Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition

by Moulton, CD

  “A hundred fifty mil, cash.”

  “Ah! And a bunch of the Ruskie mob in town! Gonna get hairy?”

  “Probably not. It’s gone. Normal business expense. Manny sort of fell into it and isn’t responsible for anything so there’s no point in revenge.”

  “Gee! Now they’ll have to steal all of it back from the government. Bummer!” Paul called for him to make a sound check so he grinned again and started away.

  “They already have. Bet!”

  “No takers,” Clint shot in.

  “That Al character has decided to head for Rio,” Marko reported. “It won’t do him any good. There’s nowhere the Ruskies can’t find him. They consider him responsible for the loss. If he’d just let it lay they could have come after the geetus in a couple of years. It was him with the stupid schemes. Get the stuff and bargain for turning it over with him keeping a mil or two for his trouble. Dead man walking.”

  “Like you said, that bunch just think they can think,” Judi said.

  “Just so it doesn’t happen here,” Clint replied.

  Manny and Judi saluted with their glasses.

  Gone Fishin’

  Clint Faraday stretched his stiff back, groaned and picked up his coffee. Judi Lum was on her porch over the bay and waved to him, shaking her finger. He hadn’t bothered to put on anything yet because he hadn’t decided what he was going to do.

  Jorge went by in his boat on his way out to the medicinal plant research institute. No passengers today, so he was going to pick someone up.

  It was going to be a good day. Bright until about 5:00, then some rain. Perfect day to go down around the Zapatilla’s. Water was clear and the fish would be around the little islands that each had a little coral reef around it. Yellowtail snapper would be thick and were great panfish. Maybe some langosta if they were coming in yet. September was great here!

  Well, so was anytime else. Bocas del Toro is a rain forest area, so the almost daily rains are expected and enjoyed. The rains were generally cool, but almost never cold and you dried quickly.

  Jim went by on his motorcycle out front, so it was 5:55. He was regular as a digital clock on his way for coffee at Don Chicho’s, the only place open at 6:00AM there in Bocas Town except the Laguna’s restaurant. Don Chicho’s is typical food and costs about a third of what the hotels charged. Clint liked the local food over the many tourist restaurants.

  Yeah. Fishing today. He went inside to get a few things together, put the “Gone Fishin’” sign on the front door, got in his boat and headed east, then south. The trip took about 45 minutes in his boat and many of the Indios greeted him as he went by. He stopped to talk to a couple.

  It always amazed him when there was rough water. The waves and wind would toss his 26' boat around like a cork and it was all he could do sometimes to keep it upright – and the Indios would paddle by in their 8' cayucas on the way to Isla Solarte or Isla San Cristóbal totally unperturbed by the waves. The hollowed-out trees are unbelievably stable. They are also as unbelievably efficient in the water. Obilio has about a 50' cayuca with a 15 HP engine that takes him from San Cristóbal to Almirante in about 20 minutes and will return with 20 passengers and about a ton of freight in about 25 minutes. Clint watched him take a load of plantains, stacked 3' above the sides, from Almirante to Bocas. Plantains are HEAVY, as Clint learned when he picked up a stalk of them. He estimated there were more than 4 tons of the green bananas in that boat, it was rough and raining, but the trip took only about 45 minutes – that the water taxis with 20 passengers and 150HP engines cross in 25 minutes.

  Great day to muse and wonder.

  Maribel and Gloria waved as he passed Crawl Cay. He went to a special little beach to ground the boat, then swam out to look for langosta. He got two, decided that was more than he needed and let one go. He swam and lazed around awhile until the gringo tourists started coming, then went around toward Isla Popa to catch a few yellow snapper, have a couple of sandwiches, laze around a little more, then head back to Bocas. It had been as great a day as he’d predicted!

  ... Until he pulled up to the dock to see the body of Raymondo Gortas, a local hood, sprawled across the porch deck, that is.

  “Es muerto,” the local substitute for the coroner pronounced seriously.

