Dead Soul (16 page)

“Victims of violent assaults often disremember what happened. Hell, the senator probably never even got hit on the head. Or maybe he bumped his noggin when he fell down—
after
he got clipped on the legs.”

“Maybe.”

“So what’s your explanation?”

“I hate to bother you with it.”

“Go ahead, bother me.” Parris snickered. “And don’t worry that I’ll be disappointed—it’s not like I’ve got high expectations.”

“Well, since you put it like that, here’s my notion. If Patch Davidson did get smacked on the bean, maybe the bad guy used a sap.”

The chief of police raised an eyebrow. “You mean, like a blackjack?”

“Could be. But those Chicago antiques are hard to find. More likely, it was something homemade. Like…oh, I don’t know. Maybe a tobacco bag fulla lead shot.”

“Charlie, why would a guy who already has a serviceable piece of iron bonk the senator with a bag of lead BBs, then start beating his legs to a pulp with the rebar?”

The Ute allowed his friend ample time to consider his own question.

“Unless…” Parris pulled at an earlobe. “Unless there was
two
guys. Bad Guy Number One has a handful of rebar. Bad Guy Number Two, he has a bag of lead shot. Number One is the team’s heavy hitter, Number Two’s probably the lookout. When the senator interrupts the murder-robbery already in progress, the lookout saps the new arrival. After Patch Davidson hits the ground, the heavy hitter goes after him with the iron bar. And would’ve probably killed him if Oscar Sweetwater hadn’t heard Patch yelling—and come running to see what was going down.”

“Might have happened exactly like that.”

“You keep saying that. It is very annoying.”

Moon was staring across the small parking lot. At the warehouse.

Parris stamped his boots. “Charlie, it’s too cold to play games. Now tell me straight out—do you know something I don’t or don’t you?”

“Run that past me again.”

“You know what I mean.”

The Ute pointed toward the P.I.E. warehouse on the other side of the drainage ditch. “What do you reckon they keep in that building?”

“PIEs,” Parris said through bluish lips. “Apple PIEs. Blueberry PIEs Rhubarb PIEs. I’m told they haul ’em up from Pie Town, New Mexico. By the truckload.”

“I guess your guys must’ve looked around over there.”

“Around the warehouse? Sure. We searched for footprints. Calling cards. Photo IDs. Anything a thoughtful criminal might’ve left behind for the benefit of us dumb coppers. No such luck.”

“You check out the top of the building?”

The chief of police fixed his gaze on the pitched Propanel roof. “What is wrong with me.” He slapped his forehead. “Charlie, I am embarrassed beyond words. Astonishing as it may seem, it did not occur to me that the criminal might have leaped thirty feet onto that slanted, slippery sheet metal while in the process of making his escape. But if it would make you feel better, I could bring in a ladder and check the roof for footprints.”

“Wasn’t exactly footprints I had in mind.”

Parris gave him an odd look.

“About the sap,” Moon said, “I got this theory—”

“Yeah. So you said.”

“I think the bad guy pitched it onto the roof.”

“Is there any reason at all why you think such a thing?”

“When Oscar Sweetwater was running to help the senator, he says he heard a thump—like a car door slamming. So everybody naturally assumes that the bad guy left the employee parking lot in a set of wheels. But one of your fine police officers interviewed a Mrs. Bale, who was across the street in the Laundromat waiting for some sheets and pillowcases to dry. This very observant lady said she saw the big Lincoln pull into the employee lot behind the restaurant. But she did not see another motor vehicle until the cops showed up.”

“Okay,” Parris said. “So maybe the perp—or let’s say perps, just so we’ll have a second guy with your sap—let’s assume they have IQs of at least forty-six, which makes them way too smart to park the getaway car right at the spot where they intend to commit a major felony.”

“But if the bad guys don’t have a motor vehicle parked close by, what did Oscar Sweetwater hear that sounded like a car door slamming?”

“You tell me.”

“The sap,” Moon said.

“You really got a fixation on this sap business.”

