They were gathering quite a gallery of onlookers, and none of them appeared welcoming either.
Tommy shrugged. “Our money’s as good as anyone else’s. At least, that’s what Mr. Brady says. Ye’ve met Mr. Brady, I trust, the rancher who owns this parcel.”
Stegener came running over, literally running. “Get the hell outta here!”
Joe turned to Smiles. “He’s pissed at me enough to subpoena me, something about harassment. You know what? He’s right. We’re harassing him. He’s a pain in the ass, and if he keeps going off half cocked like this, we’ll give him so much grief we might even end up owning this plat. It’s all in what you convince the court about.”
Smiles hadn’t lost his scowl. “Who’s your backers?”
“Tahono O’odhams and Yaquis both want the casino down here, and they’re right. Near the two…”
Stegener interrupted. “We don’t deal with filthy Indians!”
“Near the two biggest population centers in Arizona, and an easy hit for anyone who wants to come up from Nogales. And if we keep the slots loose, we’ll likely draw some Mexican trade. We’ll use their tribal gaming licence, of course. Couple other groups who wish to remain anonymous.”
Tommy exploded! He grabbed Stegener, wrenched the guy’s arm and threw him down. He stomped a heel in Stegener’s back and yanked the rifle away. Casually, he turned and handed the rifle to Smiles. “Waving it about like that, he was making me nervous. Tis loaded, ye know.”
Smiles snorted. He laughed. The whole gallery laughed. That had to really sting Stegener, his buddies making merry. He twisted to his feet, and Joe had never seen such pure fury in someone’s face.
Joe looked at Tommy. “I’ve seen enough, Tommy. You weren’t exaggerating about this place. Let’s go put a bid in.” He nodded to Smiles. “Nice to meet you.” and walked away.
Tommy paused barely long enough to lie: “Twas a pleasure to meet ye.”
Joe had his car door open when Smiles called, “Wait a minute.”
It was a very good sign that Smiles came down off his pedestal, the trailer stoop, so Joe and Tommy returned to meet him halfway.
“You have money. We have money. We can get into a bidding war and everybody loses. Or we can join forces, pool the funds, and build bigger and better.”
Joe arranged his face to look skeptical. “We plan to build a casino and convention center complex. What are you planning to build?”
“A shooting range and education center for gun owners. Wait a minute. The law says only Indians can build and operate Indian casinos.”
“I’m an Indian. And of course so are the Tahono O’odhams.” Joe whipped out his tribal membership card. It was obvious Smiles never saw one of those before.
Tommy frowned. “Education. Multi-day workshops and courses?”
“Heads in beds. Right. The two of us build one convention center to house both enterprises.”
Tommy nodded sagely. “And there would be no rivalry; we would not be getting in each other’s hair at all—not tapping into the same market, ye might say. Aye, tis indeed something to consider. I shall talk to the other investors. It might well profit us both.”
“Only one little problem.” Joe looked Smiles in the eye. “If you want to work with us, you’re going to have to make some attitude adjustments. For random example, we Indians aren’t filthy.”
Smiles smirked. “We’ll work on it.”
Stegener forced himself between them and got right in Joe’s face. “Only you ain’t going to have any money, Rodriguez. You’re going to have nothing but debts, so you better practice making cardboard signs and standing on street corners. You ruined us and now I’m gonna destroy you. I’m gonna take your money and wreck your career and watch you dry up in the sun like a worm on a parking lot.” He raised a hand and rubbed his thumb across his fingertips, the classic money sign. “Pony up, Rodriguez.”
Rico didn’t get time alone with Pop very often, and certainly not for something like shopping. He loved this. He really loved it. He stood up in the sneakers and walked in a tight circle as his father watched. “Whaddaya think, Pop?”
“Looks good. Wiggle your toes. Now stand up on your toes ballerina style. Do your toes get jammed forward?”
“Feels good.”
Pop nodded to the clerk. “Then that’s done. What’s left on the list?”
Rico wiggled his toes some more in his new shoes. “We got it all. My shirts still fit. It was just the jeans.”
