“What?”
“He liked him too, Gary told me.”
“So… where we heading?”
I read the address: “Twenty-two Glasgow Highway, Mechanicsville, VA.”
“No shit, I know exactly where that is… right off Eighty-One, bottom of the Shenandoah Valley.”
“Is it far?”
“Yeah.”
“How long will it take?”
“Depends on traffic, I guess.” Ricky paused. “Too early to leave though. Can’t go till nighttime. Best we hole up for a while.” He glanced at me. “I don’t think you killed your brother, but the cops probably do. In fact, you’re probably suspect numero uno.”
“What’s your idea?”
“A hotel.”
“It’s Memorial Day weekend… kind of tough to find a room.”
“I might know a place.”
***
Ricky did know a place and it had a vacancy. The only hotel not booked for Memorial Day weekend. I doubt it was even listed on any travel website— some crappy flophouse virtually under the shadow of the elevated interstate that cut through Fairhaven. It featured a giant cement pylon the size of a small house in the front yard. That’s where a towering Grimaldi sign was anchored astride the highway, advertising a mega car dealership. And I could hear the interstate; vehicles of all manner rumbling by at speed.
“Welfare loners, vets, crackheads, pimps, hoes and johns,” Ricky explained as he pulled into the parking lot. It was bordered by a colonnade of about thirty rooms in a u-shape. At the center was a chain-link fence that surrounded a swimming pool. I took a second to check. The water was icy cold when I dipped my hand in.
Ricky went to the office and I followed.
“A double room, just till tomorrow.”
“Check out time is nine thirty. Two hundred bucks, please.”
“How much?” he protested.
“Hey, I make more if I rent it out by the hour,” the desk clerk said. “You want the room or not?”
I put my debit card down on the counter but Ricky snatched it up just as quickly. “Don’t use that number,” he whispered to me. “We’re paying cash,” Ricky told the clerk.
I gave him a questioning glance.
“Best you stay off the grid, my friend.” He smiled. “I’ll spot you for now.”
The desk clerk clanked a roll of quarters onto the countertop.
“What’s this?” Ricky asked.
“A cash rebate so you can take advantage of our amenities.”
“Such as?”
“Vending machines: ice, soda, snacks… or the pinball over there.”
“What do you mean about off the grid?” I asked as we walked up the colonnade.
“Leave no tracks,” Ricky replied and opened the door.
I had to think about this. Using the debit card was probably not a good idea. The authorities might be monitoring the victim’s bank account, especially if they suspected foul play. They’d be ready to pounce on the perp who made the first withdrawal. And that would be me.
“Still need to find a We Buy Gold place,” I said and looked around the room. “Is there a yellow pages?”
“No, just a bible. I know a place though.”
“Is it close?”
“Yeah. What do you got to sell?”
“These…” I held out my palm and showed him a few of the doubloons.”
“Ridiculous, dude. Where did you get those?”
“What’s ridiculous?” I asked.
“It’s a figure of speech. Be like ridiculous… insane… rad… it looks like pirate treasure.”
“Oh,” I muttered and fell silent for a moment.
“How much they worth?”
“Not sure. Enough to pay for gas and tolls.”
Ricky laughed. “Gotta make some calls then.”
I overheard Durbin on his phone, though it was not quite English:
“Hey, what’s good? Wanna go for a dip? Bogeys, a hundred cartons. Word. Hit Poco… yeah, no, not that fast… I have some guy with me… He’s cool, I think… Sweet, scoop you there… Das capital? About two large… Me? No, Goose can scratch it up this time…”
***
Ricky Durbin and I walked into a tiny cinderblock storefront. There was nothing to it except a huge wall of grated glass, thick enough to stop a bullet. A man from inside called out. “Can I help you, gentleman?” He was hard to see, sitting alone in a cubicle. It was hard to see anything except that the room was cluttered and cramped, but in the middle of it all, was an enormous man perched on a stool, and somehow he towered above us.
“We have some gold to sell.”
“I’d love to buy it.” He nodded to the steel tray. I reached into my pocket and deposited a doubloon at random; then watched him examine it, turning it over several times and giving it a jeweler’s eye. He placed it on a scale and said, “twenty-seven point four grams.” I saw him scrape the edge of the coin onto a white piece of paper with some kind of tool. The paper, he put into a machine and waited for a read-out. “Point ninety-two purity,” he announced and swiveled in his chair. He started punching numbers into an old fashioned adding machine, and pulled back the handle a couple of times while muttering to himself, “Fourteen hundred an ounce divided by thirty-one point one, times twenty-seven grams, less a forty percent mark up and a ten percent commission.” He pulled back the lever a final time, ripped off a paper receipt and shoved that and the coin back through the tray. “I can give you four hundred and twenty-five bucks.”
“That doesn’t seem like very much,” I protested.
“Cash, no questions, no cops. That’s my best offer. You won’t find a better one.”
“I don’t know, I think it’s worth more than that.”
“It might be… to a collector, I won’t lie to you.” He rubbed his face. “Tell you what, I’ll give you seven cash, and you walk right out the door.”
“That’s a little better. But how do I know what it’s really worth?”
