Night Mayer: Legend of the Skinwalker

by Paul W Papa

  Mayer had known Stella nearly all his life. Their mothers had been the best of friends and were very close. Stella’s mother, Waleryia Virginia Zasucha, came to Las Vegas in 1921 with Stella and her older sister, Helen, in tow. Virginia started as a cook for the Union Pacific Railroad and eventually became a caregiver for Judge John Busteed. When he died, Busteed left Virginia the property on Fremont Street between Ninth and Tenth. She turned it into a service station and eventually a diner called Virginia’s Café. Stella and her husband Joe took over when the diner was running on all eights, eventually changing the place into a liquor store and tavern, branding it Atomic Liquors.

  Mayer went to Las Vegas High School with Stella and Helen, the eighth class to graduate from the high school Las Vegas built on the outskirts of town in 1931. The Union Pacific Railroad had donated the property to the town, and George A. Ferris & Son designed the building in the Art Deco, Aztec Moderne style. Their mothers’ friendship led to one of their own, one that became even more important to Mayer after his parents disappeared.

  “Where is Joe?” Mayer asked.

  “Oh, he’s out on the roof,” she said, then added. “Don’t be too hard on him.”

  He didn’t plan to be. Joe, too, was an orphan—a kindred spirit. He and Stella were the only family Mayer had, or wanted. Reporters tricked people. It was what they did.

  “You got the paper?” he asked.

  “Looking for a job?” she kidded as she slid it over to him.

  He gave her half a smile, then unfolded the thing to the front page headline and began reading.

  LOCAL DEVELOPER COMMITS SUICIDE

  Developer Richard Jones Hawthorne was found dead in his office, the victim of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound. Hawthorne and his partner, William James Pierce, were slated to build a resort-style dude ranch in the Spring Mountain Escarpment, complete with horses, cattle, and campfires, though some claimed the resort was simply a way station where men and women could stay long enough to establish residency and get the divorce they so sought.

  The project has met with resistance from the very beginning, from both the local Paiute Tribe, who claims the land as a sacred burial ground, and from Vera Krupp, owner of the neighboring Diamond V Ranch. Krupp had met Hawthorne and Pierce in court, on several occasions, trying to put a stop to the resort. A temporary injunction was granted for a study of the impact on the area, and the project was currently on hold at the time of Hawthorne’s untimely death. The fate of the site is uncertain as Pierce was unavailable for comment.

  “Ain’t that a bite?” Mayer said to no one in particular.

  “Whatcha got there?” Stella asked from behind the bar. She had the same sparkling eyes and dark brown hair as her mother. And while only five foot tall on a good day, she’d kept Joe and Mayer in line on more than one occasion. She was a woman unafraid of getting her hands dirty. Mayer liked that about her.

  “Some developer shot himself out there by Diamond V Ranch,” Mayer said.

  “Why’d he do that?”

  “Who knows? Probably got himself in financial difficulties, or ran afoul of the trouble boys. Either way, it didn’t end well for him.”

  A deliveryman stepped into the bar, his muscular arms pressed into a clean, light blue, button-down shirt, his name embroidered on a patch over the pocket. The cuffs on his dungarees were rolled up and he was wearing work boots, the laces tied around the top. He had a coif of blonde hair done up in a proper pompadour and no lid. Mayer reasoned he was likely the favorite of the local ladies—the strong, silent type.

  “Got a delivery,” he announced.

  “Pull around the back and I’ll open the door for you.” Stella told the deliveryman. She turned to Mayer. “Watch the bar for me?”

  Mayer nodded. He placed his lid on the bar, then took off his suit coat, folded it, and laid it on the stool. He slipped behind the bar, rolled up his sleeves, and began washing glasses. Mayer tended bar when he needed a buck or two—which was more often than not. Stella tried to get him to work it full-time—the customers liked his drinks, she told him—but some people weren’t meant for steady jobs.

