by Moulton, CD
“Oh, that was just there. What we were looking for is in these little spots here, here and here. Cinnabar and some silver. We think this little bit might mean there are some larger lodes closer to the surface. We certainly aren’t going to sink a shaft three hundred fifty meters for what would never pay for digging a hundred!”
Clint agreed, but said the volcano was too new for some things and too old for others. Outlying areas like Arriba Blanca and Calderas were more likely.
“You’re probably right, but I survey where they pay me to map. I would choose far different areas than Panamá to look for things simply BECAUSE it’s either too old or too new over the whole country.”
Clint soon said he had an appointment. Have a nice day.
He’d definitely recognized the area in those maps – and he knew sulfur in a sonic map. It was distinctive. The lodes Arnold had shown were probably nothing but large lumps of fused quartz. Much too deep to even consider trying to dig down to them. The scam would be to identify the sulfur in that big dome as oil.
Clint spent the day in Panamá City, then called the airport to book a flight back to David. He would arrive at 6:55. He spent the night in the Hotel Iris and took the first bus in the morning to Puerto Armuelles. Tom met him at the terminal and said that several people were asking about him. He didn’t know what they wanted and told them he hadn’t seen him since yesterday morning early.
“That Monica woman said I must have meant day before yesterday morning, but I said it was yesterday morning at dawn on the pier. She said her information must be wrong because some people said they saw you in Santiago.”
“Maybe they saw Denton Hanrady. You met him (he’d used the disguise where Tom met him very briefly a few months ago). Looks something like me and is in Santiago most of the time.”
“Oh, yeah. Maybe so. What’s going down with that stupid bunch? That asshole bastard with the big mouth and his old lady really offed the Wallace bitch?”
“Yeah. I’m slowly learning a thing or two about this stupid deal. It seems to be one of those old things where they find a little seam of gold or something and make it sound like they’ve found the biggest lode since Columbus.”
“Yvon’s in it up to her neck. I think she leads Bathner around with a ring in his nose. Her real beddie-bye is that Monica woman, you ask me. They think this is the US so they try to act straight.”
Clint nodded and agreed it looked that way at times. They were probably bi and hadn’t noticed that a lot of the people here were. No one cared.
“That type doesn’t notice anything at all about the people here,” Tom agreed. “Figure they’re so much better they can’t waste their time finding out about reality. That fucking loudmouthed idiot wasn’t acting about most of it. I think THAT’S his real persona.”
Again, Clint agreed. Cartworthy was far more the type he was trying to act like than the normal tourist.
Someone had searched his room at the hotel. He left little traps set, all of which had been sprung. The search wasn’t professional, but was fairly thorough. He didn’t leave anything there he cared if anyone found. He half expected something such. He cleaned up and went to the pier. He’d seen Downy and Abel hanging around the little parque and figured he’d let them know he was back. He was there about fifteen minutes when Batty came out with them to say he’d tried to find him for a couple of days, since he returned, but he was in Santiago or somewhere.
“I knew you’d caught those people who were out to get me,” he explained. “Yvon said it was the Smith brothers from Colón and they were all dead or had been warned never to come back here. It should be safe enough now.”
“That kind of trouble can wreak havoc on business. Something that was actually unrelated made a mess of things for awhile and drew the wrong kinds of people. The Cartworthys weren’t part of that. They were acting for someone else to try to hide a scam.”
“Er, hide a scam?” Abel asked. “What kind of scam? One of those land deals? Sell ten people the same piece of land for a hundred grand apiece and disappear before they discover the papers were all phony?”
“Oh, that’s more a gringo scheme. I was talking with a man in Panamá City about how that usually ends. Somebody loses their life savings and finds the crook somewhere alone. Cut throats are almost epidemic in certain circles. The courts are sympathetic so long as it’s gringos killing gringos.
“No, this seems to be more a salted mine kind of deal. There area lot of small seams of minerals and whatever that are made to look like major finds to sell a bunch of naive people percentages, then the mine runs out after a hundred bucks worth of whatever is mined.
“Oh, dear! How would I have KNOWN? I had this expert tell me it was ... oh, dear! Same old same old. Get a new line. That one will get your throat cut for you – Or maybe get you smothered with a pillow.”
They gave each other “meaningful glances.” Was that because they were in on the scam or because they were worried that they might be the ones being scammed? Or both?
His phone buzzed. It was John Dougal in Bocas. Clint hadn’t seen him in months. He said Travis had asked that he call Clint if people came in little touristy bunches and asked about Puerto Armuelles. There were six people from the states in the Tropical Suites. They were asking about how to get to Puerto Armuelles. Which bus and did they ask for a lot of ID if you went by bus. They were booked for two weeks, but would be coming and going, meanwhile.
Clint sighed and told Downy and Abel he had to go. A little problem in David. He went to the hotel, packed and headed for the David bus.
