Olympus Device 2: The Olympus Device Book Two

by Joe Nobody

  Before she could respond, the jingle of a cell phone sounded in her purse. She reached in and checked the caller-ID being displayed, quickly glancing at the broker and mumbling, “Give me a minute.” She then turned toward Dusty and answered the call.

  “They’re not supposed to turn off the electricity until five!” she hissed into the phone. “You go out there and tell that guy in the utility truck I have until 5:00 p.m. to pay the bill. They promised me when I called!”

  She paused, listening to the speaker for a few moments before continuing. “I’m in Laredo selling one of papa’s guns. As soon as I get the money, I’m going to pay the bill… okay… I will… love you too. We’ll be okay sweetheart; I promise.”

  Dusty moved quickly as she fumbled to return the phone, trying his best to make the collision seem accidental. His slight bump into the harried gal gave him the excuse to reach out and grab her shoulder – a benign gesture to make sure she was steady. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” he said, “Are you okay?”

  She waved him off, “Yes, I’m fine.”

  Dusty didn’t let loose of her shoulder and leaned in closer. “That gun is worth $3,000. Don’t take his offer.”

  For a moment, she didn’t seem to understand what he was saying. She looked into his eyes for what seemed like a very long time before finally whispering, “Thank you.”

  Returning to the counter with new confidence, she reached for the pistol. “You’re trying to screw me… probably just because you think I’m some dumb girl or something. That pistol is worth a lot more than 200 bucks. I’ll take it over to the other pawnshop and see what they’ll give me for it.”

  “Hold on,” the man said, “Let me look at it one more time. So many of these look the same.”

  Dusty couldn’t keep his mouth shut any longer. “Ma’am, would you mind if I took a look at that handgun?”

  “Sure,” she replied, nodding toward the beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

  “A Colt Python .357 magnum,” Dusty began, holding it up to inspect the serial number. “This one was manufactured in 1978 at the factory in Hartford. See that small stamp right there?” he pointed, “That means this specific pistol was issued to a law enforcement officer.”

  “Is it valuable?” she asked with an innocent tone.

  “Oh, yes. Very. Many knowledgeable collectors believe this was the finest revolver ever made. This example, with its nickel finish and excellent condition, is worth a considerable sum.”

  She played it well. Placing her hands on her hips, she turned and stared hard at the pawnbroker. “Well?”

  “I didn’t notice any stamp,” he grumbled, throwing Dusty a dirty look. “Let me see it again, please.”

  Again, he punched keys on the computer, pretending to research prices. Finally, “He’s right. It is worth more than I offered. I’ll give you $1200.”

  “Keep talking,” she replied with a firm tone, “You’re getting warmer.”

  “I’ve got to make a profit, too,” he protested and then motioned around at the store. “I’ve got overhead costs, ya know.”

  Again, Dusty held his comment, watching as the shop owner considered his next offer. Apparently, he waited too long because the woman again reached for the pistol and began wrapping it in the dishcloth. “Okay… okay,” the guy finally conceded. “I can go $2200, and that’s my best offer. I will probably sell it for $2500 and make a small profit.”

  The woman glanced at Dusty, obviously wanting to take the money and pay her electric bill. He shook his head, indicating she should pass.

  She tucked the gun under her arm and made for the door, saying “No thanks,” over her shoulder. Dusty, realizing he probably wasn’t welcome in the store any longer, followed her outside. “Ma’am, that firearm is worth about $3800 retail. I wouldn’t take less than $3200 for it.”

  “I sure do hope you’re right, Mister,” she replied with frustration. “I’m running out of time. I’ve got two kids at home freaking out because they’re about to turn off our electricity, and there isn’t any milk in the fridge.”

  Dusty was a little taken aback by her hostility, and it must have shown on his face. “I’m sorry,” she continued, this time softer. “Things haven’t been going well as of late. I know you were just trying to help, and I appreciate that. I was ready to take his first offer out of desperation.”

  She held out her hand and said, “Penny Royce.”