  Mayer had been behind the bar about twenty minutes when a gentleman who definitely had the bees strolled in the side door. He wore a dark brown, double-breasted sack suit, with a matching waistcoat, vest, and double-pleated trousers, full in the hips and tight at the ankle. His tie matched the tip of the display handkerchief resting in his top pocket and his shoes were Jarman—at least they looked like they were. He fit in about as well as an olive on an ice-cream sundae. He took a measure of the place, then sat down at the bar.

  “What can I get you?” Mayer asked.

  He eyed the colored bottles resting on the shelves in front of the large mirror behind Mayer, probably searching for something he thought he could keep down. “Macallan,” he said finally. “On the rocks.”

  Mayer laughed. “Macallan?” he repeated. “Does this look like a place that would have that kind of hooch?”

  The man removed his brownstone Stetson Ambassador and laid it gingerly on the bar. “What brand of,” he paused, “hooch, does an establishment such as this serve?”

  “How ’bout some Old Fitzgerald?” Mayer offered.

  “Very well,” the man said.

  Mayer removed a glass from the shelf behind him, taking extra care to make sure it was clean. The man seemed like the type that would prefer a clean glass. The cross from the rosary beads wrapped around Mayer’s right wrist clinked against the glass as he filled it with ice, then poured the scotch inside. He laid a small square napkin on the bar and rested the drink on top.

  The man took a tentative sip. “Smooth,” he exclaimed, but his face betrayed him.

  Mayer poured himself a cup of Joe and brought it to the bar. “You seem a little out of place,” he said, then added, “Not that you aren’t welcome here.”

  The man looked at Mayer intently, eyeing first the rosary beads, then the onyx bracelets on his left wrist, ending with the strange tattoo on his forearm. “Might you be the man they call Night Mayer?” he asked.

  It was a popular question.

  “Who’s askin’?”

  The man stuck out his hand. “Name’s Pierce. William James Pierce.”

  Mayer took the offering. “What are you doing here, Mr. Pierce? And what do you want with me?”

  “I have a job offer.”

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong man,” Mayer said. “I don’t know anything about resorts, dude ranches, or quickie divorces.”

  Pierce smiled. “That is not why I’m here,” he said. “I was told you had a hand in the Sloan Canyon incident. I was hoping you could do the same for me.”

  “Not interested,” Mayer said.

  “Perhaps this will change your mind.” He reached into his suit coat and pulled out a long slim wallet. Alligator skin. He opened the thing, pulled out a crisp one hundred dollar bill, and laid it on the bar.

  “You’ll have to do . . .”

  Before Mayer could finish, Pierce laid down four more bills just like it.

  “That’s a lot of cabbage,” Mayer said.

  “I’m told you’re worth it,” Pierce countered.

  “Who told you that?”

  Pierce waved him off and tried another sip with the same result. Mayer watched with interest as the man removed a fancy silver cigarette case from his other inside pocket, took out a single slim, brown cigarette, and offered one to Mayer. When Mayer declined, Pierce closed the case and slipped it back where it came from. Then he placed the thing between his lips and lit the end.

  “Why do you need me?” Mayer asked. “The hammer and saws have this one all figured out. You think they’ve missed something?”

  “Richard Jones Hawthorne was not the type of man to commit suicide.”

  Mayer laughed again. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, mister, it’s that no man knows what another man will or won’t do.”

  “That may very well be tr
ue,” Pierce said, “but I know my partner, and even if he did commit suicide, he’d never leave his share of the resort to Vera Krupp.” He said the name as if it was bitter in his mouth. “Now, do you accept my offer? I’m not a man who enjoys wasting time.”

  Vera Krupp? Mayer thought. That information wasn’t in the newspaper. And Pierce had a point. Why would a man leave his share to a woman who had tried to thwart him every step of the way, then shoot himself?

  “Perhaps I was wrong,” Pierce said and began lifting the bills from the bar, one at a time. Mayer watched as he tapped them together to align the edges and opened his wallet. He slid the bills inside and returned the alligator skin to his inside pocket. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” he said. “What do I owe you for the drink?”

  Mayer studied the man. There was a weary concern in his eyes. And while he was dressed to the nines, those same eyes told Mayer that Pierce hadn’t seen sleep in quite some time.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” Mayer said. “Tell me more.”

