CHAPTER ONE

June rolled in like a warm kiss. Enticing although a bit distant. A hint of moisture and a prelude to heat. Typical summer Oregon, at least on the southern Coast where it rarely exceeds 80 degrees or falls below 45.

Willow Weep, the name given our property by my oldest daughter some 20 years ago when she was barely 6, has settled into the terrain; shore pine, Douglas fir, alder, blackberries and gorse intertwined into a hodgepodge of greenery and thickets making access to much of the land impossible or requiring serious thinning.

Unlike this gentle June morning, Sallie Rand barged through the undergrowth from his neighboring property, ever present thermos clutched in a massive hand, a bulldozer where only a shovel is needed. He pulled up a plastic lawn chair and settled into it with a grunt, the acrylic crackling under his 295 pounds.

No greeting. We had been friends since high school and swore we’d never say “Good morning” because it reminded both of us of Mrs. Sworthborg in home room who made those two words sound like a medieval salutation just before the gallows doors snapped open.

Sallie sucked on the thermos.

“How many this morning?”

I looked down at the notepad and counted the hash marks grouped in fives. “113. Six more than yesterday.”

He pondered a second. “Well, we know trees don’t grow that quickly so obviously you miscounted.”

“Probably.”

Another pause.

“Why do you do that, Nick?” he asked.

“Count my trees? You know why. I’m manic.”

“Manic.”

“Obsessed.”

“True.”

“Curious.”

“No doubt.”

“And I like numbers.” Pulling from my own coffee mug, I added, “Did you know there are 203 steps between the back fence and the batting cage over there?”

“203. Not 204. What if you take small steps?”

“That’s for me and anyone else my height and stride. You might take 220 or more.”

“You saying I waddle because I’m fat?”

“I’d never say that.”

“Good. Otherwise I’d have to sit on your head and crush that thick skull to pulp.”

Mornings with Sal were like that. Neither one of us looked at the other. Legs stretched out, eyes focused on some distant point in the woods that made up the bulk of my acreage.

Paths had been cut through the brush over the past 20 years uncovering old events and mysteries. Charred stumps the likely remnant of the fire that burned Bandon to the ground in 1936. A 10-by15 foot area of dead vegetation where nothing would grow even though blackberries were thick right up to the border of the dead patch.

“What’s the plan for today?”

I shrugged. “Same as yesterday.”

“Nothing planned. Sounds like a plan,” he sighed and smiled.

“Sounds like a damn good plan.” A swig of coffee. “Fishing?”

“You know I don’t fish. How ‘bout a ride to Roseburg for lunch.”

“That’s sad, Nick. Not fishing, I mean. How ‘bout hot dogs in…”

My cell phone vibrated in my shirt pocket. Pulling it out, I flipped it open.

“Drago.”

I was greeted with a rush of sputtering; virtually all a single word spoken so quickly it was difficult to understand the context.

“God damn it, Nick! Someone stole my T’bird! Jeeesus. Right out from the parking lot at the Eatin’ Station. No one saw a thing. What am I gonna do, Nick? I got…”

“Bo?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Yeah it’s me Nick.”

“Slow down and tell me again.”

“I was at the Eatin' Station. Parked my T-bird in the rear lot so some numbskull couldn’t put a door ding in it. Like I do almost every morning. I went in, grabbed a seat and remembered I wanted my briefcase which I’d left in the car. Got up. Walked out. And shazaam! The damn car is gone, Nick. GONE. I couldn’t have been in the restaurant for more than what? A minute? Maybe two?”

“Where are you now?”

“Standing in the lot looking at a couple of drops of oil on the pavement where my car used to be. Damn engine builder. Could never get that oil pan to stop leaking.”

Bo Jangles Clemons – what was his mother thinking? -- spent 4 years looking for a restorable matching-numbers ’55 Thunderbird and another 9 years tearing it down to the frame and rebuilding or replacing every piece and part. All told, more than $150,000 worth of precision went into the flame red ‘Bird. Not counting the 10,000 hours of his personal time.

“Sal and I’ll be there in a few.”

I flipped the cell phone shut.

“Did you hear? “ I asked Sal.

“Bo’s a loud talker. Every word.”

“Shall we?”

Spinella, Art (2010-12-16). Drago #1