by Ted Clifton
Prologue
1: Home Again Maybe
2: Ollie Ollie Oxen Free
3: Worry Me Sometimes
4: Travelin’ Man
5: Good Times, Bad Times
6: Enemies and Friends
7: Mine All Mine
8: Love Is In The Air
9: Mothers, Managers and Artists
10: Bad Receptions
11: Haters and Lovers
12: Opening and Closings
13: Crime and Punishment
14: No Visitors Allowed
15: Keep on Truckin’
16: Caution Be Damned
17: Lazy Crazy Days of Summer
18: You’re On Your Own
19: That’s My Story and I’m Sticking To It
20: Confessions All Around
21: The Truth Will Set Us Free
22: Love and Money
23: Love Conquers All
24: Crazy Gene
25: Looks Like Rain
26: Too Many Cooks
27: Nobody Knows
28: Masterminds We’re Not
29: Guilt
30: Endings
31: Chickens Come Home to Roost
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Ted Clifton
(For copyright information, ISBN, and other editions, please see Publication Details.)
The drive from Denver to Durango was six or seven hours, depending on breaks. But it seemed to take forever. Rick Flores was not one for being trapped in a car. His parents had taken him on a couple of long road trips to Disneyland and Yellowstone, and he’d been carsick most of the time. After that, he’d vowed never to torture his own kids, if he ever had any, with family vacations that only turned into unpleasant memories.
He’d been raised in Santa Fe by two of the nicest people who ever lived—even he would admit that. But it might have been better if they hadn’t been so nice. Rick loved his parents, and they did their best to give him everything they could to help him be a success and to be happy, but he was embarrassed by them all the same. They were Mexican immigrants, and most comfortable around people from a similar background. Rick wanted to be an American, just like any other American from any background, without all the family baggage. His conflicted feelings on the topic weren’t too noticeable as long as he was in Santa Fe. But going anywhere else highlighted them, which made him feel like a misfit. He’d feel ashamed of his parents, and then would hate himself for being such a lousy son.
“Look, Rick, if you don’t want the goddamned job, that’s okay with me. I recommended you because I thought you said you wanted something better than what you have now. So, I’m the bad guy, because I recommended you for a better job and gave them your number? Terrible, terrible me for causing you so much pain.” Joe Small was loud and used a lot of foul language, but he was Rick’s only friend.
“Joe, calm down, man. I appreciate that you recommended me. And yes, I want a more responsible job. But, Durango—I don’t know about that. It reminds me too much of Santa Fe, you know—small, touristy town. I came to Denver to get away from Santa Fe, and I like it here.”
“Well, then, fuckin’ stay. Just stop bitchin’ about your job if you’re not going to do something about it.”
The two men worked at Mountain Growers Inc., a marijuana-grow operation in Denver, with more than twenty thousand square feet full of plants. They were managers, supervising several dozen other employees who grew and harvested the crop twenty-four hours a day. Joe got the job because of his degree in horticulture from Metro State, where they’d met. He’d helped Rick get a job after he graduated with a degree in business management. The pay was good, even if it always felt odd to Rick to be paid in cash. But most things about the legal marijuana business were a little odd. Still, he could put up with a little odd, given the money people were making. Even so, the job was mindless work. Each day seemed to involve telling the same people how to do the same job they did the day before. It was like everyone who worked there woke up in a new world every day. He wanted more.
“I talked to that guy, Ken Simpson,” he told Joe. “He said they wanted to get going immediately, and if I wanted the job, it was mine, but I had to decide by tomorrow. Something about him made me nervous.” What he thought, without saying it out loud, was that this whole thing seemed too good to be true. Suddenly people nobody’d heard of wanted to hire him at top dollar to do a job he had very limited experience with. That didn’t make sense.
