Through the Mist

By James Stilson

Samuel Nagy fancied himself as an admirer of the ocean. He spent many hours fixated on the coastal waters of Maine while standing outside the tower of Cape Elizabeth’s famous lighthouse. During one calm, peaceful morning, he witnessed a little more than he’d expected. Stumbling across a group of outsiders to his hometown, Samuel learned of a criminal syndicate so ruthless, it would risk the lives of his entire family.

The Irish Mafia found refuge within the community of Portland Maine. Their bloodthirsty members tormented local citizens creating and fortifying a criminal empire reaching all aspects of life in the city. Their livelihood centered on exporting valuable stolen goods overseas. Anyone caught hindering that process succumbed to the violent nature of mob life.

Samuel found out the hard way mob bosses silenced all witnesses. He fell directly into the middle of crime spree so horrific, he discovered the antics of the Irish Mafia literally would involve the dead. Risking his own life, Samuel reached out to government officials in positions of authority for help. Unfortunately, mafia ties within the government halted any assistance. Samuel turned to his father for assistance and advice, but even his most trusted parent seemed to walk a thin line. Samuel was confused about his father’s position, concerned he might somehow be involved with the mafia.

Turning to the streets for solace, a most inconspicuous homeless man befriended a young Samuel, giving him sound advice on how to handle his predicament. Samuel carried out his actions using that advice, determined to learn of his father’s involvement with the Irish Mob while protecting his family in the process. Unfortunately, the mob wasn’t going to have a recent graduate of high school interrupt their plans. Removing any and all witnesses was the only stance for the mobsters.

Samuel had no choice but to expose the mafia’s actions, while bringing attention to their criminal syndicate. An all-out adventure that span not only Portland, but also the islands off the coast of Maine led to a standoff with some of the most notorious killers the State of Maine had ever seen. Filled with fast-paced boat chases along the coast, to underground investigations, Samuel worked his hardest to expose every detail of the Irish Mafia’s enterprise. The only cost: he would never see his father again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 24, 2024
• ISBN: 9798891551183

James Stilson

James Stilson has a passion for literature. He loves a great story and seeks to incorporate his readers when creating an adventure. He will take you on a quest with never ending twist and turns. Be ready.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Awake

Things aren’t always as they seem, my father used to tell me. It was more than three years ago, today, that he last mumbled those prophetic words. A fragile memory, feelings still raw within my being. It was advice given on a rainy evening. At first, his reasoning didn’t make much sense, but as the days moved forward from that first incident, the blinders on my eyes slowly dissipated. When facts turned to fruition, all I could do was laugh. I had awoken.

Standing there, looking out over the growing audience staring back at me, my mind flashed back to a tumultuous time; a time not that long ago. The events that transpired those few days three years prior were nothing short of traumatic. Challenging confrontations, threatening interactions, and shocking truths, the months and years that followed would forever be altered. It was a time of discovery, an opportunity to learn who I really was. Now, having survived such an traumatic event, I’ve realized it was more than just a bad memory. It was the moment I became a man; it was truly my family’s defining moment.

***

Cool mist danced upon my face. The crashing waves sent sea-spray more than twenty feet sky-high, and easily cleared the railing I leaned over. If it hadn’t been for the warmth of the sun, I would have caught a chill. I just couldn’t help being so close to the waves. My most favorite pastime was hanging out around the lighthouse. The views of the ocean were endless in my dreams.

Windswept swells glided along the water. The sea was deep, dark, and blue. As I watched the water, the horizon faded as it reached Richmond Island in the distance. On a clear day, one could see the grass sway in the wind without the assistance of a telescope. On that day, it was a much different experience.

Blocking my view, sporadically, the mist grew in density, presenting an impenetrable wall of cotton. It wrapped my head in all directions, thwarting my happiest of pastimes. The occurrence was one I’ve struggled with before, but my senses knew it wouldn’t last forever. Waiting around, it was only moments later I was stuck with an interaction that hit me at a most unexpected time.

