Silent Approach

by Bobby Cole

  “I think he’s clean,” Runt said. “Unless it’s so small I can’t feel it.”

  “So what do you do?” John Allen asked Winston.

  “I’m in the publishing business, and I dabble in artifact collections.”

  “You publish anything I may have heard of?”

  “I doubt it, since we don’t publish Gentlemen’s Quarterly.”

  John Allen laughed, and Winston saw him look at his watch.

  “You got somewhere to be?”

  “Look, I’m only here for the seed pot. That’s it.”

  Winston looked hard at John Allen. He had navigated through life living on his senses, trusting his feelings, but he couldn’t get a read on John Allen. He looked like he could be a cop, but he didn’t have the attitude that most cops gave off. Winston took a long pull from his beer.

  John Allen couldn’t tell whether Winston believed him—he was hard to read. His eyes were wild, and John Allen could tell he was a tormented soul.

  He noticed the other patrons of the bar had quietly slipped out. The bartender was the only one left, and he was talking on the phone to someone. He didn’t appear to be listening to their conversation at all. An idea suddenly floated through John Allen’s mind, and he tried to hurriedly think it through. He decided to act on it.

  “Listen, I’m here for the Indian pot that you called me about. I didn’t set up this meeting.”

  Winston nodded in agreement, though his eyes were still narrowed as though his mind were racing, trying to make himself believe it was okay to talk business with John Allen.

  John Allen decided to go all the way. “But while I’m here, do you know somebody that would be interested in buying an Indian skull?”

  Winston was clearly caught by surprise. “You have a skull?”

  “Yeah. My buyer doesn’t like skulls and bones. Just arrowheads, spear points, pottery, and such.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It was part of a bigger collection,” John Allen said. He could tell that Winston was interested.

  “It’s authentic?”

  “Oh, yeah. It’s authentic.”

  Winston knew he could move a skull with one phone call or e-mail to his Japanese contact. The man loved Native American bones, and for the right quality, price was never an issue. He’d even buy the seed pot, but Winston knew he would beat him up over the price. He always did.

  “Where is this thing?” Winston asked.

  “It’s out in the car.”

  Winston nodded at Runt, who went to the window to check the parking lot for surprises. A skull could fetch anywhere from $10,000 to $20,000, depending on the condition. When Runt nodded that the parking lot was clear, Winston looked at John Allen.

  “Okay, let’s see this thing.”

  “In here?”

  “We’re the only ones in here.”

  John Allen looked around the bar. It was just them and the bartender, who was still talking on the phone.

  “I’ll go get it,” John Allen said, “but I wanna see your seed pot, too.” John Allen figured he didn’t have much to lose. If he could sell the skull to Winston, the FBI could arrest him later. If Winston were to steal the skull from him, he could still have the FBI arrest him. As long as John Allen didn’t leave the premises with the man, he’d be safe. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Runt, get ours,” Winston said, grabbing a handful of peanuts.

  As John Allen was leaving the bar, his eyes met the bartender’s, and the man winked at him. That unnerved him. What does that mean? Is he saying, “You’re about to get screwed,” or “I have your back”?

  John Allen walked outside, and the Mississippi heat and humidity settled around him. His heightened senses flooded him with data. The ever-present summer cicadas that most people didn’t even notice were almost deafening. He checked the audio-notes app and saw that it was tallying up the minutes. He wondered how long it would last. The black Porsche was hot to the touch. Three cars away, Runt was digging in the back of a black Suburban with tinted windows. John Allen committed the tag number to memory. It could be useful to Emma. He grabbed the wicker box with the skull, but he didn’t grab his money, which an inner voice told him to leave where it was.

