by Moulton, CD
“Yes. I may have seen him go back there, but I’m not sure. A lot of people use it to urinate. You can tell that by the smell. They don’t have a quarter to use the baños inside. We look the other way.”
“I’m interested in anyone else who may have gone back there at the time. Anyone.”
“Well, there was a man who came out. He may have come in from the other side. Well-dressed, or I wouldn’t have paid any attention to him. He had a bandage on his face and a brace on his teeth, like when you have a broken jaw, you know? He was with Arno, I think.”
“Arno?”
“A black man who sells lottery tickets – among other things.”
“He around?”
“Probably around the entrance where the bar is.”
“Thanks!” Clint waved and went to the far end of the terminal and asked the guard if Arno was around.
“I saw him over by KFC about half an hour ago.”
Clint went inside and looked over the people around the restaurants. Three or four could be Arno, so he asked a girl at the information booth who Arno was. She made a face and pointed to a tall skinny black with a lot of jewelry who was selling lotto tickets.
“Sort of a crud, huh?” Clint asked.
She grinned. “If you like understatement.”
He went over to the man and came up behind him to say, “Getting involved with Portis is a good way to get dead. You know too much. That’s what happened to Pancho Salvez. He knew too much.”
He spun and stared at Clint, who was lounging against a column.
“You talk to me or you get shut up. Capiche?”
“Hey! He said the Indio was the one who broke his jaw!”
“I’m the one who broke his jaw. Watch your back. If you see him coming with someone like you, say whatever prayer you know, but it won’t keep you out of hell.
“Caio!”
He walked off. Now to see what developed. Arno was going to feel he had to get the cops to help him or he was dead meat. That meant giving them Portis.
C’est la vie!
Home Again
“Clint? Genio here. I just wanted to tell you that the Portis character was found stabbed exactly like Salvez. Four times, any one of which is fatal. I suppose the Indios got even, huh?”
It was three days later and Clint was back in Bocas Town. He had spent a day at the comarca, then Ernesto flew him home. He had four 3" PVC pipe sections about eight feet long with wires going inside. He didn’t look inside. He didn’t want to know. He gave them to Dave in Cusapín. It was on the way home. Dave said they did a better job than he did building them. He’d take them apart and use the PVC to deliver water to his plants.
They had flown over the zinc deposit area and it looked exactly like the surrounding territory. There were a few large white limestone rocks around.
“Arno still around?”
“Arno?”
“The one who killed Pancho, paid by Portis.”
There was a pause. “I see. You set it up?”
“I tried to set it up where Arno would come to you to confess rather than be hit by a mysterious stranger hired by Portis. I guess he figured it would be easier and surer to get rid of Portis.”
“You’re something else!”
“So I’m told. I try to be practical.”
“Hmm. Going fishing today?”
“I might.”
Clint Faraday
#20
Dead Ahead
© 2012 by C. D. Moulton
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.
Clint and Judi are driving home from a visit with friends and are approaching Hornitos when Judi remarks that there’s a fire dead ahead. They stop to help. It is a burning house. When Clint goes inside there is a body on the bed. A body that died from a broken neck, not a fire.
Contents
Driving Home
Not Burned to Death
Colombians?
Subterfuge
Bad-asses
Your Move
A Way In
The Trick Was...
Relax
Clint Faraday #20
Dead Ahead
Driving Home
Clint Faraday sighed and looked at his wristwatch. 3:35. Two more hours to Chiriqui Grande. They’d spend the night with friends there. He and his attractive nextdoor neighbor in Bocas Town, Isla Colón, Bocas del Toro, Panamá, Judi Lum, a smart oriental woman who was as much as a partner in his detective cases anymore, were returning to Bocas after spending the past two days in Rio Sereno and Volcan visiting friends. It was a good time, but was exhausting. They had climbed two mountains on foot in two days. They had a box of orchids they found where some Indios were cutting timber for building a house. They, like their mentor and friend, Dave, would never take the plants unless they were doomed where they were. Dave was a nutty musician/ botanist who was accepted by the Indios, as was Judi, though not to the point Clint was. Clint had been declared a Ngobe Bugle by the chiefs of two of the comarcas, an honor he was only the second person to be given, as they understood it.
