by Doug Walker
So with that in the works I rented a car and set off for Arizona, soon finding myself in Kingman, a city of less than 50,000 sterling souls. My first task was to find a single real estate agent. I wanted an individual because of the clandestine nature of my venture.
From a waitress at a diner, it seemed that Ruby Crystal, who had an office just down the block, would fill the bill. Entering her office, I found she was a well-preserved blonde, maybe early thirties and just over five feet in height. Blue eyes, freckles, heavy eye make-up.
Identifying myself, I said my interest was mainly rural real estate and it might run into some large bucks, but I’d like to get to know my agent first.
She looked me up and down and didn’t seem pleased with what she saw. “What do you mean by get to know?” she questioned.
“Just that. Have coffee, or lunch, and talk about ourselves, our background, our goals, that sort of thing.”
“I’m a professional, realtor that is. You come in my office, you want to buy something, I find it for you. That’s that. I know the territory.”
“I just want to establish a relationship, professional that is. There might be a need for privacy in what I’m looking for.”
“Privacy? Everything I do is a matter of public record. Nothing out of the way. If you want a certain property, I’ll find it for you. If you want a relationship,” she shrugged and glanced toward the door, “you might find it somewhere else.”
“I did want a one-person office. Might you recommend someone else?”
“Sure. Betty Morgan. She’s new to the business. Works out of her house.”
Ruby gave me the address and I found the house just a few blocks away. This is not a big city.
Betty Morgan, an attractive woman in her late twenties maybe, about five-seven, weighed maybe 130. Dark hair, greenish eyes. Making my same pitch, I found her more receptive, perhaps from boredom.
We adjourned to a diner for coffee and then to a city park for our heart to heart. “What I have in mind,” I finally said, “might almost make you rich.”
A slight smile. “Ruby called just before you arrived. She used the words ‘oddball’ and ‘creep.’”
“I figured. My approach is strange, I’ll grant that. But the money is there. And if you agree, there’ll be a bonus up front.”
“Agree to what?” The bonus had gotten her attention.
“Secrecy. Not to tell Ruby, or your husband, or your boyfriend, or your Mom, or best girlfriend. To tell no one what we’re doing.”
“If it’s something dishonest, absolutely not. Can you agree? Your fortune may be at stake, But if it’s honest real estate work, yes. Of course, I’m in this business to make money.”
“You agree then to all those things, to tell no one?”
“I agree.”
“Here’s the reason for secrecy. My plan is to buy up to, and maybe beyond, 50,000 acres of land for a new, say, city, or settlement. A very modern place to live.”
“In this wasteland? Who would want to?”
“There you go. I have a plan. I have the money. I don’t want to share the details of my plan at this time. You don’t need to know and it might even be counterproductive in some way. I simply need you to blanket the countryside and buy the land. If someone found out one individual was buying up land, prices might shoot through the roof.”
“How could we keep that a secret for long?”
“I would not be the sole purchaser. There are two companies also interested. You would rotate purchases among the three of us.”
Betty almost laughed. For joy? Or despair? I don’t know. It was a giddy moment. “Just where is all this land located?”
The moment was right. I whipped out my map. “It’s partly up to you. Where can we put together a large tract? South of Kingman, Dutch Flat, around Oatman, toward Bullhead City, the Sacramento Valley, Black Mountains. You will have work to do.”
“You know you’re talking some Indian reservations?”
“I understand. This project might be a pipe dream. But it’s my pipe dream and you could be part of it. I don’t mind trying and failing and losing money. What land we buy will go up in value eventually. I’m prepared at this moment to write you a check for five thousand dollars. Is it a deal?”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Pleased as punch with enlisting the good services of Betty Morgan, I headed back to Las Vegas and my fine buddies Moe and Curly. It seemed they thought I was going to use the million-dollar lot to build my own casino, and they wanted to be in charge of the flow of money that would cascade in like Niagara.
