Big Medicine (A John Tall Wolf Novel Book 5)

by Joseph Flynn

  “How come you want to be so generous to us, Mr. Benard? Just feeling charitable?”

  The tycoon laughed. “I’ve got two reasons, Mr. Emmett, neither of them selfless. One is making sure the thousands of acres I plan to buy adjacent to your reservation hold their value, aren’t harmed by run-off from the toxins in your soil. The other is I’ve done exceedingly well lately and I could use a tax write-off, a great big charitable contribution. Now that I think of it, lending a helping hand to your people would also be good public relations. So, that’s three reasons.”

  Benard got to his feet; Elston followed.

  Benard said, “Thank you for your time, Mr. Emmett. If you could get back to me in a week with your decision, I’d appreciate it. I tend to be an impatient guy. When things get gummed up, I just move on to my next project.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement,” Emmett said.

  Neither man made an effort to shake the other’s hand.

  Maxine’s Tap — Omaha, Nebraska

  State law in Nebraska allowed beverages containing alcohol to be served between the hours of six a.m. and two a.m. Maxine’s Tap, shamelessly advertising itself as having the coldest beer and the cheapest booze in town, had patrons on hand every hour of the day. More than a few paid a five-dollar nap-time fee to snooze in place during the brief respite from imbibing.

  When this convenience was introduced, the police department sought to have the premises cleared during non-drinking hours. A lawyer for the establishment took the cops to court and argued reasonably that the good citizens in town would be better served if Maxine’s habitués were not out in public peeing and puking on their lawns or, worse, driving on their streets.

  Police officers would be welcome to stop by every 30 minutes to get a free cup of java and see that only coffee would be served during the hours of alcohol abstinence. The court added a requirement that 911 be called for any patron who no longer seemed to be breathing or was otherwise in distress, and Maxine’s was allowed to remain open around the clock.

  Private investigator Wilbur Rosewell — who had confronted John Tall Wolf in Washington, DC — and a sinister looking fellow who made do with only one name, Petrovich, arrived at Maxine’s just after nine in the morning. The productive people in town were already at their jobs or in their classrooms, and many of the overnighters in the bar were still taking their beauty rest. Maxine’s policy allowed them to snooze until ten. Then they had to have at least an eye-opener or management would turn them loose on the public.

  Rosewell and Petrovich sat near the rear exit. To get the top of their table wiped clean, they ordered drinks. Rosewell had a bottle of Moosehead he insisted on uncapping himself; Petrovich had a cup of black coffee he spiked with a shot of Stolichnaya from a flask he carried in a coat pocket. He paid for his drink as if the coffee had been topped with a shot of the house swill. Maxine’s considered that to be an acceptable arrangement.

  Getting down to business, the Russian immigrant asked Rosewell, “How do you know this man’s talk of gold is real? People often exaggerate. Especially about money and women.”

  “Yeah, they do,” Rosewell said. “So I did some checking.”

  He took his phone out and pulled up a story he’d found online in My Omaha magazine. An article headlined Midwest Midas showed a picture of a smiling Brice Benard sitting on a throne-like chair with a table stacked with gold bars on either side of him. Rosewell handed the phone to Petrovich.

  As the Russian took in the image, Rosewell added, “I know a guy who used to sell ad space for that magazine. He remembered that story and told me the photographer had wanted Benard to wear a crown, but he’s very vain about his hair and nixed the crown. But the ad guy says the gold was real. Benard had four armed guards on hand to make sure none of it got swiped.”

  Petrovich looked up and handed Rosewell’s phone back to him. “This story’s date of publication was 2001.”

  “Yeah, so?” Rosewell asked.

  “The price of gold was down that year. Let me see exactly.” He took out his own phone. “The average price was under $400 per ounce. Now …” He checked another screen. “The price is $1,348.70 per ounce.”

  Rosewell whistled softly. “That’s some big increase.”

  “Would you say this man is shrewd or lucky in his investments?”

