by Joel Travis
“You had me cooped up in that stuffy storage room all afternoon. How could I know that Brit would be wandering down the hall at three in the morning? What’s he doing here anyway?”
“Never mind that,” Cynthia said. “Just tell him.”
“I’m afraid he’ll lose his temper.”
Apparently he was afraid to tell me how he escaped, though I couldn’t imagine why. I was glad he had, for I was no longer a murder suspect. I promised I wouldn’t lose my temper.
“Well, as I said, I had a new keeper who spoke perfect English. Every day he would talk to me through the door for an hour or two. I looked forward to our daily conversations. I can’t say we became friends, because friends don’t keep you locked up in a small cell, but we did establish a comfortable rapport. I could ask questions freely, and unlike the first Pedro, he didn’t tell me to shut up.”
The Codger paused to sip his coffee and lick his thin lips. “Of course, I had lots of questions to ask him. Why had I been abducted? Didn’t he understand that it was inhumane to keep an innocent man locked up like an animal? Could I appeal my case?”
“Did you get any answers out of him?”
“He said he didn’t know why I had been abducted. He was paid to do a job and he’d keep doing it as long as he got a money order in the mail every Friday. He was new, but he wasn’t aware of any procedure for appealing cases.”
“Sounds like the rapport you’d established got you nowhere.”
“Not at first.”
“So what changed?”
“His money orders stopped coming.”
“Oh, I get it. He wasn’t being paid, so he let you go.”
“He could never have let me go. I might have gone to the police.”
“Why would he worry about that? You didn’t know who he was or what he looked like.”
“Perhaps there were neighbors or merchants who could identify him. I’m sure he went into town to buy my tortillas and cash his money orders. Anyway, he wasn’t taking any chances. One Monday morning he told me it was nothing personal, but he’d have to kill me if a money order didn’t arrive by Friday.”
“That must have been a stressful week for you.”
The Codger said he was glad I understood his predicament. If not for the deadline and the incredible pressure he was under, he would never have done what he did.
“I knew if Pedro didn’t get his money by Friday, my life would be over. Thursday night I told Pedro that if his money order wasn’t in the mailbox the next day I could contact my niece, Cynthia, and arrange for her to bring his pay current. He said that was out of the question. His employer wouldn’t approve. I reminded Pedro that his employer was a deadbeat. ‘Who cares what he thinks?’ I said. ‘I can get you your money.’ But Pedro said his employer wasn’t a man to mess around with over a few thousand bucks. Well, when he said that, it gave me an idea.”
“What idea?” I asked.
“Pedro didn’t think it was worth the risk to cross his boss over a few thousand bucks. But what if it was more than a few thousand? What if it was fifty thousand?”
I chuckled. “You know anybody who’d give you fifty grand?” I took a drink of beer.
“I told him you would.”
The beer in my mouth spewed out onto the kitchen table.
“Why did you tell him that?”
“I was desperate. I had to come up with something before he killed me, so I said that a man named Brit Moran owed me a hundred thousand dollars from a football wager which I hadn’t collected, due to my unscheduled trip to Mexico. I told him I’d split my winnings with him if he took me to Dallas. I also told him you were a successful bookie who took in thousands of dollars every day. How I’d placed bets with you for years and what a stand-up guy you were, win or lose.”
“Cut the flattery, Melvin. To save your own neck, you put mine on the chopping block. Luckily, no harm was done. You obviously escaped before the two of you could pay me a visit.”
“That’s true,” he said. “My concern is that Pedro will try to collect on his own. I gave him detailed directions to your house.”
I sighed. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t live there anymore. I moved into my brother’s house when I separated from the ex. Then I leased an apartment, which I had to evacuate recently, thanks to all to the trouble you’ve caused.”
The Codger continued on with his story.
“Pedro didn’t get a money order in that Friday’s mail, so he decided to accept my offer of fifty thousand dollars for a ride to Dallas. The problem he had was that he didn’t want me to be able to identify him. His solution was to purchase a mask for me.”
