EQMM, December 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What changed your mind?"

  "You did, silly."

  "Good answer. Do we have any vanilla ice cream in the freezer?"

  "If we don't, I can get some tomorrow at Walt's Market."

  "Could you pick me up some bottles of Stewart's Old-Fashioned root beer, too?"

  "Certainly,” she said, yawning hugely. “Nothing's too good for my man."

  She dropped off at once with her head on my chest, her sleep the untroubled, innocent sleep of Tracy. As I lay there holding her, it occurred to me that despite all of our ups and downs—the years of loving each other, hating each other, loving each other all over again—I still didn't know Merilee Nash. None of us really knows the person we love. That's nothing but a sweet illusion. Then I closed my own eyes and, smiling, fell asleep with this stranger in my arms. l

  (c) 2007 by David Handler

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: GYPSY GOLD by Edward D. Hoch

  Edward D. Hoch's Gypsy king, Michael Vlado, always seems to be in the thick of important current events. The following case is no exception. A new proposal to open-pit mine gold in the Transylvanian hills has Michael called out to talk to the proponent of the project—where he finds himself mixed up in an unexpected murder.

  Michael Vlado had been home in his village of Gravita for more than a year, raising horses and tending to his farm in the Transylvanian foothills. He liked to tell his wife Rosanna that his foreign adventures were behind him, that he would concentrate on the farm now and his position as a Gypsy king. “I have never been a wanderer,” he told her one spring evening as they sat by the fire and she worked at carving the intricate little animals she sold at the village shops. The conveniences of modern life had come slowly to the foothills of the Carpathians, but they now had a telephone and even a small television set, which they rarely watched.

  "And yet you have wandered far, to Paris with your racehorse just last year,” she reminded him.

  "I hope those days are past. There is much to do right here. That gold-mine venture is disturbing for all of us who live in these hills."

  The discovery of gold in Transylvania dated from the second century, when the Emperor Trajan extended Roman territory to include the western half of present-day Romania and began mining Europe's most important gold deposits. The mining had continued to the present day, with the Communists using an open-pit method to extract as much gold as possible. The mine had shut down early in 2006, but within a year there was talk of reopening and expanding it, taking several of the Gypsy farms that dotted the hillside.

  Michael's longtime friend Captain Segar, who'd moved from the government militia to a higher federal security position with the fall of Romania's Socialist rulers, had warned Michael about the coming of the gold miners.

  Sam Segar appeared at the farm with new and disturbing news.

  "I wanted you to be the first to hear,” he told Michael. “The government is scheduled to approve the MagiGold Corporation's bid to begin open-pit mining along this entire stretch of farmland."

  Michael was concerned but not alarmed. “Do you think it will ever really happen? Perhaps it will go the way of the Dracula theme park they started to build on the other side of the mountain. That idea collapsed when Prince Charles of Britain and other activists showed their outrage."

  "But these men are serious, Michael. Digging wealth from the ground is much easier than attracting customers to an amusement park in the middle of nowhere."

  Michael Vlado gazed across the field at the distant mountains. “I thought the environmental organizations were opposed to open-pit mining. The ground is still ruptured from the last mine."

  Segar nodded. “This mine would use large quantities of highly toxic cyanide, too, making it even more harmful. Some Gypsy farms not part of the actual dig would probably still suffer.” He filled Michael in on past problems with cyanide leaching.

  "Who can I see about this?"

  "You might come along with me today. I'm on my way to visit Hans Creange. He's the last of the holdouts, with fifty acres of land dead center on the proposed site, and he may be ready to back down."

  "I know Creange,” Michael said, “but he is not a Rom. I doubt if my opinions would mean anything to him."

  "If he sells, the Gypsy farms might well be affected, even this farm."

  "Why are you opposed to it, Segar?” Michael wondered. “You are a government official."

  "The government was opposed to it too, until quite recently. The people at MagiGold Corporation have convinced them that the gold-mining venture would pump more than two billion dollars into the Romanian economy."