  Three

  AN HOUR LATER, Mayer was sitting at the desk of Homicide Detective Raymond C. Fry thumbing through a file marked “PRIVATE” in bold, block letters. The detective bureau was crammed into a small space on the third floor of the Las Vegas Police Department. An odd array of worn-out, wooden desks pressed together edge to edge filled the room, and the only man who had his own area was the Lieutenant, a man named Connor McQueeney, according to the name painted on the door.

  “Open-and-shut case,” Fry said. “The goose clipped himself.”

  Fry was the consummate dick. He drank too much, smoked more than he should, and knew more about human behavior than anyone in the department. Lessons learned from years as a bull, working the rails. He joined the force when the Union Pacific Railroad pulled out its service and repair yards over a labor dispute and had been there ever since, working his way up to detective. He probably should have been running the place, but as he’d repeatedly told Mayer, he didn’t want the headache.

  Fry looked like a flatfoot more than any man should. He was tall and thick, with a square jaw and deep-set eyes. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows—his tie loose around his neck. He wore gray flannel trousers, his matching suit coat and Stacy Adams resting on a coat rack behind him.

  Mayer worked with Fry on the Sloan Canyon incident and the two had established a working relationship that, if they weren’t careful, could border on friendship. Mayer understood Fry. But more importantly, he trusted the man. Fry had done Mayer a favor and pulled the file from the Clark County Sheriff’s Department, who had jurisdiction over the unincorporated area where the resort was to be placed and the incident occurred.

  Mayer read the report. Hawthorne was found slumped over on his desk by his partner William James Pierce. He had a single shot through the temple, the bullet cutting a clean path through his brain. The five other bullets remained in the .38, unfired. There were no signs of a break-in or a struggle, and nothing was missing. The note Hawthorne left was also in the folder.

  I, Richard Jones Hawthorne, do leave my share of the Spring Mountain Dude Ranch and Spa to Vera Krupp to do with it as she pleases. This is my final wish and I make it of my own free will and accord. I hereby commit my soul into God’s hands.

  Fry leaned back in his wooden swivel chair—the arms black with wear. “The boys at the lab did a bang-up job on this one. The only prints on the piece were his, and he had gunshot residue on his right hand. Suicide. Plain and simple.”

  Mayer was skeptical. He lifted the paper. The dated and signed note was flat and void of folds—the ink clearly indenting the paper. The writing was smooth and even, as if it came from someone who wasn’t rushed.

  “And you don’t find it strange that he left his share of the project to a woman who’d been fighting him in court?”

  “Of course, it’s strange,” Fry said, “but men do strange things and the science don’t lie. Besides, it’s not my case. The brown boys can handle it just fine.” He leaned forward. “Say, why are you so interested in this anyway?”

  “His partner came to me today. Doesn’t see Hawthorne as the type to pull his own trigger.”

  “Well, my in-laws still don’t understand how my wife married me, but she did.”

  “They aren’t the only ones wondering,” Mayer said.

  “Ahhh,” Fry exclaimed and waved him off.

  Mayer examined the folder further. Fry was right, there was nothing to make it look like anything other than a suicide. Even the coroner listed the cause of death as such.

  “That coroner report came back awful quick,” Mayer noted.

  “Hawthorne’s an important man,” Fry said. “Important men get to move to the head of the line, even in death.”

  “And the ME?”

  Fry shook his head. “No need for an autopsy,” he said. “Coroner ruled it a suicide.”

  Mayer was about to close the file when something caught his eye. In the list of evidence removed from the scene were seven empty shell casings from a .38 revolver. The same .38 Hawthorne used to send himself to the afterlife. “Who shoots their heater six times, empties it, fills it with six more, then turns it on his own head?” he asked.

  “Richard Jones Hawthorne,” Fry said, matter-of-factly. “I already told you, the science don’t lie, kid. So what if it took him six times before he screwed up enough courage to put the thing against his own skull? No sin in that.”

  Mayer wasn’t convinced.

  “Maybe he was playing knucklebones and ran low on jacks.” Fry smiled at his own humor.

  Mayer did not.

