by W L Ripley
“You deduce that from your notes?” I said.
“Maybe you killed him.”
“Was there a zodiac sign carved in his stomach?”
“What?” Candless said, rather sharply, I thought. A rude man.
“I always carve a zodiac sign in their stomach with a Bowie knife when I do somebody. My trademark.”
“Funny guy, aren’t you?” He glared at me with hot eyes. Since there was little else to do, I glared back at him. It was kind of fun to work out on a manic-depressive who unwisely soaked his flesh in ultraviolet rays.
“Take it easy, Candless,” Morrison said. “Listen, Storme, we’re not getting anywhere like this. There’s nothing to be gained by baiting Agent Candless.”
“It has some recreational value,” I said.
“We have a few concerns about you, Storme,” Candless said. He smiled as if he had just moved his knight into a fork position. “For one, how are you able to afford the place in Colorado, plus this place, when you have no visible means of support? What you have in your bank account won’t last forever. For another, how did you manage to come across that marijuana field? Why are you hanging around with a skip-tracer with a dossier like Easton’s?”
I shrugged in response. Probably wouldn’t be considered a precise answer. Candless leaned forward and gave me a tough cop look. When I forgot to clap my hands to my face and fall to pieces, he said, “We know everything about you, Storme.”
“Yeah? What’s my favorite color? Do I sleep on my stomach or my back? Who did I take to the junior prom?”
“We know you broke a guy’s ribs two years ago with a baseball bat but he wouldn’t file charges.”
The guy didn’t file charges because he couldn’t. He was running a protection racket. Tried to squeeze a friend of mine. I talked with the guy and hammered out a mutually beneficial deal. I wanted him to lay off my buddy, and he didn’t want shattered kneecaps. Compromise, the keystone of industry.
“You make a hobby of little incidents like that. You have a masked-avenger mentality. We also know you talked to a local reporter who has subsequently disappeared. You got a lot to answer for, Storme. Everybody you come into contact with suddenly meets misfortune. That, and your relationship with Easton is suspect. You come to town, the sheriff is killed, then you think you’re Travis McGee, asking questions and annoying people in the community.”
“Aw, shucks. It was nothing.”
“Your presence here and your activities are highly suspicious. You reported the marijuana field to Sheriff Kennedy, yet you were suspected of smoking marijuana while in Vietnam.”
“I didn’t inhale. You see, there was this guy from Arkansas who taught me how to—”
“Can it,” said Candless. “Maybe we need to arrest you and make you answer—”
“Now, Dan,” Morrison said, using his best Fred MacMurray voice. “There’s no reason to badger Mr. Storme. We just need to talk with him, that’s all. No need to threaten. We can do this without having to take him in.”
Aw, gee, I thought, Bad Cop—Good Cop. This was comical, except for the fact they knew quite a bit. Several things, in fact. What else did they know?
“We’re not here to pump you about the sheriff’s homicide,” Morrison said, setting down his coffee cup. “We know you’re not involved in that. The highway patrol has a suspect—who’s been found murdered himself, by the way. The reason we’re here is to warn you off interfering with this investigation. We are closing in on a large-scale drug trafficking operation, and your free-lancingis ill advised and poorly timed. We must ask you to shy away from our investigation of Starr Industries.”
“And to leave Alan Winston alone,” said Candless.
“Who?” I said, playing coy. I can play coy with the best.
“We know Easton has been bird-dogging him.”
“I forgot you knew everything about me.”
Morrison seemed confused by Candless’s statement. Why leave Winston alone? And why was Candless interested in Winston? Did it have anything to do with Browne’s warning about people in high places? How much power did Alan Winston have? And what had I stumbled onto? Morrison continued:
“We have an agent inside Roberts’s organization. We know he is running a crooked game and that he is the key to an interstate drug-distribution network. Sort of a way station. We also think he is building up to a big score, and you could jeopardize the whole operation.”
“Yours,” I said. “Or his?”
“You’re small change for Roberts,” said Candless. “A bump in the road, nothing more.”
“What about the sheriff’s murder?”
“A problem for the local authorities,” said Morrison. “Not really our concern. We’re familiar with their suspect. Name is Killian, a hard-core dealer whom we’ve been aware of for some time. We’re happy to find him making such a big mistake and then getting himself removed from the board.”
“Yeah, lucky you. Good thing he killed the sheriff when he did—if he did.”
Morrison looked uncomfortable. “That was an unfortunate choice of words. I apologize.”
“We’re not the bad guys here,” said Candless.
“Neither am I.”
“Are you sure about Easton, though?”
“Yes.”
Candless chuckled. There was no end to his irritating qualities. “There are people who’d disagree with your assessment.”
“Didn’t ask them,” I said. “Didn’t ask you, either.”
“Mr. Storme…er, Wyatt,” Morrison said. “As I was saying, we have someone under cover and the…ah…operation is at a delicate juncture. Your presence could create problems for our undercover agent, possibly to the point of compromising their cover.”
“We’ve been working on this for six months,” said Candless. “And we don’t need some self-appointed vigilante messing it up.”
What a sweetheart. Probably a Redskins fan. “Would you like some more coffee?” I asked Morrison. I didn’t point out that “self-appointed vigilante” was redundant.
Morrison said, “Please.” I rose and took his cup.