“The bad guy doesn’t want to get caught with it, so he gives it the old heave-ho. My guess is”—Moon pointed across the ditch—“it landed on the roof of the warehouse.”

“Okay,” Paris said. “Let me get this picture framed in my mind. Bad Guy Number One is beating hell outta Senator Davidson when his victim starts to yell. Oscar Sweetwater—who is over yonder in the big parking lot—hears the call for help. Here comes the fierce Indian, thirty-two-caliber
pistola
in hand. Our bad guys decide that it is high time to depart. Bad Guy Number One drops his chunk of rebar and runs like a gazelle. Bad Guy Number Two gives his sap a heave, and it lands on the warehouse roof with a resounding thud. That’s the sound Oscar heard—and thought it was a car door slamming. This is how you see it?”

Moon nodded. “More or less.”
Mostly less.

“There’s a big hole in this bucket, Charlie. If Bad Guy Number Two doesn’t want to be apprehended with a sap in his pocket, why doesn’t he just drop it like B.G. Number One drops his chunk of rebar? Why go to the trouble to throw it onto the roof of the warehouse?”

“Now that is the question, pardner.”

“Charlie, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I think your line of reasoning is pretty thin.”

Moon assumed a hurt look. “You are beginning to undermine my self-esteem.”

“And another thing—why’re you so sure our perp flang his sap on the warehouse roof?” Parris squinted at the metal building.

“Well, I guess it looks like a long shot to you.” The Ute’s deep voice took on a decidedly stubborn tone. “But that’s my theory. And I’m sticking to it.”

“You really think the sap is still up there?”

Moon took a deep breath. Hesitated. “Well…yeah.”

“You sure of that?”

“Sure I’m sure.”

“Sure enough to bet cash money on it?”

The tribal investigator shrugged. “Well, I don’t know if—”

“Hah.”

“That ‘hah’ has a nasty ring to it.”

“If you really believed this silly sap-is-on-the-roof notion, you’d be willing to lay your money down. Like the true gambling man I thought you was.”

“Well, since it’s kinda a long shot, you’d have to give me some pretty sweet odds.”

Parris jutted his chin. “How’s ten-to-one taste?”

“Well, I guess I might have a bite of that.”

“Okay, then.” Parris removed a crisp twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. “This here Andrew Jackson covers a pair of your cherry-tree choppers.”

“You mean if I’m right, all I take home is twenty bucks?”

“Name your poison.”

“How about five of your Jacksons against a pair of Great Emancipators?”

He’s getting too eager.
“Charlie, you are lucky I am your best buddy. Otherwise, I would take your pair of fivers. But I am not by nature a greedy man.”

He’s getting nervous.
“Okay, then. Two Washingtons against your man from Tennessee says you’ll find the sap on the roof. Or,” the Ute added casually, “in the gutter.”

“Gutter?”

“Technically, a gutter is an extension of a roof.” Moon shrugged. “The sap could’ve slid down the roof into the gutter. Or maybe it even got washed into the down spout. Hey, I’m only betting the mugger flung his sap onto the roof. I ain’t saying exactly where it might of went from there.”

The chief of police leveled an accusing look at his companion. “Charlie, are you trying to snooker your best friend in the whole galaxy?”

Moon was wide-eyed with innocence. “What do you mean?”

“I mean have you already checked out the roof on that warehouse?”

“Well…maybe I had a quick look.”

“And did you find anything there?”

Moon shook his head.

“How about in the gutter.”

Another negative response from the Ute.

Scott Parris knew his man. “So the sap’s in the down spout.”

“Well, now that you mention it. It might be. Possibly.”

“Charlie, you are a sneaky rascal who would pick his best friend’s pocket for a measly twenty dollars. Or a hundred, if you could run the bet up.”

“I hate to have to remind you, pardner, but the wager was entirely your idea. In fact, it might be said that you deliberately shamed me into it.”

“Bull hockey. You mousetrapped me and we both know it. But I can see that you’re just busting your britches to brag about how you worked this out. Go ahead. Lay it on me. I’ll pretend to be enormously impressed.”

