All Maps Are Fiction

by Clyde Witt

  “Man, you are one sadistic old man,” Eric said.

  Aston walked around the desk to where Eric stood, feeling her shoulder brush against his. She looked out over the parking lot and said in a low voice, “Starke no doubt figured he had money in the bank with that stuff because the mining company wouldn’t want the word to get out about any theft. People would go crazy looking for palladium if they knew the real value, even if it was used only for jewelry in those days. Plus, their customers might lose faith in the mining company’s security, too. Can’t you picture all those executives, running around with their hair on fire, doing everything they could to cover it up? Consequently, the word must never have leaked out.”

  “And he crashed with the secret, or so they thought. I’m hoping a Google search might turn up some hints about a theft or disappearance of palladium,” Eric said.

  “Already tried that, Boss. Or, at least Bird Lady did, for me,” Gabby said. “Not much there. Only stories about mining and what it’s used for today.”

  “Hey, what about a good investigative reporter,” Aston said as she returned to her chair. She ran her hands through her hair and talked to the floor. “Let’s say the reporter gets a tip about Tree Top Flyers being hot on the trail of something really new in the puzzle business—treasure hunting—a whole new genre. And the treasure in this story, and its value, breaks just about the time the puzzle goes on the shelf. Of course, our own marketing plan will already be in place, and we’ll act all upset that someone ‘leaked’ the story to the press.”

  “Yeah, something like that would add some legitimacy to the project,” Eric said and returned to his chair. “We can leak some of what we know to a reporter right now, point him in the right direction to make some noise. Later, we release the information that we, in fact, do know where the treasure is and it’s revealed in the puzzle.”

  Aston smiled and put her Doc Martens-clad feet up on the edge of Eric’s desk. “I just happen to know the right man for the job.”

  Eric sat back in his chair. “Listen Aston, try to get him to do it for free. We really don’t have money in the budget for this kind of thing. Sell it on fame and glory—not recompense.”

  Gabby looked over at Eric. “Kind of a big word, Boss, but I think recompense means a payment for when someone’s been hurt. What you mean to say is, compensation—we’re not going to pay him money for his time and trouble.”

  Eric and Aston looked at the smiling Gabby. “Yeah, I used to work crossword puzzles before I got hooked on this drug Tree Top Flyers produces and sells.”

  Diane and her boyfriend, Mike Rollings, were half-way through their first glass of wine when Aston arrived at Casa DeAngelo’s. She stood near the door watching them, wondering if this guy could be trusted. She had never met him. He appeared to be three days away from his last shave, and smiled like a lizard—but he did have great blue eyes.

  Diane half rose from her seat and waved. When Aston reached the table Diane said, “You two know each other, right?”

  Aston looked at Diane “Ah, no. I—”

  “Yeah, sure,” Mike said and rose enough to give Aston a one-arm hug.

  “Well, hey, good to see you again, Mike,” Aston said, trying to recover. “How’s the news business?”

  “No news is bad news.”

  “That’s his standard line these days,” Diane said. “Actually, he just got back in town. He’s on vacation for a couple weeks, right?” she said and looped her arm through his, pulling him closer along the bench seat. “I ordered you a chardonnay and your usual.”

  “Wow. Thanks. What’s the hurry?” Aston said. She took note that Diane blushed and refused to make eye contact. “Okay, let’s get down to business, then. First, you must swear this conversation goes no further than this table. If I find out either of you says a word of what I’m about to tell you—well, you’ll wish I had used waterboarding instead of what I’ll really do.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” Mike said.

  “If it has anything to do with drugs, or those other conversations we’ve had, I’m out the door on this one,” Diane said.

  “Nope, no drugs. In fact, it’s mostly legal, I think. Mike, we, meaning Tree Top Flyers, need you to kind of write a story. I’m mean, we’re kind of leaking the story to you, but want it to look like you’ve discovered this on your own. You prefer the who, what, where, when and why of stories, I suppose, and this one has it all. Only, the ‘why’ part is a bit hard to explain.”

