by Bill Crider
Twelve
I took Lindeman to the medical supply store and we picked up the crutches. He was awkward on them at first, but he managed to get out of the store and to the truck without falling down. I helped him in and got him seated and then got behind the wheel.
When I started the truck, Lindeman said, "Peavy won't look for that airplane."
"Why not?"
"'Cause he knows it was Evans that stole it. There's bound to be at least one of those Minute Men who can fly it, and if Evans asked 'em to drop the A-bomb on downtown Houston, they'd do it."
"Where do you think the plane would be if they were the ones who took it?"
"I'll have to give that some thought. You plannin' to look for it?"
I didn't know the answer to that one, not yet. I was still trying to make all the things that had happened fit together somehow, and I wasn't having much success.
Then Lindeman said he was hungry. I hadn't had anything to eat since breakfast, and neither had he.
"The Toole Shed?" I asked.
"Just about the only place in town, unless you want to eat at the Dairy Queen."
"The Toole Shed is fine. Are you sure you feel up to it?"
"Yeah. Dr. Harvey gave me some pills. He said they'd make me sleepy, but I didn't take one yet. That Ibuprofen's doin' the job. I'm not hurtin' much."
Well, it was his leg. He could be brave about it if he wanted to.
My Chevy was still in the parking lot at The Toole Shed. I pulled up near the front door of the cafe and let Red get out of the Dodge, then parked by the Chevy. Red was balanced inexpertly on the crutches when I walked back to him, his foot just a little off the ground.
"I don't like these damn things even a little bit," he said. "I couldn't run if I wanted to."
I held the door of The Toole Shed open for him, and the odor of fried food rolled over me.
"Maybe you won't have to run again for a while," I said.
"Will if that damn Evans gets after me."
He clumped over to the nearest table and sat down with my help, leaning his crutches on the chair to his right. There were only a few other customers, and they all averted their eyes after one curious glance in our direction. While we were looking at the menus, Linda came over to take our order.
"What happened to you?" she asked Lindeman.
He looked up from his menu. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
She held her pencil poised over her order pad. "Try me."
"Guy shot me from an airplane," Lindeman said.
"You're right. I don't believe you. Now, what'll you have to eat?"
The menu was a little light on heart-healthy items, so I ordered a chicken-fried steak with Texas toast, mashed potatoes, and cream gravy. Lindeman decided on the meatloaf.
While we waited for the food to arrive, I asked Lindeman if he'd thought any more about why anyone would be shooting at us.
"Like I told you, I think they were tryin' to kill us," he said. "Except I don't think they were after us. I think they were after you."
"Me? Why me?"
"You're the one Lance brought in to see who killed his Prairie Chicken. You're the one Evans wants to get rid of."
I wasn't sure that Evans knew who I was, but this was a small town. I'd been checked into the motel by a guy who had been told by his boss who I was and maybe what I was doing there. The guy had one of Evans' bumper stickers on his car and had been listening to Evans' radio show. So it was certainly possible that Evans knew all about me.
I said to Lindeman, "You really seem convinced that it's Evans."
"Who else? If you find out it was him that killed that endangered bird, he's gonna be in deep shit with the feds and Lance is goin' to pull his show right off the air. Guys like Evans don't mind bein' in trouble. They're used to it. But they don't want to lose their show."
"And you think he'd kill to keep it."
"Damn right. Don't you?"
"I don't know Evans. And murder is a lot worse than killing a bird."
"You don't know much about how guys like Evans think, do you?"
I guess I didn't, and I said so.
"The thing is," Lindeman said, "that they don't think like you and me. They think they got a right to do just about any damn thing they please and that the Constitution guarantees 'em that right. They think the gover'ment's out to get rid of the Constitution take all their freedoms away. They're downright paranoid about it."
There was no question that what I'd heard of Evans' show had a strong thread of paranoia running through it. The concentration camp idea hadn't been the only thing.
Lindeman toyed with the salt shaker. "The people that listen to Evans don't like lettin' anybody know anything about their lives. You know how they ask you to give your Social Security number when you renew your drivers' license? The people that listen to Evans don't do it. I've heard 'em say they'll just stop drivin' first. Or drive without a license. They don't want to be in any more computer data bases."
They might have had a point there. I was making a living on the fact that it was awfully easy to use a computer to find out things about people.
Lindeman went on. "The ones around here that go along with Evans' ideas haven't moved off to the mountains to live by themselves in a little one-room cabin, not yet, but they encourage other people to do it. And they think they have a right to do whatever they have to in defense of their freedoms. Even if it means killin' you and me. Which is what they tried to do today. Case closed."
I was beginning to think that Dino was right, not that I'd ever doubted him. Lance Garrison was still an asshole. It seemed that he'd gotten me into something that was much worse than he'd made it appear.
It was even possible that he was trying to use me to get rid of Evans for him. He might believe in freedom of speech, as Anne said, but that didn't mean that he might not be uncomfortable with the idea of having Evans as an employee. Lance had always been aware of other people's opinions, and I couldn't believe that many of his current associates were the kind of people who supported Ralph Evans.
