Chase Baker and the Dutch Diamonds: A Chase Baker Thriller Book 10

by Vincent Zandri

  “It’s bone,” Sarah says. “Dutch Schultz carved a map into my great grandfather’s skull.”

  We finish our food and hit up the cranky bartender/waiter for coffee refills while Edge pops the cap on another beer. How he can put so much alcohol down without falling flat on his face is beyond me. I guess I have to toss it up to tolerance or good genes. Make that miraculous genes.

  “So, if the map is carved into your great-grandfather’s head,” Edge says, “why didn’t he go after it himself, and live a great life?”

  “Because Dutch carved it onto his head only an hour after he died.”

  “That makes sense,” I say, the thought of how painful carving anything into your skull would be for a person still alive. Then, “So, if you don’t mind my asking, how’d your great grandfather die?”

  “Behind the wheel of his beloved Ford. A heart attack.”

  “And Schultz buried him?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Sarah says. “According to the records I’ve obtained, Schultz paid for the funeral services and the burial.”

  “But how do you know about the skull in the first place?” I ask. “If it was carved into Willy’s head after he died?”

  “Schultz was a talker,” she explains. “Especially when he was drunk. Word got around, and that word became sort of an underground legend.”

  “I guess we’re to assume this isn’t legend we’re talking about here,” I add, “but fact.”

  “So, let’s go visit the grave,” Edge says, pushing out his chair, his red round face lit up like a bulb.

  “Not so fast,” Sarah says. “Schultz might have been quick to anger — what you and I might refer to as a man with a hair-trigger temper — but he wasn’t beyond deliberation when the situation required it. And when he buried my great-grandfather Winston, he did so in an unmarked grave in a place where other known, nameless slaves were buried.”

  “Potter’s Field,” Edge says.

  “A Potter’s Field for slaves, you mean,” I add.

  “Exactly,” Sarah says, pushing her thick hair behind her ear. A simple act that requires little thought on her part but makes my pulse pound on my part. “However, two months ago, a construction crew working on a new parking lot uncovered a dozen graves that, it turns out, date back to the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. After some quick but intensive study, researchers have concluded that the grave was indeed a Potter’s Field for former slaves who either made it up here via Miss Tubman’s Underground Railroad or made their way here with a migrated slave owner who’d granted the slave his or her freedom, as was my great-grandfather Winston’s case.”

  “So, Winston has been found after all,” Edge presses.

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Sarah says. “The bodies have all been reburied at the St. Agnes Cemetery in North Albany. Again, in unmarked, unidentified graves. But . . .”

  Her but dangles. Even though I have an idea of what she’s about to say, and she senses I have an idea, she still seems somewhat apprehensive about saying it.

  “But,” I say like a question.

  “But if perhaps we can locate the grave that houses a skull with a map carved into it, then we know for certain we have finally located my great-grandfather.”

  “No,” I say. “What we’ll have located, instead, is the exact site of Dutch Schultz’s treasure.”

  Sarah smiles. “Oh, and that too,” she says.

  “Let’s go!” Edge barks. He gets up from his chair, begins to walk away. But then, realizing that he’s empty handed, he turns back to the table, grabs his half-full whiskey bottle, and makes for the front door. Double time.

  5

  With Edge having already exited the diner/bar, I’m stuck with the bill. I pay it and head outside to join the others. While Sarah and Edge light up once more, I give the situation a quick review inside my brain. We left SuspenseFest to come to Phoenicia to look for the legendary Dutch Schultz treasure. A situation that deep down inside, I thought rather silly. But what the hell. As Edge said, the conference wasn’t at all suspenseful, so why not head out and find something to write about?

  What we found, instead, were two Russians who take the legend of the Schultz treasure so seriously, they were willing to tie us up to the train tracks so they could get their rocks off when the upstate Amtrak train ran us over on its run down to NYC.

  Now we run into a woman who, in essence, followed us here and who claims to possess more knowledge about Dutch Schultz’s treasure than anyone on the planet. I can only wonder if she’s aware of the Russians? I pose the question to her.

  She shakes her head.

