by W L Ripley
It didn’t suit me.
I followed the backhand with a left-hand swat. Large Michael’s eyes widened in amazement. It was the look rookie linemen had the first time one of the moat monsters head-slapped them. You either survived it or quit. Many quit. I stayed.
“The key. Now.”
He looked at me in disbelief. Like most bullies, he wasn’t used to this. Twice in one week. “Go to hell,” he said, trying to regain some of his lost face in front of his comrades.
I looked at Chick. “He’s not listening to me,” I said. I turned back to the bearded man. “You have no sense of my outrage, fatso. If I have to hospitalize you, I’ll do it. You don’t matter. Right now, only the key matters. I want it and I will get it, no matter what it takes.”
I kicked him between the legs. He dropped to his knees. When he reached for his private parts, I backhanded him. He fell over on the pavement. Not enough. The rage, exacerbated by fatigue and frustration, which had been gurgling beneath the black part of my soul, was rushing to the surface, fueled by adrenaline. Once again, I was startled by that part of me I could not control. The violence that had been so much a part of my life raised its ugly, red-eyed head—the beast within, long suppressed, yet not at bay. I holstered the gun, grabbed Large Michael by his jacket, jerked him erect, and slapped him on both ears with my hands. Then I chopped him on the neck with the side of a fist, followed by a blow from the heel of my hand against his eyebrows. I backhanded him again and saliva flew from his slack mouth.
“Stop,” said Large Michael.
“The key,” I said. I was panting. Anger, not exhaustion.
“They’ll kill me,” he said.
“And you think we won’t?” Chick said. He put the tip of his gun in Large Michael’s mouth. “Make a wish.”
Large Michael fumbled in the pocket of his jeans and handed us a ring of keys on a blue plastic tag. He was sweating heavily, and the sour aroma filled my nostrils. I took the key ring from him. “Which room is he in?”
“Seven,” he answered, his eyes searching the ground.
“Anybody in number one?”
He shook his head.
“Take them into number one,” I said to Chick, “while I see if Prescott is home.” Chick nodded, and we hustled the quartet into the room, using one of the keys to open the door.
Chick had them sit down, then asked, “Anybody know any ghost stories? Any songs?”
I pulled on a pair of leather driving gloves so I’d feel like Cary Grant and also so I wouldn’t leave any prints. Cary would’ve been proud, but Bogart would’ve been smart enough to put them on before roughing up Large Michael. The backs of my hands were sore but were not swelling. The big trucks chugged and droned like metal dinosaurs in the background as I walked to number 7. There were two locks on the door, one on the knob and another one a little higher, probably a dead bolt. None of my keys fit the upper keyhole. I knocked on the door. No answer. I walked back to the first unit. I didn’t know how much time we had before somebody called the cops. Now would be a bad time for Baxter to show.
When I opened the door to unit 1, Chick still had the four men sitting on the floor. Their pants were unbuckled and pulled down around their ankles. Their shoes were in a heap by one wall, leaving them barefoot and chagrined.
“Which one you think has the best legs?” asked Chick.
“I need the dead bolt key to number seven,” I said, to Large Michael.
“People in hell need ice water, too,” said Michael.
“He’s such a wit,” said Chick.
“Oh yeah?” I said. “Who around here said, ‘Grab some sky’?”
“A classic. How about, ‘No sense of my outrage’?”
“Okay, Michael,” I said. “What’s it gonna be? You give me the key, or do I take it from you?”
“I don’t have it. Honest. Only the guy, Campbell, and Roberts himself have keys.”
I believed him. “We need a crowbar,” I said. “Wait here.” I left them and walked back to the truck stop and bought a crowbar in the parts store. It was silver and heavy. I hefted it and it felt nice and solid. I walked back to unit 7. The door was hollow-core metal. It took some effort, but I was able to peel the dead bolt. That done, I used the key on the doorknob lock and pushed in. Inside, the room looked like number 1, with the exception of a VCR on the television, a kitchenette, a collection of technical notebooks, and a dead body in the bathtub.
