by Frank Hughes
I pulled at the oily rag and the black shape of a Beretta 92F thumped onto the bottom of the metal box.
“Mine?” He nodded. “I thought I told you to sell it.”
“This is New Jersey, Nick. Pawnshops can't sell guns.”
“Then dump it in the ocean.” I flipped the rag back over it.
“Whatever you say.”
“I need some cash, Carl.”
“How much?” he said, with no hesitation.
“Couple of grand should see me through.”
He went back to the safe, pulled out two stacks of wrapped bills. “Here's four.” He tossed them to me.
I caught both stacks and tucked them in the side pocket of my bag. The Rolex was in there. I took it out and threw it to him.
“Use this for collateral.”
“That's not necessary.” He gave the Rolex a quick look. “I know this watch. I sold it to her. And I know you're good for the money.”
“Might not be my call. I'd feel better knowing at least some of this is covered.”
He nodded his understanding. “It'll be here when you get back.”
“Good.” I drained my beer and tossed the bottle in the trash. “Time to go.”
“The one bedroom is empty right now,” he said. Carl owned the building and rented four apartments. “You should stay the night and get some rest.”
“No. You're a known associate. If they cloned my phone they have your info. When they realize I’m not on that train they’ll start looking elsewhere.” I shook the car keys. “You sure this thing is in good shape? I need to do some traveling.”
“Nick, are you sure this is the right play? You’ve been gone a long time.”
“Say what you mean, Carl.”
“Are you sure you're still good enough?”
“I guess we'll find out.”
19.
The drive to Colorado was uneventful. I avoided motels by sleeping in the truck, wrapped in a very warm sleeping bag I picked up at the Bass Pro Shop in Harrisburg. My only long break was a day in Lincoln, Nebraska where I spent a few hours at a public library researching the town of Purchas, the Spanish Mountain ski resort, and The Retreat at Diablo Canyon. Remembering Moyshe’s advice, I printed out all my research.
When I arrived in Colorado, instead of heading directly to Purchas, I detoured around and approached from the Northwest, looking for a cheap motel with a vacancy. I found a rundown motor court that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the Depression and probably rented rooms by the hour in the off season. The clerk was suitably shifty, and we negotiated a cash price for four days. I registered as David Somerset, paying up front, along with a hefty tip to him for not running my credit card. I fed him a story about hiding out from my ex-wife, and he pretended to believe it. He did insist on taking an imprint of the American Express card as protection against room damage, using one of those old sliding gizmos with the paper slips I didn’t think existed anymore.
The room was sort of clean and indifferently furnished with a small bureau, a worn easy chair, and a double bed. Being a New York City resident, I immediately did a bed bug check, pulling back the sheets to look at each corner of the mattress for signs of blood, and yanking the faux headboard off the wall to check there as well. The bathroom looked like a gas station washroom, with the addition of a moldy shower stall. Well, anonymity has its price. Exhausted, I stretched out on the bed and was soon fast asleep.
Early the next morning, before heading into Purchas, I took my research material and spread it out on the bed. In maps and satellite photos, the town of Purchas was dominated by the sprawling Spanish Mountain ski resort, just west of downtown. From above, the trails fanned out from the peak towards the main lodge and town. The Retreat was just outside the ski area boundary on the remote western shoulder of Spanish Mountain, perched at the head of Diablo Canyon. Below The Retreat was the ghost town. Just west of Diablo Canyon’s mouth, in a broad valley, was a small airfield.
The few photographs I’d found of The Retreat showed it to be surprisingly retro looking for such a recent building. I had expected ultramodern architecture, but the ‘L’ shaped structure owed more to a French chateau, with massive stone walls and a gabled roof. The side facing away from the canyon had a flagstone patio above a broad lawn. There were three outlying structures: a helipad, a small A-frame near the chairlift, and an odd looking structure that, at least in satellite photos, resembled one of those old Airstream motor homes.
I studied for an hour. Before I left the room, I hid everything but the Amex and driver’s license behind a vent in the bathroom. The little voice told me not to have them with me, just in case. My clothes I kept in the bag and took with me in the truck. If I had to run, I’d rather have fresh underwear than satellite photos.
I was hoping to get a first person glimpse of Diablo Canyon and The Retreat on the way into Purchas, but that goal was thwarted by the foothills. The closest I got to The Retreat was the entrance, a massive stone arch set back from the main road. A brass plaque on the green metal gate announced that this was private property and trespassing would not be tolerated. I pulled up close to the gate long enough to read the sign. A security camera swiveled to follow me.
Continuing on, I saw signs of recent and sustained prosperity, most prominently a housing tract that was just a year or two old, judging from the height of the saplings on snow covered lawns. A billboard announced a second phase beginning in the spring. Closer to town, I passed the sprawling warehouse of a beer distributor and another residential area that was older and less tidy looking than the first one. Near the town center the streets widened and straightened, and there was an increasing similarity in signage and decor. Fluttering triangular flags beckoned passersby to new restaurants and stores. The prosperity was most noticeable at Dave’s Hardware, no doubt a prime beneficiary of the construction boom. A massive new addition dwarfed the original building.
