The Boys from Joppa

By L. E. Barrett

In the early 1960s, Hallowell, Maine was a sleepy small city on the Kennebec River. Dip Barrett ran a beer store where he socialized with local criminals and took bets for horse racing tracks around the state. His business and the community are turned upside down when the body of a young man is found in the Kennebec River, a poker game leads to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Snitch LLC
• Release date: Sep 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9780692772287

L. E. Barrett

L.E. Barrett originates from Hallowell, Maine and lives in Monroe, Maine. He served as a Marine Infantry Soldier in Vietnam, as a Colonel in the Army, and a Senior Analyst for the Department of Veteran Affairs before committing himself to writing.

Book preview

Chapter 1

IN THE SHALLOW WATER AT THE BASE OF A STEEP BANK, his head rested between two partially quarried granite rocks. The right side of his torso extended through a fork in a rotting maple tree branch. His submerged legs, seized by the swift current, floated behind him as if they were two white streamers pushed outward by a gust of wind. The limbs appeared as ghostly silhouettes under the dark water.

His nude body was secured to the river’s edge, the torso corrupted by numerous cuts and scrapes. A crooked cut set near his heart had left a large flap of skin opening and closing, the relic of a knife plunged deep.

A single dark pupil on the right side of his face stared up through the dense brush toward an arctic blue sky. A face suspended in eternal disbelief, his bluish-white head nodding in agreement. Whether or not death had surprised him—a question best answered by a theologian or whoever had put him in the river—mattered little to the remains left floating in a watery grave.

As the emerging morning sun pranced across the surface of the Kennebec, thousands of silver specks flicked on the drowsy water. Birds chirped and cawed in woodsy chatter. Nature and the day, seemingly distinct and rejuvenated, neither mourned nor hesitated as they traversed from the previous night’s shadows to the kindling light of day.

Chapter 2

IN FRONT OF DIP’S STORE, SPIDER WAS SHOVELING the newly fallen snow off the sidewalk into the street. He didn’t know Dip. He hadn’t asked Dip if he’d wanted the front of the store shoveled. But he still assumed Dip would want his storefront shoveled on Christmas Eve. Through the frosted window, he watched a man inside the store. Dip sat in a wooden chair behind the front counter intently reading a horse racing program with Windsor Fair, Sunday, September 6, 1959 written on the cover. Dip occasionally glanced up. Each time Spider saw Dip look up, he would shovel faster and contort his face. He stopped to wipe his brow with a snow-crusted mitten and leaned unsteadily against his shovel.

All day Spider had behaved the same way in front of other storefronts. He had been amply rewarded. He never asked to shovel anyone’s storefront or driveway but instead shoveled with the prospect of an eventual payment. He believed no one would stiff a young man shoveling snow on Christmas Eve. Prior to his starting on Dip’s storefront, the nice Mrs. McLean in the antique shop across the street had not only paid him four dollars but had also given him fresh-baked cookies and milk.

He shoveled half the street in front of the store. Dip came out of the store wearing a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and black dress pants, and carrying an old wooden shovel. Without saying a word, Dip began to shovel the snow. Spider, not to be outdone, went back to shoveling. They shoveled in unison. As one shoveled faster, the other picked up his pace. Before long they had cleared all the snow in front of Dip’s store and the front of the other store on the block.

Dip took a huge roll of bills out of his pants pocket and slowly counted out four dollars. He handed Spider two dollars and then wrapped the other two dollars back around the roll of bills. He placed the roll of money back in his pants pocket. Without saying a word, Dip went back into the store and sat down again in the chair behind the counter.

Spider made a sorrowful face which he put up against the store’s front window. Dip in turn puckered up his face as if he smelled a foul odor and gestured several times with his hand for Spider to move away from the window

Spider couldn’t believe the man in the store wasn’t just playing a joke on him. As he stared in the window, Dip went back to reading the racing program. The longer Dip ignored him, the more frustrated Spider became and the more convinced he was that the man in the store was having a little fun at his expense.

Spider might have moved on except for the fact it was getting late and he needed at least four more dollars to buy the necklace in the case at Dodge’s Dollar Store, a Christmas gift he planned to give to his mother. The reason he had spent the day shoveling snow. He knew the store would soon close, and if the guy in this store didn’t pay him, he would still be short. So Spider entered the store and flashed an exaggerated smile.

Sir, we haven’t met but I am Spider Wheelock, he announced.

Okay. Dip nodded.

You don’t know me yet, but I’m a good kid. You can ask most everyone, and they will tell you the same, Spider added.

If you’re selling stuff, I already have two, and if you’re here looking for work, there’s a line of fellows ahead of you. But I heard Arthur at Boynton’s Market might have some use for a smart fella like you, Dip coolly replied.

I’m not selling anything, and I’m not asking anybody for a job. I can get my own jobs, he replied.

Spider, that makes me think you’re nothing more than a pest. Spider, are you in my store to cause trouble? Maybe you’re the kind of kid that looks for trouble where there ain’t any. Shouldn’t you be home on Christmas Eve?

