by W L Ripley
But I dreamed of Sandy.
FOURTEEN
I woke to the smell of bacon and coffee. The crimson digits of the clock radio read 6:47. The residue of the Percodan had settled into my joints, creating a drugged lethargy. Still had my clothes on, but she must have removed my shoes. I wandered into the front room. Tempestt had set the table for two. Scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes on the table. It looked and smelled wonderful. There was a dull ache in my ribs and head.
“Good morning,” she said. “I hope you didn’t mind me staying overnight.” She was wearing one of my sweatshirts and a smile. Her long, smooth-muscled legs disappeared into the ribbed border of the sweatshirt. It made her appear smaller, lighter. Never looked that good on me.
“Good cooks and people who save my life are always welcome,” I said. I was a little uncomfortable. The morning light made me think of Sandy. “I…a…where did you—”
“In the guest bedroom, prudence,” she said, but smiled. “Your virtue is intact. Darn it. Maybe you won’t be so lucky next time.”
I sat down at the table. I was famished. Hadn’t eaten for eighteen hours. She was a good cook. Knew how to make good coffee, also. Not too strong, not too weak. Just right. She was just right, too. Maybe I would marry her, though that might hamper my relationship with Sandy. I liked her. I don’t shop for women. I looked for people. I’m no feminist sympathizer. There were few of the good ones of either sex; people with the right combination of courage, compassion, and morality. Intelligence. And intelligence is more than acquired facts and knowledge. Intelligence comes from insight, from inner courage, experience, and conviction. People talk about what they want and who they are; few are concerned with duty and responsibility—the things we must do to be what we are. The things that separate us from animal instincts and lust and greed, that make us human, flawed though we all may be.
“You’re a good cook,” I said, between bites. She had great legs. Magnificent legs. I tried not to wolf my food. Maybe if I could distract her momentarily, I could stick it all in my mouth at once. I made a conscious effort not to smack my lips. The essence of her was powerful.
“Thank you. I do several things well, but I’m getting no offers around here.” She smiled a brilliantly wicked smile. Dazzling. She took a nibble of bacon. So much girl, such small bites.
“The best things shouldn’t be rushed,” I said. “Are you free this evening?”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Dinner. Stimulating conversation. Dancing ’til dawn. Maybe a little more Chopin by the fireplace.”
“A little wine, maybe?”
“I don’t partake.”
“Maybe you should.”
I looked into her jeweled irises. I really liked her. She was special. I enjoyed her company. There was something wrong with a business where someone with her talent was only a secretary, which made me wonder about something else. So I asked.
“What’s a nice girl like you doing—”
“Working for scum like Roberts?” she finished for me. I nodded. “Won’t be for much longer. I’ll be leaving soon.”
“He know that?”
“No. I hope not, anyway.” Strange answer. “Not yet, anyway. You finish eating. Eat all you want. I’ve got to get to work.” She walked over and wriggled into my lap, leaving no room for appetite, though I was still hungry. She kissed my eyes and then my mouth, then stood up. Always leave ’em wanting more, I guess. I grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. Kissed her again. What to do with her?
She leaned back. “Tonight,” she said. “I have to go now.” She left me to change clothes. I didn’t know how she expected me to eat if I couldn’t swallow. There was a knot in my throat and a larger one in my chest. I was confused, uncertain.
I finished breakfast and was rinsing the dishes when she came out of the guest room, wearing last night’s clothing. She walked over to me. She smelled of soap and musk.
“God, you’re cute when you do domestic chores,” she said.
“I have a varied repertoire. Oughta see me unclog a pipe. Pure artistry.”
“Gotta go, slugger,” she said. “You need to get something on that scrape. Stay out of street fights. Please take care of yourself.” She was telling me something or trying to tell me something, but it lay between the lines of what she was saying. Obscure, yet plaintive. She was worried about something. Something about me. It was in her voice and eyes.
“I’m a big boy,” I said.