The center of town was essentially an upscale mall disguised as a municipality. Every street was lined with high end chain stores and what I am sure were billed as “unique boutiques”. In case you forgot you were Out West, the sidewalks were raised wooden platforms and the storefronts Hollywood western, right down to the faux weathered wood. Business signage was apparently required to be a stylized riding boot, cowboy hat, or some other prairie icon. I assumed a stuntman show happened on the half hour.
Main Street swept uphill towards the Spanish Mountain ski area and was actually a pedestrian mall. A pair of trolleys ran along a park like strip in the center, shuttling tourists and shoppers between the resort at one end and a four story parking structure at the other. Looking up the mountain I could see the roofs of big vacation homes poking up here and there above the trees to the right of the main lodge.
It took me nearly fifteen minutes to navigate the choked network of car friendly streets surrounding the pedestrian only area. I left my truck in the parking structure and, after a brief look around, headed for the town library. It was a small building that looked like an old stone jail house. In front was a plaque commemorating trapper and Indian scout Sam Purchas, the town’s namesake.
Inside the look was institutional modern with no personality. Five computers sat side by side on a table against the wall, each one paired with a swivel stool. Only two were occupied.
An older woman with a pinched, wind worn face was scanning a pile of returned books at the checkout desk, bending and scanning, bending and scanning, the half frame glasses dangling from her neck beating the frolicking reindeer on her sweater. She paused to look at me suspiciously.
“Good morning.” I said, in my most pleasant voice.
“Morning. How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for back issues of the local paper.”
“Shhhh.” She put her finger to her lips.
“Sorry,” I said, close to a whisper. “I’m looking for back issues of the local paper.”
“Why?”
We stared at each other
for a moment. “So I can read them.”
“No call to be a smartass.” She pointed. “We don’t keep them, too much paper. They’re scanned. You’ll find them on the computer.” She returned to her task.
I went to an unused computer and jiggled the mouse. When it woke up it asked for a password. I went back to the desk.
“It’s asking for a password.”
“So?”
“So what is the password?”
“Ain’t you a member?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Gotta be a member to use the computer.”
“This is a public library, isn’t it?”
“Don’t make the rules. You want to use the computer, you need a member card.”
“Okay. How do I get one?”
She yanked a piece of paper from a nearby tray and slapped it on the counter. “Fill it out, bring it back. Pens over there.” She pointed at a table near the door.
“Thank you.”
I went to the table as directed and filled out the form, using the Somerset name and the address of the Spanish Mountain resort. When I returned to the counter, it was as if she had never seen me before.
“May I help you?”
I handed her the form. “I wanted to complete my registration.”
After a long and careful examination, she looked up at me. “Identification?”
“Certainly.” I handed her the Somerset driver’s license.
She looked back and forth from the picture to me. Finally, she handed it back.
“I’ll input the information in a few minutes. Your card will be ready in about a half hour.” She pointed at a squat little printer sitting next to her computer.
“Wonderful. In the meantime, may I use a computer?”
Despite the use of my nicest voice, she looked as if I’d asked her to shovel my driveway. She snatched a pink Post It and scribbled a number on it.
“Here’s a temporary password.” She handed it to me. “Use any one that’s open.” She fixed me with a stern look. “No porn!”
I knew I should have shaved that morning. “Yes, Ma’am. Thank you.”
There were only three stories about the fire and I learned less than I already knew. Indeed, after a day of speculation and conflicting eyewitness reports, the stories took on a certainty that toed the party line of an industrial accident. On the fourth day, the fire had ceased to be newsworthy.
The story on Madigan’s accident was more detailed. LOCAL ENTREPRENEUR MOURNED read the headline. Patrick Madigan, age 29, was killed when his SUV skidded off a narrow, winding road and plunged fifty feet into something called Jasper Creek Gorge. A Colorado State Patrol spokesperson said he apparently fell asleep at the wheel. That hypothesis was bolstered by the absence of skid marks and a clean tox screen.
Madigan was well-known in Purchas, more for his sunny disposition and boundless energy than for any particular business success. His string of failures included a comic book store, a wedding video service, and a DVD rental shop. His final venture had been a coffee shop and internet cafe. I pictured him as one of those eternally optimistic, would-be entrepreneurs riding the crest of each new craze, certain theirs is a surefire business idea. Few of them make it, though. If it really is a viable business idea, the boys with the hard eyes and MBAs roll over the pioneers to the big payday. Several years back a place where you could buy a cup of coffee and rent a computer for a few minutes must have sounded like a sure winner, but now even McDonalds offered free wifi and everyone carried a computer in their pocket. Not to mention every fifth store out on Main Street was a Starbucks.
Two photographs accompanied the story. One showed some state police officers and a local cop in deep discussion. The caption read: Purchas PD Officer Myron Schecter confers with Sheriff’s investigators at the scene of the tragedy. The second picture was a shot of Madigan’s SUV, half submerged in the fast moving water of a boulder strewn creek. The portion of the bank visible in the background was steep and rocky, rising beyond the confines of the picture.