“Well, hell,” Joe grumbled, “I don’t know anything about him. He and some other asshole came around talking to everybody about opening a grow facility in Durango, saying they were hiring. The guards ran them off, but I got his card. I called him and told him about you, thought it would be great to get that kind of experience. Go down there and get the thing started, and I bet you can come back here and double the money you’re making now. Nobody in this industry has any experience, except shit they can’t talk about. What makes you nervous about the guy?”
“It’s stupid.” Rick frowned. “He reminded me of a TV hoodlum, maybe from the sixties or seventies. A Broderick Crawford kind of tough guy.”
Joe looked at Rick like he was nuts. “Who the fuck is Broderick Crawford?”
“Just an actor, played a lot of bad guys. He mumbles when he talks.”
“Oh, now I get it. You won’t work for a guy who mumbles, right?”
Rick gave up. He decided he was being stupid. He should take the job, and if it didn’t work out, he would just come back to Denver. He could always get a job, and at least he would have taken a risk, for once. He knew he was usually way too cautious.
In spite of his concerns, he called Simpson, aka “Mumbles,” and told him he would take the job. Simpson gave him directions to the building in Durango and told him the company would reserve a room for him at the Traveler’s Inn for a week from that day. That seemed awfully fast. He told Simpson that he had to give proper notice to his employer.
“You want the damn job or not?” the man mumbled.
It put him on edge again, but he’d made up his mind he wasn’t going to let his nerves get to him. He gave a week’s notice. His boss was pissed, but told him if it didn’t work out, he should come back. Rick was a good, reliable worker—and sober.
Rick had a lease on his apartment, which he didn’t want to give up in case things went south, so he paid a month in advance and told the landlord he was going to be gone for a while. There was a lot of demand for apartments in the area, so if he decided to stay in Durango, he was pretty sure he could sublet.
The first part of the drive had been a little bland, but for the last few hours he’d passed through some impressive mountains covered in vast forests. He had an urge to take one of the side roads and explore the beautiful scenery, but he stayed on task and on the highway. By the time he reached Pagosa Springs, he was getting tired of being cooped up in the car. The great thing about traveling off the interstates was that the highway usually passed right through the towns along the way. That was the case with Pagosa Springs. Spotting a parking spot in front of the Peak Deli made up his mind for him—time for lunch. The small town was surrounded by the San Juan Mountains, with woods stretching in every direction. For no particular reason, he felt safe here. Maybe he should just stay. Stupid thought, he chastised himself. He needed a job, and working at Peak Deli wouldn’t be a good career move. He enjoyed his pastrami sandwich stacked high with seasoned meat, and got back on the road.
The beautiful drive reminded him that he hadn’t seen much of Colorado since he’d moved to Denver four years before. He’d tried skiing one very forgettable afternoon, quickly gave up all hope of becoming a Super G champ, and hadn’t ventured out o
f Denver since. Living downtown, he felt very urban chic. He spent most of his free time enjoying the restaurants and bars in his neighborhood. He would mostly go out alone, and usually ended the evening the same way. He had a few dates, but his quiet, reserved manner wasn’t exactly that of a chick magnet. Once in a while he’d spend time with Joe, but the guy was a drinker and usually more trouble than he was worth. He knew if he was ever going to find a girl, he’d have to be a bit more assertive. But it didn’t come naturally.
Some of his most enjoyable days were spent visiting one of the many museums in Denver. It was his regular outing on Sundays, with the Denver Museum of Nature and Science being his particular favorite. He’d even signed up to be a volunteer, but hadn’t heard anything. He would spend hours visiting exhibits, all of which he’d already seen, often many times. He took comfort in the building, the exhibits, and the people. Everything combined to make it feel like a welcoming place. He’d even met a girl there once, and they’d enjoyed a great time together, laughing as they walked through almost the entire massive museum. She’d given him her number but he’d never called, afraid she would reject him. Carol Lawson. He still had her number.
