Leopold glanced at the SUV. “Is it locked?"
The officer nodded. “And there are no packages visible on the floor or seats."
"What are you looking for?” Littlewolf demanded. “Drugs? I run a legit business here, and show a good profit. I don't need Wein or anyone else peddling drugs on my premises."
Leopold waited till he'd finished and then asked, “You own the Homestead, too, don't you?"
"That's right. Something wrong there, too?"
"No. In fact I had dinner there last night. It's just that I was supposed to meet Wein in the parking lot at nine o'clock and he didn't show up."
Littlewolf shrugged. “I guess he found the casino more profitable. I'm sure my security people will find him at the roulette wheel or the blackjack table."
But that didn't happen. At noon Rosco Wein was still missing and Lieutenant Oaken requested that the state police join in the search. Leopold remained close to the lieutenant, hoping for some news he could pass on to Fletcher, but all through the afternoon there was nothing. “He seems to have left the reservation,” Leopold said at last.
"Without his car? That's doubtful."
Late in the afternoon Littlewolf directed his men to break into the car and search it. There were no drugs, no weapons, no bloodstains, nothing.
* * * *
Leopold tried phoning Karen Wein but she didn't answer on her home phone and he didn't have the number of her cell phone. He finally decided the best place to find her was the Homestead and he showed up there at the dinner hour. The place was almost empty and there was no sign of Sammy Bryson, though his piano was uncovered.
"Has Karen Wein been around?” Leopold asked the bartender.
"Haven't seen her. She might turn up later."
Leopold ordered a beer. “Let me see a menu, too,” he said, thinking he should stick around for a while to see if Karen appeared. He decided on a veal cutlet. Presently Bryson came in, removed his coat, placed the top hat in position for tips, and sat down to play. He started with a jazz version of “Easter Parade,” a couple of days late. Then he paused as if taking a break but Leopold heard a few faint notes of “Yankee Doodle” and the piano picked up on them, launching into a jazz version of that as well. Leopold had to admit the guy was good, and before dinner arrived he went over to drop a couple of dollars into the top hat. Bryson bowed in thanks and played a couple more songs before taking a break.
The veal cutlet was good. He was almost finished when the door opened and Jay Silverspur came in alone, heading for the same table he'd occupied with Karen the previous night. Leopold waited till he was seated, then picked up his beer and walked across the silent floor to join him. “Hello, Jay. Remember me?"
"Sure. It was just last night."
"Mind if I join you?"
"Not so long as you're buying the beer."
Leopold motioned to the bartender for two more. “Have you seen Karen Wein today? I've been looking for her."
"Her brother's gone off somewhere. She's probably with him."
"Where would that be?"
"Beats me. Over on the Canadian side, probably."
"I had an appointment with him this morning. He didn't keep it."
A slow smile formed on Silverspur's face. “So now I'm good enough for you."
"I didn't say that. I don't need anything from you."
"Are you so sure?” he asked with a sly wink.
Well, was he? Leopold decided to play along. “You said you could get drugs at the cheaper Canadian prices."
"The Canadian dollar's close to the American in value these days. You wouldn't save much on medication—that wasn't really what I had in mind. But maybe I could supply something you can't find at the corner drugstore."
"Maybe. I have medical problems—"
"I know. You told us last night. You want pot? I can get you the best grade of Canadian marijuana."
Leopold glanced nervously over his shoulder, as if fearful that someone might overhear their conversation. “Wein mentioned Ecstasy too. And some cocaine."
"I can supply it all."
"Could I get it tonight?"
"How much do you need?"
"I was going to pay Wein ten thousand."
"American or Canadian?"
"American."
"Sure, we can do business. What did he promise you?"
Leopold took the list from his pocket. “Here. But I feel odd about this. What if he comes back?"
"He's not coming back. The res is swarming with cops searching for him. He's probably way across the border where it's safer."