Frustrated, Spider snapped, I’d be nicer if you paid me the rest of the money you owe me for shoveling the street. Then he immediately regretted his words.

Dip folded his arms across his chest and calmly eyed him as if he wasn’t sure what to say. I don’t remember you asking my permission to shovel the front of the store. You do know the sidewalk in front of the store is city property? I pay tax dollars so the city will come and shovel the snow off the street. I don’t believe you work for the city. But you might try going up to the city hall and asking them for the money you think I owe you.

Spider pleaded, It being Christmas Eve and Jesus’ birthday and such a festive time of the year, I would think if a fellow did you a favor, it would be worth just a little more than at any other time.

Dip smiled slightly. I’m sitting in a beer store reading a racing program from a couple of years ago, just minding my own business, when you decide to shovel the sidewalk in front of the store. If what you say is true about Christmas, then you are truly a good-hearted person for helping people out during the holidays. You should also give me my two dollars back. It being the holiday and an especially generous time.

Spider stammered, It’s Christmas Eve, I thought you might want some help.

Do you see any customers in the store? Do you think on a snowy Christmas Eve I’m going to get a crowd of beer drinkers? You know we have blue laws in the State of Maine, which make it illegal for me to sell beer after 11:00 on a weeknight, midnight on weekends, all day Sunday and holidays?

Spider mumbled, I guess not.

Dip shifted his gaze toward the store’s front window and sarcastically added, "You’re not alone; the State of Maine must think it’s going to be a big beer night too. You see the blue unmarked Pontiac? That’s a state liquor inspector making sure I don’t sell any beer to the wrong people, or after hours. He’ll most likely sit there until I close tonight. Having an inspector babysitting you doesn’t improve your chances of selling beer. I run a beer store! When I’m not selling beer, it’s just an old red brick building with a shitload of beer in it. I’d bet anything you haven’t even read the weather forecast in the Kennebec Journal."

No, Spider replied.

If you had read the KJ, you would know they are predicting heavy snow for Christmas Day on into late Wednesday night. The six inches you shoveled won’t mean anything come Thursday morning. You come back Thursday morning at 9:00 a.m. and shovel out the front of the store, and I’ll give you six more dollars. I don’t think you want to get a reputation for doing things half-assed, do you, Spider?

I guess not, Mr. Meader.

Old man Meader sold me the place back in fifty-five. The store is Meader’s Market—everyone calls me Dip, Dip said.

Okay, Dip.

Don’t you have someplace to be off to? Dip asked.

Spider told Dip that he was new in town. He hadn’t made any real friends, and he had been shoveling snow to get enough money to buy a blue glass necklace. He and his mother would have Christmas Eve at his Uncle Tommy’s house. Then they would drive down to Portland to spend Christmas Day with his grandparents.

After he told the story, Dip took five dollars out of his pocket. Here’s a Christmas bonus for being a straight-up kid. Enjoy your Christmas, but be back here Thursday morning.

The words, Thanks, Dip, rolled off Spider’s tongue. Words he would utter many times over the next few years.

After dinner Spider and his mother and the rest of his uncle’s family sat in front of a lit Christmas tree watching the television show, Perry Mason. Though Spider liked westerns, he was fond of a lawyer who always outsmarted criminals. His favorite part was when the fast-talking attorney got the guilty person on the witness stand. Every time, they cracked like an egg dropped on the floor.

Someone knocked on the front door, and his Uncle Tommy went to answer it. He could hear his uncle talking to another man standing outside. His uncle knew the man and seemed pleased to see him. Spider heard him say, I am sure she will be surprised, and Merry Christmas to you, too.

Tommy returned carrying a present wrapped in green paper with a gold bow. He handed the present and a card to Spider’s mother. It’s for you, from somebody special, he said.

Spider’s mother opened the card and read it. She then reached across the couch to Spider and hugged him. Before letting him go, she planted a kiss on his cheek. Spider that is the nicest Christmas card I have ever read.

His mother carefully opened the present. Under the green wrapping was a white jewelry box. His mother took the lid off the box, and the blue glass necklace sparkled against the black silk lining.

Spider tried not to show any confusion. The Christmas card with sweet holiday thoughts to his mother had been signed Love, Spider, and the blue glass necklace was the same one he had wanted to buy his mother. But after leaving Dip’s, he’d found Dodge’s Dollar Store already closed for the holiday.

Spider remembered Dip sitting alone in his beer store on Christmas Eve and felt a tinge of sadness. He knew the present must have been Dip’s doing. No one else knew he planned to purchase the necklace. He couldn’t imagine how Dip managed to get the card and necklace from the closed store. He tried his best to act like he had planned the delivery, but the sight of the necklace around his mother’s neck made him feel uncomfortable.

Before 9:00 a.m. on Thursday morning, Spider had shoveled the area in front of Dip’s store. The two days of continuous snowfall had left nineteen inches of fresh wet snow. When Spider finished, nothing on the main street had been plowed or shoveled except for the sidewalk in front of Meader’s Market.

