Death in Nostalgia City

by Mark S. Bacon

  When Lyle approached his patio, his dad was outside, reading the paper and smoking a cigarette. “Don’t overdo the exercise, son. You don’t want to hurt yourself.”

  “Yeah.” Lyle looked into his father’s dull, watery eyes. For someone in Hank’s condition, smoking was like playing Russian roulette. Obviously, the latest attempt at quitting hadn’t lasted too long. Lyle pointed to the cigarette. “Dad?”

  “Lemme alone, Lyle. It’s not going to hurt.”

  Lyle felt a twinge of anger, then guilt--a familiar one-two punch whenever he had a disagreement with his father.

  “Oh, your stepdaughter called.”

  “Sam has a name, Dad.”

  “Sam, Samantha, okay. Your stepdaughter. Something about getting physical therapy. Is that insurance company of yours denying claims again? Maybe you should have gotten it through the government--the national health care program. Could you get it free?”

  “It’s not free, Dad. You still buy it from an insurance company. And I already bought Sam’s policy from a company. And now they’re not paying off. Bastards...” Lyle’s voice trailed off as he wandered inside.

  If there was one person in the world Lyle knew he loved, beyond everyone else, it was Samantha. It hadn’t happened over night. She was six years old when he and Jan were married. At first, he didn’t know how to relate to a child, but Samantha had made it easy. Feeling her tiny hand in his when they went for walks in the desert warmed him in a way he couldn’t describe. Samantha’s father--Jan’s first husband--lived in Tucson. He showed up once in a while, stopped paying child support, and sometimes called Sam on her birthdays. Lyle was the one who went to her school plays, helped her with homework, made her school lunches, and watched her grow up. Now she was 20 years old and a junior at Arizona State. She would probably lose credit in several classes as a result of her accident and hospitalization, but she was back in student housing, still having regular physical and occupational therapy sessions and occasional visits with her neurologist and orthopedist. Lyle was proud of the way she’d fought back from the injuries and tried to stay up with her classes.

  After a shower, he settled down at his bedroom desk to pay bills and again go over Samantha’s insurance claims. Federal Patrician Insurance had denied a claim for her most recent physical therapy sessions and for a portion of her hospitalization. At first, claim denials had angered and frustrated Lyle. If the company didn’t pay, Lyle wasn’t sure how he could continue to cover Samantha’s expenses. Gradually Lyle learned that denying claims outright was just a part of the company’s M.O. Deny it first, regardless, then wait and see what happened. Mercenary tactics.

  For the hospital claim, Lyle had wasted no time in contesting the denial and flooding the company with documentation. Now he had to call again. He checked his watch. Federal Patrician Insurance was headquartered in Boston so Lyle always tried to call before noon his time.

  “This claim was denied,” the voice on the other end of line said. “There was no medical report.”

  “That’s what I was told last time, but I faxed the hospital report directly to you.”

  “When was it sent? What number was it sent to?”

  Lyle was ready for this. He kept records of dates, phone calls, names, and other facts. He gave the phone rep the details.

  “I see. I can’t--can’t find that in the file. It usually takes a week or more for records to get into the system.”

  These people could give lessons in stalling to North Korea. “This was sent almost two weeks ago.”

  Silence.

  “Let me speak to your supervisor.”

  “Uh, one moment.”

  Lyle heard new age music for a minute or two. Then momentary static--and a dial tone.

  “Shit.”

  He slammed his hand down on his desk. Immediately he saw the rubber band on his wrist and forced himself to calm down. More tactics. No point getting upset. His anger retreated. His morning exercise helped.

  He called back. This time he spoke with a new representative who told him the documentation had been received. A claims review committee decision would be rendered within a week.

  When he hung up, Lyle muttered a few obscenities and tried to resign himself to the fact that, although it would take time, the claim would go through. It had to. With a broken leg and minor brain damage, Samantha needed continuing therapy. Lyle wanted her to have the best.

  “Calm down, Deming,” he said aloud.

  He glanced again at the rubber band and snapped it against his wrist. The psychologist he had seen when his marriage was breaking up had recommended the rubber band for anxiety and anger. The sharp, brief pain produced by the snap was supposed to break the pattern of worry and force him to focus on the present. Occasionally, it worked.

  Lyle’s divorce preceded his exit from the police department. When Jan left him, she moved in with some no-account and, as Lyle discovered, they were not well off. Thus, Lyle became Samantha’s financial backstop, an increasing challenge since Lyle’s father had moved in. Lyle’s brother Bob helped with their father’s expenses, but Bob and his wife lived in a small town in Montana, collected Social Security, and were struggling themselves.

  Lyle called Samantha and found out she had a medical bill to email to him. She sounded upbeat. Her neurologist had described her brain injury to Lyle as similar to a minor stroke--one from which he expected full recovery within six months. She was such a good kid, Lyle wondered why his father never took an interest in her activities. Because she was Lyle’s stepdaughter? But then for years Hank hadn’t taken an interest in Lyle either, except recently to prod him into going back to the police department. That wasn’t going to happen.

  Lyle’s next call was to the tribal casino to see if Chief George Brown would have time to see him that morning. The Indians were Bates’s chief suspects. Lyle wanted to decide for himself.

