He pushed his plate aside and said, “What's your point?”
I'd spent most of last night worrying the covers off and on with the unanswered questions. “I have a theory about Eddy.”
“Shoot.”
“Please! Any figure of speech but that one.”
“Sorry, I'm listening.”
“If you don't mind, here's what I know so far. Roxy said Eddy McBride and his wife were always writing to each other, so that accounts for how he knew who I was and where I lived. Roxy told me he came into her place once, dressed up in women's clothes, only without the gun. I think last night was staged as an Eddy McBride production for a reason.”
“No shocker there, not if he was a friend of Leslie's. So, what was his point?”
“After you paid for his defense, did you keep up with him while he was in prison, write letters, drop him a Christmas card, that sort of thing?”
“No, but…”
“Until last night, when you let him go, Eddy didn't know who he could trust.”
“But I was the one who got him the lawyer!”
“Yes, and look how well that went. Did you ever tell him why you got involved in the first place?”
He tucked his chin defensively and said, “I told you last night, it was nobody's business.”
Why was I not surprised. This was typical Noah Bains; iconic man of the decade for stoicsm.
“Well, perhaps you should have. All these years, Eddy's been sitting in jail wondering why he ever trusted your generosity. Your gesture may have been altruistic, you did it in memory of your son, but Eddy got prison. Don't you see, Noah? He broke into our house not because he was looking for Garth's girlfriend, but because he wanted to see your reaction to his prank. He was making enough racket downstairs to wake the dead, but when that didn't work, he shot off his gun. For that matter, I kinda wonder why he didn't shoot you.”
His grey brows went up in surprise, “Why would he want to shoot me?”
“Oh, yeah, now I remember—-it's because you're such a great guy and hired him that swell lawyer.”
“Don't be a smart-ass. It's unbecoming.”
Maybe the worry was getting to me, because I giggled. “I swear, could I possibly do anything more to ruin my already ruined reputation? So tell me this, whose idea was it to let him go?”
“Well, mine, I think. Or maybe… well, looks like it was his. But if it proved he has one person in his corner, I'm all right with it.” He scraped back his chair. “It was a stupid stunt, but so far the guy has had no luck at all so why should he trust any of us? If all you say is true, then I'm also satisfied he's not a danger to this family. By the way, it's going to rain.”
He called to Spike, who almost neglected his duty, thought better of it, growled at me, then ran after his master.
Only the ghost of my brother remained. We sat at our usual places at the breakfast table. The corn silk hair of my father's stood on his head in its usual morning disarray. The brown eyes of our mother crinkled with amusement. Ten years older, Leslie taught me to ride a bike and catch frogs. He was my biggest fan, and after our mother died, he was the nearest thing I had to a mom. It never occurred to me why his mothering skills were so good and mine were so poor. At least I didn't until it was too late for all of us.
“So what d'ya think big brother? Did Dad get his money's worth? Or was he sucker-punched?”
The ghost of my brother laughed at me. Without any real answers, I assuaged the gnawing unrest with more breakfast pancakes, blinking salty tears of regret into the syrup.
On the way out to the office, I lifted my nose to the air and sniffed. Dad was right, it did smell like rain, though the sky was still an innocent blue. Then from out of the south, came a deep droning sound. What looked like a squat bumblebee grew into a big yellow Ag-CAT. It was lumbering north with a full load of chemicals and desperately trying to outrun a dark squall rolling up behind it.
As if on cue, the outside office bell clanged in alarm. The bell screamed anxious farmers worried that the weather foretold impending doom. I ran into the office and answered the call, pencil and pad ready to handle the deluge, and spent the rest of the morning silencing that bell. Every client my father ever had was on the phone or lining up in front of my desk, trying to save their crops against the fickle August weather. It was going to rain.
