by C. J. Box
Buck Timberman appeared out of the dark when Joe could see. Timberman towered over the seated customers with both his hands flat on the glass and his head tilted forward with a “What can I get you?” eyebrow arch toward Joe.
Joe said, “Did anyone just come running through here? A male, mid-thirties? Thin, with fashionista stubble on his face? Black shirt and ball cap? Goofy look in his eyes?”
Timberman said, “Sorry, I can’t help you, Joe” with his mouth, but his eyes darted down the length of the bar toward the back as he said it. He did it in a way that none of his customers could have picked up. Joe nodded his appreciation, and meandered down the ancient pine-stave floor that was sticky with beer spillage as if it were his own idea. He excused himself as he shouldered through the wannabes, past the wall of booths, and around the pool tables. When one of the shooters looked up, Joe said, “He go this way?” as if they knew each other. The man gestured with the tip of his cue and said, “Out that door in the back.”
“Thank you kindly.”
The door between the COWBOYS and COWGIRLS led through a cramped storeroom to a back door that opened up in the alley. It was used for deliveries. Beer crates and kegs were stacked to the ceiling, but there was an aisle through them to a steel back door. Electrical boxes, valves, and water pipes cluttered the wall next to the exit. Joe searched for a light switch, but couldn’t find it and gave up.
He pushed out into the alley and quickly looked both ways. No Shamazz.
He put his hands on his hips and tried to think. Where would he go?
Joe jogged around the building to the sidewalk to see if the small knot of Bud Jr.’s colleagues were still out front so he could ask them for a confirmation. But they were gone, too.
Joe wished he could call for backup, but once again he was operating completely on his own. Was Bud Jr. in town for the trial? If so, why had he run when Joe recognized him? There was nothing wrong with attending a trial where his father was the featured player.
Since Bud Jr. wasn’t on the street or in the alley and Joe hadn’t heard a car start up or a door slam, Joe was befuddled. Then he recalled seeing a rusty ladder in the alley to the roof of the building, and cursed himself for not looking up when he came out of the bar. Maybe Shamazz had clambered up and watched Joe run around below him like an aimless rabbit?
And was he sure it was really Shamazz? If so, Bud Jr. was in what he’d consider his civilian gear. No puffy white shirt or jester hat for street performance, no white mime pancake makeup. He was even wearing his ball cap as a ball cap should be worn with the bill rounded and to the front and not backwards, sideways, or unbent with the label still showing on the bill in street fashion. And he was walking around without bouncing a Hacky Sack on the top of his foot, which for Shamazz was a trademark. But Joe remembered those vacant eyes because he’d seen them so many times. Pale blue eyes that saw the world in a different way than Joe did, as a place that oppressed him and other free spirits like him. And not just because the pupils were nearly always dilated. Eyes that said, “Why the hell me?” as a response to any request Joe ever made on the ranch, like, “Could you please go get the post-hole digger?”
That ladder was a no-go, Joe realized, when he returned to the alley, looked up, and saw it was detached from the brick at the top. If anyone had tried to use it, the ladder would have fallen back away from the building and crashed into the alley. Joe wished Bud Jr. had used it because then he’d be on him.
Then he pursed his lips and realized exactly where Shamazz was hiding.
The door to the stairs up to Bud Sr.’s empty apartment was open as it had been before. Joe took the steps slowly, being as quiet as he could. He listened for movement on the second level, and for Bud Jr.’s humming. Shamazz was always humming, or singing snatches of lyrics from songs from bands Joe had never heard of and was pretty sure he wouldn’t like. Songs about angst and doom and loss and lack of diversity.
Joe mounted the landing. The light was out as it had been before, but he could see that the seal the sheriff’s department had taped along the doorframe had been breached. Breathing softly, he removed his hat and leaned forward so he could press his ear against the door. There was a low-frequency vibration coming from inside, either the refrigerator or . . . an air-conditioning unit. No doubt it got very warm on the top floor of the old building with all those windows and what was likely poor insulation.
