by Cliff Black
I didn’t bother answering. I was in no mood to negotiate.
I turned on my back and looked up at the millions of stars filling the sky. I wondered what my Cherokee and Apache ancestors would have thought on a night like this. Were they in any way awed by the night sky, or was the sight so commonplace they took no notice?
I remembered my last night lying under the stars and wondered if there was a higher power, a Great Spirit or a God, who cared about me. Would a God approve of my actions? At least I hadn't killed this irritating little man.
After ten or fifteen minutes of silence, I heard Philo Carter say, “Okay, Geronimo, I’ll tell you what you want to know. Just get these ants off me.”
I crawled out of the pickup bed and limped to where Philo was spread-eagled by the dying fire. Had ants really come out? I didn't expect any until the sun came up. I put a little sage brush on the fire and looked Philo over. I didn't see any ants. I said, “You, Mister Carter, will call me Mister Corbin. Only very close friends call me Geronimo. I don’t think you and I will ever be friends, let alone close friends.”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “There's an ant inside my shirt.”
“He won't eat much,” I said.
Chapter Eight
That “Yes, sir,” of Philo's had a familiar ring to it. Unless Philo was lying about Viet Nam, he’d been in the service. I thought about his graying, crew-cut hair; the shiny-black, plain-toe shoes, the red nose showing blood veins, and I figured I might know something about Philo Carter. I had spent seventeen years in Uncle Sam’s military. Although OSI is different, it’s not that different.
“Let me guess,” I said. “Twenty years with the military police and you retired and went into business with a buddy as C & M Confidential Investigations. You did all right with divorce cases, but then you went looking for James W. Smith and got in beyond your depth. How close am I?”
I noticed a different tone in Philo’s voice when he answered. “You’re the right size and build to be Jimmy Smith. If you’re not him, how did you come up with that name?”.
“Answer my question, Carter.”
“Yes–yes, sir. I’m sorry. My partner was trying to find Smith. Now I’m trying to find Sam. Sam’s my partner, or at least he was.”
“And Sam’s the ‘M’ in C & M Investigations?”
“Yes, sir. I can feel an ant on my neck.”
“How long has he been missing?”
“About eight months.”
“Tell me about the case.”
“Can’t you untie my hands? They're going numb. Let me sit up. Get the ants off me.”
I couldn't see any ants. “You haven’t heard from Sam since?”
“He’s vanished from off the earth. I told him to be careful. Jimmy Smith sounded like he might be dangerous, but Sam was about the same size. He figured he could handle him.”
“And you didn’t go looking for Sam until now? You didn’t report him missing?”
Philo didn’t answer. He only stared at the stars–now beginning to fade.
I thought for a minute and then said, “Let me guess again. Sam had a little trouble with booze. This isn’t the first time he’s come up missing, is it?”
After a long pause, Carter said, “He’s an alcoholic. We joined AA together, only Sam . . .”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. I thought about what he’d told me, and said, “I guess you didn’t hear that James W. Smith died in a fire.”
Carter didn’t answer for a couple of minutes then he said, “I need an arm free. I can’t breathe. I can feel ants crawling on me.”
“I’m not concerned about your comfort. Talk to me.”
Carter sighed. “I heard about the fire, but--. Well, this is how it was. I did go looking for Sam. I waited a month. I figured he would hit bottom, and then he’d sober up and call me. When he didn’t, I flew out to Reno. I couldn’t find Sam, but I found out someone had absconded with Smith’s trailer–I guess it’s your trailer now. I think Smith faked his own death.”
“You don't think he died in the fire?”
“Why do you want to know? It’s confidential information. When I saw the Airstream trailer, I thought you were Smith. I told you I’m sorry for the mistake. Isn’t that enough?”
“It might have been if you had asked politely instead of trying to beat it out of me. Now I’m curious. You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”
Philo chewed on that until he realized what his options were. Then he said, “Smith pulled a stunt like this before. Smith’s wife died in a car wreck. The car burned. He knew how they identified his wife. He was a dental technician. He could have fixed someone else’s teeth–someone like Sam’s–to match his own.”