Imagining that pair as managers for my money drove me out of the desert heat and into a dry martini to paraphrase an old something or other. But the deal was closed, and not only was a clear title handed over to me, but I backed it up with title insurance.
After checking around with the Better Business Bureau and others, I met with a landscaper, Paul Greene, with an “e.”
His office was a fully air-conditioned trailer on the edge of town surrounded by various mechanical devices for moving soil, plus shovels, rakes and so forth, and a variety of shrubs – a veritable Garden of Eden, which is what he called his business, The Garden of Eden.
“I have a lot in the heart of the casino area, on the so-called strip, one acre more or less according to the deed.”
“And you have construction plans,” Greene said. “I believe I know that lot and I believe it hasn’t even been prepared for construction, at least the last time I was by. But it’s never too early to coordinate landscaping. What can I do for you?”
“Hopefully, everything. As you said, the lot has not been totally cleared of debris from the last building, although the bulk has been hauled away. I’d like the lot leveled and possibly sodded.”
Greene stared at me for a few seconds. Finally, he said, “Generally, you would do the building, doing a little earth moving here and there for general purposes. The landscaping might include a mound of earth here or there, a mogul, but the real work would follow construction. What sort of building do you plan?”
“None. I’m thinking of a marble, or granite bench, very heavy so vandals could not have at it. Otherwise, initially, grass.”
Greene nodded. “This is a hot climate, not totally suitable simply for grass whatever your reason.”
“I’m in total agreement. An underground watering system might be in order.”
“If that’s your wish,” Greene said. “We can clear the lot, install a watering system, do the sod, everything except the stone bench. But I would need verification that you own the lot and something up front.”
“You think my idea is off the wall?” I questioned.
“You’re talking about a very very valuable piece of real estate, doubtless with extremely high taxes. To make it into something like the village green seems ludicrous.”
“To you, it might. But I don’t intend to pay taxes, oh, maybe the first year, but not after that. So that’s no hardship. I think it would be a thing of beauty, an oasis of calm, quiet, serenity, in a neon jungle of glitz and fleshpots. Also, a tribute to a dead loved one.”
“Now you’re talking,” Greene said. “I can see it as a monument to someone you loved, but unless you’re going to incorporate yourself as a church, taxes must be paid. Are you some sort of religious personage?”
“Not so you’d notice. But we can cross all those bridges when we come to them. If you’re on, I’m willing to lay some money down and I would expect you not to tarry.”
“Of course, I’ll draw up a proposal with a completion date.”
Handing him my local attorney’s card, I said, “Please send it to him, or hand deliver it. He will look it over and funds will be released according to mutual agreement.”
Rather than stay in the Bedlam of a casino-hotel, I had found a quiet B & B on a secluded street and spent the better part of a week reading the novels of William Faulkner while Greene and The Garden of Eden got
their acts together.
Things were beginning to gel. Betty Morgan had called from Kingman and we had made a successful offer, complete with ten thousand in earnest money, for a 650-acre tract near Hackberry. It wasn’t the exact direction I wanted to go, but I decided to buy it anyway. A cash deal with a clear title, we could close in a week. So that was on the agenda.
Meanwhile, I had been busy with a New York law office setting up a couple of dummy companies for the next cycle of land purchases. Betty was now fully excited with the project, she had agreed to take two percent on each side of the transactions. Four percent where millions might be involved is considerable.
With the downtown landscaping underway, I met with my local attorney, Elton Badger, who headed a sizeable firm, and told him that once the landscaping was done and the marble bench in place, my intention was to give the property to either the city, or the National Park Service, whoever would agree to care for the property and keep it as a park forever, or until the planet exploded, whichever came first.
Elton showed some surprise, but civic-minded person that he was, he would do my bidding. The park service seemed the best bet because one city council cannot bind a subsequent one. So all my wheels were in motion and I was hoping for a slowdown in this flurry of activity.
