All Maps Are Fiction

by Clyde Witt

  Chapter Eight

  Russell Starke III stared at passersby through the windshield of his American Eagle coach. He had been entertaining himself watching a young couple trying to park a small teardrop-style trailer with a Subaru. Seems like they could use some back-up lessons, he thought. He walked back to the midpoint of his motorhome and made another cup of coffee. On the table were road maps for Arizona and New Mexico. He picked up his cellphone and dialed the first of two calls.

  Phyllis looked at the number on her caller ID. “Ah shit,” she said to the birds outside her window. Then, “Listen Buster, you’re stirring up more trouble than you can imagine.”

  “Ha, good to hear your voice, Phyllis. You know me, always like to stir the pot a little. I suppose our mutual friend is getting interested in a new project, isn’t he?”

  “He’s jumped in with both feet and dragging plenty of others down with him. I hope this stunt you’re pulling off isn’t a load of crap, mister.”

  “Naw, it’s the real deal. In fact, I was thinking about taking a little road trip to check things out. Been a while since I was there. What’s happening?”

  “Where’s there?”

  “Can’t say, darling. You just make sure the old fart stays on track.”

  “Oh, if you keep putting coal in the engine I think he’ll stay on track.”

  Starke ended the call, searched his contacts until he came to his nephew’s number. “Hey Randy, still living the good life?”

  “You bet Pops. What’s happening?”

  “Checking to see if you need any more money is all.”

  That elicited a laugh from Randy. “Not hardly, Pops. I think we’re set for the duration of life, here.”

  “Good. Good. I’m playing a little game that might bring an end to our source, if you get my drift.”

  “Can’t say as that’s an issue with me, Pops.”

  “You young dudes have issues. Us old guys have problems. One of mine is knowing that the source is still intact. If so, I’m planning to put it to a good cause. I’m thinking of running down to our friend Ruby’s place, if ya get my drift. I might have to adjust the bait in the trap, if you get my drift.”

  “I’m probably closer if you want me to check.”

  “Nope. Gotta do it myself to get a full benefit package of fun outta this. Just have to make sure there’s still a rabbit for them to chase.”

  Randy chuckled. “Hey Pops, you’re good at deception. Plus, as I recall, you have a lady friend over there in Cleveland who might help, don’t you? Anything you need, Pops. Say the word. I’m just outside of Pecos these days, thinking about Acadia National Park since it’s heating up kind of early here.”

  “Yeah, things are going well with her, too, I guess. You stay tuned.”

  By the time the call ended Starke was standing outside his vehicle preparing to give some advice to the young guy still trying to back into the camp site across from him. Before he could set his coffee cup on the table the young couple gave up their frustrated efforts of backing into the site and walked over to him.

  “Hey mister.”

  “Hey yourself,” Starke said. “Bit of a challenge parking one of those small rigs, ain’t it.”

  “Yeah. We were admiring this beast of yours. It’s a beauty,” the young woman said. “Could we see inside?”

  “Sure,” he said. “And call me Falcon.”

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday morning Aston parked Eric’s black Porsche Boxter in the handicap spot near the front door of the Bright Horizons Assisted Living facility. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows she could see Gabby in his wheelchair waiting next to the reception desk.

  Before the doors closed behind her he said, “What the hell? When you said we’re going on a field trip I thought you were taking me for a ride on your skateboard, not one of Eric’s cheesy cars.”

  Aston turned to the woman behind the desk. “Is he always this pleasant in the morning?”

  “Sure is, honey. Count your blessings you don’t wake up next to him every morning.”

  Gabby turned to Aston and winked. “Damned female conspiracy, here. You two should be so lucky. Maybe some morning the three of us could—”

  “Enough of that talk, pal,” Aston said. “Let’s squeeze you into the car. We have places to go, people to meet.”

  “Honey, y’all gonna feed him, so he ain’t grumpy when he gets back?” the receptionist asked.

  Gabby turned to her and gave her his best smile. “Maybe I ain’t coming back—honey. Maybe me and this good-looking young lady are running off together—honey.”

