by Paul Levine
“What would it mean if, after she and I…ah…re-acquainted ourselves—”
“You mean you jumped her bones, boss. C’mon, everybody knows you two were playing hide the sausage when her ex-dude showed up from the O.K. Corral.”
“Yeah. Anyway, what would it mean if she doesn’t return my calls and then leaves town.”
“She tell you where she went?”
“No.”
“She make any effort to hide where she went?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then it’s a toss-up. Either she doesn’t want anything to do with you, or she wants you to follow her.”
“No. She told me not to follow her. I didn’t even know she was going anywhere, but that’s what she said. ‘Don’t follow me.
Cindy laughed. “That’s the clincher. She wants you on her trail. Otherwise, why would she say not to, I mean, you wouldn’t have known to follow her, unless she told you not to.”
“I don’t get it. I really don’t.”
“You don’t have to, just trust me.”
“Look, Cindy, she must have gone back to Cimarron. So what you’re saying doesn’t make any sense. She wouldn’t want me around if she’s with him.”
“Jefe, what you don’t know about women would fill Biscayne Bay. Women don’t communicate the same way as men, but of course, men don’t communicate at all. Even strong career women like Josefina Baroso don’t necessarily come out and say what they mean.”
“Cindy, that’s downright sexist of you.”
“No, it’s not. We’ve been taught how to act and how to speak. If we’re too direct, we’re ballbusters. If we don’t say a word, we don’t get anything. And where relationships are concerned, a woman falls back on her feminine wiles. If she just said, ‘Jake, I love you, I want you forever,’ what would you do?’’
“Did you say ‘forever?’”
“That’s what I mean. Your palms start to sweat. But if she let you know she was going back to an ex-lover, somebody you thought was bad news, what then?”
“You tell me, Cindy. You’re the one who takes the tests in Cosmo when you’re supposed to be typing writs of replevin.”
“Well, either you’d go home and drink a six-pack of that Dutch beer and maybe put your fist through the plaster, or you’d hop the first plane to go get her.”
“How does she know which it is?”
“She doesn’t. It’s a test. For both of you. She may be headed back to the cowboy, but she’s not sure about it. She wants you to go up there and drag her out by the hair. She wants you to stop her, to fight for her.”
“I did that once and got my bell rung.”
“You know what I mean. If the cowboy is professing his love, maybe she wants you to do the same thing, then she can choose.”
“If that’s it, why not just say—”
Just then, the phone rang on my private line. Abe Socolow got right to the point. “We found Cimarron.”
The way he said it, my first thought was another body. There I go again. Why was I so morbid these days?
“He’s sitting fat and happy on his ranch,” Socolow continued.
“Great. Have him arrested.”
“Yeah, well, the sheriffs deputies up there didn’t serve the arrest warrant. They just called him up and told him about it. Seems he’s a big deal in town. Anyway, he picked up the phone and called me. Says he’ll gladly face assault charges, or if you want, Jake, maybe go another couple of rounds.”
“To hell with that. Next time, I’ll just shoot him in the kneecaps.”
“Uh-huh. Well, he says he wants to file a complaint against you with my office.”
“What for? I scuff his boots with my head?”
“Grand larceny. Claims you and Blinky conspired to defraud him and the third-party investors in that treasure company. Something about selling the stock three or four times. Diluted his stock, claims Hornback was going to blow the whistle on both of you.”
“I don’t know anything about it, Abe. If you’ve got proof, go ahead, take your best shot.”
“Nah. I don’t believe it. Just want you to know. I figure you can explain everything.”
I didn’t like the way he said ‘everything.’ “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still bank at Southern Federal, right?”
“Yeah, what about it?”
“We served a subpoena on their records custodian about an hour ago, so I gotta ask you about a cash deposit of seventy-five grand to your account last week.”
“That’s got to be a mistake.”
“Hey, Jackie, I’m looking at a photocopy of the deposit slip. Seventy-five thousand in cash last Thursday.”
“Abe, stop and think about it. If the money was dirty, would I put it in the bank?”