  “With all that congealed blood and his throat cut from ear to ear, I’d suppose so,” Clint replied.

  “Que?”

  “Si. El es muerto,” Clint agreed. “Probablimente porque esta cortado de oir a oir.” (Yeah, he’s dead. Probably because he was cut from ear to ear)

  So his Spanish still was a long way from perfect.

  “Si. Por doce horas, mas o menos.”

  (For 12 hours, more or less)

  “Menos. No es aqui a la siete y media este manana.”

  (Less. He wasn’t here at 7:30 this morning)

  Judi came from her house to ask what was going on. Clint explained.

  “I was home until five of eight,” she said. “I would have seen anything before then. I just got back. We went to Bocas del Drago for the day.”

  “Ahha!” the doctor cried. “Es ocho y catorce minutos!”

  (Ah! At 8:14)

  “Como conoce?” Judi asked.

  (How do you know?)

  “Reloj digital. Agua adentro. Cristal quebrada.” he explained as though that settled the question.

  (Digital wristwatch. Water inside. Broken crystal.)

  That would be close enough, regardless. Maybe the watch crystal did break when he dropped or when he flailed around during the attack, water on the deck, watch battery grounded and it stopped. Clint searched the area and found a small chip of glass under the corner of the wrought iron table, so he probably broke it there during the fight. That explained everything except the small detail of why he was there at all.

  Clint went to the boarding house where Raymondo had stayed for the past two months to see what there was to see. There wasn’t much – except a cell phone under the underwear in a drawer. There was no phone with the body, but that would be the first thing anyone would take for a number of reasons. Clint slipped the phone into his pocket. The room had already been searched in an amateurish way. He searched it in a professional way.

  There were some women’s items in the bath and the bedroom. Nothing much else that was telling in any way. Clint asked the people at the house who the woman was who was spending time there.

  Angela Smith and sometimes Dona Mariana.

  Was Angela a gringa?

  No. Expected because there are a number of Smiths among the Panamanian population.

  Clint left to find the women. He considered that two months was about the time Manny had moved to Isla San Cristóbal. (Manny was actually Marko, a mafia don from California who had come there to get away from that “business.” He married a good woman and wanted a normal life and kids who wouldn’t be ashamed of how papa made his.)

  Angela worked various places at various times. She was seen a lot at Bongos Café, but didn’t work there. Dona worked at the almacen on the end of the town. She hadn’t seen Raymondo for a couple of weeks since he’d brought that Angela bitch in and only twice before that. If he would lay with that kind of slut he damned well wouldn’t lay with her! No telling what kind of disease she would give him! What a puerco! Pure trash! He was a thug who hit women. Coward and scum!

  He found Angela at the Pirate cadging drinks from the gringos. She was a part Indio, part Black woman in her mid twenties. Very good shape and rather pretty except for the fact she was half drunk. The lines on her face and the slack look indicated she was drunk a lot of the time.

  Raymondo hadn’t come home last night and didn’t even leave her enough to get a few groceries in! Pig! She had half a mind to dump his ass! Clint agreed about the half a mind. That was about what she had left.

  Clint went to Refugio and sat on the deck with a Balboa, took the phone from his pocket, wrote down all the numbers in the memory – with particular emphasis on the last ten
dialed and received calls. The last received that was answered was at 16:59 yesterday. That close to 17:00 exactly was an expected call. It was from a home phone. He’d called the number four times earlier in the day. It was answered at 15:23.

  Seeing the other numbers were either in his phone book or local merchants, that had to be it.

  22.... number. Panamá City.

  There were two text messages not erased. One was to call Sara. One simply said, Cuidado! Te el busca! (Careful! He’s looking for you!) It was from a local number.

  Clint dialed it. As is the custom here, when it was answered he immediately said, “Quien habla?”

  (Who speaks)

  “Matheu Armada. Quien quere?”

  (Matheu Armada. Who do you want?)

  “Ang ... Dona.”

  “Es trabajando.”

  (She’s at work.)

  “Gracias.”

  (Thanks.)

