by Bill Hopkins
“Yo!” Johnny Dan yelled, and the machine went silent. “What you need?” He removed his ear plugs and safety glasses, then wiped his big hands on a red bandana. “Come on back.”
Ollie and Rosswell snaked their way around three cars until they reached Johnny Dan at the back of the shop. Rosswell, having decided to pretend that he’d never seen the man before, introduced himself and Ollie to Johnny Dan, who said he already knew Ollie. Obviously. Ollie was Johnny Dan’s main squeeze’s daddy.
“You the one with that orange VW,” he said to Rosswell. “Cute.” Cute, to muscle car folks, meant piece of crap.
Rosswell said, “Thanks.”
“You need it worked on? What is it? ’73?”
“1972,” Rosswell said.
“If I don’t have the parts, I can get them overnight.”
“The car’s doing fine. If something happens, I’ll let you know.”
“Yes, sir. Cute.”
Ollie said, “Mabel said she’s been missing you today.”
“What time is it?”
Rosswell showed Johnny Dan his watch. “Got tied up.” He motioned to all the cars he had on the floor of his shop. “Couldn’t stop for lunch.”
Rosswell said, “You don’t wear a watch?” As far as Rosswell could see, there wasn’t a clock anywhere in the building.
Johnny Dan said, “You and Ollie need something?”
Ollie said, “Judge Carew wanted to know if you wore a watch.”
“Nope. No watch. No ring. No doodads. They get caught in the machinery, you lose a finger.” Rosswell wondered why there was a white circle around the middle finger of Johnny Dan’s right hand.
Ollie said, “Do you have any help?”
“Ollie, you and the judge are costing me money. I got lots of work to do.”
Rosswell said, “I apologize for that, but we’re trying to find out about somebody who might be missing.”
Johnny Dan pointed to the garage area of his shop. “Nobody’s in here. Have a look.”
Rosswell said, “We need to know if you have any helpers.”
“Nope.” He pointed with his chin to the office portion of his shop, also maintained as neat as a new crankshaft pin. “I do my own bookkeeping, too. The only thing I can’t do is my taxes. I can’t understand the forms.”
“If you hired another mechanic, then you could get these cars done faster,” Ollie said. “What if you need to take off during the day?”
Johnny Dan smirked. “People come to me ’cause they want me to work on their cars. Most folks don’t have an emergency car repair. I do it at my own pace.”
Ollie said, “Point well taken.”
“Johnny Dan,” Rosswell said, “have you been gone for the last couple of days?”
Johnny Dan picked up a wrench off the floor and hung it in its place on the pegboard fastened to the wall. Rubber bands of various sizes hung each on their own hook. Clear plastic bags holding tiny parts were labeled and alphabetized. Tools and accessories of every variety were displayed on the pegboard.
“Yup. Went to St. Louis to get parts.”
Johnny Dan waved toward open shelves groaning under the weight of boxes containing thousands of car parts, all cataloged and labeled. Cocking his eye at two other wrenches on a bench, he clanged them together, then scrutinized them. Apparently satisfied that they were clean, he hung them on the pegboard too. After pumping some kind of hand cleaner from an orange bottle and wiping vigorously, he grabbed a broom and started sweeping.
“Anybody go with you?” Ollie said.
Johnny Dan swept perilously close to Rosswell’s feet.
“Nope.”
Rosswell said, “Did you meet up with anyone up there?” Ollie and Rosswell made a good pair of interviewers.
Johnny Dan stopped sweeping. “Judge, you need some work done?”
“No,” Rosswell said. “We just needed to know a couple of things.”
“Then do you mind if we talk later? I’m busier than—”
Rosswell ventured, “A whore at a used car salesmen’s convention?”
Johnny Dan belched a great laugh. “That’s a good ’un. I’m going to use that.”
Ollie said, “See you around. Maybe at Merc’s.”
“Yeah. And tell Mabel I said hey. Be by later.”
The sound of a Harley greeted Rosswell and Ollie when they walked out the front door onto the sidewalk. Purvis Rabil of Little Rock and his little dog Scooby had arrived. Scooby yapped and Purvis tipped his hat.
