Archer Mayor - The surrogate thief

"What do you think?" Lester asked.

Joe studied the leader. Medium height and build. Brown hair and mustache.

"I think I better drive back to Gloucester."

It was early evening when Gunther stepped through the bar's door. The usual hangers-on were still there, seemingly unmoved since he'd left them-in fact, barely looking alive. The one exception, as before, was back playing gin with Evelyn, both of them chatting quietly. Out of deference to the place's clear traditions, Joe took his own usual seat and gazed down the length of the bar at the woman he hadn't been able to chase from his mind as easily as he'd hoped.

She cast him a smiling glance, slapped down a final card, patted her old rival on the shoulder, and slowly walked in Joe's direction, pausing only long enough to draw him a Coke. She placed it before him with a napkin and leaned on the bar.

"Couldn't keep away, huh?"

"Don't I wish," he said, taking a sip.

She pushed out her lips slightly. "Interesting answer. Could go either way."

He laughed. "No, no. Don't take me wrong. I'd love to be back here for pleasure only."

"That would suit me, too."

Even with the kiss she'd given him last time, her response came as a surprise and made him blush. Sammie Martens had asked if he wanted company on the trip, and he'd turned her down, citing the enormous workload confronting them all. That was true enough, but he knew in his heart that efficiency had played no role in his wanting to travel alone.

And now that he was here, that knowledge was making him feel awkward.

Nevertheless, he heard himself say, "You on a full shift tonight?"

She nodded slowly, watching him carefully. "Yup. What were you thinking of?"

He smiled, hot and uncomfortable. "Just a question. I know you don't like me acting like a cop in here."

She raised an eyebrow. "That what you want to do? Act like a cop?"

He knew she was enjoying herself-self-confident behind her bar-which had the funny effect of lessening his embarrassment. In that way, he started feeling he could trust her, regardless of where this led. Which was comforting, given his own confusion.

"I have a photograph to show you. It might be the guy who asked you about Pete Shea."

"Norman," she reminded him.

"Right-Norman."

But he didn't pull the picture from his pocket.

"I could save this till later," he said instead, still torn.

"Another late-night rendezvous by the water, with lobster roll and milkshake?" she asked, teasing again. "What would people say?"

He took another sip, grateful for the cold coursing down his throat. He wiped his mouth with the napkin and conceded, "You're right. Bad idea."

"No," she said, suddenly looking quite sad. "Just a badly timed one-for you, I think."

"That obvious?" he asked.

She merely looked at him kindly.

His gaze dropped to the polished bar between them.

"Show me the picture," she said gently, the regret in her voice a combination of empathy and support.

Reluctantly, thrown off by how at odds he felt, Joe did as she requested, and placed the photograph of the man with the mustache before her.

She looked at it for a long time before saying, "That's him."

"No doubts?"

She gave him a funny half smile. "I'm as sure of that as I am of never seeing you again."

He studied her face, using it as a mirror to better see his own inner turmoil finally settling down.

"You're very good at this," he told her.

"I've had a lot of experience."

He collected the photograph, slid off his stool, and gave her hand a quick squeeze. "Well, thank you for sharing it with me."

She nodded. "It was a real pleasure. Take care of yourself."

Alvah Jordan was Putney's town constable, a position considered by some in law enforcement to be the very first rung-or the lowest, depending on your prejudice-on the profession's ladder. An ancient role, dating back to Vermont's birth, it had fallen on hard times with the passing years. Most every town had one, and sometimes more, but the job ran the gamut from truly fulfilling a police function, as when the next closest officer of any stripe was more than half an hour away, to merely being a post the selectmen were forced to fill. In one of the latter such towns, the constable had actually been bedridden for four years before being replaced, with virtually no one the wiser.

Jordan fell between the extremes, as did most of his fellows. He took care of animal complaints and minor neighbor disputes and generally handled items of little or no interest to the sheriff, who was therefore only too happy to pass them along. This was an arrangement of unspoken mutual consent, because, in fact, Alvah Jordan had made the effort to become a certified part-time police officer, complete with a week's training at the academy in Pittsford, many hours of continuing education, and some field training alongside a designated deputy sheriff. The town hadn't required this of him, although some did of their constables. He'd taken the extra step because he'd thought it the right thing to do. That kind of thinking had pretty much directed him throughout his life.

And his life so far had been full and satisfying. He was married, had four kids and three grandchildren, and owned his own house, a dump truck, a pickup with a plow, and a backhoe, the last three of which he put to creative use to generate income. He was, like many Vermonters, a man given to solving problems-his own and those of his many customers-with a combination of common sense, hard work, good humor, and an instinctive rapport with mechanical objects.

Tonight, however, that good humor was being tested. On the sliding scale of regular calls, noise complaints were his least favorite, perhaps because, in most cases, the complainant rarely bothered telephoning the offender-whom he might not even know, much less dislike-preferring to use the constable as an ax handle instead. That bothered Alvah Jordan. He approached life directly and would never have asked someone else to act on his behalf, especially over so trivial a matter. Nevertheless, as often in the past, he'd left his family again tonight to do the bidding of others.

Perhaps it was time to think of retirement.

He pulled up the dirt driveway of the address he'd been given, killed his engine, and stepped out of the car. It was now full into fall, the leaves were turning, and the earth smelled of moisture and decomposition. The chill in the night air foretold winter poised on the threshold.

Alvah hitched the gun he always carried on calls to a more comfortable position. He wasn't in uniform. It wasn't that formal a job. And the gun's holster was a clip-on model, so he could take it off as soon as he was done. Many constables didn't even carry them, but he figured he ought to, as a matter of form.

Closing his truck door gently, he grudgingly had to admit that at least this time, the complaint had merit. The music throbbing from the small house ahead of him was loud enough to fill the surrounding woods, and certainly the neighborhood up and down the road. Why did people think their favorite pastimes should be community property?

He stepped up under the porch light and pounded on the door.

Blessedly, the music died down almost instantly, footsteps approached, and the door swung back to reveal a man of medium height with brown hair and a mustache.

"Yes?" he asked pleasantly enough.

"Sorry to bother. I'm Alvah Jordan, the town constable. Could I have your name?"

"Gabe Greenberg. What's the problem?"

"I received a complaint about the noise and have to ask you to keep it down."

The man smiled regretfully. "I should have known. I am sorry. I was in a good mood, felt like celebrating a little, and got carried away. Living out here, I kind of forget there're other people around, you know? Am I in any trouble?"