by Thomas King
“Okay.”
“The 818 and the 310 calls go both ways,” said Archie. “Probably head office? Family? Friends?”
“Probably.”
“And Vegas is what? Amelia Nash?”
“Probably.”
Archie stopped typing. “Could you say something besides ‘probably’?”
“Probably.” Thumps ran a finger down the list. “Quite a few local calls.”
“Yeah,” said Archie, “but only six numbers.”
Thumps stretched his neck. “Can you put names to the numbers?”
“Probably,” said Archie, “but all of this is going to take some time.”
“So, what can I do to help?”
EVEN AFTER HE had walked out of the bookstore and got into the old Dodge, Thumps could still hear Archie laughing. It was bad manners at best. Sure, he didn’t know that much about computers, and he could see where the little Greek might have found his offer of help amusing, but, all in all, he didn’t think it had been that funny.
Blackfoot Autohaus was open. Stas was standing in the yard, trying to lasso a motorcycle.
“Howdy.” Stas played out a loop, spun it over his head, and dropped it over the handlebars of the bike. “What do you think?”
The motorcycle was two-tone, red and white, with enormous fenders front and rear that wrapped around the wheels like helmets. On the tank was a stylized Indian head with a feathered bonnet.
“You bought a motorcycle?”
“Me? No.” Stas slipped the rope off the handlebars. “Vernon Rockland. You know Rockland?”
“Sure,” said Thumps. “Owns Shadow Ranch.”
“Yes,” said Stas. “This is him. He buys it at auction. 1947 Indian Chief Roadmaster. I am to fix it nice as new.”
“It’s a good-looking bike.”
Stas shook his head. “Yes, beautiful piece of shit. Rockland wishes to ride it in Howdy Parade. Maybe he lives. Maybe he is dead.”
Thumps wasn’t sure if he had gotten the translation correct. “Dead?”
“Sure,” said Stas. “Motorcycle hits car. Who is winner?”
The bike looked fine. Thumps didn’t see any damage. “Rockland hit a car?”
“No,” said Stas. “Not yet. First, I must to fix bike. Then maybe he hit car.”
“Or he could just put it on display up at Shadow Ranch.”
“Yes,” said Stas. “Like Freddy Salgado and the sad story Corvette. Also piece of shit.”
“The Corvette?”
“Fibreglass,” said Stas. “Who makes car out of fibreglass?”
“Why is it a sad story?”
“Small boats, sure. Hot tubs, water slides, okay. Outdoor furniture and stepladders.”
Thumps took a guess. “Because of . . . Elvis?”
“Elvis?” said Stas. “Rock and roll King?”
“The Corvette at Salgado’s is the same model that Elvis drove in one of his movies.”
“Yes,” said Stas. “And now King is dead. Motorcycles. Corvettes. Piece of shit.”
“Elvis wasn’t killed in his corvette.”
“No,” said Stas. “Girl. Sad story is girl.”
Sometimes it was difficult keeping up with the big Russian. “Girl?”
“Yes,” said Stas. “Rich girl. Log castle. Corvette is her car.”
“Trudy Samuels?”
Stas played out a length of rope. “This is why is best to buy German car.”
THE GPS ON Pearl’s Honda had not been a problem. Stas set his laptop on the counter.
“Honda did not come with GPS. This one is aftermarket. High end. Scary lady is good quality.”
“Can we see where Maslow went?”
“Sheriff ask this question,” said Stas. “Not like Russia.”
“Russia?”
“In Russia, no one asks.”
“And?”
“Yes, sure.” Stas clicked the mouse. “Okay, here is travel information.”
“How far back can we go?”
“All the way.” Stas pointed at the screen. “You see? Time stamp. Each day.”
“Can I have these records?”
“Sure,” said Stas. “What is email?”
“I don’t have email.”
“You must get email,” said Stas. “Everything today is email.”
“Can you print off the information?”
“Ah,” said Stas. “You do it old stool.”
“School.”
