Blunt Darts

And my .38 in the calf holster. The air conditioner hummed at the window, and as I sat up I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror over the low dresser-desk. Jack Lemmon in Days of Wine and Roses.
    My watch said 11:35. Great. Real professional to get soused and not even leave a wake-up call.
    I cleaned up, checked out, and was in my car heading west on the Pike by twelve-fifteen.
    The Lee exit was about seventy miles west. The traffic was moderate for a Sunday, which in Massachusetts means three car-lengths at sixty-five miles per hour, despite the fifty-five-mile-per-hour limit.
    The Berkshires sort of ease up on you, and they stay a little higher each mile westward as you drive into the valleys. I took the Lee exit and drove three miles north and two miles northeast to Granville.
    I drove through Granville Center once, then turned around and parked near the church. A typical, small New England town. Catacomer from the church and across the common was a sporting goods-hardware-housewares store with front windows piled high with a mixture of plastic, wood, and iron items, more wood and iron than plastic. The front door’s misplaced wind chimes tinkled a rhythmless ditty as I opened it. A head bobbed up from behind the counter.
    “Aftahnoon.”
    I nodded in reply to the young clerk. Two years out of high school, probably the son of the owner. I was still decked out in my red flannel shirt with patch pockets, a pair of old Levi’s, and boots. My .38 was strapped under the pantleg of my left calf. It was still a little too hot for the shirt.
    “He’p ya?”
    “Hope so. I’m interested in an old cabin a friend of mine in Boston saw advertised in the Globe. ”
    He looked down a minute at the counter, lost in thought. It was glass top over old newspaper clippings of stringers of trout and deer hung for dressing, with the appropriate smiling sportsmen nearby.
    “Ah don’t read the Globe, but ah can’t say as ah recall any cabin prop’ty ‘round bein’ fer sale.” Most western Mass people do not have a New England accent, but this boy was a distinct exception.
    I plunged on. “He said the ad mentioned an old ranger station.”
    The boy blinked and started rustling under the counter. He came up with an old topo map with a lot of pencil and pen marks on it. He spread it so we could both look at it if we turned sideways. He pointed to Granville’s name on the map.
    “We’re heah.” He moved his finger to a black box on a hilltop. “The station’s theah.” He next pointed to a perimeter road that went around the base of the hill. “Good road theah.” A spur road went up the hill toward the station. He pointed to the spur road. “Loggin’ road’ll get ya closer. Fah-wheel drive?”
    I shook my head.
    “Wahl, then, leave your vehicle at the base of the hill heah. The last four-five hunnerd yards you’ll need to climb. More like hikin’, really.”
    “Thanks,” I said, and turned to go.
    “On’y thing is,” he said behind me, “no cabins fall up theah.”
    “I’ll check the ad, anyway.”
    No cabins. Nice cover, Cuddy.
    I noticed him as I stepped into the sunshine. He was parked off to the side of the common in a different car than the one I’d seen before, probably a rental. He ducked his head into the magazine just a little too sharply when he saw me. My guess was, he had picked me up at Val’s, possibly with Smollett’s help. It would have been a cinch to tail me to the motel. Maybe he had even planted a transmitting bug in my car. No. No bug. More sophisticated than needed and probably beyond Blakey. I kept walking back to my car.
    I got in and started up. I couldn’t really fault myself for not noticing him behind me on the Pike. But I damn well should have spotted him thereafter and before I led him to Granville. I decided to drive around awhile to assess my options.
    First, I could try to take him. I had my .38, but I had no justifiable reason to shoot him. I could fight him, but I’d never given away four inches and a hundred pounds before. Scratch Option One.
    Option Two was to head back to the Pike and into Boston. No good. Even Blakey’s minuscule mind would deduce that I wouldn’t drive seventy-plus miles into the trees for the scenery. He might trail me to and even onto the Pike, but sooner or later he’d head back and ask the store clerk what I’d been up to, which would put Blakey between Stephen and me. Scratch Option Two.
    Option Three was an extension of Option