Rollover

by Susan Slater

  A car was almost overkill in a town of three or four hundred but Dan took some extra turns down Park Avenue, around the high school and over, coming back up Railroad before turning onto Romero Street—it felt so good to be behind the wheel. Like when he was fifteen and had a learner’s permit and his parents would only let him go around the block by himself.

  He made a right turn onto Romero…interestingly, Ernesto Romero lived on Romero. Must be a family link there. And in a town this size it probably meant a lot to get a street named after you.

  Mrs. Romero met him at the door with a finger to her lips. “He’s asleep. He always naps until one. I’m his wife.”

  Dan glanced at his watch. He was five minutes early.

  “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

  “Thank you, that sounds great.” He followed her to a small but immaculately neat kitchen that smelled of the cinnamon and sugar used to dust biscochitos and was warmed by a wood-burning stove.

  “Would you like a cookie? These are my grandchildren’s favorite.” She opened a round tin and set it on the table between them before sitting down. “I’m sorry. I’m forgetting my manners. I’m Rose.” She smiled and held out a hand. “Oh dear, the coffee.” She quickly got up, mixed two cups of instant coffee using water from a copper kettle on the stove. “Be careful, it’s very hot.” Then she placed a small ceramic pitcher of milk on the table next to a matching sugar bowl and gave him a napkin and spoon.

  Dan was saved any small talk by the appearance of a grizzled elderly Hispanic man, awake but seemingly grumpy. And yes, it was exactly one o’clock.

  “I won’t take up too much of your time—I appreciate your willingness to talk with me.” Dan stood up and offered his hand.

  “Anything that will help us get our things back is not an imposition,” Mr. Romero sat down heavily, ignoring Dan’s offer of a handshake. He spoke with a slight lisp caused by missing lower dentures. Rose placed a cup of coffee in front of him and then seemed to fade into the background.

  “I hope I didn’t mislead you. I’m representing Mrs. Gertrude Kennedy.” Dan put a company card on the table. “It’s routine in matters like this to interview others who have had similar losses—losses under the same conditions, that is.”

  “You saying you’re not from the bank?”

  “That’s right. I represent a private party.”

  “Well then, I don’t think we have anything to say.” Ernesto Romero abruptly pushed back from the table, picked up his cup of coffee and left the room. The nap hadn’t improved Mr. Romero’s attitude, Dan noted.

  “I’m so sorry. There’s no excuse for bad manners. Let me walk you to your car. We can go out this way.” Rose motioned toward a door at the back of the kitchen. She slipped a shawl from a hook and wrapped it around her small frame.

  They walked in silence along the side of the house before Rose offered any explanation.

  “He’s been ill. Not really himself.” She paused and Dan stopped to stand beside her. “I don’t know if I should be telling you this.…”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  She looked at the ground for maybe a breath longer then, “I’m so worried. I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The things he said were taken? Well, I know for a fact that he sold his grandmother’s pearls and the antique derringers last year. And the railroad watches? Well, there never were any. Mr. Mahoney, he’s lying. I don’t think anything of real value was taken from our box. We only kept the deed to the house in there and a cameo brooch from his grandmother. And we got those back. I didn’t look, but I don’t think there was anything else.”

  “Were any items insured? I mean, maybe there were things you didn’t know about. If he can prove that he lost—”

  Rose shook her head. “No, not with a company like you’re with. My husband thinks the bank will make good on any reported losses. But it’s my understanding that they won’t.”

  “You’re correct. The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation or FDIC doesn’t insure safe deposit boxes. It’s possible that people with losses could file a class-action suit but I’m not aware that that’s been done.”

  “So, if I don’t say anything and let this go, nothing bad will happen—I mean nothing because my husband’s lying?”

  “I would say that’s correct.”

  “Thank you for understanding.” A small hand placed on his arm, a pat, and then Rose was gone back around the house.

  Dan sat in the Cherokee and finished his notes. Times were tough—especially out here. Rose and Ernesto were probably on a fixed income. Could he blame the old guy for trying to get a couple extra bucks? Not really. His next appointment was only three blocks away. A quick call to see if he could come early and he was off.

  A young woman opened the door introducing herself as Emily. Her father was burning leaves in the backyard. She told Dan to go around the house, and she’d tell her father he was there.

  Emily didn’t seem overly hospitable but then this was an intrusion on a person’s time. Even out here where things moved fairly slowly. The acrid smell of burning leaves assaulted his nose and eyes before he’d rounded the last corner. But there was the man he needed to talk with.

  Miguel Sandoval wore a bandana tied firmly over his mouth and nose and, silhouetted against the fire, looked like some errant bandito from hell as he fed the flames.

  “Mr. Sandoval?” A nod. “Is it possible to take a few minutes of your time?”

  “You talk to Emily. She can help.” This said as he pulled up one side of the bandana before tugging it back down and turning to throw another box of leaves on the flames—cardboard box and all.

  The smoke was getting to Dan and a spasm of coughing forced him to back away and retrace his steps to the front door. He knocked and waited. He was afraid no one would answer just as it opened. This time Emily didn’t try to cover up her hostility when he handed her his card.