  “Go tell your sugar daddy there ain’t nuttin here,” Fry said as he pulled a smoke from the pack on his desk and lit it. A regular man would have been offended, but Mayer understood Fry didn’t mean it as a jab against him. It was meant for Pierce.

  “He’s barking up the wrong tree,” Fry said and blew out a puff of smoke. “Tell him that instead of wasting his time, maybe he should make nice with Vera Krupp if he wants to keep the project moving forward. Though I doubt it would do any good.”

  Mayer stood. He handed Fry the file and thanked him for the favor.

  “Keep your nose clean, kid,” Fry told him.

  Mayer climbed into his midnight blue Hudson Hornet and headed back down Fremont Street to Atomic Liquors. He’d told Pierce to meet him back there in a couple of hours and would tell the man if he’d take the job or not. Pierce was sitting at the bar when he arrived.

  “I presume you went to the police department,” Pierce said.

  “You presume correctly,” Mayer confirmed. He laid his lid on the bar next to Pierce.

  “And?”

  “And the coroner lists it as a suicide,” Mayer said. “Hawthorne’s are the only prints on the weapon, and there’s gunshot residue on his right hand. Looks like your man killed himself.”

  “So you agree with the police?”

  “Sheriff,” Mayer corrected, adding, “and, I didn’t say that.” There was something about the report that troubled him, something that didn’t quite fit. Though he couldn’t put his finger on just what that was. “Just because a man offs himself, doesn’t mean he committed suicide,” Mayer said. “I need a look at the crime scene.”

  Pierce stood. “We can take my car.”

  Four

  MAYER OPTED TO take his own car, following Pierce to the site. He wasn’t sure where the day would take him, and he didn’t want to be beholden to another man’s ride. The drive out to the Spring Mountain Escarpment was long and boring, filled with nothing but brown dirt, cacti, sagebrush, and visible waves of heat. He rolled down his windows, but the air outside seemed even hotter than the air in his car. Mayer’s Hornet didn’t have air conditioning, not like those fancy new Bel Airs. Even if the option was available, he wouldn’t have been able to afford it. His bankroll was more day-to-day than long-term. As he drove, Mayer wondered what possessed William and his brother J. Ross Clark to build a town in
this godforsaken place—the Devil’s vacation home. No coincidence that its closest neighbor was called Death Valley.

  Every so often Mayer passed a stray burro who would gaze at the intruder with the same disdain a stranger received when walking into a saloon for the first time. He wondered what the animal made of the big, blue car as it sped by.

  They headed down Blue Diamond Road toward the small town of the same name. Both the town and the road got their moniker from the Blue Diamond Corporation, which built the place to house most of its 325 employees who worked its gypsum mine atop Blue Diamond Hill. It was an ugly hill, void of vegetation. Having nothing to claim as beauty, except for the curvy semi-horizontal striations that ran along its side.

  They turned right on the dirt road that led to the mine, passed both the small town and the hill where the mine was located, then kept going. The scenery made a remarkable improvement in this area. The escarpment rose skyward, out of the desert, toward the heavens on Mayer’s left. Majestic, jagged mountains of brown, green, orange, and blue, seeming to come out of nowhere. A horizontal patch of deep red striped the mountains, looking very much like a child darted alongside them, holding out a paintbrush as it ran. The sight made even the desert below more appealing.

  A couple more miles down the road and the Coupe deVille Pierce was driving turned left onto another dirt road—this one heading directly toward the escarpment. As Mayer bounced down the corduroy road, his lid flew off, landing onto the seat next to him. He quickly rolled up his window in defense of the dust that seemed intent on filling his car. The dirt road led to a white, rectangular, ten-wide trailer coach. Wires connected the thing to a large pole some twenty feet away. This, Mayer presumed, must be the office.

  The yellow caution tape was still in place when they arrived, and a brown boy, as Fry called them, from the sheriff’s department was standing guard. Another man stood next to him. He wore a black suit, heavy on the black. His slacks and fedora the same shade of darkness. Wayfarers protected his eyes from the sun—or maybe it was the other way around. There was a slight bulge below his left arm and another at the bottom of his right leg. A hatchet man.