The Maine Events, Rodney Riesel [best books to read in your 20s TXT] 📗

said.

“Maybe it would be better if you gave me your cell phonenumber,” said Allen.

Cam picked up his pace. “Mother, give the boy my number—Igotta get to the toilet.”

Allen and Mildred watched as Cam, scrunching up his buttcheeks, trotted on his long shanks across the street.

“I hope he makes it,” Allen said.

“He usually does,” Mildred replied.

“Usually?”

Mildred ignored Allen's question and rattled off Cam's cellphone number. “You'll have to call twice.”

“Why's that?”

“He'll hear it ring the first time and search the wholeroom, usually finding it just as it quits ringing. He'll answer on the secondcall.”

“I'll keep that in mind.”

“Talk to ya later, Allen,” Mildred said as she walked away.“I better make sure he made it to the toilet in time.”

“Good luck.” Allen glanced up at his door and then down atJacob's door. Where's that kid with my dog? he wondered.

On his way up to his room Allen stopped at the front deskand asked Crystal for a few more packages of coffee. She handed them to himwith a smile and told him she was right next door if he needed anything else. Hethanked her and went up to his room.

He tried the doorknob; it was locked. Dammit.

Allen jogged down the stairs and stuck his head into theoffice. “Hey, Crystal,” he asked. “Did Jacob leave my room key with you?”

“Nope,” she said. “Ain't seen him.”

“Thanks.”

Allen left the office and walked down the sidewalk toJacob's room and knocked.

“Hey, Allen,” said Tess.

“Is Jacob here?”

“No. He said he was taking Frankie for a walk.” She leanedover and looked past Allen. “They were right out there by the picnic tables alittle while ago. They were throwing the ball to Frankie.”

Allen turned and spotted Frankie's ball under one of thepicnic tables. “They?”

“Jacob and Oliver.”

“He didn't happen to leave my room key, did he?”

“He sure did.” Tess turned and walked to the dresser andgrabbed the key. She returned to the door and handed it to Allen. “Here ya go.”

“Jacob went into my room and got the ball?” Allen asked.

“Yes. I hope that was okay.”

“Yeah, that's fine. Did he take Oliver in there with him?”

“No. He went in before Oliver got here.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As soon as he was inside his room, Allen went directly tothe side of the bed and lifted the mattress. His 9mm was lying right where he'dleft it. He lowered the edge of the mattress. He looked over at his laptop, andthen his eyes went to the bottle of tequila.

Good time for a nap, he thought.

He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes.

*****

A knock at the door awakened Allen. He opened his eyes andlooked at the red digital numbers on the alarm clock on the nightstand. He hadbeen asleep for about an hour.

Whoever was at the door knocked again.

“Hold on!” Allen hollered. He rolled to the edge of the bedand got up.

“It's just me!” Jacob hollered back.

Allen opened the door and Frankie ran into the room.

“Enjoy your walk?” Allen asked, scratching the dog's head.

“We played with his ball for a while,” said Jacob, “and thenwalked over to my friend's house.”

“Yeah, your mom told me.”

“Was she looking for me?”

“No, I was.”

“For what?”

“My key.”

“I left it with my mom.”

“I know, that's how I got in.”

“Oh yeah,” said Jacob, nodding. “I left Frankie's balldownstairs.”

“I saw it.”

“You want me to go get it?”

“No, I'll get it later.”

Jacob rocked to his side and looked past Allen. “What wereya doing?”

“Writing.”

“How come it took so long to answer the door?”

Allen shrugged. “I don't know.”

“Were you sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you said you were writing.”

“I lied.”

“My mom says you haven't written a new book in four years.”

“Did she?”

“Yeah. How do you make money if you don't write any books?”

“You're full of questions today.”

“Just curious.”

“You know what that did to the cat, don't ya?”

“What cat?”

“Never mind. I gotta get back to my writing.”

“I thought you were sleeping.”

“That too.” Allen swung the door closed in Jacob's face.

“See ya later!” Jacob hollered.

Allen sat down at the table and opened his laptop. He readdown through what he'd written. When he got to the last sentence, he begantyping.

A thirty-something brunette pushed a stroller through thecrosswalk. Reed waited for the woman to reach the other side before giving theCherokee a little gas. Just as the Jeep lurched forward, a long-haired boyjumped his skateboard into the crosswalk. Reed slammed on his brakes.

“Son of a bitch!” Reed grumbled to himself. “Can't youread the no skateboarding signs?” he yelled out the window.

The kid looked back over his shoulder and grinned. “No, Ican't,” he shot back sarcastically. “I don't know how to read.”

Reed shook his head. “Kids.”

Allen leaned back in the chair, wove his fingers togetherbehind his head, and reread what he'd written.

“Someone has to kill someone eventually, Frankie,” saidAllen. “Why would someone commit murder in York Beach, Maine?”

Frankie barked.

“I've used that before,” said Allen. “Lust, love, loathing,or loot—the four Ls of murder.” He folded his arms across his chest and staredat the screen for a second. “Let's go with loot. But first, let's have a drinkto celebrate the start of a new book.”

Frankie didn't make a sound. Allen looked back over hisshoulder at the dog; he was sound asleep on the couch.

“Looks like you won't get a drink, ya party animal,” saidAllen.

He got up and walked toward the bottle of tequila. As heneared the silver goodness, he tried to recall exactly how much of the boozehe'd given away.

Was it three, or four? He wondered.

He unscrewed the cap and drank from the bottle. He glancedover at Frankie to see if he was watching; he wasn't. Allen took another sipand returned to the table.

Write drunk, edit sober, he thought. That's whatPapa Hemingway said.

Chapter Eleven

By Wednesday afternoon Allen had written over eight thousandwords, and the words were still flowing effortlessly. The book had turned intoa mystery about two mob brothers who'd retired to York Beach, Maine. Thebrothers hadn't gotten along in years, according to a local cop who hadbefriended Reed Templeton.

Around three in the afternoon, Allen's cell phone rang.

“Hello?” Allen answered.

“Hey, Frankie's owner. What's up?”

“Mya?”

“Yes.”

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“Calling you.”

“Not