Mob Lawyer 2: A Legal Thriller Read online

  “Um, yeah,” I agreed. “I guess I forgot to do that. There weren’t any cars.”

  “Don’t matter,” the Sheriff said. “Mr. Hunter Morgan of New York City.”

  “That’s me,” I said as I waited for the man to return my license.

  “Any outstanding warrants or such I should know about?” the Sheriff asked.

  “No, sir,” I assured him.

  “So what are ya doing out here, Mr. Hunter?” the Sheriff asked. He was looking at me rather than my license, at least I think he was since the sunglasses were now aimed in my direction.

  “I’m just here to close a sale,” I said. “I’m on my way out to see the seller.”

  The Sheriff nodded, then his head swiveled as he took in the rest of the car.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “Just a couple of things for the seller,” I replied. “The lady at the store said he liked them.”

  The sheriff’s head turned slowly back to me, and a grin briefly crossed his face.

  “The lady at the store is Luellen,” the Sheriff said. “And the seller is Bam Bluefeld. Ya don’t need to be all secretive, Mr. Morgan. We all know why you’re here.”

  “Is that so?” I asked as casually as I could.

  “Now, we’re just a small town, as you’ve noticed,” the Sheriff continued as he leaned casually against the door and draped an arm across the roof of my car. “So word gets around pretty quickly whenever something big is about to happen.”

  “I’m sure it does,” I replied.

  “So when Bam started talking to some company from New York about buying that old mine, well, it weren’t much of a secret after that first phone call,” the sheriff said as he gazed towards his own car. “Then we had that geologist fellow come out here and a couple of folks from a lab over in Charleston.”

  I nodded because I wasn’t sure what else to do. It wasn’t like anyone had tried to keep their work on the deal secret as far as I knew. And mine wasn’t really a secret either. I just tended to be tight-lipped as a rule, as most attorney’s were.

  “Now, what ya have to understand, see, is that in a small town, we look out for each other,” the Sheriff mused.

  “Of course,” I replied as I started to wonder if we would ever reach the point of this discussion. It was pretty clear that my lack of turn signal use was not the reason I was pulled over, and I pondered polite ways to ask for my license back while the Sheriff gazed towards some unseen horizon behind me.

  “So if one person suddenly finds himself enjoying an influx of money, say, it would only be natural for him to share that wealth with his friends and neighbors,” the Sheriff finally said as he took another long look at my license.

  I nodded as I realized we’d come to the heart of the matter, but I was willing to play dumb for a while longer.

  “I’m sure Mr. Bluefeld will be happy to share his good fortune with his friends,” I said.

  The Sheriff’s head swiveled back to me slowly, and though I couldn’t see his eyes, I imagined he was trying to decide if I was deliberately obtuse or genuinely stupid.

  “It’s not just Bam that benefits from this deal,” the Sheriff pointed out. “This company you work for…”

  “Campania Olio,” I added helpfully.

  “They’ll be seeing some money from this as well,” the Sheriff said. “So just what the heck does Campaign…”

  “Campania,” I corrected.

  “Do?” the Sheriff finished.

  “They import olive oil,” I replied.

  “Olive oil,” the Sheriff chuckled as he looked back over the wilds of West Virginia. “We don’t have a lot of that around here. I don’t think ya’d even find it in the grease trap at Wetzel’s.”

  I waited for the Sheriff to add something else, and managed a slow count to twenty-three before he finally handed my license through the window.

  “Ya might want to let your bosses know that even if Bam says yes, there are plenty of other ways for a deal to get sidetracked,” the Sheriff said casually.

  “But adding a little grease can make things run more smoothly?” I asked.

  “Now you’re catching on,” the Sheriff replied.

  He smiled, or at least bared his teeth, and pounded on the roof of the car. I must have looked appropriately impressed because the Sheriff cleared his throat, spat into the road, and then sauntered back to his own car. I waited until the Sheriff had finished his u-turn before I turned my own engine back on and returned to Digger Creek Road.