At the piano Bryson had started playing again, beginning with an old Cole Porter melody, “Don't Fence Me In.” Leopold had been a teenager, just starting to date, when the song was popular back in the ‘forties.
"He knows the old ones,” Silverspur said. “Dan hired a trio that plays rock on weekends for the younger crowd."
"You know Littlewolf well?"
"Everyone knows Dan. He's our local success story. With the casino and this place, he's probably the wealthiest Injun in the state."
"How'd he get enough money to open the casino? Drugs?"
Silverspur shook his head. “He's got backers. Maybe they're Mafia. I don't ask questions."
"How soon can you be back here with my order? It's a four-hour drive home for me."
"Maybe an hour, that soon enough?"
"Eight o'clock? I guess I could wait that long."
"See you then. Out in the parking lot."
"Fine.” Leopold watched him go, then paid the check and went out to the car to call Lieutenant Oaken on his cell phone.
* * * *
He was still sitting in his car at twenty minutes to eight, waiting for Silverspur's return, when he saw Karen Wein pull into the parking lot. It was growing dark but he recognized her at once and got out of his car. “Karen!” he called out.
She was half out of her car when she heard him. Immediately she was back in the driver's seat, slamming the door and turning the ignition. It had started to snow, big wet flakes that cut down visibility, but she'd certainly recognized him and was taking off. He went after her, trying to remember the last time he'd been involved in a car chase. This one didn't last long. At the next intersection she turned the wheel too sharply on the wet pavement and skidded off the road. Leopold pulled in behind her, blocking her escape.
He opened her door, confronting her in the near darkness. “Why'd you run away? I'm looking for your brother."
"I thought you were someone else. I don't know where Rosco is. I tried calling him but there's no answer."
"I have to tell you the tribal police are looking for him."
"I know that. They're all over the reservation, along with the state police."
"If you know where he is, you should tell him to come out of hiding."
"I have no idea where he is,” she insisted.
"They found his car in the casino parking lot."
"They'd better ask Dan Littlewolf about that."
"Were the two of them on bad terms?"
"No, I don't know.” She shook her head. “Please move your car so I can back out of here."
"Has your brother had previous run-ins with the police or government authorities?” he asked, remembering the mug shot.
"Nothing serious. He's a patriotic American. He obeys the laws, has a flag decal on his truck, a patriotic ring tone on his cell phone, for God's sake! What are they trying to do to him?"
He glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost eight. “I have to go. I have to meet Jay Silverspur in a few minutes."
"What for?"
"Nothing involving you."
Leopold moved his car, but when Karen tried to back out, her wheels spun in the mud.
Time was running out for his meeting with Silverspur. “I'll drive you back. You can get the car later,” he offered.
When they reached the Homestead parking lot he told her to lean down in the seat, out of sight. In the near
darkness he didn't think Silverspur could see her.
He arrived right on time, pulling into the restaurant lot and parking next to Leopold. “You got the money?” he asked.
"Right here.” Leopold produced his envelope and showed the currency.
Silverspur took a large bundle from his trunk and Leopold started to get out, to keep the man from seeing Karen bent down in the front seat. That was when she caught a glimpse of the pistol in his ankle holster. “He's a cop, Jay!” she shouted.
Silverspur froze in his tracks for an instant, hearing her voice but not knowing where it was coming from. Then his hand dipped beneath his leather jacket and Leopold rushed forward, knocking the man off balance. A police whistle sounded from the other side of the parking lot. Silverspur was on the ground, tugging to free a switchblade knife from his pocket, when Leopold kicked his hand and reached down for his own weapon. Karen Wein was out the other side of the car, breaking into a run, when Oaken grabbed her around the waist and handcuffed her.
"Let's take them into the bar,” Leopold suggested when Silverspur and Karen were both in custody. “It's time we got to the bottom of this."
