A Dead Man's Tale

by James D. Doss

  “But only one of ’em will have this number on the license plate.” Perez pushed a small square of lined yellow paper across the counter.

  The clerk looked through the bottom of her bifocals at the number, then rolled her brown eyes up to gaze at the handsome young man. “I’m sorry—I can’t help you.”

  “But it’s in your computer.”

  “Well…yes. But I’m not allowed to give you that information.” Darting a wary glance at her co-workers, Phyllis lowered her voice to a whisper. “I could lose my job.”

  “No way we’ll let that happen. But I’d really like to buy that pickup.” He leaned closer and winked at the flustered lady. “You busy tonight?”

  She held her breath for several heartbeats. Oh, what the hell—nobody’ll know but me and Chico.

  The Sand Hills Country Club

  As was his customary practice, Howell Patterson arrived right on time at precisely 8:58 A.M., to back his Prius into the space marked manager. Unaware that he was being shadowed by an impulsive and dangerous man, the thin, gray-suited, black-tied emigrant from Mary land emerged from his efficient automobile, closed the door with just sufficient force to latch it, and—key ring in hand—aimed his distinguished face toward the sprawling brick building where Granite Creek’s privileged elite enjoyed the company of their peers. The senior administrator was turning the key in the door lock when he felt the weight of a massive hand on his shoulder. A lesser gentleman than Mr. Patterson might have cursed, yelped, or at the very least stiffened slightly at the unexpected touch. This man from Glen Burnie was made of sterner stuff. Ignoring the intrusion for the moment, Howell Patterson removed his key from the door and pocketed the key ring. Ready to face down anything from a hardened criminal to the village idiot, he turned his head just enough to raise a critical left eyebrow at the man with the heavy paw. “Oh.” There was a feigned trace of disappointment in the “Oh” the merest hint of a sneer curled his upper lip. “It is you.”

  Whom did he see?

  John Law.

  The Chief of Police is Subtle

  Scott Parris grinned at the snootiest man in Granite Creek County. “G’morning, Howie.”

  Duly distressed at being addressed in this manner, the manager of the Sand Hills Country Club raised his nose at the affront and sniffed like a pedigreed French poodle appraising a back-alley mutt. “To what do I owe the dubious distinction of an early-morning visit from the township’s chief constable?”

  The chief of police chuckled. “I’m here to do you a humungous favor.”

  “Indeed?” Howell Patterson placed his right hand over the left side of his chest, whereunder he firmly believed his blood pump to be located. “Oh, be still my racing heart!”

  “Ha!” The big cop slapped him on the shoulder. “I like to drop in on you, Howie—you always cheer me up. And you don’t fool me—under that uppity exterior, you’re a regular, ordinary snob.”

  The Mary lander arched his brow again. Under it, his left eye emitted a minuscule twinkle. “When I update my résumé, may I use you as a reference?”

  “Sure.” Parris pushed the battered fedora back from his forehead. “But only if you’re applying for a job a long ways east of the muddy ol’ Mississip’.”

  “I will be delighted to comply with that condition.” The manager opened the door. “Please come inside. While I prepare a fresh pot of English breakfast tea and warm up some scrumptious homemade crumpets which I have in my briefcase, we can continue to exchange asinine remarks which in these parts pass for witticisms.”

  Parris accepted the invitation and was surprised—nay, astonished—to learn that Mr. Patterson was serious about the tea and not kidding about crumpets in his valise. After waving off a sterling silver cream pitcher, downing the steaming black tea in two gulps, and making short work of a couple of crunchy crumpets, the cop broached the business that had brought him to Howell Patterson’s office so early on a fine May morning. “Here’s the deal—I need some information that’ll help me protect and serve the citizens hereabouts. But do I go to the DA and ask for a warrant—which I’d get in a Colorado minute—but which would cause a big stink here at the country club and embarrass my friend Howie no end?” Parris shook his head. “I do no such thing. To spare you the humiliation of anything that might look the least bit like a potential scandal, I drive all the way over here to provide my favorite country-club manager with the opportunity to tell me what I need to know right up front. That way, we avoid all the nasty rumors that’d keep rich folks’ tongues wagging around here for months on end, maybe even weeks.”

