Bone Deep

by Randy Wayne White

  “You’re okay,” Leland said, “he’s harmless.”

  “I hope he’s not looking for peanuts,” I replied, “Right now, he could mistake me for female.”

  Introverts process humor by first inspecting it for sarcasm. A beat later, Leland laughed, patted the animal’s trunk. “You wouldn’t want to walk in here with a pellet rifle. That’s why we have all the gates and fences and signs. Damn rednecks, but ol’ Toby here has never hurt a flea.” Another friendly pat on the trunk. “Have ya, big fella? Sometimes I wish you’d caught one of those brats.”

  I replied, “Who could blame him?” aware the elephant’s saucer-sized eye, a star-black cornea linked to a brain, was focused on me. From the nearby pond floated the scent of carrion, but no vultures were feeding in the cattails. Yes, he remembered crushing the gator . . . And he remembered me.

  Leland dusted his hands together, saying, “Eat the rest, old-timer,” and returned to the garage. I walked backward until the elephant released me by concentrating on what was scattered on the ground.

  “Cane sugar,” Leland explained. “My grandfather used a great big pot to boil it down for the elephants. Now we buy it in blocks. The twins would let the old boy founder on the stuff if I didn’t keep this building locked.”

  Another opening to ask about Ava and Tricia, but I waited. Better if Leland brought it up himself.

  • • •

  NO . . . BETTER TO WAIT until Leland pretended to find a bottle of Smirnoff in the office mini-fridge, saying, “Wonder who left this?”

  “Maybe they left some mixer, too,” I hinted.

  The third in line to the Albright fortune appreciated that. “I guess the sun’s over the yardarm, so why not? I’ve had two of the worst days ever.” He looked up from the fridge. “You probably already heard what happened yesterday. Esther didn’t tell me until late last night.”

  The yelling match. Yes, he knew.

  Stupid to play stupid, so I said, “The scene at your pool? Yeah, from Tomlinson.” The building had central air but was cooler here in the office, which was small—a desk, a file cabinet, and two chairs on rollers, vinyl on both chairs cracked. I chose the one without armrests and sat, placing my canvas briefcase beside the chair.

  Leland found plastic cups and ice, saying, “Smirnoff . . . it’s crap compared to Grey Goose. Stoli’s okay. Belvedere’s better,” then poured. “What did your friend say about their argument? Esther only gave me the censored version, and I don’t believe a damn thing Ava tells me anymore.”

  His daughter Tricia, I guessed, had refused to talk.

  I said, “This is the sort of third-party situation where I’ve told my son never to open his mouth.”

  “Good advice.” Leland, no longer relaxed, poured another inch into his cup, handed me mine, and sat, stretching his long legs. “But, Doc, put yourself in my place. It’s not like you’re being paid to breach a confidence. You still haven’t cashed that check—I called today.”

  I tilted the ice to my lips but didn’t drink. How carefully had Esther censored the truth? That’s what was holding me back.

  Leland said, “Jesus Christ, I deserve to know the whole story. I’m asking you as a favor. Wouldn’t you want to know?”

  I said, “Yes, I would,” which made the decision his, not mine. I told him what Tomlinson had said minus the accusations the women had traded. “Risky to paraphrase something I didn’t hear,” I explained.

  No need. Leland sighed, sagged back in his chair, and swallowed. Looked at the ceiling until he had it under control, and finally said, “Esther told me without telling me, if you know what I mean. I’d like to break that yoga bastard’s neck. You ever see him? Short little shit, tattoos and a nipple ring—likes to show off his abs, Esther says. Seducing Ava is bad enough, but my little girl, too? Tricia usually has better sense.”

  Laughing, exhausted by it all, he exhaled toward the ceiling. “I’ve been paying that prick to screw my wife and my daughter. That’s what it amounts to. Enrique—Ricky, they call him. Stupid me, huh?”

  I said, “I don’t think you told me how you and Ava met.”