He entered Durango at long last, and it surprised him a little. It was more urban than he’d expected, with more traffic than he wanted. But it was not Santa Fe. The buildings had some Spanish influence, but were more western-looking, and rugged. It had a comfortable, outdoorsy atmosphere, with a lot of bars and restaurants catering to tourists—a resort town much like Santa Fe, but with a Colorado uniqueness. Following the directions, he’d been given, he quickly arrived at the Traveler’s Inn. It wasn’t luxurious, but it seemed nice enough, and it was busy, with a full parking lot—always a good sign. He checked in and found there was an envelope waiting for him. Once he was in his clean, pleasant room, he opened it.
Cash. He counted it, and it came to ten thousand dollars. He’d heard of large cash bonuses given to employees in this new and confusing industry after a successful year, or to mark a major milestone, but a large bonus before he even started? Man, something’s not right.
He called Simpson, but was sent straight to voice mail. He left a message saying he was in town, and that he wasn’t sure what the money was for. His voice sounded weak and whiny in his own ears. It crossed his mind that maybe he should just take the cash and run. Nope—stupid, stupid, stupid. The next logical step was to go to the grow facility and see if someone was there who could explain things.
Just a short distance from downtown, the touristy charm of western mining-town buildings and lots of foot traffic gave way to an industrial section that wouldn’t have been out of place in many of the less-than-desirable neighborhoods in Denver. The directions Simpson had given him didn’t seem very accurate, so he entered the address into an app on his phone. A short time later, he was parked in front of a nondescript building. It had just one sign, which read, “For Rent.” He could feel his desire to take the job waning rapidly.
He tried the front door, but it was locked. He walked around the side and spotted another, next to a loading dock. It was unlocked.
“Hello, anyone here?” Rick cleared his throat and tried again. “Hello, this is Rick Flores, anyone around?”
“How the hell did you get in here?” The gruff voice came from a very large man with an ugly scar across his face and a menacing look in his eyes.
“The side door was unlocked. My name is Rick Flor—”
“I don’t give a fuck who you are. Get the hell out of here now, before I decide to hurt you. And I mean right fucking now, asshole!”
Rick’s heart rate was definitely racing as he slammed the car door and immediately pulled away. What the hell was that all about? He knew some people in the marijuana business were still paranoid about the feds, and even about local officials who sometimes decided for themselves what was legal and what wasn’t. But that guy was nothing but a thug.
He went back to the Traveler’s Inn. Once in his room, he hooked the chain lock and drew the drapes. After a few minutes of thinking, he decided to get the hell out of Dodge—or Durango. He’d go back to Denver. This was just too bizarre and threatening. He wasn’t sure what to do with the money now, but decided to turn it over to the Denver police once he got back. He wasn’t familiar with Durango, and wasn’t sure if he could trust the police. And all he wanted was to go home.
He was packing his stuff into his car when two oversize Durango police officers approached him.
“Goin’ somewhere, asshole?”
The cop’s grin wasn’t friendly. Even for someone used to dealing with police, which Rick wasn’t, this wouldn’t be a good start.
“I’m—I’m just going back to Denver. Is there something wrong?”
With a swiftness he hadn’t expected from such a large man, the second cop shoved Rick up against his car and began a search. He pulled out the envelope with money.
“Well, looky here. We got our guy red-handed.”
“I don’t know anything about that money. It was left at the front desk for me by my new boss, but I don’t know what for.” Even to him, it sounded stupid.
“Right. Just a little gift.” The cop pulled out a card and pretended to read Rick his rights. “You’re under arrest, asshole, for grand theft and conspiracy to defraud. If I were you—and I’m so glad I’m not, you little prick—I would call a good attorney, fast.”
“No. This can’t be right.” Stupid, stupid! Man, I knew this mystery job was too good to be true. Shit!