Dave would care for the plants that were new or different from what he had. Clint and Judi would take the rest home, along with Ben and Earl, two neighbors/friends in Bocas.
Clint had sworn to never again own a car when he moved from Florida to Panamá, but events had as much as forced him to buy one. It did come in handy for these trips, he had to admit, but he would prefer taking the buses that are everywhere and very cheap in Panamá.
“Want me to drive?” Judi asked. “You look like you could use a rest.”
He agreed and stopped to exchange seats. Judi was actually a better driver than he. She knew the road.
They chatted a little as they proceeded. They stopped in Gualaca to say “Hello!” to the people they knew and to have a melacatón (peach nectar) and use the baños. After about fifteen minutes they proceeded on toward the mountains and were nearing Hornitos when Judi said, “There seems to be a fire dead ahead. It looks bigger than a weed burn. I hope it’s not someone’s house up here. By the time a fire truck could get here there wouldn’t be anything but ashes.”
They came to the fire, a small house, indeed. People were carrying buckets of water to dump on it. The house was gutted, but the walls were concrete and the roof was zinc-plated steel. Clint offered his help and Judi went to help the women filling the pails. The fire was mostly out when a man came out and said that Pablo Quintero was dead. He must have fallen asleep in the bed and left the stove on or something. It was bad! He looked scared more than upset.
Clint looked around the house and shook his head, then went in to find a badly burned body laying on some sooty smoldering bedsprings. He looked at the body, mostly just bones, and shook his head again. “His neck was broken. He didn’t die in any fire!”
“Dios mio!” the man cried.
Not Burned to Death
“Anthony Garcia, called Tonio by the people around here. You are the famous Clint Faraday and the knockout secretary who keeps him from drinking too much and gives excuses for his being a total violence freak asshole, Judi?” the police investigator said in perfect English when he was presented to Clint and Judi. “I’m friends with Sergio Sanchez. Work with him on rotation sometimes.”
“Well, sorta. He’s the infamous PI and I’m his sexy moll secretary who actually runs the agency, so maybe that’s about right. So. What’s it to you, Flatfoot?” Judi said with a laugh.
“You read too much crap from the states,” Clint said. “Any idea what this is about?”
“I don’t read much. I do watch TV.
“I don’t know. Pablo was fairly well-liked here. He never caused any trouble. I’ll have to dig things up. You saw that it was murder when you came into the room according to Santos Riveras. I can see what you saw, I think. His head was twisted almost backward. I’d say his killer was pretty big.”
“A k
arate move. He was strong, but maybe not big,” Clint said. “You’ve undoubtably seen that twist bit on TV. Headlock from behind with one arm, wrap around the head with the other arm and twist while shoving the body forward. Fast.”
Tonio nodded. “I thought that was fake, but maybe it works. I’ve seen wrestlers do it and it didn’t seem to hurt anybody for more than a few seconds.”
“It’s dangerous. They have to practice enough that they won’t overdo it and manage to actually break somebody’s neck.”
“Oh, come on! Everybody knows that stuff’s real! They don’t actually practice anything, do they?”
Clint gave him the bird. They checked around the house together. Clint was known to the police in Panamá as someone who would work with them and wouldn’t try to hog credit for what they did. Mostly the opposite, he would see they got the credit for most of what he did whenever possible.
“Okay. The way I see it he met someone and they got into some kind of argument. It got out of hand and somebody saw that move on TV and tried it. It worked. He panicked and set the fire to make it look like a housefire accident,” Tonio suggested. “Close to what you saw?”