On the other hand, maybe no one even knew that Lance owned KLWG. Sure, the station's call letters were his initials, but who would think of that? And how many of Lance's associates spent their evenings listening to talk radio?
My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of the food. The chicken-fried steak was crisp and golden and covered in thick white gravy that was spotted with black pepper. The Texas toast was heavy with butter. I could feel my cholesterol level rising before I took a bite. The steak was so tender that I could cut it with my fork, and the potatoes had been mashed with the skins on. If I died of a heart attack, I'd die happy. And well fed.
Lindeman seemed to be enjoying his meatloaf as much as I was enjoying my steak. We didn't talk for a while.
When we were finished, Lindeman said that he thought he'd have some of the cherry cobbler. With vanilla ice cream.
I thought that was a fine idea. Life was short, and even in a place like Picketville you might be the victim of a fly-by shooting. You might as well grab all the gusto you could get.
The cobbler was warm, with a thick, doughy crust on the top and the bottom. The ice cream was cold and melted quickly, mixing with the juices of the cobbler. It was even better than the chicken-fried steak.
"Do you eat like this every day?" I asked Lindeman after the cobbler was all gone and the bowls were empty and shining in front of us.
"Just when somebody else is payin'."
"How often is that?"
"Not near often enough."
I wasn't so sure. A steady diet of meals like the one we'd just had, and Lindeman would need crutches made of steel. The aluminum ones wouldn't be strong enough to hold him.
"What now?" I asked.
"I don't know about you, but I need a nap. And my leg hurts. I'm gonna take the stuff Doctor Harvey gave me and go to bed. How about you?"
I was going to make a few phone calls, but there was no need to tell L
indeman that.
"I'll take you home and then go back to the motel," I said. "I have to think about what to do next."
"You know what I'd do if I was you?"
"No. You'd better tell me."
"I'd talk to Evans. Tell him you're onto him. Maybe that'll stop him."
"I want to talk to your son first. Maybe I'll go by the station. I can catch Evans there tonight, before his show."
"He won't be by himself."
"I know. I'll be careful."
"Yeah," Lindeman said. "You better."
When Linda brought the bill, I asked if I could leave my truck in her parking lot for a while.
"We don't have people towed around here," she said. "This isn't Houston."
"Well, I wouldn't want to take a customer's place."
"I wouldn't want you to, either. Why don't you park around in back, behind the kitchen. There's always a vacant space or two back there."
I thanked her and went out to move the truck. The smell in back of The Toole Shed wasn't nearly as appetizing as the one on the inside, but I didn't let myself think much about it. You can't expect a garbage bin to smell good.
I went back inside and got Lindeman. He was quiet on the drive back to the ranch. When we arrived, he said, "We never did get to see those Prairie Chickens."
"Some other time," I told him.
I no longer thought the birds were very important to what was happening in Picketville. Something else was going on, and I was going to find out what it was. But first I had to talk to Lance again. And to Dino.
"I won't be needin' the truck for a good while, I guess," Lindeman said. "You just use it however you want to."
"If there's any heavy work to be done, I'll get my Chevy."
"That thing couldn't pull a pin out of a pin cushion."
I didn't argue with him. I helped him into the house and walked with him to the kitchen, where he took his pills. Then he went into the bedroom.
"I'm just gonna lie down with my clothes on," he said. "I don't think I'll sleep much."
"Depends on what was in those pills," I said.
He grinned. "Doc Harvey wouldn't give me anything too strong."
I told him that we'd find out soon enough, and we did. He was snoring by the time I was out the bedroom door.
Thirteen
Since Lindeman was asleep, I could use his telephone and have all the privacy I wanted. I assumed that Lance paid the bill, so Lindeman wouldn't be out any money. I didn't want to call from the Picketville Inn. There was no need to tempt the switchboard operator to listen in.
My first call was to Lance. He was still in a meeting, or so the secretary said, and she refused to call him to the telephone. I tried the "it's an emergency" bit on her again, and this time it worked. Sort of. She said that Mr. Garrison had heard about "the trouble" and would call me back. I didn't really believe her. When a big-time executive was "in a meeting," he never called you back. But I didn't have anything better to do, so I gave her the number and hung up.
I wondered who had told Lance about what had happened. Obviously it was someone with a lot more pull than me. Then the phone rang. I was surprised to hear Lance's voice when I answered.
"What's this I hear about somebody shooting at you from an airplane?" he said.
I told him the story and said, "I didn't come here to be shot at."
"I know. And believe me, I didn't think anything like that would happen. I don't know -- " He was interrupted by a loud skreeking noise. "Damn office chair. I'm going to get a new one as soon as I have time. Look, Tru, don't worry about this. It's bound to be some kind of crazy stunt that doesn't mean anything. I'll drive out there tomorrow and see if I can help you figure out what's happening."
I told him that I didn't need help so much as I needed to know more about Prairie Chickens. "They must be really valuable birds if someone wants to shoot me to keep me from even looking at them."
"They aren't valuable at all, not to anyone except a few environmentalists. Give me some time to think about this. We'll talk tomorrow."