  After removing an immaculate linen napkin from his lap, Howell Patterson clasped his hands together. “What, precisely, do you wish to know?”

  “Now that’s the spirit.” It was essential to avoid raising any suspicion about a particular groundskeeper, whom Howell P. might already know was enjoying clandestine meetings with Mrs. Reed. Parris leaned forward and lowered his voice to a discreet whisper. “The names and addresses of all your employees.”

  Howell’s left eyebrow arched for the third time in one day, which was practically unprecedented. “May I assume this has something to do with the groundless allegations that someone—presumably a club employee—has been pilfering unlocked vehicles in the members’ parking lot?”

  This is too easy. Grateful for the unexpected gift, GCPD’s top cop assumed a deadpan expression that hinted that Patterson was right on the mark. “At the moment, I’m not in a position to respond to that question.” The chief of police attempted one of those semi-sly shrugs that is intended to be interpreted as meaningful. “But I will go so far as to say that you’re nobody’s fool, Howie.”

  “I am entirely undone by such high praise.” The manager unlocked a desk drawer, removed a leather-bound loose-leaf notebook, and placed it on the precise center of the glassed desktop. Both eyes twinkled at Parris. “As it happens, I am not authorized to release such information without a warrant.” With a practiced flick of the finger, Howell Patterson opened the notebook at a green plastic separator labeled CONFIDENTIAL EMPLOYEE INFORMATION. He consulted his Rolex Oyster. “If you will excuse me for—let us say a quarter of an hour—I shall leave my office and attend to some unspecified business.” He got up from his chair. “Please feel free to help yourself to whatever may tempt your fancy…among the remnants our light breakfast.” Before departing, he thoughtfully turned on his copy machine.

  Twelve minutes later, Scott Parris left the Sand Hills Country Club with a napkin-wrapped crumpet in his jacket pocket and, for dessert—the name, birth date, and Social Security number of Mrs. Reed’s lover, also a slightly blurred facsimile of the muscle-bound man whose curly yellow locks hung to his broad shoulders.

  When the time was right, the chief of police figured he would pay a courtesy call on the boyfriend and offer the reckless young fellow some sage advice about how it was inadvisable to mess around with another man’s wife, especially in a county where ninety-eight husbands out of a hundred packed six-shooters and the other two used razor-sharp bowie knives to get the point across.

  But that public-service work was somewhere near the bottom of Scott Parris’s to-do list. It would have to wait until the busy cop had a few minutes to spare.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Country Club Manager’s Small Victory

  Before the chief of police was quite out of sight, Howell Patterson had returned to his office, checked the 990-gigabyte cache memory on his high-end copy machine, and determined that the coarse policeman had copied only one page from the Confidential Employee Information. His suspicions verified, the savvy manager of the Sand Hills Country Club made an instant decision. Seating himself behind his immaculate desk, he paused to purse his lips in anticipation of the pleasure he would derive in lording it over a lesser soul. Thus prepared, Mr. Patterson lifted his cordless telephone from its cradle and made the call.

  Backfire

  This was not a time to mess with Janey Bultmann. Tes
ty on her best days, the lady was (for the sixth time this week) attempting to quit smoking before she left on her annual vacation. Busy at her cluttered pine desk, she wore three nicotine patches (don’t try this at home!) and was chewing a disgustingly sweet cherry-flavored nicotine gum. When her plastic Walmart telephone jangled, Janey lurched and yelped. Being a marvelous multitasker, simultaneously with the lurch and yelp, she spat the medicinal chewing gum into a cup of tepid black coffee, threw a Cattleman’s Bank ballpoint pen across her small Copper Street office, and glared with heartfelt malice at the offending instrument. “Who the hell is that!” The answer to this reasonable question was provided by the helpful caller ID on her telephone. “Oh, it’s that prissy little country-club creep.” Pretending not to know who was calling, she greeted the man she detested in the vivacious tone of a nineteen-year-old receptionist on her first day at work: “Bultmann Employment Services. How may we help you?”