It was Prescott. He hadn’t been dead long. There was an open quart bottle of Jack Daniel’s black-label bourbon on the floor next to the tub, along with a profusion of pills, caplets, and powders. There were no cuts or bruises on the body. The Magical Mystery Medicine Sleep. Looked like an overdose or a suicide. But I wasn’t buying it. Not when the guy was on the brink of the biggest money he’d ever see.
There was the stench of death in the room, but without the rot of long-term death. His face was blotchy, and his arms had begun to stiffen with rigor mortis. His skin was water-puckered. The eyes, glassy, stared at eternity. Died within the last couple of hours. Probably wouldn’t have been found for several days if I hadn’t gone looking for him.
I walked back into the bedroom, checking under the bed, in the drawers of the cheap veneer nightstand and dresser. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I looked. I searched behind the commode tank in the bathroom. Behind the Kmart pictures on the wall. Under the mattress. In the mattress. Nothing. I rummaged through the collection of videotapes, none of which were hollow. As I was going through them, I knocked one to the floor. It fell and bounced on its edge toward the dresser. When I reached down to pick it up, I noticed an irregularity in the grain of the carpeting. I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t been looking directly at it. I shoved the dresser aside and saw that someone had apparently cut a two-foot square in the carpet, removed it, and then set it back in. I plucked at a corner of the square, which was glued to a thin metal plate. I lifted it out to reveal a sunken safe with a combination dial on top.
I searched the room again and found what I was looking for taped to the back of the nightstand drawer. Written in blue ink were the numbers 17-75-36-12.
I got the safe open on the second attempt. The handle clicked as I twisted it and the mouth of the safe gaped. Inside were some papers, folded into an envelope and bound with a thick rubber band, a thousand dollars in various denominations, and a short plastic tube containing two dozen rocks of dreamsicle.
Jackpot.
Willie Boy had finally made a mistake.
I rummaged through the papers. It was the dreamsicle formula. Had to be. There were chemical symbols and instructions on how to combine them, along with proper temperatures, cooling time, and measurements. I removed a couple of rocks from the plastic tube and put the tube back in the safe. I pocketed the papers and put the money in my wallet. Prescott wouldn’t need it anymore and Chick deserved remuneration for being cheated out of his reward money. The Andy Jacksons, U.S. Grants, and Ben Franklins made a fat bulge in my wallet. I retaped the combination number to the back of the nightstand drawer, returned the carpet square to the correct position, and pushed the dresser back in place over it.
That done, I picked up the phone and dialed the highway patrol to report the murder to Sam Browne.
THIRTY
I called Troop A headquarters in Lee’s Summit. Told the dispatcher it was an emergency and I would speak with Browne only. I gave the number on Prescott’s phone, hung up, and waited. I knew Chick was alone in the room with our four playmates, but he could handle it. I didn’t know how much time we had before other people took an interest in us. But the business of the motel, which was monkey business, probably gave us a good deal of isolation.
Within two minutes the phone jangled. I picked it up and said, “Jerry’s Jiggle Joint, where your every dream comes true.”
“Cut the shit, Storme,” Browne said. “What have you got?”
“A dead body, a safe full of illegal drugs, and a smile that’ll
make your sister swoon.”
“You’d joke at your own funeral.”
“I’ll send you an invitation.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. Where are you?” I told him. “The Truck Hangar, huh? Good. You finally did something positive. I’d love to walk through their operation with probable cause. I’ll make sergeant by the end of the week.”
“Got another problem,” I said. “We may have used unique methods to find the dead man.”
“Like what?”
“Breaking and entering.”
“You crazy—”
“Also assault with a deadly weapon.”
“You shoot anybody?”
“No, just kind of pointed it at them and asked for their assistance.”
“You didn’t rape anybody, did you?”
“They charge for that here. We did manage to lust heavily for one of the chippies, though.”
