Dirty Money ARC

by Deforest Day

  “Right out of school.”

  “Well, then, he was dumber than dirt. That war was screwed up from the get-go.”

  “A few years back I’da knocked you out of that chair. But from what I’ve learned lately, all war is screwed up from the get-go.”

  “Got that right. And we’d have a whole lot less of ‘em, if the generals led from the front, like back in the olden days.”

  The trap door slammed and Pudge washed her hands at the bar sink. “Hey, Pops. This isn’t Vietnam. We’re in the Twenty-First Century.”

  “Ahhh; what‘s the difference?”

  “I don’t know, and neither do you. But I do know, you keep ragging on the customers, there won’t be none.” Her grandfather made a sour face and a yakkity yak motion with his thumb and fingers, then spun his chair and wheeled off.

  She drew a glass of beer, poured it out. Mostly foam; she repeated the exercise, then put the third on the bar, watched the head rise. “Don’t mind him.” She pushed the glass toward Justice. “First tapping is on the house.”

  Justice took a sip. “Join me?” he asked. A shared brew could lead to shared confidences.

  “I don’t normally drink with the customers; most of the locals take it as an invitation for further socializing. But you’re a hotel guest, so I will.” She touched her glass to his. “You’re from down south.”

  “Yes’m. Tennessee. Buckle on the Bible Belt. Home to Nashville Country, Memphis Blues, and Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Man would be a fool to ever leave the state.”

  She could listen to this man all night. His voice was as smooth as that Jack Daniel’s of his. “Well, fool, what brings you to Penn’s Woods, home of nothin’ in particular, since we busted the Liberty Bell?”

  “My best friend was killed, upstairs. Davy Driver? Has Chief Schmidt questioned you about it?”

  “Sure, right after Alice found him. Only, he, ahh, how can I put it? You friend wasn’t exactly killed.”

  “If you mean that auto erotic thing they claim it was, they got that all wrong. His neck was broke, and somebody broke it.”

  “No! You sure?”

  “Sure as I can be. I was a medic in the service; me and Davy spent a passel of years, killin’ bad guys and chasin’ bad gals. Not no way he’d go out like that.”

  “Well, that makes things sit better. Fine lookin’ man like him, what the Chief said didn’t make much sense. But Alice told me about the dirty magazines, the hand lotion.” Pudge shook her head. “Why would someone kill him? Bein’ a stranger, and all?”

  “It mystifies me. I was hoping you had a thought. The police ain’t been back here?”

  Pudge topped off their glasses. “No. Not since I called 911. They know his neck was broken?”

  “They do now.”

  Pudge studied her beer, looked at her grandfather, who was working the remote. The dead man had been cute when he was alive, but there were plenty of them passing through, with their kayaks and their buff bods. He wasn’t any different from them. Leastwise, not until he turned up dead, in a room upstairs.

  Funny how things looked, depending on how you looked at them. You think he killed himself, jerkin’ off, well, that colors your view of the situation. Learn that somebody broke his neck, you see things different. She tried to recall the evening of his death. “Your friend asked me about two of our local yokels.” She leaned across the bar. “Hey, Pops! You remember the other night, the dead guy, was talking to Cheech and Chong?”

  Pops muted the TV, rolled back to the bar. “What about it?”

  “What did they say?”

  “No idea. Except the one wears glasses told him to eff off.”

  Pudge turned to Justice. A hint of excitement crept into her voice. “Now I remember; your friend said something about Eye-rack, and I mentioned that they were exterminators, and it seemed to mean something to him. You said you were buddies. Were you guys over there?”

  “Davy was. But, why would that be a reason to kill him?”

  “Well, I can tell you, they came home with a boatload of cash. Right, Pops? Since they got back, it’s been like black and white. Before, they were nickel nursers, and now, they throw it around.”

  “You wasn’t curious where it come from?”

  “Not hardly. Dry as it’s been, you don’t question the rain.”

  “Who’s this Cheech and Chong?”

  “Howie and Chick. There’s another one, rides a motorcycle; only he ain’t around much. But all three of them was over there. With their boss, Larry Tomczak. Except he didn’t come back. Well, he did, but in a box.”

