The Girls of Bunker Pines (The Drifter Detective Book 3)

by Garnett Elliott

  "A client of mine," Jack told him, scooting out of the booth. "He's no trouble, Ronnie. A good kid." He hurried past the counter where Drabek, the Czech immigrant who owned the place, sat in a half-wakeful stupor, his face buried behind a copy of the Longview News Journal.

  Joe was on him almost as soon as he'd stepped out the front door. "Jack! This is your office, huh? I'd kinda thought, well …"

  Jack nodded up at the big neon sign, glowing white and corpse-blue against black Texas sky. The glass tubes spelled STARLITE DONUT SHOP. "It serves my purposes. This place pulls in a fair amount of traffic between Tyler and Longview, and the owner lets me rent out a booth for ten bucks a month." He didn't add the fee also covered a small space behind the shop, where he kept his horse trailer parked. You couldn't bed down in a hardwood booth.

  Joe began to lurch toward the door, but Jack put a hand on his chest. "Not so fast, buddy," he whispered. "There's a state trooper in there, and he's not partial to drunk drivers. Comes from pulling dead bodies out of cars."

  "Yeah? I might've had a couple nips this evening. Thanks for the heads-up."

  Jack motioned toward the Fury. "How about you introduce me to the gals you got stashed in the back?"

  "Alright, but they're both spoken for. 'Specially the brunette."

  Joe wobbled over to the Plymouth and pulled open the door. A cloud of cigarette smoke thick enough to grace a Shriner's convention came rolling out. "You ladies care to stretch your legs? No? Well, this here's the gent I was telling you about—he's a vet, too, from the Good War. Got one of the meanest uppercuts I've ever seen. Jack, come over here and say hello."

  Jack leaned into the Fury's interior. Two women sat hunched together on the new upholstery, opposite as night and day. The brunette looked multiracial, probably no taller than five feet, with a hard face that belied her petite frame. She had a leotard on under a pink pea coat, and one of those frilly pillbox hats black women wore to church. Dwarfing her was a platinum blonde several years past prime, dressed in a leopard-spotted housecoat and tight sequined top. Said top, Jack noticed, was working double-duty to keep her ample charms from spilling out. She noticed Jack's attention and gave him a floozy's easy smile. Her teeth bore faint smudges of lipstick.

  "Jack, I'd like you to meet Rosie Tokyo and Eva Brown." Joe winked. "Stage names, of course."

  "Pleasure's all mine. Would either of you gals like some donuts? My man in there whips up a mean cruller. His apple fritters are good, too."

  The blonde grimaced. "No thank you." Rosie tapped at her watch and gave Joe a look.

  "A minute, hon," Joe said. "I've got to powwow with Jack here."

  They stepped a respectable distance from the Fury. Jack got a Lucky going, handed it to Joe, then fired one for himself. "Okay," he said, exhaling smoke, "now's the time you tell me what the hell's going on. You've got two strippers in the backseat of a new—"

  "Burlesque dancers," Joe corrected.

  "Sorry. You want to double-date, they just put in one of those newfangled drive-ins near Tyler. But something tells me that's not it."

  Joe took a deep breath, his eyes dancing. "Jack, I might be on to one of the biggest investment opportunities of a lifetime. I don't know where to start. The whole thing's crazy, but it's just the kind of craziness that could make a fortune …"

  "Slow down. What're we talking here? Oil speculation?"

  "Not that. You've really got to see it to understand."

  "Uh-huh." Jack nodded toward the car. "That's where we're going, right? To hear some pitch?"

  "Right."

  "And the gals are part of it?"

  "They're associates of the man running the show."

  "'Associates.' Okay. And I suppose you want me along to see if the whole thing feels legitimate."

  "I didn't tell them you were a detective," Joe said. "Just a fellow veteran. We met at a VFW mixer, in case anyone asks."

  Jack looked back at the Starlite. Ronnie was peering through the front window, watching the little spectacle in the parking lot with goggle-eyes. "That's very clever. But brother, I can tell you already: this thing's fishy as the day is long."

  "Just hear the man's pitch. That's all I ask."

  "It's your money."

  "About that." Joe thrust his hands in his pockets, raising his shoulders in an 'aw, shucks' gesture. "When you said you were going to give me a break, I kind of figured …"

  "I suppose new Plymouths don't grow on trees."