  On his way back inside, John Allen was shocked to see an owl sitting atop the shabby little bar’s roof, watching the parking lot. You rarely saw an owl in daylight. This one seemed fearless and completely out of place. John Allen continued on toward the front door, with Runt falling into step right behind him, holding a package under his arm. Just before he opened the door, John Allen stepped back to see if the owl was really there or a figment of his imagination. Seeing it staring at him gave him a spooky feeling. He wondered if it was an Indian spirit overseeing the transaction of a sacred artifact.

  “What you looking at?” Runt asked. “You haven’t ever seen an owl?”

  “Not in the daylight.” John Allen said.

  “I see ’em all the time.”

  John Allen thought if the owl was an Indian spirit, that comment made a lot of sense.

  “Hawks, too?”

  Runt looked at him like he was crazy. “All the time.”

  “I bet you do.”

  Back inside, Winston had started a second beer and was observing John Allen’s every move as he approached him. The bartender was now busy organizing the cooler behind the bar and appeared oblivious to what was going on.

  John Allen set the wicker box down in front of Winston. Runt set his package down as well, then checked his cell phone.

  “There’s your pot,” Winston said calmly.

  John Allen carefully withdrew the pot from its package and freed it from the pink, silky robe it was wrapped in. It was a gorgeous specimen. He had never seen a seed pot before. The Indians would use this vessel to store seed corn, or maize, as they called it, or any other valuable seeds they would save for the next year’s crop. He knew that the Choctaw Nation would want this. He had to leave with it.

  Winston smiled, pleased by John Allen’s obvious appreciation of the pot, and opened the wicker lid and pulled back a velvet wrap revealing an orb of bone. Carefully he lifted the skull. He had no way of telling whether it was authentic, but he looked for obvious telltale signs. There were no fillings in the teeth that remained. That was good. There was no trauma to the skull, but it was obviously very old. Just how old he didn’t know.

  “Where did this come from?” he asked as he admired the object.

  John Allen noticed that its presence did not have the same effect on Walker as it’d had on Emma and him. They’d both been creeped out by it, but if anything, Winston seemed to feed off the energy of the skull.

  John Allen had already rehearsed a lie in his mind, a fiction that made sense to him. “Some artifact hunters along the Tennessee River in North Alabama found it. It was submerged in a mud bank near a known village that was flooded by the channelization of the river. The water and mud is thought to have preserved it.”

  Winston nodded. That made sense. North Alabama was a hotbed for artifacts along the river. He was now convinced that John Allen worked for the female collector he’d heard about. It made sense she would be spooked by the bones—they weren’t for everyone. It took a special kind of collector to want human bones. Winston wanted the skull.

  “How do I know it’s an Indian skull?”

  “How do I know this pot is for real?” John Allen parried.

  It was an age-old problem for collectors. They could learn what to look for, but most weren’t trained in identifying authentic artifacts. They acquired their patchy knowledge through comments they picked up along the way and a few books on the subject.

  Winston slowly scrubbed his face with his right hand. He was clearly thinking. John Allen saw that Runt was texting, and the bartender was now polishing the far end of the bar.

  “Do you want my seed pot?” Winston asked.

  “How much?”

  “Ten.”

  “I’ll give you
seven.” John Allen loved to negotiate. “It’s got a small crack, and it looks like somebody repaired it.”

  Winston hadn’t studied it that closely. He had no idea whether it had been repaired or not. He didn’t have any cash tied up in the vessel, so whatever he got was pure profit. Plus he was already ahead of what the Japanese would pay.

  “It’s a near-perfect specimen. Nine.”

  “I agree,” John Allen said, “but nobody’s paying that much for pots. I’ll pay you eight in cash.”

  Winston smiled. He would take eight. “How much do you want for the skull?”

  John Allen sipped his beer and noticed the clock read 4:21. He didn’t need Emma calling him. “What are you offering?”

  Winston had an idea. The previous night at the casino there’d been a flurry of excitement, and he’d stolen forty $1,000-denomination chips from a table. He couldn’t believe his luck. He knew better than to try to cash the chips anytime soon; his plan had been to slowly cash them in, one at a time. The casino would no doubt be looking for the missing chips. He’d have to get several people to help him, and they would want a cut for the risk. If he could turn a portion of the chips into paying for this skull, though, then he’d be safe.

