nodded. “I love that place.”
As well she should. The building was built in 1937 after a massive fire destroyed the town. The CO’s quarters were first rate. 12-pane interior doors, large living room, real-wood floors, good kitchen, bedrooms and a spectacular view of the river and Coquille lighthouse.
“Nice digs,” Sal said.
“So what’s with the cars?”
“They’re our signature,” Frankie said. “Just like Cookie’s baseball bat.”
“We go for photos now,” Tatiana said.
My quizzical look was responded to. “Need business cards and advertisements. Da?”
Cookie nodded. “Da. And brochures, pamphlets.”
The three left as quickly as they arrived, chattering, pushing up their hair this way and that. Girl stuff. A minute later, the rumble of three Ford V8s and the crunch of wide tires on gravel.
Sal, Forte and I sat unmoving.
Finally, “Gentlemen, I need a donut.”
Sal bobbed his head. “Make that a dozen. Cinnamon?”
Forte returned to Bandon to do police work which mostly consisted of – to hear him tell it – paperwork and cruising around town to keep his small force on the lookout for the occasional tagger, tipsy tourist or rabid field mouse. Actually, under his tutelage and 20-some years experience with the Los Angeles police before taking the job, Bandon kept the crime rate low by attending to little infractions the assumption (correctly) being if you snuff out the small stuff the big stuff withers. A good plan.
Sal and I sat on the new deck, each in our respective favorite patio chairs, the sun high in the sky and the temperature hitting the high 70s.
“Dos Equis?”
“You betcha,” Sal responded, eyes closed, beard resting on his massive chest.
Pushing myself out of the chair, I went to the kitchen, snagged two Dos from the fridge, popped the tops and returned, handing an ice-cold bottle to my long-time bud.
Sal and I grew up together in Bandon. Became virtually inseparable in high school, playing football and pulling pranks. He disappeared for a while after college to work for a government agency of some sort. I think it was CIA, but he denies it. Adamantly. College wasn’t in the cards for me. I worked the woods, did a bit of welding on demand, headed out to see the world and became a bouncer at any number of bars from Portland to Eugene before coming back to Bandon.
The town has changed a lot since we were kids. From hippie enclave to tourist mecca. Before that, it was a fishing-logging-lumber mill kind of Oregon rural town. With a view. And before that, shipbuilding, sea port to San Francisco and Seattle, agriculture, gold rush… Hard men and hearty women sort of place.
Sal returned a few years back and we picked up the friendship where it left off. He bought the spread next to Willow Weep – the name given to our property by my oldest daughter some decade and a half ago – and we sit in these same chairs almost every morning drinking coffee and eating ‘nuts. Once noon rolled around, it was Dos Equis and pizza. The good life.
“Ask you a question?”
“I never was nor would I ever be CIA.”
“No, not that one.” I took a long swig of brew from the long neck. “Does Tatiana ever tickle you?
Sal turned his head toward me and opened one eye. “She tickles my fancy, if that’s what you mean.”
“No. I mean physically. Does she tickle you? Goochie, goochie, goo kind of tickle.”
Sal chuckled, closed his eye and shook his head. “I’m not going to answer that, Nick.”
“Just wondering. I mean, you’re 300 pounds…”
“299.”
“You’re 299 pounds. She’s, what, two inches taller than you and a pretty big girl herself. I’m trying to picture you and her rolling around on the floor with her tickling your belly. It’s quite an image. Know what I mean?”
Sal exhaled long and slow. “Nick, shut the hell up.”
Later that afternoon, Sal dropped a stack of photos on my dining room table, pulled out a chair and sat across from me.
“Gaelic,” he said.
Rummaging through the slick, high-res 8-by-10s, the words captured in the photos meant nothing to me. Not even close.
“Should we call the nutty professor, Renolds?”
“As much as I would prefer not to, I think it’s a good way to go,” Sal said.
Sal clicked on his iPhone, opened the email app and typed in the professor’s address. In the text box, he wrote: “Need Gaelic translation. Can you help?”
The response was almost immediate. “Mr. Donut, I presume. Skype. 11 minutes. Don’t be late!”
Sal and I scurried into the den where I fired up my new Mac and launched Skype. Clicking on the professor’s Skype address a couple of wizzes and warbles then the image of the professor filled the screen. He hadn’t cut his white explosion of wiry hair and his face looked even more craggy than the last time we spoke.
“Ah!” he said, staring into the screen. “I see both of the country bumpkins are in attendance! What, no powdered sugar crumbs in your beard today, Mr. Donut?”
Sal wiped his hand over his face just to make sure, “Not today, doc.”
“What’s this about Gaelic? Haven’t you finished that chapter in your pathetic rube lives? Come on, get on with it! Time is of the essence!”
I held up one of the photos close to the camera lens.
“Good God, man! I’m not blind! Back it away!”
I did as directed. The professor began mumbling to himself, eyes scanning the hi-res picture. “Show me another!”
Flipping to a second photo, careful to keep it a good distance from the camera, he began bobbing his head.
“What do you know about languages, class? Never mind, nothing I’m sure.”
Sal began to respond but was cut off.
“That’s Gaelic alright, but it’s an ancient strain of the language. Here, look.” He began rummaging around on his desk out of view of his camera and came up with a large sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen, but only a portion of it showed. It was hard to read.
“What do you see, class?”
“A bunch of boxes and words.”
The
