Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition

by Moulton, CD

“What the hell!” he said to no one.

  It was a great night.

  Night Driving

  Famously Assholes

  Clint Faraday, PI, Ret’d. stretched his back and made a noise. He had been sitting at the damned comp for hours, but was finally caught up. He checked to find it was after five, so no fishing or anything today. He stripped and dove into the bay from his deck, swam until his muscles and bones were back to normal, then went inside, rinsed and dressed for town. He went to El Ultimo Refugio (Or just Refugio’s) for a great meal, talked with a number of the locals, listened to his nutty musician friend for awhile, then headed toward the center of town. As he was rounding the curve by the ferry docks a taxi came close enough to brush his hand. He threatened to pull the asshole out of the cab and kick his ass from one end of the street to the other if he ever came that close again.

  Night driving was about the same in Bocas as day driving. Taxi drivers were famously assholes. They thought it was cute to see how close they could come. If it had been more daylight he would have given Clint a much wider berth. Clint wasn’t known for good humor in that kind of situation.

  He went on, stopping at La Iguana, but it was too early for much there, so he went to El Toro Loco for a couple of beers. He met some people he knew from a previous trip they made to Bocas. They chatted awhile, Clint caught them up on the local situation, then they split up, Clint going on to The Plank and they going, because Clint had recommended it, to Refugio’s.

  Not much at The Plank, so he went to The Rip Tide just a bit farther along. Neil and Cathy were serving exceptional food tonight. Clint half wished he had waited, but there are several good restaurantes in Bocas. He was there most of the time. He could come here tomorrow.

  Neil said there was trouble brewing, because a taxi had hit a gringo on a bicycle the night past and she was claiming it was on purpose. She wasn’t hurt badly because she saw it coming just in time and got partly out of the way.

  Clint tended to agree that it was on purpose. If she had time to see the taxi coming the taxi had time to avoid hitting her. If she was trying to get aside, the taxi had to go more toward her to have hit her at all.

  Nothing would be done. She was a tourist and would be gone in a couple of days. They would make a little noise about it and drop it when she left. Sooner or later someone was going to really get hurt, then there would be enough “I should have ... s” going around to make you puke.

  Clint went home to bed about midnight.

  In the morning Clint got up and decided to go to Chiriqui Grande and return the following day. He took his boat and made the trip, enjoyed the stay and returned. He went around town, this time eating dinner at The Rip Tide and ending up at Refugio’s, where he met a girl from France. To make a long story short, she spent the night at his place.

  The next day he went fishing with Manny and Dave for most of the day, then went around town for awhile. Sergio, police jefe, found him at La Iguana at about ten thirty and said a taxi had hit a woman and she was in critical condition.

  “It had to happen,” Clint said. “You should crack down on those assholes.”

  “We try, but that’s traffic’s department. There are only two traffic cops here. They miss almost everything,” Sergio said. “The reason I felt I should get you involved is that she was hit a couple of nights ago, but not hurt badly. She claimed she was hit deliberately. It looks like she was right.”

  “What does the driver say?”

  “We don’t know who it was. A couple of people saw it from the sidewalk toward town and it was going away from them. They couldn’t describe it, except to say it was a taxi like most of them you see here.”

  “Then it was deliberate. When can I talk to her?”

  “In the morning.”

  “Sergio, put a guard on her.”

  “I did. I also made it plain that no one was to know which room she’s in.”

  Clint nodded.

  “She can talk until she gets tired. That will be very quickly,” Dr. Avanzas warned. “You will leave at that time until she recovers better. She is still in dangerous condition and we do not have the more modern facilities or equipment here. We’re hardly more than first aid and a large percent of the staff are qualified only in a small area.”

  Clint agreed and went to her room. He sat by the bed until she stirred and looked at him. He introduced himself and said he wanted to know what was going on. Who, why – and anything else she could tell him.