  I considered the Sheriff’s suggestion as the Chevy snaked its way up the hill, then slammed on the brakes at the top as the road suddenly came to an end and an enormous camel rose up before me. It was twice the size of a real-life camel, and appeared to have been cast from cement. Someone had painted it a chocolate brown color that would have been more appropriate for an alpaca, and given the thing a bright pink nose and big blue eyes to boot. There were a few dings at about the height of a fender which I took as a sign that not everyone who came up the hill had stopped in time.

  “Well, there’s the camel,” I muttered as I looked around.

  I spotted a pair of gravel roads with mailboxes on posts. One seemed to curve away back down the hill, and I could just make out the roofs of several small homes through the trees. The other road circled around the camel and led to the remnants of an old iron gate mounted on a pair of imposing stone pillars. There were orange stains on the stone from where the gate had started to rust, and I doubted it would move again without several cans worth of WD-40. Fortunately, the gate was stuck wide open, and after considering my options, I eased the Chevy around the camel and started down the gravel road lined with overgrown rhododendrons and dogwoods.

  The road continued upwards after a sharp turn and the Chevy started to complain about the climb. I patted the console to show my support for the car’s struggles, before pressing it a little harder. The engine grumbled, and I was just about to risk a three-point turn and head back down the hill when we broke through the trees onto a flat stretch of land filled with a perfectly manicured lawn, a stone Tudor-style house that old Henry the Eighth himself would have been happy to claim as his own, and a meandering stream that splashed over the rocks in a photo perfect scene. Heck, there was even a tall, handsome horse trotting across the grass, it’s head held high and it’s tail flowing behind it in a gentle breeze.

  The only dissonant note was the battered pick-up parked on top of a blue tarp with a line of dirty and dented aluminum garbage cans nearby. As I took in the scene, the heavy oak door to the house opened and a man stepped onto the porch. I found myself wondering if it still counted as a porch if it was just a wide brick area in front of the front door, but stoop didn’t seem right because there were only two steps and then a space big enough for the horse to roll around on.

  The man spotted the Chevy and waved me forward, then turned to look at the horse. I started to inch my way towards the front door while the man made a shooing motion at the horse.

  “Get on out of here, you scallywag!” the man yelled.

  I stopped the car and wondered if I’d misunderstood his hand signals.

  “I’ve told you I don’t want you on my lawn!” the man continued. “You’re eating all my grass and I’ve paid good money for that!”

  I realized he was still looking at the horse, which had stopped its forward motion and regarded the man with a curious stare.

  “Go home!” the man yelled.

  The horse’s ears twitched, and then it turned and trotted away towards a clump of trees at the far end of the lawn. The man watched the horse until it was little more than a shadow in the woods, then turned his attention on me. I was still sitting in the Chevy, not at all certain I was in fact welcome.

  “Well, are you just going to sit in the car all day or are you going to bring that bottle of Vodka you bought at Nellie’s inside?” the man called out.

  That was apparently an invitation to come inside, so I turned off the engi
ne, grabbed the Emporium bag and backpack, and stepped from the car. The man was no longer to be seen but the door to the house was still open, so after a quick check for other horses and people, I strode across the gravel, hopped up the steps to the porch, and stuck my head through the doorway.

  “Mr. Bluefeld?” I called out when I didn’t see anyone.

  Actually, it was hard to see anything given how dark it was just inside the doorway. I could pick out a dark wood floor, a dark wood staircase, and what looked like framed pictures hung on the dark brick walls, but that was about it. There were other shapes, one of which looked like a floor lamp, but it was unlit and on the far side of the hall, so I was left to find my own way through the darkness.

  “Come on in,” a voice called from somewhere beyond the lamp.

  I stepped into the darkness, and when my eyes had adjusted, I eased the door closed and walked slowly across the floor in the direction of the lamp. There was a dark smudge next to the lamp that was the right size to be another doorway, and a quick test with my hand revealed that there was indeed only empty space beyond.

