The Chardon Chronicles: Season One -- The Harvest Festival (20 page)

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Keith grabbed the man’s
shoulder. The man twisted away. He was apoplectic.

“Who the fuck are you?” the man said.

“Look, dipshit, I think you need to get some
perspective. It’s a
bagel
.” Keith folded his arms.

“Asshole. You stepped in it. What you just
did... grabbing me... that was assault.”

“No that wasn’t,” Keith asked and shook his
head.

“Yes it was, and now you’re fuckegaaak.”
Keith grabbed his throat and squeezed.

“Where’s the dumpster?” he asked the
girl.

She was shocked, but she pointed through the
double doors, “Out back.” She followed them outside.

Keith dragged the man by the tie and slammed
him against the dumpster. Keith pulled out his gun and stuck the
barrel against the man’s forehead. “If there’s one thing I truly
despise, it’s bullies. My guess is you’re a weasel who uses other
people to do his dirty work… Unfortunately for you, I do my
own.”

“Whoa!” the girl shouted. “Hey, it’s not that
big of a deal!” she pleaded with Keith. He looked back at her and
winked.

The man was frozen in terror. Keith rifled
through the guy’s pockets. Keith took his wallet and smashed his
cellphone on the ground. “Now I know your name and know where you
live.” He grabbed the guy’s neck and holstered the gun, then picked
him up by the belt and threw him in the dumpster. Keith’s bad
shoulder throbbed at the effort.

Keith rubbed the shoulder and said, “Owww.
Too old for this tough guy act.” and he walked back into the bagel
shop.

After Keith was inside, the man shouted to
the girl, “Aren’t you going to call 911?!”

She shrugged, “Nah.” She followed Keith
inside and locked the door.

“You mind if I take the surveillance tape?
That was a
little
over the top.” Keith said.

She said, “I think they get it every night,
that might get me in trouble.”

He nodded, “I’ll just erase it. They’ll think
the machine is on the fritz.”

“Ok, then.”

Keith took the tape and smacked it on his
palm and went out to the car. He had a magnetic media eraser in the
trunk. He plugged it in the lighter and it start to buzz. He slid
the cassette back and forth over the device several times, then
popped the cover open, and rubbed the tape between his thumb and
index finger until was warm enough to stretch. He nudged and pulled
it like taffy. He went back in and loaded it back into the
machine.

“That should do it. Oh here’s that asshole’s
wallet. Between you and me, there’s about two-thousand dollars in
there. I got his name, address, and number by the way. Here’s my
card, If you get any more trouble from this creep, give me a
call.”

She flipped through the cash. “I’m no thief.
But thanks for the offer, Mr. Marte,”

“No problema… Hollie is it?” he pointed at
her nametag. I’ll wait for him to leave so he doesn’t vent on you.
Oh, and I’ll take a cup of coffee and a plain bagel… I just eat em
like a donut.” He left a fifty dollar tip.

He got out to the car and waited while the
adrenaline subsided. The man walked around the building, passed
Keith’s Toyota and opened the door of a shiny black Jaguar. Keith
rolled down his window.

“Hey asshole, Hollie’s got your wallet.” he
pointed inside the building.

The man froze in his tracks. He left the
Jag’s door open and went inside. He came out with the wallet in his
hand.

Keith raised his coffee cup in a toast, “Too
bad you didn’t get the coffee--it’s nice and fresh.”

The man drove out of the parking lot. He
almost pulled into traffic. A car layed on the horn as it drove
around his Jag. Keith could hear the guy screaming in rage like a
caged animal.

Keith stayed in the parking lot for a few
minutes then went to the Reichstaff house.

The Reichstaff house was on a quiet side
street. The house was a stately greek revival. It looked a little
like a mini parthenon. It’s walls were silver gray and the trim was
a dark charcoal gray. Its concrete driveway was flanked by neat
hedgerows. A black Mercedes S550 was sitting in the drive. A clergy
sticker was on the plate. A squat gothic style stone building was
on the opposite side of the road. A tasteful placard was on the
road facing wall next to elaborately carved double doors.

