The Edge

Chapter 10

Devine had been in countless watering holes in many countries during his military career. They pretty much all looked and functioned the same. Although there had been one in South Korea that had been a little out there. Over their torsos the waitresses had worn crisscrossed ammo belts with orange-flavored tequila shots instead of bullets in the cartridge pouches. And that was pretty much all they had on.

The Hops was far more formulaic in its offerings: a scattering of tables and chairs; a small, scuffed parquet dance floor; a tiny, raised stage for live music, empty now; and a long bar with wooden stools, a big mirror, rows of terraced liquor bottles, and six beers on tap.

A Janis Joplin song was playing on an old-fashioned jukebox and the late singer’s one-of-a-kind voice resonated over them like thunder across a flowered meadow. Although the singer had died over two decades before he was born, one of Devine’s father’s friends had introduced him to rock-and-roll performers from that era. Joplin had quickly become one of his favorite vocalists. He had often listened to her songs during combat deployments overseas, much to the amusement of his fellow soldiers, who were far more into musicians from their own generation.

Oh Lord, won’t you buy me a Mercedes-Benz...

The bar was mostly full, and Devine could imagine it was probably the only such establishment in town. Set off in a small wing of the building were two pool tables, where men and women were smacking the balls around and performing the flirty, maybe-something-later ritual that such social environments inspired. A well-used Terminator pinball machine was being played by a blond woman in her mid-thirties dressed in tight jeans and a loose black blouse that enticingly displayed her ample cleavage. Nearby, two young men in their early twenties were enjoying a furious match of foosball, all the while eyeballing the blond with equal parts lust and youthful hope.

Dak Silkwell was easy to spot, with his height and heft. Devine knew all the man’s vitals from viewing his Army file. He was six four and looked to be carrying about two hundred and thirty pounds. He had on jeans, muddy boots, and a leather jacket. Devine watched as he shed the jacket and hung it on a wall peg. Underneath he had on a white muscle shirt that showed off his impressive biceps and delts as well as a sculpted back, his lats and rhomboid muscles heavily chiseled. Both arms were fully tatted, as were the tops of his pecs. The image of an emerald-green snake wrapped around his thick, veined neck.

Dak claimed a stool and lifted a finger at one of the women working behind the bar. The young woman poured out a Yuengling from one of the taps and carried it over to him. Dak waved and nodded to several people, who performed the same gesture back.

A regular, thought Devine.

An old man next to Dak paid his bill, hopped off his stool, threw on his coat, and was gone, his thirst evidently satiated.

Devine sat down on the vacated stool and motioned to the other woman working the bar. She was in her forties, with sandy hair and a wiry physique. In the mirror he could see the edge of her smartphone sticking out of one rear pocket and the top of a purple vape out of the other.

“Yuengling, on draft,” he said.

She nodded, poured, and delivered it. “Five bucks.”

Devine slipped her a ten and told her to keep it.

Dak sipped his beer, staring straight ahead, but Devine knew this game and had glanced twice in the mirror to see Dak’s pupils swivel in his direction. In fact, everyone in the place pretty much had shot looks at the outsider in their midst.

Before Devine had sat down he had seen in the mirror’s reflection that Dak had said something to the old man right before he so readily jumped up, leaving the stool empty. If Devine’s lip-reading was right, it was something like, Beat it, Joe. Somebody wants your seat.

Devine sipped his beer and contemplated his next move. Tactics and strategies rolled through his head like they had during combat on unforgiving terrain with a wily opponent who was doing the same thing.

He finally said, “I’m sure you know who I am. Probably when Patricia Kingman started making the phone rounds about the stranger in town. And then maybe a heads-up from the local constabulary?”

Dak didn’t turn his head, but both men were now eyeing each other in the mirror. Devine watched as the other man’s muscles tensed. Devine’s muscles did nothing. There was no reason to. Yet. And the other man’s respiration had noticeably elevated while Devine’s had actually slowed. Dak Silkwell had obviously forgotten some or all of what the Army had painstakingly taught him. Or maybe he’d never taken it seriously in the first place. Perhaps that was why they had parted company. His phone buzzed. He eased it from his pocket and read the text that Campbell had just sent.

PFC Dak Silkwell, OTH.

That was Army-speak for “Other Than Honorable.” This meant that Dak had done something bad, but not egregious enough for a punitive consequence such as a court-martial and prison confinement under the Uniform Code of Military Justice. That also meant Dak couldn’t rejoin the Army and had forfeited most if not all of his military benefits.

Campbell had not indicated the reason for the OTH, but Devine knew most of them by heart: violence against military personnel or a civilian, adultery, drug or alcohol abuse. And a security violation. Anything more serious and the OTH would not have been possible.

So which one are you, Dak?

The man finally stirred, but only to order another beer. When it came, Dak broke the silence. “Travis Devine. Homeland Security. And I know why you’re here.”

Devine said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Dak turned to him, perhaps to gauge Devine’s level of sincerity without the mirrored buffer. “Jenny didn’t deserve to go out that way. She was a good person.”