  She glanced at the TV for a moment, then turned back to Justice. “After your friend left, went up to his room, Chick asked me who he was.” She replayed the moment in her mind. “And called someone.”

  “I think I’d like to have a chat with these boys. Where can I find them?”

  Pops laughed, without a hint of humor. “Be standing right here, ‘bout two hours.”

  Pudge raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Chick’s got a room here, since his old man threw him out. I expect he’ll get a place of his own, now that he’s got some money. I surely hope so; Alice says he got hisself a set of weights, and is hurtin’ my floor something awful.”

  Justice went upstairs to shave, change into a fresh shirt. He realized he was looking forward to seeing Pen again. What had it been, nearly an hour?

  In front of the shared bathroom mirror he stared at himself and thought about about Davy’s sister. About her sudden sexual assault, for that was what it had been. An explosion of lust. Never mind her pulling up some old crush.

  A small smile crossed his lips. All part of the aftermath of their recent brush with death. After combat you're horny as hell. Civilians call it make-up sex.

  He’d had his own childish infatuations often enough, but couldn’t picture himself going back home to his high school reunion and doing what she had done, doing it with. . . Heck, he couldn’t even call up a name. Which proved his point. Only reason a girl like her would have any feelings for a man like him had to be the connection they shared with Davy.

  Here he was, a beat-up ex sergeant, eight, ten years older than her, his only skills battlefield medicine, and the ability to kill from a distance. Not much future there. While she had a college degree and was just starting out in life, at a job she loved.

  He was attracted to her, no lie, what man wouldn’t be. Good looks and better smarts. He smiled at a sudden thought. Bright as a penny.

  Step back a mite, Justice, and study on the situation. She’s in a bad way, hurting from her loss. We both are. And those couple of hours in her bed surely will be something to savor, down the road.

  But she'll come to accept her brother’s death, and wake up to the reality of this relationship. You’re just someone to hang on to, share the pain. Same as how you’re grabbing at Pen, seeing Davy in her, wanting to prolong the parting.

  And then there was the sex itself. That’s just the male animal; succumbing to natural urges, like a dog chasin’ after a bitch in heat. He wiped the fog from the mirror and picked up his razor. Watch yourself, Justice. Don’t you be hurtin’ this girl. Davy's sister.

  Chapter 44

  Chief Schmidt pulled the fax from his drawer, read it yet again, and scrubbed his chin with a big palm while he thought. A billion dollars from the New York Federal Reserve goes to the United Nations, and from there to a French consortium.

  He needed some financial input about the ramifications of this money—legal and otherwise—and he picked up the phone, called Phil Conover at the bank. “Rumor has it there’s a miscreant named Jim Beam across the street,” he said, when the banker came on the phone.

  Conover chortled. “That notorious instigator of rowdy behavior! I’ll be happy to tag along, help you subdue the rascal.”

  Seated in a far corner at a round table for six, screened by a pair of plastic palm trees—a table Pudge routinely kept vacant at that hour of the afternoon—the Chief showed the fax
to the banker.

  As he read it, Pudge brought a tray to the table with two tumblers, a bucket of ice, and Big Russ’s private bottle. Over Mr. Conover’s shoulder she noticed the Treasury Department letterhead, and it piqued her curiosity enough for her to take her time putting the whiskey, the ice, and the glasses on the table.

  The banker lifted his glass and saluted Schmidt. “Well, I already know it’s not counterfeit, and this says it’s not part of those missing reconstruction dollars. That leaves oil for food, or some hinky arms deal. Middle East and shady deals are synonyms. Either way, I don’t think the source of Shaleville's windfall should concern either of us.” Especially not the Shaleville police department. Not when the deposit of millions, even tens of millions of dollars into my bank is at stake.

  Back behind the bar, Pudge watched the two men talk. She wasn’t the fastest reader in the world, but there was nothing wrong with her eyesight. Frenchies and Krauts and a billion dollars. That would sure explain the eleven million bucks separating Howie’s C note and Chick’s. But it didn’t answer the question the guy in the letter raised. How did Chief Schmidt get ahold of one? Or Howie and Chick? And was there a whole lot more of ‘em around here someplace?