  “Humph. I wish. And maybe pigs can fly,” she said and winked at Aston.

  Aston turned off the engine and sat, staring at the Tree Top Flyers building.

  “What’s going on?” Gabby asked.

  “I’m listening to the sound of quiet,” Aston said, scanning the parking lot that held only one other car, the red Porsche. Except for lights in Eric’s office, Tree Top Flyers appeared abandoned. No work on weekends had been the company policy since its earliest days.

  “Just had an idea, Gabby. I remember reading that back in the day—your day—boys used to get the attention of their girlfriends at night by tossing stones at their windows. What say we see if Eric is asleep in his office?”

  Eric jumped at the sound of gravel hitting his office window. He looked out and saw Aston and Gabby gleefully searching the parking lot for stones. They were about to toss more rocks at the window when he waved to them and pushed the buzzer to unlock the doors. As Aston maneuvered Gabby’s chair down the dimly-lit hallway, the old man’s head swiveled left and right. He examined pictures of puzzles the company created over the years.

  “Slow down. Stop,” he said. “Look at that piece of crap up there, the Sistine Chapel. Took me three weeks to put it together. Hated that fucking puzzle.”

  “Any of these you didn’t put together?” Aston asked.

  “Few. Not many. Too many puzzles, too little time.”

  “Sounds like a T-shirt logo.”

  They turned into Eric’s office and Aston said, “Whoa, there. Speaking of T-shirts, would you look at him? What’s this?”

  Eric stood to show off a black, long-sleeved T-shirt emblazoned with the Porsche logo. “Like it? Got it down at Stoddard’s”

  Aston walked over and rubbed the sleeve between her forefinger and thumb. “The Porsche dealer? No doubt you paid twice as much as you should have. Nice fabric. Still smells new. We’ll have to do something about that,” she said.

  “What’s going on here?” Gabby said. “Is this a business conference, or what? Where’s the coffee and donuts?”

  From his desk drawer, Eric pulled a box labeled, Stan’s Bakery. “Don’t touch these. Coffee’s in the break room. I’ll fetch it.”

  Aston leaned around the door frame to be sure Eric was going to the break room. She gave a thumbs-up sign and she and Gabby reached for the box of donuts at the same time. Beneath the box, they saw the map on the desk was twice as large as the one Gabby originally showed them. This was, apparently, a photocopy Eric made of the topographic map passed on by Starke, or whoever sent the envelope to Gabby.

  “Think it indicates the location of the palladium?” she asked.

  Gabby looked at the map, then turned it as if approaching from a different direction. “Looks like the Boss has been using company property to enhance this thing. What’s those words along the edge. I forgot to bring my glasses. Didn’t notice those before.”

  Aston turned the page. “Says, ‘Where would you hide an Elephant? Watch For Game Along The Trail.’ What’s that about?”

  “Yeah, I thought that was odd, too,” Eric said as he entered the office juggling three cups and a pot of coffee. “What game and what trail?”

  “What elephant?” Aston said.

&nbs
p; “And look at the small print on the top edge. Had to blow that up to read it,” he said as he placed the cups on the desk.

  Aston turned the map. “Looks like, ‘Where you stumble and fall, there you will find gold.’”

  Gabby snorted. “Smart ass. He thinks we don’t know Joseph Campbell when we read him.”

  “Ah, we, or at least I don’t,” Aston said.

  Gabby lowered his voice and concentrated on the large sheet in front of them. “Strange. Map doesn’t show any trails. This looks like all Forest Service or BLM land. Kind of place that doesn’t get many campers or hikers in there. Too dangerous, thus no designated trails.”

  Eric reached beneath his desk and removed a puzzle box from a paper bag. “Before we get too serious here, I have a gift for you, Gabby.”

  “Can’t take it.”

  Eric’s hand paused in mid-air. “Huh? What? It’s an old puzzle I found in the storeroom I thought you’d enjoy. I—”

  “I’m sure it’s an excellent puzzle, but I can’t take it.”