“And I’m a big girl.” She touched my face. “This seems a little foolish, but sometimes people aren’t what they seem or what they wish.”
“And sometimes they are more than what is seen.” I thought about it. Like Sandy, Tempestt wasn’t telling me everything. I said, “What are you holding back from me?”
We looked at each other. “Maybe nothing,” she said. “What are you holding back from me?”
“I’m in love with someone,” I said. “There’s nothing I can do about that.”
“I know.” She reached up and adjusted my collar. “And there’s nothing I can do about what you can’t know.”
“I like you,” I said.
She smiled, then kissed me on the cheek and said, “Until tonight, then.”
She opened the door and left, and the room diminished with her departure. I looked at the door and the finality of its closing. For three months my heart had lain dormant, cobwebbed and echoing the hurt of each beat. I felt something for Tempestt. But I had no illusions about being what she was looking for. I wasn’t. But maybe I could survive without Sandy. I didn’t want to and hoped I would never have to, but it was a comfort to have hope that I could. I was uncertain of the direction of my relationship with Tempestt. I knew where the stop sign was, but not where the curves would be leading to it, or if I would see them in time.
Nothing is for sure.
I cleaned the dishes and thought about Chick’s predicament. I wasn’t worried about him but was ill at ease with my inability to help. I called a lawyer I knew. George Fairchild. George did some legal work for the Kansas City Chiefs. He was a friend. He’d helped me negotiate my first pro contract. Pointed out where I was selling myself short. I was young and eager to sign anything. Trusting. I grew out of it soon enough. They were good at teaching you that. “I just want to play football,” I told George.
“And you will,” said George. “But cheaply gained is cheaply prized. The more they invest initially, the greater will be their desire to see you succeed. Nobody likes to think they got a bad deal. And you’re not a used car.”
George Fairchild was a straight shooter in a profession where his colleagues shot from around corners and hid behind the law and used “the law” as a sick synonym for the word “justice.” I liked him. And he owed me a favor. George had a daughter who lived in Boulder. She was pretty. And smart. And talented in the area of business acumen. She was a loan officer at a bank. A man she had turned down for a loan was annoying her, following her to work, calling her at work and at home. Sitting in his car outside her apartment at night. The police said they could do nothing until he did something. George asked me to help. I turned it around on the guy. I started following him. Calling him. Sitting in my car outside his apartment. Finally, I convinced him. He became cooperative. I’m a convincing guy. George appreciated it.
When I called Fairchild and explained the situation he was glad to help. “I’ll drive down,” he said. George was a busy man. He could have sent one of the young lawyers who worked for him and I would’ve been satisfied. But George was from the old school. “Should be there by late morning. Unless he murdered the governor’s daughter I’ll have him out by early afternoon. If he murdered the governor’s daughter it’ll be early evening.”
I thanked him and hung up, feeling a little better.
I called Jill Maxwell again and got the recorder again. Didn’t leave a message. The police didn’t have a thing, yet every time I turned around, someone threw an obstacle in my path, or, as
it turned out, in Chick’s path.
Who shot at us? And why? Roberts? I didn’t think so. If Roberts had sent someone they would have been better marksmen. It was sloppy and amateurish.
I finished the dishes and showered. Did some household chores. I was pulling on a pair of boots when the phone rang. I picked it up.
“It’s me,” I said. “Start talking.”
“Need to talk to you, Storme,” said a voice. It was reedy and smothered as if the caller were talking through a straw. How did he get this number?
“Who is this?”
“I know about the marijuana field.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
“Not on the phone. I’ll meet you.”
“When and where?”
“Got a pen?”
“I’ll remember,” I said.
“1405 East Twelfth Street. Two o’clock this afternoon. It’s unlocked. Let yourself in and wait.”
“For what? A bullet in my back?”
“You’re in no danger,” said the voice. “At least, not from me.” The accent was familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Voice was disguised. “There’s some bad shit going down, though. I have to talk to you. You’re my last hope.”
“How’d you get my number?”