  “Kind of a mystery? Might not be my thing,” he said and drew circles on the tablecloth with the bottom of his wine glass.

  “Yes and no. The key piece is a sort-of buried, really hidden, treasure out west. I say sort of because it’s not technically buried. In fact, it’s above ground. We, again meaning Tree Top Flyers, know the location. I’ve seen it, or at least the box that we think holds the treasure. We plan to create a limited-edition puzzle, kinda like a treasure map, that leads to this box. Yikes, this sounds kind of confusing when I say it out loud.”

  Mike held up a hand. “Let me interrupt. If you know where this treasure is, why not just go and get it?”

  “That’s the hard-to-understand why part. Those of us involved don’t give a shit about the money—”

  “Oh god,” Diane said. “Everybody cares about money.”

  “Not necessarily. We’re in this for fun. Creating and selling puzzles is fun for us. We want to see if we can create this incredible puzzle that will crank the puzzle builders of the world. A key player in this is, or was, maybe still is, Russell Starke III, partner of Eric Yates’s father in the founding of the Tree Top Flyers company.”

  “Those guys out by the mall? Always thought that was a strange name for a company,” Mike said. “So, how does my piece, if I write anything, fit into this puzzle?”

  Aston leaned toward him, rested her forearms on the table and swallowed, hard. “Okay, you, or your story, would give the project legitimacy. Don’t worry, along with expenses, we’ll pay you, handsomely, when we’re done. This is a big-budget project. The story should be about how the treasure got buried and its general geographic location—to a point. I think, to keep you and the story honest, we’ll not pin-point the exact spot for now. I mean, what you discover along the way is what should intrigue people who might then buy the puzzle and hunt for the treasure.”

  Mike picked up his wine glass and leaned back in the seat. He turned toward Diane, then Aston. “I’m not so sure about this. This thing smells too much like a PR stunt to sell puzzles. Not my kind of thing. Not much action.”

  “In part, you’re right. It is a stunt to sell puzzles, but it could be fun, too. A puzzle about a puzzle, get it?”

  “Oh, I get it alright. It’s just not my thing.”

  Aston smiled. “Let me give you a brief outline, some of the leads for the story: Former Viet Nam vet pilots make money hauling stuff—not always legal stuff—using their flying skills in the desert Southwest after the war. They decide to go straight and start a jigsaw puzzle company, except one of those vets suddenly returns to flying—let’s call it contraband and other stuff—that includes a rare material for which the real purpose has yet to be discovered. He stashes loads of this precious material, but goes down in flames, let’s say in the Southwest desert, before he can tell anyone where he stashed it.”

  Mike leaned forward on the table. His eyes left Aston and he looked at Diane. “Is this friend of yours for real? Seriously?” he said turning back to Aston.

  “You won’t find a more-real person on planet Earth,” Diane said. “And she’s about as serious as a dead car battery on a cold January morning.”

  “So, let me guess,” Mike said. “This tree-top flyer guy, as you call him, has in fact already told somebody where the treasure is buried.”

  “Could be, only better. He created maps. But even the maps turn out to be puzzles. Now, however, wit
h the help of a former DEA agent who knows the desert Southwest area like the back of his hand, and knew the flyers back in the day, we’ve determined where we think is the true location of the stash.”

  “So, what really happened to the flyer?”

  “You tell me, you’re the reporter,” Aston said and picked at pieces of lasagna on her plate. “Allegedly, he crashed and burned. Or, maybe, he’s working part time, flying Santa’s sleigh on Christmas eve. Don’t know.”

  Mike twisted in his seat. “What about this DEA agent, he legit?”

  Aston smiled. “I can introduce you.”

  Gina Roncalli pushed her eyeglasses on top of her head. She was about to lean against the door jamb of Eric’s office when she noticed his feet on the desk. He was on his cell phone and, from his laughter, she decided this did not sound like a business conversation. She closed her eyes and backed away. Maybe the puzzle design he’d tasked her with still needed a bit of tweaking.

