamrock spent more time in the High Tide than the beer barrels.

  It wasn't long before Dan looked up from the chrome beer chest he was restocking and there was Shamrock, looking just like a guy named Shamrock should, coming through the swinging doors from the kitchen, a box of donuts in his hands. He put the box down on a small bar table. "Will ya have a donut with me, Danny Boy?"

  "No, thanks, Shamrock. I already ate."

  Dan didn't stop to chat. He slid ashtrays out along the bar, made sure they were evenly spaced, then grabbed a large green bucket from under the bar and went back through the kitchen to the ice chest to fill it. He brought the filled bucket back behind the bar and dumped the ice into one of the bar sinks, making enough trips to fill both sinks, one at each end of the bar. All the while keeping an eye on the little Irishman.

  Something was up with Shamrock. He usually had a big smile on that rosy mug of his. But not today. And talk? With Shamrock around no one had to worry about a lull in the conversation. But right now he wasn't making a peep. He leaned against the shoulder-high wooden divider that separated the bar area from the restaurant section of the establishment, nibbled on one of his donuts, and peered at the fish tank on top of the divider.

  It wasn't until Dan was in the middle of slicing his lemons, limes, and oranges on a chopping block on the bar that Shamrock finally started talking. And he whispered it more than actually said it. "Danny, would you be knowin' how much they get for that cocaine powder nowadays?"

  Normally that question would have made Dan a little leery, but coming from Shamrock it was downright out of the blue. He would've guessed the Irishman didn't even know what the stuff was, or at least, had never seen it.

  Dan's heart picked up its beat. "Why?"

  "For the love of Jesus, Danny Boy. I'm just curious. That's all. Nothin' more." The Irishman's voice was shaky and he couldn't meet Dan's gaze.

  Even though he'd known Shamrock quite a while and knew he was ok, Dan's defenses went up as automatically as if he'd been asked the same question by a new bar customer. "I really . . . hmmm . . . don't know anything about that stuff, Shamrock." And even as he said it, he knew it wouldn't go over. Not even with Shamrock.

  And he was right; it didn't.

  "But Danny Boy, you must know something." Shamrock’s voice cracked.

  And there it was–Shamrock bringing up what most of the beach people knew: Dan Marlowe had a drug problem. The key word was "had." That was all in the past.

  So why would Shamrock, of all people, bring the past up now?

  Maybe he was just curious. Or was there something more?

  Dan didn't know, but he wasn't about to talk about something he'd rather forget. "I don't know anything about that stuff."

  He must've sounded harder than he'd meant to, because the Irishman started to get real antsy and nervous. His f
ace reddened.

  "I . . . I got things to do in the kitchen." Shamrock grabbed his box of donuts and walked off through the swinging doors.

  Dan kept working on the fruit. Something was going on with Shamrock, though Dan didn't have a clue what had gotten under the Irishman's skin. Had Shamrock heard some gossip that he couldn't resist following up? Or was he just trying to bust Dan's balls?

  Both scenarios were unlikely. Shamrock didn't have a mean bone in his body. Besides, the little guy had been around during Dan's bad times. He might not have known all the gory details, but he had to know the gist of Dan's story.

  Putting the past in a box didn't make Dan feel any better. His heart was beating triple time, his palms were sweaty, and he was starting to think about . . . well, thinking about things he didn't want to think about. Things that weren’t good to think about. Things he could force himself to forget about for a little while, until . . . bang! Something would happen and the memories would flood his mind. Not good memories. Damn bad ones, as a matter of fact.

  Dan walked to the end of the bar and stared out the front window at the Atlantic Ocean, hoping the ocean would work its soothing magic and help him forget. It had worked before. And it did today too.

  Eventually.

  ~*~*~