  “Well, shit, does it matter? If I had to guess, probably a little of both.”

  “There is a difference,” Petrovich said. “If he was only lucky, he might have known this was the chance of a lifetime to cash in. He may well have sold all his gold as soon as the price doubled, and now curses himself that it has more than tripled. On the other hand, if he is shrewd, he may have continued to buy when the price was low and now holds a true hoard of wealth.”

  Rosewell thought about that. “I know he’s supposed to be a big real estate hotshot but, hell, who knows how many buildings he actually owns outright, not just holds monster loans on, maybe scrambling to make his nut every month.”

  “This is a possibility, yes,” Petrovich said. “It is good you are aware of it.”

  He added more Stoli to his coffee. Put out a few more dollars for the house.

  “If he does have money trouble,” Rosewell said, “he sure the hell hides it well. Lives like a freaking king who never worries about tomorrow.”

  Petrovich sat back and asked, “Have you ever dined out with him?”

  “A couple times, yeah.”

  “He picked up the check, both times?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he pay?”

  “Credit card. One of those black ones, the kind most people can’t get. But you know what? Both times he tipped in cash, big money. Big enough that both waitresses didn’t say boo when he copped a little feel.”

  “The man is a swine,” Petrovich said.

  “What do bad manners have to do with anything?”

  “Quite a lot. If he had offended either woman, or anyone else he meets, as he goes about his day, he will buy them off with cash, too.”

  Rosewell laughed. “Yeah, you can’t get off the hook for being an asshole with a credit card, no matter how fancy it is.”

  “This is true,” Petrovich said. “It also speaks to his fondness for real wealth, tangible currency, not just a symbol of how deeply in debt he is permitted to go.”

  “So you think he might really be sitting on a ton of gold?” Rosewell asked.

  Petrovich said, “One more question first, my friend. Has this man ever been late in paying you for the work you’ve done for him?”

  “Never. I complete a job, he gives me a check the same day. I go straight to the bank it’s drawn on and cash it. Always get my greenbacks with a smile.”

  “That is very good. People with money difficulties either try to delay paying what they owe or accuse a third party, say their bank, of causing problems with the payment.”

  “Never had to deal with anything like that. So are you interested in going for a score here?”

  “You can pluck a goose only once,” Petrovich cautioned.

  “That’s okay by me, provided you think we’re talking big money here.”

  The Russian said, “The gold in the picture on your phone, those are called standard bars. Just one of them holds from 350 to 430 ounces of gold. You remember what I told you one ounce is worth at today’s price?”

  Rosewell had a good memory. “One thousand three hundred and forty-eight dollars and change.”

  “Seventy cents,” Petrovich said. He pulled up the calculator on his phone. “That means each bar is worth between $472,045 and … $579,941. Yes, my friend, I think you’ve brought me a very interesting proposition today. From what you tell me, the man is likely to keep at least a few bars close to hand, either at home or work, possibly both. He does this so he can either buy his way out of big trouble in an emergency or just to enjoy the physical sensation of touching his wealth.”

  “We’ve got to get our hands on some of that,” Rosewell sa
id.

  “I will bring a truck,” Petrovich told him.

  Plaza Cafe — Santa Fe, New Mexico

  The young waitress brought a round of coffee to Serafina, Hayden and Marlene. Hayden paid the tab and tip and said, “If we want anything else, I’ll step inside and find you.”

  “Deal,” she said, wanting neither to go out into the cold nor to overhear whatever these three people had to say to each other. A vibe coming off all three of them said, “Steer clear.”

  She went inside, leaving the trio to themselves.

  Serafina validated the young woman’s uneasy feelings by starting the conversation with a pointed question to Marlene: “Eat any babies lately?”

  Without batting an eye, Marlene replied, “Not the human variety.”

  “Other species are fair game?” Hayden asked.

  “We all need our protein,” Marlene told him.

