Page 31 of Whistle
The man behind the wheel of the police car killed the engine but took a moment before opening the door. Chief Harry Cook closed his eyes briefly, yawned, and put his head back on the headrest. Only nine in the morning and already he needed a nap. He’d been up since three, and hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly one in the morning, so the fact that he was even operating on two hours’ sleep was a minor miracle.
Harry allowed himself fifteen seconds to recharge. He knew if he took any longer he’d nod right off, and he didn’t have time for that. But he would take time for a cup, or possibly two, of the Lucknow Diner’s coffee. He didn’t know what was in it—caffeine with a touch of nitroglycerine was his best guess—and it was just as well, because if he did he might have to arrest the manager. But Harry was confident it would give him strength to make it at least until noon.
Harry slowly eased his lean frame out of the car. He was a little underdressed when it came to small-town chiefs. A pair of jeans, a white shirt with an open button-down collar, and a dark brown sport jacket with a small star pinned to the lapel. Lucknow was small enough that everyone knew who he was. He didn’t need a uniform to be recognized, although he did insist on it for the other members of the Lucknow Police Department. All six of them. When they called him on this double standard, he told them that when one of them became chief, they could wear tap shoes and a miner’s hat, for all he cared.
Harry was headed for the diner entrance when he spotted a familiar face on a nearby sidewalk bench. A disheveled-looking man in his fifties with long stringy hair that came down to his shoulders, a three-day growth of beard, a ball cap with a faded Boston Red Sox logo, and a set of clothes that didn’t look as though they’d seen the inside of a washing machine in some time. The man was staring vacantly at the traffic going by when Harry approached.
“How’s it going, there, Gavin?” the chief asked.
Gavin slowly turned his head. “Oh, hey, there, Harry.” He smiled awkwardly. “Gonna tell me to move on?”
Harry shook his head. “Just wondered how you were doing, is all. You spend the night on this bench?”
“Possibly.”
“You know you can go to the shelter.”
Gavin frowned. “I don’t like it there. Place is full of losers.”
Harry took a seat on the bench beside him. “But it gets cool at night. Gettin’ down in the fifties.” He waved a hand toward the towering trees that lined the main street. “Leaves are changin’ already.”
“It’s pretty. Every fall it seems like a miracle, you know?”
“I do indeed.” Harry paused. “I heard from somebody that there’s a new inn opening up in Stowe and they’re hiring. Not really your line of work, but it’d be something.”
“I don’t know. I like Lucknow. And my truck’s hanging together with twine and Scotch tape. Can’t be commuting all the way to Stowe and back every day.”
“I think they’d put you up. They got living quarters for the staff. Won’t be long before there’s snow, and things’ll really be hoppin’ up there. Get your name in now and you might secure a spot.” Harry scanned the street. “Not sure what might be keeping you here, save for this fine view.”
Gavin nodded and said, “Well, that’s something to think about. But if things get going again at Bergen’s they’re gonna want me back, and I’d hate to let them down.”
If anyone had been let down, it had been Gavin Denham, and Bergen’s, a furniture manufacturing company, had done it to him. This grand old year of 2001 had mostly been known for a recession and a stalled economy, but then along came September 11 and suddenly it was the year of the most audacious terrorist attack in history, which only made things worse at Bergen’s, where orders for its finely crafted dressers and armoires and chairs were down sharply. Gavin had worked for them nearly two decades, but that didn’t count formuch when the bosses had to lay people off. Gavin started drinking, or, more accurately, had started drinkingmore, which prompted his wife to leave him and move to Portland to live with her sister. Gavin couldn’t keep up the rent on their apartment and before long found himself on the street.
“Well, if I hear of anything a little closer to home, I’ll let you know,” Harry said.
Gavin smiled. “You know where to find me. Get all my mail sent to this bench.”
Harry stood, reached into his pocket, and brought out a five. “Get yourself some breakfast or something.”
Gavin shook his head forcefully. “Couldn’t do that, Harry. Not looking for charity. Things’ll turn around. You wait and see.” He grinned as Harry slipped the bill back into his pocket. “Maybe you need another deputy or something?”
“These days I could probably do with an extra dozen.”
“I tell ya, there’s some weird shit going on, isn’t there?”
“You could say that.”
“For like a month now?”
“Give or take.”
“You know what I think?” Harry waited for Gavin to tell him. “I think it’s the terrorists.”
“Oh yeah.”
“They started with something big. Bringing down the Twin Towers, hitting the Pentagon. Freak us out, waiting for the next big thing, but now they got their operatives spread out all over the country doing smaller missions to keep us on edge.”
“That’s an interesting theory,” Harry said.
