Ryan
Portland, Maine
Mookey’s Bar
Present Day
Eli wouldn’t let me go alone. It’s one thing, working with your best friend; it’s another thing to try to fight crime without him knowing.
We’re at the bar at Mookey’s.
“What do you want?” the bartender asks from the register.
“Whiskey on the rocks,” I answer, knowing full well I won’t drink it.
Eli sits two stools over.
I arrived first. He arrived fifteen minutes later.
Mookey’s is known for its tough location and its even tougher clientele. Located just south on the coast, the railroad tracks run parallel to the bar. Rumors about Mookey’s in Portland have floated in and out of Portland since we were kids. Bodies have been discovered on trains. Bodies have been discovered in the ocean not too far off from Mookey’s, tied to cinder blocks. All the evidence of these murders—sometimes solved—has almost always led detectives back to Mookey’s.
The bartender eyes me like he knows something, or maybe it’s the fucking nerves in my stomach. I put the whiskey to my lips from the glass he slid down the bar to me just as Eli orders a beer.
I pretend to put the brown poison in my mouth but keep my lips tight, so it doesn’t get in.
A guy two rows down from me, in his late sixties—or he could be younger; it’s hard to tell with these guys if they’ve beaten up their bodies with the stuff they put in it or if they are actually the age that they look—flicks his cigarette into the clear ashtray.
The whiskey, still on my lips, burns as I set the glass down on the bar.
Merit asked me why I needed to find Dubbs.
“You should let him be,” she said. “Find his own way out of the mess he’s in.”
But it isn’t in me. It’s not because he’s my biological dad. It’s not because he deserves the help. It’s because no person deserves to go unlooked for. Not even Dubbs. Because I can guarantee, nobody in Granite Harbor knows he’s missing. He didn’t contribute to our small town. He didn’t support the Fosters when they lost their home. He never attends the Fall Festival or the Christmas tree lighting in December. Doesn’t help when someone’s down and out. He’s a dick. Plain and simple.
Has he been running drugs for Ronan?
Did he decide to use the product for his own testing?
Maybe Ronan found out.
Maybe Ronan hadn’t noticed in the beginning. But the supplies got bigger and bigger, and the money wasn’t being made. And it all traced back to Dubbs.
Stan at The Bill said though that it had to be big, whatever it was, for Ronan to be seen with Dubbs. Stealing the supply doesn’t seem big enough. Not for what he does.
There’s got to be something more.
My phone sounds. It’s a text from Eli.
Eli: We’re fucking game wardens. Why the fuck are we here, in a bar I don’t want to even piss in?
I shove my phone back in my pocket and pretend to take another swig of my whiskey. I look at the guy who’s a seat over. He’s watching the box television that sits at the end of the bar. What’s with dive bars and box televisions? Fucking surely, they can afford better. Especially with the drugs and money that roll through this place. Money paid to be silenced. Money paid for drugs. Money paid for taking lives.
“You got another smoke?” I ask the guy.
“Fuck you.”
Ah. Right.
A fight breaks out at the pool table behind us.
“Fuck you, Abe. Fuck you!” one man shouts to the other. “Spit on your motha’s grave.”
“Those are fightin’ words, asshole,” Abe says. “Don’t talk about my motha. She was your motha, too, Pauly.”
Another man stands between them.
The guy at the end of the bar sits, still staring at the television. “Don’t botha. They do this all the time. Fucking idiots.” He takes another slow drag of his cigarette.
I turn back around and see Eli do the same.
The guy at the end of the bar rolls a cigarette to me. It was just a fucking conversation starter. Now, I’ve got to smoke the goddamn thing. I didn’t think this through.
“Thanks … I didn’t get your name.”
“Lou.”
But the fight behind us starts to escalate. I look at Lou. He’s still facing forward, watching an infomercial.
“You fuckin’ told me that I’d get my share!” Pauly yells at Abe. “You didn’t even give me half.”
“I gave you what I was told to give ya, asshole.”
“That’s not what Ronan said.”
“Who do ya work for? Me or him?”
When Lou stands, Mookey’s falls silent. It’s only the television that sounds.
He walks over to Pauly, pulls a five-dollar bill from inside his leather vest, and shoves it in his face, and Pauly watches it float down to the beer-stained floor like a starving dog. “Take the fuckin’ five and shut the fuck up.” He leans in closer. “And, if you don’t, I will fucking kill you and put your ass on the train to Massachusetts. Got it, Pauly?”
“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” Pauly’s hands are up, but when Lou walks away, he scurries for the small amount of money. The money that he knows won’t give him the high he needs.
“If I hear a fucking peep out of both ya tonight, I will kill you both myself.” Lou walks back over to his stool at the bar, picks up his cigarette, and resumes his stare at the television.
“You seen Dubbs around? Asshole owes me some money,” I say, starting the conversation.
Lou’s in the midst of a long, thick drag of his cigarette. He’s still staring at the television. Then, he slowly turns his head to look at me. “Owes you money? What for?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Lou smiles. Puts his cigarette out in the ashtray. His greased-back hair, more salt than pepper, matches the aging lines on his face. The lines that tell me he’s lived a much harder life than he’s had to. That drugs and law-breaking have been his forte for the last thirty years.