  So! Dona did seem to be a bit too pissed at some guy she’d spent only a little time with, now didn’t she? But what was it about?

  He called the Panamá City number and repeated the “Who’s speaking?” bit.

  “Miguel, sir. Who do you wish to speak with?”

  “I really don’t quite know. Dona Mariana said to call with ... certain problems.”

  “Ah, probably her brother, Vincente. One moment, please.”

  Clint cut it off. Dona’s brother? He had enough that he had a secretary to answer the phone? She was working for a dollar an hour or less and living in a dump on Bocas?

  This had to do with Marko. Someone was trying to find him. Maybe the name Vincente Mariana would mean something to him. The phone rang, so he answered the, “Quien habla?” with, “A friend of Marko’s.”

  “Ah. So he is here in Panamá.”

  “He’s on a little island in the Mediterranean that you can’t find – and would end up cut bait if you did,” Clint replied. “You made a BIG mistake offing that hood on my dock. The only reason I could see was that he was looking for Marko. I called Marko and he asked that I find who was behind it. He’ll handle it from this point on. I’d recommend you get your little sister out of Bocas. Fast!”

  “I had that Raymondo character ... removed ... because he was a threat to Marko. I work for Marko. He already knows all about it. He ... how did you find my name? Didn’t he tell you who I am?”

  “I haven’t talked with him yet. I just found who you are. It took all of ten minutes to find the number, call it and know. Very unprofessional, so I doubt very seriously that Marko would hire you for anything.”

  “I see. Now you have made a big mistake. I have a person who is sitting in Refugios observing you at this very moment. She is on another phone and needs one word from me and you become another minor irritation I have had removed. Very unprofessional of YOU, Mr. Faraday!”

  “Then he, the hood sitting at the bar, should be able to tell you I also have another phone laying on the arm of this chair – and Marko is listening to every word,” Clint lied. “I called Marko the second I spotted the crumb.”

  Clint quickly took his own phone from his pocket and waved it at the hood, then pointed to the entrance hall where four large men were just coming in. Clint had no idea who they were, but pointed to them.

  “Tell your hood he has thirty seconds to live if he doesn’t head for the door right now! You and your sister might have as much as an hour.”

  There was a short pause. The hood threw a five on the counter and headed for the door.

  “What can we do to alleviate this little problem?” Vincente asked. Clint could hear the fear in his voice.

  “A minute,” Clint said, then acted like he was talking into his phone in case someone else was there. “Marko will call you and explain things,” he said to Vincente. “Oh! And get your sister off this island. Distance yourself from your hit man here – who is probably that goon who was here. He made a mess on my deck that’s going to be hard to clean up. That has me pissed. Don’t ever so much as mention Marko’s name again. Not even to your little sister. He’ll probably explain the consequences of that himself.”

  “I think I could like you,” Vincente replied. “I was acting for another person and was made arrogant in thinking I could handle any such situation here in Panamá. You have burned my tailfeathers, as you say in the states. There will be no connection between me and Lasko. Good night, Mr. Faraday.”

  Clint immediately called Manny and told him the whole story and what he’d learned, then gave him the number to call for Vincente. He would call through a number in the states with a transfer that nobody could trace, though it would have an origination number that could be somewhere in the Mediterranean.

  Now. How to get out of there alive?

  He waited until the four he’d pointed to left and went with them, chatting about the Olas Hotel, where they were staying. Lasko was standing just past VIP’s bar, but didn’t dare try to follow. Clint thought a moment, excused himself from the four and went back to wave for Lasko to come along with him. Lasko was scared and uncertain, but walked along. He suddenly blurted out, “I had no choice! Honest! I had no choice!” He had a Russian or Slavic accent.

  “I know. That’s why you’re alive right now. The Ruski’s bit?”

  “Colombiano.”

  Clint nodded like he knew exactly what he was talking about. “Cripes! That bunch of amateur idiots are stupid enough to go after Marko? What? They’re suicidal?”

  “Marko is just a name I’m supposed to tell you or ... a couple of others. They will kill me now, so I will tell you what I know.

