Drago #3. Art Spinella

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      PREFACE

      Sal and I slumped into a booth at the La Fiesta Mexican restaurant in Old Town Bandon, waved for a couple of Dos Equis and some salsa and chips. Both arrived in mere seconds.

      “Topic of the night,” I said.

      The big man swigged the first draught from his frosted glass.

      “Best science fiction writer of all times. I vote for Jules Verne.”

      “E. E. Doc Smith,” my response.

      This was a habit we’d somehow gotten into years before. Nothing helps time pass quicker over a good heavy meal of burritos, refried beans and rice than a lively discussion.

      “Who the heck is E. E. Doc Smith?”

      “Only the greatest science fiction writer of all time, that’s who.”

      The chips were extra crunchy tonight, the salsa hard on the spicy side.

      Perfect.

      “How about the economic reality of a weak dollar.”

      I made a snoring sound that got the attention of the couple at the table behind us. Okay, so the disrespectful nose-noise bordered on a bellow. Sorry.

      My turn. “Dogs make better pets than cats.”

      “False. Cats are more independent.”

      “Snotty.”

      “Loving.”

      “Demanding.”

      “Easier than horses to keep.”

      More Dos Equis, more chips and salsa.

      Sal sighed long and hard. “The moon landing was faked.”

      “We agreed on that one already. It was. Besides, we talked about this just a few months ago.”

      My turn again.

      “What’s the most physically demanding sport?”

      “Hockey.”

      “Soccer.”

      “Football.”

      “Baseball.” That made both of us laugh, but it had the potential to be an interesting discussion.

      “Sports it is. You first,” I said.

      CHAPTER ONE

      “Pinch me.”

      “Beg your pardon?”

      “Pinch me,” I repeated.

      “Nick, it’s 3 o’clock in the morning. You talked me into coming down here. You haven’t said a word for maybe an hour. And now all you want is me to pinch you?”

      “Pinch me.”

      Sal opened one eye, tipped his big bearded head off his chest to look in my direction then saw what I saw.

      “Holy crapola on a bagel.”

      ________________________________________________

      It started when I couldn’t sleep. The bed felt empty, the night too warm and restlessness wiggled through my body. 1:17 a.m. No use tossing and turning so I climbed from the mattress and made way to the living room.

      Night sounds in a rural house are different from those in a city or suburb. Here the outside noises are natural. No car tires hissing on concrete, no distant music or buzz of electric street lights, the air a low hum of activity somewhere, carried to even the most distant city-bound ‘burbs through atmospheric vibrations.

      Willow Weep night sounds are simple. Wind through the pines, tree frogs croaking in unison then stopping in unison then starting again. A distant barking dog and the roll of the ocean. Scurrying feet of a stray cat looking for food or the thunking of raccoons taking apart the bird feeder to get the last morsel of seed. I’m pretty much to blame for the raccoon thing at Willow Weep, me with a semi-pet bandit named Lilly. She’s a loner who adopted me some years back and expects a bowl of dog food topped with a chocolate wafer every night.

      Sal lives by the Middle Age’s two-sleep cycle. If he’s not hangin’ at Willow Weep, he turns in early then prowls his house’s many diversions from midnight to three returning to bed til seven. So I knew he was up and about when I called at 1:19 a.m.

      “Hey sunshine,” he said.

      “Can’t sleep. Going down to the river and sit for a while. Want to come?”

      “The Volt and I will be there in five.”

      Rocky Point is one of many fishing ramps along the Coquille River. Upriver, the city of the same name. Down river, Bandon. Many a time the boys, Cookie and I would put the 17-foot Smokercraft into the murky water at this spot. We’d head toward Coquille and basically just take in the sights. Fishing isn’t one of my strong suits so these rides were more a way to unwind from the grind of work, chores and the daily schmutz that clutters up a person’s life.

      February had been unseasonably dry and warm which was fine by me. While I rarely get cabin fever, the previous winter was one of those when the rain never stopped, the sun never shined and daytime temperature rarely cracked 45 degrees. This year had proven to be just the opposite.

      Sal and I were parked in a couple of lawn chairs which, in turn, were parked on the small dock. The sky was peppered with stars, the air fresh and the sound of the river a low rush making its way to the ocean.

      “So, how do you like the Volt?”

      “Better than the Prius,” Sal said, head nodding. “More room, better power, classy lines.”

      “Does that mean we’ll be taking it on some of our excursions instead of always using the Crown Vic?”

      “Nick, I have no intentions of putting it in harm’s way and bringing it home with sundry bullet holes. It cost you a fortune to fix the damage from the Tree Man thing. So, no, the Crown Vic is the excursion car. Besides, the Volt is quicker than the Prius, but the CV is big, heavy, fast and very much a tank. It seems we always need a tank when you get involved in these little side jobs.”

      “Tank.”