Like a freight train in the middle of the night traveling down a quiet road, the earth-shattering noise that approached sent chills up my spine. The thick fog dispersed, and the alarming noise soon took the form of an obnoxious fishing boat. Rubbing rusted metal, clanging chains, and the sounds of the churning engine startled me out of my shoes.

At first, I thought it was just the youthfulness of my nerves becoming alarmed. But as the ship approached closer, I realized something eerie about the whole experience seemed out of place, much like that of a wolf hanging out in the same pasture as a flock of sheep. The vision wasn’t conforming within my brain. Quite simply, it confused me.

Now, fishing boats were a common theme around those parts of Maine. Cape Elizabeth was home to some of the best lobster houses along the eastern coast. A look in any direction, one would observe dozens of fishing vessels setting sail for the daily, or even longer, fishing expedition. So, it wasn’t the presence of the ship that concerned me. It was the actions, or dare I say, their direction of travel that didn’t sit right.

Racing by, the vessel left a wake that rose more than five feet skyward. That translated roughly to a speed of at least thirty knots, a fast pace for any fishing ship. On board, there consisted a mere skeleton crew. Now if anyone knew a thing or two about fishing, they knew there was always a crew of at least seven. The amount of work aboard a vessel required the combined strength of several strong-handed adults to manage the rigorous challenges of operating at sea.

I saw this boat had a skipper in the wheelhouse, and one formidable looking man on deck. Standing suspiciously by himself, the man with an angered scowl, stood motionless, even catatonic. The tossing of the craft by large swells didn’t even cause his body to shift an inch left or right. He appeared as stern a man as I’ve ever known. And growing up around fishermen, there were a lot of strong-bodied folks in those parts.

For the life of me, something about that man’s face was all too familiar. Like I’d seen it in my nightmares or something. His profile displayed a chiseled chin that protruded past his forehead. He possessed beady eyes that pierced my soul. From the angle of his nose, it must have been broken a hundred times or more. He was truly a unique looking character. Something out of a pirate movie perhaps.

As I leaned even more over the lighthouse railing, I watched the vessel scream past the rocky edge of the coastline. Not a care was shown regarding how close they came to crashing; theirs was a deliberate mission. The vessel headed straight for Richmond Island, a place not frequented by that specific type of boat.

I mumbled under my breath, What are they up to? No sooner had I expressed those very words than the disgruntled-looking ‘pirate’ man turned and gazed in my direction. As our eyes met, fear filled my heart. There was no way he could have heard me, not with the great distance between us, along with the churning noise of that obnoxious motor. But somehow, he knew my thoughts.

Suddenly, my curiosity perked up. Somewhere, someone had knowledge regarding that vessel. The early-morning hours surely would produce a soul that could answer the questions that swirled in my thoughts. Standing on that platform, however, wouldn’t advance the situation. I needed to leave my most enjoyable perch and locate some help. Unfortunately, the only way down was the grappling rope I had used to climb up.

You see, I wasn’t supposed to be on the lighthouse viewing platform that early. It was closed and off-limits to the public at that hour. I just couldn’t help myself though. It was a bad habit of mine, something my grandmother warned me about, daily.

Not only was scaling the lighthouse tower off-limits, the repeated injuries I’d received over the past couple of years had left many scars. It persuaded me to take extra time when going down. I simply sat down and dangled my legs over the edge of the viewing platform. Taking hold of the rope, I swung my legs out and started my descent.

Hand over hand, I worked my way down to the cold ground below. With the lighthouse giving me just enough shade to focus on my landing, I slid the last few feet. The sliding rope created a little heat in my gloves. The friction proved to be challenging.

Safely down, I scanned the horizon while waving my hands cool. The crisp morning air filled my nostrils, bringing a renewing sense of awareness. Turning left, I readily located my red bike. It was lying along the greenish brown grass, wet from the moist air. A long ride awaited me before I could share my story, and locate help. Before climbing aboard, a quick snap of my wrist and the tool of my ascent whipped down, giving me a chance to roll the rope up and carry it home. After all, it belonged to my father.