He broke the connection.
I looked at the clock. It was 10:30. Plenty of time to phone Sandy, then get to town and spring Chick. I wanted to call Sandy, to help assuage some of the guilt I was beginning to feel, but I called Sam Browne first.
“This is Browne,” he said, answering.
“Storme,” I said. “What did you find out about Easton?”
“Held for questioning, like you said. It’s bogus, though. Easton’s not connected to the murder. I couldn’t get much from Baxter. But I expected that. Said he was operating on a tip. I think he brought Easton in to make it look like he’s doing something. Said he didn’t have to report to me like a high school kid. He’s a joy to work with. I tried to connect with Sergeant McKinley, but he’d already headed back to Troop A. Pulled out.”
“What do you mean, pulled out?”
“We had a warrant out for a guy named Killian. Local dealer. The warrant was for the murder of Sheriff Kennedy. We found Killian in a two-ton truck loaded with marijuana. Bullet hole behind the ear. It was your buddy from the field. He had a wound in his right shoulder. Like an arrow wound. We think he killed Kennedy because he’d discovered the field and was going to shut it down. Killian had a partner named Dexter. Dexter murdered Killian and took off. That’s the official line, anyway.”
My ribs hurt. “How’d you find out about Killian and Dexter?”
“Anonymous tip. If you can get Easton out of jail, you can head back to Colorado anytime.”
“Where’s the rest of the crop? There was a lot more marijuana than a truck that size could handle. Why would Dexter ace Killian?”
“The theory is they tried to double-cross each other.”
“What kind of gun did Dexter use to do Killian?”
“Twenty-two caliber. Close range. Right behind the ear. Quick. Clean.”
“What kind of gun killed the sheriff?”
“You writing a book?”
“Make you the hero of it if you tell me how they did the sheriff.”
“Shotgun. Pellets were number-two buckshot. There was a twelve-gauge Remington pump in the truck with Killian, along with a box of number twos.”
“Surprised you didn’t get a videotape and a signed confession from both of them. Pretty convenient. Was the truck automatic or stick shift?”
“Stick. What are you getting at, Storme?”
“Twenty-two caliber at close range is a pro job. You know that. And then you find a shotgun and the proper-sized buckshot in the truck with a dead suspect. Guess he won’t be saying much in his own behalf. You ever drive a two-ton truck with a stick shift? How does a guy with a shoulder wound drive a rig like that? Why did his partner run? If he dropped the gun off a bridge there would be nothing to connect him. Why not just blast him with a shotgun, make sure? How does he know anybody’s coming after him? Almost a sure thing now. You think he had an audience when he shot the guy?
“Another thing,” I said. “No burnout with a shotgun could take Kennedy. I saw the drug dealer eye to eye. He wasn’t a shooter. Kennedy was a pro, a hard man who’d survived in this sewer of a town for a long time. You ever fire a shotgun with a deep wound in your shoulder? Ever shoot one with your weak hand? Killian couldn’t even hold a gun after I stuck him.”
“Here’s what I know,” said Browne, a little exasperated. “I’m out. They, somebody, has tied this up in a neat little package with a pretty bow and mailed it special delivery to us. I’ve been ordered to vacate by noon today. We’ve got pressure on us from above. A state senator named Hobbs. You’re right. This is too pat. Too sweet. McKinley didn’t like it, either. He bitched to the head shed in Jeff City, not something we do much if we want to go far. We’re trying to get back on this thing, but right now we’ve been ordered to back off. And you’ve got an attitude problem. We just do what we’re told. But I’m not done yet. In a week or so, we’ll start pushing back.”
I told him about being assaulted by Cugat. About the call from the mystery man.
“Storme, get out of this. This is dangerous shit. Give it to the authorities and get out.”
“I am. I’m giving it to you. But to you only. Anybody else asks me, I won’t talk.”