He broke the connection before I had a chance to say anything else. It wasn't exactly a satisfactory conversation, but I'd try to pin him down to something specific when I saw him. That is I'd try if he actually showed up.
My next call was to Dino. There wasn't much doubt that he would be at home, and he was.
"I'm watching this guy who's written some books about all kinds of miracle drugs that the stupid FDA won't let us buy," he said when I asked what he was up to. "But you can get them in Mexico and Europe."
"What kind of drugs?" I asked.
"The kind that make you feel better and live longer. I'm gonna order those books."
He didn't add "as soon as you get off the phone," but I knew he was thinking it.
"What about my cat?" I asked.
"That cat's crazy about me," he said. "Rubbed against my leg and everything when I went out there to feed him this morning. He wanted me to scratch his back, but I didn't have time."
"You're just trying to make me jealous."
"Hey, not me. Can I help it if I'm irresistible?"
"I guess not. Don't forget to go out again late this afternoon."
"What? You have to tell me? Don't you trust me?"
"Trust doesn't have a thing to do with it. I'm just reminding you because Nameless likes for things to run according to schedule. Otherwise, he gets nervous. And I have a couple of other favors to ask."
"I figured. You wouldn't be calling just to find out about that cat. So what's happening?"
I gave him the short version, and he said, "Sounds pretty damned fishy to me. I think Lance is giving you the old screw job."
"So do I, but so far I haven't figured out exactly how or why. I think you were right about his nose. He still remembers."
"Some people like to let things sit a while before they get revenge. There's a saying about it."
"'Revenge is a dish best served cold,'" I said.
"Yeah, something like that. What else did you want?"
"I want you to use some of your contacts to find out about this Ralph Evans. I need anything you can come up with. And check on Lance, too, while you're at it. He seems to own about half of Picketville."
"Anything else?"
"That should do it for now. I'll be in touch."
"I figured."
"Tell Evelyn hello for me."
He said he would and hung up. Then I called Johnny Bates, who also didn't get out much. He answered on the first ring and said he'd be glad to find out whatever he could on Ralph Evans and Lance Garrison.
"Those rich guys, though, they're tough, Tru. Boxes in boxes in boxes, you know what I mean?"
I knew. "Just get what you can. I'll call you tomorrow."
"Right. I'll be here."
I hung up feeling a little better. I'd been shot at, but I'd been able to run up Lance's long-distance phone bill. There was some small satisfaction in that.
I looked in the bedroom to check on Lindeman, though there was no need. I could hear him snoring all the way from the living room. He was fine, so I left him there and went back to Picketville.
Station KLWG wasn't exactly imposing. It was housed in a little cinderblock building not far from the downtown area. It was painted a bluish-gray and surrounded by an untrimmed hedge. The lawn hadn't been mowed in a while, either.
I parked Lindeman's Dodge and went inside the building. There was a large lobby, but there was no receptionist at the desk. Metal folding chairs stood all around the walls, and there were standing ashtrays near most of them. KLWG didn't have a "No Smoking" policy. I saw a gray door with "Station Manager" painted on it in black letters, so I walked over and knocked.
A man called out for me to come on in, so I did. He was sitting at a desk covered with papers and notebooks, and he was writing something on a yellow legal pad. A speaker on the wall was playing a Rush Limbaugh clone, but the volume was turned very low, for which I was grateful.
&n
bsp; "Be with you in a second," the man at the desk said. "Have a seat."
I sat in a chair that was even more uncomfortable than the ones in the doctor's office and watched the man write. He had a square face and thick gray hair that had a slight wave in it. He wore a white shirt, no coat, and a striped tie.
And he was wearing a pair of half-glasses, which meant he was probably far-sighted. He looked older than Anne, and the glasses cinched it. Anne and I hadn't quite reached the age at which we were having to hold things out at arm's length to focus on them.
When he stopped writing, he looked at me over the tops of the glasses.
"What can I do for you?" he asked.
"I'm Truman Smith. Lance Garrison probably called you about me."
He stood up and extended his hand across the desk. I stood and shook it. Unlike Martin York, he didn't try to prove anything.
"I'm Paul Lindeman," he said when we'd shaken hands and seated ourselves again. "Lance called, like you said, and I've heard a lot about you from Anne."
"All of it good, I hope."
"Oh, sure. She said you were quite a football player in high school and that now you were a private eye."
"Just like on TV," I said.
He shook his head. "I don't think so. I don't remember Magnum ever having a case that involved a dead bird."
"It's more than a bird," I told him, and then went on to tell him briefly what had happened that afternoon.
He interrupted only once, leaning forward tensely. "Is my father all right?"
"He's fine. There's no serious damage, and he'll be walking without the crutches before long."
My answer seemed to relax him and he told me to go on. When I was finished, he said, "Do you think Ralph Evans could have been behind it?"
"Your father does. I don't know what to think. Tell me about Evans."
Paul looked uncomfortable. "What do you want to know?"
"I've heard that you don't get along with him."
"He's been good for the station. He's brought in a lot of advertisers."
It was a canned answer. It sounded good, and it was probably loyal, but it didn't have anything to do with the question.