  “Hey, Gina, come on in,” Eric said, as he dropped his cell phone into his pocket. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  “Right. Sure, Boss,” she said as she slipped into the visitor’s chair, moved her glasses back into place and folded her hands in her lap.

  “How’s that design coming?” he asked.

  Gina was the company’s top design engineer. She knew Eric felt she was the only person he could trust not to talk about the project. He had sworn her to secrecy and she took that to heart.

  “Boss, this is the craziest thing I’ve ever done, but I think it works,” she said and twisted a strand of hair that had fallen across her left eye. “I’ve got the preliminary design up on my computer. I gotta tell you, my CAD program nearly hemorrhaged when I asked it to do some of the things we’re trying to achieve here.”

  She smiled at her own rare attempt at humor. Eric leaned forward, elbows on the desk and lowered his voice. “Gina, if there is anyone in the office who I thought could do it, it’s you. Let’s go take a look.”

  In her office she wiped her hands on her jeans before she reached for the keyboard. She felt heat on her arms from his body when he leaned in close to look over her shoulder. Together they watched as she made floating puzzle pieces rotate like wheels within wheels. It was as if an invisible hand knew exactly how to turn and place the pieces. When all the pieces were aligned he said, “Hey that’s great. Looks like a map even I could follow.”

  “You think so, Boss?” With a few more keystrokes she made the puzzle picture flip like a pancake. On the reverse side the picture looked like a jumble of pieces, nothing aligned. “How about that for a map?” she said.

  “Whoa. Wait. So the design works on one side only?”

  “No, sir. It works perfect on both sides—when it’s all correctly put together. It’s two different maps.”

  “But how can you see both sides at the same time when you’re trying to assemble it?”

  “This is where the fun begins, Boss. You need to work the puzzle on a glass table, elevated over a mirror, so you can view both sides at the same time.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Right, holy shit,” she said a wiped sweat from her upper lip with her tongue. “And even when the rings are assembled in the proper order, they have to be rotated to the right spot to align. The center piece has to have its right side up. Watch. Imagine you’re looking down at the mirror.”

  On the computer, Gina scrambled the pieces, then reassembled the puzzle, rotated the rings, flipped them over and did the same with the center piece. It all made sense until she flipped it over a second time. The reverse side, again, was a nonsensical jumble. She felt her pulse increase as her fingers skimmed over the keys as she flipped, turned and electronically changed pieces for five minutes before the lines in the picture were joined and the scene of a clear map appeared on both sides. She flipped the center piece, a crawling lizard, a couple times to show him how it might, or might not look. Only one way was correct.

  “You are a genius, Gina. That is the most incredible puzzle layout I’ve ever seen. Can we cut it?”

  She licked her lips, not sure she could answer. She took a deep breath: “Boss, we can do anything. I think the biggest challenge will be keeping the rest of the staff quiet about what we’re doing here. And what about the whimsey? The one I made of the lizard is just a place holder.”

  Eric stared at the computer screen where the puzzle that looked like a topographic map, slowly revolved, imitating the Starship Enterprise. He pursed his lips. “Okay. Let’s create a whimsey that looks like a stylized DC-3/C-47—”

  “You are shitting me, right?”

  “Nope,” he said as he tapped her on the shoulder and she drew in a deep breath. “And later I’ll tell you why. As for now, let’s keep this under wraps. I think the best solution to the loose-lips problem might be that money talks louder. Everyone in the building will receive a fabulous bonus when this project hits the shelf—unless there is one peep about what we’re doing. If a single word gets out, nobody gets an extra penny. Let’s say, ten thousand bucks in everyone’s pay check as an incentive.”

  “Holy shit,” she said and pushed her glasses back to the top of her head. “Ten grand works for me.”

  “Outstanding work, Gina. Can you encrypt this so no one, except me and you, can get to it? I need to show this to Aston and Gabby, in case you’re not around.”

  “Easy peasy, Boss. And about that ten grand: After the money’s in the bank, do I have to tell my boyfriend?”

