White Bird (A Mayan 2012 Thriller)

by Tom Rich

  “You’re telling me Kurtwood Franz deals drugs.”

  “He’s got the Central American connection. A man on his payroll with experience in the trade. Guys like Franz? Who knows how much he’s into, what he’s got to do to keep it all rolling. Damn, Melvin, not so long ago we had a president dealing arms to finance a covert war.” Pelfry scanned the wall behind Weeks.

  “Just what do you mean, ‘Guys like Franz?’”

  “I have to describe him?”

  “You have to describe why my closest friend, a man I’ve known for over thirty years, a man who gives much of what he’s earned to help people less fortunate, might be a drug dealer and a murderer. Yes, you have to describe that man to me.”

  “Power. Power through wealth, pure and simple. It’s a type of sickness. The ability to amass wealth swells the ego and tells the player he doesn’t have to play by the same rules as the rest of us. Not only the rules of men, the laws of nature. His ability to pull things his way throws everything out of balance. Franz’s methods are what’s behind the ruination of the planet.

  “Now, take a look at the motive for Franz hiring those parolees. They’re perfect for doing distasteful things that don’t mesh with the law. Every powerful man has his henchmen. Why else would he keep people around who’ve been through a justice system that’s done nothing but hone their various criminal talents?”

  “Those people are very effective when talking to the kids Franz is trying to keep out of the system. That eleven years in jail speaks volumes to those kids. Most of them think doing time is inevitable, that somehow it’s cool.”

  “He helps kids because he believes it absolves him of crimes.”

  “You’re out of line there, mister. I’m going to forget that comment this one time. But I am telling you, do not go there again. And since you’re so interested in the wall behind me,” Weeks tossed a thumb over his shoulder, “why don’t you tell me who Jimmy Carter’s henchman was.”

  Pelfry raised his eyes, settled them on Carter’s portrait. He looked at Weeks. “A bit before my time. Wasn’t born yet.”

  “Awfully selective with your knowledge of recent history.”

  “Come on, Mel. Helping Handz? Second Chanz? If the man isn’t kicking down the doors of our waking lives by waltzing across the headlines with his movie star girlfriend, he’s working his way into our subconscious by altering the language.”

  “So the man is guilty of a big ego. He’d be the first to tell anyone. As of yet, that’s not a reason to bring up charges. Are you familiar with the concept of tangible evidence?”

  “It’s the manifestation of his ego that points out the imbalance leading to his greed. Think of the world as the Garden. See, we all need to eat. But Kurtwood Franz keeps taking more of the Garden for himself. It’s greed like that that leads to a very few controlling the very things that sustain human existence. The people have got to stop that behavior wherever we can to save—”

  Weeks held up a hand. “Shh, quiet.” He narrowed his eyes. “You hear that?”

  “I, uh…”

  “Yeah, hear? That is the sound of chanting. And, sniff-sniff, I do believe I smell incense. No, my bad, the incense market has been cornered. Got dammit, Pelfry! Didn’t I just tell you to keep that goo-roo the fuck out of here!”

  Pelfry turned his head from the verbal slap. “You’re the one always preaching how our job is to examine evidence in order to roll back time, that the victims are actually speaking to us; we just need to learn how to interpret their language. Think how that sounds to the layman, us talking to the dead and jumping into our time machines. It’s like the guy watching National Geographic who laughs at the silly tribesmen jumping around all painted up and shaking their spears. Yet the same guy sends ten percent of his income to a holy man in red shoes and a pointy hat who speaks a language that’s been dead a thousand years.”

  “I’m Baptist, not Catholic. And those people jumping around are my relatives.”

  “I didn’t… You know I don’t see…”

  Weeks realized he’d thrown up a wall that would only hinder productivity. He felt too weary to initiate the process of tearing it down.

  Pelfry rose from his chair.

  Weeks put his elbows on his desk, his head into his hands. “Jones.” He looked up. “Just don’t go up outta here mad. If you want to hate me on your own time… Whatever you gotta do to get the job done.”