And he heard it: the hum. Then bad singing:
You gotta spend some time, love . . .
And Joe rolled his eyes and said to himself, I have found you, Shamazz.
He couldn’t simply knock and expect Bud Jr. to let him in. Bud Jr. had run away for a reason, whatever it was. Because Joe had no jurisdiction or probable cause, he couldn’t smash the door down, either. He knew Shamazz well enough to know he would quickly assert his constitutional rights even though he had nothing but contempt for the country. As Bud Jr. had once explained to Joe, The Man was always hassling him or putting him in jail, after all, simply for selling drugs that made people happy or doing street theater to loosen up the tight-ass types.
So how to get him to come out voluntarily?
He recalled the layout of the Stockman’s storeroom below, where the breaker boxes and water pipes were located, and smiled.
It took twenty minutes of no electricity or water for Shamazz to come out. Joe stood just outside the door in the walkway between the Stockman’s and the drugstore. He heard the door open upstairs, then counted a full two minutes while Bud Jr. fumbled around for a breaker box or water valve in the stairwell.
Finally, Joe heard a string of curses and heavy clomps coming down the stairs. Shamazz was cursing out Timberman for the loss of power and water. Joe stepped aside.
The door opened, and Bud Jr. came out without looking over his shoulder, where Joe was leaning against the bricks.
Joe said, “Shamazz.”
Bud Jr. froze, then cried out and wheeled around so quickly he lost his footing and fell to the dirty cement. “You fucking scared me,” he said to Joe. “Did you shut off my AC?”
“It’s been a while,” Joe said, extending a hand to help him up.
Bud Jr. didn’t accept it at first. Then he sighed and let Joe pull him to his feet. As always, he looked resentful and petulant. Bud Jr. was four inches taller than Joe, and solidly built. Despite that, Joe now stood between Bud Jr. and the street. The passageway was so narrow it would be difficult for Bud to get around him toward the sidewalk.
“How have you been?” Joe asked.
“Fine. I’m just fine. Hey, it’s great to see you again, Joe, but I’ve got to run.” He took a step toward Joe to see if Joe would stand aside, but he didn’t. Bud Jr. glared and set his mouth.
Joe said, “Where did you get the key to your dad’s place?”
“Where do you think? I didn’t break in, if that’s what you’re accusing me of,” he said, defensive. “And what gives you the right to shut off the utilities? That’s just cruel, man.”
Joe said, “So Bud gave you a key, did he?”
Bud Jr. brushed dirt off his pants and shirt from the fall. He said, “Why wouldn’t he? I’m his son, after all.”
“I thought you hated him,” Joe said. “You told me that, oh, a thousand times.”
Bud Jr. had no response.
“Was that you at the funeral in the yellow van?” Joe asked.
“Maybe,” Shamazz said, not meeting Joe’s eyes.
“I can’t believe you went there to show your respects.”
“I’d rather spit on his grave.”
“Where’s Bud?”
“Who?”
“I’m looking for him,” Joe said. “Just to talk. You probably know about the case against Missy and the fact that your dad is the star witness. Can you tell me where he is? Where you got the key?”
Bud Jr. looked past Joe toward Main Street. “I’ve really got to go,” he said. “I’m sorry I can’t stay around and, you know, relive old times with
you.”
Joe didn’t like the way Bud Jr. was brushing him off, or the way he wouldn’t meet his eye. As Bud Jr. tried to shoulder past, Joe stepped in front.
“You’re annoying me,” Joe said. “What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing. You need to get out of the way. I’ve got my rights. Either arrest me or get the hell out of my way.”
“You hated your dad. You hated the ranch. You hate this town. You hate the state. So why are you here?”
“People change,” he said.
“You don’t,” Joe said.
“Really,” Bud Jr. said, a note of whimper in his voice, “I have to go. I know my rights. I know you can’t hold me here or make me answer your damned questions.”
“Why are you in disguise?” Joe asked. “Why do you sort of look like a normal person?”