“Johnny Dan in?” Purvis asked. “Done been looking all over for him.”
Ollie pointed inside the garage at Johnny Dan and yelled to him, “Someone’s here for you.”
“Yo,” said Johnny Dan.
“Yo,” said Purvis.
Purvis and Johnny Dan walked to the back wall where they stood by a door leading to another part of the shop. With their backs to Rosswell and Ollie, they began an animated conversation.
Parked on the street were two vehicles of interest.
“Look at Purvis’s ride,” Rosswell said. “That’s a 1690 CC twin cam engine. Pivoting foot boards. Breakaway windshield.” Inspecting the motorcycle more closely, it was apparent what the thing was. “This is a police edition of some kind.”
“Must’ve stolen it.”
“Nope,” Rosswell said. “You can buy them used. But this sucker sells for an ungodly amount, even used.”
Ollie pointed to a car. A new, silver Malibu with 16-inch tires. “That’s Johnny Dan’s car,” he said. “Johnny Dan’s a big boy. Right kind of car. I wonder if that’s what Hermie saw?” Rosswell and Ollie both checked every tire. A couple of the tires had suspicious slashes on them. They peeked inside. The car was showroom clean.
“Makes it handy if you wanted to clean up a car after a murder.” Ollie pointed to a sign on the garage. DETAILING OUR SPECIALTY! “Let’s keep an eye on Johnny Dan.”
“Yes, sir.” Rosswell gave him a little salute. “And another thing. I’ve met that Harley rider.”
“Great tats.” Admiration welled up in Ollie’s voice. “Where did you meet him?”
“Purvis Rabil is his name. He came in the sheriff’s office earlier and reported buzzards flying around a pile of dead trees in the river at the park. Now here he’s come to talk to Johnny Dan, who’s been out of pocket for a couple of days earlier this week. Purvis says he’s from Little Rock and never been to Bollinger County before. How could he know Johnny Dan?”
“They’re not buzzards. They’re actually—” Ollie stopped himself. “That’s a mighty strange coincidence.”
“Mighty strange,” Rosswell allowed. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”
Chapter Twelve
Tuesday afternoon
“Where to now, Sherlock?” Ollie’s mannerisms also included references to Rosswell’s detecting ability, which Rosswell thought was way better than Ollie’s. And, since Ollie called Rosswell “Sherlock,” then the snitch was on the judge’s side, and Rosswell told him so.
“This means you’re helping me.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Ollie said. “I’ll tag along for a while. Keep my name out of it when Frizz starts smacking you around.”
“I’m not in on this case. I’m just asking questions to satisfy my own curiosity.”
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba come to pay my respects to King Solomon.”
“Back to Merc’s.” Rosswell patted his stomach. “I’m hungry.”
He ordered tuna on whole wheat with lettuce and sweet pickles, just like his momma made, although he didn’t recall her sticking parsley sprigs on the plate. Ollie ordered the same.
“What’s this for?” Rosswell said, chomping the sprig. “Parsley has no smell, weak taste, and looks like a weed.”
“Some say that French chefs placed it on the customer’s plate, signifying that the chef guaranteed satisfaction. Others say that parsley is good for your breath and digestion. Another school of thought—”
“I’m
sorry I asked.” A slight belch escaped before Rosswell could tamp it down. “Hermie said he saw a white Cadillac around the time of the murder.”
“Was he sober?”
“He was sober enough to spot a white Caddy with a big driver. Do you know anyone who drives a car like that?”
Ollie chewed on his parsley while he rubbed his head. “Yeah. That Rasmussen guy. The con artist. Turtles. Let’s see who else. Ambrosia Forcade, the shyster. Susan Bitti, furniture lady. Do I win the prize?”
“How about Trisha Reynaud, the banker?”
“Right. Okay, so what?”
“Find out if any of them are missing. And anyone else who owns a white Cadillac in this county.”
“Easy. Shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours.”
Rosswell didn’t ask, because he didn’t want to know whose computers Ollie would hack into.