  “It is about a woman named Fiona Gabrizzi and a man named Juan D’Angona. They are wanting to utilize this Marko person for the leverage to get in control of some businesses in this country. They are working with some syndicate people in Panamá City who have a large business near the Via Espania. Frothingwell’s.They live in a large house near Tocumen.

  “That’s all I know. They are here in Bocas, staying at the Swan’s Cay, her, and the Tropical Suites, him.”

  Clint nodded again and said, “They aren’t going to kill you. I’m pissed about the mess on my deck, but you had no choice, as you said. You did the world a favor by knocking Raymondo over, so we’ll forget that. The policia have no evidence to point to you.

  “Can you get out of Panamá with the papers you have?”

  “No! They have all my papers!”

  “Vincente?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Go to Rio Sereno and walk into Costa Rica along the upper road. Disguise yourself a little and do not tell ANYONE where you’re going. Go back to the terminal there in three days. Your papers will be there in the name of Lionel Williams. Go to San Jose’ or somewhere such and disappear. You can go to wherever from San Jose’.

  “Is there anyone else you have to protect?”

  “Not in this country, but they can’t get to my family in Hungary.”

  Clint nodded and turned back toward Refugio, noted he was out front of the Big Bamboo and went in there instead. Lasko walked on toward the parque. Clint ordered a tall Bloody Maria from Enrique, the popular bartender, and went to sit at a table on the ferry dock side to call Marko. He quickly explained everything and Marko said he’d call Vincente. The papers of Lasko would be delivered to him in three days at the terminal in Rio Sereno in the name of Lionel Williams – stamped and legal – even if they hadn’t come into Panamá legally.

  “It’s that Mexican mafia trying to horn in on this country’s commercial section,” Marko explained. “I’ll put a stop to most of it. I’ve met this Fiona bitch so won’t come to Bocas until they’re gone. I’d love to tag their asses! She’s about as crude as they come. Vulgar.”

  “Maybe I can work out something to do that. Panamá doesn’t need that type. It’s just coming up in the world in a big way. That kind of crap always ends up hurting anybody and everybody in the country. I wish I had a suit. I’d go calling. I’m too conspicuous like this, but it’s also the w
ay I dress anymore.”

  “I’ll have a picture of Fiona-bitch and this Don Juan character in your e-mail in a half hour,” Marko replied. “They won’t hang around the classy joints because they could never fit. They’ll dress down and go to the regular tourist bars, I’d guess. You can happen to meet them. Scare the piss out of her if she’s there to have the crud hit at your place.

  “Could be fun! I’d like to get a picture of her face when you tell her you’re good ol’ Clinty-boy!”

  They both laughed, chatted a few minutes, then Clint finished his drink and headed for his place to get the pictures and change clothes. It might be an interesting night. It just might!

  Clint recognized the pictures on his comp. He’s seen them around town. She had raised a stink at the Golden Grill because she didn’t know the Spanish word for mayonnaise – and she didn’t pronounce it right in English. A man suggested she pronounce it like it was spelled, but with Spanish vowel sounds. She’d glared and started to say something when he looked at Cecilia and said, “Mah-ohn-eye’-suh.” Cecilia said, “Oh! No problema!” and got the jar for her. Later Clint saw Cecilia and the man joking about it. Cecilia knew exactly what she wanted, but she’d been a pain in the ass the day before and the people have a way to get back at the crude tourist types.

  Clint went to The Casbah, where they’d been, then to The Plank, where the two were sitting at the bar. He got an evil look on his face, called Marko and told him to watch the phone pic and waved at the several who knew him, went to the two and announced, “Bienvenidos a Bocas! Soy Clint Faraday, local character! Momento.”

  She looked like she’d been smacked in the puss with a wet fish and he looked like he had a sudden severe stomachache.

  He said into the phone, “Got to go! It was a great picture, huh?”

  “Got it! I’m putting that one right into the comp for when I need a giggle!” Marko said. “Ciao!”