Peering up at the lighthouse tower once more before leaving, it was an absolutely magnificent work of architecture. Over sixty feet high, the outside shimmered a brilliant white. Constructed of solid steel, it was a recognized landmark to those parts. Many hours, I used its perch to enrich my peace. Being a teenager who had recently graduated high school, my future was always on my mind, and required endless hours of thought.

Maneuvering my bicycle down the road, I noticed a car approaching. It seemed one of the lighthouse staff workers arrived early for work. That was odd as the last few years, nobody had been seen during my visits, save that of a solo runner taking the path along the grass. Something must have happened that day for the change in schedule.

Not wanting any unforeseen encounters, I scurried along and quickly hid. Stopping within the tall grass, I turned to see who it was that pulled up. The car was rather dark. Either black or midnight blue in color; the vehicle had tinted windows. It seemed a strange car for a city employee, but all that changed once the driver’s door opened.

Stepping out of the vehicle was another rugged looking man. This one wore a mustache, which didn’t make him look any friendlier. He was dressed in a black suit, dark sunglasses, and his mannerisms made him seem suspicious. Maybe it was all the mystery books I’d been reading or just the simple fact he actually looked scary, but he was definitely an intimidating figure.

Closing the car door with a deliberate slam, he immediately looked up, toward the top of the lighthouse. What was he looking for, I wondered. I had no idea, but something suddenly clicked. He must have been looking for me. There was an unmistakable similarity of his clothes that mirrored the man on the fishing boat. It was more than coincidence.

He walked around the base of the lighthouse and cautiously searched every nook and cranny. I remained low within the swaying grass, hoping he would soon become bored and leave. To my dismay, the diligence he mustered was more than my patience could bear. Turning toward the grassy knoll, he began walking in my direction. Funny, I don’t remember making any noise to draw his attention my way.

Panic quickly set in. There was absolutely no way I wanted to interact with that scary person. But what were my alternatives? If I hit the open road and pedaled as fast as possible on my two-wheeler, he would certainly catch me in his car. The forest… that was where I would turn! I had to make it to the trees, and while there, outmaneuver him if he followed.

Finding my courage, I leaped up and began running with my bike right next to me. The man froze as he saw me, and then began running after me. Up onto the seat, I hopped. Locating the bicycle’s pedals, I started cranking them as fast as my eighteen-year-old legs would allow. Heck, I played sports, lots of different ones. My legs were strong and I felt like I should be able to leave this stalker in my dust.

The first tree approached, and passed. With branches behind me, I quickly found my cover. Now in the woods, the terrain was perfect for my knobby tires. Looking back, my pursuer relinquished, stopping in his tracks. With the cluster of trees blocking my view, I couldn’t tell if he had returned to his car or taken another route. The truth of the matter was, I needed to focus, find my wit, and get as far away from that area as possible.

A few deep breaths and the morning air relaxed the anxiety right out of my nerves. What a morning it was too. First, there was a fishing boat out of its normal area. Aboard that very boat was an individual more pirate than fisherman. That character wore a black suit, funny enough to cause a snicker. Then, out of nowhere, another man mysteriously appeared and wore the same style of black suit. Something just wasn’t adding up. Sure, weird things had happened every day to common folks. Maybe it was all just a coincidence.

Still, the facts were the facts: two men wearing similar attire; two men in roughly the same place, only minutes apart; and both men I’d never seen before. My father used to tell me: if the smell is rotten, throw the meat away. And something was definitely rotten this side of Portland, Maine.

The time approached eight in the morning. First light glittered around me and shone brilliantly among the trees. The weather warmed just enough to justify removing my black sweatshirt. I didn’t like wearing the ones with a hood; my preference was always for the simpler pullovers, as they allowed for freer movement. But unfortunately, my black hoodie was all that was clean that morning. And it was a thick one at that.