Gringos
Clint met Travis, who said the bunch were having their lunch at Hotel Bocas del Toro. He went to the popular hotel on the water to stroll out onto the deck over the water. The view was nice and there was a light breeze. He greeted the attractive girls who waited tables and went to sit next to the covered raised eating area tables where the six were seated. After a few minutes and ordering a chicken sandwich – the Bocas had a very good chicken sandwich and the rest of the menu was more than just ordinary – a local lawyer came with a thick briefcase to join the group. He immediately announced that he had an investigation started into the business and had drawn up the papers for the S.A. It would be registered as an investment group with all legal matters to be handled by the third vice president, him. He said the idea was great and he was very happy they had chosen to allow him to buy in on the deal. They soon had him speaking quietly enough that Clint couldn’t hear. He took the sandwich, paid and left. He found Travis and asked about the lawyer. Short, a bit fat, longish black hair, cheap suit that was supposed to look expensive, expensive shoes, lots of flashy jewelry.
“That’s Nato Esperanza. He’s in on whatever they’re doing. He’s going to ream them a new asshole, I guarantee. He’ll find a way to get into the deal and’ll make so much in legal fees they won’t get anything for themselves.”
Clint nodded. Too many like that here.
“Travis, manage to meet me just by the gate as they come out and ask me how things are in Puerto Armuelles.”
Travis grinned.
Travis pushed his hat up and started walking toward the hotel. Clint came from the direction of The Pirate to meet him as they came abreast of the hotel just as the six were coming out. Travis called, “Yo, amigo? How are things in Puerto Armuelles? When did you get back?”
“Just an hour ago. Things are always calm in Armuelles. Some kind of major scam in the works, but there always are there.
“How has Bocas been?”
“Never changes. Same old same old.”
They chatted about the Pacific this time of year until the group passed, then Clint went on to wave at Carlos, Alex and Martin at La Iguana. It wasn’t open this early, but they were working inside. The group were standing there looking around and pointing three directions so he asked if they were looking for something specific.
“A bar called Bumfark’s or something like that?” one of them answered.
“Bohmfalk’s? I’m heading there right now. You can go straight ahead and turn right at the first block or to the right and turn left at the first block.”
“Oh? May we join you?” a woman asked. “I mean, if you’re going there anyhow...?”
“Most certainly! Welcome! I’m Clint Faraday, retired detective and beach bum.”
“Detective? I’m Millie O’Reilly and that’s my old man, Walt. George and Della Francis, Gene Burton, Hank Sommers.
“I think I heard the black man say you were from Puerto Armuelles? We might go there. I’ve heard it’s a very nice quaint little place.”
“Yes. It’s picturesque and serene. They’re ing to build a refinery in the area so see it now before the developers get in to destroy everything there is to go there for.”
“Oh? Put up a lot of cheap tract houses and that sort of thing?” Hank asked.
“McDonald’s, TGIF, KFC, Wendy’s, a bank on every corner, a halfassed mall, traffic snarls, a lot of crime. Might as well stay where you came from. They’ll have the view of the Pacific, but that will be all. It’ll be another tourist trap, just like any other in the world.
“Here’s Bohmfalk’s. Bill! How’re things?”
“What a question! The same as they always are in Bocas,” Bill answered happily. “Gringos? Where are you from?”
Clint introduced everyone and went to say hello to Sharon, then headed out. George called that they could at least buy him a beer, so he said he had an appointment – in half an hour, so he’d take him up on that. Balboa.
He went back inside and they sat at a table to chat. Della managed to ask a few odd questions about Puerto Armuelles. He gave noncommittal answers and they agreed to meet at the Lemon Grass for dinner – their treat.
The Lemon Grass is a Thai-style restaurant close to the Bocas del Toro hotel. He said that would be great. Seven? Seven thirty?
Clint went home to clean up and change. He’d have an hour and a half to get back to town. Judi said some people had been to his house. Gringos. They saw her and asked where he was. She told them she thought he was in David.
His house had been searched a little bit more professionally than the hotel room in Puerto Armuelles. Interesting. He took the flash drive from the comp – that recorded everything there through three small video cameras activated by sonic and motion detectors. He didn’t recognize anyone except Art Smith, a black who was always a bit shady. He was more or less showing the others around the house. So far as Clint knew he’d never been there before. Maybe before the cameras were installed two months ago. He seemed to know his way around the place.
The others were fairly clear except for one man who managed to always be where there wasn’t a clear view. He also wore a hat and dark glasses.
He went to meet his new friends at the Lemon Grass. Seven twenty five. Paul, a local guitarist/ singer was setting up. Mike, another popular local entertainer, was going to join him. Some jazz, some US folk music. Both were excellent.
The group were at a long table on the deck over the water. Clint went to greet them and to be introduced to Dan Washington, another gringo they’d met in Bohmfalk’s after he left earlier. Clint couldn’t be sure, but he could be the one who was never seen clearly in the videos from his house.
“Well! And how are things doing today?” Gene Burton asked.
“Same old routine. I’ve been away for a few days and someone searched my house. I have it on camera. Only one I recognized was a local. Not good pictures. A bit fuzzy so I’ll have to get better cameras.
“Stupid as hell! Any detective worth the name isn’t going to leave anything around the house to be found!
“Ah. The seafood curry is really good here.”
