by Robert Greer
Nodding and eyeing CJ suspiciously, Marquee reached behind him, pulled a box forward, pushed aside everything else on the table, hefted the box, and plopped it down. “Have a look, but be careful.”
CJ flipped quickly through a half-dozen porcelain plates, most in good condition and most quite common. Fifty- to one-hundred-dollar plates, nothing special, he thought, continuing his perusal. When a rare 1915 black-on-white Vermont porcelain tag caught his eye, he started to lift it out of the box.
Marquee grabbed his hand. “Leave it in its place. I’ll take anything you’re interested in back out once you’ve worked your way through the whole box—that is, if you are serious.”
CJ was close to telling the haughty beak-nosed man to shove his license plates up his ass when the 1933 Ohio plate behind the Vermont plate tipped forward, revealing an early Colorado municipal tag—a plastic-wrapped Monte Vista town plate with telltale cracks along its top edge and a perfectly centered number 87, flanked by a small M over a V. Looking dumbfounded and certain that the plate was the same one Wiley Ames had shown him five years earlier, CJ said, “This one looks interesting,” and ran a finger along the top edge of the plastic. “Want to take it out? I’m done with this box.”
“It’s a Colorado town tag,” Marquee said, teasing the Monte Vista plate up and away from its neighbors. “Nineteen nine or ten. Rare but not so rare if you know what I mean. Two twenty-five’s what I’m asking.”
“It’s got a few chips.”
“They all do from that vintage. Any serious collector would know that.”
“Okay if I have a closer look?”
“Go ahead. Just don’t take it out of the plastic.”
CJ held the license plate up to the hazy sunlight. “Don’t have many early townies like this in my collection. Where’d you find it?”
“Scrounging around.”
“Up in the mountains?”
“Don’t remember.” Marquee cocked a suspicious eyebrow.
“It’s a beauty. How long have you had it?”
“You buying or not?” Looking peeved, Marquee reached for the plate.
Inching the plate out of the Englishman’s grasp, CJ laid it down on the table and reached for his wallet. “Yeah, I’m buying.”
“Two twenty-five plus tax. Cash or check. I don’t take credit cards.”
“Looks like you’ve picked a winner there, CJ,” said Petey, who’d been noticeably silent.
“Sure hope so.” CJ teased five fifty-dollar bills out of his wallet. Knowing he’d be eating lean for the rest of the month, he handed Marquee the cash.
Seeming no more pleased than if the sale hadn’t been made, Marquee fished change out of a cigar box on the table and, without counting it out, handed it to CJ. “You can keep the baggie,” he said, smiling smugly.
Holding the license plate protectively against his hip, CJ asked, “Any idea if this baby came out of a larger collection? I’d sure like to know if it has any sisters or brothers.”
“Got no idea,” Marquee said brusquely.
Thinking, Sure, you don’t, CJ asked, “Mind if I have a look at the rest of your stuff?”
Marquee hesitated before answering. Then he reluctantly reached back and lifted the box closest to him up onto the table.
With Petey Greene hovering, breathing garlic breath over his shoulder, CJ sifted through that box and several more over the next ten minutes. The only special plate he ran across among the hundred or more he looked at was a state-shaped single-digit 1927 Tennessee plate. “Uncommon,” said CJ, eyeing Marquee. “Where’d you get it?”
“You’re ghastly full of questions, chap,” said Marquee. “Are you writing a reference book on license plates or something?”
“No,” CJ said, noting the irritation in Marquee’s voice and realizing that he’d tweaked the Englishman enough to have pushed him into British idiom. “Just like to add a little history to my finds.”
“Well, that bird there doesn’t have one.”
Thinking, More slang, CJ tucked the Monte Vista plate under his arm, telling himself that Gaylord Marquee deserved a lot more scrutiny. Turning to Petey, he said, “I’m down to my last twenty, Petey. Think it’s time to go.”
Petey handed CJ the kettle corn he’d been holding on to for him, most of which he’d eaten, and said, “I’m thinkin’ you scored pretty good,” as they walked away.
Feeling Marquee’s eyes glued to them all the way to the Bel Air, CJ said, “Marquee sounded real British.”
“He is. He’s from Bristol.”