Along the worn path I traversed. Sounds of chirping birds eased my mind. I headed straight for Two Lights Road, and then traveled by way of Ocean Street. I knew I was a little ways away from home, and my grandmother never approved of me riding without my helmet. Unfortunately, I’m an adventurist at heart and needed my morning quests to energize the soul; at least on Saturdays.

The trees started thinning out; the road appeared through the branches. Leaving the sanctuary of leaves behind, a couple more twists and the pavement said, Good morning. My ball cap aggravated my forehead; a great excuse for taking a break. With my feet leaving the pedals behind, the feeling of solid ground helped free my hands. With a quick body adjustment, my cap was ready and so were the rest of my bones.

Suddenly, to my right, the terrifying sounds of screeching tires approached. It was that same dark-colored vehicle from earlier. The front grill aimed straight for me. What was going on with the guy behind the steering wheel? What had I done? Was it a crime to climb up the lighthouse without permission? And if so, I had done it a dozen times before. Could this guy be some sort of undercover security guard? Afraid to move, I decided to let him approach and say his peace.

The car skidded to a stop within inches of my front tire, nearly striking me in the process. The smell of burned rubber permeated the air and hit my nostrils. Overwhelming, but with the strong breeze, the blowing air soon lifted the aroma. Swiftly throwing his door open, the man wearing a mustache and sunglasses hopped out. At first, I thought I would receive some sort of warning or lecture. I soon realized how far off I was and quickly recognized he wasn’t from anywhere close by.

He began shouting and said, You there, you lil punk! Don’t ya move! I’ve got somthin’ for ya!

He spoke in a thick, heavy, New York style accent. It was the kind of voice one heard in gangster movies. He pointed his finger while speaking, shaking it at me, and making a gun jester with his right hand. It was alarming.

I couldn’t believe my eyes, or ears for that matter. Standing there, frozen like a popsicle, I watched as a strange man I’d never met yelled at me. He continued encroaching, and behind his dark sunglasses, I noticed his eyebrows scowl. Without hesitation, I left, speeding away on my bike.

From behind, I heard his car door slam; something told me my actions didn’t thrill him. His tires screeched once more; the chase had resumed. Go! Go! Go! The thought repeated in my head. I had to make it to Ocean Street, and maybe flag down a passerby for assistance.

Something I did. Something I saw! I said to myself, full of doubt and disbelief.

What was it? What did I see? What did I do? I remembered leaning over the railing, and as the fog began to clear, I saw a fishing boat, that’s it, or was it? Was there something on the boat not meant for my eyes? Was the man on the boat up to no good? I kept searching my memory, and then a most important turn approached up ahead.

I hit Highway 77 moving as fast as my bike would let me. Having tires designed for the dirt made the ride a little rough. The growing vibrations reverberated up the wheels to my hands. It was an uncomfortable feeling when fleeing. From behind, skidding tires and a revving engine crept closer, and closer. I wanted to turn and look, but something in me kept me looking straight ahead, searching for any sort of help.

We approached Pond Cove. It was a smaller city; the kind of place people remained quaint and quiet. Being from South Portland, the only interactions I’ve previously had there were on past adventurous. The city was basically halfway between the lighthouse and my house, a perfect spot to stop for nourishment.

Traffic was clear in both directions except for the car behind me. Great for a morning quest; bad for a person in my predicament where just one friendly face would suffice. I recognized the small shopping center approaching on the left. Making my move, the tree line near the edge of the parking lot gave me the gap needed to create some distance. Another skid from behind and it attracted a few patrons who exited their vehicles and yelled at the man in the shades: Hey! Slow down!

Though helpful, the screaming engine roaring through the parking lot showed he cared little about anyone or anything else. Though I knew I would find some helpful citizens within the pharmacy, as I prepared to stop my bike, a welcomed face sat in a car just to the north of the lot. My plan suddenly changed.