“What kind of mask?” I asked.
“The hot, rubber kind. One of those realistic masks they make nowadays that look like a Mexican celebrity. From a distance you can’t even tell it’s a mask.”
“Yeah, but didn’t your mask have eyeholes?”
“I’m sure it did at the time of purchase.”
Suddenly I was drawn into the Codger’s story. I can’t explain why. He was sitting right there beside me, so I knew he had escaped. But how? It seemed impossible without eyeholes. I was on the edge of my seat as the tale unfolded.
#
Pedro guided the masked Codger from his cell and out the front door. For the first time in months, Melvin was outdoors. He couldn’t see through the mask, but it did have breathing holes and he relished every breath of fresh air. Pedro shoved him into a vehicle and off they went, driving at breakneck speed over rough terrain. Melvin was exhausted from a sleepless night, and when the road smoothed out he slept soundly until Pedro poked his ribs sharply with what felt like a gun barrel.
“Are we in Dallas?” Melvin asked.
“Not even close. We had a flat. It’s on your side. Get out and change it.”
“How can I change the tire if I can’t see anything?”
Pedro issued precise instructions: “Get out of the truck, wait ten seconds, then take off the mask. Keep your eyes on the tire at all times.” He reminded Melvin that a gun would be pointed at him. If he made one false move, Pedro would blow Melvin’s head off and change the tire himself.
When he removed his mask, the first thing Melvin saw was the pickup truck, parked on the shoulder of a dark road in the middle of nowhere, the only illumination coming from the truck’s lights. Next to the flat tire, Melvin could make out a jack, a spare tire, and a flashlight. He heard Pedro’s voice from the other side of the truck.
“I’ll be watching you. Remember to keep the flashlight pointed down at the tire.”
Melvin confessed that he hadn’t changed a tire in thirty years.
“I’ll give you ten minutes to figure it out. By the way, if you need to take a leak, take it now. Once we’re back on the road, we won’t stop till we hit Dallas.”
Melvin heard the sound of liquid splattering on the pavement. Apparently Pedro was taking his own advice, relieving himself, probably looking down at his dick. It’s now or never, Melvin decided. He scooped up the flashlight. Crouching low to the ground, he headed for a nearby field. He had to cross a ravine to get there, and he winced in anticipation of a bullet in the back as he climbed out of the ravine. He ran about thirty yards and fell to the ground, exhausted. He was in even more pathetic shape than usual from being inactive for so long. He crawled through the tall grass, putting additional distance between himself and Pedro’s gun.
Pedro soon realized that Melvin wasn’t on the other side of the truck changing the tire. From his vantage point in the grass, Melvin watched Pedro maneuver the truck so that the headlights pointed out into the field. But Melvin was too far away, hidden in the tall grass just beyond the reach of the beams.
“Melvin!” Pedro shouted. “Come back now and I won’t kill you. You hear me? Don’t make me come out there and get you.”
He has no idea where I am, Melvin thought.
Pedro spent the next five minutes shouting into the dark. Thirty minutes of silence followed.
The truck didn’t move.
“I changed the fucking tire,” Pedro shouted. “Come on, Melvin. I’ll take you back to Dallas. I’m not mad.”
Melvin stayed put. A few minutes later he saw the truck peel out onto the highway, Pedro screaming obscenities out the window at the top of his lungs. Melvin sighed with relief, realizing how lucky he’d been. If not for the ravine, Pedro could have driven directly into the field, using the truck’s headlights to locate him.
Pedro was headed north, so Melvin climbed down into the ravine and followed it southward. When the gully gave out, he crossed the road and walked along the highway until a Good Samaritan picked him up and dropped him off in Laredo. Melvin had a childhood friend who now lives in Laredo, so he’d stayed with his friend for the last two months while he’d built up the courage to return to Dallas, where he might be murdered on sight.
