by Alex Harris
Chapter 18
”
Smith was pacing back and forth in front of his truck out at the pipe line. His demeanor spoke to his anger level. The phone glued to his ear hadn’t left it for 20 minutes solid. “Just a damn minute here. I’m the one hanging out there. I’m the one they interviewed about the bitch. If you think I’m taking the rap for you, you’re smoking your own product. You get off your high horse and get up here so we can talk about this. I also have something for you when you get here. It’ll be worth your while to get some fresh air for a change. You got 30 minutes.”
“Thirty minutes. I can’t get away that quick. I don’t jump when you say to. I’m involved in other things. You’re not the only fish in the sea, buster. Now calm down. I don’t like to be threatened. And certainly not by the likes of you. I’ll see what I can do to get out of here. I’ll call you back. You might just have to meet me somewhere.” The call was terminated and Smith jumped in his truck, started the engine and spun gravel leaving the lot.
Smith pulled out his office cell phone and called Marlene to tell her he was going into town for supplies. He left the pipe line and on Hwy 89 headed south toward Chino Valley and Prescott. He turned onto Big Chino Road headed for his trailer. The set of his jaw projected his frustration and anger. He grabbed his keys and ran into the trailer. Inside he grabbed his already packed duffle bag, his 9mm Glock, rifle, and his stash. He took a minute to survey the place to see if he had left anything important before returning to his truck and heading south again.
Once in the truck, he hit redial on his cell phone. “Don’t bother coming out here, I’m on my way to see you. Meet me at Frontier Village close to the statute. And bring the money.” Smith disconnected and threw the cell phone on the passenger seat.
By the time Smith reached the Frontier Village, dark had settled. He parked so he could see the statute and watch all directions of arrival. He kept his eyes peeled for the trademark BMW. He bent down to retrieve binoculars and the passenger window shattered. Glass shards cascaded over the passenger seat and Smith. His heart jumped into overdrive, adrenaline guiding his actions. Still bent over, he started the truck, rammed it into gear and took off down the hill behind Red Lobster.
“9ll. What is your emergency?”
“Hey, I’m at Frontier Village and we just heard high powered rifle shots. Then some guy took off in a truck burning rubber.”
“Frontier Village? That will be Tribal Police. I’ll notify them. Where are you and what is your name so I can direct police to you?”
“We were at the bank there at the ATM. I’m in my car and I’m not moving until the cops get here.”
“Just stay on the line with me until the police arrive. Is anyone injured?”
“How the heck do I know. I hit the ground when I heard the rifle. I don’t know where it came from or who was getting shot at.”
“Can you describe the pickup?”
“White, older model, long bed, probably a Ford F150, just the driver.”
“Could you tell where it was going when it left the parking lot?”
“Headed east on Hwy 69.”
“Hold on.” Dispatch put out a BOLO on the truck and Tribal police arrived to take a report from the civilian.
Smith tore up 69, grabbing his cell phone from the passenger seat. He hit redial again and was soon connected. “You mother fucker, wrong move on your part. I was ready to turn over the product and high tail it out of here. You just burned your bridges and your dope. I need that 40 grand, but I don’t need the dope. “ Smith was sputtering he was so mad.
“Hey, wait. I just got here and there are cops everywhere. Where are you? I’ll come to you.”
“You mother fucker, you tried to shoot me. I’m not meeting you anywhere.”
“Hold it, Smitty, what are you talking about a shooting? I just got here. I’m leaving before the cops come over here and try to talk to me. Tell me where you are and I’ll come to you on your terms.”
“I’m on my way out of town. There’s a rock quarry out on 169. It’s down Old Cherry Road about a mile and half, turn left at the dead tree and you go about two tenths of a mile. I’m going to be sitting up there with my rifle. You bring the money and put it on that make shift shooting stand. Then you turn and walk away. Come back in two hours and your dope will be there.”
“Why can’t you meet me? I didn’t have anything to do with this shooting. How do I know you’ll give me the dope for the money?”
“You don’t. I guess you’re going to have to trust me, just like I trust that you weren’t involved in trying to kill me.”
“I’m on my way. It’ll take about 30 minutes to get there. Your head is all messed up. How do I know you’re not going to try to shoot me?”
“You don’t.” Smith disconnected. He was watching his rear view mirror for signs of the Beemer and cops. He knew the last place he wanted to speed or do a traffic violation was Prescott Valley-cops there didn’t play. He turned off 169 onto Old Cherry Road and bounced down the rut filled road to the turn off for the quarry. Instead of pulling in, he parked in the arroyo and hiked up the road to the quarry. He walked around the top of the quarry to a vantage point over the entrance and waited.