He drops his head to the side, and a peculiar look he gives. “Can’t trust narcs, pretty boy. Your money is as good as gone.” Takes a sip of his drink, the ice, with several clanks, converges at the side of the glass. Lou doesn’t break my stare, as if he’s trying to read me.
Good guy.
Bad guy.
I’ve never been accused of being a pretty boy. Angry? Yes. Intimidating? That, too.
I pretend to take another drink of my whiskey. I know my boundaries. I know my boundaries as a warden. Know my boundaries as a man. Know which envelope to push and which not to. Merit. She’s the only one I’ll fight for. Not for Dubbs. Not for information. I’m not willing to risk Eli’s life, my life, to find Dubbs. This is logical. This makes sense.
But there’s a question I know I need to ask. One last question that will put me on Lou’s radar. Not because I know Lou, but because I know his type. Short fuse. Angry. Mean. No moral compass. He wouldn’t think twice to take Eli and me in the back and shoot us. Put our bodies on the train to Massachusetts, just like he said he’d do to Pauly. And this doesn’t intimidate me. What scares the living shit out of me is hurting Merit again. Breaking her heart. Her having to find out that her brother and I were killed. But I have to ask it. “Know where I can find him?”
Lou’s got a lazy eye. It’s not one that’s really noticeable, but it’s most likely something that law enforcement officers pick up on. His hands, too, are riddled with arthritis. I can tell from his knuckles on his hands; they’re big, swollen almost. Probably something he takes pain medication for—and not the kind he gets from the doctor. The kind that is purchased on the streets. The kind that kids get ahold of, get addicted to, and die from. The opioid addiction in Portland is fucking awful, and it’s assholes like these guys, like the Lous and the Paulys and Ronans of the world, who get kids addicted.
Now, I’m fucking pissed.
“How much does he owe you?” Lou lights up another cigarette and takes a long drag, and the tip of it ignites into a bright orange glow.
“Doesn’t matter.” My anger is getting the best of me.
Chill the fuck out, Ryan.
I feel my jaw tense.
Eli slaps my arm. “Hey, man. You know where the restroom is? I’ve gotta piss.”
Eli can tell I’m pissed.
Lou looks over at Eli. “Outside,” Lou answers the question that Eli intended for me.
Eli turns and walks out the front door of the bar.
“Won’t get your money back. He was taken care of.”
“Why?” pops out of my mouth.
Lou’s cigarette again hangs loosely from his lips now. He doesn’t break eye contact with the television. He’s done talking.
Fuck.
Eli walks back in the bar and sits at his spot, two seats down from me. We both know it’s time to go. Lou’s not budging.
I stand and throw a hundred on the bar to let the bartender know I’ll be back and that I expect the drinks to be stronger than the criminals who drink them.
Not long after, Pauly walks out the front as I wait for Eli in my truck around the corner.
Pauly’s a car over, facing the brick wall, pissing.
I wait for him to finish.
I get out of the truck as he zips up. “You know where I can find Dubbs?”
“Who’s askin’?”
“He owes me money. Tell you what. You tell me where he’s at, and I’ll give you half of what he owes me.”
I know he’ll fall for this. He’s the coward criminal. The type who will lie to get himself out of trouble. The type who will throw his pack under the bus if it means less jail time for him. He’s stupid and loose-lipped.
Pauly uses the same line Lou did. “Can’t trust narcs.”
“I know. But I need my money.”
Pauly will cave. For money, he’ll do just about anything.
“He’s dead.”
There’s no feeling behind Pauly’s words. As if I somehow already knew it would end like this. His words have no effect on me. They might later. But, right now, they don’t.
“What happened?”
This is where I know Pauly will get squirrelly. Try to backtrack. Try to leave.
“I don’t talk about shit I don’t see.”
I grab a hundred-dollar bill from my wallet.
Pauly’s eyes grow shifty, looking from the hundred-dollar bill back to me. He attempts to take it, but I pull it back.
“What happened?”
“Shit! He’s gonna come after me, man, if I say a fucking word.” Pauly’s talking more to himself than me right now.
I push. “What happened?”
“Fuck,” he whispers under his breath. Rubs his forehead. Looks at the money again.
I can tell he’s got an addiction. This hundred-dollar bill will get him loaded on the streets, a high I know he needs because I can see he’s jumpy. A little paranoid. With a wad of cash in his front pocket, I wonder why he didn’t leave sooner. It seems like they use Pauly to be the gopher in their operation. A pawn. The delivery guy. A guy who sits back and sometimes pays attention when he’s not faded on whatever he can get in his body.
“Narced out the boss to the police. Boss put a hit out on some sort of law enforcement officer.”
“What?”
Pauly’s legs shake. “Can I have my hundred dollars now?”
Why the hell would Dubbs care about a hit on the LE? He hates law enforcement.
“Who was the hit for?”
“Fuck, man, I don’t remember his name.” Pauly grows more nervous. His hands fidgeting.
“No answer, no money.”
“Come on, man, told ya why he got killed.”
I go to put the money back in my wallet.
“Come on!” Pauly is crawling out of his own skin. He reaches up and scratches his forehead for an itch he probably doesn’t have. He thinks. “Robert T-something.” He thinks again. “No, no. It was Ryan Tanner. No! Ryan T-Taylor. Can I please have my money now?”