3 - Buffalo Mountain: Ike Schwartz Mystery 3 (16 page)

Chapter 31

Donnie Oldham stomped into The Pub and brushed a few flakes of snow from his jacket. He worked his way to a back booth and flopped down. Big Dolores slipped into the bench opposite and gave him a crooked-toothed smile.

“I’ll have a drink,” she said.

“Don’t let me stop you.”

“You still buying, big spender?”

“What makes you think I’d buy?”

“Well, last night you were the life of the party. You musta dropped a couple hundred in here.”

“You think I’m stupid, Dolores? I couldn’t have spent more than fifty or so. Someone took my money when I wasn’t looking. I aim to find out. Let’s see what’s in your purse.” He snatched her Brighton knock-off and dumped the contents on the table. Except for a lipstick, four dollars in crumpled ones, three tens, and a six-pack of condoms, Dolores had nothing much to share.

“You probably left it home and figured you’d get the rest tonight, didn’t you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Listen, you all think I was drunk and all, but I remember everything. Mountain men can hold their liquor. I remember you was all over me last night, you coulda took my money easy.”

“The only thing all over you last night was throw-up after you had your fifth sidecar. Mountain man, my sweet patoot…here,” she said, and threw the ten-dollar bills at him. “These are the ones you stuffed down my bra last night. You didn’t have no problems about me and money then, did you? You wanted to cop a feel and thought that’d be the way, like I’m dumb or something.”

Donnie felt the anger rising. He couldn’t prove anything, but he knew. He scanned the crowd. The door opened with a bang and Hollis thumped in on his crutches.

“Hey, boy,” the barkeep barked, “what’s amiss with your crutches? You’re punctuating the floor with little holes.”

“They’re…um, defective,” he said, and swung them forward, planted them in front, and began his forward motion.

“Unless you want to pay for sanding and refinishing the floor, you will cease and desist.”

Hollis jerked the nail-studded crutches from the floor and hopped over to Donnie’s booth.

“Donnie, you should have been here this afternoon. That fire police was in here with the county cop asking about you.”

“So what. I talked to that guy. He don’t know nothing. Stupid is what he is.”

“Yeah, but it’s him that’s asking about Steve Bolt and then about Harris…I don’t know. Maybe you should get rid of those cards, you know?”

“No way. Steve told me about a guy in Roanoke who buys old credit cards. He has a program like your dad’s that puts new information on them or something. He’ll give me fifty bucks for the dead ones. I’m keeping the one that still works until it don’t.”

“I don’t know, he’s a police, you know, and—”

“Forget that guy. Like I said, he don’t know nothing, can’t prove nothing. Hollis, I need your help on something important. Someone stole my money last night. I think it must have been Dolores but she probably had help. See if you can find out who.”

“Donnie, I don’t think anybody did that. You were pretty lit up last night. You bought drinks for the house at least three times and you and Dolores had a lot yourselves. You put money down her dress. How’d that feel, anyway?”

“Never mind that. You know Dolores.” Actually, Hollis did not. He may have been the only man in the room who didn’t.

“See, I figure that fat slob behind the bar must have padded the bill. No way could I have dropped six hundred in here in one night.”

Donnie fumed. The bartender and Dolores were in it together. He saw that now. How many others were, too? He drained his shot and a beer and stared at the room. He hated them all.

“What are you looking at, creep?” a big guy in a camouflage jacket asked.

“What’s it to you, cupcake?”

The man unfolded from his chair. He was big, bigger than anyone Donnie had ever seen. He reminded him of Jaws from the old James Bond movies.

“Gentlemen,” the bartender said, “there’ll be none of that in here.” The big guy sat down. Now Donnie was angry.

“What I want to know,” he shouted, “is who took my money last night.”

Amid laughter from nearly all the tables, men raised their hands, ten or more.

“Don’t forget Hank,” one said. “He got him some, too.”

“You took it?”

“No, you moron, you spent it like it wasn’t even yours, which, I reckon, it weren’t, and we would thank you for a nice evening except you acted like a sick puppy and we had to send you home.”

Donnie stood next to his table ignoring Hollis’ attempts to get him to sit back down. “You can get you some more tomorrow,” he whispered.

“I’ll show you bozos you can’t fool me. I’m a mountain man and when I open a can of whup-ass—”

The room exploded in laughter. Donnie’s face turned a bright crimson. He stormed out the door. “I’ll be back and you’d better be ready for trouble.”

“Ooooo,” they said in unison. “Don’t let the door hit you in the butt on your way out, mountain man,” the camo-clad giant hooted.

In fact the door did just that, which made the men inside laugh even harder, and Donnie angrier. Worse, he’d left in such a hurry, he’d left his jacket in the booth. He couldn’t face going back in to get it. Not now, not until after he went home and retrieved his gun. Then he’d see who was laughing last. The icy air and snow had a salutary effect on him. The chill slowed the absorption of alcohol and he sobered up some. He hurried down the street toward his home.

