Hail Storme

by W L Ripley

  Chick lighted a cigarette. “Wonder how many of these things we’ve managed to miss,” he said. “I found another one over on the other side. Also a couple of trip wires. Claymores or bouncing Bettys. This ain’t Disneyland, partner. Need to be careful walking out.” Then he smiled and said, “After you.”

  “What about our sniper buddy?”

  “Not a pro. Or we’d be dead. Also, I’m beginning to think you lack local appeal.”

  “Not possible.”

  “Of course not.”

  “They couldn’t be worried about discovery now. Field’s plowed under and harvested. Couldn’t know we were coming.”

  “Mistook us for somebody, maybe?” he said. “Or maybe they decided to ace us.”

  “Why here, then? Killing us here would call attention to this place.”

  “So, what’s here? A plowed field? And who’d miss us? Couple of out-of-towners. Maybe they wouldn’t bother to look for us. And how would they know to look here?” I thought about that. Sam Browne would look. He knew the location. Chick extinguished his cigarette against the bottom of his boot and put it in his pocket, then said, “Check this. You find this field, you report it to the sheriff, who promises to keep you out of it. And I think he kept that promise. Then, somebody whacks the sheriff, cuts the grass, plows it under, then somebody else, or maybe the same somebody, tries to blow you away.”

  “Or you,” I said.

  He tapped another Camel from the crumpled pack and stuck it between his lips, squinted as he struck a wooden kitchen match and touched it to the end of the cigarette. Nodded.

  “Or me,” he said.

  EIGHT

  The offices of the Paradise Herald-Examiner were sterile and antiseptic. More like a hospital than what I imagined a newsroom to look like. I imagined cigar smoke floating in the air, roll-top desks, Remington manual typewriters, and reporters with loosened ties and rolled-up sleeves. Instead, there were computer terminals and No Smoking signs.

  I asked for a reporter named Jill, and a girl at the information desk led Chick and me to a city room desk and asked us to wait. There was an ashtray filled with Virginia Slims butts, a coffee mug smudged with pale lipstick, and a little desk sign that said, “I only had one nerve left when I got up and you’re getting on it.” A triangular walnut nameplate said JILL MAXWELL.

  Jill Maxwell came out of a back room with a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a cigarette. Maybe she didn’t want to clean the mug on her desk. Maybe it would be sexist to ask her to wash it out. Maybe I would ask. Break the ice. She stopped when she saw me. “Well,” she said, “if it isn’t the camera-shy dog killer. What brings you here? And who’s your friend?”

  “This is Chick Easton,” I said. “Sign says no smoking.”

  “You do everything by the rules?” she asked. She sat down, gave me a flash of leg. Nice legs, too. She smiled and nodded at Chick. Cocked her head at me in challenge and took a slow drag on the cigarette, blew the smoke in my direction. I think I was falling in love. Wondered whether we could find someplace private where she could flog me with her nameplate.

  “I want to know who gave you my name and how you knew about the marijuana field.”

  “Been doing a little research on you,” she said, ignoring me. She hadn’t improved at providing information. “An old Sports Illustrated article said you had the best hands in the NFL. What do you do with your hands nowadays?”

  “I keep them to myself,” I said. Chick lit a cigarette and settled back in his chair. “And ‘nowadays’ is not a word, it’s a colloquialism. I’d think a professional wordsmith would know better. Now, I want to know how you knew about me and the marijuana, and I haven’t got time for games.”

  “What’re you gonna do if I don’t tell?” she said. She sat back and clicked her fingernails. “Beat me up? Big, strong guy like you.”

  I heard Easton chuckle beside me. I frowned at him, then looked back at her. “There’s a story in this, a big one, if you help us. Otherwise, I’m walking out of here and you get squat.”

  “Already got a story. First, I’ve got the murder of the sheriff. And I have a little sidebar of a reclusive ex-pro going mano-a-mano with a Doberman pinscher. A football player who disappeared from the public eye years ago. A mystery man who resurfaces in the middle of the biggest murder in Paradise County history. What else do I need?”

  “It’s bigger than that,” I said. “Besides, without me you have nothing to corroborate your story. You’ve only got half of it.”