  Hayden said, “I suppose nuts and seeds won’t do for you.”

  Marlene only pulled her lips back in a feral smile, revealing her pointed incisors.

  That was usually enough to make most people retreat in horror. But Hayden and Serafina were anything but your average Mom and Pop. The pupils of Serafina’s eyes elongated vertically, became slits like those of a cat; Hayden’s eyes maintained their normal shape and blue color but seemed to crystallize to a diamond hardness and gleam.

  “You don’t scare us,” Serafina said. “You never have; you never will.”

  “No matter what shape you may take,” Hayden added.

  Marlene sat back, relaxed, evaluated the situation and smiled.

  “I believe you,” she said. “There is no way I can intimidate you, not when it comes to Tall Wolf’s well-being. Both of you would rather die than see him suffer.”

  Serafina leaned forward. “It’s a good thing you understand that.”

  “My wife regrets that I didn’t shoot you all those years ago,” Hayden said.

  Marlene looked at him. “That wasn’t me; that was a part of me. If you had shot that coyote, we’d have had our confrontation long ago. I wouldn’t have been nearly so patient as I am now.”

  Now, Serafina leaned back, let her eyes assume their normal shape.

  “I see what you’re thinking,” she said. “You feel patience is your ultimate weapon.”

  “There’s no doubt I will outlive you both. You are mortal; I am not.”

  “My sympathy,” Hayden said.

  She turned her head to look at him. “What?”

  “You’ve just admitted that you’ll never know what it is to rest, to be at peace. How many times have you already satisfied your pleasures, outwitted your foes, eluded their snares, seen them fall away while you continue on? What lies ahead for you but endless repetition? Even if you never die, the satisfaction you take from your triumphs will wither and turn to ash.”

  Marlene scowled, not caring at all for Hayden’s appraisal of her future.

  Serafina added to Marlene’s discomfort.

  “It is true my husband and I will die, but there is one thing that will live on long after us: the curse I have placed upon you. You don’t sleep well lately, do you? Terrible dreams come to you every night, horrors so vivid and embedded in your mind you have trouble separating them from what you experience with your eyes open.”

  Marlene drew her lips back again and even snarled.

  Her voice hoarse and no longer entirely human, she growled, “Maybe we’ll finish this matter here and now, and no matter what else afflicts me or pales in memory, I will always relish what I do to you. As to what I have planned for Tall Wolf —”

  Serafina and Hayden saw Coyote start to change shape, becoming a beast of enormous proportions when … her phone chimed. Marlene glanced at her phone on the café table. The caller ID said: john tall wolf.

  Unable to resist the temptation, Marlene resumed her human form and hit the answer button.

  Tall Wolf said, “You didn’t really think you could get away without saying goodbye to me, did you? You had to know I’d find you.”

  Serafina and Hayden Wolf heard their son’s words and looked at each other.

  “How did you find me?” Marlene asked.

  “What, you think you’re the only one with wiles? Knowing you’re in New Mexico, I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents are with you.”

  Being a good mother, Serafina called out, “John, are you all right?”

  “Fine, Mom. Hi, Dad. I assume you’re there, too?”

  “I am, Son.”

  Marlene grew irritated at the turn of the conversation.

  “What do you want, Tall Wolf?” she demanded.

  “I’m working a case and thought you might be of help, if you’re interested.”

  “In other words, you want me to do some of your work again.”

  John said, “I think this one could be right up your alley. Might even have a nice element of spite to it, and I know how you enjoy that.”

  Marlene definitely was in a mood for lashing out.

  Having Tall Wolf’s parents hear him asking for her help only made things sweeter.

  “Where are you?” she asked.

  “DC, but I’ll be leaving for Omaha soon.” He gave Marlene the name of his hotel there.

  Marlene stood up, put a $50 bill under the salt and pepper shakers as an added tip.

  She was sure Hayden hadn’t been that generous.

  Tall Wolf said, “Marlene?”

  “What?”