  He replied, “What you’re asking is was I drunk and the answer is no. Just . . . tired of living alone, I guess, and it’s unusual for beautiful women to laugh at my jokes. That’s how it started—this was in Nassau, I own a small piece of a hotel there. Ava was doing a shoot for our management company and was supposed to fly home the next day. Like they say in the movies, one thing led to another. That was . . . two years ago.”

  “Where’s she from?”

  My questions were siphoning energy from Leland’s anger and he didn’t like that. “You’re wondering if I ran a background check, and I should’ve. But she moved around a lot, worked mostly for hotel PR firms, and there are a lot of Ava Johnsons in the world. What it comes down to is, I married a tramp and it’s going to cost me a lot of money. But I’m done paying for her goddamn boyfriends, I’ll tell you that much.”

  Leland, six-six but delicate as a pianist, drew his legs under him and tried to puff up like a tough guy. “What I should do is break the little prick’s neck, and I still might. I could, if I got mad enough.”

  I nodded as if convinced. “He’s not worth going to jail for,” I said, then tried to switch the subject, asking about a shark tooth I was holding, but Leland remained fixated on the yoga teacher. So I returned the tooth to a cluster of broken fossils and listened.

  “Know what Ricky had the gall to do? A week ago, he talked Owen into investing five grand in his franchise, whatever the hell he calls it. It’s not a lot, but it’s my money. Owen signed a promissory note for what’s no better than a pyramid con. I found out Tuesday, and then the son of a bitch stops by my pool for drinks like I’m a clueless old fool. I canceled the deal, of course. So what’s Ricky do? He sent that freak to threaten my family.”

  I hadn’t heard that part. “This was yesterday?”

  Leland said, “I assumed you knew. Some greaser on a motorcycle . . . But wait, Esther wasn’t clear about that. Maybe your friend was already gone by then.”

  I put the cup aside. “Tricia took the car, so Tomlinson hitchhiked back to his van. What did the guy look like?”

  Leland said, “That explains it,” then described Quirt: a biker wearing gloves who didn’t remove his helmet when he appeared at the pool gate, then came through the gate while Esther, then Ava, watched from the kitchen. Ava told the girls to go away, claimed she could handle it. But it was Esther who had confronted the man.

  “He threatened to torch our house if Owen didn’t pay up. Esther was shaking when she told me last night. Called her a bitch and other names—she wouldn’t say what—and Ava, of course, played ignorant about the whole thing. You know, clueless about her boyfriend’s gangster methods.”

  Rather than telling him Quirt had been arrested, I waited to see what I could learn. “Tomlinson was definitely gone by then,” I said. “He wouldn’t have tolerated that.”

  “I would hope not. The bastard comes onto my property and talks to my daughter that way. Tonight, I’ll stay at a hotel or have my stuff moved to the island. I don’t ever want to see Ava again. I told the twins the same thing, stay away from that witch.” He stood, his drink finished, but caught himself before pouring another.

  I asked, “Did Esther get his license number before she called police?”

  Leland didn’t wince physically, but I sensed his discomfort. “No. She . . . she thought Owen might owe him money for another reason. I didn’t tell her about the promissory note.”

  I had been holding back, but so was he. Time to put it out there—most of it anyway—and hope for some clarity. I said, “I think we do need to talk about it,” and waited for Leland to turn, his expression defensive. “I know about Owen’s gambling problem. And there are some other things you should be aware of, Leland.”

  “Owen�
��s what?” He stared at me a moment. “My personal life is none of your damn business.”

  I said, “I didn’t cash your check, remember? I thought we were talking as friends.”

  “Well . . . But just because your hippie pal heard some gossip about—”

  “His name’s Tomlinson,” I said, “and he’s worried about your daughters. He says they’re nice women, just a little naïve.”

  “Now he’s a behavioral expert, too, huh? I don’t remember asking his opinion.”

  “Leland, come on. We can talk honestly or not, that’s up to you. But let me straighten you out on a few things. I asked what the biker looks like because it’s the same guy who threatened to shoot that elephant out there. The description matches, and so does the torching your house part. On the phone, he threatened to use gas rags and set Tomlinson’s head on fire. That was . . . four days ago. And on Saturday, in Venice, a friend of Tomlinson’s died in a house fire. They don’t know yet if it was murder, but, let’s face it, this guy’s dangerous.”