“I did have a little help.”

“You mean somebody told you—”

“Not exactly, pardner. And not entirely.”

“Thank you. That clears things up considerably.”

“First, she told my aunt Daisy, not me. She said she saw somebody stealing sand.”

“Who the hell is
she?
”

“The skinny redheaded gal.”

“Wilma Brewster?”

“So you say, pardner. I’ve never laid eyes on the young woman.”

“You been holding out on your buddy. Why didn’t you mention this sand business the first time you told me about the redhead talkin’ to your Aunt Daisy?”

“First time you and me discussed the matter, my aunt had only talked to her once, at the discount store in Durango. The part about some person stealing sand—that came up when the redheaded gal had a chat with Aunt Daisy in Ignacio. Across the street from Angel’s Café.”

Parris ground his teeth. “
What
person was stealing sand?”

“The redheaded gal didn’t say.”

The chief of police scowled at the Ute. “And I bet we still don’t know where to find this phantom witness.”

“Pardner, I hate to say this. But every time I offer you a fine, shiny apple, you do have a hurtful way of finding a worm in it.”

“Okay, I may be just a teensy bit overly critical. So to make amends, let me say this—despite the fact that you tried to steal my hard-earned money, and even though you had the benefit of a tip, I am greatly impressed with the way you have worked things out.”

“Well, pardner, that makes me feel some better. But being modest right down to the marrow, I am compelled to point out that it was mostly luck on my part.”

“How so?”

“When I got here early this morning, it was raining hard. I noticed that water was spilling over the side of the warehouse gutter—but just barely dribbling outta the down spout. Well, you can see how easy that was. Even a chief of police might’ve figured that something was blocking the flow.”

“Charlie, you should’ve been a detective. But don’t let me interrupt your story with overly generous praise. What’d you do next?”

“Borrowed a ladder. Climbed up. Had a look.”

“And what exactly was this something that was blocking the down spout?”

“Well, I couldn’t be absolutely certain. After all, pardner, if I knew for sure, it wouldn’t have been entirely fair to accept that bet you pressed on me.”

“I am duly impressed with your integrity. But go ahead—take a wild-ass guess.”

“Well—it might’ve been a sock.”

“Sock?”

“Sure. The redheaded gal told Aunt Daisy she saw this person putting the sand into…well, a sock.”

The chief of police shook his head wearily. “And what kinda sock did you find in the drain pipe.”

“I think it might’ve been wool. Dark blue. With three red stripes.”

“You think?”

“It could be evidence in a capital crime, pardner. And I’m just a humble private cop who wouldn’t even think of poking around a pig that’s inside my pardner’s pen.” Charlie. Moon assumed a righteous expression. “No, sir. That wouldn’t be right.”

Chapter Twenty

HEARTBURN

CHARLIE MOON WAS NEARING THE GRANITE CREEK CITY LIMITS
when the dull, persistent pain hit him right below the belt buckle. This was a chronic condition, occurring three or four times every day. A remedy was called for. By some quirk of misfortune, he was approaching the Mountain Man Bar & Grille, a monstrous two-story construction of creosote-soaked pine logs. Standing on the porch roof was a chain-saw-hewn image of a scruffy-looking fellow in a coonskin cap. This oversized facsimile of a frontiersman gripped a rugged wooden tomahawk in one hand, a nine-foot-long Pennsylvania flintlock rifle in the other. Moon slowed the pickup.
This is where Billy Smoke was hanging out a few minutes before he was beaten to death
.

During the lunch hour, the Mountain Man catered to those very few locals who were bereft of functioning taste buds or good sense, plus the occasional innocent tourist who would never darken its door again. When the sun went down behind the mountains, the place was a watering hole for sunburned cowboys, long-haul truckers, and beer-swilling bikers. It was midafternoon, the slow time. The graveled parking lot was vacant except for a dusty Subaru Outback.

As Charlie Moon pushed the door open, an electric bell chimed his entrance. He found himself in a barnlike room that served as restaurant and bar. The Ute paused to allow time for his pupils to adjust to the smoky twilight.

