Archer Mayor - Bellows Falls

“Sorry about that.”

I turned as Emile Latour appeared in the town hall’s doorway, three steps above the sidewalk.

“You tell him everything you do?” I asked him.

He came down and stood beside me, watching the traffic go by. “Things run a little differently here. We’re smaller-we don’t have your department’s clout. And he doesn’t like surprises.”

“He doesn’t seem to like much of anything.”

“It’s just his style. He’s not a great people person, but he tries to keep his ship on an even keel. He’s also sucking up to this new bunch that’re trying to get the town back on its feet.”

I took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more about Bellows Falls’ contradictory identity crisis, at least not today. But I also didn’t want to call it quits with no more than the innuendoes I’d collected.

Latour’s hand snuck up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Hughie Cochran hired Bouch when he first hit town-still refers work to him now and then when he’s too booked. He runs an excavating business-septic tanks, in-ground swimming pools, trench work for pipelines, stuff like that. He’s honest and pretty successful and he hires a lot of the same people we deal with-short term grunt labor, either working to feed a drug habit, or killing time before they get busted again.” Latour sighed. “Anyhow, he’s good with them-seems to know what makes ’em tick. Maybe he’s what you’re after.”

Hughie Cochran lived between Bellows Falls and Saxton’s River, along one of the thousands of dirt roads that seemingly vanish into the Vermont hills, and along which live most of the state’s residents. Slowly driving in the growing darkness, I passed a farm, an antique business, several homes, including one estate with vast acreage, a couple of trailers, and a place that looked like an auto junkyard advertising itself as a garage-a string of unzoned anomalies I could have found in any one of our fourteen counties. Cochran’s house, a simply built ranch-style surrounded by a well-kept lawn, was near the top of the hill, with a commanding view of the distant New Hampshire mountains-the only sign of which right now was a random sprinkling of tiny lights.

A burly man in a baseball cap and a T-shirt stepped onto the porch as I got out of my car. He was holding two mugs in his hands, one of which he handed me as I approached. “Thought you might want some coffee. My wife brewed a fresh batch after you called.”

Cochran didn’t offer to shake hands, nor did I. This was a type of man I’d known all my life-hard-working, conservative, intensely private, and utterly, if quietly, faithful to the triad of church, family, and flag. Hughie Cochran knew where he came from and where he was headed, and he had a pragmatic distrust of any dream that didn’t come stamped on a single weekly megabucks ticket. Years from now, when he was in his seventies and in a nursing home, a victim of too much coffee, beer, and starchy food, he would look back on his life, as embodied by his children, with stoical satisfaction. And I wouldn’t be one to argue with him.

He gestured to a couple of metal lawn chairs at the end of the porch. “Have a seat.”

The only light came from within the house-three yellow squares that spread obliquely across the floorboards to the grass beyond. Sounds of muted conversation and canned television laughter barely made it through the walls.

Cochran took his time fitting his large frame into the chair and then carefully took a long pull from his coffee mug. “Nice time of the evening.”

I followed his example and agreed. “Must be quite a view.”

“It’s pretty nice. We moved up here about ten years ago. My wife had a longing to get out of town.”

“Bellows Falls?”

“Just outside-that’s where I keep the business. She wanted to get away from all that dust and noise. Can’t say I blame her, though it took me forever to make the move. I like it now, but it was hard separating from work… Gets to be a habit.”

He stared contentedly out at the darkness. I knew better than to rush him.

“So-on the phone you said you’re a Brattleboro policeman.”

“Yeah. Helping out the locals a bit. Just a small deal, but they needed an outsider-for appearances.”

I left it at that. He took another swallow. “And you want to know about Norm.”

“Only what you’re comfortable with. I’ve got to talk to him tomorrow. I was curious what makes him tick.”

Cochran laughed gently. “I don’t know what I could give you there. I’m no psychologist-just a dozer driver.”

“Who’s hired a lot of people and hasn’t made too many mistakes, from what I hear.”

There was a slightly embarrassed but pleased moment of silence. “Well… I’ve done all right so far, I guess.”

I let a moment’s silence remind him of my question.

Cochran scratched his cheek. “He’s a good guy-easy to get along with. He does the job you tell him to.”

“And then what?”

The other man shook his head, smiling sadly. “That’s the catch. When he’s left on his own, I think his mind wanders to what he’d like to do, instead of what he’s supposed to be doin’. But he does good work, and he’s real easy-goin’. I hardly ever had trouble with him.”

“He worked for you when he first arrived in the area, right? Why did he leave?”

“Wanted to go independent. A lot of them do after they get a taste for it. Most of ’em go bust, of course-the overhead, the insurance, maintaining the equipment, trying to get people to pay you for what you done. People think you dig a hole and walk away with the money, but there’s a lot more to it.”

“But Norm made a go of it.”

Hughie Cochran frowned. “Yeah… I guess. He just does it part-time. Must’ve got a deal on the equipment or something, so he owns it outright, or doesn’t pay much monthly. Otherwise, I don’t see how he keeps hold of it, not with the few jobs he does. He’s a smart man, though. He could really go places if he wanted to.” He laughed suddenly. “Not that I’m going to tell him how to run me out of business.”

I returned to a small point he’d implied earlier. “Was there something in the back of your mind when you said you ‘hardly ever’ had trouble with him?”

He shook his head. “Not really. He’d have a temper tantrum every once in a while. Things wouldn’t go his way and he’d blow up. He was particular that way-calling the shots-and people learned to either get along or get out of the way. He was good enough at the job that quality was never the problem. It was more of a style thing, so I never messed with it, and it never got out of hand.”

“Rumors are most of his income is from dealing drugs.”

Cochran waved a mitt-sized hand tiredly. “Oh hell, I heard that, too. There might be something to it, but it could be pure bullshit. Bellows Falls catches a lot of that kind of talk. If you believed it all, that town would be like one of those South American cartels. Fact is, for the most part, welfare people don’t just sit around cashing government checks and drinking beer. They got to make more than the government hands out, and they got to get it under the counter. Other people see one of them getting a car or a new washing machine or whatever, and right away it’s ‘They must be dealing dope.’ I get sick of hearing it. Sure, some of ’em might be doing a little of that. I might, too, in their place, to put food on the table.”

I didn’t comment, but I knew he was right. There was a large underground economy in Vermont, and only a small portion of it involved illegal substances. Of course, on the flip side, marijuana was second only to corn as the state’s biggest cash crop. “You ever see Norm socially?”