  She didn’t know who or why and couldn’t tell him anything except this was the third try and they were getting better at it.

  “First time?”

  “Panamá City. A car came flying around a corner as I was crossing and would have hit me dead center if I hadn’t heard it and jumped onto the center break. He just kept going. There was no license plate on the car is why I didn’t put it to another night driver who shouldn’t be allowed to drive, even in the daylight.”

  “When was that?”

  “The night of August six. Right on the corner before the Europa Hotel.”

  “I know about the two here. Are you positive there were no attempts before August six?”

  “No. I was in town only since the evening, six o’clock, of the fifth and hadn’t gone anywhere except the Hotel California and the restaurant there. I walked around the one block there for a few minutes before I went to the hotel and to bed. Nothing happened.” She yawned, said, “sorry,” and dropped to sleep. Clint left. As soon as he was outside he called Sergio and said he’d be there in five minutes.

  “Sergio, what happened in Panamá on August fifth around eight o’clock to eleven? In the area of the Hotel California?”

  He checked the sheets. “Other than ... nothing, really. A couple of muggings, but farther down on Via España. Some drug dealer was stabbed, but that was down closer to the X-zone.” (The X-zone is where there are a number of X-rated movies and porno/sex toy shops)

  “Something went down there. It had to be. She was only in Panam a few hours and that’s the only place she went.“

  ”If it had been the fifth at the airport she might have seen something. Some bigshot was almost assassinated or something. It was about the time the Continental flight came in from Miami.”

  “Hmm. Why would they single her out?” Clint wondered. “She was just there. She didn’t note anything happening.” Sergio shrugged and said it must be something else.

  “It’s the only thing I have. I’m going to Panamá, I think. Get someone pushed. I can just make the flight if I hurry. I have enough cash that I can buy a set of clothes there if I need a change.”

  Sergio called the airport and said there was a seat available, but Clint had to get there in seven minutes. They wouldn’t hold the flight long. The police truck was outside. Sergio said to get Clint to Aeroperlas in five minutes or less.

  They did.

  It was drizzling a bit in Panamá City, nothing unusual this time of the year. Clint went directly to the Hotel California. Sergio had called and asked for a room for him. There wasn’t one available. They arranged for him to stay at the Europa. It was close enough that it wouldn’t matter.

  He went to the California for dinner. He had the shrimp spaghetti, which he particularly liked there. No one knew anything. That was the place to find information of a certain type. It wasn’t there. Clint knew who to ask.

  The Europa had some bigshots staying there who left about the time the Continental flight got to Tucumen. One was a main man in the government here. In immigration. The other two were from Colombia and Venezuela. The Venezuelan was almost assassinated at the airport, but a tip saved him.

  Interesting. Clint called the Panamá Policía to find his good friend wasn’t there for another week. He was on his vacation. A Capitan Lincoln said he knew Clint’s story and reputation with the department and would grant the same cooperation he was used to there. He didn’t know much about the Velasquez assassination attempt. Someone knew all about it beforehand because
a tip was called in describing exactly what was going down. A woman who called from an airport pay-phone. She made another call later to tell them a man called El Tigre was the almost-assassin. She called from a payphone near the Hotel California. Across the Via España, as a matter of fact. She knew Jimenez would be with them.

  “Jimenez?” Clint asked.

  “Immigration biggy here. Crooked as a snake, but I didn’t say that. We haven’t yet been able to catch him. The other one was Gardina, from Colombia.”

  “Why would they think someone who just arrived on a plane from Miami would ... I don’t know enough,” Clint complained. “Well, at least I have a starting point.”

  He thought a moment after hanging up, then went downstairs to the lobby to talk to the staff. None of them had a clue. He decided to check up on Velasquez and El Tigre. A call to Manolo, a friend who was an agent for Interpol who knew most of what was going on. He said Velasquez was into oil or something and El Tigre could be any of seven people who were known by the name. What else was he mixed up in?

