from a guy named Reggie, who sold to all the frat houses and college campuses in a ninety-mile radius. It was a nice little operation Reggie had going, but he used idiots to do his deals. They were guys who stuck out like sore thumbs on campuses, and they carried the cash and the drugs at the same time, which was flat-out stupid.
I saw a chance to make a little money, and asked Mattie if I could talk to Reggie. Mattie said I was nuts, and he was right, but I got the meeting. I laid it out for him. I explained that I was someone who didn’t look out of place on a college campus, and if you separated the money from the weed he was selling, it made it harder for the police. If someone was caught with a ton of money and a ton of weed, that was the ball game. If someone only had weed, it was harder to prove intent to sell. I learned that years ago from another friend who had gone into criminal law. I told Reggie that I would be his bagman. I would collect the cash and take a small cut that we would both agree to.
Looking back on it, yeah, it was insane, but Reggie went for it. The money was good and the work was incredibly easy. I was dealing with frat boys. This was nothing like Scarface. I graduated and decided to keep going, just until I paid off my loans. I knew I couldn’t do it forever, but at the time, it was the perfect way to pay off my student debts, which at that rate, would only take two or three more years.
I had just stepped out the front door of the frat house when my phone pinged with a text message.
Thanks for the Woody. I’ve never had one before and they’re fun to play with. Oh shit! I just sent you my number, didn’t I? Dammit. I guess you’ll have to call me sometime.
My night was now complete. I went back to the yard, found the almost empty keg, downed another beer, and tossed the cup into the bushes. Time to—
“—go, Murphy,” I say aloud, and get up from the log.
Murphy, who’s been lying on the soft needles trying to chew his red tennis ball into oblivion, jumps up to join me.
We need to get back. I want to double check that there’s nothing suspicious at the cottage before the next guests arrive.
*
We arrive back at the cottage and everything is as it should be.
Since he’s already wet from our hike, I throw Murphy’s ball into the pond a couple of times. He gleefully plunges into the water after it. Soon, it’ll be too cold but for now, he doesn’t seem to mind. I throw it one more time. When he brings it back to the shore, he signals that he’s done with our game by ignoring my requests to bring the ball to me, and carries it up to the porch, where he goes back to work trying to destroy it.
*
The Shermans arrive at three on the dot.
They park their Buick in front of the cottage and get out. They’re an older, retired couple and present quite the picture. She’s tiny. I’m guessing not more than five feet tall, with unnaturally brown hair with gray roots, and bright red lipstick. Mr Sherman is six foot four, with tired eyes and a drooping neck. She’s full of energy. He’s decidedly not.
She starts walking towards me, all smiles and a slight limp.
“Are you Jacob?” she asks.
“That would be me. You must be Linda.”
“Yes, indeed, and this is my husband Franklin.” She gestures to him with a flash of her hand.
I nod. “Pleased to meet you both. Any problems finding the place?”
“Oh, no. I’m the navigator for our little trip, and I got us here without a hitch, didn’t I, Franklin?”
“Yes, you di—”
“Yep, without a hitch.”
I glance over at Franklin. He may have had more to say, but his expression lets me know that this is probably the way of their conversations.
Linda turns slowly, I assume on account of a bum hip, and takes a deep breath. “Well, this really is beautiful.”
Murphy awakes from his nap on the porch and comes down to join us.
“And there’s Murphy!” she exclaims.
Murphy approaches, and she gives his head a good scratch. I’m glad he’s tired. His standard energetic greeting would have been too much for her.
“So, I read in your reservation that you two were doing a little Haunted New England tour?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. We’re hitting all the haunted sites, aren’t we, Franklin?”
“Yep. We came fro—”
“We came from Salem,” she quickly interjects. “Spent a few days there, hoping to see some ghosts.”
“Any luck?”
“No. Beautiful town, but a little bit of a let-down. Too touristy, right, Franklin?”
“It was a little crowd—”
“So many people. Too many people, and they were dressed up in costumes. We may have seen a ghost. Who knows? But I don’t think we did. I have to confess, I’m psychic about such things.”
“Really?” I ask, playing along.
“Oh, yes.”
“Well, I also saw in your reservation request that you were heading over to Maine after this, so maybe you’ll have better luck there.”
“We’re hoping to find some ghosts here in The Hollows.” She gets a giddy smile. “Oh, I love that name. The Hollows.” She savors the words. I don’t have the heart to tell her that the name was the result of a frustrated surveyor. “We stopped in Tarrytown, too. That’s the real name of Sleepy Hollow. Nice place, but too modern. No luck with any ghosts there, either. But maybe here in The Hollows. I mean, there are ghosts everywhere you know, and I have to tell you, I’m getting a strong sensation from this place. So, you have to have some ghosts, here.”
I shrug. “Not that I know of. We had our own little witch trial way back in the sixteen hundreds, where three women were hung from a tree in the Old Stone Church cemetery, but nothing else.”
She waves me off. “We’ll find ’em. Won’t we, Franklin?”
“We’ll look for—”
“Yep. We’ll find ’em.”
“Well, I certainly wish you happy hunting, and even if you don’t, you’ll still love the cottage. Do you need help with your luggage?”
“No, thank you, dear. Franklin can handle the bags, can’t you, Franklin?”
This time, Franklin only grunts an affirmation.
“Great. Well, the key is in the lockbox. I have to head into town. If you’re out tonight, you can come see me at the coffee shop on Main Street. It’s called Groundworks, and you can tell me how your ghost hunt went.”
“Sounds