  She put her cigarette down and leaned forward in her chair. “What do you have?” she said, shifting gears. She wet her lips and lifted her chin, exposing her lovely neck. I wondered how many guys had spilled headlines to her when she did that? But I was too strong for that. She’d have to show me the legs again or my lips were sealed.

  “Unh-uh,” I said. “First, you tell me where you got my name and give me your word you’ll leave me out of any story you write.”

  “No good,” she said. “The guys from K.C. and St. Louis are already filtering into town. First, you tell me what you got, then I decide if it’s worth it.”

  “Maybe this is too big for you. It’s not the Rotary Club picnic or a new bank opening.”

  It stung her. A cheap shot maybe, but I needed her help. Her eyes slitted and she bristled like a cat. “I work damn hard at this job,” she said. “I’m good at it. I don’t need some has-been ex-jock telling me how to do it.”

  “Has-been,” said Chick, chuckling.

  “Ex-jock,” I said to him.

  “Pegged you immediately,” he said.

  “Must be the cleat marks on my forehead.”

  “Or the way you slur your words and say ‘duh.’ ”

  She said, “How do I know you’ve got anything I need?” She gave me the once-over with her eyes, smiling. “Or, at least, anything I don’t already know?”

  “Somebody just took target practice at us,” I said. “Less than an hour ago.”

  “Where? Who was it? What were the circumstances? You shoot back?” She shoved papers out of the way and pulled a notepad in front of her and clicked a pen into readiness. I could hear the drag sing on the reel as she took the bait and pulled it down.

  “No,” I said. “Not yet. First, you agree not to use my name in anything you write. Nobody likes to read about us old has-beens anyway. Boring stuff. Second, we need information.”

  “How do I write an article and leave your name out of this?”

  “Use an alias,” I said. “Or say, ‘informed sources’ told you. Something like that.”

  “Not as effective. Story has more power and validity if I use your name. Just you showing up here after all these years is a story in itself.”

  “I’m not the story.” I never was the story, but they never seemed to accept that. “There’s more. Much more.”

  She looked at both of us. Chewed the end of her pen. Her cigarette had burned a long ash in the ashtray. “Okay,” she said, finally. “I leave you out. I can pull it off. But you give me everything.”

  “First you answer some questions,” I said. “Then I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

  “Maybe I can’t trust you.”

  “Maybe you can’t.”

  She exhaled. Shrugged her shoulders. “What do you want to know?”

  “Who told you about me and the marijuana field and the dog?”

  “Anonymous tip,” she said. I made a face and leaned back in my chair. She offered a palms-up gesture of resignation. “It’s the truth. I can’t help it. They called my recorder at home. I was sleeping when the phone rang. I heard it ring, but I’d been up most of the night so I let the machine answer. When I heard the message, I reached to pick it up, but he’d already hung up. That was yesterday morning. He just said there was a former football player who killed an attack dog in a marijuana field.

  “I have an informant at the sheriff’s office. Got a description of you and the guy with you yesterday. I ran those by the sports edi
tor, and he said one of them sounded like Wyatt Storme. I said, ‘Who?’ ” She looked at me. Coy. I didn’t react. “He said he’d heard you had a cabin in the area. So I went through the microfiche files, confirmed your description, checked your background. It was vaguely interesting.”

  “You recognize the voice on your machine?”

  “No. I’ve got the tape if you want to hear it.”

  “Doesn’t explain how you tracked me to the grocery store. Even with the description that’d be tough.”

  “Traced you through motor vehicle. I have a couple of cop friends who owe me.” She smiled wickedly. “Gave them your name and birthdate, which I got from an old football program. You have three vehicles registered with Colorado plates. A ’91 Bronco, a 1969 Mustang Mach I, and a ’66 T-bird. I offered a twenty-dollar reward to some kids who work in different jobs—grocery stores, fast-food places, gas stations, convenience stores—places I figured you might turn up if you were around.”

  “Pretty resourceful.”

  “I have my moments,” she said. I’d managed to duck the national press for years only to be found by a small-town reporter. Hadn’t figured on that. Someday they’d make her editor of this paper if management had any sense. She lighted another cigarette, then offered her light to Easton. He accepted it and joined her. I had more questions.