“All right. We’ll play it your way. All I can do. Another thing. The guy you’re hanging around with. Easton? I ran some background on him. Got a strange report. We don’t have a thing on him before 1976. Not even a driver’s license. It’s like he landed here on a spaceship for the Bicentennial. Hell, we can’t even get his social security number. The guy doesn’t exist before then. Everything’s classified. If I were you I’d clear town…and without Easton. He’s bad news.”
“I disagree.”
“Suit yourself. Watch your ass.”
I thanked him. I dialed Sandy’s number and there was no answer. Called the television station and they said she hadn’t come in yet. I felt a small rush of relief. I thought about Tempestt. Could still smell her perfume.
Somehow, I needed to uncomplicate my life.
I had just poured myself a fresh cup of coffee when two guys with short haircuts, suits, and London Fog raincoats knocked on my door.
“We’d like to speak with you, Mr. Storme,” said the taller of the pair.
“No thanks. I don’t want to be a Mormon.”
“We’re not Mormons,” he said. “I’m Special Agent Morrison of the FBI. May we come in?”
FIFTEEN
“You guys got membership cards?” I asked.
They flashed photostats. Tall, dark, and boring was FBI like he said, but didn’t look like Efrem Zimbalist, Jr. Life is one disappointment after another. The other guy was blond, early thirties. Capped teeth. DEA. Looked like he belonged to a fitness club. One with a tanning bed. He lifted weights, too. I had weights of my own, back in Colorado. They were gathering dust in my basement but weren’t costing me two hundred a month to do so. Of course, it was tough to meet single girls in your basement. And it wasn’t very chic.
I let them in. Always was a sucker for handsome government men. They sat in the den and looked around the room, searching with their eyes for foreign spies or secret panels, not realizing I’d had all the secret panels nailed shut only the week before. I offered them coffee, which the tall guy, Morrison, accepted. Agent Candless, the only beachboy in Missouri, asked if it was decaffeinated.
“No,” I said. “It’s not. No sugarless gum, either.”
“I don’t do caffeine.”
“Would you care to see a menu?”
They looked at each other. I waited for one of them to say, “Just the facts, ma’am.” Didn’t happen. I poured a cup of coffee for Morrison and brought it back to him. He wasn’t as persnickety as his partner, even spooning sugar into it. Caf
feine and sugar. Born to be wild. I sat down with my coffee. Leaned back and smiled, winningly. The perfect host.
“Mr. Storme—” began the FBI man.
“Please,” I said. “Call me Wyatt. All the other G-men do.” I didn’t know why they were here. They didn’t have a warrant. My place. Hadn’t asked them to come.
Morrison smiled and drank some coffee. Cool. He looked like a coffee advertisement. However, Candless pursed his lips and frowned as if I were a boring child they had to watch until its parents came home from bowling. They looked at each other again. Maybe they were telepathic. You never knew what advances the government was making.
“Why are you in Missouri at this time, Mr. Storme?”
“Bowhunting. Whitetail deer.”
“Do you know Chick Easton?”
“I know him.”
“How well?”
“Just met him. He’s going back to Colorado with me.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“We’d like precise answers,” Candless said, breaking in.
“Okay. It’s none of your business, that’s when we’re leaving.” I didn’t like being questioned without knowing why.
Candless’s jaw worked, and I saw a knot of muscle at the juncture of his mandible. “We know you met him in the Silver Spur Lounge three days ago. The day Sheriff Kennedy was killed.” He pulled a small black leather notebook from his coat pocket. A large diamond winked from a ring on his right hand. He was wearing a Rolex watch. DEA must pay pretty well, I thought. “4:03 p.m. Subject enters Silver Spur Lounge, Paradise, Missouri. 5:47. A man enters lounge and sits down with subject. The second man is Wyatt Storme, a former—”
“That got your initials on it?” I asked, meaning the notebook. He gave me a pained look. “Nice,” I said. “Why are you checking on Easton?”
“We know you were the last people to talk to Kennedy before he was killed,” Candless said, ignoring my question. I hate a one-way street.