  “Gina, we’ll fix things so you won’t even have to tell the IRS.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Don’t like the venue,” Gabby said as Aston turned off the ignition. Six o’clock and the parking lot of the County Line Bar and Grill held only two cars.

  “Quit complaining. What part of a free hamburger don’t you like?”

  “I heard about this place. People say, ‘Don’t order the hamburgers. Stick with the fries.’”

  The leather of the driver’s seat creaked as Aston turned and stared at him. “Look, Mike picked the joint ‘cause no one will recognize us in there.”

  “You bet, ‘cause nobody with any taste buds would darken the door.”

  Aston reached over and grabbed Gabby’s jacket collar with both hands. “Listen, Buster, change your attitude right now or I’ll wheel you back inside the Bright Horizons and you can eat that institutional food you crave and enjoy.”

  He smiled. “I like it when you get rough with me.”

  Aston pushed Gabby’s wheelchair up the ramp and into the bar. Mike sat at a table, back to the wall, and doodled on a notepad. After introductions, Aston walked to the bar and ordered three beers. Gabby studied Mike’s well-combed hair and uncomfortable-looking leather shoes. “Mike, how do we know we can trust you?”

  “You don’t know. I’m a journalist, that should be enough.”

  Aston placed three mugs of beer on the table. Her face twisted back and forth, looking at the two men who sat staring at each other. “Okay, boys, let’s understand we’re all in this together. We’re here for fun.”

  Mike straightened and offered his right hand to Gabby. “I’m in for fun, and, eventually, a bit of profit.”

  When the men leaned in and shook hands, Aston thought she heard knuckles crack. Mike extracted a felt-tipped pen from his pocket, flipped through pages in a notebook and began asking questions. By the time they finished, Aston felt certain that Gabby had given away just the right amount of hints about how the palladium thefts began, but not where they really ended.

  Mike paged through his notes and drew in air through his teeth. “A lot of loose ends,” he said to Aston and Gabby.

  “Yeah,” Gabby said. “Plenty of strings for you to pull to see what unravels.”

  Mike turned to Aston. “Is there enough in the budget for me to start at the beginning, in Montana?”

&nbs
p; Aston smiled. “There is no budget for this project. We figured you’d start at the beginning and when you got to the end, you’d stop.”

  Gabby cleared his throat and looked at Aston.

  Mike signaled the bartender for another round. “If this stuff is as valuable as you claim it is, and for now I’ll believe you, how can you be sure I won’t dig it up myself and take off?”

  Gabby cleared his throat again and rested his elbows on the table. “‘Cause you’re a journalist and you have soft hands. Besides, if you did, we’d hunt you down and kill you, and all your family members in front of you—just for fun.”

  Mike stopped his car on a rise overlooking the remains of what, according to the map, was supposed to be the Custer Mine. The map, purchased from the U.S. Bureau of Mines, had directed him to this spot. The place, however, seemed to be more of a dump for old buildings and rusted machinery. Cold wind tugged at his thin jacket and threatened to rip the map from his hands. Snow-laden clouds moved faster in the sky than the scant few birds he could see. He wondered if Aston had sent him on a wild goose chase. He walked among the rocks, kicked at rusting machinery, and tried to imagine what these things had been used for. With his cell phone he took a few pictures of the relics. He looked through the gaps in the walls of collapsed buildings that might have once been the offices. Back in the car, his hands shook while he studied then refolded the road map. A town, Sylvan, which probably provided miners back in its better days, lay about twenty miles to the west. A sandwich and a beer is definitely in order, he thought.

  Mike’s eyes scanned the near-empty street. An elderly man sat on a backless bench on the wide, wooden porch of a saloon that appeared to still be in business. He could see the old guy’s eyes follow him from beneath a stained, broad-brimmed hat. Mike’s rental car rolled into the gravel parking lot as the guy took another sip of beer from a plastic cup. He parked next to a Cadillac old enough to have sprouted fins back in its younger days.