“How should I know? The only times I ever saw seventy-five grand in cash, it came from bad guys. Drug dealers, bookies, tax evaders. But maybe you’re only half-bad, Jake. Maybe you were going to declare taxes on it, claim it was a legal fee, so why not put it in the bank? Besides, I long ago gave up figuring out why you guys do what you do . . .”
You guys?
“...We’ve still got burglars going into tented homes being fumigated. Come morning, they’re just as dead as the termites. Last week, another Seven-Eleven robber shot himself in the dick. You’d think by now, these wise guys would stop shoving their guns down the front of their pants when they get outside. You know how much pressure it takes on the trigger to fire a cocked nine-millimeter?” Socolow barked his unpleasant laugh. “Is that what you did, Jakie. Shoot yourself in the dick?”
“Abe, we’ve known each other a long time. You ever know me to steal anything?”
“Don’t pull any of that auld lang syne shit on me. It doesn’t work.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
The line hummed, and I pictured Socolow scowling into the phone, his feet propped on his state-issued, green metal desk. “No, Jake. I’ve never known you to steal. Up till now. Or to kill, either, for that matter.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The grand jury meets this afternoon on the Hornback case.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You didn’t hear it from me, but here’s the evidence that’ll be presented. On Sunday, June thirteenth, Kyle Lynn Hornback, a white male, age twenty-seven, was found swinging from a ceiling fan in a house belonging to one Jacob Lassiter, who reported the crime. From body temperature, livor mortis and rigor mortis, the medical examiner places the time of death between nine and eleven p.m. Mr. Lassiter was home early in the evening, but cannot account for his presence between ten and eleven-thirty, having claimed to be on Ocean Drive during that time, but there are no alibi witnesses, not even Kato Kaelin. Cause of death was asphyxiation as Mr. Hornback was strangled with a silk tie belonging to Mr. Lassiter. Toxicology showed a substantial quantity of phenobarbs in Mr. Hornback’s blood, and he may have been unconscious when strangled. The methyl methacrylate test revealed latent fingerprints on the face, neck, and arms of the decedent, and the latents matched those of Mr. Lassiter. You follow me, Jake?”
“Like a shyster behind an ambulance.”
“On Monday, June fourteenth, Mr. Hornback was scheduled to appear before the state attorney to give a statement that would have implicated Mr. Lassiter’s client in a fraudulent investment scheme. That client has now disappeared, and based on evidence obtained from his vehicle, he may also have been killed. The only person known to have been at that scene is Mr. Lassiter, who answered a phone call from the state attorney, then hung up without identifying himself, and apparently was intent on fleeing at the time officers arrived.”
“Is that it?”
“Not quite. A witness, a ranch owner from Colorado named K.C. Cimarron is prepared to testify that Mr. Lassiter’s client, apparently with Mr. Lassiter’s advice, knowledge, and assistance, engaged in a scheme to defraud investors of a closely held company called Rocky Mountain Treasures, Inc. Mr. Cimarron cla
ims that at least one hundred fifty thousand dollars in corporate funds are missing, and Mr. Lassiter has no explanation for a seventy-five-thousand-dollar deposit to his bank account last week. Additionally, the stock subscription to the company was apparently sold several times over.
“Mr. Cimarron is the last living witness who can testify to these matters. About five minutes ago, Mr. Lassiter threatened to shoot Mr. Cimarron in the kneecaps. About two weeks ago, Mr. Lassiter threatened to tear out his heart. The remark was made to the retired coroner and repeated innocently to the state attorney, as the retired coroner was afraid for Mr. Lassiter’s well-being, and also allowed as how his old friend was acting strangely.”
“Hey, Abe. I once punched out a tight end for the Jets. Drew a fifteen-yarder for unsportsmanlike conduct. Why not introduce that to the grand jury?”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“You’re telling me. Abe, listen for a minute. I’m going to confess. I confess to hating K. C. Cimarron, and you’re right, if I see him again, I may just tear him apart. But I didn’t steal from him or anybody else, and if you don’t know that, I’m really disappointed in you.”