“How long’s he been in Denver?”
“Ten, eleven years I know of. Maybe longer. Why?”
CJ slipped the Monte Vista plate from under his arm, eased it out of its baggie, and held it up to the light. Studying the plate intently, he said, “Got a job for you, Petey. One of those ear-to-the-ground kind of gigs you’re so good at.”
“Shoot,” said Petey, beaming with pride as CJ lowered the unsleeved plate.
“I want you to dig up everything you can for me on Marquee. Where he lives, who he hangs out with, where he sells his wares besides the flea market here, where he gets his goods from, and exactly how long he’s been in Denver. And while you’re at it, I need you to dig up something else. Run down what you can for me on a guy named Walt Reasoner. He owns the Epic Produce & Meats Company up in North Denver. Same deal as Marquee—where he lives, who his acquaintances are, and any kind of lowdown you can get on his business dealings.”
“Easy money,” said Petey.
“Same charge as usual?”
Petey shook his head. “My prices have gone up. Inflation. It’s fifty bucks nowadays for a lead that’s solid. A hundred for the kinda info you’re askin’ for.”
CJ thought about his nearly empty wallet, before he reluctantly said, “Okay.”
“I’ll have the skinny for you on Marquee pretty quick. Might take a little longer for Reasoner. Why you want ’em scoped out, anyway?”
“Because they’re interesting people,” CJ said, breaking into a smile.
“You’re thinkin’ that plate Gaylord sold you might’ve been stolen, aren’t you?”
“Maybe. And Petey, the info can wait ’til Saturday. Tomorrow evening I’m headed to the symphony.”
“Damn. You buckin’ to suddenly get cultured?”
“Absolutely.” CJ winked at his longtime friend, slipped the Monte Vista license plate back into the baggie, and lit up a cheroot, thinking as he took his first satisfying drag about how to approach Molly Burgess the next evening.
Chapter 13
On his way home from the flea market to Bail Bondsman’s Row, CJ kept thinking he’d missed something important in sizing up Gaylord Marquee. No question Marquee was glib, circumspect, maybe even a little down-home slick. But there was something else about him that was unsettling. Something beneath-the-radar sinister. He couldn’t put his finger on what he might have overlooked, but he’d missed something about the man that was important, he was certain of that.
With a little luck, Petey Greene might square things up for him—shed a little daylight, in essence, on Marquee—but for the moment, the Monte Vista plate sitting on the seat beside him had moved him closer to a solution to the GI Joe’s murders than he’d ever been.
When he pulled into his driveway, Ike was standing on the front porch staring out onto Delaware Street and shaking his head. It was ten degrees colder than it had been at the flea market, and as CJ stepped out into a stiff twenty-miles-per-hour breeze, gripping the Monte Vista plate tightly, he knew for sure that Denver was headed for snow.
“What’s shakin’, Unc?” he called out, tucking the plate under one arm, cupping his hands together, and blowing into them.
Looking as if his world had collapsed, Ike said, “Nordeen quit. Skedaddled outa here a few minutes before you pulled in. Told me there wasn’t no way in hell she was gonna have me workin’ her like no dog.”
“So we hire somebody else.”
“I�
��ve got that covered, least for now. Marguerite’s gonna help out two days a week ’til we get a replacement.” He glanced up, then down, Delaware Street, eyeing each of the other six Victorians that made up Bail Bondsman’s Row. “But the competition don’t care whether we got a secretary or not, and we both know things been a little lean around here lately, so I’m hopin’ we get somebody soon.”
“We’ll make out okay.”
“Expect we will.” Ike glanced at the license plate tucked under CJ’s arm. “Where you been, anyway?”
“The Mile High Flea Market. Bought myself something. Have a look. It’s a Monte Vista town plate from around 1909 or 1910.” He handed the plate to Ike. “It was part of Wiley Ames’s collection, I’m sure of it.”
Ike studied the plate briefly, then shook his head. “You ain’t gettin’ ready to reconstitute the GI Joe’s murder shit, are you?”
“I’m looking into some things.”
Ike frowned and tugged on his earlobe, something he had a habit of doing before offering advice. “You need to let that mess go, boy. The cops never found nothin’, and I’m thinkin’ that no matter how long you dig around, neither will you. We got other issues to handle around here right now.”