  “This is Howell Patterson, Ms. Bultmann.”

  Janey B.’s minuscule supply of vivaciousness was already exhausted. “This is Miss Bultmann, Mr. Patterson.” She snatched a half-smoked cigarette off a filthy ashtray, lit it up, and took a puff. Oh, that’s soooo good. “What’s up?”

  Howell Patterson smiled at the unexpectedly apt straight line. “Mr. Perez’s tenure as assistant groundskeeper at the Sand Hills Golf Course.”

  “What?” She coughed and tossed the cigarette butt aside, missing the ashtray by a yard. “What’s the problem?”

  “The first problem, Miss Bultmann, is that you have evidently forgotten our arrangement, which is that I decide when the services of one of your clients is no longer required at Sand Hills Country Club—without the necessity of explaining my reasons for reaching such a decision to you or any of your dubious ilk.” He paused for her response, which he planned to interrupt.

  Bastard. “Oh, I remember what’s in our contract. But you know, I thought maybe you might let me know what’d gone wrong so I could make sure that…you know—”

  “The second problem is your execrable habit of using the phrase you know as a byword, as it were.” Patterson’s self-satisfied smile bordered on a smirk. “The third is that you seem incapable of providing temporary help which meets even a modest benchmark of quality, much less the high standards of Sand Hills Country Club.”

  Dirty rotten stinking bastard! Janey ground her teeth. “Don’t worry about Chico Perez. I’ll let him know right away that—”

  “In addition to not requiring his services as assistant groundskeeper, be advised that I do not want to see your temp on club property. Immediately after this delightful conversation, I shall inform Club Security that Mr. Perez is not to be admitted at the front gate.”

  He had pushed the frantic woman too far.

  Janey Bultmann’s eyes appeared to bulge halfway from their sockets. “Not even if he arrives as the guest of one of your members?” Hah! That’ll shut his mouth. Her mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “From what I hear, Chico is popular with some of the rich bitches who pass for high class through your fancy front gate.”

  “Take care what you say, Miss Bultmann.” Howell Patterson paused to give this monotone warning time to sink in, and to clear his throat. “Several of your clients are still drawing pay at the club. I would hate to think of letting those unfortunates go, and taking our business to your competition. But it might become necessary if you do not learn to bridle your venomous tongue when addressing me—”

  “Don’t threaten me, you two-bit cross between a fussy old maid and a brass horse’s ass!” Oh, my—I shouldn’t have said that! But in for a dime, in for a dollar. “I know a thing or two about you that the president of the club’s governing board might like to hear about—and he’s a good friend of mine. So if you dismiss another of my clients without due cause I’ll nail your nasty hide to the barn door and charge your fancy-pants club members a dollar a pop to shoot bullet holes in it!” Janey Bultmann cut the connection before Howell Patterson could reply to this concoction of outrageous bravado and sinister innuendo. Getting in the last word made Janey feel better than she had when she gave up smoking after breakfast this morning. “Ha-hah!” She picked up the noxious butt, which was busily burning a small brown hole through the cover of Time magazine, and popped the deadly pacifier between her lips. “That’ll give that mean little bastard something to think about!”

  It did.

  Pale with rage and nauseated with stomach-curdling fear, the austere manager of the Sand Hills Country Club placed the telephone gently into its cradle without exhibiting the least outward evidence of his emotions. What an odious woman. He frowned at the lovely view framed by his office window. She’s bluffing, of course. As was his habit when vexed, Mr. Patterson pulled at the lobe of his left ear. That vicious harpy knows nothing of my past. For the cautious soul, there is always a But.

  But what if she’s not bluffing?

  The Lady’s Last-Minute Business

  After allowing herself a full four seconds to calm down, Miss Janey Bultmann looked up her client’s cell-phone number and placed a call.

  Chico Perez was saying hello when the woman’s raspy voice shouted in his ear.