“Not half as disappointed as I am in you. Jake, I’m not
going to insult you by telling you I’m only doing my job, because it’s never been just a job to me, and you know it. If you’re dirty, I take it as a personal affront. I take it as a rejection of everything I stand for, and it makes you the lowest of the low. I’m champing at the bit to get a piece of you, fellow, but I’m gonna play it by the book. If the grand jury thinks we submitted enough evidence to establish probable cause, you’ll be indicted for the murder of Kyle Hornback. Maybe you’ll be convicted and maybe you won’t. That’s not for me to say. As for Baroso, we don’t have a body, and the state can only fry you once, anyway.”
“Anything else, Abe, or should I get my papers ready to sue you for malicious prosecution? You’re going to look like a fool, Abe. I’m going to end your career, old buddy.”
“I’ll ignore that for now.” He paused and the line buzzed with static. “One more thing. Don’t leave town. If they indict, I won’t send out the deputies. You can come in with your lawyer, and I’ll handle the booking myself.”
I placed the phone down on the desk.
“Jake.” I heard the voice, faint now, as I slipped my suit coat on. “Jake, are you there?”
I always keep an overnight bag in my office. It contains a toiletry kit, a pair of jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a warm-up suit. I grabbed the bag from behind the credenza.
“Jake.” Barely audible now. “Did you hear me? No tricks, no funny stuff.”
And then I was gone.
Chapter 14
Continental Divide
I grabbed Kip from the conference room and told him we were taking a little trip. He’d been pestering me about going to Universal Studios near Disney World, so he figured we were headed to Orlando. I reluctantly promised we would another time, and on the way to the airport, gave him my sermon about the paving over of Central Florida, a land of motels, alligator shows, pancake houses, shell shops (with imported shells), go-cart tracks, miniature golf courses, T-shirt shops, and medieval castles made of plastic. Call me a curmudgeon, but I just don’t go for pre-packaged, no-surprise, sterilized “attractions.” I’d rather take the kid fishing.
So I told Kip where we were going and added that he’d better tie the laces of his high-top sneakers, and he began asking the first of six hours of questions. “But why are we going out west, and why couldn’t we get my clothes first?”
“We’re going because the state attorney here thinks I killed someone, and a dangerous guy there thinks I double-crossed him.”
“Broly! Just like North by Northwest.”
“Huh?”
“The cops think Cary Grant killed this guy at the UN, but it was really an assassin hired by James Mason, who thinks Cary Grant is someone else, and—”
“Kip, this is real life.”
“I know, but you can learn things from the movies.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
“Like, if you see a crop duster flying real low, you better duck.”
“Okay, got it. As for your clothes, I’ll get you duded up when we get there.”
He made a face. “Duded up? Uncle Jake, that’s totally geekified. I mean, nobody talks like that, not even Pee Wee Herman .’’
On the expressway, just before the airport exit, a blond woman in a red Porsche cut me off, changing lanes. I gave her a friendly honk-honk, and she responded with the middle finger of her left hand. A bumper sticker on the Porsche read: “I still miss my ex, but my aim is improving.”
From a phone on Concourse E, I called Charlie Riggs to tell him what I was doing. “Are you going because of the girl or to get yourself out of a jam?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered, honestly.
At the other end of the line, Charlie seemed to think it over. After a moment, he cleared his throat with his genial harrumph. “Plautus probably said it best.”
“He usually did,” I agreed.
“Ubi mel ibi apes. Honey attracts bees.”
“I know what you’re saying, Charlie. Be careful of that other bee, the one with size-sixteen cowboy boots.”
“Surely, but be careful of the honey, too, my friend.”
***
The flight to Denver was uneventful, unless you count the look the flight attendant gave me when Kip asked whether they had Dutch beer instead of that canned piss supposedly made from Rocky Mountain spring water. I made a mental note to watch my language in front of the lad, maybe get some advice from Granny, who would probably hoot and offer us both some moonshine.