  “I don’t hate you, Mel.” Pelfry sat. “I see you as a mentor. More, even. You know how to talk to me in a language the others don’t understand.”

  Weeks shook his head. “We done?”

  Pelfry raked his hair back, then to the left. “Just the one thing.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  Pelfry lowered his hand. “You really have me concerned about that Biblical reference from when I came in. Only because it’s on your mind right now, so…” He gave his hair another sweep. “Melvin, in a short period of time, you and I are going to have the opportunity to try something really special.”

  “Something special.”

  “When you cross over, that is.”

  “Cross over.”

  “To the other—”

  “I know what you mean.”

  Pelfry leaned forward. “Don’t let the old time religion hold you back. It’s time to consider the fact it hasn’t done its job. It’s time to consider that we need to turn elsewhere now that we’ve descended into the state where people kill children just to get off on their cries for help. Accept that you’re moving into a purely existential state. Don’t let the old beliefs keep you from trying something important.”

  Melvin felt a great swell of anger rise up. It abruptly turned a one-eighty and drew itself into a miniscule point. The thought occurred that this type of implosion might be at the root of the cancer eating away his body. “Know why I keep you around, Detective Pelfry? Do you know why I indulge in these little conversations of ours? It’s because you amuse me. You truly do amuse me. It’s difficult finding things to laugh at in this business. I’m sure you noticed I said laugh at, not with. Now, as far as continuing my police work once I punch that big timecard in the sky? No thanks. Understand?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Rest is what I’m looking forward to. An eternity of rest.”

  “I understand.”

  “So don’t try calling. I’ll have an unlisted number, specifically to keep the tele-marketers and you off my back.”

  “Right.”

  “Wait, there is one thing I might try. Sort of an emeritus type thing. If I do get the chance to putter around, I just might try to find out who really kilt JFK. You dig? But anything I find I won’t be sharing. We’ll just call that my blanket to protect me from the chill of eternity. And you know what else?”

  “The rest of us can freeze in hell.”

  “It scares me when you and I think alike. But you know what I’m thinking about most right now?”

  “Catching a child killer.”

  “This just turned into one got damned terrifying afternoon.”

  Pelfry rose to leave.

  “Focus, Jones, focus. You have the unique perspectives. You just need to tailor them to what’s important.”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “Wait.”

  Pelfry paused with his hand on the back of the chair.

  “There is something about the Xaman case that’s been bugging me.”

  “Sir?”

  “The man comes from a hot country, right? Then he’s staying out in Southern California before he comes here. In November. Now, you think he knew to bring a coat?”

  “It’s been unseasonably warm here the entire month.”

  “My point. Maybe someone in LA told him to bring a coat, which he did, and not being used to carrying it, he left it when it was too warm to wear. We may never find the rest of Xaman’s body, but finding a coat could tell us something about where he went that night.”

  “That’s a lot of lost and founds t
o check. I suppose we could have the uniforms keep an eye out for a homeless person with a new coat.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, put out the word.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it.”

  Pelfry left.

  “Hyper-manic,” said Weeks to himself. The time was coming when the Captain would have to confront his underling.

  Maybe after the child killer was brought in.

  Weeks looked at the closed door. He swiveled his chair to face his Executive Committee.

  7: “It’s a bird…no…”

  Aly Roarke emerged from the forest. There, on the whitewashed wall of the village market, hung the phone; a tool of jangling modernity forced through a rip in time to disturb the peace of a community that had yet to acquire a paved road. She dug in her pocket for coins. “A twelve klik hike to a phone, I damn well better get through.”