“That’s fucking cold, man. Just cold.” Then he leveled his eyes at Joe. “I hated you, too, man. Dudley Do-Right cracker and your white-bread cookie-cutter family. Guys like you . . .” He paused, his lips trembling.
“Go on,” Joe said flatly. Joe had heard Bud Jr. say so many thoughtless and vile things before that he was shocked that he wasn’t shocked. Bud Longbrake’s son seemed to have no internal brake mechanism installed between his emotions and his mouth. Anything he thought came out in words. Joe had learned to tune him out, not engage, and pay no attention. Bud Jr.’s inability to put a sock in it had caused him much heartache over the years, but he’d never seemed able to connect what he said to the reaction his words elicited from others. He still couldn’t, Joe thought . . .
“You people living out there on my family’s ranch, taking advantage of him just like that old bitch Missy. Freezing me and my sister out like that, keeping me away . . .”
“I tried to help you,” Joe said through clenched teeth. “I did a favor for your dad and tried to teach you how to work for a living.”
“Duh,” Shamazz said, bugging his eyes out. “It didn’t take.”
It was hard for Joe to see through the filter of rage that had descended over him like a red hood when he looked at Shamazz. “Who does that song you were singing up there?” Joe asked.
“What—you mean Death Cab for Cutie?”
“Death Cab for Cutie?”
“Yeah.”
“I knew I didn’t like them,” Joe said, and reached out and grasped Bud Jr.’s ear.
“Tell me why you’re here,” Joe said, twisting hard. In the back of his mind, he listed the charges he could be brought up on. There were a lot of them. But he had the impression Bud Jr. would do all he could to avoid talking to the police for any reason.
“That hurts,” Bud Jr. cried, and reached up for Joe’s hand. Joe kicked Shamazz hard in the shin with the toe of his boot. Bud Jr. squealed and dropped to his knees.
“I learned this from a friend,” Joe said. “Remember Nate Romanowski? Now tell me what I want to know or I’ll twist your ear off. I’ve seen a couple of ears come off. They make a kind of popping sound, like when you break a chicken wing apart. You know that sound? I’d guess it’s even worse from the inside, you know?”
“Please . . . Joe, this isn’t like you.” There were tears of pain in his eyes.
Joe nodded. It wasn’t. Whatever. He twisted. Bud Jr. opened his mouth to scream.
“No yelling,” Joe said. “If you yell, you lose the ear. And if that happens, you’ve got another ear I can pull off. Then it will be real hard to listen to Death Cab for Cutie.”
Shamazz closed his mouth, but there were guttural sounds coming out from deep in his chest.
“Tell me why you’re here.”
“I wanted to come home,” Bud Jr. said, spitting out the words. “I just wanted to come home.”
Joe was taken aback. He said, “But you don’t have a home. Bud Sr. lost the ranch. You knew that.”
“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow,” Bud Jr. said.
“We never took advantage of your dad,” Joe said. “Missy did. You did. But I worked for him.”
“Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow.”
“Now where can I find your dad?” Joe asked, keeping the pressure on.
“You really don’t know? You really don’t?”
“Tell me why you’re here.”
He yelped, “I’m here to reclaim what’s mine.”
Joe said, “Nothing’s yours anymore.” But when he saw the wild-eyed passion in Bud Jr.’s eyes—passion he’d never seen before—Joe wondered if Shamazz was capable of murder, or at least willing to help out his father. He’d never thought of the kid that way before.
After he said to Bud Jr., “Tell me everything,” Joe noted movement in his peripheral vision and glanced up to see a sheriff’s department SUV cruise through the opening between the drugstore and the bar. Sollis was at the wheel. Had he been seen?
Joe involuntarily eased up on the ear, and Shamazz took full advantage of the sudden release of pressure. From where he sat on the garbage-covered pathway, he was able to reach back and fire a roundhouse punch that caught Joe full force in the temple. The blow made Joe let go, and staggered him. Bud Jr. scrambled to his feet and punched again, clipping Joe across the jaw and dropping him. Joe tried to protect his face against a fury of Hacky Sack-conditioned feet, but Bud Jr. was fueled by anger and desperation, and several hard kicks hit home. Joe rolled away, felt two sharp thumps in his back along his spine and one near his kidneys, and by the time he was able to right himself and struggle to his hands and knees, Shamazz had run away.