“Old Stone Gathering Hall, est. 1883”

Keith looked it up on his phone. The church
had a simple web site: at the bottom of the page was a picture of
Brother Reichstaff. He looked to be in his early sixties. He was a
slightly jowly man who wore square black rimmed glasses and had
wispy white hair.

“Well, maybe it’s time for me and Chloe to
get religion.” He got out a camera with a telephoto lens and took
pictures of the house, the church, and the car then drove back to
the office.

When the final bell rang, Chloe and Tracy
walked out to the parking lot together. Cars were already streaming
out.

Tracy’s phone buzzed. She got a text from
Richard Golden.

“Sup. U2 wanna get 2geth latr?”

She laughed and grabbed Chloe’s arm. “Hey
wait. Read this.”

“Our gentleman friends?” Chloe asked. She
read the message and let out a long “hmmmm….”

Tracy asked, “Well?”

“I dunno. I worry about guys who keep that
kind of crazy around.”

“That’s a good point… But, those guys are
pretty cute.”

They debated the pros and cons for a few
minutes. As the lot emptied, their cars were among the handful that
were scattered around the lot.

“Oh shit!” Chloe said. She sprinted over
toward her car. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Tracy jogged after her. “What’s up?”

The word “SKANK” was scratched onto her hood
and “COW” was keyed into the driver’s side door.

Chloe was seeing red. “Grrrr….” she
growled.

Tracy was actually a little surprised and
slightly afraid of her animal ferocity. “Wow…” she said, “that
crazy bitch.”

Chloe centered herself. She breathed deeply a
couple of times. “OK! Let’s meet up with those two.”

Tracy said to Chloe, “Oh you want to come
over? My uncle knows like a million people that can fix your car
for free.”

“Nice!” the sweet and gentle demeanor
returned.

Tracy invited the boys over too.

Morgan got home and went right into the
kitchen to grab some juice. A big note was on the fridge in his
dad’s handwriting. “Morgan, work, now!”

He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. He
figured the bill had arrived. He got right back on his bike and
rolled down the street to the garage. His father was with a
customer, so Morgan waited in his office.

There was an envelope with the school
system’s logo stamped in the upper left corner. It was already
opened and a letter was sticking out of it. Morgan picked up the
envelope and his dad came into the office.

His dad pointed at the letter, “read it…”

Morgan unfolded the heavy weight paper. His
eyes flitted across the text and stuck on the number--it was in
bold text
$3700
. He wouldn’t be able to graduate until that
amount was paid in full. Interest would start accruing in seven
days.

Morgan complained, “Dad, it was one cinder
block… How could it cost that much?!”

His father kicked a chair. It bounced off the
desk and clattered on the floor. “I mean, what the hell were you
thinking, Morgan!”

Morgan said, “I can pay it off. I’ll work
every day after school and weekends.”

“That’s right. You do the math. You know the
hours.”

“Yeah, 370 hours… That’s a lot of weeks! I’ll
also see if I can get money some other way, too.”

“What other way?! You got another job I don’t
know about?”

“I dunno. I’ll sell something, find some
other way.” Morgan said. He fingered the coin in his pocket.

“Alright smart guy. Get to work. The shop’s a
mess.” He kicked the chair again.

Chloe followed Tracy back to the Wells farm.
They passed a bunch of cyclists who were attacking the hills on
Sherman Road. They gave them a wide berth and waved as they went
by.

The Ford tractor was out in the sun. Robbie
was rebuilding the whole thing. A couple of folding tables were out
under a shade tree and the garage door on the shop was open and he
was listening to music.

The girls parked on the grass. Robbie walked
around the car to pretend like he’d hug Tracy. His arms and hands
were filthy. “C’mon and hug Uncle Robbie.”

