Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror

“Good deal, Nils. Take longer if you want. Make it the Tuesday after next. Or even the Tuesday after that.”

“You’ll be wanting a car while I’m working on yours, John.”

“Will I, Nils? No, I don’t think so. I could use some exercise, believe me.”

“It’s entirely up to you, John. But I’ve got a couple of nifty Toyotas to rent if you change your mind. They look small but there’s plenty of room in them. Big enough to carry a sofa.”

“Thanks for the compliment, Nils.”

* * *

I hefted my battered old suitcase to the Calais Motor Inn, changing hands every few yards all the way down Main Street. Fortunately the desk accepted my Visa impression without even the hint of hysterical laughter. The Calais Motor Inn was a plain, comfortable motel, with plaid carpets and a shiny bar with tinkly music where I did justice to three bottles of chilled Molson’s and a ham-and-Swiss-cheese triple-decker sandwich on rye with coleslaw and straw fried potatoes, and two helpings of cookie crunch ice-cream to keep my energy levels up.

The waitress was a pretty snubby-nose woman with cropped blonde hair and a kind of a Swedish look about her.

“Had enough?” she asked me.

“Enough of what? Cookie crunch ice cream or Calais in general?”

“My name’s Velma,” she said.

“John,” I replied, and bobbed up from my leatherette seat to shake her hand.

“Just passing through, John?” she asked me.

“I don’t know, Velma … I was thinking of sticking around for a while. Where would somebody like me find themselves a job? And don’t say the circus.”

“Is that what you do, John?” she asked me.

“What do you mean, Velma?”

“Make jokes about yourself before anybody gets them in?”

“Of course not. Didn’t you know that all fat guys have to be funny by federal statute? No, I’m a realist. I know what my relationship is with food and I’ve learned to live with it.”

“You’re a good-looking guy, John, you know that?”

“You can’t fool me, Velma. All fat people look the same. If fat people could run faster, they’d all be bank robbers, because nobody can tell them apart.”

“Well, John, if you want a job you can try the want ads in the local paper, The Quoddy Whirlpool.”

“The what?”

“The bay here is called the Passamaquoddy, and out by Eastport we’ve got the Old Sow Whirlpool, which is the biggest whirlpool in the Western hemisphere.”

“I see. Thanks for the warning.”

“You should take a drive around the Quoddy Loop … it’s beautiful. Fishing quays, lighthouses, lakes. Some good restaurants, too.”

“My car’s in the shop right now, Velma. Nothing too serious. Engine fell out.”

“You’re welcome to borrow mine, John. It’s only a Volkswagen but I don’t hardly ever use it.”

I looked up at her and narrowed my eyes. Down in Baton Rouge the folks slide around on a snail’s trail of courtesy and Southern charm, but I can’t imagine any one of them offering a total stranger the use of their car, especially a total stranger who was liable to ruin the suspension just by sitting in the driver’s seat.

“That’s very gracious of you, Velma.”

I bought The Quoddy Whirlpool. If you were going into hospital for a heart bypass they could give you that paper instead of a general anesthetic. Under “Help Wanted” somebody was advertising for a “talented” screen-door repair person and somebody else needed an experienced leaf-blower mechanic and somebody else was looking for a twice-weekly dog-walker for their Presa Canario. Since I happened to know that Presa Canarios stand two feet tall and weigh almost as much as I do, and that two of them notoriously ripped an innocent woman in San Francisco into bloody shreds I was not wholly motivated to apply for the last of those positions.

In the end I went to the Maine Job Service on Beech Street. A bald guy in a green zip-up hand-knitted cardigan sat behind a desk with photographs of his toothy wife on it (presumably the perpetrator of the green zip- up hand-knitted cardigan) while I had to hold my hand up all the time to stop the sun from shining in my eyes.

“So … what is your field of expertise, Mr. Dauphin?”

“Oh, please, call me John. I’m a restaurant hygienist. I have an FSIS qualification from Baton Rouge University and nine years’ experience working for the Louisiana Restaurant Association.”

“What brings you up to Calais, Maine, John?”

“I just felt it was time for a radical change of location.” I squinted at the nameplate on his desk. “Martin.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have anything available on quite your level of expertise, John. But I do have one or two catering opportunities.”

“What exactly kind of catering opportunities, Martin?”

“Vittles need a cleaner … that’s an excellent restaurant, Vittles, one of the premier eateries in town. It’s situated in the Calais Motor Inn.”

“Ah.” As a guest of the Calais Motor Inn, I couldn’t exactly see myself eating dinner in the restaurant and then carrying my own dishes into the kitchen and washing them up.

“Then Tony’s has an opportunity for a breakfast chef.”

“Tony’s?”

“Tony’s Gourmet Burgers on North Street.”

“I see. What do they pay?”

“They pay more than Burger King or McDonald’s. They have outlets all over Maine and New Brunswick, but they’re more of a family business. More of a quality restaurant, if you know what I mean. I always take my own family to eat there.”

“And is that all you have?”

“I have plenty of opportunities in fishing and associated trades. Do you have any expertise with drift nets?”

“Drift nets? Are you kidding? I spent my whole childhood trawling for pilchards off the coast of Greenland.”

Martin looked across his desk at me, sitting there with my hand raised like I needed to go to the bathroom. When he spoke his voice was very biscuity and dry. “Why don’t you call round at Tony’s, John? See if you like the look of it. I’ll give Mr. Le Renges a call, tell him you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

* * *

Tony’s Gourmet Burgers was one block away from Burger King and two blocks away from McDonald’s, on a straight tree-lined street where the 4x4s rolled past at 2 1/2 mph and everybody waved to each other and whacked each other on the back whenever they could get near enough and you felt like a hidden orchestra was going to strike up the theme to Providence.

All the same Tony’s was quite a handsome-looking restaurant with a brick front and brass carriage-lamps outside with flickering artificial flames. A chalkboard proudly proclaimed that this was “the home of wholesome, hearty food, lovingly prepared in our own kitchens by people who really care.” Inside it was fitted out with dark wood paneling and tables with green checkered cloths and gilt-framed engravings of whitetail deer, black bear and moose. It was crowded with cheery-looking families, and you certainly couldn’t fault it for ambiance. Smart, but homely, with none of that wipe-clean feeling you get at McDonald’s.

At the rear of the restaurant was a copper bar with an open grill, where a spotty young guy in a green apron and a tall green chef’s hat was sizzling hamburgers and steaks.

A redheaded girl in a short green pleated skirt sashayed up to me and gave me a 500-watt smile, complete with teeth-braces. “You prefer a booth or a table, sir?”

“Actually, neither. I have an appointment to see Mr. Le Renges.”