  “Can’t say I’ve seen anyone matching the description of a father and son wearing identical blue Nike tracksuits,” she says. “But I’m not surprised they’re looking for the Schultz loot. The town is always full of treasure hunters looking to score big, especially in the warm weather months. And the hunters come in all shapes and sizes. Burly bearded bikers, skinny vegetarian eating granola types, even priests and nuns. I’ve seen them all.”

  “So, this isn’t your first time here in Phoenicia,” Edge says, firing up another smoke. It’s a question.

  “Nope,” she answers, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “I’ve been fascinated with Schultz’s treasure for years. I wrote about it in one of my books. It wasn’t until later that I discovered the connection with my great grandfather which, of course, fascinated me even more. And now, with the discovery of the slave remains in Albany and their reburial at St. Agnes Cemetery in North Albany, I’m pretty convinced I can actually locate the lost treasure once and for all.”

  “Sure, you want us along for the ride?” I say, shooting Edge a look. “Maybe you want all the loot for yourself.”

  She smiles, shakes her head. “Nonsense. First, I think it will be fun for all of us to look for the treasure together. And second, I could use you guys as my bodyguards just in case those nice Russian friends you speak of should happen to turn back up.”

  “She’s got a point,” Edge says, blue smoke oozing from his nostrils. Then, his eyes back on her. “Fifty/fifty,” he adds. “We split the loot fifty/fifty. Err, fifty for you, twenty-five for Baker, twenty-five for moi.”

  She considers the offer, cocks her head.

  She says, “Word is the treasure was worth six million in 1935. That’s about sixty million today. So, sure, fifty/fifty will be fine, so long as you protect me and assist me in finding it.” She focuses entirely on me. “I know a little bit about your talent for finding hidden antiquities, Mr. Baker. I should say you’ll make an invaluable partner.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence,” I say.

  Edge holds out the hand that doesn’t hold the whiskey bottle, makes a fist.

  “Give me the rock,” he says. “Just to make this partnership official.”

  She makes a fist, punches it. Then, she holds the fist out to me. I punch hers. I can’t help but wonder what ever happened to a good old fashioned handshake. Times change.

  “Now that we have that settled,” she says, “we have to find our way upstate without a car.”

  Speaking of changing times, I pull out my smartphone. “There’s an app for that,” I say. “Uber.”

  6

  It takes only about fifteen minutes for our Uber driver to show up. He’s a young man with tattoos on both his arms, a ring through his nose, and so many earrings in his ears that the lobes look zippered on. He’s also sporting a tall Mohawk that’s dyed fire engine red.

  He’s driving an old, rust colored Jeep Wrangler with the top off. There’s a winch on the front and a custom stainless steel fender in the back. Directly below the rear fender, in the spot where a trailer hitch should be, are a pair of balls. Human male genitalia fashioned from brass, to be more specific.

  “You know how to pick ‘em, Baker,” Edge says, not without a snort.

  “Could be worse,” I say. “Dude could have pulled up with a horse and buggy.”

  Mo
hawk Man smiles, revealing a silver upper front tooth.

  “Hope you like Jeeps, dudes,” he says, his voice and tone more Los Angeles surfer stoner than upstate New York.

  “Who are you?” Edge says, “Jeff Spicoli?”

  Of course, Edge is referring to the infamous stoner played so convincingly by Hollywood icon, Sean Penn, in the early 1980s comedy film, Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

  “I love Jeeps,” Sarah says, climbing into the back. “This is going to be a hell of a lot more fun than SuspenseFest.”

  Edge and his whiskey bottle climb into the back and he presses himself up against Sarah before I get the chance. Rats. I climb into the front. Looks like I have no choice but to cuddle up with Mohawked Jeff Spicoli.

  I hold out my hand. He takes it in his. He’s wearing about three pounds’ worth of metal bracelets and rings with skulls on them.

  “Whad’you say your name was?” I query Mohawk.

  “Rob,” he says. “Rob Paley. Please to be your acquaintance.”

  I introduce myself, along with the two in back.

