The Dog Who Ate The Flintlock

by Edward Coburn

  Chapter 14

  Marco saw Varkot and Mardoff move so he repositioned himself along the opposite wall making sure he could still hear them through the earbuds plugged into the parabolic microphone and still see them in the hallway.

  Without hesitating, Phillip shouldered past Varkot so his back would be to the door to the street and not to the supposedly empty warehouse before he turned to face Varkot. Varkot did an about-face after Phillip moved past him. Phillip put the small beam of his penlight on Varkot’s chest so Phillip could see his face while the beam gave Phillip a target for the gun he pointed at Varkot’s chest. “Now I am,” Phillip said answering Varkot’s question. “You holdin’?” He didn’t care about the drugs he was sure he’d find if he searched Varkot. He was only trying to gauge Varkot’s reaction to an unexpected question.

  “Why, you wanna fix?” Varkot gave Phillip a crooked grin while his quip served to hide his reaction.

  “You’re a funny man. Just answer the question.”

  “No, I ain’t holdin’.” Varkot held up his empty hands palm outward as if that would prove his point. “I don’t deal anymore.”

  Phillip wasn’t buying it. “Sure you don’t. And, as I’ve said before, if I ever catch you or any of your flunkies pushing to school kids again, I’ll make sure you’re thrown into a hole so deep you’ll never be able to climb out.” Phillip caught a teen selling pot to another teen at a rock concert where Phillip had been hired as security. That teen had fingered one of Varkot’s mid-level dealers who was prepared to roll on Varkot. Unfortunately, Varkot’s stable of high priced attorneys was able to keep him out of the clutches of the Charleston police. Meanwhile, the dealer who was ready to finger Varkot was found hanging in his cell ending any chance of tying Varkot to him or his activities. The police were aware that putting Varkot behind bars would clear up a lot of the drugs being distributed in the Charleston area. However, Varkot was smart enough to keep himself well insulated beneath many layers of flunkies. If a drain on his profits required the death of a rival dealer or two, Varkot was able to arrange it without dirtying his own hands. “But I don’t actually care about your drug dealing for the moment. I’m interested in something else. I trust you remember Molly Archer?” Phillip asked.

  “Molly who?” Varkot put his finger to his lips and rolled his eyes to the ceiling as if straining to remember.

  “Maybe you would know her better as Molly Drummond. She was Archer before she married a cop named Drummond.” Research revealed to Phillip Varkot had been loosely tied to a child trafficking ring that had snatched Molly Drummond’s daughter some twenty years earlier, so he assumed Varkot knew whom he was talking about. Unfortunately, at the time, no irrefutable evidence was uncovered that could break through the shield Varkot always put between himself and his activities.

  Varkot seemed to consider the question. “Was that the babe that burned up in that car with the guy she was shacking up with?”

  “Yes. That was the young woman you had burned up in the car and, for the record, she wasn’t shacking up with Stippens any longer. As I said, she was married to a cop.” Phillip didn’t appreciate the sarcastic lilt that Varkot gave the term babe.

  Varkot held up his hand. “Whoa. That was never proved. I’ve never been into child trafficking, and I didn’t have anything to do with her being barbequed. Why would I? I had no reason to want her or this, who’d you say, Stippens guy dead. I didn’t even know either of them.”

  “Just because it wasn’t proven doesn’t make it not true. You haven’t exactly lived the life of a choir boy.”

  Varkot smiled slightly as if a fond memory had just come to mind. “I’ll give you that one. But I’ve heard most choir boys don’t live exemplary lives either. And I would never be into child trafficking. I don’t mess with kids.”

  “Sure you don’t,” Phillip said. “And I suppose you wouldn’t call selling your poison to kids messing with them?”

  “We could go around all night about this.” Varkot glanced up at the ceiling again before focusing his gaze back on Phillip. “Why do you care about something that happened so long ago anyhow?”

  “You haven’t heard?” It was Phillip’s turn to act surprised even though he was sure Varkot now knew what this meeting was about.

  “Heard what?”

  “Old man Archer is dying and is offering a substantial reward to whoever can locate his missing granddaughter.