“Interesting idea, but back to my trailer. Was Smith living in it?”
“No. He used it to put up a series of middle-aged women. He ran an investment scam on divorcees. Smith was a con-artist, which is another reason I think he faked his own death.”
“Who took the trailer?”
“Some dame called Candy came with an old Caddy. She told the park owner Smith wanted her to take the trailer to Las Vegas.”
“Was that before Smith or whoever died?”
“I think after, but before the body was discovered.”
“Is there any reason to think it was Sam’s body, other than he’s missing?”
“That’s enough for me.”
“Why was Mr. A. A. McLaughlin interested in finding Smith?”
“Who is A. A. McLaughlin?”
“Philo, you must really want to stay there til the sun comes up. I sent an email to McLaughlin and you showed up. I figure you’re working for him. Who is he and what’s his interest in Smith?”
Carter glared at me for a couple of minutes. Finally he said, “McLaughlin’s a businessman. He hired us to find Smith. I didn’t ask why.”
“Do you have a phone number for Mr. McLaughlin? I’d like to talk to him.”
“Not with me. Back at the office I do.”
“What’s McLaughlin’s phone number, Mister Carter?”
My fire had gone out, but the sky was graying enough that I could see Philo working on an answer. Finally, he said, “If you’ll take me to my car, maybe I can find the number in my briefcase.”
“I have a better plan,” I said. “Tell me where to find your car, and I’ll go get your briefcase and bring it back here.”
At that, Philo erupted with threats and swearing which in the end condensed to: “You said you’d let me go if I talked,” and “Someone will find me when it gets light.”
To be honest, I was a tiny bit concerned that someone might come along, even if it was only kids out riding dirt bikes or four-wheelers. I said, “It’s the middle of August, Philo. You’ll be as dry as a year-old cow pie and covered with ants by ten o’clock, but if you want to try it, keep holding out and swearing at me.”
Philo weighed the alternatives for a few minutes and then said, “All right. It’s a tan Chevy parked on the street near the trailer court entrance.”
“That’s odd,” I said. “This is a Toyota key.”
“I didn’t pay attention. They all look alike.”
I suspect he may have acceded partly because he thought it would give him a chance to escape. I didn’t think his chances were that great.
“Don’t go away, Carter. I’ll be back in ten or fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Damn you, Corbin. What if the ants come out? You can’t leave me out here like this.”
“Wanna bet?” I got in my pickup and drove away.
It was nearer thirty minutes before I got back. First off there was no tan rental car of any variety on the street, but I drove the streets of the trailer park and found a blue Toyota with a rental sticker on the back of the mirror. The key fit and Carter’s briefcase was on the seat.
I stopped at my trailer long enough to put a bandage on my cheek and an ice cube on the back of my head. I also took time for a cup of coffee and to pick up my
hat, a jug of water, a lawn chair, a bag of corn chips, and an apple.
I took too long. When I got to where I’d left Carter, he was gone. Worse than that, I looked back and saw a police car bouncing along the road behind me.
Chapter Nine
Why was a cop following me? I glanced around. I saw nothing incriminating except Philo’s briefcase. I stuffed it behind the seat and got out of my pickup, my bag of corn chips in my hand. The cop car pulled up behind mine. Corporal Brown got out, jammed a tan cowboy hat on his head, and walked stiff legged toward me. This was the first time I’d seen him outside his car. He was a caricature of a small-town, western cop with his ten gallon hat and his shirt stretched tight over his belly.
“You got business out here?” Brown asked.
“Just looking for a place to greet the morning sun,” I said.
“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”
“Sometimes I feel the need to connect with my Native American roots.” I said. “I’m fresh out of corn pollen, so I thought I’d welcome the sun and scatter a few corn chips. Am I doing something wrong?”
“Don’t give me any Native American bull, Corbin. You’re no Indian.”