  Leland, suddenly nervous, said, “Jesus Christ . . . are you sure?” He reached for the Smirnoff.

  “I met him. He’s brain-damaged from a motorcycle wreck—or maybe was always nuts—but one thing I’m sure of, he’s bad news. No . . . two things: he’s dangerous and he’s not working for some small-timer like Ricky. Not for five thousand, he’s not. Are you saying you didn’t suspect he came to collect Owen’s gambling debt?”

  “Jesus Christ,” Leland said again and walked to the window. Stood there a while, then said, “You have no right to make accusations about my family.”

  “Let’s hope I’m wrong. You were afraid of hurting Owen’s feelings, weren’t you? I can relate. Last thing you want to do is alienate a son once he starts to come around.”

  “My stepson,” Leland corrected, but said it as if he’d hoped for more. “Sure . . . the gambling thing crossed my mind. But when I talked to Owen this morning, he agreed that Ricky was behind it. The kid feels badly enough about investing in that damn franchise. Five thousand is his max without getting my okay and he knows he screwed up. Personally? I suspect Ava was nudging him along. She can manipulate without saying a word—I should know.”

  “You didn’t ask Owen about gambling debts, though.”

  “He’s been clean for almost a year. It would have been a . . . breach of trust, I guess. But, wait a second . . .” Leland placed a hand on the chair between us. “This biker, he threatened to set your friend Tomlinson on fire? Why didn’t you call the police?”

  I didn’t answer right away, so he jumped ahead. “Is there something going on between Tomlinson and Ava that you’re not telling me?”

  I shook my head as I used an index finger to move the stone rib, then two meg teeth, neatening them like chess pieces among the other fossils. “It’s all about these,” I said. “Did you find them?”

  The man shrugged. “It’s an old habit. If I see something, I pick it up. But what’s that have to do with this crazy person threatening people?”

  “Money,” I said. “I understand fossil hunting, the attraction, I really do. Owen told me the same thing: Everyone in the phosphate business becomes a collector. What I’m getting at is that list of names you gave me. I didn’t expect to see your father’s name, but what about men like Dalton Sanford? There had to be others in his circle.”

  Leland’s reaction: nervous, same as when I’d asked about diving the pond. “If you’re insinuating I own those stolen carvings, you’re wrong.”

  “I’m not,” I said. “At first, I thought it was a possibility, thought that’s why you offered me a job—to monitor my progress. People do that sort of thing. But not people like you.”

  “Thanks . . . I guess. But I still don’t see how this is any of your business.”

  I had made an observation, not offered him a compliment, but let it go. I swung my chair around. “Do you want some brain-damaged hit man to burn your house down? He not only threatened Tomlinson, he threatened me. You need to wake up before this gets out of hand.”

  “Well . . . sure. But why bring up Dalton’s name?”

  I said, “Someone is paying the guy. He showed up in Venice a couple of weeks ago, supposedly from out west. Nevada, I heard, and Owen told me about his trips to Vegas. Him and Harris Sanford. So some pissed-off Vegas loan shark could be behind it. Or someone local could’ve made a few phone calls and hired outside help, a pro at collecting debts, but also crazy enough to kill someone. Maybe the person knows it, maybe he doesn’t, but he’s still responsible.”

  Leland didn’t want to believe me. “I covered Owen’s outstanding debts after he agreed to go through a twelve-step program. So you’re wrong. I have no idea about Harris and don’t much care. Harris is . . . Well, he’s always been a bad influence.”

  I said, “Maybe he still is. He and Owen grew up in phosphate country and they know people in the business. I assume Ava does, too. Put it all together. The relics trade is a multimillion-dollar business in Florida. It pays in cash, tax-free. If someone wanted to make a lot of money, fossils and artifacts are a lot safer than dealing drugs.”

  Leland, skeptical, said, “You and the Indian, the drum shaman, you’ve been looking for those carvings less than a week. How do you know so much?”

  I indicated the chair, saying, “Leland, have a seat. It’s what you know that can put the bad guys in jail.”