  Baer’s lawyer, George Pederson, had an excellent view of the village green, due his office being on the second floor, and he saw Russ cross the street, saw Phil follow a few minutes later. His newest client’s voice still echoed in his ear and he shrugged into his jacket, and tripped down the stairs.

  Pudge brought another glass to the table when the lawyer came through the door. “Just a beer for me, sweetheart. I’m driving to Sunbury, meeting with a client.”

  “Your Mr. Baer?” Russ said.

  “No, no. Some fellas from the F.O.E., want to renew their lease. Speaking of Baer, I hear from the grapevine there's speculation in our little town as to the source of his wealth.”

  Chief Schmidt looked at the banker.

  “What? I told George that it wasn’t counterfeit. Because he asked. You have a problem with that?”

  “No.” He slid the fax across to the lawyer. “Your new client have anything to say about this?”

  Mr. Pederson, on the few occasions that he came to the bar, always drank the Chief’s booze. She had no idea what brand of beer he’d like, but it didn’t seem to be a real good idea to interrupt their conversation to find out. She pulled a glass of draft lager and took it over, along with a cocktail napkin. She hovered until the chief gave her a look. “Will there be anything else, Chief?”

  The lawyer scanned the document, dropped it on the table. “Well, attorney client privilege, and what it entails, but no. I take him at his word. His money, from over there. How he came by it is none of my business.” Especially since I have ten thousand dollars of it locked in my desk. Ten thousand dollars that the IRS has no need to ever learn about.

  The Chief folded the sheet of paper and tucked it in his pocket. “Then the three of us are in agreement.” Especially since the other two were men of little curiosity. And even less initiative. Anything that happened to the truck and its contents would not involve these two. He poured a second dose.

  “I hear there was some excitement upstairs, the other night,” the banker said. “Some itinerant hung himself?”

  The Chief filled them in, and the lawyer listened, without comment.

  So it was Mr. Baer who was the source of all this money. Pudge thought about this new information, tried to sort it out. It meant the roll of bills in Chick’s pocket, and Howie’s too, was not pay from Mr. Tomczak, for killing bugs. Kinda confusing. Then three new guys came in, laughing about something, took a table, yelled for a pitcher, and she set aside the whole money thing. For now.

  On his way to Sunbury the lawyer called his client. “His name was Driver. David Driver. An Army noncom, on leave, visiting his sister; a new teacher at the local elementary school. A friend of his, an old Army buddy, arrived in town a couple of days ago, and is stirring things up. Claims that the dead man’s neck was broken. My impression is that Chief Schmidt is ready to write the case off as an accidental death, but is concerned about this friend continuing to press his case.”

  “Who is this friend?”

  “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with where this line of questioning is going, Mr. Baer.”

  “Perhaps you would be more comfortable if you returned your ten thousand dollar retainer.”

  “Justice. Robert Justice. He’s staying at the hotel.”

  “Good man, Pederson. I’ll be in touch.”

  Baer broke the connection. Called information, called Shaleville Elementary. “Captain Long, United States Army. We have been notified than an active duty member of the armed forces recently passed away in your town. I am tasked with arranging for the military funeral. He will be buried, with full honors, at Arlington. I need the address of his next of kin. His sister, Ms. Driver.”

  “Certainly, sir. Just a moment.”

  Baer smiled, reached for the bottle of single malt on the kitchen table. Always stay one step ahead. The key to success.

  Chapter 45

  Justice rinsed his razor and dried his face. When he took the towel away, there was Alice, dressed in fresh white pants and shirt, her hand on the door knob and her mouth open, a shiny stud on her tongue like a pearl on an oyster.

  “Oops! I didn’t know you was in here.” She started to back away, close the door.

  “Just finishing up. The bathroom’s all yours.”

  “I only wanted to brush my teeth. I’m fixin’ to go on down to the kitchen, heat up the grill, cut some spuds for the supper crowd.”