  “Something to do with immigration, I’d say,” Clint answered. “Jimenez.”

  “It’s big, then. Probably El Tigre would be Samuel Gortas. Him or one other ... no, not big enough. It’ll be Gortas. Anybody else involved on their end?”

  “Gardina. From Colombia.”

  “Um-hm. Gortas. What’s it about?”

  “A woman in Bocas is to be hit. She happened to be on a plane from Miami that landed not long before the assassination attempt. A woman called from the airport with a tip, then called again from near the Hotel California. They put two and two together and got seven and three quarters.”

  “They tend to do that. Good luck!”

  Clint thought a minute more. He didn’t know much. What could be the connection that would make an assassination attempt among that group? All he had to work on was that Jimenez was in immigration. That would mean someone was in Panam who was of interest to the other two – or they were trying to arrange for someone to come to Panamá who was persona non grata to someone here.

  Logic: Jimenez wouldn’t have much influence in getting anyone in. He was watched. Someone was here who didn’t want to be found by those two.

  What could be the connection between those two?

  He shook his head and said he would stay the night in the Europa, then head back to Bocas.

  He was out until nearly midnight before he went back to the hotel and up to his room. He got a telephone message. A woman. “Boquete. Two years.” She hung up.

  Interesting. He would change his plans and go to David and Boquete. He hoped he had a clear enough clue in that.

  He slept well and left in the morning on the bus. That would throw the man following him off a bit. He could be going to David or on to Bocas. From David, he could go anywhere he liked.

  He thought a bit, then called Manolo.

  “Does El Tigre stand about six two, has longish black hair, about two twenty? Flashy jewelry, smokes cigars. The small ones. Big diamond ring and pierced ear.”

  “Uh-huh. He following you?”

  “He was. I sort of messed up his head when I caught the bus.”

  “He’ll beat you to Santiago to see if you get off or go on to David. Be very careful. He’s very professional, usually. He was rushed, I suppose, so missed. Maybe he’s figured he was after the wrong one. That means you’ve figured something and you’re now the dangerous party, in a manner of speaking.”

  Clint talked another minute, then relaxed. He rode to Penonomé, got off, waited for the second following bus two hours later and went on to David. He didn’t get off the bus in Santiago and no one checked inside. El Tigre would have to figure he never intended to go to David. Now he would have to wonder where he did go.

  He got into David at the rush hour. It was easy to get off the bus in Las Lomas and take a taxi into David. He went to El Poderosa and bought a clean change of clothes, then went to the Pensión Costa Rica and took a room.

  He had to worry about one other thing: he could lead someone to exactly the person he didn’t want them led to. He had to be very careful.

  He went to Poderosa and bought another set of clothes in a quite different style. He would use a disguise.

  A sort of gawky Panameño with rather too long hair left the Costa Rice wearing a backpack. Lee, the owner, noticed him and started to say something, paused, then did.

  “What’s going on here? You come out, but you never went in. You look very different.”

  “Hi, Lee. I’m trying not to lead some people to a person they intend to kill.”

  “Faraday? I’ll be damned! That’s a damned good disguise!

  “If anyone knows I’m here I went to Pedrigal and should be back anytime after an hour or so. I may go to a mariscos place for dinner. This is Pete Somebody you’re talking to now. You can give Edith a name to give out if anyone asks if there’s anyone who looks like this staying.”

  “Okay. Be careful. If they’re looking to kill someone else and you get in the way it could be you and someone else.”

  Clint nodded and went to the bus station, got the Bugaba bus, got the Boquete bus in Bugaba and was there in an hour, strolling around the parque.

  Here was Boquete. What about the two years?

  Something happened to someone two years ago or there was someone who had been here two years.

  He went to the coffee shop/restaurante at the back corner and asked about some friends, which gave him an idea. He called Robert Fellon, who had been there for about six years. They met at the restaurante and talked. Clint asked about anyone who had been there two years and who deliberately remained out of sight.