“Let’s see. I’m about fifteen minutes away,” said Browne. “Okay, here’s the drill. You call Baxter and report this.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. It’ll be all right. The motel is out of his jurisdiction. That way it doesn’t look like I’m trying to Bogart his territory. Keep the brass off my back, and it’ll make you appear cooperative, which’ll be a first. How’d you know it was the wrong county when you called? Play dumb and button that smart lip and Baxter won’t be able to do anything, and 1-50 is definitely our jurisdiction. I’ll call in, get some backup, and be there quicker than you can say Broderick Crawford. Don’t tell Baxter anything until I get there.”
“Doesn’t sound courteous to me.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you’re dying to help him out.”
“Ten-four,” I said. “Over and out.”
He mumbled an obscenity and I heard the phone clang down on its hook. I walked outside to a pay phone and made an anonymous call to the Paradise County sheriff’s office, hung up before they could ask who I was, walked back to the Bronco, put the Browning under the spare tire, and walked to the motel. I dropped the crowbar in a trash can and took off my gloves.
“Hi, kids,” I said, when I entered room 1. “Your uncle Wyatt’s back.”
“Find anything?” Chick asked.
“I gotta piss,” said one of the goons.
“Do it in your pants,” Chick said. “Whoops, I forgot, you aren’t wearing any. Guess you’ll have to improvise.”
“Is your gun registered?” I asked Chick.
“Some of them.”
“This one?”
“Yes.”
“Good. The fuzz is coming. Maybe it’s the fuzz are coming. Plural. Prescott is in room seven with the worst hangover I’ve ever seen. The kind they don’t make aspirin for.”
“How?”
“Got it dressed up to look like an overdose. Or a suicide. Drugs all around. Half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Recent.”
“Were you able to save the whiskey?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that,” said Large Michael.
“That’ll be your most convincing defense,” I said. “Your ignorance is very believable.”
I heard a siren whooping, growing closer, louder, and then the room was bathed in a carousel of red and blue light. Through the window I saw the Paradise County car skid to a halt. Simmons was in the car with Baxter. They got out with drawn weapons. I opened the door and waved at them. A sour expression appeared on the interim sheriff’s face, which made the whole thing worthwhile. I left the door open and the county cops stepped inside. Chick’s gun had disappeared.
“All right,” said Baxter. “What the—?” He stopped when he saw the four men on the floor. “What the hell are you guys doing on the floor like…like that?”
“Sheriff,” said Chick, “we’ve uncovered a vicious depantsing ring and these poor men are victims.”
“You shut up,” Baxter said to Chick. “You boys pull your pants up. Michael, you look ridiculous.” Simmons was smiling.
“It’s these guys, Les,” said Michael, as he and his comrades shrugged on their jeans. “They made us—”
“Shut up,” said Baxter. “Who called about a dead body?”
I shrugged. “You might check room seven,” I said.
Baxter said, “Simmons, you stay here and keep an eye on these people while I check this out.” He left. Simmons looked at us, said nothing.
The sheriff was gone ten minutes. While he was gone Chick turned on the television and we watched a Newhart rerun. Larry, Daryl, and Daryl had just come on the screen when Baxter returned. His gun was drawn, again.
“You’re under arrest,” he said, waving the gun at Chick and me.
“Must be the depantsing thing,” said Chick.
“What are we under arrest for?” I asked.
“Murder.”
“Well, you’re too clever for us,” I said. “What do you think? We pumped the guy full of booze and pills, waited a couple hours for rigor mortis to set in, called you, then sat around in a motel room with four guys with no pants on for you to drop by and arrest us?”
“I’ll think of something,” said Baxter.
“That’ll be another long wait,” Chick said.
Just then, there were more dancing lights and the sound of a car pulling up. No siren. No skidding of tires on pavement. Baxter looked out the door and mumbled something. Trooper Browne entered the room. “Put the gun away, Baxter,” said Browne.
“What are you doing here?” Baxter said.
“Anonymous tip,” said Browne, smiling at me.
“Lot of it going around,” said Chick. “Only good, law-abiding folks here in Paradise County.”
