Free The Collectibles by James J. Kaufman Page A

Hart, also known as ‘Cap.’”

 
Chapter 9
    P reston had already showered and dressed when Casey woke at seven. A morning mist covered the trees and steam rose from the brook as the two men bundled up in the ski jackets they had brought along. They climbed into the SUV and headed west on Route 9. After about six miles of winding road, they saw a brown shingled house with three cars pulled up on the lawn and a wooden sign that proclaimed, “We cook the best for all the rest.”
    â€œYou fellas lost or hungry?” the waitress asked, directing them to a table in the front of the large room, with a view of pines and the road. As they walked to their table, Preston and Casey could not help but notice a striking young woman bent over a table in the corner facing the road. She stared out the window through dark sunglasses that barely covered the bruises on the right side of her face.
    â€œGood morning,” Casey said to her as they passed by, receiving a slight nod and no smile in return. The waitress brought piping hot coffee. As they waited for their bacon, eggs, sausage and toast, Casey leaned over to Preston and whispered, “She may be the one the mill guy was talking about.” Preston nodded. Their breakfast soon came and the men ate eagerly.
    â€œYou fellas get enough to eat?” the waitress asked. “Like more coffee?”
    â€œNo, thank you, we’re all set,” Preston said. “Tell me, is there a hunting and fishing club in the vicinity?”
    â€œI don’t know about the vicinity, but you could hit the Blooming Grove Hunting and Fishing Club with a stone from here,” she laughed.
    â€œDo they have guides there?”
    â€œYou’ll have to talk to who’s up there this morning, see who’s around and who ain’t. It’s already a little late in the morning. Most of the fellas would’ve gone out by now. Maybe Larry’s around, with his bad foot and all. Don’t know. Go ask. Only way to find out.”
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    Casey and Preston saw the white sign with black letters in front of the three-story wooden frame house with steep stairs leading up to the front porch. “There it is,” Casey read, “‘Blooming Grove Hunting & Fishing Club.’”
    Hearing no response to their knock, they walked in through the unlocked front door. The shutters were closed, and the inside was dark and chilly as Casey called out.
    â€œCan I help you?” A tall, thin man in his forties appeared.
    Preston introduced himself and Casey.
    â€œLarry,” the man said. “What can I do for you?”
    â€œWe are trying to find an attorney named Joe Hart. We have reason to believe he’s hunting or fishing around here, and it’s important that we find him as soon as possible.”
    â€œYou in a rush to hunt?”
    â€œNo, we just need to talk with him,” Preston said. “Do you know him? Is he here?”
    â€œThis is a private huntin’ and fishin’ club,” Larry said. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
    Jesus, we come this far, sleep in a dump, find the damn club, and now this guy thinks this is the New York Athletic Club in the mountains and wants to protect its members.
Preston took a deep breath.
    â€œI understand, sir, that this is a private club. I don’t want to intrude. We’ve come a long way to find Mr. Hart. We believe he is an attorney who can be of immense help to us, and we need him desperately. We would greatly appreciate your assistance. It would help a good deal if you could simply tell us whether you know him, and if so, whether he’s here or where he is. Perhaps you could help us as a guide and take us to him? I met him years ago when he was a young boy in this general area. He was hunting with an older man, I believe his uncle. I will be happy to pay you – and pay you well – if you can help us find him.”
    â€œYou was hunting with him? Can