I keyed the mike on the VHF radio, and called the pilots, alerting everybody that it was going be a longer day than expected. With a combination of threat and promise of a bonus, I shanghaied two more off-duty pilots. Since pilots are paid by the acre everyone was happy to have the hours. Everyone except Brad, who swaggered into the office, pulling off his gloves and grumbling about the extra long hours cutting into his plans for his day off. For once, he wasn't thrilled about the extra time. Why not? Cocky and generally too big for his breeches at twenty-eight, I could understand having the energy to go out at night, but after one more long day like this one, I would be prostrate on the bed at seven instead of eight. His youth could account for some of that boundless energy, but I wasn't convinced. I was beginning to wonder if he was doing uppers. I'd written him up for his annual and put it into his bin for pick up. He was duty bound to comply but so far I didn't see any evidence of either drug use or that he'd been to his exam.
I looked from Brad to the pile of work orders spread across my desk. “You finish those peaches yet?”
“Been pulling that money handle all day, babe,” he said, strolling past my desk and towards the bathroom.
“Don't call me ‘babe,’” I muttered, thumbing through the pile of work orders. “So, if you've finished the peaches, then you can start on Montecello's almonds. It's the north east corner of non-parils. Here's the map.”
He stopped at the bathroom door, then turned back to smirk at me over his shoulder. “But, babe, I'm not through with the peaches.”
“Didn't I just say… then what are you doing back here?”
“Getting fuel and taking a pee,” he said, grinning.
I was tired, irritable, and sorely out of patience with this boy's lip. I followed him into the bathroom where he was twisting at the combination of his locker. “Here,” I said, handing him a stapled invoice with its attached coordinates. “Here's your next job. Don't come back till you're out of fuel or you've got those peaches done.”
He grunted, looking down at the pages I had thrust at him. “Man, that's tight. When am I supposed to take a pee?”
“We're all behind, Brad. Pee off the wing,” I said, pushing him out the door and in the direction of his fueled and waiting aircraft.
I watched Brad get up on the wing, unzip his flight suit and send a long yellow stream arching over onto the ground. The ground crew thought it hilarious. Brad, zipped up, took a bow and thankfully started his engine. As he lifted off, I wondered how I was going to replace him.
By four p.m. work was done and I was sprawled out on the office couch, an empty Burger King box and Coke can on the floor, and my cast propped up on an arm rest. I was just drifting into a nice little nap when the door opened. Oh, please, God, not another farmer. I lifted my arm away from my eyes. “Yeah?”
“You the secretary?” asked the male voice in a blue work shirt complete with nametag.
“No, but I'm looking for one,” I wearily mumbled from my couch. “How's your coffee making? Nobody here does coffee worth a damn.” When he didn't snap that he was here to give us some work, I decided he was one of the chemical company salesmen. “Look, whatever it is you're selling, it's gotta wait till tomorrow. Ten a.m. would be good.” I put my arm over my eyes again.
“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. They told me a lady ran this place. I'm new with Hollander Chemicals.”
The arm I had draped over my eyes came away to see the blue shirt backing out my office door.
“Hollander Chemicals?” I sat up and swung my legs onto the floor, putting the other foot into the Burger King box. “Hey, don't leave,” I said, shaking the box hanging off my foot. “W
ait up.”
He turned around, smiled at the Burger King logo gracing one shoe and a cast on the other. I reached down and removed the box. “Have a seat and I'll go splash some water on my face to wake up, okay? Be right with you.”
I went into the bathroom where we had showers, toilets and a line of sinks along the wall with spray fountains that squirt water upwards. These little squirt guns were our first line of defense against chemical leaks through a respirator. I let the cool water spray my face and then reached for a paper towel. The paper towel dispenser was empty again, the sinks were filthy, and the floor was littered with paper and bath towels. The men expected the “woman” to do it for them. Tired of telling them to pick up after themselves, I had every intention of hiring a “woman.” First thing tomorrow, Juanita's cousin would clean, scrub and pick up. Her fee would be divided between pilots and ground crew.
