“You can’t park here.” The man’s bellow reverberates through all one hundred square feet of the van.
I watch Ethan’s profile squint into the sun from my spot on the mattress. “So sorry, Officer. We had car trouble.”
Despite his request that I let him do the talking, my insides itch to get in the middle of this altercation. I don’t know if it’s the single semester of crim law I took or my inability to leave anyone to fend for themselves, but my legs cross the van on their own. Based on Ethan’s lack of reaction, he seems to have expected as much.
“I can see that,” the officer responds. His eyes flick over to me, sizing me up. I fix my bedhead ponytail and size him up right back, but I’m at a disadvantage considering I’m somewhat exposed in Ethan’s holey concert tee and cotton boxer shorts. Officer Surly’s ruddy complexion is mostly obscured by red facial hair and a pair of wraparound Oakleys that I’m guessing he’ll also wear come wintertime on his multiple snowmobiles. I can’t explain how, but I know with unwavering certainty that this man has uttered the wordsMy snowmobile—well,oneof my snowmobiles, whilst entering a meat raffle.
“Car trouble or not,” the officer continues, “you’re in the middle of a biking trail.”
The older man huffs from over his shoulder, a bull pawing the ground to go toe to toe over municipal park regulations. “We have the trail marathon coming through here in two hours! Unbelievable.”
The officer raises his hand. “Alf, I’m handling this.”
“I said they can’t be here, Billy. Randall and I can take it from here.” The older man, who’s wearing the shiniest silver polo Fleet Farm has on offer, gestures over at Mr. Exposed Armpits.
“Officer Louderman,” the cop says, correcting the older man.
“Did you say Alf?” Ethan asks.
Alf?Alf!
My sleep-sluggish brain is ready to burst. “Wait. Are you Alf Knudsen?”
The man lifts his chin. “Yes.”
“TheAlf Knudsen?” Ethan repeats.
The man clears his throat, seemingly caught off guard by the degree to which his reputation precedes him. “Yes. Why are you asking?” The man’s eyes dart between Officer Louderman and Randall for backup.
“Andyou’reRandy from Randy’s Towing?” I ask, grateful, astonished, and a little giddy, as if he’s a long-lost family member, known to be as generous as he is exceedingly wealthy.
Randy doesn’t flinch. Perhaps in Rockland Bay, this man is used to being received in the same manner as a celebrity crush. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Charlotte Beekman. I talked to you last night and begged you to tow us out of here. I offered to pay double.”
“We were very concerned about preserving the integrity of the marathon,” Ethan adds. He’s laying his Good Midwestern Boy shtick on thick.
The older man wheels around to face his former ally. “Is this true, Randall?”
Randy sucks his teeth. “It was after seven.”
“Pull them out of here!”
“The rims are all bent up. There’s practically a tree in one of ’em,” he whines back at the man.
Alf throws up his hands. “Then take the van to your brother’s shop in Lutsen. I swear, Randall, you’re even lazier than that father of yours.”
Randy meanders back to his tow truck in no hurry, even atthe direction of Alf Knudsen, a man who previously inspired a Jimmy Hoffa level of obedience in local tow truck drivers.
I clasp my hands together. “Perfect. Everyone’s happy.”
Officer Billy frowns. “I’m not happy. You’re fifty feet down a bike trail in the middle of a protected coastline. Whose van is this?”
“Mine,” Ethan answers.
“Name, son?”
I position myself between Ethan and the police officer. “Is that information relevant to the matter at hand?”
