Matthew J. Mroz left the restaurant where he’d enjoyed dinner, stepped out into Rockland’s Main Street, and took in a deep lungful of warm evening air. His last name rhymed with “morose,” not inappropriately given his profession, but it had been chopped down to Roz by his associates, who were prone to catchy monikers.
Mroz was a drug dealer—successful, ambitious, ruthless, and careful. Originally from Portland, Maine—the state’s largest city—he’d migrated down the coast to Rockland several years ago, recognizing the crowded nature of his birth town’s illegal marketplace, and also that the products being sold there—largely the cocaine and heroin so trendy in the states just south of them—were overlooking a far hungrier clientele.
Early on, Matthew Mroz had come to understand that, on a per capita basis at least, Maine had one of the largest prescription drug abuse problems in the country.
In his eyes, the least he could do was to serve a pressing social need. In so doing, he’d become wealthy, influential, and popular—at least in specialized circles. He’d also become a source of keen interest to competitors and the police, which helped explain the presence by his side of a bald, muscular, unpleasant-looking man named Harold, who at the moment was checking up and down the street through squinted eyes.
Harold had more than enough to scrutinize. Rockland was a large town—a ferry boat port servicing several Penobscot Bay islands; the primary urban hub for a cluster of nearby communities like Camden and Rockport, whose genteel configurations shied away from some of Rockland’s more practical, grittier offerings; and the host of some small but locally significant industrial enterprises like a harborside petroleum storage facility, a marina, and a large quarrying operation.
More to Roz’s interest, however, was that Rockland was also a magnet for touristy transients—complete with recreational appetites.
“Where to?” Harold asked, content for the moment that no black helicopters were hovering overhead, and no people like him hiding among the throng of summer visitors.
“The Oh-So-High, moron,” Mroz said simply, invoking his nickname for one of the motels where he routinely conducted business.
Harold nodded silently, having already guessed the destination and being used to the abuse. He’d been working for Roz for three years by now and had established a rhythm of what he chose to hear and what he didn’t. He let his boss pass before him, so he could guard his back while watching ahead—what he considered good protective behavior, even though he was shy any professional training.
He could handle himself—had on numerous occasions. But Harold was a realist, and knew he was more thug than bodyguard. On the other hand, that’s how Roz used him—as a two-legged pit bull. He just would have preferred not being spoken to as such.
Which wasn’t to say that his patience was unlimited.
They proceeded down the street between the phalanx of red-brick buildings reflecting downtown’s muscular commercial past. Rockland had been a minor powerhouse once, much more than it was now, even in these tourist-driven times. No Portland, of course, but still a significant influence in Maine’s development. Now, erstwhile businesses from fishing concerns to boat building to shipping and the like had been replaced by boutiques, restaurants, art galleries, and gift shops.
Matt Mroz’s Oh-So-High motel wasn’t of that ilk. Less flashy than its waterfront counterparts, it was set back, down a side street, and sported a straightforward, pragmatic demeanor—parking lot, two rows of stacked rooms girdled by a running balcony. No gym, no pool, no in-room movies, or “Magic Finger” beds. Just the basics. It was, to be fair, not the first stop for travelers hungry for salt air and enchanting views. Commercial drivers used the place for its intended purpose, others for its discretion and anonymity.
“Same room?” Harold asked as they left the sidewalk and entered the parking lot bordered on three sides by the motel’s monotonous door-and-window facade.
Mroz eyed him sorrowfully over his shoulder. “Jesus, Harold. That’s the whole point.”
Harold had his doubts. It seemed to him that conducting business from the same location every time might be exactly the wrong thing to do if you didn’t want to be surprised. But that was Roz’s hang-up— “Safety in familiarity,” he’d said, or something like that. Harold always figured it was because Roz had been kicked around as a kid or something. In any case, it made life a lot easier for Harold—not only did it mean fewer places to check out in advance, but in this instance, it meant that Harold could set things up just as he wanted.
They climbed the exterior metal staircase to the second-floor balcony and proceeded to a room located at the very far end—one that Mroz kept rented on a near permanent basis.
Harold removed the key from his pocket and slid it into the lock as Mroz stepped back to lean against the railing.
“Be right back,” Harold told him, as always, before slipping inside to check the place for safety.
Mroz nodded comfortably and turned to gaze out over the parking lot—the only available view. The light was fading, the clouds were a salmon pink from the setting sun, and the heat of the day had dropped just enough to imbue the air with a soft warmth usually associated with picnics and strolls in the park. Life was pretty good.
Harold stuck his head out the door. “All clear.”
Mroz left his perch and passed into the familiar room, virtually a home away from home, given the volume of business he did here, especially at this time of year.
It wasn’t anything grand, of course—the usual assortment of cheap furniture, bad artwork, and poorly addressed rug stains. But it gave Mroz a sense of comfort and stability, and considering some of the places he’d been, it was even a step up.