  Aston picked up a pencil and tapped Gabby on the back of his head. “What are you talking about you old fart? It’s a gift.”

  Gabby’s eyes shifted between her and Eric. “Precisely. Sorry. I’ve learned, the hard way, over the years, that the giver of a gift will always exert a level of power over the recipient, psychological if not physical. The only way for me to absolve myself would be to give you something in return. Something bigger or better. Then you’d feel obligated to me and search for an even greater gift. Soon, we’re locked in some sort of generosity pissing contest. And I don’t want to play.”

  Eric and Aston stared at each other, both with jaws dropped as if preparing to say something. Aston released her breath. “Wow, okay Gabby. I think you just helped me figure out why I was always depressed the day after Christmas. Makes a lot of sense, when you think about it. Thanks.”

  Eric shook his head and set the box on his desk. He stared at the picture of the yellow Curtiss JN-4 streaking through the clouds, an airplane, he had been told, his grandfather once flew. “You’re right, Gabby. How about if you do me a favor and take this puzzle home for a while. See if all the pieces are there. Then, carefully, disassemble it and give it back, so I can put it up on our website as an antique.”

  “That’s a deal,” Gabby said and reached for the box to study the picture.

  Eric looked down at the map. “Something seems strange about this map. Besides the lack of street and place names, there are very few buildings. Must be all wilderness.”

  “What’s the date on it,” Gabby mumbled as he set aside the puzzle box.

  Eric twisted the map around. “Says, ‘Utah, Wasatch Range, Geological Survey, created 09-06-1970.’”

  Gabby did not respond. He tilted his head and turned the map again. “Definitely something wrong here. Something ain’t right.”

  The three stared at the map as they ate donuts and drank the pot of coffee.

  “Wish I had brought my glasses,” Gabby said.

  “I have a magnifying glass back in the QC office,” Aston said. “Would that help?”

  Gabby looked at Aston then Eric. “She’s not only good-looking, she’s sharp, too.”

  “That’s why we hired her,” Eric said as Aston left the room. She looked back over her left shoulder and gave him her half smile.

  Gabby leaned over the map with the magnifying glass and worked slowly from the center toward the edges. “Well, I’ll be a sonofabitch,” Gabby said as he lifted his head. “I’m willing to bet Eric’s red car that these are not the Wasatch mountains. No way.”

  Eric and Aston leaned in to see where Gabby was pointing. “What are you saying, Gabby?” Eric asked.

  “Well, first off, if you read the lines of contour, these squiggly lines here,” he said as he handed the magnifying glass to Eric and ran his finger along the map, “they should all run along smooth. See how every now and then they kinda jump, like there’s a tiny break in the line. They’re close, but not exact. It appears that old Starke, or somebody, must have done some creative map work here and glued some topo maps together. Somehow, he took out all the mountain and lake names, that sort of stuff. Then he must have made a damned believable copy of a topo map.”

  “So, what are we looking at here if this map isn’t real? Maps are supposed to tell you how to get someplace,” Aston said.

  “Sweetie, let me tell you a few things about maps. First: All maps are fiction, metaphors at best,” Gabby said. “That’s your first lesson toward living a happy life. Second lesson is that a map is not really the journey. Its value is in its portability. You’re able to take the journey with you, show it to other people, but only you can experience—to use that great California verb—the journey. A map helps you plan or track your journey. It even helps you to remember what you did and where you did it.” He raked his hand through his unkempt hair. “Nope, I think we’re really looking at southwest Arizona, at least toward the center here,” he said and dropped a jelly-stained finger in the center of the map.”

  “How can you be sure?” Eric asked.

  “Sonny, when I was with the DEA, we had so many topo maps laying around that we used ‘em for placemats. I knew that part of the world better than the back of my hand. It’s where all the tree top flyers came in from Mexico and their rice kickers dumped the loads.”

  Aston raised up and stretched her arms. “Rice kickers? Okay, Gabby, translate that for me.”

