Moonbog (24 page)

The gleam in his pale eyes held him as he flicked his glance from his reflection to the road and back to his reflection. With each glance of himself, his smile widened until he was smiling broadly, showing a row of pearly white teeth. A low laugh sounded deep within his chest and started to rise.

“You fuckin’ hot shit,” he said with laughter. “You goddamn fuckin’ class-A hot shit!” His laughter rose steadily and he slapped himself on the leg a number of times as he shook his head from side to side.

His laughter rose, filling the car. He was driving faster than he realized, though, and when he came into the curve that ended with a stop sign at the junction of Route 802, he suddenly shook his head, snapped alert, and pumped the brakes—hard.

The back tires of the car grabbed, skidding with a snake-like hiss. For a brief second, Les panicked, thinking he wouldn’t be able to control the car in a spin. He saw the stop sign ahead, gritted his teeth, and jockeyed the steering wheel, fighting for control.

“It’s not as bad as skidding in the fuckin’ snow,” he reminded himself, playing the steering wheel whenever he felt the back of the car start to come around front. He pumped the brakes. The tires scraped louder. He was rapidly approaching the stop sign and he realized that he was not going to be able to stop in time. Quickly, he decided to take the curve, run the stop sign, and hope—hope to God a Mack truck wasn’t heading north on Route 802.

Les glanced quickly in both directions and, for the first time, he realized just how bad the intersection was; he couldn’t see anything in either direction. His jaw set firmly, he started into the turn, still applying the brakes.

The car swung around heavily, but at least on 802 there was rougher asphalt, not the new slick road covering layered with sand. The brakes held, the tires kept the road as Les swung past the stop sign and onto the road.

“Hot damn!” Les shouted, when he realized that he had made it. He readjusted the rearview mirror and glanced behind him, grateful that he didn’t see either a Mack truck or a police cruiser. He let out another loud whoop and tapped a frantic rhythm on the steering wheel. “Things is just going your way today, boy,” he said, twisting the mirror so he could see himself again. “
Things is just going your way!
”

II

“I
sign here?” David asked. He looked up at Sidney Latham, who was leaning closely over his shoulder. He tapped the pale blue line with his forefinger.

“Uhhh, yes, that’s right,” Sidney said. The smell of stale tobacco smoke nauseated David. “That will do it.”

For a moment David hesitated, then, with a quick flourish he scribbled his signature and placed the pen beside the documents. “Not so difficult after all, was it?”

Sidney walked over to the other side of the desk and sat down. He gathered the papers together and smiled at David as he jogged them into a neat little stack.

“It seems almost anti-climactic,” David said, sitting back in his chair and glancing out at the pale morning sky. “After all the waiting and hassles and all, just a few strokes of the pen to finish it off.”

“I’ll let you in on a little trade secret,” Latham said, leaning forward conspiratorially. “That’s how it is a lot of times. We lawyers just take our time to make it look good so it will seem like we’re earning our outrageous fees.”

David wasn’t amused, and Latham quickly read his face. “Of course, in your situation, where one of the heirs was declared legally dead, there was a bit more involved.”

David smiled and, remembering that he had signed with his own pen, he picked up the pen and slipped it into his pocket. “One thing I am curious about,” he said. “What would happen now if my father did show up, after all these years?”

Latham stroked his chin and said, “A legal shit-storm.”

David laughed this time, more to gratify the man than from any humor he felt.

“Actually,” Latham continued, “your father has been declared dead so, by law, any claim he had on that property is no longer valid.”

“Well,” David sighed and shifted forward in his chair to stand up, “I for one am glad it’s finished.

You’ve earned your fee as far as I’m concerned. The sooner I get that land on the market and sold, the better I’ll feel.”

“Ummm.” Sidney looked at him intently, and David sensed that he had something to say. He raised an inquiring eyebrow at the lawyer.

Latham leaned back in his chair to appear casual. He picked up his pipe and chewed thoughtfully at the stem. Again, he reminded David of a college professor.

“Well, David, you see.” He paused, fished a lighter from his pocket and began to work at lighting his pipe. David always wondered why, if the damn things were so hard to smoke, anyone would bother with them; perhaps, like now, it was to give him some time to organize his thoughts and words.

“Now that the deeds are signed and the property is yours, I’ve been wondering exactly what your plans are.”

“I told you, put it on the market and sell it.” “Ummm.” Latham nodded thoughtfully.

“Are there any agencies you could recommend?” David asked, aware that Latham was holding something back.

“I might be able to do a bit better than that, my boy,” Latham said. He paused, for effect. “If you’re as anxious to get rid of that property as you say, an associate of mine has expressed some interest in it.”

David felt a slight satisfaction in realizing Latham had something up his sleeve. But suddenly, perhaps because of Latham’s familiar “my boy,” he was cautious. He didn’t want to let the place go too easily, especially now that it was apparent that Latham had been waiting for this moment for quite some time: to wait a little longer might not hurt the asking price, David decided.

“Well, Mr. Latham, you know, that’s a pretty good sized place, some good land too. With a bit of work, that’d make a nice family home for someone. I want to be sure of getting a fair price.”

“My associate is willing to give you a fair price. I think he’ll match or exceed your best offer. And, if it is a concern of yours, I can assure you that he intends to remodel the house and resell it.”

“For a profit,” David said, fighting back the grin he felt was about to break across his face.

“Of course for a profit,” Latham said, not looking up at David as he tapped the burning tobacco down with the butt of his penknife. “My associate is a business man.”

“And who exactly
is
this associate of yours? Before I get too far into this, I’d like to know who I’m dealing with. Or, better yet, I’d like to meet him.”

“The man’s name is Harry Sumner. He’s a contractor in town. I don’t think he was living here while you were around.”

David shook his head. “So he intends to develop the land.”