  “Oh, hey dude,” he says, “where you off too?”

  I tell him. Then I ask him how much?

  “Quite the fare, man,” he says. He looks up at the cloudless blue sky like he’s trying to figure out a number in his head. After a time, he glances my way, says, “Five hundred.”

  “You making that up off the top of your head?” I ask. “Excuse me, top of your Mohawk?”

  “Math was never my strong point,” he says. “I play battle ax in a grunge metal band. That’s my forte, dude. Uber’s just the day gig.”

  “Deal,” Edge agrees from the back. “I’ll pay it. I’m made of money. Let’s just get this thing on the road.”

  “Okay,” I say. “You heard the man.”

  “You pay for gas too,” Mohawk Rob says.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Edge says. “Just step on it already. I wanna see how the wind blows through Sarah’s hair with the road runnin’ under our wheels.”

  I turn, glance at her over my shoulder. She offers me a wink and a grin.

  I turn back toward the road.

  Mohawk Rob turns on the radio and blares death metal.

  “Rob!” I shout.

  “Oh,” he giggles, turning it way down. “Force of habit. Like donuts first thing in the morning after the first brain bud bong hit, you know?”

  He pulls out onto the road, begins heading out of town. The cool Catskill Mountain air slaps our faces. I can’t help but notice when I once again glance over my shoulder at Sarah that, like Edge predicted, when it blows through her hair it makes her look even more stunning.

  But that’s when I also see something else out the corner of my eye. Two men standing on a freshly cut lawn outside an old wood building with a wraparound porch. A wood sign nailed to one of the posts says Phoenicia Free Library. Two men, one older and the other younger, wearing matching track suits. The young one has a thick strip of white surgical tape holding his swelled nose together.

  Sergey Senior and Sergey Junior.

  They’re eyeballing us through their dark sunglasses while we motor past.

  You’d better find yourself a gun, Chase man . . . Something tells me they’re going to find a way to tail you . . .

  I think about saying something about their sudden presence, but Edge pulls himself up into the center of the front bucket seats using the roll bar.

  “Oh, hey Rob,” he says, “I’ll toss an extra ten with the tip if you stop for beer.”

  “Right on, dude,” Rob says. “You’re old as fuck but super cool.”

  “Old?” Edge says. “I’m younger than Mr. Bush Jacket there.”

  “Oh yeah,” Rob says, glancing up and down at me while he motors the Jeep onto a narrow, tree-lined road. “I see what you mean.”

  Sarah giggles.

  It’s gonna be a long trip to Albany.

  7

  By the time we make it to the open thruway, we’re tan from the constant sun. Edge has finished the whiskey and chased it down with three full beers and somehow managed to chain smoke Marlboro Cigarettes despite the onrush of wind. Right now, he’s sharing a freshly rolled joint with Rob. Everyone is laughing and carousing, and even Sarah is sipping on a can of beer, the drinking-while-riding laws in New York State be damned. If I close my eyes and feel the wind against my face, smell the pot smoke, listen to the silly banter between Edge and Rob, I could swear I’m caught up in a Hunter S. Thompson novel.

  But then, I open my eyes and see the tops of the Albany skyline maybe ten miles off and realize I’m going home again. Home to where I dug up my first treasure in the Albany Rural Cemetery (a century-old pocket watch), where I went on my first date, where I learned how to use a backhoe, where I disappointed my dad by not assuming the CEO helm on his excavating business — instead buying a backpack that would serve as my mobile home for years while I traveled the world sandhogging, writing, looking for artifacts, falling in love, and in a word . . . living.

  It always makes me a little sad coming back to this place, knowing there’s nothing left for me here. But it also holds a special place in my heart. It could also potentially hold some very lucrative buried treasure. Chase the optimistic.

  The skyline comes into full view.

  “This be your hometown, am I right, Chase?” Edge says.

  “Born and bred,” I say, my eyes locked on the humble skyline as it rises on the horizon. “But that was a long time ago.”

  “Albany isn’t New York City,” Sarah comments from the back. “But it has its own charm. The gangsters loved it. Back in the 1930s the city was surrounded by farms and wilderness. You could get lost up here if you wanted.”