“She have enemies that you know of?”

“You’d know that better than me, considering what she did for a living.”

“That would require a stranger in town. Anyone see anything like that?”

Dak shook his head, clearly thinking this through. “I haven’t. You’d have to ask around.”

“Everyone picked up on me really fast. Just thought it would have worked through the grapevine if another outsider had passed through.”

Dak shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

Literally, or is something else getting played out here?

“You see your sister or talk to her while she was here?”

Dak took longer than was necessary to answer this simple question. “I didn’t even know she was in town. It was a shock when we found out she was dead.”

“‘We’ as in you and your sister?” asked Devine.

Dak nodded and sipped his beer.

“Did Jenny see or talk to your sister while she was here?”

“Not that she mentioned. You’d have to ask her.”

“I plan to. You know Earl Palmer?”

“Sure, a good man. He found Jenny’s body,” said Dak.

“I understand he just recently lost his wife. Likes to wander at night.”

“Lucky for us. Otherwise, Jenny might have gotten washed out to sea.”

“When can I have a more formal interview with you? And your sister, of course.”

“Doesn’t this count as my formal interview?” Dak wanted to know.

“Afraid not.”

“I work six days a week. Ten to eight. My tattoo shop’s around the corner. Ink Well. Get it?”

“Yeah, clever. Small town keep you that busy?”

“I’ve built a rep. Lots of folks from Jonesport, Machias, and Cutler. And I have clients from all over New England. Even Canada.”

“Nice,” replied Devine.

He ran his gaze over Devine. “You got tats? You look the sort.”

“None voluntarily. But I’ve got a real wicked one around my ankle and calf. Picked it up in the Middle East on the biting end of an IED.”

Dak shot him a funny look. “Army or Marine?”

“The former.”

“You couldn’t have pulled the full ride. You’re way too young.”

“Decided to do something else with my life.”

Dak drained his beer. “Yeah, me too.” A pulse throbbed in the man’s temple.

He knows that I know about the OTH.

“We can grab some breakfast or late dinner. Your call. And my treat.”

“I’m not usually an early riser,” said Dak.

“Dinner then.”

“I only do organic.”

“They got a place here for that?” asked Devine doubtfully.

“Yeah. It’s called Only Real Food. I’m an investor. They get customers from all over Maine, Aroostook, Piscataquis, Waldo, Kennebec, York. Canada, too. Just like my tat shop. It’s no coincidence. I push all my investments with my clients.”

“Congrats. So nine o’clock tomorrow night?”

“I guess,” said Dak.

“I’d like a more definitive reply.”

“Okay, nine it is. The restaurant is two blocks south of here, take a left on Hiram Silkwell Street.”

“Seriously?”

“Named after the man who was born and grew up here and made all that money.”

“Less than three hundred people now. What happened?”

“It’s always been a toy town. But outside the town line is our version of the burbs, where we have nearly four thousand people.”

“And your sister? Where can I see her?”

“She’s usually home.”

“I need her phone number. I’d like to set something up.”

Dak gave it to him but added, “She doesn’t usually answer, particularly if she doesn’t know who’s calling.”

He handed Dak a card. “Here’s my number. Then you can tell her to answer when I call.”

“Alex doesn’t follow orders and usually not advice, either.”

“I’m persistent. I understand she’s quite an artist.”

“Says who?” asked Dak.

“So, she’s not a good artist?”

“No, she’s good. Better than good, actually. But her taste is... eclectic. And she only parts with a piece when she really needs the money.”

“Big house. You’d think she’d really need the money a lot.”

“I do well at the tattoo parlor. And I make good money off my investments. Okay, I’m not in Hiram Silkwell’s league. But give me time.”

“I saw your father,” Devine told him.

Now came the first hint of strong emotion on Dak’s expressive face. “He’s not doing well,” he said.

“You’re in the loop on all that?”

Dak nodded. “I’ve been down to see him. Go as often as I can. He say anything to you?”

“He wasn’t really awake.”

“They say he doesn’t have long.”

“A warrior deserves a better exit,” said Devine.

Dak tapped his surprisingly delicate fingers against his empty beer mug. They also looked to have been manicured. Devine looked down at his own ragged ones and frowned.

“Yeah, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?” replied Dak.

“You disagree?”

“His military days were pretty much over when I came along. But then he got into politics. He wasn’t around much.”

Devine decided to go there. “But you suited up. Wore the Army green.”

Dak eyed him. “Yeah, it was a lotta fun.” He dropped some cash for the beers and rose. “I’m beat. Gotta get going.”

“You need a lift?”

“Nah. Got my Harley. Love that thing.”

Devine watched him every step of the way. He was seriously thinking of following him home when he spotted three large men, pool sticks in hand, staring dead at him.

When Devine left, so did they. The sounds of what might have been Dak’s Harley soared off into the night, leaving him alone with his three new Maine besties.

Wonderful way to end a long unproductive day.