cheddar sandwich, dropped two pats of butter in his corn chowder and shook his head with a soft but regretful smile, “That’s a Department of Roads, Bridges and Waterways issue.”
“It’s an issue of safety,” I said. “The assholes plowed all the snow to the corner and left it there in a mountain ten feet high. My mother can’t see around it to leave her driveway until she’s in the middle of the street.”
Despite the trend in small communities to recruit professionals, Abel was Saltash’s first and only chief of police, for decades our only full-time cop. He knew everyone’s bad habits and every teenager by name. It was Abel’s strategy to ignore trouble until it was impossible, then cover the dirt like a cat. Not too deep, they said about Abel. Just so it didn’t smell. “Why not call Donkey Sparks about it?”
“He doesn’t return my calls. Chief, you know how fast cars take that corner. Especially now, when it’s icy.”
He was strong and wiry, no taller than five-eight. His white hair stood up like a bristle brush and his gaze was hard, the clear ice blue of a menthol cough drop. He didn’t wear a uniform or a firearm and rarely took a case to court. Years ago, when the local lumberyard caught fire, Abel paid a call on the last worker laid off. No investigation ensued, no charges were filed. The young man enlisted in the army the following week. When Abel received complaints about a gang of kids smoking pot on the town green, he slowly crossed Main Street and invited them to lunch at this same window table. He treated them all to burgers and made his position plain: There were twelve thousand acres in Saltash, and they’d be wise to party on one that wasn’t in front of Town Hall. “You plow snow yourself,” he said. “Why don’t you just remove it?”
“I’m not paid to plow for the town.” I had signed up but I’d never been called.
So that was it. When Abel smiled, his eyes narrowed to slits, straight as a ruler. Two years ago a homeless family was discovered squatting in a large vacation home in the woods. The local newspaper carried it as a headline story: CITY PROBLEMS IN SMALL TOWN . A neighbor sent a copy to the owner of the home, a psychiatrist from New Haven, who faxed Abel he’d be up to survey the damage and press charges. By the time he arrived, the homeless family was gone. No one could say where, except the town accountant, who quietly processed a bill for five Greyhound bus tickets to Atlanta, under police budget line item number 762000, Travel/Seminars & Training. If Abel could, he’d put me on a bus. He asked, “You call the town manager?”
“Twice.”
“And?”
“And I wouldn’t be wasting your time if I wasn’t worried about my mother being blindsided one night when she leaves to rehearse the choir.”
“I’ll drive by this afternoon.” He unwrapped a fresh package of Lucky Strikes. “But I’m the wrong person to see.” The right person was Johnny Lynch, who’d appointed Abel and every other department head in Saltash. Johnny liked my mother and would probably help if she asked, but he’d been in Florida since his last heart attack. “You gotta go through channels. That’s the way things work in this town.”
“Thanks, Chief. I know very well how things work in this town.”
The Saltash Committee for Civic Responsibility met around a glass-topped liquor cart every other Wednesday night in the parlor of a white Victorian captain’s house overlooking the harbor. Twelve regulars, old New Deal Democrats, most approaching eighty, dozed off with drinks in their hands but woke up sputtering fury at the mention of Johnny Lynch. They talked about the need for young blood and looked me over like a steak. They reminded me they made generous campaign contributions and were good for 250 votes. Judith called them the Alter Kockers Against Johnny.
“Old cocks?”
“Didn’t your parents speak Yiddish? Old shits.”
Judith and I had our own line
“It’s an issue of safety,” I said. “The assholes plowed all the snow to the corner and left it there in a mountain ten feet high. My mother can’t see around it to leave her driveway until she’s in the middle of the street.”
Despite the trend in small communities to recruit professionals, Abel was Saltash’s first and only chief of police, for decades our only full-time cop. He knew everyone’s bad habits and every teenager by name. It was Abel’s strategy to ignore trouble until it was impossible, then cover the dirt like a cat. Not too deep, they said about Abel. Just so it didn’t smell. “Why not call Donkey Sparks about it?”
“He doesn’t return my calls. Chief, you know how fast cars take that corner. Especially now, when it’s icy.”
He was strong and wiry, no taller than five-eight. His white hair stood up like a bristle brush and his gaze was hard, the clear ice blue of a menthol cough drop. He didn’t wear a uniform or a firearm and rarely took a case to court. Years ago, when the local lumberyard caught fire, Abel paid a call on the last worker laid off. No investigation ensued, no charges were filed. The young man enlisted in the army the following week. When Abel received complaints about a gang of kids smoking pot on the town green, he slowly crossed Main Street and invited them to lunch at this same window table. He treated them all to burgers and made his position plain: There were twelve thousand acres in Saltash, and they’d be wise to party on one that wasn’t in front of Town Hall. “You plow snow yourself,” he said. “Why don’t you just remove it?”
“I’m not paid to plow for the town.” I had signed up but I’d never been called.
So that was it. When Abel smiled, his eyes narrowed to slits, straight as a ruler. Two years ago a homeless family was discovered squatting in a large vacation home in the woods. The local newspaper carried it as a headline story: CITY PROBLEMS IN SMALL TOWN . A neighbor sent a copy to the owner of the home, a psychiatrist from New Haven, who faxed Abel he’d be up to survey the damage and press charges. By the time he arrived, the homeless family was gone. No one could say where, except the town accountant, who quietly processed a bill for five Greyhound bus tickets to Atlanta, under police budget line item number 762000, Travel/Seminars & Training. If Abel could, he’d put me on a bus. He asked, “You call the town manager?”
“Twice.”
“And?”
“And I wouldn’t be wasting your time if I wasn’t worried about my mother being blindsided one night when she leaves to rehearse the choir.”
“I’ll drive by this afternoon.” He unwrapped a fresh package of Lucky Strikes. “But I’m the wrong person to see.” The right person was Johnny Lynch, who’d appointed Abel and every other department head in Saltash. Johnny liked my mother and would probably help if she asked, but he’d been in Florida since his last heart attack. “You gotta go through channels. That’s the way things work in this town.”
“Thanks, Chief. I know very well how things work in this town.”
The Saltash Committee for Civic Responsibility met around a glass-topped liquor cart every other Wednesday night in the parlor of a white Victorian captain’s house overlooking the harbor. Twelve regulars, old New Deal Democrats, most approaching eighty, dozed off with drinks in their hands but woke up sputtering fury at the mention of Johnny Lynch. They talked about the need for young blood and looked me over like a steak. They reminded me they made generous campaign contributions and were good for 250 votes. Judith called them the Alter Kockers Against Johnny.
“Old cocks?”
“Didn’t your parents speak Yiddish? Old shits.”
Judith and I had our own line
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