  “Who has the voltage to get Baxter named interim sheriff in the middle of a murder investigation when the murder victim was the man he was going to run against for sheriff? Especially when Baxter is so unlikable?”

  “Seemed odd to me, too,” she agreed. “Baxter is slime. Makes perverse suggestions when he’s around me. His idea of flirting. He’s gross. There’re a few people who could get him the position. Evan Sullivan, the county commissioner, for one. Mark Bannister is another. He’s president of the Chemical Bank. Sullivan can’t stand Baxter, and Bannister was a close friend of Kennedy’s. That leaves Alan Winston, a local attorney with a big family name. And Willie Boy Roberts.” I sat up when I heard Roberts’s name again. She continued. “Winston didn’t like Kennedy. And the feeling was mutual. Kennedy thought Winston fixed cases. He also thought Alan was trying to hit on his daughter. Kennedy once threatened to whip Winston if he spoke to his daughter again. In front of some of Winston’s friends. Something Alan wouldn’t forget. As for Roberts, he has the most power behind the scenes in the county. He can do about what he wants around Paradise, and does, but he’s slick about it. Subtle.”

  “Tell me about Roberts.”

  She took a drag on her cigarette. “He’s a contemptible snake.” She shuddered as if something crawly and multilegged had landed on her shoulder. “He came here a few years back from somewhere down south. Louisiana or Alabama. Somewhere. Has that drawl and plays with a Cajun accent now and then like he thinks it’s clever. He owns Starr Industries. They make aluminum casters, conveyor belts, and other materials for assembly-line work. He also owns a trucking line and the Truck Hangar, which is this monster truck stop out on the interstate. There are people around here who think his money is dirty.”

  “Those businesses sound legitimate.”

  “Six months after he took over Starr Industries, the workers went on strike. Things got ugly. Somebody burned down a shed on Starr property. Shot through the window of the personnel office after hours. Tires were slashed. That kind of thing. Then a couple of the most vocal workers got the shit kicked out of them. They were big guys, too. Broken bones, lacerations. Then some of the strike organizers were fired, but they didn’t complain. Two union stewards just up and moved away one weekend. Nobody knew why. Suddenly, the strike was over and things went on like before.” She jammed her cigarette out in the crowded ashtray.

  “People are afraid of Willie Boy Roberts. Oh, he’ll give you the big smile, clap you on the back, buy you lunch, but there is something…I don’t know, this all sounds trite, but there is something insidious about that man. Something evil.”

  “Is he involved in drug traffic?”

  “Haven’t heard that,” she said. “But he’s careful to stay above things. There are people who think he has out-of-town money behind him. Illegal money. I’ve heard people say, whispering when they say it, that he’s involved in some custom prostitution. High-dollar girls for important people like senators, contractors. Gets the whores out of the city. They help him make the deal he wants. They say he recruits local women—some of them wives of local businessmen. But it may just be talk. You men are good at keeping things like that secret.”

  “We’re tight-lipped about our concubines,” said Chick.

  “They run some girls out at the Truck Hangar. Some of them young. Work the truckers. Knock on their sleeper compartments. Quite a wake-up call, huh? There’s a small motel next to the truck stop. Truck Hangar is in this county, but the motel is conveniently just over the line or Kennedy would’ve shut it down.”

  “Roberts slips a couple bucks into the Ford County sheriff’s campaign fund and he gets left alone. That the way it works?” She nodded. “So you think Willie Boy would be a good place to start?”

  “If you want broken bones. No, stay away from him. You won’t get anywhere. If Roberts is involved in this, it’ll be a waste of time. Nobody will say anything about or against him. Baxter is a complete moron. Unless the major case squad can bring an indictment, nobody will ever be caught. If Baxter arrests someone it’ll be a scapegoat—some local crud he’s had trouble with in the past. If Roberts had anything to do with it, he’ll never take the fall.”

  “You think Baxter’s in the bag?”

  She looked into her coffee cup as if the answer were in there. Shook her head. “No. I really don’t think so. I think Baxter’s just dumb—and mean. Kennedy was making inroads into the drug traffic. Put some guys away over the years, burned some fields. Then came the upscale drugs—cocaine, crack, speed—easier to carry, harder to detect. Most of the grass around here is sold by small-timers working the fast-food places out of their cars. Hustling the teenagers.”