The Arizona project, which I hoped would be a jewel in my crown, would rely on professional help after the ball was rolling and gaining speed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My slow down came as an unexpected gift. It was just after the closing on the first property and I had returned to Las Vegas and my B & B home. It seems that Moe and Curly, through their network of spies, had learned first that I was having the million-dollar lot sodded and second that I intended to donate it as a park available to all and sundry for no fee.
Their frustration knew no bounds. Placing their two moronic heads together they settled on a plan – they would kidnap me for a king’s ransom! In their birdbrain minds I had deceived them by not making them rich. So they would take the bull by the horns, to coin yet another cliché, or was that one already on the books?
Their first step was to invite me out for a farewell drink and slip me a mickey, a most powerful knockout drop that must have put me out for a couple of days. Awaking in a caged area of what looked like a large garage, or small warehouse, it took me some time to gather my senses.
There was a cot and I was laying on it. Also a chair and a table, plus a bucket I assumed to be used for sanitary purposes. Attempting to reconstruct my final waking moments, I became aware of a person, obviously of Latino heritage, sitting just outside my cell. He was silent.
“May I ask your name?” I inquired.
He smiled, and the angels sang. Or perhaps not. Perhaps it was just the drumming in my head, accompanied by a violin and a trumpet. “I am Poncho.”
“And I am Andy. We seem to be the only ones here.”
“Yes,” Poncho grinned again. “We are alone.”
“Alone together,” I added.
“Yes, alone together. I have some tortillas for you and some water. Are you hungry?”
“Thirsty,” I replied. “It feels like the entire Russian army marched over my tongue in their stocking feet.”
“Where are these Russians now?” Poncho inquired. He passed a bottle of water and a tin cup through the makeshift bars. Very appropriate for prison fare.
Sitting on my cot, drinking slowly, I began to feel human again. There was a window at the rear of my cell, and I stared at the outer world for a time. A large digging device, self-propelled on a track, had been at work just beyond the building.
“Why am I being held here?” I asked.
“The three of us are holding you for much money. Big money. You are a rich man.”
“You are saying I have been kidnapped?”
“That is true. Kidnapped. You are the victim. We get money.” Poncho smiled again.
“How much money will you get, Poncho?”
“I am promised ten thousand dollars by my partners.”
“But they will get much more. Is that true?”
“Yes, but ten thousand is a lot of money in old Mexico. My home is far to the south in a poor village. I will be rich.”
“I have no family. Who will pay my ransom?”
“My two partners, they figure it out. Maybe you will write a check, or give them secret numbers. They figure it out. I am hired to watch you. I have a gun.” He drew a .38 revolver from his belt and held it in the air.
I got to wondering where Moe and Curly might be, but Poncho told me he had a cell phone and he would call them soon. After eating a few tortillas and drinking more water, I asked what the construction was out back. Maybe workmen would arrive this morning.
“That is my shovel,” Poncho said. “I borrow it from my boss. The hole I dig is fourteen feet deep. That’s the deepest I can go.”
“And why do you need such a deep hole?”
Poncho pondered the question at some length. He was standing into trouble. “That, amigo mío, is a great secret.”
“Yes, a huge secret,” I replied. “I know you and I know your two amigos. It is a very deep grave you dig. A grave the two of us will share. It would be too risky to let you live. The deep grave is a swell idea. Few would dig that deep in search of bodies. Cadaver dogs could not detect the bodies. We will rest in peace through the ages.”
“I have a gun,” Poncho said. “I can defend myself.”
“You cannot be on your guard forever. Each of them may have a gun. They will shoot you down like a dog and tumble your body into the hole on top of mine. We are doomed, Poncho.”
“But first they must get the money. And how will this be done?”
“I doubt if they know. They’re not much for thinking ahead. But I could give you half a million dollars and send you off to Mexico as a super rich man. Half a million!”
“Ah, yes, Señor, if I would but free you. But then my two associates would be much angry. Perhaps they would shoot me then.”