“My mom was half Apache and one quarter Cherokee. Seems like that should be Indian enough to greet Father Sun.”
“We had a report of a disturbance at your place last night. The responding officer couldn’t find you. What happened to your face?”
I thought the responding officer must have made a mighty slow response. I chose to ignore the question about my face. I said, “Talk to the guy that reported the disturbance. I don’t know anything about it.” I was about to suggest he take along a scanner, but decided not to borrow trouble.
Brown’s eye fell on the nearest stake top and the cut twine attached to it. He moved closer and bent over as far as his belly would allow and studied it. Then he saw the second leg stake and the arm stakes–one of which was pulled out of its hole. Finally he saw the ant hill and the depression across it. I could almost hear the rusty tumblers in his brain clunk and rattle into place.
A flicker of motion caught my eye. I saw Philo top a ridge half a mile away making a beeline for Cortez.
Brown straightened up, glared at me, and said, “Morning sun my ass. You had somebody staked over that ant hill.”
As he stood there with his face turning red, the sun peeked over the mountains. I turned to face east and began scattering finger pinches of corn chips.
“Who was it? What have you . . . ? Where . . . ?”
Ignoring him, I turned to face the sun, chanting my best impression of a shaman and scattering mashed up corn chips. I guess Brown figured he was out of his jurisdiction. Maybe he thought I was out of my mind. He stalked back to his car, turned around, and careened back to the highway.
I slept past noon in spite of my scraped nose, bashed cheek, and aching head. I would likely have slept longer except there was a guy banging on my door wanting to deliver my new mattresses. I got into my cutoff sweats and gave the delivery guy five bucks to help me wrestle them onto the bunks. Then I threw my sleeping bag on a mattress and laid back down. I wanted to go back to sleep in newfound comfort, but I started thinking about Philo Carter and all the things he hadn’t told me. I decided to get up and look through his briefcase.
When I looked in the mirror, I was glad Natasha couldn’t see me. My scraped nose didn't look too bad, but my cheek was split and swollen and had turned a nasty dark red-brown color. I couldn’t see it, but the lump on the back of my head felt huge. I sincerely hoped Carter had one at least as big.
After a shower, a new, bigger-and-better bandage on my cheek, a Band-Aid on my nose, and some food, I opened Philo’s briefcase.
I had to give Philo credit. He was organized. His briefcase was mostly full of a lap-top computer. I turned it on, found everything similar to my own, including the network software. I’m no computer geek, but I managed to link our computers together and copy Filo’s McLaughlin file from his hard drive to mine. Natasha would be proud of me.
I looked through the rest of the stuff in his briefcase. There was a notebook, some airline schedules, a few business cards, a Hertz contract, and a plane ticket. Still lying on my table were Carter’s guns, knife, and wallet. Philo was afoot somewhere in Cortez with no ID, no money, no credit cards, and no way out of town other than hitchhike or walk. It would serve him right if he got arrested for vagrancy.
I picked up the business cards. The top one was from the sheriff in Mineral County, Nevada. There were some that meant nothing to me, but two more that did. One was from a trailer park in Sparks, Nevada, and the other was from A. A. McLaughlin, President and CEO of McLaughlin Enterprises. His home phone number was written on the back of the card.
McLaughlin was the one who’d sent Carter out here. He was responsible for my beat-up face, my headache, and the bullet hole in my trailer. I picked up my cell phone and dialed his office. He answered the phone himself. I figured McLaughlin Enterprises couldn’t be much, if he didn’t have a secretary or a switchboard operator.
His gravel voice said, “Arthur McLaughlin here.”
“Have you heard from that two-bit private eye you sent out here to thump on me?”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Daniel Corbin in Cortez, Colorado. How many people did you send Carter to thump on, anyway?”
“I told Carter to swear out a warrant and have you arrested for assault and battery.”
“He’s the one would wind up in jail. I’ll bet he called you for travel money.”
After a few seconds of silence Arthur asked, “How did you know that?”