  “Lemme guess. You think I can tell you where the granddaughter went so you can get your hands on the reward. Sorry about that, but I can’t tell you what I don’t know. Who told you I knew something?”

  “Maybe you don’t know, but I’m betting you know someone who does know.” Varkot had always kept himself so well shielded during all his reprehensible activities, it was entirely possible he didn’t know where the children his crew had snatched ended up. But Phillip had interviewed a number of kidnappers, both in and out of prison, and had either coerced or tricked several of them into giving up Varkot’s name. However, he would never reveal where he’d gotten his information to anyone, especially not Varkot. Varkot had long arms that could reach out and snatch the life from anyone who crossed him in or out of jail.

  Varkot didn’t say anything for a while, and Phillip let the silence hang in the air. He had found people had a tendency to fill dead air and sometimes blurted out things they didn’t intend to tell the interviewer just to break the silence. He had learned the technique as a rookie watching his supervisor interview suspects. Finally, Varkot caved to say, “Even if I do, and I ain’t saying I do, why should I tell you?”

  Phillip shrugged. “Because if you don’t I’ll be on your dealers like fleas on a junkyard dog and you know I can do it.”

  Varkot studied the floor and shook his head. “I do know that, but, as I said, I ain’t dealing anymore.” He feigned innocence as well as he could, but he certainly did not convince Phillip.

  Phillip shook his head and smiled a bit knowing full well that a lowlife like Varkot would never give up something as lucrative as his Charleston drug empire. He had even been suspected of several murders of rival gang lords when they encroached inside what Varkot considered his territory. Again, nothing was ever proven, and Varkot was still walking the streets. “I guess you’re safe then. But just to be sure you stay safe, I suggest you give me a name if you got one.

  Varkot cast his gaze around as if afraid someone would be listening unaware that Marco was indeed listening. “This just between us?” he almost whispered.

  “Why would I tell anyone else? I want the reward for me. Now spill.” Phillip threateningly raised his gun even though he suspected Varkot wouldn’t believe he’d actually shoot him.

  “All right. There was this guy. He was a real mean SOB and would do anything…you know. But I ain’t heard anything about him for a long time.”

  “Who and how long?”

  “His name was Howard, no Herman, no—lemme see, Harold—Morgan, I think it was. Yes, Harold Morgan.” Varkot had actually heard that Harold Morgan was dead. He figured if he gave Mardoff a dead guy maybe it would satisfy him or at the very least, keep him busy for a while.

  “You’re sure?”

  Varkot nodded. “Yeah…” He appeared thoughtful again. “Yeah, I’m sure it’s Harold Morgan.”

  “When was the last time you heard anything about him?”

  “It’s got to be fifteen or twenty years. Maybe just after the Archer chick was burned up.”

  “So you think maybe he did it and then took off with her baby?”

  Varkot shrugged. “Couldn’t say, but maybe it fits.”

  “Okay. Let’s say…”

  Just then the door creaked open and a flashlight beam shined on the back of Phillip’s head and in Varkot’s face, blinding him. “Charleston police. Don’t either of you move.”

  Right on time, Phillip thought, although he didn’t actually need Bruce. “It’s just me Bruce, and we’re fine.”

  The light flashed o
n Phillip’s gun, and Bruce waved the one he already had out. “Then why are you pointing that gun at Varkot. That is you ain’t it Varkot?”

  “It’s me,” Varkot said. “But I wasn’t worried. Mardoff wouldn’t shoot me.”

  “And you’re sure about that,” Phillip grinned, pointing his gun at the middle of Varkot’s forehead.

  “So what’s the trouble here?” Bruce asked.

  “No trouble,” Phillip holstered his gun inside his jacket and turned to face Bruce, holding out his hands to show they were empty. “And we’re done here.” He turned back to Varkot. “Unless you have something else for me, Varkot.”

  Varkot shook his head. “I gave you what you wanted didn’t I?”

  “If you gave me the straight scoop.”

  “I did. And I’m outta here.” He roughly shouldered his way past Phillip. Bruce pulled the door open wider while he stepped aside to let Varkot pass.

  Bruce watched him go, holstered his gun, and then turned to Phillip. “So what’s the story here, Phil? Why’d you have Carinda call me?”