  The hike in had been a bird lover’s dream. An hour in, Aly heard the clacking beak of a horned guan, rarely encountered anymore, she’d been told, because they were so tasty. “Like chocolate fed chicken?” she’d asked. “Why not? This is the land of the cocoa bean.” Later in the hike she saw a male Quetzal, its brilliant green feathers flashing undertones of blue and red, its question-mark tail dangling beneath its perch as if inquiring, “What up? Our fine feathery plumage was once so stylish among the ancients that poaching us was a capital offense, and now I can barely get out the door without being netted and tagged by some scientist.” Then a clumsy keel-billed toucan nearly clipped her, its blue feet kicking wildly to keep the top-heavy weight of its schnoz airborne. “You guys are still abundant,” Aly had yelled after the bird, “because one of you had the foresight to pose as the logo for a sugar-laden cereal back in the States!” Of course the jaguars were on the run. But Aly questioned whether she wanted that encounter, assured as she was they almost never attacked humans. Sadly, though, the howler monkeys were limited to the national forests, and missing out on that chatter was like traveling to Wrigley Field and not hearing some celeb sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” for the seventh inning stretch.

  The first sign of Aly making her connection looked good. She hadn’t bought a Ladatel card, but this village was so remote its single phone took coins only. She dropped her quetzales, It’s a bird! No, it’s a coin! and got a dial tone, a second good sign. She punched in the extra codes, her home number, and got a ring. “Get me to Vegas before I tilt.”

  After four rings Aly heard her own voice. “Hello. I’m not here to take your call right now, so just tell me who you are.” Then, following a pause she’d spent two hours calibrating, “Unless you’re one of those still screaming, ‘Who am I? Who am I?’” Expecting to hear her greeting for Cultural Integration Services, she’d forgotten about changing to her smartass message.

  “Trish! Trish! Pick up, dammit! Trish! You have no i—”

  “Aly? That you? Damn, girl, you calling all the way from Guacamolia?”

  “Modern science with all the trimmings. All you ever need do is find a hunk of plastic hooked into the local power source.”

  “Ouch. Already a metaphor for lonely nights.”

  “This…isolation thing had to be done.”

  “Yeah? Seems like you been gone forever.”

  “Five months. One to go to finish my contract.”

  “See? You’re not such the quitter you make yourself out to be.”

  “Quitting college to start up CIS? Then abandoning CIS for Blue? Then running from Night Town all the way down here because of Blue? How much do I need to give up on before being branded a quitter?”

  “You’re dealing in your own way by doing what you’re doing down there. Like writing songs about balmy evenings and moon drenched plastic hunks?”

  “Gave up writing lyrics.” Aly nodded to a woman strolling by carrying a basket on her head. “All I ever did was jumble up existing lyrics to somebody else’s music.”

  “Hey, look at Weird Al, how big he is.”

  “Somehow I don’t think there’s room in the business for a Weird Aly.”

  “Eh, you just haven’t found the right inspiration. Speaking of which, been chewing the shrubs down there? Aaaa-licking any toads?”

  “That is definitely out. I am not toying with the legal system in this burg. I have no desire to check out the inside of a Third World jail.”

  Five feet away, a little boy, seeming to have materialized from nowhere, stood staring at Aly.

  Trish said, “Living the straight and narrow, are you?”

  “Ever since we left Tikal, I have. That site was a regular party town. Archeologists, students, volunteers, everybody getting hammered every night. But I got away from there so I could finally put Party Girl to rest.”

  “No. You split the gig?”

  “By invitation. The head archeologist got a lead on something down here near the Honduran border. I was up near Mexico originally. Then Arby brought me down here as a kind of personal assistant.” Aly wondered if the boy staring at her belonged to the lady carrying the basket. She leaned out, looked in the direction the women had headed. She saw no one. She flashed the boy a smile. His blank expression remained unchanged.

  “Sounds like your chance to go a’sluttin’,” said Trish.

  “Hardly. Arby treats me like a wife. Mostly cooking and cleaning is all I do.”

  “So that means only on your birthday and holidays ending with R. See what happens when you settle for that thinly shaved beef? Should’ve ordered up a Whopper.”