“Then it’s lunch time.” Pop dug out his wallet and paid, and they left. “Where to?”
“How about Extraburger? Their milkshake is the best.”
“My favourite, too. Extraburger it is.” Pop opened the trunk.
Rico tossed his old shoes in and hopped into the passenger seat. It was so much more fun to ride around in this little Midget than in the family van. He didn’t want the morning to end. “Where we going next? I mean after lunch.”
“I’ll drop you off at the house and go out to the raceway.”
“Can I go along, please? Please?”
“Your aunt doesn’t like me taking you kids along on business.” Pop slid behind the wheel.
“It’s just gonna be talking to old men, right? No shooting, no high speed. Please? I wanna see the raceway.”
Pop studied him a moment. “Sure. Come on.”
Rico hopped into the passenger seat before Pop could change his mind. “This is the raceway where you used to hang around at when you were a kid, right?”
“Right. I started taking a bus out when I was your age, eleven or twelve. Around there. Hung out in the pits, started helping, and stuck my face over the engine whenever they put the hood up. I learned a lot in those few years.”
“Aunt Fel says they had you out driving on the track when you were fourteen.”
Pop smiled and nodded. “They duct-taped blocks to the pedals so I could reach them.”
The raceway was closed, of course. He pulled up to the barrier across the entry drive, stuck his business card under the windshield wiper, and they crossed the barrier into a place they weren’t supposed to go. Rico’s heart trilled a little.
A fellow who was probably a guard came out to meet them. “Sorry, sir, but no one’s allowed in. You’ll have to go back to your car.”
Pop presented his badge case. “I’m here on business; I want to interview an employee.”
“Which employee?”
“Business. Understand?”
“Homicide business?”
Pop just stared at him. The guy stepped aside and they continued on.
Rico wished he could make people do something just by staring at them, and Pop was good at it. He certainly knew where he was going. They rounded the grandstand, went through an iron pipe gate, did a sort of dogleg through another gate, and strolled out onto the track. A royal blue car was whining along on the far side of the oval. Pop continued over to a couple of men.
They had the hood up on an orange car with a white stripe down the middle of it bumper to bumper. If it had a bumper; Rico noticed it didn’t. They were discussing something about the engine and waving their arms. Pop stepped in beside them. “If you put some gas in the tank it’ll run better.”
An old, small, skinny guy stood erect and looked toward them. “Joe! ¡Marvilloso! Joe Rodriguez!”
Another old fellow stepped back and turned. “I’ll be damned! So it is! What brings you here?”
“Business, Bubba.” Pop shook hands with the old fellow, then the small man. “Johnny, I don’t think you’ve ever met my son, Rico. Rico, this is Johnny Paredes.”
Inside, Rico was scared spitless. Outside, he tried to look relaxed. He extended his hand. “I’ve heard about you, sir. ¡Con mucho gusto, Señor Paredes!”
And the fellow responded in a warm, smooth Spanish with a slight Sonoran accent.
Pop said, “And Bubba, this is Rico. Rico, Leroy Mason here was the man who first put me in a car.”
“I’m hono
red, sir. Pop has often spoken of you.” Rico felt very grownup, as if he were a part of this circle.
“Rico, please ta meetcha.” He spoke with a thick southern accent as he offered a calloused hand. These men both offered a handshake. That’s not just friendly, it’s the adult thing to do. Not like the guys at school. Pop asked, “Bubba, do you still run the show?”
“Yeah, but nobody knows it anymore. I retired. Now we got a sorta consortium going, with a money pool. That there blue car out there, same model as this one, is ours too. A rookie, Ellis Lane. Shows real promise, that kid.”
Pop turned to Mr. Paredes. “You’re back playing with engines again? You had switched over to body work because you said that with today’s engines, a computer analyzed everything and told you why you couldn’t fix it.”
Rico giggled.
“Sorry to say I’m into the computers these days too. Hate the computer part, love the engines. You still a policeman?”
“I am.” Pop said, “I’m here on business, actually. I need to talk to Wilson Cooper. Is he around?”