***

Whaite had stayed the ten minutes he’d promised himself and then put the car in gear. He let it drift past The Pub, headlights out. When he’d covered fifty yards or so, he turned them on and headed to Oldham’s house. He turned into the road and drove past the house. He made a U-turn twenty yards further on and parked the Chevelle in the deepest shadows he could find. The snow had picked up in intensity and soon the car would be covered and unrecognizable. He grabbed a flashlight and checked the clip in his Glock. He stepped out into the storm and made his way to the house.

New snow already dusted the pathway to the backyard where Oldham parked the truck. The blue tarp had been thrown over it and half-gallon milk jugs filled with water were attached with short lengths of cord at each corner and at several points along the side to hold it in place. Whaite checked the street and began working the tarp up and over the truck bed toward the cab. It took a little doing. It would have been easier if he had simply pulled the whole thing off, but he wanted his visit to leave as little evidence as possible. If he’d guessed correctly, he’d be back the next day with a search warrant, and he didn’t want any slick city attorney blocking what he expected to find with the assertion it had been obtained illegally.

He pushed the stiff plastic up. He turned on the flashlight and aimed it under the tool box. The shadows were too deep for him to see anything. He’d have to climb into the bed. The sides were slippery from melting snow and forming ice. He needed to get in and get out before too much snow piled up in the bed—a dead tipoff to Oldham and his lawyer, if he had one, that someone had been in the truck. Whaite heaved himself over the tailgate and he lay on his stomach and shone the light up under the tool box. It was there. He switched off the light and clambered out of the truck. Putting the tarp back in place went more swiftly than removing it had.

Satisfied he’d done everything necessary, Whaite shuffled back out onto the street and back to his car. Whatever footprints he may have made would be covered by morning. Donnie Oldham would never know he’d been there. He started the car and headed north.

Chapter 32

Donnie slipped twice on his way home. His blood alcohol level kept him from feeling the cold as he lurched along the pavement cursing the men back at The Pub. He pictured what they would do when he came back and showed them his pistol. They wouldn’t be laughing then, especially that big guy. He’d shoot him first. As he slogged along, doubts crept into his mind. There were a lot of men in that bar and he was sure some of them also had guns. He stopped in mid-stride and tried to figure out how he could show them up but not get hurt himself. If they only knew what he could do…no, what he’d done in his time. He picked up his pace.

He reached his house and turned into the alleyway that led to his backyard. Snow muffled his footsteps. When he reached the rear, he stopped. He saw the light first. It came from the pickup’s bed. Then he realized the tarp had been rolled up. Someone was in his truck. He wished he had his gun already. It would be a justified shooting—trespassing—might have to drag the stiff indoors, though. He started forward. A figure loomed up from the bed. The fire police—no, that wasn’t right, the guy was a regular cop and he had climbed up into the bed of his truck. Donnie racked his brains for any idea why a policeman would climb around in his truck.

He stepped back into the shadows and watched as the cop replaced the tarp and pocketed his flashlight. At that moment all the anger he felt for the men in the bar shifted from them to this man. He’d take care of him and then…it was perfect. All of those dopes in the bar knew the cop had asked about him that afternoon. If something happened to him…then they’d know what Donnie Oldham could do. He flattened himself against the sagging clapboards next to his garbage cans. The cop hurried away and down the street. Donnie made sure the cop got into his car and then ran to his truck and jerked off the tarp. He pulled out onto the street. He saw the red car’s taillights turn the corner. He cranked up the truck’s heater and fell in behind, keeping a hundred yards or so between the two vehicles. Out on the main road, he’d drop back and, in a turn, switch off his head lights, then speed up again. He followed that way for a while, and then repeated the ploy only with the lights on. He’d read about that technique in one of Hollis’ books about surveillance. He figured to take care of him out in the country somewhere. When the word got back to The Pub, there’d be no laughing at him anymore.

***

“It’s started snowing again, Ike. We should be thinking about leaving before the roads close.”

Ruth wanted dinner, he’d provided it. No gourmet cook, he’d bought Chinese carryout.

“No interest in spending the night here?” They were sitting on either side of a round wooden table in Ike’s A-frame. He’d built the house years before as a retreat from the grittier aspects of his life. He kept an apartment in town to be close to his work but slipped away to this spot whenever he could.

“I agreed to come to your hideaway for dinner. I’ve never seen it in the winter. It’s almost as beautiful with the snow in the trees as it is in the spring. But, no, I have things I need to do first thing tomorrow.”

“You said we needed to talk. You had items on your agenda or something.”

“The agenda was your idea. You’re right, but I’m worried about that snow. Take me home.”

“Okay. Five minutes. I have something I need to say and then we can go.”

“You can tell me in the car.”

“You know, for a New Englander, you sure are spooky about snow.”