  “Thought I was coming down here to lose my sorrows in the tedium of sifting through dirt all day. Instead, I get the drudgery that cries out for Oprah and a box of bonbons.” Aly wanted to give the boy a coin and send him on his way. But all she had went into the phone. She shouldered the receiver and pulled out her pockets.

  “So you do miss the old homestead.”

  “Wouldn’t go that far. Only thing I miss about Cincy is sitting in Night Town sipping one of your Tailgaters.”

  “Welllllla-bout Night Town.”

  “What? What about Night Town?”

  “Got sold. New owner’s turning it into an Irish Pub.”

  “Shhhh-it, Trish. How could you let them?”

  “Like I had a say.”

  “Damn. As if the world needs another McBlarney O’Shea’s. And now you’re doing the Colleen thing?”

  “Give me some credit, duh. No, I got out of the whole area. The creeping profiteers are totally gentrifying Collegeburg. My new gig is right down here in Northside. Just a couple blocks from your apartment, matter of fact.”

  The boy must belong to somebody, Aly decided. He looked clean enough. Maybe a little underfed.

  “Anyway, owner’s not into bands,” continued Trish. “She’s got a whole different take on what a bar should be.”

  “Sounds like one positive development. At least you’re working for a woman.”

  “Something like that.”

  “I’ve been thinking about living the rest of my life without men.”

  “Hmm, have you researched whether your brave new paradise can bring home the beef once the power source runs dry?”

  “Yeah, well, that remains to be seen. At least a plastic hunk doesn’t leave toenail clippings in the carpet. What’s your new bar’s gimmick.”

  The boy put his hands in his armpits and flapped his elbows, playing like a bird. Aly matched half the gesture with her empty hand. He smiled, flapped one arm and turned in circles.

  “No gimmick,” said Trish. “Clove just wants the End of the World Café to be—”

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa. The what?”

  “The End! Of! The World! Café!”

  “Woman, you have got to be shitting me.”

  “I shit you not. I think you’d like the place.”

  “Man, all I came down here for was to get my hands in some dirt and forget about a cheating boyfriend. So I hook up with these Mayans and I find out their entire culture is nothing but one big neon sign fl
ashing THE END IS NEAR! And now you’re telling me their prediction has spread all the way up there?”

  “I don’t—”

  “The Mayans were obsessed with time and predicting doom. Like, 3000 years ago, they calculated positions of the moon using only their savvy with numbers. No telescopes, no computers. Even up to this very day they’re off by less than the time it takes Blue to hop on a Detroit skank once he catches a whiff.”

  “Bravo for them. Has enough of that numbers savvy rubbed off so you can finally balance a checkbook?”

  “Forget the checkbook, Dolly. Get out there and sign up for as many credit cards as your wallet can hold. The Mayan calendar comes to a screeching halt four days before Christmas in twenty oh twelve. What I’m saying is, according to these little Nostrodamuses, the whole world is like that kid who needs Christmas in July. It’s time to make your reservations with Make a Wish Foundation right fucking now! Disneyland is about to get awfully crowded.”

  “Then home is where you want to be. Remember what Mark Twain said about our fair burg.”

  “What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “You’re the great big college lit major. You don’t know Mark Twain’s most famous quotable?”

  “Must’ve covered that the day after I dropped out.”

  “‘When the world ends, I want to be in Cincinnati, because everything gets there ten years late.’”

  “Great. The Wind River Range. Wrigley Field. Pyramid Hill. All gone. And the city where everyone hates me—a Cincinnati without Night Town, no less—is still there getting lapped on by the Ohio River.”

  “Actually, the river belongs to Kentucky. And nobody here hates you.”

  “All those CIS donations I got swindled out of? Are you—”

  “Uno momento, por favore.”

  Trish said, “Damn, girl, you’re speaking the language.”

  Aly suddenly remembered the boy. If only she hadn’t eaten all her fruit for on the hike in. She’d offer him a drink from her canteen, but, “Gone.” Flown away?