“Don’t worry, it’s a back-burner issue for now. Besides, I’m busy working on something for Willis.”
“Willis payin’ you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Looking relieved that CJ had had the good sense to charge for his services instead of working for free, as he far too often did for friends, Ike said, “Marguerite’s comin’ by in a little bit to finish typin’ up some things that Nordeen left hangin’. Got an aggravated-assault case to post up, and on Artie Wilson, no less. The dumbass popped some white boy in the head with a beer bottle down at El Chaparral last night. I’m guessin’ we made the mortgage money for today.”
Thinking suddenly about his own nearly empty wallet, CJ asked, “Can you lend me fifty bucks, Unc? The license plate just about cleaned me out.”
Looking at CJ as if he were a teenager who’d overspent his allowance, Ike shrugged. “Where the hell you headed you need fifty bucks?”
“To the symphony.”
Ike slipped out his wallet, took out a fifty-dollar bill, and handed it to CJ. “I know there’s more to my fifty disappearin’ and that symphony trip than what you’re tellin’ me, CJ. Spit it out.”
“There is. And I’ll tell you about it when I get back from listening to a night of Beethoven tomorrow evening,” CJ said with a wink.
“Fine. Just don’t forget about returnin’ my fifty when you do.”
“I’ll have it back to you tomorrow,” CJ said, knowing that by then Willis Sundee would have paid him in advance for an initial week’s work.
“You headed to the symphony by yourself?”
Walking backward toward the Victorian’s fire escape, CJ said, “Nope. I’m planning on taking Mavis.”
Ike broke into an ear-to-ear grin. “Good choice. And it’s about time.”
“Yeah,” said CJ, feeling guilty that the reason for his symphony outing had far more to do with Molly Burgess and the GI Joe’s killings than it had to do with Mavis.
An hour and a half later, CJ walked into GI Joe’s with the Monte Vista plate in his hand, looking for Harry Steed. He hadn’t been inside the pawnshop in two years, but it hadn’t changed much save for the fact that Wiley Ames’s Wall of the West had been replaced by floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked mostly with Indian pottery, and the whole store seemed more dim, dusty, and cluttered than ever.
Harry Steed looked up from a mini–boom box he’d been fiddling with, caught a glimpse of CJ, smiled, shoved the boom box aside, and scurried from behind the counter. Draping an arm over CJ’s shoulders and pumping CJ’s right hand, the gregarious, balding, owl-eyed, deeply tanned Steed said, “You just caught me. Another ten minutes and I would’ve been closed. What in the hell’s up, Mr. Bail Bondsman extraordinaire?”
CJ patted the slightly slump-shouldered World War II vet on the back. “Glad you stayed. Sorta late for you to be open, though, isn’t it?”
“Just trying to earn a poor man’s dollar. We can’t all be media darlings, getting our picture plastered on the front page of the Denver Post with a Colorado Bureau of Investigation top-ten fugitive strapped to the back seat of our Jeep.”
“Lighten up, Harry. I’ve heard enough about bringing in Juarez over the past three months from Rosie Weeks and that crowd that hangs out at his garage to last me a lifetime.”
“I know that crowd. Perceptive folks,” said Harry, who several years earlier, at CJ’s urging, had begun taking his own vintage ’49 Buick Roadmaster to Rosie’s for service, but only after making certain that Rosie’s charges were 10 percent lower than those of the shop where he’d been taking the car for years. Rosie, who simply called Harry cheap, had never bought into CJ’s argument that the portly pawnshop owner was simply frugal. “What did they pay you for bringing in Juarez, anyway?”
Having learned years earlier that it was money and gamesmanship more than anything that made Harry Steed tick, CJ said, “Fifteen hundred.”
A high-pitched whistle filled the air. “Not bad.” Stroking his chin and looking deeply reflective, as if that kind of money might make him take a stab at bounty hunting, Steed shook his head. “Too much risk and not enough reward.” If the reward had been double the fifteen hundred dollars, CJ expected Harry might have reconsidered. When Steed asked, “What brings you down to my neck of the woods?” the dollar signs in his eyes had slowly started to disappear.