  I found myself in a long, narrow room with a large flat screen going at the far end while the sounds of a talk radio show filled the airwaves near the door. What I assumed was the original part of the house had the same brick walls, wood floors, and lack of light that I had experienced in the entryway. But at some point, someone had removed the opposite wall and built a glass solarium that looked out over a stunning collection of flowering trees and shrubs while letting in every ounce of sunshine.

  The man who had invited me inside wandered among the various plants in the solarium, with occasional stops to lean in close and examine a leaf or flower. I watched this strange scene for a moment, then walked slowly through the slice of darkness and back into the sunlight.

  “Are you Mr. Bluefeld?” I asked. “William Bluefeld?”

  “I am,” the man agreed.

  He looked to be in his sixties, with a receding hairline, a potbelly, and a missing front tooth that gave him a slight lisp. He had a farmer’s tan and carried the faint scent of manure and dried grass, all reminders of visits to my uncle’s farm when I was kid.

  “I’m Hunter Morgan,” I said.

  The man grinned as he looked up from the plant he was examining and pointed towards the bag I carried.

  “That for me?” he asked with childish glee.

  I held the offering which he accepted. He opened the bag and peered inside while he hummed a familiar tune.

  “Luellen knows just what I like,” he declared as he started back towards the dimly lit room. “Let’s go into the kitchen. There’s more light in there, and I’ve got some fresh tea I just brewed.”

  I followed Bluefeld’s retreating figure as he disappeared through a doorway near the TV. I found myself in a carpeted hallway but I could see sunlight at the end and Bluefeld’s rotund shadow stepping into the bright room. I walked carefully down the hall since I still couldn’t see much, and arrived in a modern kitchen that was filled with sunlight, stainless steel appliances, a large stove with six burners and a griddle, and three hound dogs and two long-haired cats.

  The dog-cat menagerie was concentrated around a side door that led into the yard, though they seemed more interested in watching whatever was going on outside than in actually being outside. A couple of the dog tails thumped against the floor, but other than that, the pack was silent and totally focused.

  “Is that damn horse back?” Bluefeld asked as he peered out a window over the massive sink.

  “The horse isn’t yours?” I asked.

  “Belongs to the neighbor,” Bluefeld replied while he studied the trees. “It’s smart, I’ll give it that. It’s figured out how to open the gate and it knows to stay away from the roads. It wanders around the trails and then comes to my lawn to eat my grass.”

  “The grass you just planted,” I remarked.

  “Just last month,” Bluefeld said as he turned away from the window and busied himself with a delicate blue teapot and two matching cups. “Spent a fortune trying to revive it.”

  “Did the horse visit before you planted the lawn?” I asked out of curiosity.

  “Oh, it’s been coming by for a couple of years now,” the balding man replied. “Ever since it was tall enough to reach the latch. And I know what you’re going to say. I should have stopped it back then and now it’s just gotten used to visiting.”

  Bluefeld moved over to the table with a tray that held the teapot, cups and a small plate of very thin cookies.

  “A bit earlier than I usually take my tea, but since you’re here, I might as well indulge,” Bluefeld noted as he unloaded the tray on the thick wood table that sat near the far window. “We can save the vodka for later.”

  He looked up and gave me an inquisitive look, and I finally moved away from the door and crossed to the table. We sat next to each other, with our backs to the kitchen and a view of the blooming backyard before us. One by one, the dogs and cats gave up their posts by the back door and distributed themselves around the table while Bluefeld poured the tea into the cups and offered me a cookie.

  “So the name Bluefeld is unusual,” I noted as I sniffed at the tea.

  It had a yellowish color, which usually meant some sort of herbal concoction, most of which I couldn’t stand. I wasn’t pleasantly surprised, however, to detect mint and spearmint and nothing grassy.