“Sure,” said Stas. He clicked the mouse and the printer began wheezing. “Maybe you decide about car?”
“Do you need your truck back?”
“No,” said Stas. “Not yet. Soon. Today is okay. Tomorrow maybe not okay.” Stas took the pages from the printer and handed them to Thumps. “In Netherlands, many people walk, ride bicycle. Maybe you get bicycle. Maybe you wish to be Dutch.”
“Maybe I should get a motorcycle.”
“Lawrence of Arabia, Duane Allman, Luc Bourdon,” said Stas. “All dead for motorcycles. Also Viktor Robertovich Tsoi.”
“Who?”
“Russian rock musician,” said Stas. “Maybe you wish to be Russian.”
Thirty-Five
Freddy Salgado was in the showroom, straightening a giant blue bow on a metallic red car that had been polished and buffed so that it shone in the light like a giant jelly bean. The bow could just be an advertising ploy, but Thumps guessed that the car had been sold, guessed that some lucky buyer was coming in today to see it in all its glory, to pick it up, and take it home, knowing as they drove it off the lot that the car would never be worth as much again. Or look this good.
“Hey, Mr. DreadfulWater.” Freddy wiped his hands on his pants. “You just missed her.”
“Claire?”
“Ms. Merchant was in yesterday. Decided on the Forester.”
“Great.”
“Bringing it in from Missoula. Early return on a lease. Tungsten Metallic. Just like she wanted. And I’m giving her a good trade-in on her Ford.”
“She traded in her truck?”
“I’m going to surprise her and throw in a cargo tray for the back and the rubber floor mats for the front. Help keep the snow and ice off the carpet. Those are the sorts of things that help to maintain the vehicle’s value.”
Thumps wandered over to the Corvette.
Freddy stayed on his hip. “Hey, you should buy the truck.”
They had taken the truck to Seattle. Thumps had driven it for part of the way there and back, had driven it around the city when Claire couldn’t. He had liked the bulk and the strength of the vehicle, as though it had spent its free time at a gym with free weights.
“Wouldn’t that be something.”
Thumps was sure that Claire had not given up the truck easily. Here was his chance to return it to her. More or less. Hey, he could say, look what I bought. And watch her eyes light up.
“Pickups are big sellers in this part of the world,” said Freddy. “But I don’t have to tell you that.”
Thumps was trying to think of a way to move the conversation from the Subaru and the truck to the Corvette when a large van pulled up to the showroom doors and Calder Banks got out. Along with Gloria Baker-Doyle, two young guys, and a young woman.
“Film crew,” said Freddy. “Stick around. You can pretend to be a customer.” Freddy waved a hand over the Corvette. “The reality show that’s in town. Malice something or other. They want to film the car for one of their episodes.”
Thumps watched as the young men unloaded the van. Camera, tripod, lights, reflectors. Calder had pages in one hand. Gloria was straightening his tie. The young woman was powdering Banks’s nose with a puffy brush.
“Great visuals,” said Freddy. “You know . . . See the car she drove the night she died . . . That sort of thing.”
“Sure.”
“Original paperwork was still in the glovebox. Bill of sale. Features sheet. Some old gas receipts.” Freddy shook his head and began chuckling. “Gas was thirty-five cent
s a gallon back then. You believe that?” Freddy paused for a moment. “Even found an old speeding ticket in the console. I guess they don’t come after you for traffic fines if you’re dead.”
“You get it at auction?”
“Nope,” said Freddy. “Bought it off the mother. Abigail, Amelia, Adriana. Something like that.”
“Adele.”
“Right,” said Freddy. “Adele. She called me out of the blue. Asked if I wanted to buy the car. Did you know my dad?”
“Before my time.”
“Back then,” said Freddy, “this place was a Chevy dealership. Dad was good friends with Buck Samuels. Sold him all his cars.”
“So you bought the Corvette.”
“Absolutely,” said Freddy. “I’m not superstitious.”
“Superstitious?”
“I mean, the last time she drove the car was the night she killed herself. There are lots of folks who would see the ’Vette as bad luck.”