Sitting there, in a beautiful white car capped with red and blue lights: an officer from the Cape Elizabeth Police Department. My experience up until that point with officers had been at a minimum. Usually, I would hear an order come over their PA system telling me, Get over to the side of the road, kid!

From my recollection, the officer seemed to be on his way out of the parking lot. The urgent nature of the situation forced me to leap off my bike and begin banging on the passenger window of the police vehicle for help. I remembered the startled expression he gave me. He was suddenly on the defensive. The risk was great, but so was the danger hot on my tail.

The officer, Officer Simpson if my mind served me correctly, climbed out of the vehicle and scurried over to my location. What’s the matter with you, son? he said. I was tongue-tied, unable to say a word. Turning my head, my pursuer, realizing I had contacted the police, swiftly fled the lot and returned in the direction he had come.

Relieved, I finally reacquired the ability to speak. Sorry for all the excitement, I began, but a man was chasing me.

What man? Officer Simpson questioned.

The one in that dark car. There, he’s going south now, on Highway 77. If you hurry, you’d be able to catch up to him and pull him over.

Son… I’m not chasing any car that hasn’t committed a crime. And no teenager who has been watching too many horror movies will be sending me on a wild goose-chase. Now, my suggestion to you is this: Go have a decent breakfast, and let me get back to my work. Also, you might think about wearing your helmet next time you go for a bike ride. Maybe you should focus more on your safety, and keep your mind off those fantasies.

My hopes suddenly vanished. Maybe Officer Simpson had a point. The man in the car was chasing me, I am positive of that. But other than a few skid marks left on the highway, what else had he done? I was the one trespassing in the early-morning hours. I was the one climbing up an impossible lighthouse with a makeshift grappling hook. Was all this worry in my head? Was that man just an innocent citizen, angry that I had violated lighthouse protocol?

A mind unfocused was truly confusing. For that moment, I decided to walk a little and push my bike alongside. The path home was miles long. Even though it would take me an extra hour or so, I decided to cut through the baseball fields, and remain in neutral territory.

Walking along the wet grass, my mind raced. I struggled to place the latest events into some sort of logical order. What was usually a weekend treat had turned sour, almost tragic. If in the wrong, I would have stood tall for my transgressions. Even with the appearance of an angered expression, someone trying to hold my actions accountable was justified.

And as I watched the ball players exit their parents’ cars, it dawned on me, something I had seen on the boat was the reason behind the chase. The dense fog floating along the coastline had played tricks on my eyes. Standing on the deck of the fishing vessel had been a most ferocious looking individual. He had his hands in his pockets, I recalled. But the shadow standing just behind him, who was that? And more importantly, what was that individual doing?

I thought about sitting in the bleachers and watching the morning warm up. I liked baseball. There’s something magical about the wet grass and large fields that appealed to me. I played for South Portland High for two years. Pitching a fastball more than eighty miles an hour got me a little recognition. But after breaking my leg during my junior year, I never returned to the sport again. The memory of my injury suddenly changed my mind, causing my joy to turn cold toward the warm up. I decided I was better off heading home.

Just beyond the fields sat a peaceful neighborhood. Houses were surrounded by nature’s greenery; blooming flowers painted a magnificent spectacle. A sense of calm filled my inner being, and with it, the desire to reengage my two-wheeler. From the looks of the homes that passed, it seemed the brilliant sun had woken a few more souls who also desired to enjoy the beautiful morning.

Almost an hour had passed since the scene at the lighthouse, and from the sweat of my brow, my current workout was strenuous. Though most of the remaining journey was on smooth pavement, every so often, I ventured off-road, and onto the dirt. I followed along a few hidden paths within the trees. It helped to make the journey seem less exhausting. And that morning, I needed a break from my thoughts.

The sign up ahead read, ‘Cottage Road’. A favorite street of mine, the road had a most interesting place I frequented quite often, called ‘Mount Pleasant Cemetery’. The name of the cemetery was posted on a rusty, old sign hung up high above the ground, nearly twenty feet above the entrance. Below it was a dirt driveway having two defined paths created by several tires.