* * * *
Sammy Bryson stopped in the middle of a song as they entered, and the bartender looked as if the place was being raided. Lieutenant Oaken was leading Karen Wein and Jay Silverspur, both in handcuffs, with two officers following. At the sight of them, most of the regular customers quickly paid for their drinks and departed. Leopold was about to start talking when Dan Littlewolf entered, looking unhappy.
"What's going on here?” he asked.
"Police business,” the lieutenant told him. “It doesn't concern you."
"I own this place, remember? Have you arrested these people?"
"Let him stay,” Leopold advised.
Oaken nodded. “To answer your question, Mr. Littlewolf, we're arresting Jay here for possession of narcotics with intent to sell. Miss Wein is being held for questioning."
"What about her brother? Have you found him?"
"Not yet."
Leopold cleared his throat. “I believe I can shed some light on that."
"Who is this man?” Littlewolf demanded.
"A private citizen who's been helping the authorities,” Oaken told him, and that was enough to shut him up. He seated himself at a table with Silverspur and Karen. One of his uniformed officers stood behind them.
Dan Littlewolf hesitated in choosing a seat for himself, finally sharing the piano bench with Bryson. “All right, what have you got to say?” he challenged Leopold. “Have you found Rosco Wein?"
"I think so, yes,” Leopold responded. “You see, the trouble with most criminals is that they don't read enough. They especially don't read Edgar Allan Poe."
"What's that got to do with my brother?” Karen asked.
"Could I borrow your cell phone for a moment?” he asked.
She couldn't reach it with her hands cuffed, but Oaken took it out of her jacket and passed it to Leopold. “Now what?"
"What's his speed-dial number? You called him last night."
"Sure, he's my brother. Punch number 2."
Leopold did it and then they heard the muffled sound—the first few notes of “Yankee Doodle,” seeming to come from the floor beneath their feet, like the beating of the telltale heart in Poe's story.
* * * *
Once again Sammy Bryson tried to cover the sound with his jazz piano, but this time he wasn't fast enough. It was Littlewolf himself who silenced his fingers on the keys. “Where is he? Down there?"
Leopold nodded. “Sammy told me he had to stay here last night to close up. Wein came back with his package for me and probably asked to hide it overnight. Sammy killed him for it."
The piano player's face had drained of all color. “That's not how it was! I asked for some coke and we had an argument. I hit him. My God, I didn't mean to kill him!"
"But he was dead and you had to hide the body somewhere. It was too risky to carry it out to your car. You wrapped it in the plastic piano cover, which was missing tonight, hoping that would help hide the odor. You pried up some of the loose floorboards and hid his body under them, then nailed them back in place. The old floor squeaked when I walked across to Karen's table last night, but it was silent when I walked to the same table tonight. You never thought to search the body for a cell phone, though. When Karen tried to phone him earlier this evening, you heard the first few notes of “Yankee Doodle"—the patriotic ring tone she'd mentioned to me. You quickly launched into a jazz version on your piano and covered it nicely so no one realized what they'd heard. That single act proved you knew he was under the floor. It told me you'd killed him, Sammy."
Leopold remained on the scene while they pried up the floorboards and removed the body. Recovering the victim's remains was something he'd done so many times before. It had always been part of the job. He'd have to phone Molly and tell her he wouldn't be home tonight after all.
©2007 by Edward D. Hoch
[Back to Table of Contents]
ROAD GAMBLE by Scott William Carter
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
Scott William Carter's stories have appeared in periodicals such as Asimov's, Analog, Weird Tales, and Crimewave, as well as in anthologies published by Pocket Books and DAW. He writes YA fantasy novels as well, and tells EQMM that he lives in Oregon with his “patient wife, two children, two indifferent cats, a faithful dog, and thousands of imaginary friends.