A big-hipped, moderately attractive blonde stomped along the rough boards behind the bar. The name tag on her blouse read “CHARLENE.” She looked through limpid blue eyes at the potential customer. “You wantin’ somthin’ to drink?” Her sad countenance expressed the unspoken hope that the man seating himself on the stool was just passing by.

This lady needed some cheering up. “Ma’am, I am ready for some serious good eats.”

His cheerful luminosity fell into the black hole of her despair. “Then you came to the wrong place, mister. Our cook died this mornin’—from serious food poisnin’.”

“This is sad news. I hope his death was not painful.”

Charlene grimaced, exposing a great multitude of teeth set in matching horseshoes of pink gums. “The owner of the joint does the cookin’, but right now BoBo’s gone to the post office.”

His stomach growled. “This is even worse news.”

She found a filthy rag, took a halfhearted swipe at the bar. “I s’pose I could whip somethin’ up for you.”

Reassured by this offer, Moon smiled. “I sure could go for a hot ham sandwich and a bowl of homemade soup.”

“Don’t have no ham.” She pointed at a row of red and white cans on a shelf behind the bar. “And the soup ain’t homemade.”

The optimistic man’s hope was not diminished at this news. “What do you recommend?”

Charlene poised a ballpoint over her order pad. “Could you go for a Chuck Wagon Elkburger and some Mountain Man Chili? Chili’s leftover but I could warm it up.”

“I expect that would hit the empty spot just right.”

She rattled off the list of potato options.

Charlie Moon informed her that he preferred German potato salad over fries or mashed.

Charlene scribbled
CH/EB/PS
on her pad.

There was loud banging on the front door, coarse laughter, a heavy clomping of boots. The waitress scowled; this trio of bikers was well known to her. “Excuse me for just a minute.” She went to confront the unwelcome customers. “Whatta you guys want?”

They told her.

She snorted. “In your dreams, you buncha pea-brained jackasses.”

Cheered by this sociable exchange, they demanded beers.

Charlene filled the order, returned to take care of her other customer.

Moon watched the new arrivals in the mirror behind the bar. Three rough-looking white men nursing Buds from long-necked bottles. They had the pale, indolent look of boozers who spent much of their waking hours in darkened bars. The largest of the bikers filled one side of the booth. The tribal investigator did not know why he was paying them the least attention. But something made the hair stand up on the nape of the Ute’s neck.

“Okay, I’m back.” Charlene was watching the bikers over his shoulder. “Whacha want to drink, cowboy?”

Moon informed her that a tall glass of lemonade would be satisfactory.

There was a snicker from the bikers. One of these philosophers offered his considered opinion that lemonade was a pansy drink.

Charlie Moon ignored the unseemly remark. “And bring me an extra napkin, please.”

The waitress’s lips curled into a smirk. “One napkin ain’t enough for you?”

“No, ma’am.” He lowered his voice to an embarrassed whisper. “When I’m at the peak of my appetite, I tend to make a big mess. And I’m real hungry.”
Hungry enough to eat here.

“Well, I don’t see how nobody could make a mess with a Elkburger.”

“You forget the chili.”

She rolled the blue eyes, disappeared into the kitchen. Moments later, the woman could be heard swatting flies, screaming shrill curses at those insects who got away.

The lemonade, which appeared shortly, was of the type concocted from a mixture of powdered concentrate and alkali water dipped from a stagnant pool called Poisoned Well. All the sugar he could mix into the greenish liquid did not overwhelm the bitter undertaste. After a few sips, he left it alone.

Charlene plopped his lunch in front of him. “Bowla chili. Elkburger with fries.”

He was about to remind her that he’d ordered the potato salad.
No. Best to eat what’s already here. Sooner I’m finished, sooner I’m outta here.

One of the bikers yelled for more beer.

Moon took a bite of the Elkburger.
Tastes like road kill
. Grease floated on the chili. He tried a spoonful. Awful.
I should’ve waited till I got home to eat
. But the tribal investigator reminded himself that there was another reason to be in this pathetic excuse for a restaurant. The diner looked over the lemonade glass at the blond waitress, who was putting plastic-packaged crackers into a dish. “You worked here very long?”