“Listen, I’m just buying gold here. I ain’t paying for history.”
I hesitated. “Well, thanks anyway,” I said and started to the door.
“Nine-fifty, final offer. No questions, no cops.”
“Cops?” Ricky shot back. He had finally had enough. “We ain’t afraid of cops, or questions. This thing here is the genuine article, a family heirloom, strictly legit.”
“That’s my best offer.”
“I’ll have to think about it,” I said. “What time are you open till?”
“Five… but just so you know, we’re closed Sunday, and Monday for the holiday.”
“Okay thanks, gotta talk this over with my friend. We’ll be back before five.”
***
Our second stop was quite a contrast. We walked into Fairhaven Coins and Collectibles, a kind of upscale jewelry shop that sold everything from baseball cards to watches. I was admiring a particular coin displayed in a glass case at the center of the store when the proprietor walked over. “That’s our pride and joy,” he said. “My grandfather bought that during the depression. Put him on the map as a collector.”
“Nice… a drachma, right?”
“Not just any drachma. It was struck the very year Alexander the Great came to power, three thirty-six BC. Extremely rare.”
“What’s it worth?”
“More than just money. It’s a piece of history.”
“Speaking of which. I have something you might be interested in.”
“What’s that?”
“You tell me. I think it’s a Spanish doubloon, it has a date on it: seventeen sixteen.”
“I’d love to take a look,” he said and his eyebrows arched. Clearly this man was a bonafide numismatist. He took some time to study the coin and finally spoke again. “It’s from Peru, an Eight Escudos… shipwreck gold. Hmm, any serious collector would give up his first-born child for a coin like this. It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.” The man rubbed his face. He was consumed b
y doubt and anxiety. “Are you actually thinking of selling this?”
“I might be.”
“It’s priceless, you know…”
“So I’ve been told. Thing is, I’m a little strapped for cash.”
“Cash?” he asked. “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly buy this for cash. It would have to be authenticated. It has a pedigree, you need papers, certificates…”
“Hmm, not really available at the moment.”
“I don’t deal in stolen property.”
“Of course not. It’s not stolen, I promise. It’s a family heirloom.”
“Well, it’s worth a good deal of money. Probably much more than I could ever hope to offer you.”
“How much?”
“Off-hand, I’d say forty to fifty thousand dollars.”
“Whoa.” I was startled by the amount. “Would you be interested? Could you make me an offer?”
“A cash offer, you mean?”
I nodded.
“I’d have trouble raising that kind of money… it’s Saturday and you know how the banks are. As soon as I take out ten grand, I get a letter from the IRS.” He paused for a moment, lost in greedy thoughts. “I might be able to raise half of what it’s worth.”
“That would be fine.”
“I’d have to see some ID, and you’d have to sign papers attesting that it’s not stolen property.”
“Also fine,” I said.
“Alright, good. Give me a couple of hours or so. I’ll visit every ATM in Fairhaven if I have to. Make a few calls…” He smiled. “Let’s say five o’clock?”
“Let’s say four-thirty and we’ve got a deal.”
***
While Ricky took a nap back in the hotel room, I wandered around to do a little shopping. Some clothes and essentials, and a carry-all. I passed by a New Age gift shop and decided to buy a deck of tarot cards, as well as a book explaining what they meant. When I returned, I found Ricky in the lobby incessantly playing the pinball machine: Flintstones versus Jetsons.
“Old school, never tilts,” he said with a grin and dropped another coin into the slot. Luckily he ran out of quarters just before four thirty. We returned to Fairhaven Coins and Collectibles. Ricky parked a couple of blocks away and told me to wait. “Not sure I trust that guy one hundred percent.” He returned a few minutes later. “Okay, he wouldn’t give me the money. Only hand it to you. It’s cool though… no cops… I scoped the place out.”
***
We rolled out of the hotel just after midnight. I handed Ricky a wad of hundreds, three thousand dollars.
“What’s this for?”
“Gas and tolls.”
As luck would have it, a newspaper truck pulled into the motel parking lot just as Ricky was leaving. I saw the Fairhaven Times logo giant-sized on the side.
“Stop,” I said too loudly probably, and Ricky jammed on the brakes. Tires squealed and we lurched forward in our seats.
“What?” he asked equally as loud.
“A newspaper,” I said, and pointed to the guy filling a vending machine near the lobby. I jumped out, handed the guy five bucks and grabbed a copy.
Ricky hit the accelerator and headed out of Fairhaven at a good clip. We passed intermittent street lamps, like searchlights that raced across the upholstery. I tried to piece the story together in little bits. The first thing I saw was the headline: Sand City Police Baffled by Brutal Death
Next, I saw Jack Leaning’s byline and the lead of the first paragraph:
Sand City Chronicle staff reporter Gary Sevens was found dead in his apartment during the early hours of Saturday morning. Local police are calling it a suspicious death, pending further investigation. In a statement to the media, Sand City Police Chief Leo Arantez said, “Nothing has been ruled in or out until we hear back from the medical examiner.”
At press time, the cause of death had not been disclosed. Other sources indicate Mr Sevens’ last known whereabouts were at the Beachcomber nightclub, the previous evening. According to one witness, the Sand City journalist was seen conversing with a man wearing a trench coat and a large hat.