  “I didn’t much like this meeting place, and I wasn’t all that sure how much I could trust Varkot. He did behave himself this time though.” Just then a door slammed in some remote part of the warehouse.

  Phillip turned but didn’t move.

  “Perhaps he didn’t behave as well as you thought,” Bruce said.

  “And perhaps it’s a good thing you came after all.”

  “That may be. What was the meeting about anyhow?”

  Phillip turned back to face Bruce who lowered his light. “I think I’ll keep that to myself for right now but thanks for coming even though it wasn’t unnecessary.”

  “That’s okay. I do my best to protect all Charleston citizens—even lowlifes like you,” Bruce grinned and slapped Phillip playfully on the shoulder.

  “As long as those citizens pay your bills.”

  “That’s right, and you’ll get mine.”

  “I’m sure I will,” Phillip edged past Bruce and out the door.

  Chapter 15

  Adam awoke early Thursday morning with Butter on his mind. Butter was the name of his Beagle who was now in her final few weeks of pregnancy according to veterinarian Dr. Maggie Ridley. When Adam got out to the living room, he smiled down at Butter who was lying beside Bagel, her companion, and father of her soon-to-be brood of four puppies. Adam knew there would be four in Butter’s litter because Dr. Ridley had performed an ultrasound on Butter to make sure everything was progressing normally and reported that Butter was going to give birth to four, normal, healthy puppies.

  The first thing Adam did that morning was the first thing he did every morning after getting dressed. He fed Bagel and Butter on the back porch and then let them do their business and run and play in the backyard. At least Bagel would still run and play. Butter had grown more lethargic and seemed to want to stay in the house more and more as she got closer to her time. She spent most of her time curled up on the blanket Adam had bought for her so she wouldn’t have to share Bagel’s blanket though she had continued to share Bagel’s blanket anyway until she became pregnant. Dr. Ridley had said Butter’s switching to the other blanket was normal behavior as Butter was giving in to her nesting instinct.

  Adam freely admitted to not being a pet person before taking Bagel in when his mother died of a reoccurrence of her cancer, so he had not witnessed a dog having puppies before and was surprised at how large Butter had grown. Her size was reminiscent of the time he rescued her from the Mason Jar restaurant to be a companion for Bagel. Butter had lived in a dog house near the front door of the restaurant where it had become a tradition for the customers to give the dog any pats of butter left over from their meal. Butter had become grossly overweight, and Adam thought it a cruel thing for the customers to give their left over pats of butter to Butter as a treat. Fortunately, the owner of the restaurant agreed with him and allowed Adam to take Butter home where he, following Dr. Ridley’s directions, managed to get Butter’s weight down to a more normal range before he allowed Bagel and Butter to begin a family. He had checked with Dr. Ridley to make sure she agreed with his planning and timing. Adam was pleased everything was progressing normally.

  For his part, Bagel seemed more attentive to Butter than usual. Adam thought maybe Bagel knew what was going on with Butter and Dr. Ridley agreed. She said Bagel would definitely know Butter was close to giving birth and Bagel’s protective instincts would soon kick in.

  Adam started when the cell phone in his pocket rang. He glanced at the display. It was Dr. Ridley checking in with him as she did every morning.

  “Good morning Dr.,” Adam said.

  “No Ram, it’s not Maggie, it’s me, Nancy, Maggie’s receptionist.”

  Adam was known to most local citizens as Robert Adam Madigan or Ram. He was a columnist for the local newspaper, the Canary Corners Tweet, and major sponsor and manager of the charitable foundation known as the Rambling Foundation. He had started the foundation when he first arrived in Canary Corners, West Virginia with some of the one hundred thirty million dollars he’d won in two lotteries in quick succession.

  “Well, good morning to you then, Nancy.”

  “Good morning,” Nancy said brightly. “How’s Butter this morning. Maggie told me to check with you.”

  “I appreciate that, but Butter seems to be doing fine. She had her breakfast, and now she’s nesting.”

  “That’s good. I’ll let Maggie know.”

  As soon as Adam hung up with Nancy, his cell rang again. This time it was Larry, his long-time friend and now his boss at the local newspaper, the Canary Corners Tweet. “Good morning Boss,” Adam said.