  “Put me on speaker for a minute so none of us has to shout, okay?”

  Marlene did so. John heard the beep and said, “Mom, Dad, you guys are the best. You saved my life, you raised me better than I probably deserve, and I know you still look out for me. But, really, I’ve got things covered. Marlene keeps me on my toes, but she really can be of help at times. Strange as it may sound, I’d hate to lose her.”

  Serafina and Hayden looked at each other. Marlene looked at the phone in her hand.

  She replayed Tall Wolf’s words in her head, listening for a note of deceit. She couldn’t find one. Her problem was, she didn’t know what to do with honest affection, even if it came only in a small dollop.

  John added, “I mention all that in case the three of you weren’t sitting around playing pinochle.”

  The Wolfs called out their goodbyes.

  Marlene said, “I’ll meet you in Omaha.”

  Los Angeles, California

  Emily knew one of the two patrol cops who had answered Arcelia’s 911 call. His name was Jack Beacher. He’d labored under the lifelong burden of almost everyone in Southern California telling him he had the perfect name for a surfer. His standard reply was, “I don’t care for sharks or skin cancer.” His game was squash. Sometimes tennis, if it was played indoors. He had a fair complexion and kept it blemish and melanoma free.

  He’d worked for Emily when she’d been a sergeant and appreciated the way she handled her patrol officers, including never once making a joke about his name.

  His partner was a Latino officer named Alonso Beltran whose main sporting activity was watching fútbol. Emily explained to both officers what had happened, including the fact that she’d resigned from the LAPD. Both men listened closely, occasionally sparing glances at Rebecca to invite her to comment.

  She remained silent and watchful.

  Arcelia had left to open the office just before the cops arrived.

  Hearing everything Emily had to say, Beacher responded, “So you only want us to make official note of the reason why your friend called for help?”

  “Yeah. As my dad might say, we’re laying the predicate for possible future legal action or criminal charges.”

  “Laying what?” Officer Beltran asked.

  “Ms. Proctor’s father is a lawyer,” Beacher told him.

  Beltran nodded as if that explained everything. Captain Adair, he figured, was being set up to have his ass nailed to a wall. In either criminal or civil court.

  Beacher asked, “You want t
o make a copy of this video you told us about, Ms. Proctor? Include it in our report?”

  “Let me know if someone well up the food-chain needs to see it.”

  “How about you let us take a look?” Beltran asked. “So we have a better understanding of things when we write our report.”

  “That would be helpful,” Beacher added.

  Emily looked at Rebecca and she nodded. The cops bracketed her as she brought out her phone and played the video. Neither Beacher nor Beltran said anything as they watched, but they shared a look when it was done. Both of them were uneasy.

  Beacher told Emily, “Being fair about it, I never met Captain Adair, but I think your neighbor was right.”

  “About stepping outside to help?”

  “About bringing an assault rifle to the party,” Beltran said.

  Beacher nodded. “Alonso’s right. Cop or not, I wouldn’t trust Captain Adair. I have a bad feeling he’s going to come back.”

  “With his own amped-up firepower,” Beltran said.

  “So what’s your advice?” Emily asked.

  “I don’t see you hiding out indefinitely,” Beacher replied, “but do your best to be inconspicuous. Don’t keep regular hours. Maybe rent an unfamiliar car for a while. Get a throwaway phone in case he knows someone who can let him listen in on yours.”

  “Maybe ask your neighbor if she knows a Division of Marines who can camp out in your house a while,” Beltran said. “Let him know what he’s up against and he’s never gonna win.”

  Knowing Emily would be able to read between the lines, Beacher added, “Nobody will think it’s wrong if you drop First Street on this guy’s head.”

  “Some people will,” Beltran said, “but they’re all assholes anyway.”

  “First Street?” Rebecca asked.

  “That’s where the Police Commission has its offices,” Emily explained.

  “If you haven’t already, get your concealed carry permit,” Beacher advised.