rebuild the town.
Would that happen today?
As I said, I know many Bandon residents and have little doubt they would act in the same selfless manner if the time ever came to do so. While we still have heated discussions at the coffee shop or write scathing letters to the editor or plaster our cars with different political party bumper stickers or quibble over being “Bandonites” or “Bandonians,” when push comes to shove, We Are Bandon.
ABOUT THIS BOOK: Most of those portions headed “1936” are from real accounts of the Bandon fire from the book “Bandon Burns!” I’ve rewritten some of the first-hand reports for style. But the book itself is a wonderful insight into the ’36 fire on a human level. “Bandon Burns!” was compiled by Jim Proehl and Carol Acklin based on Bandon Historical Society files. Copies are available from the Historical Society (see websites at the back of this novel).
I’ve clearly taken some literary license in this, the sixth Drago mystery. Like Cabot Cove (Murder She Wrote), not a lot of mayhem really happens in Bandon.
But it could.
ABOUT MAINE: And for those of you who took umbrage at Nick’s comment “No one important came from Maine” in Drago #5 and sent long lists of high profile people from that state, I have but one thing to say: Don’t blame me! It was Nick who said it. Complain to him. I love Maine.
-- Art Spinella
PROLOGUE
Sal and I sat across from each other at McFarlin’s, a pizza and pitcher of Hef between us.
“You ready for a round of Name Links?”
“One, two or five seconds.”
“Two.”
Sal and I reached into our respective pockets and pulled out quarters. We always carry quarters. Donuts are sold in increments of 25 cents.
Since it was my idea, “I start.”
Sal nodded agreement, leaned forward, steely eyes staring at me. Tree-trunk arms on the restaurant table, hands wrapped around a frosty mug of brew. Ready to pounce.
I looked him in the eyes, squinted hard, looking mean and said, “George Washington.”
I pushed a quarter to the center of the table.
He fired back, “George Bush,” his quarter clinked on mine.
My return, “Herbert W. Bush.”
Another quarter.
The volley had begun with 25 cents going to the pot with each response.
“Herbert Hoover.”
“J. Edgar Hoover.”
“Edgar Allan Poe.”
“George Allen.”
“George Foreman.”
“George Foreman, the son.”
“George Foreman the second son.”
“George Foreman the third son.”
“King George.”
“Martin Luther King.”
“Luther Andros.”
“Lex Luthor.”
“Martin Luther, the preacher.”
“Mary Martin.”
“Martin Sheen.”
“Bishop Sheen.”
“Joey Bishop.”
“Joey Badass.”
Sal slapped the table. “Challenge.”
“Hip hop artist. Hah! Look it up.”
Sal Googled it. ”How’d you know that?”
“I am a musical genius.” I swiped the pot of quarters toward me.
“Ready?”
Sal nodded.
“Little Abner.”
“Abner Doubleday.”
One-thousand and one, one-thousand and two. My mind was blank.
“I got nothin’.”
Sal laughed. “Well, there’s Abner Cotto, the boxer. Abner Mares Martinez, another boxer.”
Sal slid the small pot to his side of the table.
My bearded buddy took a long draught of beer, leaned back and in a quiet voice said, “Tom Cruise.”
CHAPTER ONE
EIGHT HOURS, EIGHT MINUTES
It perched in the center of Forte’s desk looking as out of place as a cow on a Beverly Hills driveway.
The Bandon police chief crooked a finger at me and pointed to the backside of the five gallon propane tank.
Sal and I walked to the side of his desk. Duct taped to the rear of the tank were three sticks of dynamite sprouting a pair of black wires running to a small electronic timer like those used to turn a house lamp on and off at set hours.
“Holy Mother of God!” I backed away from the desk. “Is that thing live?”
Forte nodded, casually tipped back in his chair. “Living and breathing.”
“Well, crap, should you have it on your desk?” I backed away another couple of feet.
“Probably not, Nick.”
Sal walked to the propane tank, gripped both black wires in his huge hand and tugged.
“Don’t do that!” I was now across the room, next to the door. I’m smart enough to know I can’t outrun an explosion, but there is a piece of everyone’s brain that in conditions like this says, “Get the hell out of here!”
Sal held the two strands of wire and tugged again, this time pulling them free of the dynamite cap.
“All fixed,” he said.
“Are you nuts?”
Sal grinned. “Some say I am.” Balling the wire and tossing it to Forte, “But this is so crude and easy to deactivate, it’s almost a joke.” The big man plopped into a guest chair next to Forte’s desk.
The smell of burnt cop-house coffee filled the room.
The