  “Guys like Starke and Eric’s old man ran drugs, mostly marijuana in those days, up from Mexico. They’d drop the shit someplace in the rez, Indian country, usually, land owned by the Tohono O’odham tribe. Interesting people.”

  “Rice kickers? What are ‘rice kickers’?” she asked.

  “Oh, that comes from war in ‘Nam, where his daddy acquired his special flying skills,” Gabby said as he took the last donut from the box. “We, meaning the U.S., had all kinds of games going with the locals during that war. The CIA folks flew crappy planes out of places like Vientiane, that’s in Laos, with bales of rice wrapped around guns and other weapons. When they got over the target, usually a friendly tribal village, they’d kick the gun-loaded rice bales out.”

  “Sounds like a win-win,” Aston said. “As usual, men enjoy the guns and ladies get rice so they can cook up a nice warm meal for their warrior husbands when they return from the hunt.”

  Gabby cleared his throat. “Yeah, well, at the end of the war, guys like Yates, Starke and others, along with their rice-kicking buddies, found limited use for their talents. Smuggling seemed to fit.”

  Eric glanced at his wristwatch. “So, back to our problem at hand—”

  “You have a hot date or something, Boss? This is interesting historical shit I’m learning here,” Aston said.

  “Ah, no, no hurry. I just, I don’t know. I feel like we’re treading water here. How can you be sure we’re looking at Arizona, not Utah like it says on the margin, Gabby? Didn’t you tell us Starke crashed and burned in Utah, so it makes sense he’d drop any palladium there.”

  “First off, I’m thinking any stories of Starke’s death might be a premature—”

  “Mark Twain, right?” said Aston. “Got that one.”

  “Yeah, nice catch. Second, this map only appears to make sense if you’re the puzzle solver. Think of it like the puzzle maker, which you are. Just like you do with your puzzles, Starke might be pointing us, or anyone trying to solve this puzzle, in one direction when the real solution is someplace else. Here’s the best clue. See this unnamed hump on what’s gotta be the Tohono O’odham rez? Has to be Kitt Peak. See the little white specs? They started putting telescopes up there in ’58. If there was a name on that spot, it’d be Kitt Peak on that bump.”

  “So, you think any palladium is on this Kitt Peak?” Aston asked.

  “Naw. It’d been dug up by now w
ith all the astronomy crap that’s up there. Now that I know what, or where, geographically, we’re looking at, I need to study on this problem to figure the best spot to drop something—and not get caught. Of course, dropping it is one thing. Getting your hands on it afterwards is something else, again. Either whoever buried it knew exactly where it landed, or he had accomplices.”

  When Aston returned from taking Gabby back to the assisted living facility, she found Eric staring out his office window. “Okay, Boss, what’s next?”

  “Not sure,” he said without turning to face her. She watched his eyes follow her reflection in the darkened window as she moved to put the desk between them. “Aston, why is it you always call me ‘boss’ instead of by my name?”

  Aston pressed her lips together and crossed her arms over her chest. Her eyes ping-ponged between the window and bookcase to her left. “Ah, well, I, ah. Well, I don’t know. Wait, I do know. You’re the boss, so I call you Boss. If I don’t think of you as the boss, well, I’ll have to think of you as something else.”

  “Something else? What?” he said, still not turning to look at her.

  Aston squeezed her eyes tight, rocked up on her toes, and stifled her inclination to step around the desk and grab him. She never wanted to do something so right until that moment. Her mouth felt dry. Instead, she backed toward the door. “Okay Boss, I have a ton of things to do this evening. I have to get going. I’ll be in early on Monday, okay? Maybe by then Gabby will have the spot located.”

  “Sure. Enjoy the weekend. Wait. I’m not totally on board with this idea. I think Gabby’s just filling in time or something. We’ve got a business to run and should be concentrating on that, not some mysterious treasure.”

  Aston cleared her throat and looked at the photograph of the two young flyers sitting on the wing of the airplane. “There’s the possibility that you’re right. He’s just playing with us. But what if he’s right? Could mean a lot of ready cash for the company.” And me, she did not say.