  Michael thought about it. “You're going there now?"

  Segar nodded. “A MagiGold representative is meeting with Creange at noon."

  "Then I should be there too,” Michael decided. “Many of these small farms are owned by my people."

  He told Rosanna he'd be gone for several hours and she came out to greet Segar. “Just get him home for supper,” she requested as Michael slipped into his favorite maroon tunic.

  "Don't worry. I hope to be back in Bucharest by that time."

  * * * *

  It took them almost an hour over the bumpy mountain roads to reach the Creange farm. A black sedan of Russian make was parked in the driveway, a sign that the representative of MagiGold had arrived before them. Segar led the way up the cobblestone walk to the front door of the ancient farmhouse and knocked loudly. Presently Hans Creange opened the door to admit them. He was a tall, slender man with a goatee, who seemed surprised to see Michael.

  "You're Vlado, the Gypsy,” he said by way of greeting. “I wasn't expecting you."

  "I asked him to come,” Segar explained. “His Gypsy tribe has a number of farms in the area that could be impacted by this mining operation."

  "Then you'll want to speak with Serge Brunner from the MagiGold Corporation. I am only concerned with my farm."

  He led them into the dining room, where Brunner was seated at the table. In typical Romanian fashion, Creange had offered his visitor food and drink as soon as he arrived. Brunner had chosen a cup of his host's specially blended jasmine tea, without milk. He liked it so much he took a whiff of the tea leaves, scented with fragrant jasmine blossoms. Segar, who'd met the MagiGold representative before, introduced Michael as a Gypsy king. Brunner, a slender, well-dressed man wearing a dark suit and necktie, was probably in his forties. He shook hands and said, “I never would take you for a Rom, Mr. Vlado. You have no gold teeth. Don't all Romanian Gypsies have gold teeth?"

  "Many have gold caps on their teeth, and wear gold rings on every finger,” Michael replied. “I do not."

  "But the Romanian Gypsy likes gold."

  "I suppose all Gypsies do, to some extent. That does not mean they are ready to sacrifice their farms to a gold mine."

  "Here, sit down and join us in some tea,” Creange said, producing two more cups. “It is my special blend of jasmine."

  "It's quite flavorful,” Brunner assured them. “I've never had jasmine before. Here, smell the leaves."

  Tea was a popular drink in the country, and Michael had to admit this blend was especially flavorful. “Will you be selling your farm to MagiGold?” Segar asked.

  "We are discussing that,” Brunner said before Creange could answer. “This is a key location in MagiGold's overall planning."

  Suddenly, from outside, came the sound of a cascade of stones hitting the house. Michael was on his feet at once, running to the window. A handful of Rom youths stood in the road, pelting the house and the black sedan with stones and a few good-sized rocks. Already Hans Creange was pulling a shotgun from his closet, but Michael waved him away. “I'll handle this,” he said.

  He stepped outside, calling some of the youths by name. “Put down those stones at once or I'll have you before the Rom court!"

  One of the older youths was the first to drop his stones. “We didn't know you were here,” he pleaded.

  "Y
ou are Nikolo, are you not?"

  "Yes, sir,” he admitted.

  The others had joined Michael in front of the house, and Serge Brunner ran over to inspect his car. “There are dents from the stones,” he reported. “And my windshield is badly cracked.” He lunged at the youth but Nikolo easily pushed him away.

  "We don't want you here!” the Gypsy lad shouted. “You take our land for a gold mine. You ruin the farms, you drive us away. But not this time! The Roms will stop you! If you come back I will break another of your windshields."

  Michael walked across the yard and grabbed the youth by his shirt. He was slender and nearly as tall as Michael, perhaps eighteen years old, with a pronounced Adam's apple. He lived with his family on a farm close to Michael's and worked with the horses on some of the other farms. “Go home!” he told Nikolo. “I'll deal with MagiGold."