I looked up from the sink at my reflection in the mirror. Two months ago, Hollander Chemicals was just another name that went with the industry. I should have paid attention when my dad mentioned Hollander Chemicals and Machado, the guy who now owns it. Before then I only knew Hollander Chemicals by name and reputation and only that they were stingy with extras and quick to invoice. How did a crop-duster find the bucks to buy another business when most of us in the industry were stretched to the limit running one business?
I closed the door on the mess behind me and smiled at the salesman. He jumped up from his chair and extended a sweaty hand. He looked as wrung out as I felt.
I said, “They gave you Stockton to Merced, didn't they?”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“’Cause that's why the last guy left. Look, take my advice and go back and tell ‘em you can only handle Merced to Modesto. Or Modesto to Stockton.”
“Oh no, ma'am. I couldn't do that. They gave me an opportunity on the best route and I'm not going to let them down now.”
“Uh-huh.” I was thinking it more likely that Hollander Chemicals is too cheap to pay another salesman. I motioned him over to a map of Stanislaus and San Joaquin Counties and pointed to the red pins. “These pins show the companies who service the farmers of three counties. The green are our clients.” I swept my hand over the colored dots and then let my forefinger trail down to the middle. “Our central location accounts for work that extends east as far as Hughson, south past Turlock, and west just short of Patterson. That's where Patterson Flying Service starts. If it's a really busy season, we have to depend on our chemical salesperson to get us what we need. It's a tight relationship that works both ways. So, I'm telling you this for your own benefit. This is where your territory should be—here,” I said, stretching my fingers to cover a reasonable amount on the map “When it's busy you will be able to handle about thirty farmers who control all this acreage and two aerial applicators. When you fail us, and that's a given with a busy season, we won't be bothering to pick up the phone and call Hollander Chemicals, we'll be calling another company.”
He gulped. “You're right. I haven't seen my wife and kids for more than two hours out of this whole week. All I seem to do is drive.”
Pretending I didn't know, I asked, “By the way, who owns Hollander Chemicals these days?”
“Uh, guy by the name of Clark hired me. But, I think he said the owner's name's Machado. I've never met the guy. Not that I would, being on the road all the time. I call in the orders anyway.”
I shrugged, like it didn't matter to me. “You take Merced to Modesto. Fill that in with Patterson Flying on the West side and Hawk Dusters on the East and you've got a full time job and our loyalty.”
We shook hands, and he left looking a little less exhausted than when he came in. He wasn't out of the yard before I had the book of California Aero Ag Owners and Operators on the desk, looking for an address. I found John Machado still listed as being in the industry.
I went to the house to shower and dug into the back of my closet and pulled out two hangers covered in thin plastic. Choosing the taupe linen knee-skimming sheath over the other more brightly colored dress, I put it on and shoved my size nine feet into a pair of sandals, grabbed my wallet and keys and left.
Bobby Norquist was working for Machado when he died. And Norquist was the murder witness for Eddy McBride's defense. The question was, did he die by accident or design? I decided it was time for me to find out.
A “No Trespassing” sign dangled from a chain link fence in front of the work yard at John Machado's Aero Ag Service. I drove around the fence and parked next to a huge WWII Quonset hut. Stepping between buildings I saw men and forklifts hurriedly moving equipment and supplies around. I'd let all of my crew go home by three because tomorrow it would all start again at three-thirty a.m. It made for one very long day. Machado was either working two shifts or only worked nights. Which was odd since nobody north of Merced flew nights. Cotton is flown at night as that's when the wind is down and the bugs are out.
I followed the driveway to an airstrip where two helicopters and three Ag-CATs lined up. The planes looked like dark, grumpy elephants shuddering behind the motion of their huge propellers. A pilot with an orange helmet in the crook of his arm passed by me, giving me a leer that said, “I would've slapped you on the butt lady, but I'm busy right now,” and then he disappeared around the corner of the building.
A screen door slammed and a heavy-set man in overalls lumbered over to me. He wasn't smiling, but he didn't carry a club either. I suspected I wasn't going to stun him with the 100-watt smile I kept for the old codgers, but a corner of his mouth did quirk up a bit.