  Rob turns to me, his tall Mohawk blowing in the wind like a furled sail. “Who are you dudes anyway?” he asks.

  Edge hands him the joint and the kid takes another hit, careful to cup his hand around it so the wind doesn’t put the fire out.

  “Should we tell him, Chase?” Edge says.

  “Sure,” I say, knowing the bestselling author is about to make up a grand lie which is his expertise, after all. “We’ve been driving together long enough. Have at it.”

  “We’re treasure hunters,” Edge says. “We’re on a mission to find buried treasure.”

  “In Albany, dude?” Rob says. “Nothing happens in Albany.”

  Edge is sticking his bald head between the bucket seats, still sharing tokes on a joint that’s almost all gone.

  “True dat,” he says. “But when we find what we’re after, we’ll put Albany back on the map.”

  “Radical,” Rob says. “Let me know if I can be of assistance in this venture of yours.”

  “You already are,” Edge says. “You’re the designated driver.”

  That’s when Rob’s face goes tight.

  “Wait a minute, dude,” he says, his tone suddenly nosediving. “Let me guess. You ain’t got the five hundred plus expenses you owe me, do you? I knew I should have asked for it upfront. Dumb ass rookie mistake.”

  I shoot a glance at Sarah. She’s biting down on her bottom lip. I can’t tell if she’s doing it to hold back her laughter or to disguise her disgust at Edge’s con game. Maybe a little of both.

  “Edge,” I say, “Answer the man.”

  Edge smokes the rest of the joint and swallows the little roach that’s left.

  He says, “Well, my official answer in this matter is yes and no.”

  “What’s that mean?” Rob says. “I was gonna buy a new amp with that dough-rei-mi.”

  “What I mean is,” Edge goes on, “I don’t exactly have that kind of cash on me right this very minute. But—”

  “But,” Rob interjects, clearly pissed off now, his red spiked hair defying gravity even in the wind gusts.

  “But as soon as we uncover the treasure,” Edge goes on, “I’ll not only pay you your five hundred but get this, Rob ‘Red Mohawk’ Paley, I’ll give you an additional one hundred beans. How’s that sound for grat
itude?”

  Rob turns the Jeep wheel hard to the right, cuts off a Volkswagen Beetle, the driver slamming on her horn. I’m holding onto the roll bar for dear life when he pulls onto the soft shoulder, hits the brakes.

  “End of the road, dudes,” Rob says.

  Once again, I glance at Sarah. She shoots me a wide-eyed look.

  “Look, Rob,” she says, “I’m sure we can come up with some money for you. We’re awfully sorry for leading you on like this.” Then, her unblinking eyes on Edge. “Aren’t we, Mr. Edgerton!”

  “Yeah, Rob,” I say. “Just take us into the city, and maybe between all of us, we can come close to the five hundred you want.”

  Rob crosses his arms over his chest, causing his metal bling to rattle.

  “The price has gone up,” he says.

  “What?” Edge says. “We had a freakin’ deal, man.”

  “Yeah,” Rob says, “a deal you lied about from the get go.”

  That’s when Sarah decides to spill the beans about Edge being a bestselling author posing as a treasure hunter. She refers to herself as a writer and then explains me away as the only real treasure hunter on board. A treasure hunter who also pens action/adventure novels in his spare time that is.

  “So, what is it you want, Rob?” I ask.

  “This treasure you’re talking about,” he says. “It’s not all bullshit, is it? Like that Dutch Schultz nonsense everyone is always going on about down in Phoenicia?”

  Now all three of us treasure hunters glance at one another.

  “Well,” Edge says, “now that you mention it. There is a direct correlation.”

  Sarah leans forward while the cars whiz by on the highway.

  “But here’s the thing, Rob,” she says. “I have information — tangible, verifiable information — that places the treasure solidly in Albany.”

  “Whaddya mean?” Rob says. “It’s supposed to be in Phoenicia.”

  “Or so legend has it,” I say. “But we’ve come to believe it’s in Albany.”