Latham nodded. “That is our—uh, his intent. Not counting the wetland, there are twenty-five or thirty acres of good land there. No sense letting it just sit there idle, David. Holland’s a growing area. A lot of city folks are dying to move up here and settle, if not permanently, at least for the summer and winter skiing. Of course, Mr. Sumner isn’t in the business out of charity; he does intend to make a buck or two.”

“Oh sure, sure,” David said, “I can’t fault him on that. It’s just—” He slouched down into his chair and studied his folded hands for a moment. “That’s approximately twenty-five acres of land, and maybe another thirty of the Bog,” he said softly.

Suddenly looking up at Latham, David said, “And what exactly
was
the price Mr. Sumner was willing to pay?”

Latham shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Well, I’m not at liberty to discuss prices with you. We were discussing it, though, and I think it was in the area of, oh, roughly fifty thousand.”

David nodded solemnly. “That sounds like a decent area to be in.” He shifted suddenly and stood up. Latham, obviously caught off guard, dropped his pipe on the floor as he jumped to his feet.

“I’ll have to give it some thought, though,” David said. “I’ll be in town until the weekend. I’d like to meet with Mr. Sumner and discuss this with him. Could you arrange it?”

Latham smiled and nodded. “I have your number at the motel. I’ll get in touch with Harry and give you a buzz.” He stuck his hand across the desk. David gave it a firm shake. “We can meet here, if it’s convenient for you.”

“Fine. Between now and then, I think I’ll check with a few agencies, see what the going prices are. I want to get the best price I can. I’m sure Mr. Sumner will understand.”

“Of course he will, of course he will,” Latham said. “He’s a business man too,” he concluded with a canary-eating cat grin.

Before David left, he asked Latham, “Have you heard any more about the search for that missing boy?”

“The Hollis boy? No, I haven’t. Shaw’s got half the town out beating the brush, though. They’ll find him.”

“I hope they don’t find him the way I found”—David gagged at the memory—”the way I found Billy Wilson. There’s a real whacko out there, that’s for sure.” He fixed Latham with a harsh stare. “See, New York isn’t the only place where you aren’t safe after dark.”

The comment caught Latham off guard, and he could do nothing but meet David’s stare and smile weakly.

“Well,” David continued, “whoever it is, I know one thing—sooner or later he’ll make a mistake and get caught.”

“You think so?” Latham asked earnestly.

“For sure. He’s gotta’ be one of two types. Either he’s the kind of guy who will have to boast or do something so brazen he gets caught, you know, make a show of that he’s getting away with it; or else he’s a mousy little guy and, eventually, the guilt will drive him nuts and he’ll turn himself in.”

“It sounds like you don’t have a hell of a lot of faith in the police investigation,” Latham said.

David shrugged. “I’ve always felt that, more often than not, it’s the criminal who gets
himself
caught.” “I sure hope so,” Latham said. “I sure hope he gets nailed before too long—before he gets anyone else.” “He will . . . he will,” David said. “If he’s human.”

Then he turned and left the lawyer’s office, trying to push away the shadow that rose up in his memory.

III

L
es popped the last bit of his third hot dog with mustard and onions into his mouth and washed it down with a large gulp of beer. He slammed his mug down on the table when the Bridgton town whistle blew, signaling the noon hour.

He had lost count of the beers he had had this morning, but a rough estimate put it in the neighborhood of ten or twelve. He knew he could figure it out if he counted his change but decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. He knew one thing for damn sure, that he was feeling pretty damn good.

When he heard the old firehouse horn blowing, Les immediately thought that it sounded like a series of farts. He chuckled at the thought that he had eaten enough onions to give him gas for a week. He rolled his butt slightly to the side and let out a tight, high-pitched fart—what he called a “one-cheek squeak.” He chuckled again and raised his hand for another beer.

One of the waitresses placed a frosty mug in front of him. She was new on the job and Les didn’t know her name. She gave him a coy smile.

“Thanks, honey,” he said, giving her an affectionate pat on the ass. She pulled away from his touch, waited for him to count out his money, and then strode away without another word. Les watched the hem of her short skirt hitch up slightly with each step, then he settled back down in his booth and took a deep swallow. He would have to be “sick” for work more often.

Christ, he was feeling good
, he determined. The morning had started out well and had gotten better as it went along. He smacked his lips with loud satisfaction and then took another deep swallow.

“Startin’ in kinda’ early, ain’t yah?” a voice behind him said.

Looking up, Les saw Mac Foster standing at his shoulder. The old man was wearing his heavy red woolen shirt and his hole-ridden blue wool cap. As he turned around, Les caught a whiff of his unwashed clothes and body.

“Can I sitt’own?” the old man asked, indicating the other side of the booth with his empty beer mug.

Les nodded and removed his foot from the opposite seat. “Sure. Yeah, I’m takin’ the day off. Sort of a little celebration.”

“Ohh?” Mac said, seating himself heavily. He snubbed out the smoldering cigarette in his left hand, scratched at the bristly white stubble on his cheeks, then relit another cigarette, all the while regarding Les with his watery eyes. “And jus’ what might yah be celebratin’?” he asked.

“Just being alive,” Les replied, a bit distantly. Now that Mac was sitting down with him, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted company. “Just being alive.”

“‘Bsolutely nothin’ like it . . . bein’ alive, that is,” Mac said, his mouth belching thick, blue smoke. He leaned forward, pushing his glass toward Les. “Say, you buyin’ this round?”

Les nodded slightly, and Mac’s hand shot up into the air. A moment later the waitress came over to the table and put down two full beers. She made a point of not looking at Les as he paid, and walked away from the booth quickly.

“I thought you highway department boys was out on that there search,” Mac said. A moustache of beer foam clung to his upper lip.