“This isn’t Paradise County,” said Browne. “Is it, Baxter?”
The nuance of the situation escaped Baxter. “These two men are under arrest.”
“Do you have to be stupid all the time, Baxter?”
“I’ve been around him quite a bit now,” Chick said. “And he has yet to do one smart thing.”
“Your memory’s a little short, Easton,” Baxter said.
“Longer than you think, fats. But I’m patient.”
“Who are these people?” Browne asked me, indicating Large Michael and his buddies.
“Four of the seven dwarfs,” I said. “Dopey, Sleepy, Grumpy, and Jerky.”
“No Doc?” said Chick.
“No Brainy, either. Actually they work here. For Roberts. They pimp for the whores and act as muscle if a John doesn’t pay, or if you hang around too much. They’re not very good at it, though. They tried to roust us with nasty clubs, but we were able to foil them.”
“Foiled the shit out of ’em, in fact,” Chick said.
“They pulled guns on us,” protested Large Michael.
“There’s that, too,” I admitted.
“Do you wish to prefer charges against them?” Browne asked me.
“No,” I said. “I think they’ve learned their lesson.”
“They got anything to do with the stiff?”
“Probably not. They’re too lightweight for that kind of work. They’ll be easy to find if you need them. Besides, if they become a problem I could change my mind about the assault charges.”
“Okay,” Browne said. “Baxter, I’m authorizing you and your deputy to take these four men in for questioning. I’ll bring in Storme and Easton after I check the crime scene.”
“Bullshit. You don’t tell me nothin’. I’m going to—”
Browne took a quick step in Baxter’s direction and put his face close to Baxter’s. “Do what I say, Baxter. I’ve got an ME and a lab technician coming in directly. I want them to be able to work without you clomping around and messing it up.” The brim of Browne’s Smokey the Bear hat was so close to touching Baxter’s forehead, that Baxter had to lean away to avoid it. “I’ve had enough of your crap, Baxter. On the way over I called my captain and briefed him on the situation and the unusual politics of your county, and especially the way you conduct your office. He authorized me to take fu
ll responsibility for this investigation, including placing you under arrest if you create problems, since Ford County is out of your jurisdiction. You have no authority here except what I allow. Senator Hobbs, who intervened before, is presently under investigation for illegal use of public funds and sodomy. So you need to shut up and bus your fat tail back to the lockup before I arrest you, too.”
“There’s six of us and only three of them, Les,” said Large Michael.
“There’s four of us,” said Simmons. “Don’t need the job that bad.”
“Looks like you’re outnumbered, Large,” Chick said. “You don’t mind if I use your first name, do you?”
Baxter grabbed Large Michael by the front of his jacket and jerked him toward the door. “Let’s go, Michael. And if you say one word you’re gonna participate in some of that police brutality you hear so much about.” He hustled the quartet through the door. As they were leaving, Baxter said, “This ain’t the end of it.”
“I need to take a look at the body,” Browne said, after Baxter was gone. “You two stay out of trouble until I get back.”
“ ‘Bus your fat tail back to the lockup’?” I said.
“Shut up, Storme.”
THIRTY-ONE
The medical examiner and the police technician showed up half an hour after Baxter left. In that half hour I updated Browne, leaving out the floor safe and the fact I had a copy of the dreamsicle formula. I needed it for leverage with Roberts.
“You think Roberts killed this guy?” asked Browne.
“Or had it done,” I said. “He wasn’t counting on anybody checking on Prescott for a couple of days. Guy was an outsider. Didn’t know anybody in town.”
“What about Baxter’s part in all this?”
“Not sure. He was right on top of this place after I called. Like somebody tipped him off. He’s dirty, but he’s too stupid for Roberts to trust, and he was genuinely surprised by the murder. Still, it doesn’t seem right. The murder of Kennedy was too messy. Badly timed. Roberts wouldn’t be so inopportune, and the killing of the chemist is a contrast in style. It’ll be tough to prove Prescott was murdered. It was well planned and executed.”