  Dusty accepted the handshake and replied, “Andy Booker,” using the name on his fake passport. He smiled and then added, “But people call me Dusty. Where are you going now?”

  “There’s another pawnshop. Armed with my new knowledge, I’m going to go there and see what I can get. I hope it’s at least two grand, because I don’t have time to shop around.”

  “Are there any gun stores in town? They should give you a fair price for a weapon like that.”

  “Yes. I went there yesterday, and they only sell used guns on consignment. They wouldn’t tell me how much it was worth… acted like they were annoyed at the dumb woman bringing in the gun and asking questions.”

  Dusty scratched his chin for a moment. “I know you don’t know me, but if you want me to go with you, I’ll get you the best deal possible.”

  “What’s your story?” she asked, “I’ve lived around here for quite a while and have never seen you before.”

  “I’m passing through, taking some time off. My wife recently divorced me, and her lawyers have bled me dry. Those vampires still think I have some cash stashed away and have hounded me for the last three months. I had enough of it and just headed out. There wasn’t anything left back home anyway,” he lied. “Besides, I’d hate to see you get ripped off. I know how it is to be tight on money.”

  She started to reject the offer outright, but then hesitated. She looked Dusty up and down and made her decision. “You did help me out in there,” she said, nodding toward the pawnshop. “These guys see a woman coming in and think they can take advantage of her every time. I guess it would help to have a man along. I mean, what else could go wrong today? If you’re an axe murderer, could you please make it quick?”

  Dusty laughed, shaking his head. “Okay. Err… I mean, no, I’m not an axe murderer.”

  “That’s what they all say. Hop in the back of the truck. It’s really not that far.”

  Dusty walked to the tailgate of an old pickup and started to climb in. She watched him carefully and then changed her mind. “You might as well ride in the cab. I just wanted to see if you would really ride back there.”

  A minute later, they were pulling out of the lot, headed into downtown Laredo. The driver decided to confide in her passenger. “My husband and I own a small poultry farm not far from here. He was arrested last week and is still in jail. Something has been killing our birds, and he is convinced it’s the new factory that’s not far from our place. He confronted the management and got himself arrested.”

  Dusty grunted, a small sense of relief over not being the only criminal in the area. “Did he assault someone? Threaten to burn the plant down?”

  She shook her head, “No, nothing like that. He threatened to call the EPA and local papers. The sheriff showed up and handcuffed him. They set the bail at $50,000 dollars, which might as well be a million to us. I’ve been trying to keep up with the farm, but it’s more than I can handle by myself.”

  The old truck rambled into the parking lot of another seedy looking strip mall. “Thank you for coming along and successfully resisting the urge to cleaver chop me into tiny pieces. As you can see, this isn’t the best part of town, and I wouldn’t normally frequent such places.”

  “No problem,” the Texan replied easily. “I really didn’t have anything critical to do, and it’s good to see the town.”

  They entered the pawnshop, finding a similar collection of items populating the shelves. Dusty presented the pistol, and immediately let the man behind the counter know he was fully aware of the gun’s value.

  In West
Texas, horse-trading was considered an art, and this wasn’t Dusty’s first rodeo. On the other hand, the pawnbroker earned his keep via buying low and selling high. The negotiations ebbed and flowed, both men secretly enjoying the contest.

  “These aren’t as collectable as they were just a year ago. Your information is outdated,” the buyer opened.

  “My information is current, and if you had any idea of what you’re looking at, you’d know that Colt didn’t make very many of the snub versions in nickel. That makes this piece even more valuable. You could sell this item on the internet for at least $3800.”

  “Maybe,” he replied. “I also might have to hang onto it for months before the right buyer comes along.”

  Back and forth they angled, each trying to convince the other of the item’s value, greater or less. Twenty minutes later, Penny walked out of the shop with $3100 cash and a huge smile on her face. “I can pay the electric bill and buy groceries! I can even catch up our account at the feed store.”

  “Is your husband going to be upset that you sold his pistol?”