It might seem a little morbid to like cemeteries, but my reasons were anything but. It was the history of the tombstones. To realize how long people had been buried in the city I grew up in always drew my curiosity. I never shared with my father, or grandmother, that I liked to ride my bike around the gravesites. I thought that would have brought on some unwarranted scolding.

On that day, I decided to pass the cemetery and finish my ride home. Though my focus was on the road in front of me; suddenly, I recognized a familiar item that had haunted my morning adventure. Sitting on the dirt driveway, some thirty yards from the entrance, was the dark vehicle last seen leaving Pond Cove.

I was sure it was the same vehicle. Recalling the damage to the right front bumper, certain vehicles just had that distinct look. Though every fiber in my body told me to keep going and ignore it, my inquisitive nature pulled me back. With a simple turn of the handlebars, I repositioned my bike next to the brick column near the entrance.

With my back against the column, I listened intently, able to make out the slightest of voices. Desirous to see who was speaking, my body lowered and I peeked around the corner. To my dismay, the voice was that of my pursuer. He was speaking with another man, an elderly man, wearing a black overcoat.

The conversation tossed back and forth between the two. Pressing my cheek against the cold brick, I observed a second vehicle. Standing next to the other vehicle was a tall man, pale skin, staring off in the distance. He seemed to be providing security for the elderly gentleman.

While monitoring the situation, the sudden crashing sound of metal rang out. It was my bike. It was leaning against another pillar behind me and must have fallen. After realizing I probably wasn’t the only one that heard the clanging noise, I looked again and noticed all eyes around the dark sedan staring in my direction.

My recent acquaintance monitored the entrance. Unfortunately, the cemetery entrance was wide open. I’m sure he recognized the color of my bike, as it was visible through the chain-link fence near the driveway. Ready for round two, he jumped into his vehicle and started the ignition. Not wanting to wait around for my doom—my house only two blocks away—I grabbed my bike and climbed aboard.

My feet reengaged my bike’s pedals, and the race was on once more. With forceful strokes, I propelled my contraption to a manageable speed, which gave me a decent head-start. The first turn was smooth; the next turn entered the fray momentarily. If I could make it there before the sounds of screeching rubber, I knew I could lose him in the neighborhood.

The second turn approached and started before my foe could respond. How funny it was that the name of my street was actually my current situation. A few more feet down Chase Street and the object of my desire came into focus. It was my grandmother’s big, white house, and the garage door was still open.

Up the leaf-covered driveway I rode. Jumping off my mountain bike, a quick push of the handlebars, and the two-wheel contraption crashed into the corner of the garage and parked itself. Reaching up, I yanked on the garage door rope handle and pulled with all my might. The door closed, concealing my body.

From behind the aluminum barrier, the faint sound of tires peeled around the corner and down the street. Peeking through a nail-hole in one panel, I observed a black blur flash by. Had I made it? Was I safe? The evidence pointed to the affirmative. Still, there was no escaping the obvious: I had just become a target.

That same man had now seen me at two locations. At both places, suspicious activity was afoot. I was the only one who saw him at both places, and that reality didn’t sit well. What sort of shenanigans took place at each location? My curiosity was peaked. The situation needed further investigation. It was something I needed to learn of on my own. Now, what would it take to climb out of this dusty box I cowered in? Probably, just a little imagination.

Chapter 2

Decision

The back door to the house slammed closed. Did I forget the tension spring on the door was adjusted a little tighter than necessary again? The loud bang must have rattled the windows, and someone’s interest. No sooner did I hit the stairs, running up toward my bedroom, than I hear my name being paged, Samuel!

The voice was both soothing and inquisitive. It was Grandma Margaret, and she knew every sound that creaked, shrieked, or cracked inside her house. I had no other alternative than to step down and go into the living room. It was a feeling of guilt that slowed my pace.