Dip arrived, took the rolled-up Kennebec Journal from the mailbox attached to the door frame, and entered the store. Spider followed him and sat quietly on a windowsill opposite Dip. Dip opened the paper and began reading the morning news.

Have you got any work for me? Spider asked.

You seem to be an okay kid. Now how about you and I make a deal? You don’t hustle me and I’ll try not to hustle you.

Okay, but I know I owe you.

Dip laughed as if Spider had said something funny. Spider, you don’t owe me anything. I don’t do favors for people in order to get them to like me or to do something for me. I do people favors because it’s the right thing to do. If you want to hang around here, you got to stop hustling people and think about what’s the right thing to do. The others will respect you. They will also do right by you. Dip looked around the store as if he needed to find something to focus on. He pointed to the back of the store.

Go behind the meat cooler and start putting the empty bottles into wooden soda crates or beer crates. Put the Pepsi bottles in the Pepsi crates. And put the Budweiser bottles in the Budweiser crates. The Moxie bottles in the Moxie crates. When the delivery trucks come next week, they’ll pick up the empties. The distributers get pissed if you put someone else’s bottles in their crates. From now on, whenever you work here, you get seventy-five cents an hour, but if you drink a soda, eat a bag of chips, or get into the candy counter, it comes out of the seventy-five cents. Can I trust you to do this? Dip asked.

Sure, Spider answered.

After staring at Spider for a moment, Dip slowly nodded his head and in a low grainy voice said, Nothing you hear or see in the store happens. What you learn in the store is none of your business or anyone else’s. You’re old enough to understand that talking about someone else’s business would make them unhappy. Most of the guys who hang out here you’ll want to keep happy. Right?

Dip, you know you can trust me.

Dip didn’t answer him directly, but went back to reading his newspaper. Okay, get busy.

Chapter 3

PHIL DEMERE HELD A WEEKLY POKER GAME in his apartment above Dom’s Barber Shop on Water Street. Roger Parlin, Arthur Haskell, Freddy Hawkins, and Phil drank beers and bolstered each other’s egos. Phil asked, Have you guys noticed that most weekends they park a railroad car on the sidetrack behind the state liquor warehouse? There are lights behind the building, but the car sits in the shadows. Fuck, it wouldn’t take much to crack it open and help yourself to a shitload of booze.

Arthur Haskell added, I just read in the KJ last week that some guy from Gardiner broke into the railcar and stole four cases of whiskey. Then the drunk son of a bitch passed out in the cab of his truck in the parking lot across from the Gardiner police station. Paper says he could get as much as three years in Thomaston.

After a short silence, Phil said, The sidetrack behind the liquor warehouse is surrounded by trees and bushes, and it ends behind the Hallowell Cemetery. If you ask me, I’m surprised somebody hasn’t stolen the whole railcar. It’s a fucking cherry, if you want to go cherry pickin’.

The four men gazed down at their playing cards. Each man pondered the railcar sitting in the dark behind the liquor warehouse. Arthur, I’ll see your dollar and up you fifty cents, Roger exclaimed.

After a couple of hands, Phil said, "Late at night I sometimes walk the tracks back to Hallowell from Augusta. I’ve noticed that there are only two corner lights on the back of the building. The light barely reaches the railcar. They have the front parking lot so lit up that I don’t think you could tell if the lights in the back were on or off from the front of the building. You’d have to be driving in the back of the cemetery to see the lights. The Hallowell police drive around the cemetery a couple times a night, but I’m not sure they’d know if a railcar was supposed be on the sidetrack or not. But I have noticed the car has a large lock and chain on the side door."

"Freddy, that makes it about as safe as a Sand Hill gal’s virginity. It’s not if she’s going to lose it, but when and to which guy," Roger teased.

For shits and grins, let’s say you eliminate the lights and break the lock. You’re still standing out in the open loading cases of booze onto the back of a pickup. You wouldn’t have enough time to load two truckloads or move half the liquor boxes in a full railcar before you had unwanted visitors. Being caught with a truckload of State booze isn’t worth the shitstorm coming our way, or me ending up on the front page of the morning KJ in handcuffs, Phil declared.

Roger suggested, Phil, I think if you really don’t want to get caught, you have to make the car disappear.

Freddy immediately objected, Even Houdini couldn’t make a railroad car disappear.

Phil continued, I also noticed they keep a railroad car on the sidetrack only on weekends when they deliver the car on a Saturday. A liquor delivery during the week gets emptied the day it’s delivered. Most weekends there’s no car. If a railroad car disappeared on a weekend, the police most likely wouldn’t notice it was gone unless an earlier shift had told them to watch it. I don’t think that’s very likely. I suspect even the people working in the warehouse wouldn’t know they had a delivery for a few days.

Roger asked, Are you saying that we should steal the railroad car and empty it somewhere else?

Phil took a swig of his beer, shifted his eyes to look intently into each man’s face, and said, "There’s a railroad siding down by the Grange Hall at the bottom of Greenville Street. The railroad stores empty cars there until they can hook ’em up and ship ’em south. Each car has a painted number plate on its side. The plate number identifies where the car came from and what railroad yard manages it.