  • • •

  IN THE STORAGE ROOM, isolated between two steel doors, Leland opened the first antique gun vault and pulled out several drawers, which were oak and lined with gray velvet to cushion expensive firearms. Instead of guns, they contained megalodon teeth and other fossils, no apparent order.

  “No one’s touched them,” Leland said, exhaled his relief—Phewww!—and stepped aside. “Look for yourself.”

  I did, inspected the largest shark tooth, while he commented, “I hate opening these old safes. It’s been a year since I bothered. No . . . two years. We switched insurance companies. That was the last time I looked.”

  Leland avoided the gun vaults for the same reason he seldom visited the ranch: They reminded him of his late father. That’s why it had taken a while to convince him we should open the safes. Inside was what remained of the family’s relics collection.

  “Which isn’t much,” he had warned. “My father was a drunk. I think I mentioned that. Toward the end, after he’d screwed up everything else, he sold or lost our best pieces to finance his drinking—or on get-rich-quick schemes. He told my mother that the collection was stolen, but I never believed him for a moment.”

  I had countered, “Don’t be so sure,” to tempt him.

  Leland had set his drink aside, then pushed the bottle away, when I told him the house of another major collector, Finn Tovar, had been robbed.

  Tovar—Albright recognized the name but didn’t interrupt.

  “Owen is the fourth generation,” I reasoned. “A gambling habit instead of whiskey. It could be that he’s dealing in relics to pay for his losses. If he is, someone else is involved—one of the Sanfords, probably Harris, not Dalton. I could be wrong about that. And . . . well, I’m wondering about your wife, too. A stranger shows up on a motorcycle and Ava says she can handle the guy? There’s something wrong there.”

  It was enough for Leland—Henry Leland Albright III—to decide, “Well, there’s an easy way to find out.” Then he had led me into this room where twin antique vaults, both a faded green with bright gold leafing, were bolted to the wall.

  Now, here we were, looking at several hundred fossils jumbled on gray velvet, and I felt foolish—until I reexamined the tooth in my hand.

  “Owen wouldn’t steal from me,” Leland said. “Ava, though, she’s a different story. That’s the only reason I bothered opening this safe.”

  He reached to move me aside, but I said, “You’re the expert. What do you think of
this?” I handed him the megalodon tooth, then removed two more from the drawer.

  “It’s from a prehistoric shark, for christ’s sake. You expect a guided tour now?”

  I said, “Take a close look.” Owen had lectured me on the importance of coloring and common flaws, such as chipped serrations and splintered enamel. The specimens I had just selected were both chipped. Five teeth and a jawbone later, Leland was finally convinced.

  “Good lord . . . I see what you mean. On this one, part of the root lobe is missing . . . the bourlette is barely visible. My grandfather, even my dad, wouldn’t have kept junk like this in the collection.”

  I said, “If you think that one’s bad,” and handed him two more.

  Slowly, at first, Leland sorted through fossils in the top drawer, then opened the other drawers in a rush, pawing through each, before moving on. At the bottom of the safe were two oversize doors that required a key. He said, “I’m almost afraid to look,” but opened them anyway.

  They were empty.

  “I can’t believe Owen would do something like this,” he said, then stood, more dazed than angry.

  I asked, “What was supposed to be in there?”

  “Someone took the collectible stuff and replaced it with worthless crap. But wait . . . Maybe it wasn’t Owen.”

  “Who else has the combination?”

  He had to think about it for a moment. “No one. Not the twins, not Owen, nobody. The only place it’s written down is in my estate papers and they’re sealed until my death.”

  I asked, “Is your attorney Dalton Sanford?”

  The inference troubled him at first, then irritated him. “No. Well . . . Dalton was our attorney, but I moved our business to another firm after my father died.”

  I was wondering if Leland had changed the vault combinations, too, but asked, “What about the property manager?”

  Leland said, “Old Cliff? No, his health has been so bad the last couple of years, I keep him on out of loyalty.” He stared at the other gun vault, already worried. “My grandfather’s most valuable pieces are in there.” He turned, his face mottled. “You mind waiting in the office while I check?”