Drinking the sludge after finishing the meal, Rosswell inventoried the other patrons. No one popped up with a MURDERER sign on his, her, or its forehead. He was supposed to interview more people but wasn’t clear about whom he was supposed to collar and hit with a bunch of questions. This detective business made his stomach hurt. Or perhaps it was the overdose of caffeine mixed with Merc’s tuna sandwich.
A few people stopped by their table and chatted.
One of them, Nadine Blessing, a redheaded real estate agent that Rosswell guessed to be about thirty or thirty-five, pointed to Rosswell and Ollie. “How’re you gentlemen this afternoon?” She was the one Rosswell had seen in Merc’s yesterday with the young couple. Her late husband, he now remembered, used to run a truck stop out on the main highway.
The purse she carried was a brighter orange than Rosswell’s car and larger than his briefcase. And calling them gentlemen? Her inventory of real estate must’ve been higher than a kite circling in the hot air of a political convention. She was flattering them, trying to butter them up so she could sell some land or maybe a nice house or two.
Rosswell returned her point. “Real good, Nadine. How’s it going with you?”
Although she was a big woman, Rosswell found her attractive in a Dale
Evans kind of way. Several years ago, he had bought a couple of pieces of vacant land from her for investment purposes. She’d seemed competent and honest enough without the slightest trace of murderous rage. Will Rogers advised buying real estate. He bought it, he said, “for the sole reason that there was only so much of it and no more, and that they wasn’t making any more.” Made sense to Rosswell.
“Up and down.” Nadine peered over her shoulder, then turned back to them. “The real estate market is always going sky high or dirt low.” Her hands flew up, then fell down. “You try to even it out.” She demonstrated a leveling gesture with her left hand—palm down, moving back and forth—before she searched Merc’s with her eyes darting every which way. Maybe she was trying to spot more potential customers. Rosswell noted she wore several rings. He wondered if she’d lost any lately.
Ollie said, “Is your car for sale?” Ollie didn’t ask idle questions. He was fishing, too.
Nadine chuckled and pointed to herself. “Honey, everything I got’s for sale.” Rosswell hoped she wouldn’t try to sell herself to Ollie. His genes were already spread out enough in the pool.
Rosswell’s sling was binding up on his arm. He rearranged it several different ways.
She said, “I heard you ran into a couple of nasty guys.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Rosswell said. “It was a close one.”
The rumors were getting better. Now it was two bad guys after Rosswell. Ollie rubbed his head. “I’m in the market for a car. May I look at yours?”
“Yes, oh, yes.”
They all paid their bills and headed to the parking lot to inspect Nadine’s silver Buick Regal with 16-inch wheels.
“Nice car,” Rosswell said, regretting such a lame statement as soon as it passed his teeth. A peace symbol decorated a bumper sticker that proclaimed SAVE THE EARTH. The sentiment was noble, although he’d like to see the plan.
Ollie first checked out the interior, then lowered himself to the ground, slid under the car, and scoped out its belly. “How much do you want?” he said, his voice muffled.
“Fourteen K,” Nadine said. “I keep a diary, and part of what I document is every single thing I do to this car. Oil changes, tire rotations, even gas fill ups.”
Fourteen K? That sounds like the name of a supermarket. It also sounds like a mighty high price for a used Buick Regal.
“It’s clean as a baby’s whistle,” Nadine added, “and has four brand-new tires.”
Ollie scooted out from under the car and perused the interior again. After the scrutiny, he said, “Can you pop the trunk?”
She did. The trunk was spotless except for a small cardboard box full of odds and ends. Rosswell noted that Nadine had a bottle of the same kind of hand cleaner that Johnny Dan had. Fast Orange.
Ollie said, “Thanks. I’ll get back with you.”
Nadine said, “Yes, oh, yes!” After a little wave, she drove off.
When the pair was seated inside Merc’s again, Ollie said, “That car’s been detailed lately. Even the tires smell of ArmorAll. If she used it in a murder, it’s been wiped clean since. And the tires are new. Our tire impressions might be worthless.”
“Our tire impressions?”
Ollie squeaked a high frequency squeak. “I meant Frizz’s tire impressions.”
