Read Online The Bone Orchard: A Novel (Mike Bowditch Mysteries) by Paul Doiron - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Doiron
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a soft guy, bigger on the bottom than the top, and his body always gave me the impression of melting even when he wasn’t standing in front of a burner.
“Afternoon, Bill!” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, his face red and streaming, and waved a metal spatula. “Hold your horses. Hold your horses.”
Day’s wasn’t known for its customer service.
I settled back on my stool. The television anchor was introducing a new story—the volume was too low to hear anything—but there was a picture of Jimmy Gammon floating beside the newscaster’s handsome head.
“Hey, Bill,” I said. “Can you turn up the TV?”
The cook refused to look up from his grill. “Remote’s on the counter.”
I glanced along the Formica and saw the remote control beside a ketchup bottle in front of the redneck.
“Can you turn that up?” I asked.
The man had a bird’s nest beard and a drawn face from a lifetime’s worth of booze and cigarettes. He was wearing an olive green sweatshirt, from which he had scissored the sleeves, revealing skinny arms patterned with tattoos. He peered at me from beneath the frayed brim of his baseball cap.
I pointed at the television. “Increase. The. Volume.”
With a grunt, he slid the remote down the counter, but it caromed off a napkin dispenser and landed on the floor behind me. I glared at the redneck, then hopped off the stool to retrieve it. By the time I got it aimed at the set and boosted the volume, the scene had changed to some sort of protest outside the headquarters of the Maine Warden Service in Augusta. There were a dozen or so people with signs, some bearing photos of Jimmy.
A female reporter had the microphone in the face of a fierce-looking young man with a crew cut and the shadowy suggestion of a goatee. He wore a navy suit and a striped tie, but the jacket seemed too tight; his shoulders looked ready to burst through the seams. Words along the bottom of the screen identified him as Sgt. Angelo Donato, Maine National Guard (Ret.).
“Jimmy Gammon was a hero,” he was saying. “What happened to him over there in Afghanistan I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. He had his share of problems, no doubt about it, but no way did he want to kill himself. Jimmy was one of the happiest guys I ever met. Those cops’ stories just don’t add up. And you know they’re going to get off with a slap on the wrist.” He stepped back and shouted “Justice for Jimmy!” to the people behind him.
The camera cut back to the studio, where the anchor began a new story: Domestic violence reports were up in Maine. I muted the sound and set the remote on the counter. Belanger arose from his stool and towered over me. He didn’t have the most expressive face in the world, but I sensed that the story about Jimmy Gammon had gotten to him. After a moment, his features hardened again into the stony expression he wore while on duty. He adjusted the chin strap on his blue Smokey the Bear–style hat. Then he reached into his wallet for a ten-dollar bill to leave beside his empty plate on the counter.
“Have a good day,” he said to me, as if I were a driver he’d just handed a ticket.
After the trooper left, I swiveled around on my stool to address the redneck on my right. The front of his sweatshirt proclaimed his manly virtues: WOMEN WANT ME. FISH FEAR ME.
“What’s your problem?” I said.
He used his thumbnail to remove a piece of gristle from between his front teeth. “Huh?”
“The remote control. You couldn’t have just handed it to me?”
There was no white in his eyes at all, only pink. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I?”
The man flared his nostrils. “You pinched me for night hunting last year. You and that other warden had that robot set up by the side of the road, and you entrapped me into taking a shot at it, when I was just driving home, minding my own business. I got a five-hundred-dollar fine and lost my hunting license for a year on account of
“Afternoon, Bill!” I said.
He glanced over his shoulder, his face red and streaming, and waved a metal spatula. “Hold your horses. Hold your horses.”
Day’s wasn’t known for its customer service.
I settled back on my stool. The television anchor was introducing a new story—the volume was too low to hear anything—but there was a picture of Jimmy Gammon floating beside the newscaster’s handsome head.
“Hey, Bill,” I said. “Can you turn up the TV?”
The cook refused to look up from his grill. “Remote’s on the counter.”
I glanced along the Formica and saw the remote control beside a ketchup bottle in front of the redneck.
“Can you turn that up?” I asked.
The man had a bird’s nest beard and a drawn face from a lifetime’s worth of booze and cigarettes. He was wearing an olive green sweatshirt, from which he had scissored the sleeves, revealing skinny arms patterned with tattoos. He peered at me from beneath the frayed brim of his baseball cap.
I pointed at the television. “Increase. The. Volume.”
With a grunt, he slid the remote down the counter, but it caromed off a napkin dispenser and landed on the floor behind me. I glared at the redneck, then hopped off the stool to retrieve it. By the time I got it aimed at the set and boosted the volume, the scene had changed to some sort of protest outside the headquarters of the Maine Warden Service in Augusta. There were a dozen or so people with signs, some bearing photos of Jimmy.
A female reporter had the microphone in the face of a fierce-looking young man with a crew cut and the shadowy suggestion of a goatee. He wore a navy suit and a striped tie, but the jacket seemed too tight; his shoulders looked ready to burst through the seams. Words along the bottom of the screen identified him as Sgt. Angelo Donato, Maine National Guard (Ret.).
“Jimmy Gammon was a hero,” he was saying. “What happened to him over there in Afghanistan I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. He had his share of problems, no doubt about it, but no way did he want to kill himself. Jimmy was one of the happiest guys I ever met. Those cops’ stories just don’t add up. And you know they’re going to get off with a slap on the wrist.” He stepped back and shouted “Justice for Jimmy!” to the people behind him.
The camera cut back to the studio, where the anchor began a new story: Domestic violence reports were up in Maine. I muted the sound and set the remote on the counter. Belanger arose from his stool and towered over me. He didn’t have the most expressive face in the world, but I sensed that the story about Jimmy Gammon had gotten to him. After a moment, his features hardened again into the stony expression he wore while on duty. He adjusted the chin strap on his blue Smokey the Bear–style hat. Then he reached into his wallet for a ten-dollar bill to leave beside his empty plate on the counter.
“Have a good day,” he said to me, as if I were a driver he’d just handed a ticket.
After the trooper left, I swiveled around on my stool to address the redneck on my right. The front of his sweatshirt proclaimed his manly virtues: WOMEN WANT ME. FISH FEAR ME.
“What’s your problem?” I said.
He used his thumbnail to remove a piece of gristle from between his front teeth. “Huh?”
“The remote control. You couldn’t have just handed it to me?”
There was no white in his eyes at all, only pink. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”
“Should I?”
The man flared his nostrils. “You pinched me for night hunting last year. You and that other warden had that robot set up by the side of the road, and you entrapped me into taking a shot at it, when I was just driving home, minding my own business. I got a five-hundred-dollar fine and lost my hunting license for a year on account of
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