“What else?”
“Not Wiley.” Steed shook his head. “Let it go, CJ.”
“I’ve heard that already today, from Ike.”
“Then I’d listen.” Steed leaned back against the counter. “Old ghosts are the most dangerous kind, they say.”
“Maybe. But I’ve got a new lead. It came my way unexpectedly today. You know that license-plate collection of Wiley’s? The one he left to his niece?”
“Of course. I’m the one who appraised it for her. Middle-of-the-road stuff, but decent.”
“Well, I’m thinking she didn’t get all of her inheritance. One of the plates, a Monte Vista municipal tag from about 1909 or 1910 that Wiley showed me the day after we first met, turned up at the Mile High Flea Market today. An antique dealer named Marquee was packing it around. You ever heard of him?”
“Nope, not a name I recognize. What’s the big deal, anyway? Maybe Wiley’s niece sold the plate to him.”
“That was my first take, too, but when I asked Marquee where he got the plate, he tap-danced around the issue like he was Fred Astaire.”
“Sometimes it’s best not to reveal your sources when you’re in the resale business. You know that as well as I do, CJ.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. But Marquee’s hiding something. No question about it.”
“So sue him.”
“Come on, Harry. I’m here for help, not stand-up comedy. You ever hear from that niece of Wiley’s, Cheryl Goldsby?”
Steed shook his head. “Haven’t seen or heard from her since she had me appraise Wiley’s things five years ago. She packed up what was in his condo and here at the store a few days after I sent her a written appraisal and took off. Had another woman with her both times.” Harry scratched his head thoughtfully. “I’m sure I told you that a long time ago.”
“You might have,” said CJ, knowing that his initial unschooled investigation of the GI Joe’s killings had been nothing more than a fragmented guilt-driven rush to nowhere. “What was his collection of stuff worth back then?”
Looking even more puzzled, Steed said, “I told you that, too. Four to five grand, tops. He had some World War II memorabilia—German guns, flags, helmets, and some old sepia-toned photos that had some value. Some license plates worth something and a nice collection of inkwells. That’s about it.”
“And you’re sure Goldsby took it all?” CJ asked, his memory of events from five yea
rs earlier clouded by post-traumatic stress.
“Every tin can and bottle cap. She and the woman with her loaded up a pickup here and then at Wiley’s condo and took off outa Denver like nobody’s business. You ask me, I think they were dykes. Anyway, the one with Cheryl was a nosy sort. Wide-bottomed and thick and with sticky hands. Picked up damn near everything in here and had a look at it while Goldsby loaded the truck up mostly by herself. I had the feeling she knew a whole lot more about the antiques and collectibles business than she let on.”
“Hm, you know what, Harry? I’m thinking it’s time for a road trip. One I should’ve probably taken a while back.”
“Where to?”
“To visit Cheryl Goldsby and that special friend of hers. When I visited her a month or so after Wiley’s funeral, she shooed me off pretty fast.”
“You thinking maybe she or the girlfriend might’ve killed Wiley?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“I don’t know, CJ. That’s stretching it, if you ask me. And for what? Cheryl inherited everything Wiley had.”
“Could be he had more. We know for sure that he and Chin were in the fencing business. Maybe they had other stashes. Stashes that only Cheryl and the girlfriend knew about.”
“Maybe. But I’m here to tell you that Wiley kept just about everything that was valuable right here, where he had the use of a free alarm system. So if he had a stash, where the hell was it?”
Looking stumped, CJ shrugged. “You got me. But I intend to find out if he had one.”
“I’d be careful if I were you. Remember what I said about ghosts.”
“I’ll do that. In the meantime, I need you to do me a favor. Can you do a little asking around about that guy I mentioned, Marquee? He works your side of the street, Harry. Antiques, Indian pawn, Western collectibles, stuff like that, and he’s British.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“You’re the man,” CJ said, giving the pudgy, balding pawnbroker a high five. “Don’t take any wooden nickels,” he said, turning to head for the front door and the short drive over to Rosie Weeks’s garage. As he walked by one dusty display case after another filled with valuable antiques and pawn, he suspected that a man as frugal and as into the game as Harry Steed had probably never had a single wooden nickel foisted on him in his life.