Harold was at the window, peering out. “He’s coming.”
Mroz was sitting on the edge of the bed. “Don’t know what I’d do without you, Harold.”
Harold ignored him. The man approaching the motel was a regular, in his thirties with thinning blond hair and a nervous manner, who kept justifying his visits by referring to various ailments.
A couple of minutes later, there was a timid knock on the door. As always, Harold opened up, keeping the customer outside while he checked around. He then motioned the man inside without a word, his tough-guy demeanor firmly in place.
Mroz was still sitting on the bed. “George. How’re you doin’?”
“Not too good, Roz,” their visitor said. “Back pain’s been acting up.”
Mroz laughed. “I don’t give a rat’s ass, George. Don’t you get that? How much do you want this time?”
“Ten might do it,” George said softly, reaching into his pocket.
Mroz stared at him for a moment before giving a silent nod to Harold, who crossed over to the closet, removed a paper bag, and counted out ten OxyContins from an orange plastic pill bottle. He poured those in turn into a small white envelope and handed that to his boss.
Mroz waggled it back and forth between his index and thumb, eyeing George thoughtfully. “What do you think? That a thousand bucks you got in your hand?”
George looked confused. “Isn’t that what you said? One hundred each?”
Mroz stuck out his hand for the money. “That’s what I said—I’m running a special all this week.”
“Is it going up?” George asked, taking the envelope in exchange.
“Call me when you’re in need again, George,” Mroz told him. “I’ll tell you then.”
George nodded a couple of times, fresh out of conversation and now distracted by what he was holding.
Mroz shook his head—the sad but sympathetic purveyor of balm for the needy.
“Get out of here, George. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
There was a momentary silence following George’s departure. By habit, Harold never said much of anything, but Mroz was a talker, and incapable of letting more than a minute go by without saying something.
“Thousand right out of the gate. Could be a good night. I like ’em when they start strong like that. Puts me in a good mood.”
“That’s good to hear,” said a male voice from the direction of the bathroom.
Mroz leaped to his feet, staggering slightly in the process. A man stood in the bathroom doorway, a gun in his leather-gloved hand. He was smiling slightly.
Mroz jerked his head around, looking for his bodyguard. Harold was standing at his post by the window, still watching for visitors. He turned and nodded to the man. “Nobody coming.”
“What the fuck’s going on here?” Mroz demanded of the newcomer. “Who the fuck’re you?”
“I’m Alan Budney,” the man told him. “His new boss.”
Mroz glanced at Harold again, but without much confidence. “Harold?” he asked.
Harold merely shrugged and went back to studying the outdoors.
Mroz nodded, visibly weighing his options. “You want in on the action?”
Budney shook his head. “Nope. I want it all.”
With that, he pulled the trigger, filling the room with a sharp, explosive crack and putting a hole in Matthew Mroz’s chest.
The latter fell back against the wall and bounced awkwardly onto the floor, one hand on the wound, not saying a word. His eyes stayed glued to Budney’s, but without purpose or reproach. If anything, there was a look of wonder on his face before all signs of life slipped away.
Budney wasted no time with Harold. He stuck his arm out, took aim, and squeezed off two quick rounds from across the room.
Harold wasn’t as cooperative as his ex-boss. “You son of a bitch,” he yelled, and launched himself at Budney, as if totally ignorant of the twin stains that had blossomed on his T-shirt.
Budney didn’t hesitate. He fired twice more, hitting Harold once in the head. That dropped the big man like a dead tree, flopping him onto the bed where he stayed without further motion.
“What did you expect, you dumb bastard?” Budney asked no one in particular. He stared at both men for a couple of seconds, as if uncertain about what to do next. He hadn’t anticipated the adrenaline now pulsing through him like an electric current.
He passed his gloved hand across his mouth, shoved the gun into his waistband, and walked over to the window to see if anyone was coming. When he’d set this up with Harold, promising him the world in money and influence, they’d arranged for a big enough break between scheduled customers for Budney to act freely and without interruption. In the same vein, Budney had rented both the room next door and the one below—under assumed names—just to make sure the gunshots wouldn’t be easily overheard. The pacing of Mroz’s client list, however, had been Harold’s department.
Budney looked nervously out across the parking lot, half expecting a cordon of police cars and SWAT members to be ringing the motel. But there was little going on—a young couple crossing the lot, hand in hand, some traffic driving by in the street beyond. All looked peaceful and serene, in total contrast with the contents of the room.
Budney opened the door slowly, pulled his shirt over the gun butt, stored his gloves in his back pocket, and stepped out to enact the next phase of his plan. He didn’t bother collecting either the cash or the drugs. He preferred thinking that, at this point, that smacked of small potatoes.