  "Make sure that you do,” one of the others yelled, but Michael ignored him.

  He returned to the house as the youths broke into smaller groups and scattered. “I'm sorry about the damage to your car,” he told Serge Brunner. “It's not too serious, except for the badly cracked windshield. I know a garage that will install a new one while you wait, and there'll be no charge. It's only a ten-minute drive from here."

  "A Gypsy garage?” the businessman asked, a bit uncertainly, as he finished his tea and prepared to leave.

  "Don't worry, I'll drive down there with you. There'll be no trouble. It'll give us a chance to talk."

  Segar asked, “Where are you taking him, to Osman's place?"

  "That's the only Rom garage we have, and I know he has several sizes of Russian windshields in stock. It should be no problem."

  "I'll stay here and talk with Creange. Then I'll drive down to the garage and pick you up."

  "Fine."

  Brunner told Creange he would return to continue their conversation. “Perhaps next week,” he said, glancing up at the trees just beginning to leaf out. “This spring weather is not good for my allergies."

  The spider-web cracks in Brunner's windshield made driving difficult, but on the back roads, without traffic, it didn't seriously impede them. Michael sat next to him in the front seat and wasted no time in getting to the point. “My people are very concerned about your plans to reopen and greatly expand the old gold mine. It would swallow up several of our farms and ruin the natural beauty of these foothills."

  Brunner shook his head, dismissing the argument. “Don't you see, it would bring more than two billion dollars into your country's economy! It would help everyone, including the Gypsy people."

  "What about your plan to use cyanide leaching to recover gold from old tailings in the mine?"

  Brunner smiled. “I can see you are well versed in our mining techniques, but I assure you it is perfectly safe. It will be a self-contained project posing no risk to the environment. Any cyanide-laced water will be carefully dammed up."

  "In nineteen ninety-nine another mining company used a leaching operation to recover gold from an old mine north of here. They dammed the water too, but the dam burst and the contaminated water flowed all the way down to the Danube, killing twelve hundred tons of fish in Hungary alone."

  "We learned a good lesson from their tragic error. It won't happen to us."

  * * * *

  Osman's Garage was at the bottom of the hill, a post-war building that had appeared with the coming of peace, and the Russians, in the mid 1940s. The Russians departed, but a Socialist government remained, with the former king of Romania in exile. The little garage in the foothills was too small for government ownership, and after the death of the original owner a Gypsy named Osman was allowed to buy it. Segar had explained some years ago, when the old Socialist government collapsed, that so long as the Roms used Romanian names in the conduct of their business the government would not bother them. Some, living openly in Gypsy camps, had been moved elsewhere by the government.

  Osman was a wiry little Gypsy who'd chosen to live and work apart from the Rom community. He knew Michael, but had never acknowledged him as a Gypsy king. Now he simply glanced at the cracked windshield and said, “I have several Russian windshields in stock. It should be no problem."

  Michael nodded and introduced the car's owner. “This is Serge Brunner, from the MagiGold Corporation. He's here about the mine."

  Osman grunted. “Many people do not want it. Change is not a good thing."

  "This wouldn't really be change, except in the size. There has always been a gold mine here. As the area prospered, it would bring more business to you."

  A stout woman in a beaded dress appeared from the back of the garage. She had the braided hair and dark complexion of some Gypsy women, with coins hanging from the ends of her braids. “What is it, Osman?” she asked.

  "Nothing. A customer.” He added, feeling some introduction was necessary, “My wife Una."

  She nodded to them, ignoring Brunner and concentrating on Michael. “You are a Rom?” she asked.

  "I am Michael Vlado. I raise horses on my farm up the hill."

  "The one called the Gypsy king?"

  He tried to make light of it. “I am king only to a small tribe."

  "Can't you do something to stop this madness?” She glared at Serge Brunner as she spoke.

  Michael turned to the MagiGold representative. “You see? You're not very popular here."

  "I will be popular when the money starts pouring in."