“But not you.”
“Nope. Not me.” Freddy walked around to the back of the car and opened the trunk. Inside was a large glass frame. “Had all the stuff I found in the car mounted and framed. Part of the provenance of the vehicle, part of the legend. Real important to collectors.”
Freddy leaned the frame against the rear wheel. “Figured that the film crew is going to want to have this in the shot.”
“Mr. DreadfulWater.” Calder was through the door with his hand extended. “Good to see you again.”
“Car shopping?” said Gloria.
“Mr. DreadfulWater,” said Freddy, “is thinking about a pickup.”
Thumps squatted down beside the frame. Whoever had mounted the items had done a terrific job. The original bill of sale was in the centre. The registration, in the name of Trudy Samuels, was in the upper right corner along with a photograph of Trudy standing in front of the car. There was a receipt for an oil change that noted the mileage and another receipt for a tune-up. The speeding ticket was mounted in the lower right-hand corner.
“They want me to stand beside the Corvette,” said Calder. “But I think it would make more sense if I sat in the driver’s seat. What do you think?”
“You just want to sit behind the wheel,” said Gloria.
“’63 split-window ’Vette,” said Calder. “Damn right I do.”
“Is that what this is?” Gloria walked around the car. “Brilliant.”
“That she is,” said Freddy. “Not many of these babies made.”
“And this is the car that Trudy Samuels drove? Yeah?”
“Got all the paperwork.” Freddy picked up the frame and held it out. “This is the real McCoy.”
Gloria retreated to the crew scrum and began talking to the guy who was setting up the camera. Calder opened the door of the ’Vette and slid in behind the wheel.
“They didn’t make them for comfort,” said Freddy.
“360 horsepower,” said Calder. “327 cubic inches.”
“You know your cars,” said Freddy.
“I’m a European guy,” said Calder. “Jaguar, Porsche, Ferrari, Maserati.”
“You buy European,” said Freddy. “Then you got to buy the mechanic.”
Calder winked at Thumps. “What about you?” he said. “American or import?”
One of the young men hurried over. Tall and skinny in the way only young men can be tall and skinny. The muscle and bulk would come later.
“Mr. Banks,” said the man. “Going to have to change jackets.”
“What?”
“Oil spots, sir,” said the man. “On the cuff. From the car.”
Calder turned the cuff. “You can see these on camera?”
“Don’t want to take a chance.”
“Shit,” said Calder. “Don’t have another jacket.”
“Do it in your shirt sleeves,” said Gloria. “Yeah? Make you look like a working man.”
“Maybe I should roll up the shirt. Show a little forearm?”
“Brilliant,” said Gloria.
It took the film crew the better part of an hour to set up the camera and arrange the lighting. Thumps watched the whole process, intrigued by the amount of time needed to shoot a scene that probably wouldn’t last a minute on screen.
Gloria touched his arm. “What do you think?” she whispered.
“Looks a little boring.”
“You should be on a movie set,” said Gloria. “This is exciting. Yeah.”
The scene was simple. Calder would get into the car, turn back to the camera, and say his lines. And then he would do it all again. And again. And again. Each take was slightly different than the one before, but not so that anyone would notice.
Thumps stopped counting at thirteen. He had no idea how Calder could continue to say the same thing over and over again, how he was able to keep the same censorious expression on his face, the same sonorous tone to his voice, take after take.
“You knew Nina pretty well?”
“Not well,” said Gloria. “Well enough, I guess.”
“When she researched a case, did she share any of the information with anyone?”
“Not with me.”
“Sydney Pearl?”
“Sure,” said Gloria. “Sydney’s the boss.”
“Calder?”
Gloria put a hand over her mouth. “Maybe. Nina thought Banks was an idiot. If she had had her way, he would have never been on the show.”
“So, no love lost?”
“They were both professionals,” said Gloria. “Calder knew Nina didn’t like him. He didn’t like her. But on with the show.”
“On with the show?”