Whipping around the sharp bends, tires squealing on wet asphalt, Simon pushed his little Miata close to eighty. The wall of pine trees on both sides, as well as the black sky above, created a dark tunnel into the hills. He was thinking about making it to the coast before midnight, early enough to squeeze in a few hands with the late-night poker crowd at the casino, and he didn't see the motorcycle until he was almost on top of it. With no taillight, and with its rider clad in black, the bike emerged from the dreary gloom like a moth alighting on his windshield.
"Holy mother of—” he cried, stomping on his brakes.
The shoulder belt snapped taut against his chest. His car fishtailed, back tires screaming, front end coming inches from the bike's mud-caked license plate.
Up close, the Miata's headlights slashed through the rain and the dark, illuminating the man and his bike in vivid detail. The guy's glistening jacket bore a striking design: a white bear head in profile, glowing as if luminescent. It was the only thing on the rider that wasn't black; pants, boots, even the helmet melded with the stormy night, making the bear appear to hover over the road.
Simon didn't know much about motorcycles, but the bike was definitely too sleek and compact to be a Harley. It looked like it belonged on a racetrack, not a highway.
Heart pounding, Simon eased off the biker. He would have ex-pected the commotion to startle the guy, maybe cause him to swerve, but the biker's only re-action was to turn his head halfway around, just far enough that Simon's headlights ap-peared on the helmet's mirrored faceplate like a pair of hot ember eyes. The guy looked for a moment, then turned back to the road.
And dropped his speed down to thirty.
Son of a gun. Simon could understand the guy being pissed—Simon had nearly plowed over him—but going half the speed limit, even in these conditions, seemed petty.
The squeaking wipers struggled to keep the windshield clear. Dashboard fans roared out a steady stream of warm air. There were few opportunities to pass on Highway 18, but Simon knew there was a passing lane in a few miles. He'd driven this road so many times, every pothole and mile marker was burned in his memory. He'd wait a few minutes, give the guy a chance to cool down. He really wanted to get to that poker game—he was already imagining the rush of tossing in his first ante—but he didn't want to get into some kind of stupid road game. In these conditions, one of them could end up dead in a ditch.
As his heart slowed, he felt a pang of remorse. What if he had died out here? Tomo
rrow—Saturday—was Jana's second birthday. He could just imagine the look on her face as she sat on their crappy lima-bean couch in their mousetrap apartment—an apartment that should have been packed with children laughing and making noises with party favors, but instead would be empty and deathly quiet as her mother explained why Daddy wasn't coming home.
She was so young ... In a few years would she even remember him?
Guilt—it was the worst kind of feeling, a feeling Simon had come to dread because he knew it always lurked somewhere around the corner. The worst part, the absolute worst part, was that Tracy would know, if he died on this stretch of road at this time of night (when he was supposed to be hanging out at Steve's watching horror flicks) that he had broken his word.
Promising to give up gambling forever was the only way he had been able to keep her from leaving him.
But what she didn't know couldn't hurt her. After all, he wasn't playing like last year when his losses forced them to file for bankruptcy. No, it was nothing like that. Just an occasional game here and there. For fun, really. Spare change he earned from his tips, money Tracy never saw. He'd never dip into his bank account again. He was in control now.
His radio, turned low, was losing its Rexton signal to static, and Simon clicked it off. When he did, he noticed his hand was shaking. Apparently the incident had gotten to him more than he thought it had. The biker went on puttering at thirty, the spray from his back tire misting in the beams from Simon's headlights. Not a single car passed from the other direction, but Simon knew the road was way too popular, even on nights like this, to chance passing with a double yellow.
Jana's birthday, he kept telling himself. Jana's birthday.
He honked his horn a few times, but the guy didn't react. A few minutes later, they crested a rise and rounded a bend, entering a brief downhill straight stretch. Ah, now here was the passing lane. The road opened up, the dotted white line appearing. Accelerating, Simon moved to the left. The biker stayed on the right and in a few seconds Simon was alongside him.
For just a moment, no more than a few seconds, Simon eased off the accelerator to look at the biker.
EQMM, June 2007 Page 9