Santa Fe, New Mexico
Vincent Malone pulled into the Albuquerque airport with a load of passengers from the Blue Door Inn, ahead of schedule. It was a minor victory, but Vincent was of the view that, as difficult as life could be, every little win should be counted, so he cheered silently to himself while he maneuvered the van to the curb. The Albuquerque airport was called a “Sunport.” Vincent wondered for the umpteenth time just what in hell that meant. He was convinced there were groups of people who sat in dark rooms all day long, dreaming up this kind of nonsense just to mess with the rest of the world.
“Careful, Mrs. Johnson. Watch your step.”
“Oh, thank you, Vincent. Be sure and tell Cindy and Jerry we had a wonderful time at the Inn. They’re great hosts. We’ll be back, real soon.”
Vincent helped the departing guests carry their luggage to check-in, said his goodbyes, and quickly got back onto Interstate 25, headed north toward Santa Fe. It had been months now since he’d escaped his crumbling life in Denver and, while passing through Santa Fe, taken on the unlikely role of driving a van for a new bed-and-breakfast.
That was how he marked the end of more than thirty years in Denver working as a private legal investigator, helping attorneys find facts and evidence—and occasionally helping them lose either or both. He’d fallen into the dubious life of a PI after falling even further, from a respectable, blossoming career as a young Dallas lawyer into a big pile of shit. From that aromatic pile, he dragged himself to Denver, minus one attractive wife, one law license, and just about everything else. After some on-the-job training, he discovered he was actually a very good investigator, and settled into a routine of working, drinking, and then working some more. His ultimate downfall had come by way of his health, as a victim of gout.
Vincent never played well with others, so his investigation business had been a one-man band, by design. After he developed gout, the flare-ups began to leave him bedridden, with no backup plan. His clients soon lost patience and said adios—no clients, no money, no future. His plan had been to pull up stakes from Denver, which was expensive, and head for cheaper housing in Phoenix. If he could find a know-nothing job for a few years, just to make ends meet, he would reach Social Security retirement age, and be done.
But he’d only gotten as far as Santa Fe. The driver job at the Inn was definitely know-nothing, but he was quickly thrown into the middle of a murder mystery involving the first guests there. He’d found himself suddenly energized, and m
ost surprisingly, he developed an unexpected friendship with the Blue Door Inn owners, Jerry and Cindy Oliver.
He soon felt like he belonged in Santa Fe—if not forever, then at least for a while. Vincent was cynical enough for a small army, but he pushed back against his natural tendencies only to see the bad side, and tried to relax. Life got better, though his curmudgeonly ways were only intermittently dormant, rather than dead and done with.
Arriving at the outskirts of Santa Fe, his face seemed to soften. He decided to take a slight detour to drop in at the Crown Bar downtown, not far from the famous Plaza. Back in his drinking days, it would have been part of a daily routine, but his drinking was more or less under control now. This visit was more about love than liquor. Nancy McAllen owned the bar. Her late husband had bought it as a retirement investment, although he also simply loved spending time in bars. He’d been a cop. One night he opened the wrong door, and died. Maybe partly as therapy, and partly out of financial need, Nancy took on the bar and made it into a landmark in Santa Fe, a favorite watering hole for local law enforcement. She’d spent years in mourning, but finally was becoming more comfortable with herself and the tragedy she’d gone through. And although she was in her early fifties, she still got admiring stares from male patrons.
She and Vincent were in the throes of trying to figure out whether they might be compatible. Given some of Vincent’s qualities, it was like being attracted to a thorny bush—you really had to be careful you didn’t get hurt. But there was no doubt she already cared about him.
“Hey there, Mister Malone. How are you this fine day?” Nancy was glad to see him, and gave him her best smile.
“Well, aren’t you cheerful? What makes this such a fine day?” He had to work at being anything other than grumpy, but he was getting better at it.
“Three reasons. First of all, you’re our twenty-second customer today, so you get a free beer. Second, I need to be cheerful to offset your gloominess, otherwise the universe will be out of balance. I forgot the third reason.”