“It isn’t about me, Schwartz. I’ve seen how your people handle it and if I don’t get home before an inch hits the macadam, I’m screwed.”

“Five minutes. I promise I’ll get you back to dear old Callend and beddy-byes.”

“Shoot, but I’m warning you—”

“The doctor called Pop this morning.”

“Your mother?”

“He’s not sure she’s going to make the New Year.” Ruth started to say something but he held up his hand. “Hear me out. Just in case, we’re moving Christmas/Chanukah up. We don’t think she’ll notice. Pop wanted to know if you’d be there, be a part of it. I said I’d ask. So, I’m asking. Will you?”

“Of course, I will. Give me the days or nights—whatever—and I’ll be there. It’s a little short notice, so if I have to duck out and come back, will that be all right?”

“That will be fine. Thank you.”

“Hey, you’re my sweetie pie,” she said and kissed him. “The rest of the dessert will have to wait. Now take me home.”

“I’m your what?”

“You heard me. Now move.”

***

Karl Hedrick seethed. His partner sat turnip-like on the motel bed watching re-runs of
Survivor
. He’d thought to go for a walk but the snow forced him back into the motel room.

“This whole operation is so bogus,” he said. He didn’t expect to get a sympathetic hearing but he needed to vent to somebody.

“It’s what the boss wants. It’s what he gets,” his partner said and switched to a re-run of
CSI
. “I love this show.”

“There is no reason for us to be here.”

“Talk to the boss.”

“I did. He wouldn’t listen.”

In fact, Karl had more than talked to the division chief. He’d argued, cajoled, and finally lost his temper. In the first place, the great disappearance turned out to be a miscue on the part of a group in the department acting as a bunko squad. The man had, in fact, slipped their surveillance net, but he wasn’t that hard to find. Instead of transferring them back on him, the chief decided he would empanel a “task force” and close the guy down. Karl came to the conclusion his boss needed a big operation, a breakthrough, something positive in his jacket. His last two operations had sputtered out like candles in a hurricane.

“I picked you,” his chief had said, “because you know the territory. Good thing you put that dame in your book.”

“I didn’t put her in my book. I don’t even know what that means. You’re right, I know the area better than anyone and I’m telling you, we don’t need to waste time and resources in an operation down there. The sheriff down there is perfectly capable of handling the situation.”

“Oh sure. Cripes, Hedrick, he isn’t state or even county. He’s sheriff of a two-bit town. He couldn’t handle dog doo-doo with a scooper.”

“You’re wrong. He’s dealt with some pretty big stuff down there.”

“Yeah, and we were there to pick up the pieces.”

“Pick up the pieces? You’re kidding, right? We stood around with our thumbs in our mouths while he tidied up our mess the last time. I know. I was there.”

“That’s not the way it appears in the report.”

“Then the report lies.”

“Careful, son, if you have any notion of staying in the Bureau, you better learn quick—we back each other. The report says the sheriff is a bumbler, that’s what he is. Now you pack your stuff, say goodbye to the woman, and go to work.”

“But—”

“No buts, here’s what you need to know—Rule one, nobody knows where you are. Rule two, you shut down your answering machine and forward all your calls to this number. We’ll take care of your messages. Rule three, under no circumstances do you contact anyone in the sheriff’s office. Do you get my drift or do I have to spell out the rest as well?”

“I got it.”

Karl had done as he had been ordered. He discovered when his answering machine had been unplugged. Calls to him had to go through some idiotic answering service. He couldn’t call Sam and she hadn’t tried to call him. He paced up and down in the cramped room.

“Sit down, cowboy, you’re driving me nuts,” his roommate said. “And you are in my line of sight. Look, they’re showing a close-up of a bullet track through the dead guy’s body. Whoa, that must have been his liver. I love this show.”

“So you said.”

“Tomorrow, we drop in on the rest of the eggheads at the college. They ought to be able to give us what we need. Word is he’s hooked about a dozen of them. Why is it that the higher the IQ, the dumber a person becomes for scams like the one he’s working?”

“No idea. My question is, why is it that the longer you work inside the Washington beltway, the less you trust the wisdom and judgment of those who live outside it?”

“You keep talking like that and you will never make a career in the Bureau, Karl. You know that? Ever since you went down there to find that guy, you have been preaching this goody two shoes notion of interagency cooperation. It will never happen. So, the only question left is which of the agencies will get the biggest piece of pie. As far as your sheriff is concerned, if he’s so hot, what’s he doing being a sheriff in a jerkwater town like this in the first place? You know what? You need to rethink your career options.”

Karl thought he might be right. He picked up his cell phone, pulled on his jacket, and moved to the door.

“Where’re you going?”

“Out. I need fresh air.”

“It’s snowing outside.”

“Snow job out there—snow job in here. What’s the difference?” Karl stepped out into the cold night. He was about to break rules one and three.