Dan Washington looked very uncomfortable, but the subject changed and he soon seemed normal. The look of discomfort told Clint he was the one at the house.
It was a pleasant evening. They discussed any number of random subjects, not too much about money or investments. Millie O’Reilly did get on about the high price of gasolene and how a new supply just HAD to be found. Clint suggested there was plenty of modern hydroelectric power generation in Panamá being developed and mass transportation had the price of gasolene at a usable level, if a bit high. The new refinery would probably help there.
“But the crude source will still be the Arabs and Venezuela and those places,” Walter pointed out. “THAT’S the point that has prices at those ridiculous levels now! New sources are a must!”
“Or new technology that doesn’t depend on oil,” Clint replied off-handedly. That got some hard and strange looks. This bunch was NOT interested in other energy sources or the environment. Not a thought to that!
The rest of the night was pleasant enough.
“Clint! Turn your phone on!” Judi called when he went out onto the deck with his coffee. He’d forgotten he’d turned it to silent.
“What’s up?” he called back.
“Somebody was killed last night – or this morning. About an hour and a half ago. I think Serg finds it a bit strange, seeing he was one of those borderline wanabe thugs from Bastimentos. You expect that bunch to get murdered, but this doesn’t seem to fit the pattern or something.”
He waved and went in to call Sergio, the local policia friend, who said it looked like Art Smith was there to meet someone who stabbed him directly through the heart.
“Art Smith? I see. Made to look like an execution or mugging?”
“More like a mugging, but his watch and forty three dollars were still there. That bunch? They would have even taken those fancy sneakers he wore. Definitely the gold chain.”
Clint told him about the trouble with the Smith family in Puerto Armuelles. “Those are the Colón Smiths, not the ones here.”
“I know. Smith is a very common name in Panamá,” Serg agreed. “On the other hand, a lot of people on Bastimentos have family in Colón.” They chatted a bit more about how tourism was bringing in far too many of those thugs.
So. Tell Dan Washington about recognizing a local thug in those videos and the local character ends up dead.
He showered and shaved, dressed in his normal clothes and went to the Hotel Bocas del Toro for breakfast. The bunch were there, discussing a trip to some local places. He had come up on them while Hank Sommers was saying they had to get to Puerto Armuelles very soon or they wouldn’t get in on the deal. When he came up behind him Millie gave Hank a look and smiled up at Clint to wish him a good morning. She said they were planning a little trip to maybe Boquete or Volcan and would they be better off flying or taking a bus.
“I like the bus. It’s a beautiful trip. Go to Almirante and catch a bus to David. You can go anywhere from David. The Boquete bus is only three or four dollars. I’ll probably be going to David this afternoon or tomorrow. I have a little job there. A scam – but they’re everywhere, anymore.”
He said he had an appointment, so would have to excuse himself. He was walking out when Dan Washington was coming in, looking a bit worse for wear. He stopped to chat a moment. Dan said he’d been up most of the night. His girlfriend was accusing him of seeing someone else.
“She from the states or here?”
“Oh, here. I don’t have anyone serious enough in the states to bring along.”
“Fast worker! How do you get them that possessive in just two days? You did say you just got here day before yesterday last night, I believe?”
“Er. She was here ... I mean, I met her two weeks ago in Panamá City. She’s the sister of a friend in the, er, real estate business, you see.”
“Oh. Still pretty fast work! Don’t let them get serious like that or they make life hell. They get their claws in a gringo and only think about a car and fancy house.
“Well, I have to meet a friend I’m doing a little job for. Have a nice day!”
He walked away.
So. Dan killed Art himself. He should get a medal for that and should get offed for whatever scheme they were working.
; How much were these people going to be screwed out of? Were there really that many gullible people around?
He got the flight to David. He had half an hour to get to the airport so rushed home to throw some things into a backpack. He got to the flight about five minutes before it took off. They held the plane a couple of minutes for security to check his bag, then he got on. Two hours later he was on the bus to Puerto Armuelles. He checked into the hotel as Denton Hanrady, his favorite disguise. This time he had it on completely and right. No one in Puerto Armuelles would be able to recognize more than some resemblance.
Yeah right! Obilio saw him coming in and asked why the disguise. He explained that the gringos weren’t to know he was there. Obi said only a few of his closer Indio friends would know.
“How did YOU know? I thought this was a pretty good act.”
“I think only Indios will notice. We don’t look for the same things. Your ears with the little notch on top of the right. The way you step down from the bus. You sort of favor your right leg. The scar on your right eyelid.
“Did you have an accident? Everything’s on the right side.”
“A motorcycle accident twenty some-odd years ago. It did some damage. I didn’t even know about the scar on my eyelid! Thanks, Obi. My next disguise, even you won’t see through.”
He laughed. “We’ll see!”
They were talking when Sam Downy and Frank Abel came by so he made it a point to be asking Obilio where a good hotel was. Obi said he was in a good hotel now. He said he thought there were more modern hotels there with casinos and that kind of thing. He slipped some papers out of his thick briefcase that looked very much like stock certificates and prospectus documents, almost dropped them, sighed, centered them and slipped them back into the briefcase.