Clint thought and shook his head. “It takes too much force. Whoever did that meant to kill. The maneuver takes a lot of practice or all you’ll do is sprain the neck muscles and give someone a headache and sore neck for a few days. If it was an accident the person who did it still had a lot of practice and would know he was killing the subject. It’s a violent twist that has to happen before the neck muscles contract and the guy gets up and kicks hell out of you. There’s something either professional or very emotional behind it. I think if it was professional there would be a reason we can find behind it. If it wasn’t the person who did it will have been noted as having some kind of argument with him. Either way we should be able to find this one.”
“I’m glad of one thing,” Tonio said. “You keep saying ‘we’ – so I can expect your help on this? It’s not the kind of thing we have here – I mean this area. I know you’ve had experience among the gringos and in Panamá City. It’s beyond my training or experience.”
“He was an Indio. I’m a Ngobe.”
“I heard about that. Clements said the governor in Bocas was livid about it. The way they treat some of the indigenos there makes them scared shitless you’ll go after them.”
“All they have to do is give everyone an even break. No more problem.”
“They do that already. They screw everyone they can. The problem is, that includes the indigenos.” He laughed.
“So? Give the Indios special treatment by not trying to screw them every chance they get. I might even approve of that!”
“Much too deep for their limited intelligence. It wouldn’t occur to them.”
Clint grinned, nodded and replied. “Well, all seriousness aside, we should solve this in a few minutes.”
Tonio looked like he wanted to say something, thought, and said, “I think I like you. You said the exact truth of the matter then!”
They went outside where Judi was talking with several of the women. She looked at Clint and shrugged very slightly. She hadn’t learned anything yet – and she was as expert at getting information innocently as anyone he ever knew. It could be because they didn’t know anything or it could be self-protection. They didn’t dare say what they knew or they might die in a fire. If it was that Clint would know very quickly. They wouldn’t say anything past a certain point that gossip always passed from the get-go.
The next step was the obvious. Tonio would handle most of it. Clint would go on to Bocas where Judi would go on to Bocas Town with the groceries, orchids and stuff. He’d be able to get back early in the morning. He wanted to check on a few things later today and in Chiriqui Grande tonight.
The rest of the way to Bocas wasn’t bad. He picked up two Indio friends, Milo and Betany, at the Norteño bus stop casita and took them to the hospital in Almirante. Betany was having the baby any minute. Clint was afraid he’d end up having to deliver it before they got there, but they made it with almost forty minutes to go. The bus they would have taken would have given them just enough time if they got a taxi at the station. This was Betany’s first, but she’d seen dozens of births before and wasn’t much concerned. Milo wasn’t either. The Indios took such normal things in stride. They lived with nature.
Clint was able to learn that Pablo had come to Chiriqui Grande regularly. He had a girlfriend who worked in the aduana. They were planning to get married whenever she became pregnant. He got along with everyone fairly well, though he seemed to have some kind of issue with some people who came from Colombia. They were only there about once in two months. No one knew what it was about, but Pablo always warned people not to trust them. It could have been because most people were already suspicious of Colombians.
It didn’t seem like much. Clint had learned long ago that what seemed like nothing was far too often the most important part of a case.
He dropped Judi off at the place in Almirante where he kept his boat when going anywhere from that part of the mainland. Judi was expert with the boat and would have no trouble, though it was a bit windy and would be rough. She took that in stride like the Indios took things in stride. He said he didn’t know when he’d be back. Probably not long. He’d stay in Chiriqui Grande for the night to see what he could learn. He had one connection he wanted to investigate already.
Brian was on the dock for the water taxi so Judi would take him and his stuff to Bocas Town. Clint headed back for Chiriqui Grande, getting there just after dark. He checked into the hotel and went for dinner at a new little restaurant he had never heard of. He wished he hadn’t heard of it when he left. The food was blah and expensive and the waitress had an attitude. She seemed to think anyone should be honored that she would condescend to wait on them. He was glad of the Panamanian custom of not tipping. This was the first one he’d been in anywhere in Panamá where the service was so bad he wouldn’t have left a tip.