  "There's going to be free booze."

  "Well, that cinches it." Jack sighed. He didn't have much planned for the evening, anyway. "You better let me drive, though. The law is watching."

  Joe pulled a pair of shiny keys from his jacket pocket and handed them over. They headed back to the car. "Where we going?" Jack asked, yanking the driver's door open. He managed to avoid scraping the DeSoto any further.

  "Middle of nowhere. I'll give you directions as we drive."

  Jack heaved himself behind the wheel, wondering about the Colt revolver he'd left in the horse trailer's hidden strongbox. The gun was an heirloom from his grandfather, an honest-to-God Western marshal, and he didn't like leaving on a case without it. Ah, well. He glanced through the windshield to see Ronnie still peering out, shaking his head. The secrets of the Castiglione Defense would have to wait.

  Jack turned the Fury's engine over, feeling a flood of power his own asthmatic car could never match. As he was backing out, he saw Rosie's black-gloved hand come snaking across the front seat to tap Joe on the shoulder. He nodded, and a slim chrome flask changed owners. Joe gulped with all the urgency of a binge-drinker. Jack started to tell him to slow down; it was only eight-thirty, and he didn't want his prospective client getting too sloppy. But something made him stop.

  He looked up into the rear-view. Rosie's eyes were chips of bright onyx, staring.

  * * *

  They drove for more than an hour. Jack took a series of back roads flanked by tall pines, the only light the Fury's stabbing headlamps and a new moon, rising waif-thin through October sky. Joe did most of the talking. He babbled about the new economy, Tyler's football team, and Red China, his hands beating a tattoo on the Plymouth's dashboard. From time to time he'd grow quiet, until Rosie reached over with her magic flask and wound him back up. Jack didn't like it. He didn't like the music Joe insisted on tuning in, either. Rock 'n' roll. He found the rhythms as subtle as a whack with a two-by-four.

  The Plymouth's clock read nine forty-six when a small billboard appeared along the right side of the road. Blank, it depicted nothing but rain-warped plywood.

  "We're close," Joe said. "Slow down."

  Jack eased off on the gas. "Suppose you tell me what I'm looking for."

  "It isn't much, from the road. Some lumber company was fixing to put in a big wood-pulp plant around here. They had the grounds cleared, access roads paved, but figured they were going to need a lot of manpower to run the place. So another company started throwing up a subdivision nearby. Got as far as the foundations, then the money backing the pulp mill fizzled. Here it is."

  Jack braked when he saw a length of chain stretching between two trees on the right shoulder, blocking a dirt road. He turned off.

  "Just pull right up there," Joe said. "Good." The car came to a stop and he fumbled a little brass key out of the glove compartment. "This will only take a second. Leave the headlights on."

  He got out. Jack watched him fiddle with a padlock connecting the two lengths of chain. He checked the rearview, saw the blonde slumped against her window, fast asleep, and the Asian looking right back at him. He smiled by reflex, but she didn't return it.

  "How long have you known Joe?" she asked. Her voice had a flat West Coast accent.

  "Ah, well, couple months …"

  "He said he's known you for two years."

  "Has it been that long? We met at a VFW get-together, see, and I was drunk at the time."

  Her eyes narrowed.

  "What island in Japan are yo
u from?" he said, trying to change the subject.

  "I was born in San Francisco. My father is from France. My mother's from Malaysia." Her tone seemed to add: As if you even know where that is.

  Jack held up both hands. "When I heard 'Tokyo' I guess I made some assumptions. I've got nothing against your people, ma'am; I was in the European theater, not the Pacific—"

  The passenger door thunked open. "Got the chain unlocked," Joe said, sliding inside. "What we're you two talking about?"

  "Just getting to know each other," Rosie said. She gave Joe a sweet smile that left Jack, for some reason, feeling jealous. He eased the Plymouth forward.

  The pines fell away to form a level clearing, at least forty acres under the moonlight. Brick poked above the foot-tall grass growing everywhere; Jack had the impression they were driving through a cemetery, until he realized what the square shapes were. Foundations. "This is that subdivision you were going on about," he said.

  "Yup. Had the pipes put in and everything. Look over there."

  The Fury's headlights picked out the silhouette of an Imperial Crown, parked close to what looked like a submarine hatch jutting from the grass. A tall man in a cowboy hat leaned against the Crown's hood.