  “This is Janey, sweetheart. Bad news, baby. You’re fired. Pink-slipped. Canned. Sacked. Laid off. Made redundant.” She listened to Perez’s response. “No, the silly little prig didn’t say why, but we can guess, can’t we?” The smoker paused to cough. “You’ve been messing around with one of those married women at the club again, haven’t you? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. I bet the lucky chicky is that good-looking Mrs. Reed.” Janey took another puff before lighting a fresh cancer stick with the butt. “Okay, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” The busy businesswoman glanced at her wristwatch. “Look, I’m getting ready to hit the road on my vacation but I’ll cut you a paycheck and get it in the mail before I close up shop and—What?” She shrugged. “Okay, sweetie. Just this once, I’ll pay you in cash. But you’ll have to sign a receipt. And I can’t wait all day; I’m about to close so I can go home and pack for my trip.” Another puff. “Okay, honey-bun. Yeah, that’ll work fine. See you then, big guy.”

  Routine Police Procedure

  Scott Parris barged through the doorway into his second-floor corner office, seated himself behind his desk, and started tapping on the computer keyboard. After accessing a familiar site, touching the Return button, and waiting for a dozen seconds, a Chico Perez with a matching Social Security number and birth date popped onto the screen. According to an appended note, less than seven months ago Mr. Perez had reported losing his Social Security card and applying for a new one. The cynical lawman snorted. I bet he’s also got himself a forged birth certificate. The cop clicked on another link and performed a routine criminal-background check. As Parris had expected, this preliminary search turned up nothing of importance. Either the guy’s clean as a whistle or he’s hiding his past with faked ID. His mouse finger decided to click on the box next to a line that read TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS. After an annoying delay while the sizable .pdf file downloaded, he leaned close to the screen to squint at a facsimile of a speeding violation issued in Bloomington, Indiana. The infraction was no big deal…. But wait a danged minute.

  A curious detail had caught the cop’s eye. He did some mental arithmetic. That ticket was issued thirty-five years ago. Which would make Mr. Perez at least fifty years old. He grinned. Maybe I ought to take a closer look at Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend. Parris promised himself that when he had a few minutes to spare, he would fax a form to the FBI requesting detailed information on the Chico Perez with the Social Security number listed in the country club’s employment records. Unless I forget to remember—I’d better make myself a note right now. The harried public servant was looking for something to write on when he was distracted by the musical warble of his desk telephone.

  “Parris here.”

  “Hiya, Scott. It’s me—Pug. I wondered whether you could join me for lunch?”

  The chief of polic
e rarely got an invitation from the district attorney. “Sure, if you’re buying.”

  “That all depends on you.” DA “Pug” Bullet’s chuckle might have been a death rattle. “If you can come up with some official business we gotta talk about, I’ll put both our meals on my expense account.”

  Scott Parris decided that this call fell under the heading Providential. “Well, as a matter of fact, there might be a thing or two we need to discuss.”

  “Okay, fellow grafter. See you the Silver Mountain main dining room in twenty minutes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Samuel Reed’s Mysterious Rendezvous

  No. Resist the temptation to leap to an unwarranted and uncharitable conclusion. In contrast to his wife’s frivolous affair, Sam Reed’s clandestine meeting was not with an attractive member of the opposite gender. Quite the opposite.

  As he piloted his sooty-black Hummer along a mountain road nine hundred feet above Granite Creek, Professor Reed was mildly apprehensive about what might transpire at this remote encounter. But, being the plucky fellow he was, the wealthy investor plugged right along on all eight cylinders. Slowing at the designated turnoff, he shifted down and hummed along a narrow forest road shaded by a gloriously green clone of freshly budding aspens. The winding lane emerged into a small pasture frequented by deer and elk. When it dead-ended abruptly at the edge of a precipitous bluff, Reed cut the ignition and set the emergency brake. The punctual fellow checked the dashboard clock against his wristwatch and was pleased to have two reliable witnesses to the fact that he had arrived right on the minute for his appointment. Expecting the other party to show up late, he was prepared for the wait, and the panorama presented to him was so lovely as to be soul satisfying. It is so wonderfully silent here. Sam Reed inhaled a deep breath and sighed it out again. I’ll sit still as a stone and enjoy the quiet—