“Long enough to regret it.” She slammed the plastic cracker bowl on the bar. “Why d’you ask?”

“I’m with the Colorado Board of Welfare Investigation.”

The waitress elevated a penciled eyebrow. “No kidding.”

“I never makes jokes about my work.”

“So why’re you askin’ me questions?”

He crumbled a pair of saltines into the chili. “My specialty is child labor law enforcement. And you don’t look old enough to work in an establishment that serves liquor.”

She cackled a laugh. “That’s a good one. Besides spreading bullshit, cowboy, what line a work are you in—really?”

He presented his tribal ID.

She stared at the dark face in the photograph, the gold-plated shield. “Real pretty.”

“Thank you. A homely man appreciates a compliment now and then.”

Charlene flashed a gummy smile. “I meant the shiny badge.”

He looked at the burger. “I sure wish you hadn’t told me that.”

She picked up a beetle off the bar, watched eight little legs wiggle. “So what brings an Indian cop to the Mountain Man?” The waitress dropped the unfortunate insect onto the floor, stomped on it. “It cain’t be our reputation for dishin’ out edible food.”

He showed her a photograph of Wilma Brewster.

Charlene found a pair of reading glasses in her apron pocket, propped them on the bridge of her nose. She stared at the pale, freckled face under the red hair. “Who’s this?”

“You don’t recognize her?”

The waitress shook her head. “I won’t swear on no Bible that I’ve never seen this kid, but she sure ain’t one of our regulars.”

Moon returned the photo to an inside jacket pocket. “Last December, just a few days before Christmas, a fella I know had himself a beer in this fine establishment.”

“Is that supposed to mean somethin’ to me?”

He knew she knew. It was written all over her parchment-pale face. “Billy Smoke. Senator Davidson’s driver.”

“Oh, yeah.” Charlene took another swipe at the greasy countertop. “Now I remember. I was here that night.”

Moon stirred the chili. “Late that evening, after he’d had a few drinks, Billy left the Mountain Man. He drove the senator’s Lincoln over to the Blue Light Cafe to pick up his employer. Before Patch Davidson came outside for his ride home, somebody else found Billy in the Blue Light parking lot. They beat him on the head until he was dead.”

Her lips went thin. “Everybody knows what happened after Billy left the place.” She averted her face from Moon’s penetrating gaze.

Forgetting himself, he took a sip of bitter lemonade. Regretted it. “I’m looking into the matter for the tribe. If there’s anything at all you could tell me…”

“Look, mister, I already talked to the cops till I was blue in the face.” She was looking past him.

He saw a flicker of fear in her eyes. Heard the creak of a board in the floor behind him. Moon glanced at the mirror behind the bar.
Uh-oh. Here comes trouble.

The heaviest of the three bikers had left the booth. He was a massive, swaggering man with enormous biceps, a belly flopping over a thick leather belt, a mop of straw-colored hair secured by a dirty red bandanna—beady, piggish eyes. A fat black cigar dangled from thick lips. Four-inch-high yellow letters on his black T-shirt spelled out
HALF
-
TON
. Two yards short of the Ute, the monstrous man stopped. In something resembling a smile, the lips parted to expose yellowed teeth.

Moon turned on the bar stool. Took a look at Half-Ton’s companions. Though watching their comrade with intense interest, they remained in the booth. That, at least, was a hopeful sign.

The massive man removed the cigar from his mouth, spoke in a low growl. “I know who you are.”

“So do I,” Moon said. “And I know how to spell my name. That’s why I don’t need to have it printed on my shirt.”

This produced a belly laugh that shook the biker. “That’s a pretty good one. For a dumb-ass Indian cop.”

“Ah—then you know me by reputation.”

“Sure I do.” He raised a finger the size of a Polish sausage, pointed at the ID in Moon’s shirt pocket. “And your redskin badge don’t mean nothin’ here.”