  “My great-grandfather’s doing,” my host replied. “He was trying to make the name more English sounding, but it got mangled by the local authorities and ended up as Bluefeld.”

  I sipped the tea, which was very minty, and nibbled on one of the cookies, which was crispy and packed with vanilla flavor. Although I was still stuffed from my fried chicken lunch, I had to admit that the tea and cookies were quite nice, and I was perfectly happy to sit there and nosh for a few moments.

  “So, you’re the official Campania Olio representative,” Bluefeld mused as he poured a second cup of tea for himself. “Of course, I’ve talked to a few fellers on the phone, and I walked the property with the geologist and the lab techs, but I think you’re the first company man I’ve met in person.”

  “The company is anxious to complete the sale,” I said.

  “I was startin’ to wonder,” he replied. “Hadn’t heard anything from you guys in so long that I thought you were going to walk away from the table. Not that it bothered me. I’d still have the deposit money and I could just find another buyer.”

  “Are there that many people looking for old mines?” I asked.

  “Well, no,” Bluefeld admitted. “Not the mine, per se. Is that right? Per se?”

  “It is,” I assured him.

  “But the land above still has some value,” he continued. “I had one feller who wanted to put a trailer park on it.”

  “Is that safe?” I asked.

  Bluefeld laughed, a deep chortling sound that set two of the hounds howling.

  “As safe as anything is around here,” he finally said as he wiped a tear away.

  I drank the rest of my tea and ate another cookie while I looked around the kitchen. It was homey and inviting in a way that the rest of the house, except maybe the solarium, was not and it was easy to see where Bluefeld spent his time. I wondered what type of cooking he did in the impressive kitchen, then realized that I hadn’t seen any signs of a Mrs. Bluefeld. I hadn’t given it much thought when the packet from Landis stated that there was only one owner, but now I wondered if there was another potential interested party out there somewhere.

  “This is a large house,” I commented.

  “Inherited it,” Bluefeld sighed. “Like the mine. Grandfather built it after the family took control of the coal around here and started to make some real money. He got it in his head that he wanted one of those old English manor houses. Unfortunately, he copied it a little too closely. My own parents opened up the second floor, so at least you can fit a modern bed in the bedrooms now, and my mom drew up the pl
ans for the glass room, God rest her soul. Dad and I made that our project after she passed, and then I redid the kitchen after dad passed.”

  “There’s no Mrs. Bluefeld?” I asked.

  “There was,” he replied with a note of regret.

  He watched the flowers sway in the breeze for the moment, then turned to look at me with two very sad eyes.

  “Biggest killer around here, after opioids, is cancer,” he said. “A lot of people think it’s because of the coal dust. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but I’d hate to believe that the thing that helped my family for so long is what killed the love of my life.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I mumbled something that sounded vaguely like ‘so sorry’ and then focused on the dregs that were left in my cup while my host gathered himself. While he cleared his throat and checked the water level in the teapot, I tried to think of a completely different topic.

  “What’s with the camel?” I finally asked because it was the easiest and most obvious thing to say.

  Bluefeld guffawed again, and all three dogs howled in response. The cats, apparently used to this, watched their companions for a moment, then gave me the feline version of eye rolling.

  “That was grandpa’s,” my host said when he’d gained control of his laughter again. “He and grandma once did a tour of Egypt because grandma said she always wanted to see the great pyramids. So they did the trip down the Nile, and saw the pyramids and the Sphinx and all the rest of it. Grandma had a ball, but grandpa wasn’t as excited until their guide took them to see a camel race. They even got to ride a couple. The statue was the compromise.”

  “The compromise?” I asked.

  “Grandpa threatened to bring a whole mess of the things back here so he could start his own herd,” Bluefeld confided.

  “In West Virginia?” I asked as I tried to picture a herd of dromedaries wandering across the scene outside the window. I suspected the flowers would have been eaten some time ago and only bare branches and a few bits of leaf would be left, though I wasn’t even sure that camels ate flowers.