  “Maybe the Johnsons. Maybe those Cortez people,” he replied. “Johnson is from Ohio and is about sixty five. He’s just antisocial, I think. Sour disposition and everything’s because the states have gone straight to hell because of the liberal commies or something.

  “Cortez is here from Costa Rica. They’re just disliked, for some reason. He tries to be more arrogant than some of the gringos here and rubs you the wrong way ... how about someone who is very much in sight, but seems to me to be in disguise?”

  “How so?”

  “Carlos Vega. He came here with a real knock-out woman, Flora Rios, and was black-haired and clean-shaven. She was and is a Latina with eyes that promise you passion and heaven. She wore really sexy clothes when they got here, but was dressing ‘way down within a week. He grew a bushy moustache and wears clothes that make him look fatter than he is. He started wearing glasses two days after they got here. I’ve looked through them at a newspaper they were laying on. They’re not magnifying or distorting anything. I’ve seen him reading a newspaper, suddenly realizing he doesn’t have them on and puts them on. He smoked cigars constantly the first couple of days and has stopped smoking altogether. Sometimes you think he’s not Spanish for some reason. They go to the clubs and drink cokes. Once in awhile a beer. At a celebration a couple of months ago he drank a Chivas on the rocks and was getting the second when she got him aside. He stopped drinking anything and they left after a little while.

  “The change in looks. He’d lightened his hair a bit. She cut her long hair and went for a page-boy look. It doesn’t suit her. She had beautiful hair down almost to her waist. His hair was clipped very short, now it’s almost shoulder length. You can tell he doesn’t like it.

  “Lots of things you notice if you’re around them for a couple of years that most people would hardly notice, but I was a cop in Detroit.”

  “Purloined letters,” Clint said. “Where can I find them?”

  He pointed to the road up the mountain. “That big stucco place with the big white stone wall. Ostentatious. Like you said, purloined letters.”

  “Sometimes the best way to hide is to be so close to the searcher’s face he keeps pushing you aside to see what’s behind you. Thanks, Bob.”

  He went out and to the road, walked up and looked at the house, started to go in to knoc
k on the door, changed his mind and went back to the parque. He called Manolo and gave him the descriptions. Nothing. He called Manny, ditto. He called a friend in Colombia, Jaime. Nothing.

  They weren’t jewel or art thieves. They weren’t mob-connected. They weren’t involved in drugs. What? Clint was sure they were it.

  One thing to do. He went back to David and to the pensión and became Clint Faraday again. There had been a call for him. Edith said he was in Pedrigal.

  Okay. His follower knew Clint was in the pensión, but wasn’t there earlier. He would be watching the place. Clint couldn’t walk out if he didn’t first walk in.

  Lee owned the whole quarter block. He was building a restaurant on the side street that could be entered through the pensión. Clint became himself and went through the little yard and into the restaurant. He scanned the street carefully outside, then casually strolled along the side of the building and in the front. Edith greeted him and said someone was looking for him. He nodded and went back to his room, stayed about twenty minutes, then went out and to the little local restaurant across from the taxi stand and Romero’s. Gortas came to sit at a table behind him. He got the plate and went to sit across from Gortas, who looked a bit surprised, then a bit more scared.

  “Give!” Clint ordered. “Who are you looking for and why? How were you ever so stupid as to involve the innocent tourist woman in your scheme?”

  Gortas studied him for a minute, then grinned. “I would waste my time lying to you. I think you’re a very dangerous hombre.

  “I am very sorry she became involved. The situation is very dangerous to some powerful people in three countries and it appeared she was the one person who could know too much about it. She is in no danger more. This I swear.”

  “You’ll send her five thousand dollars and an apology,” Clint stated. “If you ever do anything like that again you won’t survive the day. It’ll be done in such a way you’ll beg to end it. I’m not interested in this shit beyond seeing that woman has things made as right as possible to her.