The group suddenly sobered. Johnny explained, “Remember how often Wilson boasted that he started smoking at twelve and be damned if the cigarettes would ever get him?”
“I remember.”
“All of a sudden he got real quiet about that. He died of lung cancer two weeks ago.”
Pop grimaced. “I’m sorry to hear that. Especially since he knew things I need to know about a case. Is there anybody here he was close to?”
“Close to? Nobody ever got close to Wilson Cooper.”
“So he never changed over the years.”
Mr. Paredes wagged his head. “Still the blowhard with no friends. I’m sorry.”
“Wanna show you suhthin’, Joe, since y’re here. This here is what engines look like now. Ain’t yo granny’s car no more.” Mr. Mason waved a hand across the orange car with the hood up.
Pop leaned on the front bar of the engine compartment and pointed to this and that, asking questions. Eagerly the two men explained stuff Rico didn’t understand at all. Rico could change the oil and pull a wheel on the van or the Midget; he could even tune Gretchen’s Toyota. But this big engine was way out of his league.
It didn’t seem to be out of Pop’s league, but it was sure on the edge. He asked questions Rico didn’t know existed.
Mr. Paredes appeared beside Pop with a helmet in his hand. “Try it out.”
Pop was going to decline; Rico could see it in his face, and inside his head, he thought as loudly as he could, Do it, Pop! You know you want to. Suddenly, Pop unclipped his tie and slid out of his sport coat. Rico was there to take them and hold them. Pop pulled the helmet down onto his head and buckled it. He climbed inside, latched into the harness, and started the engine without anyone having to tell him how. The guys gave the car a big push and it rolled out onto the track.
The blue car moved to the outside.
Mr. Mason casually pulled a stopwatch out of his pocket. “Think ‘e’s still got it?”
“I dunno.” Mr. Paredes shrugged. “I bet the ranch he’s never driven something with this much juice.”
Pop took the car out to the first turn, accelerating. The engine was howling as he entered the backstretch. Here he came into the far turn, whipping along crazy fast. The wild, high speed took Rico’s breath away, and he wasn’t even in the car. Look at Pop go!
Mr. Mason sniffed, sounding bored. “He ain’t even tryin’.”
Suddenly, as he came out of the far curve and toward the starting line, Pop gunned it. The car leapt forward, taking off from fast to super fast to super super fast. The tires smoked a little.
“Now he’s trying.” Mr. Paredes was grinning.
Rico could easily see the difference in speed between the first lap and this one. Pop had it opened clear up as he zipped around and into the backstretch. The roar, distant though it was, intensified.
Mr. Mason’s eyes were not on Pop but on his watch. He announced a number; probably telling them the seconds so far. Pop seemed to go even faster. He was ripping along at an amazing, incredible speed as he crossed the finish line and did another turn around the track, slowing down. A victory lap. Rico was grinning with excitement and pride. He noticed Mr. Paredes was smiling, too.
The car came rolling in, slowing down further and further as it approached. Pop stopped it at about the place it had been standing when he got in. He got out, unbuckled the helmet, and handed it to Mr. Paredes. He was grinning one of those grins that won’t go away. Rico gave him back his jacket.
Mr. Mason asked, “Think ya coulda milked any more out of it if’n ya had to?”
“No. Maybe a little, but I doubt it. That’s an amazing ride. Thank you.”
“Well, you don’t hafta.” Mr. Mason showed him the stopwatch. “You got pole position sewed up.”
Pop paused from sticking his arm in a sleeve to stare at the watch. “I knew it was fast, but I didn’t realize that fast.”
Mr. Mason planted himself right in front of Pop, nearly touching him. “We needja, Joe. I mean we really need ya. The track is still breaking even on gate receipts, barely, but attendance is going down more every year. We got young Ellis out there coming along, but we need a movie star, someone to capture the public imagination. Someone the folks will come out in droves to watch. I saw that quality in ya when ya were fifteen, and it’s just as clear now. You were a helluva driver then and y’re every bit as good now. Better. Whatever y’re doing, quit doing it and come back to racing. Y’ll be a superstar.”