“The audience liked Calder. That’s the only thing that counts. Nina understood that.”
“Gloria!” Calder worked his way out of the Corvette and limped over. “They’ve got the master. Ajay says it’ll take forty-five to reset for the close-up. I want to get something to eat.”
Gloria turned back to Thumps. “So have you discovered anything?”
“Yeah,” said Calder. “The stuff Pearl gave you. Any clues?”
“We could help, you know.”
“Right,” said Calder. “That would be fun.”
Archie was going to be trouble enough. He was going to have to spend the evening listening to the little Greek complain about Thumps abusing their friendship. Maybe if there were other people in the mix, Archie would be on better behaviour. And four sets of eyes could be better than two. More importantly, Calder and Gloria knew Maslow, knew how she worked, knew how she thought.
“When are you going to be done with the filming?”
“Eight o’clock,” said Gloria. “Maybe sooner.”
It was a bad idea, and Thumps knew it.
“Remember the Aegean?”
“Where the party was?” said Calder.
“I’ll be there.”
“Brilliant,” said Gloria.
Calder rubbed his thighs. “Maybe by then I’ll get some of the feeling back in my legs.” He put his arms over his head and stretched. “It’s a classic, but there’s not enough space in that thing for a shoehorn.”
Thirty-Six
Thumps wasn’t sure that Tobias Rattler was going to be happy to see him, and, all things considered, he didn’t care. Rattler had lied to him. Well, the man hadn’t lied exactly. He had withheld. He had omitted. And sins of omission were still sins. Of course, Thumps could only guess at the extent of Rattler’s lapses and oversights, but he had several good ideas to test.
Thumps pressed the doorbell and tried to come up with a snappy way to begin the conversation that would wrong-foot Rattler, put him on the defensive, make him more amenable to the truth and full disclosure.
“Hey, Thumps.” Cooley Small Elk filled the doorway once again. “You’re just in time.”
Thumps had expected to have a private conversation with Rattler, but as he came into the condo, he could see that that wasn’t going to happen.
“Come on in,” said Moses. “We’ve a
lmost got it whipped.”
Tobias Rattler and Moses Blood were standing at the kitchen table, working on the puzzle.
“Moses has a great eye,” said Rattler. “He doesn’t get fooled by the colours. He just looks for shapes.”
“Found it,” said Moses, and he held a piece up to the light and then set it in place. “Come on. You give it a try.”
“Moses has done most of the sky,” said Cooley, “but you could work on filling in the tipi.”
Rattler tried matching a piece to a partially finished mountain. “I’m guessing you’re not here to work on the puzzle.”
“No.”
“Am I going to need a lawyer?”
Thumps cocked his head. “Do you want a lawyer?”
“This about Trudy?”
“No.”
“Ah,” said Rattler. “Nina Maslow.”
“No,” said Thumps. “Dartmouth College.”
“Ah, Dartmouth. I was wondering when you would get around to that.” Rattler picked up a puzzle piece and tried to fit it into the pristine lake at the edge of the encampment. “Ask your question.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about Adele Samuels?”
“Embarrassed, I guess.” Rattler left the puzzle and went to the sofa. “Dartmouth had this special admissions program for Indians.”
“Full-ride scholarship?”
Rattler laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”
“So Adele called.”
“About a week or so before Trudy died. Asked if I would meet her.”
“And you did?”
“Didn’t see any harm.” Rattler rubbed the side of his face. “I thought she might want to mend fences.”
“Adele Samuels doesn’t strike me as a fence mender.”
“She’s not.” Rattler leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So, your question.”
Thumps took a breath. “How much did Adele give you to leave Chinook?”
Rattler didn’t flinch. “A lot.”
“And you said yes.”
“Tuition was expensive.” Rattler sank back into the sofa. “It was my chance.”
Thumps waited to see if Rattler was going to add anything else. “And you took it.”
“Yeah, I took it.” Rattler stood and stretched his back. “You have any more questions?”
“Four weeks ago,” Thumps said quickly, “where were you?”