  ***

  Red dust rose in the parking lot as Lyle pulled in, and it mixed with the smell of sawdust and generator exhaust. The open space around the massive new building contained a hodgepodge of heavy equipment, mounds of earth, parked pickups, and construction trailers. Lyle maneuvered his way through the maze.

  The Crossroads Casino looked like a smaller version of Hearst Castle. An expanse of Spanish tile roof was supported by stucco walls, accented by multiple archways, and topped by two ornate bell towers. Arms of the building extended out in several directions.

  As Lyle walked to the chief’s office, he noticed a railroad station under construction west of the casino.

  The building that housed the tribal offices was obviously not finished yet, either. Carpenters were building a railing around the porch that surrounded the front entrance. Just inside was a large room that looked complete except for the bare plywood floor and stacks of storage boxes. Lyle found George Brown busy at work in an office off the main room. He was seated at a makeshift desk. The texture of his skin told Lyle he had probably spent more of his sixty-plus years outdoors rather than in an office.

  Brown greeted him enthusiastically and Lyle wondered if the Native American leader had misunderstood the reason for the visit. “Welcome to our new home at the crossroads, Mr. Deming. Do you think it’s an appropriate name? The Crossroads Casino marks a crossroads, a milestone in the lives of our people. With the help of Nostalgia City, we will make this an overwhelming success.”

  Lyle was ambivalent about casinos and gambling, but anything that helped keep NC alive and well was worth supporting. “The building’s impressive,” he said.

  “We were sorry to hear about the accident earlier this week. It’s always sad when children are hurt. A tragedy.”

  The chief wore jeans and a western shirt with a bolo tie around his neck. He met Lyle’s gaze with sincere, dark eyes.

  “The kids are going to be okay. The only people still hospitalized are adults.”

  “At least this is good to hear.” Brown wandered over to his window and pointed outside. “Did you see the
railroad station as you came in? We’re proud of it. You know NC City was supposed to pay for construction of the station, but we’re so happy to be in partnership with you that we’re paying a big share now.”

  Lyle started to speak but stopped abruptly when a power saw started up just outside the office. Brown’s office window lacked glass. The noise made talking impossible.

  When the saw stopped, Brown shrugged. “I was supposed to get my windows today but, inevitably, there are delays.”

  Lyle admired Brown’s composure. The noise and confusion could make someone go nuts if he was trying to work. Before the jagged sound started again, Lyle jumped in. “Not everyone in the tribe is as eager as you are to see the railroad finished.”

  “I’m afraid so. And that’s why you’re here.”

  “We’re concerned about the damage to the railroad bridge. And you know what else has happened.”

  “It is a bad situation, but I’ll tell you what I told that Mr. Bates and the police. I’m doing everything I can to keep the construction on schedule and keep an eye on my people to the best of my ability.”

  He walked to the doorway and looked out at the main room. Gesturing toward a handful of people gathered around a large folding table, he said, “You see those men and women? They’re our leaders, our brightest people. They don’t all agree on everything, but they’re trying. This casino will be a blessing to my people. I believe that. But it represents change, and that’s upsetting to some.”

  “I realize I’m not the first person to come out here and ask you about this. Mr. Maxwell is worried. Finishing the rail line and the casino without any more trouble is important to a lot of NC employees as well.”

  “Agreed.”

  “I’ve heard that Johnny Cooper is leading a group that’s against the railroad coming through one part of the reservation.”

  “Yes, and the tribal police and the sheriff have talked to him. Made sure he knew he was a suspect. But we’re working on the whole issue now. We’ve made slight changes in the route of the tracks. We have things under control. There will be no trouble.”

  The chief paused and looked out his doorway. “Jen Smith, would you come here for a moment?”

  A slender young Indian woman with short dark hair and worn suede pants covering the tops of cowboy boots broke away from the others and walked over.

  “Jen, this is Mr. Deming. He works for Nostalgia City. He wants to know if our people are against NC and want to vandalize it.”

  The young woman turned her face toward Lyle with a defiant look in large brown eyes. “We had nothing to do with your monorail crash. The security people over there are paranoid of us injuns. They know nothing about tribal customs, laws. They see Native Americans behind anything bad that happens.”

  “I don’t. And I don’t work for security or Clyde Bates.”

  “Is that the FBI agent who runs the place?”

  “I don’t work for him.” Lyle held up a hand. “I’m on my own. Someone was killed in the park and Earl Williams, the DJ who was hurt, is a friend of mine. We need to find out why this is happening.”

  “And so you think we’re responsible.”

  “I just want find out what’s going on.”

  “Our people work at the park, too. We’re affected by this.” She paused and looked at the chief for a moment then back at Lyle. “That’s all I can tell you. We talked to security. We talked to the cops.” She turned and walked back across the room.

  “She is under pressure now--” the chief began.

  “It’s okay. I understand.”

  After another few minutes, Lyle had not learned much more, other than clearly understanding Brown’s passion for the project. He also understood that Brown was a politician.

  Chapter 16

  “At least that gives me a couple of ideas,” Lyle said in his car as he headed out of the reservation.

