Chapter Twenty-nine
It was after hours and we were with Sylvester. Jones T. Jones was chain smoking. Wet rings circled his armpits. For the ninth time, I told him to breathe and not to get his hopes up.
"This feels right," he said for the tenth time.
If I had told him that I suspected Sly was really a woman and I had proof that her name was Bertha, Jones would have said the same thing: this feels right.
"Well, don't get your hopes up," I said.
"Too late, they're up. Way up. Besides, I've lived my whole life with my hopes up. I'm not afraid to get them dashed every now and then. Getting your hopes dashed builds character."
"Then this might be a character-building exercise."
"So be it," he said. "I enjoy living life with my hopes up. Keeps me out of therapy and off of the mood-enhancers."
It was after eight p.m. The store was closed for the night, and most of the lights were out. I was keenly aware that I was currently being watched by about two dozen shrunken heads. Rubber, granted. But shrunken nonetheless. And I was keenly aware that I was standing in front of a very dead man. One of the deadest men I had ever seen. Hell, if I wasn't so tough, I might have been nervous.
"This store gets creepy at night, huh?" said Jones. Perhaps he was a mind reader. Or perhaps he saw me look nervously over my shoulder.
"Hadn't noticed," I said.
"We hear voices at night, you know. And sometimes we show up in the morning and the displays are knocked over."
"Maybe it's mice."
Jones wasn't listening. "Say, do you investigate the paranormal as well?"
"No."
"Too bad, I could have thrown some more work your way."
"More publicity for the store?" I asked.
"Sure," he said. Jones was shameless. "I'll do whatever it takes to get more customers in through those doors."
"Even make up ghost stories."
"If I have to," he said. "But these are real."
"Sure," I said. "Now help me move this."
And so we spent the next few minutes turning the display case away from the back wall. Soon, Jones was gasping for air, which was funny since I was the one doing all the work.
"That's good," I said.
Jones's skinny body was crowding me. I glanced at him over my shoulder.
"Sorry." He took a step back, but I could still feel his hot breath on my neck, which smelled a little like chicken wings and tobacco.
For some reason, my stomach growled.
Jones jumped. "You hear that?"
"That was my stomach," I said.
"Oh," he said, but inched closer to me anyway.
We had already moved the heavy Plexiglas case away from the wall. Ignoring Jones, I stepped around the case and examined Sly with a handy pen flashlight I kept on my key chain.
Before me, the dead man's back looked like the surface of some bizarre, distant world, complete with gullies and basins and arroyos. The splotchy skin, which looked shrink-wrapped to his bones, rippled in corrugated waves, giving the impression of perpetual motion, which was kind of ironic for a man frozen in place for all eternity.
I stepped closer, raised the flashlight up to Sly's shoulder.
My breath fogged on the glass before me. Next to me, Jones's own breath came quicker and faster. He was either going to climax or have a heart attack. I wasn't sure which would be worse.
Exposure to the elements had caused many irregularities in Sly's skin. One such irregularity was near his left shoulder blade. It was about an inch long. A tear in his mummified flesh.
No, not a tear. It was a clean cut.
An unhealed knife wound.
I stepped carefully around the display case and looked the dead man in the eyes, or what was left of his eyes.
"Howdy, Boonie," I whispered. "It's been a long time."
Chapter Thirty
I returned from my two-hour lunch break in time to see three men kick open my office door. Actually, one of them was doing the kicking; the other two hung back, crowding the upstairs iron railing. All were wearing stylish cowboy hats with the brims rolled into uselessness. Two of them were holding pistols.
Their backs were to me. I had been climbing the exterior stairs, coming up along the side of the building. My building is L-shaped. My office is located on the top floor in the nook of the L. They hadn't seen me, and to keep it that way, I strategically stopped climbing.
Now with the door kicked open, they looked a little confused. Maybe they thought I had been hiding inside, cowering with fear. The one doing the kicking stuck his head inside the door. He popped back out and motioned the others to follow. As they spilled into my office, I climbed the rest of the stairs two at a time and removed my pistol and entered behind them.
They were all big men, broad shouldered, wearing jeans and tee shirts. I glanced down. My doorjamb was demolished.
"Turn around and I'll shoot," I said.
They flinched, and one considered turning. I drew a bead on him. But then he thought better of it and froze. Best decision of his life.