  “I’d rather you tell me a price, and I’ll tell you if it’s fair.”

  John Allen didn’t want to scare him off. He just wanted him to buy it. But to be believable, he had to act as if he knew it was valuable.

  Winston figured the owner of the skull didn’t want it. Like most folks, she was probably spooked by the idea of a skull, so she’d probably take any reasonable offer just to move it.

  “This is your lucky day,” Winston said as he reached for a cigarette. “That skull is probably worth ten, maybe eleven grand, but I’ll pay you twelve if you’ll take it in casino chips.”

  “Casino chips?”

  “They’re just like cash. They’re from the Silver Star Casino in Philadelphia.”

  John Allen blinked his eyes, his mind racing. Could this be some kind of criminal loophole he hadn’t anticipated? Could Winston squirm off the hook because he’d paid with chips instead of cash? The clock read 4:23. He needed to call Emma, and he needed this play to seem believable.

  “If it’s chips, make it fifteen grand.”

  Winston thought for a minute. It was all house money, and he was just turning chips into cash. This process would be faster for him. He nodded his agreement.

  “I don’t care what you tell your boss lady,” Winston said. “Tell her you sold it for ten, and you keep five chips.”

  John Allen saw this as a chance to call Emma. He could explain to her what was occurring, and she could advise him. The clock now read 4:24. He nodded. “That’s an interesting offer. I need to call my boss and make sure she’s okay with the ten.”

  “Yeah, sure, go ahead. And get your money for my pot while you’re out there.”

  John Allen nodded again. “Do you want to subtract what I owe you?”

  “No. I need the cash.”

  John Allen stood to walk out into the parking lot. He liked the deal. It was all working out, and he was going to be able to call Emma on time. He pushed the door open, and once again the heat and the insect sounds overwhelmed him. He took out his iPhone and found it was still recording and had twenty-three minutes’ worth. He pushed the red “Stop” button as he walked.

  Inside the bar, Winston called Runt over. “When he comes back in here, you go out and tape this iPhone to the frame of his car. Tonight we’ll use it to find out where he is, and we’ll steal it all back.”

  Agent Emma Haden was nervously pacing back and forth and checking her watch when her phone rang. She quickly hit the green “Accept” button.

  “John Allen, are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, but I can’t talk long. I’m buying the pot from him, and he’s buying the skull from me.”

  “Holy cow,” she said. “Are his sidekicks with him? Can we get them, too?”

  “The one called Runt is. He’s been a part of the transaction for sure. Write this down. The vehicle they arrived in has a Mississippi tag number of NZK 297,” John Allen said in a hushed voice as he walked away from the building.

  “Got it,” she replied. “Tell me more.”

  “I don’t have time. There is one thing I gotta know before I go. If he pays me in casino chips, will that work as money for the bust?”

  “Yes, we could prove their value. It should hold up.”

  “I thought so. I really need to go. I will call you back shortly. I don’t want to say a time. This was nerve-racking.”

  “Just get it done and get out of there, John Allen. Oh, and if you get in trouble, the bartender is on your side. He’s a plant from the Meridian police, who already had an operation going at that place. We just learned that, and he knows who you are.”

  John Allen pulled eight packs of cash from his briefcase as he listened to her. Each pack had a wrapper indicating it had been counted and was valued at a thousand dollars. “Good to know. I’ll call you later.”

  John Allen took a deep breath, placed the cash in one pocket, then glanced around at the empty parking lot, which he imagined would be filling up soon as people got off work. He started a new audio recording and, after verifying that it was running, hurried toward the door to consummate their deal.