“Perhaps not, if they were in the hole under fourteen feet of dirt.”
“I should shoot my friends? No, I could not. I am not a murderer.”
“But you would watch them kill me, just before they kill you. How is that different?”
“It’s the money, don’t you see?”
“And it’s half a million for you if you help me.”
“How can I trust you?”
“Your two friends are criminals. I am an honest man. Trust an honest man.”
“Good point. But I cannot kill.”
“I will do the killing. Just release me, and give me the gun. We wait for your friends. I shoot them. We bury them. You return the digging machine, we go to the bank and I open a half-million dollar account for you, then charter you a plane for old Mexico. You are free and rich. Even if they wanted to, who could find you deep in Mexico?”
Poncho pondered the matter. I moved to the window and stared out, beyond the deep hole and digger, beyond the desert to the mountains. I did wonder how Moe and Curly planned to get the money from me before my tragic demise. If I dropped out of sight, vanished, it would be Woody all over again. Déjà vu.
“How do I know you have half a million you are willing to give me?” Poncho asked.”
“For one thing, it’s my life. For another, I have many millions. That’s why your two friends put me in this cell. Half a million. I won’t miss it. You are a good man, Poncho, caught up with a pair of scummy criminals. You can have a good life in Mexico, or you can stay here and take your chances. Mighty slim chances.”
Poncho gave me a long melancholy stare and then walked over and unlocked the cell. “I’m trusting you,” he said as he handed me the revolver.
“You’ve done the right thing. The money and freedom will be yours. Make the call.”
It was an uneasy time waiting for Curly and Moe. At long last, a car pulled up outside the garage door. I stood with my back to the wall, next to the door, which was not
locked. Fortunately, Curly and Moe came in together, stopped short when they saw the empty cell and Poncho seated in his lawn chair off to one side.
It was Moe who started to raise a hue and cry.
“Gentlemen,” I interrupted. They turned and I shot them down.
Both were a bit overweight and it was a job to carry/drag them to the deep hole. I let Poncho go through their pockets and take what money they had on them. Then he fired up the digger and filled the hole. Once again, I was happy that I seemingly lacked a conscience.
Aren’t people supposed to be upset over things like this? Isn’t there some post-trauma something? After dismantling the cell and setting things to rights, we loaded the digger on a flatbed truck and the two of us drove off to Poncho’s bosses’ shop where we deposited both.
Poncho had a ten-year-old battered Ford pickup and we drove to Las Vegas, reaching the city about noon with the heat rising. After a good lunch, we did our banking. The charter company I use would respond within three hours. Just at dusk, I saw Poncho aboard the plane bound for deep into Mexico. There were tears of joy in his eyes when he shook my hand, and peso signs in his eyes as he clutched his ATM card. In Oaxaca he would be the cock of the walk.
Perhaps he was tempted to kiss me, but he held back. It’s a wonderful thing when you can do a good deed for a worthy individual.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
After a good dinner and a little wine, I slept the sleep of the pure of heart. The world was my oyster and the large marble park bench would soon be in place embellished with the single word: Bella.
In the morning at breakfast, I thought about what might be going on in the world: Moe and Curly were deep in sleep; Poncho was in his beloved Mexico; an old man at the general hospital was offering the floor nurse five hundred dollars to crawl into bed with him; Betty Morgan was combing western Arizona for land for sale; the owner of a nearby casino was skimming profits; an old Black Labrador was dying and his ten-year-old mistress was sobbing in grief; a hooker was talking money with a businessman from Great Falls; a fry cook had just caused a grease fire at a suburban diner; on a quiet residential street, an old woman was making an apple pie for her grandson; somewhere in Wisconsin a young woman was milking a cow, while her husband looked on, drinking a pint of beer; a 16-year-old boy was struggling to swim across the Mississippi river and would drown in a matter of minutes; in Venice a Gondolier was sweet talking a sweet young eager Japanese tourist.