"Good boys. Now the two goons are to bend down slowly and set their guns on my office carpet. Ignore the sorry condition of the carpet. And, yes, that's a bloodstain in the center of the room. Don't ask."
They did as they were told. And they didn't ask.
"Okay, this next part could get tricky, and really depends on how coordinated the goons are. I want them to sort of kick their guns back to me without turning."
They were both coordinated enough, kicking back their guns with their first try, although the one on the right stumbled a bit. The guns skittered to a stop next to me, and I kicked them into the far corner of the office. Actually, considering the size of my office, the far corner really wasn't that far.
I stepped around the three men and slid into my leather chair behind my desk. I held my gun loosely in front of me.
"Everyone empty your wallets," I said.
"What?" said the third man. He was quite a bit older than the two goons. Not to mention he looked vaguely familiar. He'd recently had some plastic surgery done. His cheeks were as taut as two Samoan war drums.
"I need some cash to fix my door," I said. "Unless you would prefer I call the police?"
They started for their wallets.
"Not so fast. One at a time. You, on the left."
"Me?"
"No, my left."
"Who, me?"
"Yes, you. You first. Nice and slow."
He reached back and slowly removed a fat wallet.
"Good, now drop it on my desk."
He did so, and I went through this routine with the others. I next removed a total of two hundred and eight-two dollars. Then, using my scanner, I made copies of all three of their licenses. "For my records," I said, grinning.
I tossed back the wallets and studied the photocopied licenses before me. The two young thugs were brothers; the older man was the father.
"You're running for a House seat," I said, recognizing the name.
Tafford Barron looked sick to his stomach, sweat running down his too-smooth face. His sons' names were Jack and Bartholomew. Both were just a little older than I was, although certainly not as handsome.
"Which one's Bartholomew?" I asked.
The one on the right - my right - nodded. "I am."
"What do you think of your parents naming you Bartholomew?"
He shrugged. "Don't mind it so much."
Tafford said, "Look, can we get on with this, I have things to do today."
I looked at the older Barron. "Like putting together a campaign to run for Congress?" I asked. "Or more breaking and entering?"
"We weren't going to hurt you," he said, shrugging. "We just wanted to talk."
"So talk," I said.
"We want you to back off the case," he said sheepishly. "Of course, it was supposed to sound a little more menacing than that."
"I'm hard to menace," I said.
"I gather that."
"So why should I back off this case?"
"You mind if I sit?" he asked.
"I mind."
He inhaled and continued standing. "Because I'll pay you ten grand to drop the case."
"Does that come out of your election fund?"
"Look, pal, this is serious business, and I don't want you sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."
"I make a decent living sticking my nose where it doesn't belong."
"Decent? Look at this dump. Take the money and get yourself a respectable office." He paused. His too-tight face was flushed with heat.
"Will you also include a cowboy hat like yours?"
He blinked. "Sure."
"And the name of your plastic surgeon. He's done a marvelous job."
He inhaled. "Will you take the money and go away?"
"No."
He was furious. Tafford was used to having his way. His sons were agitated, shifting from foot to foot. They were used to their father having his way.
"Taff, did you have one of your boys ambush me in the desert a week ago?"
"No," he said. "I don't need any more dead bodies in my town, and I certainly don't need any more bad publicity."
Strangely, I believed him. Didn't seem his style to set me up in the desert, or to ambush me. He was more of the in-your-face, you've-been-warned type.
"Of course, getting arrested for breaking and entering wouldn't help my public image much."
"No," I said.
"Pretty stupid, in fact," he said.
"Yep," I said.
"Christ, what was I thinking?"
"You weren't."
"We just wanted to scare you."
"I'm terrified."
He shifted where he stood and looked at his open palms. He looked like a man waking from a bad nightmare. His two sons hadn't stopped staring at me. Perhaps they were soaking in what a real man should look like.
I said, "Taff, this mess isn't going to go away by paying me off. Someone killed Willie Clarke, and someone tried to kill me. You have a killer loose in your town."
Now he looked just plain sick. I almost shoved my trashcan over to him in case he was going to lose his lunch.
"Tell you what," he said. "You find the killer and I'll give you the money."
"Sounds like a job," I said.
"Consider it one."
"When it's over, I'll send you a bill."
Tafford nodded. "Can we go now?"
"Yes," I said.
And they did, although I kept their money. Consider it a retainer.