  When he walked back in, he found a stack of bright yellow casino chips sitting next to his beer. He assumed there were fifteen of them. He saw that they were $1,000 chips and had the Silver Star logo on them. They looked official, although he’d never seen $1,000 chips before.

  “And you can keep the robe,” Winston said, pushing it toward him as John Allen counted out the packets of money. “Maybe your wife will like it.”

  Runt, who was talking on his phone, grabbed the skull and slipped outside while still talking. John Allen watched him leave and made eye contact with the bartender before turning to Winston.

  “There’s eight grand,” he said to him, handing him the cash. “Don’t spend it all in one place.”

  “You get some more bones, you call me.”

  “I don’t even know your name.”

  “You have my number, though,” Winston replied, then took a drag off his cigarette. He snapped his fingers at the bartender and pointed at John Allen. “Let me buy you a beer.”

  Emma collapsed in the booth next to another agent. She picked a chicken wing off his plate and dipped it in ranch dressing while they all watched.

  “You seem to be in a better mood,” Agent Garner said.

  “I think it’s going to be okay,” she said between bites, visibly relieved.

  “So Indiana Jones did good?”

  Emma smiled at the joke and tossed the chicken wing into the growing pile of bones.

  “The best news is Winston Walker called him, so it helps us defend the case that we did not entrap him. He was predisposed to buy the skull and commit the crime. Our principal legal adviser will love that.”

  “I hope you can get him for more than that,” Agent Garner said, sipping coffee.

  “We will. We’re getting at least one of his minions, and I think if we apply some pressure, he’ll talk and we’ll get what we need.”

  “You feel pretty confident.”

  “This case deserves a good break, and this may be it,” she said.

  As the group consumed coffee, Emma checked her phone for e-mails. The agents were talking about conducting surveillance again tomorrow when the crop duster prepared for his first flight. He planned to be in the air by 7:30, so he would start preflight checks at 6:30 and would be filling tanks by 7:00. They agreed that everybody had to be in position at 6:30 again in the morning.

  “Does anybody think it’s unusual that he wanted to pay for the skull with casino chips?” Emma suddenly blurted out.

  “What casino?” Agent Garner asked.

  “I don’t know for sure. I assumed one of the Pearl River Resort casinos in Philadelphia.”

  “
Golden Moon or Silver Star,” an agent who liked to gamble commented.

  “Uh-huh,” Emma said. “I just thought that was a little odd.”

  Agent Garner had begun looking through his e-mails on his cell phone and found what he was looking for. “Listen to this, I got this alert a little while ago. The Silver Star Casino near Philadelphia, Mississippi, reported a theft of approximately $40,000 in chips today. The robbery occurred last night. Someone drove a pickup into the front lobby and knocked out power to part of the casino. In the darkness, someone grabbed the chips.”

  “How about that,” Emma said.

  “Would that fall under our jurisdiction?” someone asked.

  “Not unless they ask for our assistance,” Agent Garner said. “It would fall under the Bureau of Indian Affairs, and the tribal police would have the lead. It’s all complicated up there, since the land is federal, but they are a sovereign nation. We can’t just roll in there without being asked.”

  “Yeah,” Emma said, “but you met the chief. You know she’d be all for our help if she thought she could get Winston Walker out of the population.” She nodded to herself. “I need to talk to John Allen and that head-of-security guy,” she said with a big sigh.

  “You probably should go back to Jackson,” Agent Garner said. “We can make this work up here.” Everyone nodded. “And call us if you need some help.”

  John Allen couldn’t get out of the Pop A Top bar fast enough. He had the seed pot and was excited about getting it back to the Choctaws. He knew the chief would be proud of it.

  As he backed up the car, he looked for the owl but didn’t see it.

  He thought the meeting had gone well. Winston had purchased the skull, which was exactly what Emma had wanted him to do. Without their assistance there wouldn’t be an all-important recording of the event, but his testimony alone should carry the case. She briefly cussed his naïveté for not realizing how important that would be to the conviction.