  I told her the size of the marijuana field I’d found, then the rest of it. I kept back a few things—the little rocks for one. If they were publicized Baxter could demand them as evidence. She thought he was dumb, but I wasn’t ready to dismiss him so easily. He was cunning enough to find out my name though the sheriff wouldn’t give it to him. Sly enough to get himself appointed interim sheriff. He didn’t appear to be afraid of anyone or anything—including the highway patrol. Besides, I knew it was bad practice to underestimate people. That’s when you got hurt—ran your patterns a little sloppier, didn’t finish out your blocks. That’s when you got a helmet in the ribs, a forearm under your chinstrap, or a potential big gain got stuffed for three yards. It was the difference between being a thoroughbred and an also-ran.

  Near the end of my narrative, we were interrupted by a slender man, five seven, 135 pounds, slender wrists, delicate hands. Stylish tie and styled hair.

  “You know you’re not supposed to smoke here, Maxwell,” he said. He was irritated. The backs of his wrists were against his hips like an angry baby-sitter’s.

  “Go away, Horton.” She waved the back of her hand at him as if shooing a fly. “I’m busy.”

  “You know the rules,” he said. “No smoking in the city room.” His voice rose half an octave. “And that goes for visitors, too.” He looked at Chick, who looked back, smiled his disarming smile, then blew a lazy cloud of blue smoke at the ceiling.

  “Go shit in your hat, Horton,” she said. “At least I don’t shove things up my nose and other orifices.”

  His face reddened and his eyes flamed up. “You bitch.”

  “Don’t be vulgar, sweet-pants,” she said.

  “Journalistic camaraderie,” said Chick.

  “Warms the heart,” I said.

  “I don’t know why Marvin allows a little slut like you to—”

  “That’s enough,” I said.

  Horton pursed his lips and looked at me. “And who are you? And what make
s you think I have to listen to you?”

  “I’m Miss Manners’s nephew,” I said. “And I’m here to tell you that it is bad manners to speak to women like that.”

  “Not to mention a health risk,” Chick said. “Did you realize most accidents occur within twenty-five miles of home?”

  Horton’s face became blotchy. He glared at us, then stomped off, stiff-legged.

  “I think we angered him,” Chick said.

  “Ignore Horton,” Jill said. “I’m twice the woman he is. And I can handle him without your help.”

  “They just don’t make damsels in distress like they used to,” said Chick.

  “What was that all about?” I asked.

  “Horton’s jealous, that’s all.”

  “What’s his job here?”

  “Besides being a loathsome slug, he’s the lifestyle editor. What you might think of as the society pages. Garden club. Country club dances. Features about which wine to drink with what cheese. He’s not too bad at it, really. He’s the publisher’s nephew besides being an asshole and a coke freak. Sometimes I smoke just to piss him off.”

  “Can he get you in trouble?”

  She shrugged. “He’ll tattle like a third-grader, but they’ll just bitch at me. I work sixty hours a week and I’m reliable. They know that. Besides, his uncle doesn’t like him, either. Who could?” She flicked ash off her cigarette.

  “How does he afford cocaine on a journalist’s salary?”

  “Deals a little. But because of his uncle and Alan Winston, the little turd doesn’t get hassled, except by Kennedy. But now he’s gone.”

  “What about Winston? What does he have to do with Horton?”

  “Horton’s got a crush on Alan.”

  “Winston’s gay?”

  “Nobody believes it,” she said. “He lifts every skirt he can. One of the reasons Kennedy threatened him. At most, he’s bisexual. But I don’t know how anyone can be friends with Horton without being a little twisted.”

  “Winston ever try to hit on you?”

  “That’s one of the reasons Horton hates me. Yeah, Alan’s come on to me. He’s a good-looking guy, but I’ve got no interest in him. I think he’s a phony.” She sipped her coffee. “I’d steer clear of Alan Winston if I were you. His family are the blue bloods of Paradise County. They’ve got streets named after their children and pets. Run the Chamber of Commerce and the Presbyterian church. Alan’s done a lot for Paradise. Donates a lot of money to civic causes. Member of everything. Kind of a hero around here. He’s also vindictive. Even petty. Bad things happen when people cross Alan Winston.”