“Let’s just say that if you were planning to take actions against certain people for what happened with the Tree Man situation, we would be on opposite sides. Adversaries. And even though you have some pretty loyal old buds, I know who they are and have pretty loyal new buds. And you don’t know who they are.”
I stopped the conversation on the spot.
“Enough, Artie. You can get the hell out of here right now or I’ll throw you out.” A quick spin to Sam, “And you’ll have to use that Desert Eagle to stop me.”
Sam raised a hand, palm out, in defense. No words.
Back to Thornson, “You don’t come in my house and threaten anybody.” I could hear my voice rising. “Especially my friends.”
Thornson lowered his eyes to mine.
“I’m trying to keep you guys from spending a long, long time in a place no one knows exists with people who don’t speak English and think bread and water is tantamount to coddling a… guest.”
“Out,” hitching my thumb to the door. “Now.”
Artemus gave his head a shake, climbed from the chair, wiped pizza from his fingers and took a final swig of beer. Silently he crossed the living room and Sam opened the door for him.
Turning back toward us, “Think every move you make all the way through before doing anything. I like you guys. Truly do. Don’t become statistics – or less.”
With that he and Sam left, the big body guard closing the door quietly behind him.
Steam was coming out of my ears. “That son of a…”
Sal raised a hand and put a finger over his lips to be quiet. He stood and waved me to follow him into the kitchen. The big man forked two fingers to his eyes then pointed around the kitchen.
Once a spook, always a spook.
I looked under the counter as Sal peered behind the appliances.
Less than a minute later he snapped his fingers to get my attention then pointed to the underside of the exhaust fan over the stove. A smile spread across his bearded face.
The bug was tiny. About the size of 10p nail head and virtually the same color white as the fan enclosure. It would have been missed if we hadn’t been looking for it.
I picked it off and dropped it into the sink; turned on the hot water and watched it flush down the drain.
Within a dozen minutes we had found three more in various locations in the kitchen and one under the coffee table in the living room.
“That it?”
Sal shrugged. “Probably. They’re so damn small and almost invisible. But he didn’t have enough time to put many more around. I think we’re clear.”
We retook our seats.
“What was that all about? Just to plant bugs?”
Sal’s beard twitched as he thought about the questions. Then, “Not so sure. He wouldn’t have come just for that. He has more than enough resources to do grunt work. He’d never have to leave his D.C. office. There’s more.”
“Personalize the warning? Thinking it would carry more weight if he said it face to face rather than over the phone?”
“More likely.”
The sound of crunching gravel in the drive, the slamming of a car door and 10 seconds later Cookie walked into the living room.
“Hi guys!” she said, dropping her overnight bag in the hallway. “Whatcha doing?”
“Hey babe. How was Chicago?”
“Cold, snowy and cold. And snowy.” She crossed the room, planted a wet kiss on me and fell into my lap. “Hi Sal,” giving him a toothy smile.
“Glad you’re home,” he said. “I’m getting tired of fixing breakfast for this goon.”
“Who you calling a goon? And when did you become a cook at Eatin’ Station?”
Cookie looked around the room, inspecting walls and ceiling.
“No bullet holes, so I guess you’ve been behaving?”
“Wait til you see the lawn ornament Tatiana got Sal. We have to get one just like it.”
“Really?”
“Hand crafted in Germany,” I said. “A magnificent piece of work.”
Sal laughed. “And wait til you hear what we saw on the river.”
Cookie’s eyes went narrow. “What’s going on?”
“Let’s go to McFarlin's, have a burger,” I suggested. “We can fill you in over a Long Island Iced Tea.”
“Long Island Iced Tea,” she said, eyes getting even narrower. “Since when do you drink…”
“Or a cherry martini,” Sal interjected.
“Now I know something’s up.”
“Gin fizz,” I added.
Sal responded, “Cranberry Margarita.”
“Lemon schnapps with a Fire Ball chaser?”
Sal groaned in mock ecstasy, “Oh, so tempting.”
CHAPTER FOUR
9:30 p.m. Coquille River. Calm water ebbing to the ocean. Cookie, in Miss QT, waited near shore about a mile upstream of Sal who sat in the Smokercraft docked at Rocky Point. I was aboard Dragonfly in the Bandon harbor, two-way radio clicked on, a pot of coffee on the galley stove, mug filled to the brim in my lap.
The night glistened as only a smog-free rural ocean-front sky can. Most businesses in Old Town were long closed and no one was aboard the few boats in the marina. Night-lights were clicked on in a couple of the moored fish boats, but they gave off a dim glow, adding warmth to the cool breeze.
There’s something magical and dangerous about the Coquille River. Much of its history is tangentially known to residents. Well, except those under the voting age who think history started the day they were born.
With the slow rocking of Dragonfly on calm swells, I pulled up some info from the deep dark recesses of my memory. Between sips of coffee and flashes of images of the ghost paddle wheeler, dingerberries of those historic facts.
From the early 1870s through the mid-1940s, the Coquille was recognized as a beneficial project by the federal government, with the political assistance of long-time resident George Bennett.
Politics wasn’t that different back then. With veiled threats of votes hanging in the balance, Bennett offered advice to political candidates: Whoever provides the greatest assistance to improving the Bandon bar and river would be elected to Congress.