  “It was my father’s weapon, and no, Mike’s not into guns so much.” she answered. She glanced at her watch and announced, “I’ll be happy to run you back to wherever, but I’ve got to stop at the utility company office first. I’m almost out of time.”

  “No problem,” Dusty replied, “I’ll just hang out and guard the truck until you’re finished.”

  She chuckled, glancing over at the beat-up, rattletrap old Chevy. “It is a classic,” she played along.

  When she returned from the utility office, it was clear that a great burden had been removed from her shoulders. “Electricity is always a good thing,” she said as she got behind the old truck’s wheel. “Did you have to fight off any carjackers?”

  “It is a classic,” Dusty smiled, pretending he had contributed in some small way.

  As she maneuvered through Laredo, she suddenly brightened. “Since you know so much about guns, why don’t you come back out to the ranch with me and see if Papa had anything else of value? I know he used to work on older firearms in his shop. Maybe there’s something there that would raise enough money to get my husband out of jail.”

  Dusty shrugged, intrigued at the prospect of actually doing something productive. “I don’t have anything more pressing,” he responded.

  Day Three - Evening

  The Royce place was just over 10 miles outside of town. “My father started this operation before I was born. Mike and I were high school sweethearts, and when daddy passed away, we just took over. About five years ago, free-range birds became all the rage, so we went that route. Now, our chickens aren’t laying, and we’re losing about 15 animals a day. The vet has no idea why… thinks it’s some sort of virus. Mike’s been convinced that something about that new factory is killing our poultry.”

  Dusty noted the small, but neat operation as they rolled up the driveway. A modest, ranch-style house surrounded by several outbuildings greeted them at the end of the lane. Two young girls sat on the front porch, both hopping up as the truck neared the house.

  “What made your husband so sure it’s the factory?” Dusty inquired.

  “The timing of the whole thing. Our animals were just fine until the week after that damn place began operations. We started noticing egg production dropping rapidly. Then a few days later, he found five dead birds. The next day, the death toll was eight. According to the county co-op agent, we’re the only ones having an issue right now.”

  Penny parked the truck, exiting the cab and immediately embracing her daughters. After hugs had been exchanged, she turned to Dusty and introduced both girls, “Mr. Booker, these are my daughters, Amy and Gina.”

  “Nice to meet both of you. Please, call me Dusty.”

  Content that their mother was home, both girls scampered away after being reminded of their chores. Penny turned to Dusty and suggested, “Come on; I’ll show you papa’s workshop.”

  She led the way to the largest building, a medium-sized barn that had once sported a dark red paint job. Grey, weathered wood now peeked through the faded pigment, evidence of the harsh Texas sun and a lack of maintenance. Pushing open one of the double doors, Penny motioned for Dusty to enter. Inside, he encountered a scene typical of most any agricultural storehouse, the interior filled with an assortment of farm equipment, pallets of feed and bales of straw. To the gunsmith from West Texas, it smelled like home.

  One area of the barn was atypical, housing a workbench constructed of heavy planks. An interesting collection of tools adorned the pegboard backstop. Dusty smiled when his eye took in the Monarch lathe, the unit a slightly older model than the one he used at home. Leading the way to the bench, Penny pointed and reminisced, “Papa used to spend hours and hours out here in the evenings. Sometimes neighbors and friends would bring over their shotguns for him to work on, other times he would find a broken rifle for sale at the right price and fix it up. He loved spending time out here.”

  “I can understand,” Dusty said, feeling a tug of homesickness pulling at his insides. “I have… had a similar setup at home. It’s a good place for a man to spend his time.”

  “My father’s guns are stored over here. Come on; I’ll show you.”

  She walked behind an old Ford tractor, leading Dusty to the barn’s second surprise. One corner had been finished off as a small apartment, complete with foldout couch, sink, microwave, and bathroom. Seeing her guest’s eyebrows rise, she laughed and said, “Our house is pretty small, and Dad came from a big family. He built this spare room for his brothers, so they would be comfortable and have a little privacy when they visited. He even equipped this space with air conditioning.”