Joe stayed like that for a long time. His head and face ached sharply, and as his shock wore off, the kicks to his arms, shoulders, neck, and back began to pound.
Moaning, he managed to lean against the brick wall and vertically crabwalk up until he could balance on his feet again. He probed at his head for blood, but didn’t find any. He hoped like hell Sollis wouldn’t drive by again and see him. He wanted no one to see him.
As he limped to his pickup, Joe looked at his right hand—the one that had twisted Bud Jr.’s ear nearly off—as if it belonged to someone else. Like Nate, maybe.
Bud Jr. had fought like a wild man. Partly out of self-defense and partly out of something inside him that was of greater intensity than Joe’s urge to protect himself. In a way, he admired Bud Jr., while he felt ashamed of himself both for the pressure he’d applied and for opening himself up for the attack.
Angry with himself, Joe climbed into his pickup. He looked into his own eyes in the rearview mirror, wondering who was looking back.
Ten minutes later, when he thought he’d recovered enough to find his voice again, he dug his phone out of his pocket—it was undamaged—and it rang before he could call Marybeth. The display indicated it was his wife calling him.
“Hi,” he croaked.
She paused. “Joe, are you all right?”
“Dandy,” he said.
“Your voice sounds different.”
He grunted.
“Look,” she said, “I had to call you right away. There’re some things about the company Rope the Wind that I find really fishy. I’ve been on the Internet all afternoon, and I can’t find the answer to some questions that just pop right out at me.”
“Like what?” he said. He shifted in his seat because the places on his back where Shamazz had kicked him were sore. He’d had his ribs broken before, and he knew they’d not been fractured. Overall, he was okay, but it would be a while before he knew if anything was bruised or damaged.
“I located the original articles of incorporation application online at the secretary of state’s office,” she said. “Earl wasn’t originally on the board five years ago. Five years is an eternity as far as wind energy companies go. Five years is ancient.
“The chairman and CEO was a man named Orin Smith,” she said. “He listed his address as a post office box in Cheyenne. So of course the next step was to find out what I could about Orin Smith and see if I could connect him to Earl.”
Joe hmmmmmmm’d to keep her going.
Sh
e said, “I came back with thousands of hits. And this is where it gets strange. Orin Smith is apparently the chairman and CEO of hundreds of companies incorporated in Wyoming. They run the gamut from energy companies like Rope the Wind to crazy ones like ‘Prairie Enterprises,’ ‘Bighorn Manufacturing,’ ‘Rocky Mountain Internet,’ ‘Cowboy Cookies’ . . . all kinds of companies.”
Joe grunted, and said, “A couple of those sound sort of familiar.”
“I thought so, too,” she said, “but that’s the really weird thing. They’re just names. They sound like companies you hear about, but they don’t really exist.”
Joe shook his head, “What?”
“None of them seem to produce anything. There’s no record of them after incorporation. Beyond the name itself, these companies just seem to be sitting there.”
“I’m lost,” he said.
“I am, too. I don’t get it. And I don’t understand at all how Earl Alden came into the picture.”
Joe said, “We might be really going the wrong direction here. This doesn’t seem to fit any kind of scheme I can think of.”
“I know.”
Then she said, “But I found one thing of interest.”
“Yes?”
“I think I know where we can find Orin Smith.”
“Fire away,” he said.
“He’s in federal custody in Cheyenne. It’s amazing what one can find with a simple Google search of a name.”
“What are the charges?”
“Let’s see,” she said, and Joe could hear her tapping keys. “Securities fraud, investment adviser fraud, mail fraud, wire fraud, international money laundering to promote specified unlawful activity, money laundering . . . on and on. Eleven counts in all.”