She laughed and ran around the car. He
noticed the damage on Chloe’s car.

He groaned, “Oh sheeeit. What happened
here?”

Chloe leaned against the car, “I’m a cow… and
apparently a skank. Don’t get me wrong, I love cows, but I’m not
sure what a ‘skank’ really even is.”

Tracy asked, “You know anyone that can take
care of that?”

He wiped his hands and went and stood in
front of the hood. His eyes flitted over the car. He beckoned to
Chloe to stand next to him.

“Tell me, Chloe, what do you see here?”

“My beautiful car… all scratched up.”

“I’ll tell you what I see… It’s an
opportunity for you to really own this thing. Put yourself into
it.” He stepped around the car. Tracy was smiling as she watched
him go. He continued, “Most people pass like ghosts through this
world… never really even notice it. Don’t ever learn anything about
it. This,” he pointed at the scratch, “is a chance for you to do
some art, form
this
thing to
you
. Bring it alive.” he
ran his hand over the body of the car.

“C’mon
chicas
.” he walked into the
garage.

He had a bunch of car books on a shelf in the
corner of the garage. He pulled a few off and handed them to Chloe,
and pulled some others and handed them to Tracy. “There’s, a couple
of paths here,” he said, “we can just fix it… that’ll take a couple
of days…
or
you can go read through these and start thinking
about what you want to do with it.”

“OK… Let’s go take a look.” Chloe smiled.

“Uncle Robbie, there’s a couple of new boys
coming over. Don’t scare them too much?” Tracy said. They walked
off toward the table rock.

“Alright. I’ll do my best.” he laughed.

Keith stopped at Punderson Lake on the way
back to the office. He found a shady spot and started researching
Fredrich Reichstaff and the Old Stone Gathering Hall. Reichstaff
was a bit of an Internet ghost, but the church showed up in a few
wedding announcements. From the wedding announcements, he got
family names, and from the names, he started to build up a picture
of the congregation--a wealthy and influential little group.

“Maybe the Cantoe family was a charity case…”
he mumbled to nobody. He rubbed a hand on his bald head stubble. He
decided to look for any Cantoes in Hudson. A smattering of links
popped up, one, and old digitized newspaper.

A man named Harold Cantoe died in a car wreck
in 1977. He left behind a wife and two young daughters. A private
memorial service was held at Old Stone Gathering Hall. “Well,
hellooo daddy.”

He spent a few more hours digging, and the
laptop battery started to die.

He called Rich, “Hey… I just found something
really interesting. Want to get a beer?”

They made plans to meet at a bar in Newbury
on the corner of Auburn and Kinsman -- Zippys. Rich was waiting for
him on the patio.

Keith’s binder on the case was getting heavy.
The last quarter of the pages were hand written notes.

The waitress brought them a couple of tall
beers. Rich offered his glass for a toast. Keith clinked it.

Keith said, “I want to bring you up to speed.
So far, nothing too exciting from the bank surveillance. The place
has very few clients and it looks like the bankers mostly go out on
the road to do business. As far as I can tell, it’s an office with
a vault and a computer.”

Rich nodded. “Do we need to keep watching it?
That’s doubling our expenses.”

Keith took a long drink. “Yeah… let’s keep at
it another week. But I have a much better lead, I think.”

Rich sat up and leaned in a little
closer.

Keith said, “Get this, the dirt poor white
trash Cantoes didn’t start out that way.”

“Interesting…”

“In fact, they were once pillars of the
community, well, down in Hudson anyway. But once Daddy Cantoe died
in a car accident, things took a hard turn in the wrong direction.
The details are sketchy.. but there’s an intriguing connection with
this church and the Brother Fredrich Reichstaff.”

“Whoa! Isn’t that a character on
Hogan’s
Heroes
?” Rich laughed.

“Sounds like it, right?” Keith shook his
head, “but no. The church is like a nest of aristocrats. He was my
candidate for a handler, but now, who knows…”