  "That's Billy," Joe said. "We're here."

  Jack killed the engine. They all got out, Eva yawning, rubbing her eyes. Jack stepped lightly, wary for copperheads. A muffled rumbling echoed from somewhere, like a lawnmower with the throttle opened all the way.

  "Jack, I'd like you to meet Billy DeFour," Joe said. "Billy, this is Jack Laramie, the gentleman I was telling you about."

  They shook. Billy's hands felt un-calloused, but he had a practiced grip. He wore a dark blazer of indeterminate color in the moonlight, and his face fell under the shadow of a tall Stetson. When he smiled, a row of even teeth flashed white. Jack's inner judge of character whispered salesman.

  "Good to meet you, Bill. This is real mysterious and everything, a nice build-up, but Joe here hasn't said squat what it's all about."

  Another smile. Billy spoke with the cadence of a natural huckster: "Oh, you're going to figure it out right quick, Mr. Laramie, but I'd rather just show you than spout on."

  He gestured toward the hatch. It was made from poured concrete and riveted steel, with the lid thrown back. A ladder led down into a brightly-lit chamber, though Jack couldn't see much from his angle.

  "Looks like a bomb shelter," he said.

  "It is a bomb shelter, but not just any old hole in the ground," Billy said. "This is a de-lux bunker, big enough for a family of three, plus a dog. Only thing it hasn't got is a swimming pool, but we're working on that." He nodded to Eva and Rosie. "Ladies first. Mind your shoes, now."

  The dancers slipped off their heels and thrust them into coat pockets. They descended the ladder in stocking feet, followed by Billy, Joe, and finally, Jack.

  The climb down didn't take long. Jack found himself standing in the middle of someone's living room, his boots sinking into the thick shag of an orange carpet. Warm light streamed from several Tiffany lamps. The room boasted a complete set of knotty pine furniture, surrounding a coffee table strewn with Life magazines. Recessed shelves held a twenty-one inch RCA television set, a record player flanked by hi-fidelity speakers, and an A-to-Z run of World Book encyclopedias.

  "Alright," Jack said. "Color me impressed."

  Billy slapped him on the back. "Thought so. Now go and mix us a couple, will you? There's a bar cart next to the davenport."

  Jack found a bottle of White Horse among the selection. He poured two finger's worth into several tumblers and added club soda. Joe gulped his; the ladies sipped. Jack was pulling out a Lucky when Billy's hand gripped his forearm. "None of that cheap tobacco, buddy," Billy said, handing him a fat Cuban. "You're our guest."

  He had gray eyes, alert and mobile. His blazer was midnight blue. Jack bit off the end of the Havana and Billy got it going for him, smooth as a Vegas croupier.

  "Now," Billy went on, "having shown you the place, I suppose some explanations are in order. Joe told you the sad story of this aborted subdivision, right? Well, that economic tragedy is our gain. The foundation above was intended for the model home, and the model was supposed to have all the options—including a bomb shelter in the backyard. They got as far as digging it before the pulp mill went tits-up. Pardon my language, ladies."

  Eva snickered. Billy took a sip of fizzy scotch before continuing. "We—and by 'we,' I mean myself, and some prominent businessmen from the Dallas area—bought this land for a song. We had the shelter dug out more extensively, to include space for two bedrooms, a bath, ample storage, and a galley kitchen. That humming you heard above is a diesel generator, which supplies all power needs and keeps fresh air circulating."

  Jack puffed, savoring the cigar's rich taste. "Sounds more like a goddamn house than a shelter."

  "Exactly. Imagine this: an entire subdivision of deluxe shelters, just like this one. No houses. Next to nothing above ground, except for a carport and a mailbox. What do you think about that?"

  "Sounds cramped."

  "Ah, but here's the beauty of the idea." Billy pointed a finger at the ceiling. "Any minute, bombers from some hostile foreign power can scramble, with enough ordnance on board to slag all of North America. Hell, the Reds just got done testing a missile that can travel across the Pacific. How much warning do you think people will have? What good's a shelter if you're flash-fried before you can get the door open?"