  “You’re not even from the freaking bank. So why do I have to talk to you?” The card landed at his feet.

  “You don’t. I’m hoping that you might share what you lost in the robbery. Every bit helps put together a picture of what was taken and maybe why.”

  “You work for old lady Kennedy?”

  “I represent Gertrude Kennedy, yes.”

  “Well, you came to the wrong place if you expect me to help. We don’t have no thousands in precious jewels…my mama’s wedding set is gone and her sterling baby spoon—that’s not even enough to make a claim over. So why don’t you stick to bothering the rich and leave us alone?”

  Before Dan could answer, the wail of a small child from somewhere within gave Emily an excuse to slam the door—even without the baby, she would have slammed the door in his face; he was pretty sure of that. For whatever reason, he was Mr. Unpopular. He took a deep breath and walked back to the car.

  So, what did he have? A bogus robbery report and a hostile young woman who suggested her loss wasn’t even worth reporting. And maybe it wasn’t. The real question—had she lost anything? Could a wedding set and a silver baby spoon warrant paying for a safe deposit box month after month? Judging from the modest home, that would seem to be ill-spent extra money that might be better applied elsewhere. Odd. But then who was he to judge the sentimental value of something? He could only hope his meeting in the morning with Peter Jenkins, PhD, would be more fruitful.

  ***

  He and Simon enjoyed a plate of bacon and eggs…one on the floor, one on the table. It didn’t hurt to spoil a good friend every once in awhile. And, yes, he missed Elaine already. And not because he’d had to fix his own breakfast—he was used to that—he missed her presence. Rolling over in bed at night and throwing out an arm netted him air…the kind of emptiness that always startled him awake. But he wouldn’t be alone for long.


  They needed to have that conversation about permanence. And where they wanted to live…and if she would want to continue working…or did she even want to sell her house and move to a city? Baggage. Not the emotional stuff that could weigh a person down, but the concrete, real stuff…decisions that were a hundred times easier at twenty-something. Before the collecting began, of a life established before meeting the right person—because he had no doubt that she was the right one. But it wasn’t going to be easy.

  There was his apartment in Chicago—two bedrooms, living room, dining area—all completely furnished. There was her house in Roswell—three bedrooms, living room, office, game room, dining room—again, full of furniture. What do you do with two sets of dishes and two coffeepots? Let alone blenders and juicers and flatware?

  And ten years from retirement, where did you live? That perfect fishing spot on the Chama or the Jemez in New Mexico? Or maybe just buy a cabin and spend weekends until…but she was younger…twenty years from retirement. It made his head hurt. Sometimes when he warned himself not to get his hopes too high, he’d run through this scenario. And try to face reality. And he’d always come back to admonishing himself not to let “things” like furniture get in the way of a life together. He didn’t want to get dumped because of a La-Z-Boy. He could only hope that Elaine felt the same way. Besides he hadn’t even asked her to marry him…yet.

  Dan talked Simon into staying in the apartment by unwrapping a new chew—this one a beef-flavored former pig’s ear, his favorite. Dan then topped up his water bowl, admonished Simon to “Be good” and he was out of there.

  The drive out to Doctor Jenkins’ ranch on a crisp fall day was at once relaxing and invigorating. Drying fall grasses, piercing blue skies, outcroppings of rock shimmering in the morning sun…the five miles flew by. Dan almost missed the tall, double-wide, black iron gate with carefully cut out silhouettes of prairie chickens across the arch. Prairie chickens? Actually, grouse might be the more correct word. But what a weird symbol for out here. He’d seen a lot of ranch gates with iron cutouts of cows and cowboys, the curved horns of Texas cattle, even brands were common, but never perfectly crafted tufted birds. He opened the gate, drove through, and shut it behind him.

  The drive to the ranch house covered at least a couple miles. This was a big spread. Whatever Doc Jenkins did, he had the land to do it on. Probably ran a few head of cattle, but Dan hadn’t seen any. He saw the house in the distance, along with a couple of oversized barns and various other buildings, and headed in that direction.

  Men with guns always unnerved him. And the man standing on the porch was cradling a shotgun. Dan slowed the car and stopped in a graveled area about fifty feet from the front steps, opened his door, and leaned out.

  “Doctor Jenkins?” Was that a nod? Dan couldn’t tell but the man didn’t put the gun down. “We have an appointment for this morning. I’m with United Life & Casualty.”

  “Mr. Mahoney, isn’t it?” Finally, the gun was placed on a chair by the door. Dan pulled closer to the porch and got out.

  “Sorry about being inhospitable—too many lowlifes out this way. By the way, call me Buster.”

  Interesting that driving a year-old Cherokee, wearing pressed chinos, and a long-sleeved checked shirt could brand him as a lowlife. Maybe it was the lack of hair. But a couple weeks’ growth—a good quarter inch—surely kept him from looking like a skin head.

  “Coffee? Beer?”

  “A little early for a beer…how ’bout coffee?”

  “You got it.” With that his host turned on his heel and the screen door banged behind him. Dan noted that the gun remained behind so he followed Buster up the steps, through the living room and into a spacious kitchen at the back of the house.

  “Pull up a stool. This is as good a place to talk as any.”