  Osman had been looking through his supply of windshields. “You're in luck,” he announced. “I have a perfect fit for you.” He set to work removing the damaged one.

  "How long will it take?” Brunner asked. “I have other calls to make."

  Osman shrugged. “Thirty or forty minutes if all goes well. You may wait in my office."

  Michael and Brunner were shown into a tiny, windowless room with an ancient wooden desk and two chairs. A scenic calendar on the wall had not been changed since March, and there was an air of neglect about the place. Still, Michael knew that Osman made an adequate living servicing cars and trucks from the Gypsy farms. Michael closed the door behind him, planning to continue their conversation, but Brunner sat down, shaking his head and waving him away.

  "What's the matter?” Michael asked.

  Brunner's eyes rolled up and he slid off the chair, clutching his side.

  "What is it?” He knelt by the man, trying to help him. But Brunner was motionless, his eyes closed.

  Michael opened the door and called to Osman, who was removing the last slivers of glass from the broken windshield. “What happened to him?” he asked, coming over to the office and kneeling by the prone man.

  "I don't know. He just collapsed."

  A car pulled up outside and Michael saw that Segar had arrived. “He's dead,” Osman said.

  "What? That couldn't be!"

  Segar entered the garage and saw the consternation on Michael's face. “What is it?"

  "Brunner is dead. He just dropped over a couple of minutes ago."

  Segar motioned them away and knelt by the body, testing for breathing with a small pocket mirror. “He's dead,” he confirmed. “Tell me everything that happened."

  Michael described it as best he could, with Osman and his wife filling in the gaps. It was then that Segar bent down to examine the body again. “I remember my early days in the militia all too well,” he said, pushing aside the dead man's suit coat. Una gasped as a bloody tear in the shirt was revealed.

  "What is it?” Michael asked, though he knew all too well.

  Segar opened the shirt. “A knife wound from a very thin blade. It didn't bleed much, but it appears to have gone straight to his heart."

  Shaking his head, Michael couldn't believe what he saw. “That's impossible, I was alone with him all the time."

  Segar studied his face. “Do you have a knife on you, Michael?” he asked quietly.

  "I always carry one on my belt. You know that."

  "Could I see it?"

  Michael slid
the hunting knife from its scabbard and held it out. He winced as Segar wrapped it in a handkerchief. “You can see there's no blood on it."

  "None visible, but it'll have to be examined."

  "Segar—"

  "I'm sorry, Michael."

  "You can't believe I did this."

  "What other explanation is there?"

  "He tussled a bit with that lad Nikolo. He might have been stabbed then."

  "Michael, that was a half-hour ago. No one could take a wound that close to the heart without knowing about it."

  "What are you going to do, arrest me?"

  "Of course not. I don't arrest people anymore. But I must report this to the proper authorities."

  While they waited for the county's Criminal Investigation Directorate to arrive, Michael spoke to Osman and Una. Neither of them had seen anything unusual about Serge Brunner. “He was one of those wealthy businessmen who come here to steal from the Roms,” Una complained. “What killed him?"

  "He was stabbed,” Segar told her.

  "He deserved it. If you killed him, Michael Vlado, I honor you."

  "I didn't kill anyone. And if you think killing one man could stop this mining enterprise, you're mistaken."

  Soon the familiar white van with Politia painted on its sides pulled up in front of the garage. Two blue-uniformed officers emerged. Segar knew the older of the two, Senior Agent Balen, a graying man with a stomach that strained at the buttons of his shirt. He told the man what had happened, while his junior officer photographed the crime scene with a digital camera. Michael gave the officer a statement and was grateful when Segar promised to see that he appeared at the local inspectorate office in the morning for further questioning.

  "I think I should take you home now,” he told Michael after the body had been removed. The officers continued their search of the small office, but no weapon was uncovered. They searched the entire garage without finding a knife. Michael's knife went with them for testing.

  "All right,” Michael finally agreed. “Rosanna will be expecting me."