#
Cynthia said she just couldn’t get over how brave her Uncle Melvin was to risk his life in a daring escape. To help her get over it, I said that her uncle’s plan of hiding in a storage room for the rest of his life struck me as cowardly and impractical. At the very least, Melvin had to inform the police that he was no longer a missing person. Cynthia said she didn’t see why. From what she’d seen, the police weren’t putting much effort into finding him.
“That’s because they’re under the impression that I murdered him and cleverly disposed of his body,” I said. “I’d like to clear up that little misunderstanding as soon as possible.”
Cynthia looked over at Melvin. He shook his head emphatically.
“He can shake his head till it falls off for all I care,” I said. “The police must be notified. I’m sure Melvin wants to get his wallet back.”
The Codger perked up. “The police have my wallet?”
“Yeah. Somebody planted your wallet in my wife’s garden.”
Cynthia and Melvin pleaded with me. They insisted that, wallet aside, there was no urgent need to notify the police. After all, the police could never prove that I murdered Melvin. He wasn’t even dead.
We eventually struck a deal. I promised to keep their secret until the cops hauled me in for questioning, at which time Melvin would come forward and clear my name.
Ala Dracula, Count Codger said he must return to his room before sunrise. The veterans were early risers. Before he departed, I wrote down my cell number and told him to call me when he was ready to talk about Sergio. He accepted it without comment and retired to his storage room, leaving me at the table with Cynthia.
I started to lay out my case against Sergio, but the poor girl was still in denial. She refused to believe that her husband was responsible for her uncle’s abduction. She insisted that it must have been Cesar. I asked how she figured that.
“Several days ago you were abducted by one of Cesar’s thugs, right?”
“His name was Carl.”
“Don’t you see? Carl abducted you right up the street—the same spot where my uncle was ambushed. Don’t you think that’s a curious coincidence?”
“A coincidence is when two events happen at the same time, not a year apart.”
“But Cesar is a suspect and we know he has a gang of thugs at his disposal. We also know he doesn’t mind sending them out to abduct people off the street. It has to be him.”
I hate to say this about my soulmate, but on this issue she was delusional. Self-delusion is like a powerful drug. It’s almost impossible to get the user to admit that they’ve lost touch with reality. You can talk yourself blue in the face trying to convince them that they’re the one with the problem, when you’re the one with the blue face. I didn’t even try. Instead, I reached into the pocket of Sergio’s robe and casually tossed a folded newspaper article onto the table.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“I found it at the back of your husband’s closet, in the pocket of one of his suits.”
She gave me a dubious look, unfolded the article, and read the headline. “New D.A. Vows to Collar White-Collar Crime.”
Chapter 20
Sunday afternoon I helped Charlie and the other veterans load their luggage into their cars. Enright had somehow worked his way down two flights of stairs. He stood on the front porch waving good-bye to people he couldn’t see, a forlorn expression on his face as he heard his friends drive away. I felt sorry for him. Little did he know that his best friend was hiding in the storage room on the second floor. It didn’t seem right to keep the blind man in the dark.
When I returned to the porch, Cynthia gave me a hug, thanked me, and told me to drive safely. I didn’t even know I was leaving. Andrea ran out of the house at the last minute and asked me when I would be coming back. Cynthia told Andrea I’d be coming back tomorrow, which was also news to me.
On the drive back to Marty’s house I called Sheila and instructed her to gather the team for an important meeting. She said it was a good thing I called, because Ace Monroe was making noises about dropping off the team. I didn’t tell her that the purpose of the meeting was to dissolve the team.
When I opened the front door, my team was there waiting for me. I don’t know how many people it takes to constitute an angry mob, but they were making it work with three. I led the mob into Marty’s study. There was a discussion period during which my leadership credentials were questioned at high volume. Marty and Susan burst into the room, curious to know what all the commotion was about. I urged everyone to sit.
Once everyone was seated, I announced that I was disbanding the team. I thanked Sheila and the Stork for their efforts and recommended that they catch the first available flight back to New Orleans. I suggested Ace return to his apartment and look for a job before he got evicted.