  Dan agreed. The room was spotless—gleaming appliances everywhere and not ones from Walmart. Kitchen Aid for the small stuff and Wolf and Viking for the larger. Walk-in freezers, double-doored fridges—Dan wondered if there was a Mrs. “Doctor” Jenkins or if good ol’ Buster was the gourmand.

  “Lived out here long?” Dan couldn’t quite see Buster as part of the locals.

  “Land was an investment before it was home. It’s taken awhile to get it right.”

  Ducking an exact answer of time, Dan noted. “I’m assuming it’s a working spread…cattle? Sheep?”

  “Prairie chicken.” Buster put a mug of something awfully black in front of Dan with just the hint of scum near the edge; then scooted a sugar bowl and creamer his way. Judging by the coffee, Buster was not the cook in residence.

  “Prairie chicken?”

  “Um hm. You must have seen the gate? Had it specially done.”

  “I’m guessing there’s a story here?” Dan poured a healthy dollop of cream into his cup only to watch tiny white chunks pop to the surface. Oh boy. How was he going to get out of drinking this curdled mess?

  “I oversee a government grant to save them. They thrive in grasses, the more variety, the better. They were just about extinct in these parts. Haven’t been any in decent numbers since the thirties. But the emphasis on bringing the short-grass prairie back paved the way for saving its inhabitants.” Buster took a sip of beer. “Home brew. Oughta try it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Dan carried the cup of vintage coffee to the sink and quickly dumped it when Buster turned to pull another unmarked beer bottle from the closest fridge.

  “This one’s frosty.” Buster leveraged the top off using an opener hidden beneath the counter. “Just the way they should be. But I bet you didn’t come all the way out here for a beer and a chat.”

  Dan chuckled. He was beginning to feel a lot more comfortable with the shotgun out on the porch. And Buster without firearms was affable enough. “No, I didn’t. I’d like to ask you some questions about what you lost in the heist. I understand you have a claim?”

  “I have a claim but I didn’t lose anything, per se.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Follow me. Let me show you something.” Buster put his beer on the counter and walked toward the living room but this time turned down a hallway and led Dan into a five hundred-square-foot office. Three computer screens seemed to all be churning out graphs or lists of numbers. File cabinets lined one wall and shelves of books another.

  “Looks like you do some serious work here.”

  “Know anything about the government? They give you some money to do something and you’d better account for every penny. We’re the biggest save-the-prairie chicken operation in the U.S. I’m in the process of getting all this info online, but it’s taking forever. I’ve got some help with data-entry, but it’s not enough.”

  “Out of curiosity what sort of records do you keep?”

  “Well, this cabinet contains the results—weights, number of eggs, hatchings, males versus females living to maturity—for twenty-five pair raised on blue grama. No supplement feeding. While this cabinet same criteria, different forage.” Buster tapped the side of an even larger cabinet. “Another part of my research covers grasses—we’re losing a lot of the natives—fires, drought, the expansion of civilization. Prairie chickens and a tough, lush groundcover go hand in hand. But I didn’t drag you back here to talk chicken. That’s my real passion.” Buster pointed to the wall above the desk and then continued to turn in a circle pointing to the other three walls. “Comics. For every cover you see mounted in those glass cases, I have the full original in a safe deposit box in Albuquerque.”

  “I’ve got the feeling I’m looking at a lot of money?”

  “A couple million.”

  “Really?” Had Dan heard correctly? He certainly had no idea.

  Buster nodded then added, “Bet you don’t know when the first speech bubble appeared.”

  “Got me on that one.”

  “Hogan’s Alley,
1895 by Richard Felton Outcalt. I have comics from each of the five ages—Platinum, 1835 to 1937; Golden, 1938 to 1955; Silver, 1956 to 1969; Bronze, 1970 to 1979; and the Modern age, 1980 to the present.”

  “And the bank heist involved a comic?”

  “Yes. I had sold a 1938 Superman to a trader in Boston. I put the comic hermetically sealed and packaged for shipping in the vault in Wagon Mound. Lawrence Woods was overseeing the transaction—verified that the book was there and was going to oversee the wire transfer and subsequent shipping.”

  “Which I assume was never done?”

  “It was slated for Tuesday—the day after the holiday. But that morning when the discovery was made, the transfer was halted.”

  “Why? You said you didn’t lose anything.”

  “Might as well have. Someone broke into the case, removed the comic, then sat down on the floor and read it. A pristine copy now has a folded back front cover and a tabbed page—like the kid was interrupted while reading and just tossed it aside. Do you believe that?”

  “You said, ‘kid.’ Do you believe that a young person or persons tunneled into the bank?”

  “Who knows? Do you see an adult taking the time to read a comic in the middle of robbing a bank?”

  “What is the comic worth?”

  “In pristine condition, $330,000.”

  “And now?”

  “I’ve sent it to authenticators for assessment. The price could go as low as fifty grand.”

  “So your claim is—”

  “Lost revenue because of altered condition occurring during the break-in.”

  “Possibly in the amount of $280,000?”

  “Correct. Needless to say this has caused me a great deal of consternation—let alone disappointment for the buyer.”