  Justice policed up his shaving gear, took them back into his room. Left the door open. He watched her bend over the sink, wondered if the things in her lip and tongue interfered with brushing her teeth. “You got a minute, could you come in here?”

  She turned, toothbrush shoved in her cheek, said around it, “You want I should bring the baby oil?”

  He shook his head, smiled. “Thank you ma’am, but that ain’t what I had in mind. I just want to have a chat about the dead man you found.”

  She turned back to the sink, rinsed, came into his room. “Yeah. What a shame; I probably could of saved his life.”

  That was news. “How so?”

  “Well, if I’da been workin’ that day, checked him in, I woulda made my offer, and he wouldn’t of hanged hisself. On account of he was all that horny to do what he done, he surely would have took me up. Right?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes’m, I guess you got a point there.” He stripped off his T shirt, took a fresh one from his suitcase.

  “Lordy me! Where’d you get all them scars?”

  Justice lowered his eyes to the series of small puckers that started at his armpit and disappeared below his belt. “Shrapnel; from an RPG that took down the chopper I was ridin’.”

  “Yeah. Them motorcycles is dangerous. My husband’s been wantin’ one in the worst way, but I said no. Sometimes a wife has got to put her foot down.” Her voice was high and light, seemed to travel just a few feet before fading, like smoke in the wind. A small, slight, ephemeral girl; without her odd slant on reality, she would slip through life unnoticed.

  “Pudge tells me that the dead man had an argument with two of the locals the night he died. Howie and Chick? What do you know about them?”

  “Well, Chick ain’t cut, and Howie makes these noises when he come—”

  “That’s not what I meant, Alice.”

  “Don’t hardly seem right, chargin’ him the full twenty, seein’ as how fast he—”

  “Alice! I ain’t interested in their sex life. I’m lookin’ for a connection. Between them, and Davy.”

  “Davy?”

  “The dead man. David Driver. He was a friend of mine, why I’m interested.”

  “Ohhh, OK. I see where you’re at. Lemme try to think. There was one thing. His magazines? Same kind Chick has got, hid under his mattress. Well, they would
be hid, except I see ‘em every week, I change his sheets.” She giggled. “I flipped through ‘em one time, seen stuff I’d like to try, with my husband. See, I got a small virginia. Is why I’m good with my hands.”

  “Pardon? Small Virginia?”

  “Don’t you know nothin’? Down there. Where baby’s get made. My husband’s bigger than most, and it kinda hard, sometimes. So I get him off with my hand. And when he does me, he—”

  “Alice, I really don’t need to hear about you and your husband. What about these magazines?”

  “Yeah. There was three of ‘em. On the floor? Had the same pictures on the covers as the ones Chick has.”

  “You tell this to Chief Schmidt?”

  “I didn’t tell it to no one. See, I freaked out, I seen him, layin’ there, his wiener hangin' out in plain sight? You would too, if you was me. And then the ambulance men give me some pill? Fixed me right up, only it also knocked me out; I slept the whole morning and afternoon away.” Alice smiled. “Pudge paid me for the whole day, anyway.”

  “I need to have a word with these fellas.”

  “Chick’s in Room Forty. I call it the Presidential Suite, on account of it’s got its own bathroom. Every hotel has to have one, in case the president comes to town. See, busy as he is, man can’t be waiting around for someone to finish using the toilet. Plus, when he ain’t in town, it’s where all the fancy people stay. Or did, back when Shaleville was someplace.” She studied her toothbrush as her memory wandered.

  “Pudge has these old registers, from back in the middle ages? She showed me one time, we was cleanin’ the office. Bunch of famous people I never heard of. But he ain’t there. He was goin’ out, him and Howie both, when I come up to brush my teeth.”

  Chapter 46

  Chief Schmidt left a five on the table for Pudge, and walked back across the street to his office, where he jotted several notes on a yellow legal pad, tore the sheet off, put it and the fax in a new manilla folder. Wrote the single word BAER on the tab, then picked up his desk phone and hit THREE. His technician answered after five rings. He could have walked across the hallway quicker. “Anything on those prints?”