The staircase was just feet away from the living room entrance. On a good day, I could leap off the bottom step and land within the parameter of the living room. Being tired, that day was not such a good one. Walking at a snail’s pace, slowly I made my way over to a chair. Grandma Margaret required only seconds to figure out something was wrong with me. Her magical senses did work wonders.

Why are you sneaking your way upstairs? she questioned.

I wasn’t really sneaking, I replied. Even the back door slammed closed. I was just trying to go upstairs as quietly as possible, so I wouldn’t disturb you. There, I attempted to defuse her inquisition.

Really, Samuel? You’re never quiet. You have too much energy bottled up within you to remain calm. You’re as happy as a monkey about his tail!

Before I continue on with my story, I would like to talk a little bit about my grandma. You see, she’s a Hungarian immigrant. Her and her family arrived to New York in the early 1900s. They came to America to escape the harsh realities of the old world and the struggles it contained. Their desire for a new life gave me an opportunity to share my message. It was also an opportunity to share her great cooking with the community.

Therein is the reason that some of her expressions may not be readily recognizable. She used idioms—figures of speech not seen outside of the Hungarian community. Most of her expressions were easily understandable for me. But every so often, I had to turn and ask, What did you just say?

She’s never offended, mind you. Coming from a country that has dealt with so much turmoil, it’s rather comical to see people so easily offended. The one thing my grandma hardly ever worries about is being offended. She brushes it off to a lack of experience on the part of the insulted. She has thick skin.

Well, if I tell you why I’m a little on edge, it might upset you, I responded.

Please! I already know you were at the lighthouse. Though, I will never understand why you choose to ride so far. There are closer lighthouses for you to enjoy. Something about this particular one grabs hold of your belt. And to tell you otherwise is worth as much as kissing a dead person, she explained.

I knew I couldn’t hide anything from her. Not only did she have a keen eye; Grandma Margaret could read my body language like no one else. So, she would know if I was lying.

Okay, when I was on top of the lighthouse, I saw something out of the ordinary. I’m not sure what it was, only that the man standing on the fishing boat I had observed seemed rather suspicious.

And this suspicious man, was he doing something you didn’t approve of?

I don’t know. I may have seen something he didn’t want me to see. I just remember how he looked. He reminded me of a 1930s style gangster.

Oh, I see. So, a man reminded you of a type of character from the movies. The same type of movies you watch until the clock strikes midnight. What was it you were viewing last night on the television?

My grandma always had a way of investigating every incident right down to the fibers. She would look for a cause, examine that cause, and then apply her findings to the solution. She had an old book on riddles sitting by her chair. She would read through it every day, trying to reason through the unreasonable. If it wasn’t for the fact that she ran a restaurant with my grandfather for so many years, I would have figured her to be a retired detective.

Grandma… it wasn’t the television. I tell you, this man was up to no good!

Just then, screeching tires came to a stop directly in front of our house. I hesitated to move, worried it was the man who had chased me just minutes earlier. Curious, Grandma Margaret stood up and peeked out the window, looking through the holes in the white lace curtains. And as she caught the eye of the approaching person, I knew my fears had been realized.

There’s a man dressed in black approaching the front door, she said.

Grandma, don’t open that door! I replied, raising my voice.

For all the money, why not?

That’s the man that chased me!

Chased you? Why would he do that? And he’s so smartly dressed… not fitting for the antics you described.

A knock on the door brought on a cold chill. Just splinters of wood stood between the aggressive gangster type and us. I knew the back door was at the other end of the house, but why should we leave? It wasn’t right to vacate one’s home at the threat of another person. Having the same mindset as I, she approached the front door.

How may I help you this morning? she said, cracking the front door just enough to peer through.

Uh… yes, ma’am. Yes, I wud like to know if dere wud be a young boy dat maybe cud have come by ya place a lil while ago? the man asked, speaking with an accent as thick as a carrot cake.

I hid behind the front door. My body out of sight; I focused on his words attempting to decipher exactly what it was he wanted. Sharp as a razor, my grandma kept him at a distance with