  “I thought you informed me I wasn’t your boss because I’m not paying you.” Because Adam didn’t need the money and the small town newspaper barely made enough to survive, Adam wasn’t paid a salary for writing his blog several times a week. When Larry thought the blog was worthy, it was also printed in the newspaper. Of course, all Adam’s writing was exemplary, but Larry was trying to get a following for Adam’s blog, so he didn’t publish every blog in the newspaper, only the ones he deemed exceptionally interesting or important.

  “You’re not, on both counts. But I have to call you something. Would you rather I call you skinflint?” Larry and Adam had been friends so long, good-natured bantering came natural to both of them, and Larry’s tendency to pinch every penny was well known to everyone at the paper.

  “How about just calling me Larry? That is my name, after all.”

  “All right, Larry, why are you bothering me this morning? I’ve already said I would post my blog and have copy for you today.” Adam had finished his latest installment late last night and planned on posting it to the internet that morning. He had already emailed it to Larry. “Haven’t you checked your email?”

  “It’s not that,” Larry said taking a sip of his ever available cup of coffee, “and I have checked my email. I love your story about yesterday’s baseball game. I especially like the line where you compare the short stop’s ability to that of Cal Ripken, Jr. Did the team actually make a triple play or was that simply reporter’s license to elaborate on the truth?” Larry knew Adam wouldn’t lie about something many in the town would know wasn’t true as soon as they read it. Adam wasn’t anything if he wasn’t honest. Too scrupulously honest for his own good sometimes.

  “Yes,” Adam said, “they made a triple play. It was great. The shortstop caught the grounder, tagged the runner leaving from second, stepped on second to force the guy there and then threw to first for the third out. It was a really great play. And I resent that you think I would ‘elaborate,’ as you call it. Just because you lie about Bagel’s exploits, doesn’t mean I’d lie about the exploits of the baseball team. Besides, if I gave the baseball team credit for a triple play they didn’t perform, the Canary Corners fans would be up in arms.” Larry had published several eyebrow-raising articles with sensational headlines about Bagel’s adventures
—such as the one about Bagel eating an airplane when all Bagel did was attack the radio-controlled airplane and cause it to crash. The fact that the plane subsequently blew up had nothing to do with Bagel.

  “You’re no doubt correct, but that’s not what I’m calling about. I have an assignment for you if, as they used to say on that old TV show, should you choose to accept it.” Larry and Adam had agreed Adam could choose what to write about, but Adam was generally willing to accept anyone’s suggestions because coming up with fresh ideas two or three times a week wasn’t easy, contrary to what many people thought. Because Adam’s writing was so fluid and seemingly effortless, and because his stories were generally taken from everyday life in Canary Corners, some people thought they could do as well. Adam and Larry knew better, however. Even though writing a column seemed easy, easy was far from reality. Just like everybody thought they could write a book until they tried it.

  “I may ‘choose to accept it,’ but you’ll have to tell me what it is first,” Adam said.

  “Have you heard of the West Virginia Reenactment Society?”

  Adam thought for a few seconds. “No…can’t say as I have. Based on the name, I assume it’s a club where they do reenactments. What type of reenactments?”

  “None, so far. It’s a brand new club, but I’ve heard they’re planning an American Revolutionary War battle reenactment.”

  “Was there a revolutionary war battle fought somewhere around here?” Adam asked, his interest piqued.

  “As I understand it, there were several. Mainly the settlers in the area ended up fighting Indians, but there were battles against the Red Coats as well. Which battle they are going to reenact will be part of what you’ll need to discover.”

  Adam didn’t even have to think about it. He knew he’d enjoy playing a part in a reenactment. He still enjoyed acting even though the only acting he’d done since high school had been the few one-act plays in college where he’d learned he wasn’t as good as he’d thought he was. That reality check forced him to change his major to journalism instead. Although he was playing the part of Ram in Canary Corners to hide from his fame from winning the lotteries and his past as a finder—a career choice he’d grown to hate and from which he was now hiding—one could hardly call that acting. But wait, he thought, Larry doesn’t like his reporters to be part of the story. “Just one question. Is this like other stories in that I have to tell it as an outsider?” Adam knew Larry would understand what he was getting at.