“What about the case?” Sheila asked.
“Solved it.”
“Oh, my God!” she said. “Who killed Hedgeway?”
“Nobody. He’s alive, so your services are no longer needed.”
Susan said she hoped Sheila and Barbara wouldn’t leave just because the case was solved. She’d enjoyed having them for Thanksgiving and she hoped they’d consider staying through Christmas. I started to say that we wouldn’t want to confuse Santa, who’d be expecting to find everyone in their own homes. I thought better of it, knowing that any jokes I made would be seen for what they were—the bitter comments of a man who saw himself sleeping on the laundry room floor for another month, his empty Christmas stocking hanging limply from the ironing board.
Sheila thanked Susan for her offer before turning her attention to me again. Of course, like the rest of the team, she wanted to know how I solved the case and where the Codger had been for the past year. I brought them up to date, starting with Cynthia’s request that I stay over and help host Enright’s reunion of old Army buddies. When I got to the part where I uncovered the Codger hiding in the house, I detected snickering in the audience.
“Some detective,” Sheila said. “You accidentally bumped into him in a dark hallway.”
“Some detectives have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”
Sheila rolled her eyes. She’s had a problem with her eyeballs for as long as I’ve known her. Ignoring her antics, I recounted the Codger’s exciting story of abduction, incarceration, and escape. I explained that he was still a nervous wreck, hiding in a storage room on the second floor of Cynthia’s house in fear of his life.
Ace said, “He thinks that Pedro guy will come after him, huh?”
“That’s right, Ace. But I believe he’s even more afraid of Pedro’s employer, Sergio Moreno.”
Sheila asked how I knew it was Sergio. I had to laugh. I mean, here she was, the same foolish woman who’d doubted my brilliance as a detective, practically begging me to enlighten her. I got a chuckle out of it, what with the irony and all.
From my shirt pocket I withdrew the folded newspaper article I’d shown Cynthia. Flicking my wrist, I flung it Frisbee-style into the audience. Whoever caught it would be the first to be enlightened. The
Stork used her long arms to pluck the article from midair before anyone else had a fair shot. She unfolded it and scanned it quickly, like a speed reader on speed.
“Sergio cut that article out of the newspaper and saved it,” I said. “It’s an old article. If you check the date of publication, you’ll see that it coincides with the Codger’s abduction. The way I figure it, Sergio got nervous about—”
“You certainly don’t have to explain it to me,” Barbara said. “If you’ll remember, I was the one who told you what Sergio was up to.” She turned to Sheila. “We were doing the laundry the other night, and I asked Brit if there had been any new developments in the case. He told me about his interview with Sergio Moreno. Sergio told Brit that he managed investment funds. He claimed he could double any investor’s money in six months.”
“The same pitch the Codger made to Cesar Hernandez,” I said. “That’s how I knew the Codger was working for Sergio.”
“Brit suspected that Sergio’s investment business wasn’t on the up and up,” Barbara said. “I agreed. Then I told Brit a story. A story about the time my great-grandfather met an infamous man in New Orleans in the summer of 1926.”
“1926!” Sheila said. “What could that possibly have to do with Sergio’s business?”
“Oh, it has everything to do with it. You see, dear, the man my great-grandfather met was Charles Ponzi.”
“Who’s he?” Ace asked.
#
Perhaps, like Ace, you aren’t familiar with the name “Charles Ponzi.” I can tell you a thing or two about him. I’ll supplement what I know by drawing from the report I compiled from the Web, which I passed out to everyone in the room.
Charles Ponzi was an Italian immigrant who first set foot on American soil in 1903. In 1919, Ponzi invented a get-rich-quick scheme which to this day bears his name. A Ponzi scheme is an illegal investment operation that offers investors the opportunity to double their money in a short period of time. It’s illegal because early investors are paid off entirely from the incoming funds of subsequent investors, rather than by profits generated from any legitimate business.