“I’m a working man—don’t have time to waste in idle conversation. So why don’t you get right to the point.”

“Awright.” A happy chuckle rippled along the mammoth belly. “I am going to pull your ugly head off—and stuff it up your ass.”

“You want to fight?”

The huge man’s eyes twinkled merrily. “In the worst way.”

“I’d like to oblige you Mr. Half-Tub—”

“It’s Half-
Ton.
”

“—but I’ve had a long, hard day. I’m tired to the bone.”

“Sounds to me like you’re ’fraid you’ll get your ass whupped.”

“Well, if you and me was to tangle, I suppose the outcome would be unpredictable.” The Ute took measure of the monstrous creature, who had a distinctly alien look about him. “I have never done battle with a life-form that was not carbon-based.”

Half-Ton stared through the pig eyes. “Are you bad-mouthin’ me?”

“Certainly not—that was a compliment. I recognized you as a life-form.”

The huge biker glanced over his shoulder at his buddies, snorted. “I say you’re a yella scum-sucking hound.”

Moon considered the insult. “A good effort for a third-grade dropout. But it won’t quite do.”

Half-Ton sucked in a breath of stale air. “Then you’re a lily-livered sissy. A stinkin’ coward. Afraid to stand up and duke it out, man to man.”

The Ute sighed. This three-hundred-pound gorilla was not going to go away.

The biker sneered. “On toppa that, you’re a damn pervert.”

The Ute tensed. “What was that?”

“You’re a candy-ass pervert.” He added gleefully, “The kind whut wears women’s underwear.”

“What kind?”

Half-Ton’s tiny swine eyes bulged. “Women’s!”

“No, I mean what kind of women’s undergarment are we talking about?”

The oversized thug concentrated all the power of a walnut-sized brain until he had the picture. “Pink panties. With little red hearts. And black lace.”

Moon grinned. “So you got yourself a girlfriend. What’s her name—Quarter-Ton?”

“I don’t like Injuns.” Half-Ton’s lip curled in utter hatred. “Specially redskins whut drink limmenade.”

“Well, that tears it. You’ve gone and hurt my feelings.” Moon smiled. “But I still won’t fight you.”

The huge man waddled up to the bar. “You know what that there bowla chili puts me ta mind of?”

Moon made a wish.
I wish you wouldn’t tell me
.

Half-Ton told him with some relish. Laughed like a lunatic hyena. Then ground the red-hot tip of his cigar into the chili. It made a hissing sound.

“You should know better than to mess with a man’s food.” Oh so slowly, Ute raised himself from the bar stool.

From the far booth, the remaining bikers—who also wore personalized T-shirts—watched the slender, broad-shouldered man unfold to an alarming height.

Pie Eye muttered to Yazzoo, “Oh my gawd, but he’s a big ’un.”

Said Yazzoo, who had a red patch over his bunged-up left eye and a slight measure of good sense, nodded. “I’d estimate…hmm…about two hundred and sixteen. Give or take a pound.” He had spent the summer of ’99 estimating patrons’ weights with the Ullibari Brother’s Greatest Carnival and Circus West of the Atlantic. “And he’ll measure a good four-foot-forty with the hat.”

Pie Eye wiped a smear of beer foam from his mouth. “I say we go back up ol’ Half-Ton.”

“Nah. The big guy can take that Indian. Besides, you know the boss don’t want any help—it’s against the rules.”

“Hell with the rules.” Pie Eye drained the last of his Bud, grasped the neck of the bottle in a hairy hand. “Backwater if you wanta, but I’m goin’ to get me a piece of that tommy-hawk flinger before Half-Ton tears his head off.”

The more prudent of the trio watched Pie Eye leave the booth. Yazzoo had a plan of his own, which did not include being present when the blue suits showed up to sort things out. There was always the possibility of confusion when the local Gestapo started stirring the pot. On occasion, the boundary between rowdy participants and innocent bystanders could become murky. Yazzoo had no intention of being dropped into the Granite Creek jug along with this pair of ignorant felons.