  Though he didn't want to, Jack recalled images of Hiroshima after the A-bomb detonated. Endless expanses of rubble, with only bath tubs and exposed pipes left intact. The prospect of living in a bunker held no appeal for him, but he could see how someone with a family, someone who kept abreast of world events, might cotton to the idea.

  "So, what do you think?" Billy said.

  Jack took a sip. "It's got those dig-it-yourself shelters beat to hell, I'll say that. But I keep wondering when you're going to get around to the pitch. What is it that you want? I can't speak for Joe, but I'm not exactly flush."

  "What we want," Billy said without hesitation, "is investors, so we can complete the subdivision. Joe here has already mentioned pitching in his G.I. bill. But more importantly, we want to attract the right kind of people for this project. People who can appreciate the safety our bunker-homes provide, for themselves and their loved ones."

  "He means veterans," Joe put in.

  "That's right. Men who've fought overseas have a better understanding of what kind of world we're living in. They're less likely to dismiss our vision as 'paranoia.'" Billy put a firm hand on Jack's shoulder. "Joe's a war hero, twice decorated. And I understand you're a former P.O.W. Men like you have real clout with other veterans."

  "You're saying you want us as pitch-men?" Jack asked.

  "Let's call it 'spokesmen,' instead. Has a better ring. In two weeks we're going to be throwing a big shindig, right here, plenty of guests and barbecue and ice-cold brew. Hell, the gals might be up for a little dancing, too." Billy winked at Rosie and Eva, who both responded with un-enthused smiles. "So how about it? You want to help represent the Bunker Pines Project?"

  Jack tapped cigar-ash into an empty tumbler, careful not to get any on the orange shag. "Well …"

  "Don't decide tonight. There's plenty of time. Let me give you the nickel tour, starting with the master bedroom."

  Billy showed him around, which didn't take long on account of the shelter's square footage. Jack put it at somewhere less than thirteen-hundred. Still, the living space felt as big as a lot of modern townhomes. The metal walls and lack of windows reminded him of the troop ship that had brought him back from Europe. When they returned to the main room, Rosie was spinning Brubeck on the Hi-Fi. Jack's dislike for the woman lessened a notch. Joe sprawled on the couch, the bottle of White Horse in hand, alongside Eva, who'd fallen asleep again.

  "Let me help you with that," Jack said, grabbing the Scotch. It had been a while since he'd gotten well and tr
uly lit, and not with quality liquor, either. He took a healthy swig.

  "Ha." Joe snatched for the bottle, missed. "You drink like an airman."

  "Let's not get that branch stuff going, alright?" Jack noticed Billy ambling off down the hallway, headed for the little bathroom. He added in a quiet voice: "Me and you need to talk, when this is over."

  "What do you think?"

  "I think—" He hesitated. Rosie had her back to them, flipping through the shelter's selection of LP's, but he'd bet money she was eavesdropping. "I think I'm going to try the bourbon."

  He selected a bottle of Wild Turkey from the cart and broke the seal.

  Things got warm and hazy after that.

  * * *

  When he woke he was in a full body cast, lying on a hospital bed. A cord suspended from the ceiling held his right leg aloft at a forty-five degree angle. There were voices muttering German in the hallway outside his room, and the open window next to the bed let in hot summer air, not cool autumn like it was supposed to.

  Beneath all the bandages, his heart started thudding.

  The door slammed open. In stalked a young man wearing a black raincoat and a homburg pulled low over his forehead. Gray eyes flared with scorn beneath the hat's brim. He clutched a partially burnt logbook that could've come from the Black Betty's navigation table.

  Jack tried to raise himself into sitting position. He couldn't move. His limbs felt miles away, connected to his torso by frayed threads. The young German's face blurred and came back into focus as he sat alongside the bed.

  "You will answer my questions," rang a voice in crisp English.

  "Jack Laramie, Sergeant, 49-292-153." His own voice sounded disembodied.

  "I know who you are, Mr. Laramie. Submarines tracked your bomber group's approach across the Channel. I know you were stationed in Aylesbury. The attack on Schweinfurt was a failure. Sixty of your planes were shot down."

  Sixty. "You're lying."

  "The bearings-works will be fully functional again in two days."

  "Ortiz …"

  "I would add: your back has been broken. Your right leg might not heal properly. At the moment, any pain you would normally feel is being kept at bay by morphine." His voice took on a metallic edge. "Morphine that should be going to brave German soldiers."