The funeral was a front page story two days later. There was a photo of the widow, her face wet with tears and strained with grief. I wondered if they had kids and went back to the story. Two children, it said, ages seven and five. That was shitty. And things just went downhill from there. While half the town was at the funeral, their home was burglarized.
Just for shits and giggles, I searched for other stories about suspicious deaths. Nothing fit what I was looking for. The only odd note was a suspected illegal alien found frozen to death by some teenagers on a snowshoe hike, not the sort of thing I was looking for.
I went over to the desk. The woman looked up, annoyed.
“Card’s not ready yet.”
“Oh, that’s fine. I’ll come back for it.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief. “I need a cup of coffee,” I said, by way of explanation. “Can you tell me where the Log Inn Coffee Shop is?”
“That place is just about closed. Got a Starbucks across the street.”
“I’d like to try it.”
She sighed and reached beneath the desk, producing a cartoonish, placemat-sized map of the town, festooned with advertisements. She pointed out the location. “Here, at B6.”
“Thank you, you’ve been a tremendous help.”
20.
The map took me to a narrow side street two blocks off Main that almost qualified as an alley. Things were more normal looking here, but not too normal. The tentacles of the building code were clearly working their way through the entire town, no doubt rigidly enforced by the same sort of people who worked the front desk at the local library.
The Log Inn – get it? – Internet Café and Coffee Shop was squirreled away under a gallery of Native American art that was probably painted by inmates in a Chinese prison. A series of rough hewn stone steps in a brick lined stairwell led down to the entrance. Taped to the door, just above the standard blue and white ‘Open’ sign, was a larger ‘Space Available’ sign that provided a phone number and web address for interested parties.
A bell tinkled cheerfully as I entered, completely at odds with the somber mood of the place. The rough wooden floor needed a sweeping, and the air had the stale smell of impending failure. A tired looking coffee bar stood to my right. On my left were three rows of rectangular folding tables, all empty. Discarded wires and unused surge protectors sat on the floor at regular intervals in front of the tables.
I recognized Mrs. Madigan from the newspaper photo. She was behind the coffee bar looking tired and careworn, but she managed a fairly bright smile.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Sure. Large black coffee if you don’t mind.”
“Kenyan okay? I just finished brewing it.”
“Perfect.”
“Coming right up.”
I wandered around the shop while she fetched the coffee. Near the abandoned computer tables was a slightly crumpled cardboard box filled with magazines and flyers. I stiffened when I recognized one of them. It was an old copy of Earth First! Journal. I knelt down and fished around, finding a couple of more issues, mixed in with copies of Outside and Men’s Fitness.
Mrs. Madigan set a porcelain mug on the counter. “Don’t get much business anymore, so we only brew one kind at a time.”
“Thank you,” I said. I stood up, still holding the copy of Epstein’s magazine.
“You can have any of those you want. Just going to throw them out.”
“Thank you.” I walked over to the counter.
“You sure you don’t want any cream or sugar?”
“No, I like it black.”
She smiled wanly. “Never understood how someone could drink coffee black.”
“It’s because I was raised a Catholic.”
That threw her. “I never heard Catholics can’t use cream and sugar.”
“Of course they can. I meant me specifically.” I took a sip. “When I was in college I gave up cream and sugar for Lent. Started out hating it, but fo
rty days later cream and sugar just didn’t taste right anymore.”
“Guess a person can get used to anything,” she said, more to herself than me. A thought struck her. “What do you give up for Lent these days?”
“Lent.” I raised my coffee cup. “Excellent coffee. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“What do I owe?”
“Two fifty.”
I felt for this woman, who’d lost a husband and now a business. She had probably supported Madigan in every losing endeavor, cheering him on while silently praying for the day he’d grow up and get a steady job. Now he was dead, and she was tidying up the unintended wreckage. I fished a hundred dollar bill out of the dwindling roll in my pocket and put it on the counter.
She looked at it and shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t break that.”
“You don’t have to. We’re all sorry about Patrick, and about you losing the business.”
“Thank you.” She searched my face, trying to place me. Then she looked back at the bill. “You really don’t have to,” she said, without much conviction.
“I want to. For the boys.”
She looked at my face intently before giving up, deciding she must have forgotten me. “Okay.” She slid it along the counter top and slipped it into her apron.
“What are you going to do now?” I said. “I mean, now that the business is closing.”
She crossed her arms and leaned them on the counter. “The boys and I are moving in with my parents in San Diego. My Dad thinks he can get me a job in the Navy Exchange.”
“Nice town. It will be good for the boys.” I looked around. “What are you going to do with the equipment?”
She shrugged. “As you can see, I sold the computers. For the rest of this, that depends. I’ll probably consign it. In Denver, I guess. Some of it I’ve already put up on eBay. Rent’s paid up through the month; I’m just working because I don’t know what else to do.”
“How much time to go on the lease.”
“Seven months, but don’t worry. If no one takes the place, landlord says he’ll forgive the balance.”