  “Nice,” Dusty observed, thinking the smell of hay would be a wonderful greeting in the morning. He was sold the second he spotted the coffeemaker.

  His hostess moved to a heavy, metal door and inserted a key. Rather than the expected closet, she opened the fireproof portal and revealed what was essentially a homemade gun safe. Inside were several long guns as well as a handful of pistols. Dusty’s practiced eye swept the collection quickly, noting a few rifles of interest. “I’ll have to inspect each one individually and judge its condition,” he announced after a few moments. “Some of these might have value, but I don’t know about enough to raise bail money.”

  She seemed disappointed. Sighing, she admitted, “I didn’t think there was a winning lottery ticket in here… but you can’t blame a girl for wishful thinking.”

  “Mom?” a young voice interrupted from the front of the barn. “Mom, are you out here?”

  Penny yelled back at the same time making for the door, “We’re back in the gun room, sweetheart. What’s wrong?”

  “Mr. Roberson just called and said some of our chickens were in his yard. He threatened to eat one of them if we didn’t come get them.”

  “Damn it,” Penny grumbled, her shoulders slumping. “Two of the fence posts on that side were getting pretty rotten. I guess they finally gave way. I’ve been meaning to get out there and mend that line, but just haven’t had the time or energy.”

  The woman was clearly distraught, and it pained Dusty to see it. He followed her out of the apartment, having to step quickly to keep up. A minute later, they were in another of the farm’s outbuildings, this one containing chicken-wire fencing and a small supply of posts.

  “Why don’t you take the girls and go shoo the birds back onto your land while I go fix the fence?” he offered.

  She hesitated, not wanting to involve her guest any more than he already was, but yet needing his assistance badly. “I can’t pay you anything,” she admitted. “But I sure could use the help.”

  “That hotel is going to cost me $70 per night,” Dusty countered. “I’ll do some work around here and inventory the guns in exchange for room and board. How’s that sound?”

  Again, Penny was suspicious. She was also desperate. She finally went with her instincts. “Okay, but again, if you’r
e that axe murderer, please make it quick.”

  Dusty laughed and then nodded toward the fencing supplies. “How do I get to the downed line?”

  “Follow me,” she said, briskly walking to another nearby shed. Inside was an ATV, complete with muddy tires and a small wagon attached to the back. “Mike bought this a few years ago. It runs pretty well. Should be full of gasoline.”

  She then pointed to the northeast and continued, “If you drive about half a mile straight that direction, you’ll run into the weak section of the partition where I suspect the repairs are needed. I’ll load up the girls and go chase birds.”

  “Got it,” Dusty replied. “See you later.”

  And with that, he began loading tools and supplies into the small wagon, actually looking forward to the physical labor. As he drove the small vehicle across the bumpy south Texas turf, he thought signing up to work on the farm had been a very good idea. Aside from Penny’s need for help, the remote property provided an excellent hiding place. He could save money, stay out of sight, and even work on some of those guns. It was a fugitive’s paradise.

  He crested a slight rise and immediately spotted the downed line. The birds, randomly roaming the pasture, were evidently familiar with the ATV and scattered to keep out of its path. He pulled up and realized Penny had been right – two of the posts appeared to have rotted and fallen apart. Pulling on a pair of work gloves and unloading the post-hole digger from the back, Dusty ventured closer to investigate.

  Bending to examine the broken, exposed wood, he didn’t see any rot at all. Looking closer, he spied an odd-looking indentation a several inches above what would have been ground level. “That’s strange,” he whispered to the re-gathering chickens. “What would have pushed these over?”

  He scanned the area, seeing nothing but south Texas grassland interrupted by the occasion tree. Shrugging his shoulders, he began digging.

  Fredrick closed the laptop’s cover, shaking his head at the Dow Jones’ closing numbers. It had been a volatile market all week, the varied assortment of funds he monitored again showing losses at the closing bell. It wasn’t Black Friday bad, he mused, but it wasn’t good either.