Chapter 5 Wilson Cooper
Joe knew Wilson Cooper from his childhood out at the raceway, but he had never known where the man lived. As far as Child Joe knew, the fellow lived at the raceway; he seemed to be there night and day. He and Tommy got a residential address from the raceway front office, obtained the all-important court order, and drove to Cooper’s little house.
It was a 700-square foot stucco cottage in the older part of town. Most of the neighbouring houses had been torn down, replaced by newer and larger houses, a Basha’s grocery market, and an apartment building. Tommy opened the Century 21 realtor’s lockbox and extracted the key, and they entered.
If Cooper’s girlfriend was the consummate slob, Cooper was the ultimate OCD neatnik. There was not a stitch of anything out of place. The man had been a minimalist to the core. “Opposites attract” flashed through Joe’s brain, but then, those of like mind also attract.
Bridgid.
The kitchen was tidy, its counters clear of even small appliances. In the middle of the dining area table sat a basket of fruit. Joe donned latex gloves and squeezed it. Fake fruit. The standard pieces of living room furniture did not look used. Did he not watch television? Yes, the TV was hidden away in a cabinet with double doors closing off the front. He was no patron of the arts. A couple framed generic prints were hung in those few open wall spaces where you absolutely had to have a picture. Neither was he into bric-a-brac or eye-catching carpets or anything else outside of the mundane.
The house went a lot easier than had Missy Messy’s apartment, being nearly as small and light years more orderly. They finished thoroughly raking the house and found nothing about his life or a reputed girlfriend that they didn’t already know.
Tommy sat down to go through the desk while Joe finished up the bathroom. Cooper’s dozen prescription medicines were neatly arranged in the cabinet behind the mirror.
“Ah! Here be an address book.” Tommy thumbed through it as Joe crossed to the little alcove that served as an office and flopped down in a chair. He was tired. No big mystery. He and Bridgid were going to bed early enough, but they weren’t getting a whole lot of sleep, and to his delight, she was often the instigator.
“All business numbers, stores and suppliers,” Tommy reported.
“How about doctors? From his prescriptions, he had diabetes and serious heart issues in addition to the lung cancer that killed him. Kind of a trainwreck.”
“Nae,
nary a one.”
“Then there’s another address book or Rolodex somewhere, something that has personal stuff.”
“Not in his desk.”
“Peachy. So we get to read every piece of paper in his files.” Joe slapped the three-drawer metal file cabinet between them.
Tommy scooped a wad of folders out of the top drawer, handed them to Joe, and started thumbing through what was left. “Ah, here be his tax records. In this folder be all his deductible expense receipts, all that. The next folder holds receipts he’d need to prove sales tax should he itemize. His medical receipts and invoices. Ye have his doctors’ names already, aye? From prescription bottles.”
“Yes.”
“And here be last year’s tax returns. All quite neat and orderly.”
Joe sniffed. “I wish I could keep all my ducks lined up like that. Nothing about his love life?”
“Were ye to assume his whole life be in this file cabinet, he had no girl and no friends.”
Joe grunted. ”Here I have a folder of clippings and tear sheets from Car and Driver. No particular theme or subject matter. I’d guess it was simply articles that struck his fancy.” He corrected himself. “Two folders of clippings. No, three. Nothing about a girl or girls, nothing about friends or neighbours.”
Tommy closed the top drawer and opened the middle one. Joe lingered over the clippings. He remembered some of the drivers in the news articles Cooper had saved. In fact, two of them were gone now, killed in the line of duty as it were. Raceway accidents. Some enterprising news photographer had caught one of the wrecks, the back end of the car being enveloped in a ball of fire and black smoke. And there was one back wheel visible. Pointing up.
“Aha.” Tommy broke into a grin. “Here be Alicia Bowerman and she made all As in grade school.” He waved a report card such as Joe’s kids got. But newspaper clippings and mementos such as Alicia’s class picture and a prom photo did not give them what they wanted most—names and addresses of friends and associates. None, not for Alicia, not for Wilson Cooper. Her prom date in the photo was not identified.
Pony Up Page 5