Next was the local gathering place for the Indios, a small bar. It was noisy and fun and he learned what he wanted to learn about Pablo and the people around. He also learned what might be the reason for the service at the little restaurant. It was a place a gringo bought and set up for Linda – his girlfriend. He had plenty of money, but wasn’t going to support any woman who wouldn’t do anything for herself. He didn’t come into Chiriqui Grande more than once a week and didn’t know the restaurant wasn’t popular. If you wanted a pretty good meal there along with good service make it on Saturday night or during the day Sunday when he was there. Everyone knew it and would eat there when he was in town.
“He doesn’t catch on to why the place doesn’t make a profit?” Clint asked Emilio, a friend who was up on all the happenings around the area.
“He doesn’t know it. It’s up to her to take care of everything. He just gives her money to buy new equipment or tables and dishes or whatever. She rips him off for most of that stuff and makes enough on the two days to get by. I think she deliberately runs the people away because she doesn’t like to have to cook or to do anything. I thought you had sense enough not to go into a restaurant that had no customers at dinnertime!”
“There were some few backpackers and surfers there. I did notice they only had sodas.”
“She has them come in. They get a soda and read the menu, look at the prices and leave.”
Clint shook his head and grimaced. “Why don’t any of you tell the gringo idiot what’s going on?”
“We don’t like him.”
“Oh? Arrogant asshole?”
“Not too bad. He’s the type who won’t even say ‘Buenos!’ unless you do first. He’s just not ... he’s like too many gringos, but mostly the ones up around Boquete. Always talking about money and stocks and such. Nobody here cares about any fucking stock market!”
“Got money or talks about it?”
“I suppose he’s got plenty. He wastes a lot.”
Clint talked
awhile, then went back to the hotel. Something was way out of sync here! It didn’t have anything to do with his case. This was a type of thing there was too much of around. That running customers away was a big part of it. Him coming into town and she acting 180 degrees different gave it away. No one could actually be that stupid. The books would probably show the place was taking in thousands of dollars a day. It was money laundering. Probably not a lot unless he had several such places. Linda was the one who was stupid. She didn’t realize she was set up to take the fall if they were caught. All he would know was that he helped her now and then with minor funds and took her word for it that the place was barely making a living for her. SHE was the one who kept the books! He would be shocked and enraged that he was so used!
Clint was about to fall asleep when something else occurred to him. Maybe there was a direct connection. It would depend on whether certain people were in town at the same time just a bit too often.
What had Pablo stumbled on that got him killed?
Colombians?
In the morning he talked with Julio and Berto, two of his Indio friends, about Pablo, Linda, George Blanton (Linda’s boyfriend) and the Colombians, Simon and Pancho Vallardes and Donaldo Perez. The Colombians had been in Chiriqui Grande about a week ago, but had driven back to Panamá City. They had a dark red Mitsubishi truck with lots of fancy chrome. Everyone was more or less neutral about them. They weren’t liked, but they weren’t disliked either. They didn’t mix with the locals much and everyone liked it that way. They were sort of up-end average size and strong. They looked like family, but who knew? The brothers wore too much flashy jewelry and the other one smoked cigars.
Clint had his car so drove on up to La Mina. The Colombians weren’t particularly noted as being there, though there was a man who talked like a Colombian who hung around a couple of days. He came from David and went back at night, then came back the following day and was around the China and the carretera, then went back to David or somewhere the second day about four thirty or so. A week ago yesterday. Nobody heard him called anything and the police at the toll station hadn’t spoken with him at all. He was about five nine or ten and maybe a hundred eighty or ninety pounds, had thick black hair and fairly sharp features. There was a small part of his left ear missing – like someone bit a piece off in a fight or something.