Ribs Freshwater sidled up to the table. “Y’all alone?” Rosswell didn’t know if Ribs had a real name. He got his nickname from his skinniness. Where he got Levi’s and blue work shirts skinny enough to fit him Rosswell didn’t know. He’d never seen Ribs dressed any other way. Ribs claimed he was a full blooded Cherokee. He wore his long black hair in a ponytail and, adding in his ruddy complexion, he fit the image of a Native American.
“Sit down,” Rosswell said.
Ribs stood tall. Would that fit Hermie’s description of “big”? He’d have to ask the ranger. Up to that point, the worst thing in Rosswell’s mind that Ribs had done was buy a silver Lexus, let it get dirty, and then let it get dirtier. Where he got the dough for such a fancy ride, Rosswell didn’t know. Ribs wasn’t old enough to retire and live off prudent investments. He had to be working somewhere in order to support a Lexus. Ribs, about the same age as Nadine and Johnny Dan, was wiry and strong. Rosswell figured he had some kind of manual work as an occupation.
“Ribs,” Rosswell said, “how’s your job going?”
“What job?”
Ollie grabbed the uptake. “You don’t work anywhere?”
“Hell, I got lots of work.” Ribs—despite his age—cackled like an old man. “I just don’t have a job.”
Rosswell said, “What is it you work at?”
“That’s a good question,” Ribs admitted. “I got so many disguises I don’t know myself.”
Mabel appeared, gracing Ollie and Rosswell with the dirty stares again. “I thought y’all left.”
Ollie said, “Honey, we’re back.”
Ribs blinked rapidly. “Honey?”
Ollie said, “It’s a long story.” He scratched his head instead of rubbing it. Maybe he was going through the change of life. “Coffee.”
Rosswell said, “The usual.”
Mabel said, “Y’all are going to die of caffeine poisoning.”
Ribs cackled again. “Then let me have what they’re having. I want to be high when I die.” Ribs’ face turned serious. “Judge, I meant a caffeine high. Not, you know, drugs.”
“I’m not sitting here looking for business.” Rosswell lied. Of course he was snooping around for business. He didn’t want anyone to know that searching for criminals was high on his possible to-do list for the day. And the fact that caffeine was a drug was something Rosswell decided not to present to Ribs.
Mabel scurried off.
Ollie said, “Ribs, I heard you were in Memphis a couple of days ago.”
Rosswell dou
bted that Ollie had heard any such thing, yet it was a good place to start. Tripping up a witness with a non-sequitur often made them spill the truth.
“Memphis, Tennessee? I never been outside the state of Missouri, except for the time I went to Piggott, Arkansas, back in ’95.”
Ollie said, “Why’d you go to Piggott?”
“I wanted to find out why they named their town Piggott.”
“Why did they?” Rosswell said.
“Never did find out. I got into a poker game with the sheriff, the moonshiner, the chief of police, the judge, the Baptist preacher, and the undertaker, who was also the biggest pimp in town. Did a lot of business in the back of his hearse. Anyway, lost my car and all my money. They drove me to the state line and kicked me from the Natural State into the Show-Me State. I was drunk. Hitched a ride to Poplar Bluff and rode the Greyhound back home. I figured I done good. Went down there in a two thousand dollar car and come back in a two hundred thousand dollar bus.”
It was fortunate that Mabel hadn’t brought the coffee yet, or Rosswell might’ve been spitting it across the table.
I pray that Ribs is the murderer. If he’s the killer, then all the cops have to do is wait for him to commit an exquisitely stupid act proving his guilt beyond a reasonable doubt. We’d have our case made. We? I mean Frizz.
The fourth person to join the table was Candy Lavaliere, whom Rosswell had known for a decade. Now there was a big woman. Voluptuous, I’d call her. Nice view. Blonde, with a gentle, stunning face, soft and clear almost to the point of translucence. The woman, tanned and buff, smelled like Ivory soap. Big charm bracelets on her arms rattled and clanked. Rings on every finger. Rumor had it that this expert shooter also lifted weights and had read every book in the public library … twice. Ollie’s intellectual equal was Candy, the cosmetologist who loved to dance. She didn’t have a silver car with 16-inch wheels. Candy owned a golf cart she drove everywhere, including golf cart races in various towns around the area. The tires on the electric cart were only 8 or 10 inches.