“I have his plane ticket, wallet, and credit cards.”
“Why should I believe anything you’re telling me?”
“I don’t care whether you do or not, but if you’ll tell me what you know about Candy Appleton, I’ll let Carter have his airplane ticket.”
“Never heard of her.”
“Have it your way,” I said and disconnected.
I saw Corporal Brown’s big belly approach my screen door. He hammered on the door and said, “Police. Open up.”
I said, “It’s open. Come on in.”
“Step outside, Corbin. I have a man out here who wants to talk to you.”
“Bring him in. I won’t bite.”
“He feels safer sitting in my cruiser.”
I got up from my table and ducked out the door. Corporal Brown was still standing on my step. Philo Carter was sitting in Brown’s police car looking like he might jump and run any second. It had to be desperation that forced Carter to appeal to the police. His actions last night wouldn’t bear official scrutiny.
“Is this the guy who has your stuff?” Brown asked Carter.
“That’s him.”
“I’d be delighted to arrest him and toss him in jail, but you’ll have to press charges,” Brown said.
Carter said, “I only want my stuff back.”
Brown’s neck was beginning to swell. Turning to me he asked, “You know this guy?” He looked like someone had insulted his mother.
“We’ve met,” I said.
“Is he the guy you had staked out over that ant hill?”
“Ask him.”
“What in the hell’s going on with you two?” Brown yelled. “For two cents I’d slap both of you in jail.” His face was turning beet red.
I had two pennies in my pocket. I wanted to hand them to Brown, except I was afraid he’d have a stroke. “Maybe I can straighten this out,” I said. “I don’t know what Mister Carter told you, but he’s a licensed private investigator from Louisville, Kentucky. He and a friend came to see me last night. After his friend left, Carter and I had a disagreement and Carter left without some of his property. He and I can probably sort it out without your help.”
Brown looked at me for a minute then turned to Carter. “You’re a private investigator?”
Carter ducked his head.
“How did I
get in the middle of a pissing contest between two private eyes? What brought you out here to see this turkey?” Brown yelled to Carter and jerked a thumb at me.
“I can’t talk about that,” Carter mumbled. Brown made him repeat it.
No one spoke for a good minute. I was trying not to grin, Carter looked like he wanted to vanish, and Brown seemed ready to explode. Finally Brown said to Carter, “Get out of my car, you slime bucket.” Brown stalked to his car as Carter got out. He opened the driver’s door and said, “This town don’t have no law against carrying brains–not even concealed brains. I’d advise both of you idiots to get out of town and pick up your brains where you dropped them off. Private investigators, my aching butt.” He got in his car and squealed the tires leaving.
“How do you like Corporal Brown?” I said to Carter.
“You’re lucky I didn’t have him arrest you.”
“No, Philo, you’re lucky you didn’t try. And you’d better be polite, or you’ll be walking to Louisville.”
Carter didn’t say anything, but if expressions were lethal . . .
“Wait right here,” I said. I went inside, put Philo’s computer, notebook, keys, and all but three business cards back in his briefcase and closed it up. I took his plane ticket, his wallet, and his briefcase in my hands and stepped back out. I said, “Catch,” and tossed him his briefcase. It surprised him. He started to duck and barely caught it.
“Hey, that’s got my computer inside.” Carter glared at me as he set his briefcase on the ground.
“I know what is and what isn’t in it,” I said. I held up his plane ticket and his wallet. “You said you’re looking for your partner. I’m looking for Candace Appleton. Tell me what you know about her and you can fly home.”
“I never met her, and I never talked to her,” Carter said. “The guy that ran the trailer park in Reno told me Smith used this trailer to house divorcees while he fleeced them. He said Smith’s last floozy was a good looking dame that called herself Candy. He said her suitcases had C. Appleton written on the sides with red tape. He figured she might be a dancer and Candy Appleton was her stage name.” He paused. “That’s all I know. That and she’s the one who took this trailer.”