“Hi,” I said.
“Afternoon,” he said, looking at his watch, grudging the time. “What can I do for you?”
I held out a hand, “John Machado?”
He ignored my offering.“No, he's in the office. I don't mean to be, rude ma'am, but if you're from the newspaper, he's not giving out any more statements, and as you can see this is a real busy place.” He waved his arm in the direction of the loaders filling a tank with familiar and noxious chemicals. The loaders were wearing the requisite coveralls and masks, but no respirators. I looked away quickly before the surprise registered on my face and before he suspected I might be a county inspector. Good thing I wasn't from county or he'd be in for a big fine.
Mr. Overalls stood guarding the office door. “Like I said, this is an awfully dangerous place to be about now. Chemicals, airplanes and a very tired crew can be a dangerous mix.”
“I get your point, but I am not with the newspaper. I just want to speak to Mr. Machado for a minute.” I tried again to move around him toward the screen door.
He blocked me. “If you have a complaint about the noise or the chemicals, take it to the county.”
“That's not it either,” I said, feinting a move to the right and lunging to the left. He lumbered after me as I walked through the front door.
In his late fifties, graying hair combed over a balding pate, John Machado sat behind the vintage metal desk. His beefy face reddened when he looked up.
“Mr. Machado?” I asked, sticking out my hand and giving him my hundred-watt smile. “Could I have just five minutes of your time? I'm not a reporter.” That was certainly true, and I hoped I could pull this off before he connected me to my daily dose of fame in the local newspaper.
“Gimme ten minutes?” he said, stacking papers. “I gotta get this ground crew on their way.”
“Sure,” I said. It would give me a chance to snoop.
He motioned to the guy I brought in with me and they went out together.
I watched them walk a few feet from the office, stop and talk. I was just paranoid enough to worry. Were they talking about me? Of course they were. The guy in the overalls glanced back and caught me staring. He quickly looked the other way, then nudged his boss further from the door. What? Like I'm going to read your lips? I wish I had been able to read their lips. Save me some questions.
Mr. Overalls went on out to the crew and John Machado with his
back to the office started waving his hands in the air and shouting. Overalls was right, this might be more dangerous than I thought. While they were still shouting at each other, I did an about face and rifled through the papers on his desk. Nothing that could tell me what he was doing tonight. No work orders with today's date on it and no recent invoices for chemicals. I tried a couple of drawers, but they were locked. When I heard footsteps, I turned away from the desk and pretended to be studying the set of photos on the wall behind his desk. In a line of old black and white photos, guys in soft leather caps and jackets stood in front of their Stearmans, goggles lifted to show raccoon faces and watery eyes rimmed with sulfur.
The door opened and a voice behind me said, “That one was taken in the fifties, when we spread sulfur over everything, cows, kids, and crops. See the people in the field waving? Today they shake their fists at us and call county.” Mr. Machado and I stood shoulder to shoulder while he tapped the glass on another picture. “Poor Bud was so allergic to the stuff, watery eyes, skin rashes, he finally just gave it up and bought a bar down the road. You may have passed it? Big old Stearman with a neon dust trail? Bud's happier running a bar than he ever was pitching chemicals out of an airplane.”
“Who's the guy on the right, the one with the funny haircut?”
“That's not a haircut, that's burn. It got the whole right side of his face.”
“Was he a bad pilot, or just unlucky?”
“Unlucky, but thankfully not on my dime. I needed a hand and Bob was helping out for the season. I don't think his wife even had a photo of him after he was burned in his first accident. He didn't like pictures of him around, so I put this one up after he died.”
“Died?”
“Yes, Ms. Bains. That's Bob Norquist. He was the pilot who crashed and burned to death just before he was going to testify twenty years ago on behalf of Bill Hollander.”
“Okay, you got me.”
A Dead Red Cadillac Page 13