  He turned on the radio. The Rolling Stones were reminding him, “You Can’t Always Get What You Want,” but the music faded to background as Lyle thought about his conversations. The chief had defended his tribe against suspected involvement in NC sabotage, but he had not denied that Johnny Cooper and his band were responsible for the bridge incident.

  Lyle came to an intersection and almost turned the wrong way. He could see why the railroad would be so important to NC. Driving to the casino from the park would take a long time on two-lane roads. The train, traveling a more direct route, could cover the ground in well under an hour.

  Lost in thought--and the Stones--Lyle did not immediately notice the motorcycle rapidly gaining on him. As his car rounded a turn and headed out a long straightaway, Lyle saw the biker’s image in his mirror. As the bike’s reflection grew larger, Lyle slowed to let the motorcycle pass. Instead of passing, the bike pulled up directly behind him and cruised along at fifty miles per hour, just a foot from Lyle’s bumper. Then, as Lyle watched, the bike swerved around his rear fender and the rider brought the motorcycle up to the side of the car. With a gloved hand, the biker motioned for Lyle to pull over. He considered flooring it, wondering if his V-8 Mustang could outdistance the speedy bike. Before he could make a decision, the biker flipped up her visor and Lyle saw the face of Jen Smith, the woman he’d talked to at the casino. Her sly smile said she was proud of herself.

  “Hope I didn’t startle you,” she said, dismounting a powerful Japanese dirt bike after she and Lyle had pulled up on the shoulder. She took off her helmet and set it on the bike’s seat. Her clear skin was the color of light oak. Her full lips now carried no hint of defiance. Small ears poked through her dark, shiny hair. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong impression back there.”

  “If you’re thinking our security people blame members of the tribe, you’re right.”

  “We’re used to that.”

  “The security guys are jumpy right now.”

  “I guess so. That gas station crash looks like murder, doesn’t it?”

  Lyle tried his old detective’s noncommittal expression. “Officially, an accident.”

  “I used to work at the park, until recently,” she said. “I heard all about the car crash and the damaged ride. And now the monorail wreck in the Fun Zone. Are they related? Is that what this is about?”

  Max would be disappointed to know NC’s sabotage fears were about as much of a secret as the Watergate break in. Nostalgia City was a small community. Lyle decided nothing he could do would spread the story any farther than it already was.

  “We don’t know for sure. Frankly, I don’t know much at all. That’s why I’m asking questions.” Lyle rested against the side of his car. “What’d you think?”

  “I think you’re funny. No, don’t frown. I heard you talk in the training center when I was first hired. You were funny.”

  “Is that funny ha-ha, or funny peculiar?”

  “That’s funny, too. Your jokes. I liked your delivery. That’s why I wanted to talk to you. I couldn’t tell you this at the office.”

  “You don’t want to get too cozy with the white man.”

  “Something like that.”

  “So, what do you think is going on?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve heard rumors. I used to work in accounting. I heard employees saying the tribe was damaging things because they didn’t want the casino railroad. Well, there’s a few people that don’t want it, but most of us are hopeful. There’s a lot riding on this.”

  “You know Johnny Cooper? Could he be involved?”

  “Maybe, but he’s never worked at NC. I don’t think he would be able to get access to the rides and that car that crashed. It doesn’t sound like something he’d do, anyway. He’s just against the railroad route.”

  “So he could have wrecked the bridge.”

  “You know, we’re not the only people you should think about. Have you talked to Sean Maxwell?”

  “Sean. Is that the--”

  “President’s brother. He used to work at NC.”

  “They started the p
ark together, didn’t they?”

  “That’s what I heard. But they split up and the brother went back to his store.”

  “Store?”

  “He runs the Route 66 Emporium and Museum outside of Polk.”

  “You think he’d do something to harm the park?”

  “You’re the detective. Find out.”

  “I’m not a detective. I drive a cab.”

  “Sure, you’re a cab driver. Okay. Whatever.”

  “Thanks for the suggestion.”

  Smith smiled and turned to go.

  “Hey, you didn’t make a bad impression on me before,” Lyle said. “And now that I see you’re a dirt bike rider--And you’re in accounting, too?”

  “I’ll be a CPA one of these days. I just finished working my way through Northern Arizona University.”

  “Why’d you quit the park?”

  “They wanted me at the casino office. The tribe needs a smart college girl to help them keep an eye on the balance sheet.”

  “Our loss.”

  Smith walked with sure steps to her bike and pulled on her helmet decorated with a drawing of a coyote running and the words “Li’l Coyote.”

  As she swung a leg over the bike, Lyle noticed how her pants were like a second skin and almost the same color. C’mon, Lyle. She’s half your age. Talk about too young for you.

  “If you need to know any more, you can call me at the casino.”

  “Do I ask for Little Coyote?”

  “Jen Smith will do.”

  Chapter 17

  “Kate! How are you?”

  The singer’s voice was still strong and rich. Kate noticed his curly hair, broad mouth, and square jaw. From a distance, he looked much as he probably did in the late ’60s when Bobby Bostic and the Bombers were one of the most popular groups in the country--for a year at least.