I tried to nap, but my hand, out of its cast, began throbbing, maybe from the cabin pressure, maybe from the task of opening all those little brown bottles with Mr. Daniel’s name on them.
We had ice-cream cones at the new Denver airport, and I bought Kip a Broncos sweatshirt, which matched his Day-Glo shorts and his orange sneakers. We rented a Mustang convertible, and top down, headed west on Interstate 70, the summer sun hotter than in Miami.
“Where’s the snow?” Kip asked.
“Off yonder,” I said, pointing straight ahead at the unseen mountains.
I told him everything I knew about Colorado, which wasn’t much. Just before I retired from pro football, which sounds better than saying I was put on waivers and twenty-five other teams didn’t notice, I had gotten friendly with three of the Packers defensive players. They kept bugging me to come skiing at the end of the season. When I finally gave in, I discovered that skiing was a lot like windsurfing, the combination of recklessness and gracefulness, although I always had a lot more of the former.
After that, I’d meet the guys each January, usually during Super Bowl week, so we could forget we weren’t there. We’d team up with a few guys from the Vikings and Bears, rent a couple of houses within snowball range of each other in Aspen or Crested Butte or Vail or Telluride, ski all day and play poker and drink bourbon most of the night. One of our number eventually made it to the Hall of Fame—football, not skiing—and all of us gathered in Canton, Ohio, for the ceremonies. Nobody, least of all the honoree, was sober, which may explain his emotional speech, which began, “I want to thank everyone responsible for my being indicted.”
Our gang was not the most skilled of skiers, what with creaky knees wrapped and braced against the torque, and our penchant for dueling with ski poles on the way down the slopes. We wore torn jeans and mismatched gloves and women’s stockings over our heads instead of ski masks, and we grossed out everyone with our sweatshirts, which had cute slogans, including, “Who Farted?” and “How’s My Skiing—Call 1-800 EAT SHIT.”
We didn’t always follow etiquette on the slopes or in the coffeehouses, tearooms, and chichi, wood-beamed creeping-ferned restaurants that abound in such places, and in general, we were as welcome as a Christmas week thaw. We did manage to avoid arrest and dep
ortation, but not for lack of trying. We were remarkably unsuccessful with women, especially in the tonier places like Aspen where they talk about après ski, causing me to coin any number of phrases, such as “Après ski, I’m gonna take a crap.”
I had never been here in the summer, and I had never chased a woman here, if that’s what I was doing now. I thought about it. The grand jury would have already met, and the foreman would have signed an indictment with my name on top. Sure, Charlie, I was here for Jo Jo, but I was here for me, too.
I was squinting into the late-afternoon sun, and the air was getting cooler. We passed Vail and got off the interstate to head south on U.S. 24 to Leadville, the old silver mining town. Kip had fallen asleep, and I woke him so he could see Mount Elbert and Mount Massive, both over fourteen thousand feet. Kip thanked me by growling and curling up again, his head in my lap.
We kept going south along the Arkansas River, then hung a right at Twin Lakes and up two-lane Route 92 toward Independence Pass. By now, it was downright cold. The top was up, and Kip was awake, reading the fine print on a tourist brochure we picked up at a gas station. We wound up the mountain road, slowed to near stops on a variety of hairpin turns, and below us, where we had been, was now a darkened, faraway valley.
“When they were looking for gold, the first miners traveled on burros in the winter over Independence Pass,” Kip informed me, reading aloud in the dying light. “They went through thirty-foot snowdrifts.” He looked out the window. “Hey! There’s snow! Stop the car!”
I did, and Kip got out. Just before dusk, and the wind was howling. Bright wildflowers, blues and reds and yellows, grew out of a moist topsoil, and nearby was a patch of wet, melting snow tinted reddish-brown by the blowing dust. Kip leaned down, gathered up a handful, and patted himself a soggy, misshapen snowball.
“Hit me with that,” I said, “and you can take a burro over the pass yourself.”
He aimed at a road sign but didn’t come close. “I never saw snow before. Bitchin’ stuff!”
“Totally,” I agreed.