I also glimpsed a wire story on the back pages: Daring Robbery at Yale University
…While the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library is currently closed for renovations, the Sterling Memorial Library…
I skipped ahead:
Authorities are eager to question a thirty-year old caucasian female with dark hair and glasses, last seen wearing a blue dress.
“It’s curious to me that anyone would want to steal this particular manuscript; after all, it has been posted online for years,” commented Vernon Yates, curator.
***
We sped along a nameless two lane highway that ran roughly parallel to the interstate. Both roads led west and slightly south. There wasn’t much traffic this time of night and apparently we were heading in the opposite direction of any tourist destinations. At least for now.
“Wouldn’t the interstate be quicker?” I asked.
“I avoid the interstate as much as possible,” Ricky replied, but it wasn’t much of an explanation. “Never take toll roads— I hate sitting in the cash lane, watching all those a-holes zip through with easy-pass…”
“You can’t use easy-pass?”
“No way, never… gotta stay off the grid, my friend.” Ricky turned to smile. “Don’t want to buy into the system anyhow.”
“It saves a lot of time though.”
“F— that, I’ve got all the time in the world,” Ricky replied and seemed angry. “Okay, so, now let’s charge higher tolls for people that pay cash, all the poor slobs who don’t sign on to easy-pass. Let me ask you— are those rich folks? It’s like another freaking tax on poor people.”
“It doesn’t seem fair.”
“Fair? Are you kidding. It sucks—” Ricky caught himself and returned his attention to the highway. “Okay, the thing is, when my friend Goose has it working right, I do stealth my way through the express lanes, if I’m going someplace in a hurry.”
“How?”
“See that button?” He pointed to the dash. “Angles the back tag so it can’t be scanned or photographed.”
“Does it work?’
“Haven’t been caught yet.” He gave me a grin.
This road was fairly straight and led across vast rural stretches with hardly a sign of life. Every ten miles or so, we’d come across a traffic light, and usually at an intersection that had a gas station, a shopping plaza or a fast food place. We also came upon an armada of trucks, semis festooned with orange and red lights. Ricky maneuvered between them expertly, like some barracuda seeking easier prey. He accelerated and we disappeared again into the black.
Somewhere along the way, I noticed another car was keeping pace with us: a dull silver Civic, almost the color of wet asphalt. It was lower than most Hondas I’d seen, and the tires seemed fatter. A Civic, yes, but obviously with an enhanced stereo system. I could hear the bass of some generic hip hop song rumbling from the closed windows, the darkest windows I’d ever seen.
Sometimes the Civic would speed ahead of us and other times it would slow and fall behind. At each traffic light though, it pulled up beside us in the other lane. Not long afterwards, another car joined the fray; this one an off-white SUV of some kind, maybe an International in a sandy brown color. I noticed a college sticker on the back: U of Penn.
It also followed us, passed us, or slowed down as we did. And it started appearing at every traffic signal as well. Either Ricky didn’t notice or he said nothing. Between the traffic lights, on the long stretches of dark highway, the three vehicles kept a perfect triangular formation, all pacing at exactly seventy-five. One of us would break ranks, pass the other, and the third would come up from behind to match. It was an odd game of high-speed leapfrog that went on for endless miles.
I finally turned to Ricky. “Do you know these guys?”
He laughed. “Yeah. Poco and Goose. I’ll introduce you.”
“Poco? Not many people are named after adverbs.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
chapter seven
valley doll
I woke to a place I had never been before: pitch. All around, blackness, though I knew it was rushing past at an unimaginable speed. Terror gripped me. Next came a sound: wind hissing through closed windows, then an engine at full throttle, a V-8. Everything was rumbling ominously. Finally, I saw a pin prick of light. It grew closer and larger at an alarming rate, then flashed by in an instant like a lighthouse.
I turned to my left and found my seat mate as we thundered by another light. I could only glimpse his face when we passed and was greatly alarmed. He had turned into some sort of cyborg.
“Oh, you’re awake again,” Ricky said loud enough to be heard over the engine.
“Where are we?”
“Someplace near Jersey.”
“How fast are we going?”
“A buck forty, about.”
The blackness persisted. There were no headlights, no road that I could see, perhaps just a shadowy landscape racing by the window.
“Reach under your front seat, there’s an extra set there.”
“What?” I asked, picking up an odd apparatus.
“Night vision goggles.”
“What are they for?” I asked, immediately thinking my question a dumb one.
“For driving,” he said and was probably grinning, though I couldn’t tell.
I strapped them over my head and fumbled for a small toggle. Some of the black remained, though now it had green edges and highlights. The scene was even more terrifying: a road flew under our wheels in a blur; and all along the meridian, eyes glowed and ghostly shapes ran and bounded in panic.
“I could use your help… watch out for deer. Do the clock thing.”
“What clock thing?”
“If you see one, shout it out before we go by. Be like, deer at one o’clock, two… three… then they’re behind us.” Ricky grinned; this I saw as an odd sort of green glow.
Low City: Missing Persons (A Tractus Fynn Mystery Book 3) Page 7