“Anything I can get you?” I said to Candless. “Carrot juice? Rubber hose? A personality?” He scowled at me. I poured the coffee and brought it back and sat down. Candless pulled a cigarette from a package of Trues. Hah! Couldn’t drink anything with caffeine in it. Morrison continued:
“We’ve talked with a highway patrolman named Sam Browne. Quite a name for a trooper, actually. You see, the belt across—”
“It’s called a Sam Browne.”
“Ah…yes. Anyway, we talked with him and also conversed with a Colorado trooper named Younger who is familiar with you. Both said you were capable and resourceful—for a civilian. Younger said you were highly stubborn. Nevertheless, he said you were often, to quote him, a ‘human hemorrhoid.’ Browne said you were in over your head on this thing, and I must concur with his assessment. With Easton in the picture, especially. Something I had not foreseen. By now, you must have concluded that Easton possesses some rather peculiar, even remarkable, talents.”
“What peculiar talents?”
The two government men looked at each other. Candless drew on his low-tar, caffeine-free, low-cal cigarette. Almost hadn’t caught it in time. They were sharper than I had given them credit for. They were trying to squeeze me for information about Chick. It was Chick they were interested in.
“We checked you out thoroughly,” said Morrison. “You keep to yourself. Decorated in Vietnam. Pro football player. You avoided the media. Very independent. Several run-ins with the front office, particularly a Mr. Richmond Butler. And now you have made enemies of some very influential people in Paradise.”
“People not involved in the sheriff’s homicide,” said Candless. “Or in drug traffic.”
“Like who?” I asked.
Candless looked at Morrison. “It’s not important. But I’ll tell you something, hot rod. You shouldn’t associate with a spook like Easton.
He’s a juicer and a coward.”
Spook. The word conjured up an image from Vietnam. It was what the grunts called CIA operatives. They were snake-eaters and crazies like the Green Berets. Was the word being used in some other connotation, or was that what Chick was or had been? It would explain many things. But, regardless, I didn’t like Candless calling him a coward. Chick was anything but.
And he was a friend.
“Don’t say anything else about Chick.”
He laughed. “What’ll happen if I do?”
“I’ll be forced to make you desist.”
His face reddened and he shot up from his seat. A hothead. “Go ahead, cowboy,” he said. “Take a shot.”
“Sit down, Dan!” Morrison said. This wasn’t part of the script.
Candless pointed his finger at my face. I love that so much. “Keep talking, bigmouth, and I’ll show you why you’re out of your league. This isn’t some country shit you’re dealing with now. The referees won’t be around to break it up, either. I’ll mess up your whole day.”
“Sit down!” shouted Morrison. I smiled at Danny-boy. He was bulled up like a gander. Something about me got under his skin. Couldn’t understand it. I’d offered him coffee. No decaf, that must be it.
“Maybe he’s not through scaring me,” I said, standing.
“I’ve had enough of you, Storme.”
“Use your head,” I said. “I outweigh you thirty pounds and almost never microwave my flesh. So give it a rest, huh? Save it for the secretaries at the health club.”
He went into a crouch. Fluid. Some kind of martial arts thing. These guys are overtrained. Nothing better to do than go around and beat up on ex-athletes with bad knees. What a waste. Probably took the whole course; could handle guys with knives, clubs, broken bottles, things like that. Probably wasn’t any training regimen for hot coffee, though, so I pitched the contents of my cup into his eyes. Wasn’t very sporting of me, but if he wanted a fair fight he could try someone else. He bellowed in pain and fell over his chair and tumbled onto the floor. I kept the coffee mug in hand, in case I had to throw it at him. Morrison jumped up and got between us.
“That’s enough,” said Morrison.
“Up to him,” I said. Coffee dripped from Candless’s face and clothes. “Don’t get any on the furniture.”
“Fuck you,” he said. Maybe obscenity was part of the training, like a karate yell or something.
“Both of you need to get out of here,” I said.
“I’m sorry about this, Storme,” said Morrison. “We just wanted—”
“No. Game’s over. You haven’t been shooting me straight. I know things you want to know, but you’re playing it like I was some brain-dead jock. You want to know about Chick Easton, but you’re missing the big picture. Two men are dead and maybe a girl reporter, and Chick is in jail for no reason. If I’d been on this thing as long as you say you have and people were still running around killing people, I wouldn’t tell anyone else how to handle it. Now, I know things you don’t. Things you want to know. If you want it, then you’ll have to tell me what I want to know and not just the abridged version. Otherwise, get Kung Fu cleaned up and leave. I’ve got no time for this crap.”
Morrison’s hands relaxed in resignation. I kind of liked him. Just doing his job. Candless, on the other hand, was just another bully with an expensive suit and a badge who’d seen too many Chuck Norris movies.
“Look,” Morrison said. “Roberts is a ruthless sociopath, and there are others involved you don’t know about. People you can’t begin to imagine. People with political clout whom we might not be able to touch.”
I thought a moment. Might be nice to have Morrison in my corner. Might be able to keep Baxter off my back. “I’ve got something you could use. Really use. But I give it to you it’ll cost, and I’m not talking money. Information’s what I want.” I walked over to my desk, opened the drawer, and brought out the last little rock. I held it up for them. “Sheriff Kennedy had one like it, and now Sam Browne and the highway patrol have one.”
Morrison’s face changed, looking at me as if I’d just told him I’d memorized the formula for a secret rocket fuel. He moved so he was between me and Candless. “Where did you get this?”
“I had three. Got two off Killian, the guy they think killed the sheriff, and one off a local puke named Luke Hanson.”
“Do you know what it is?” he asked.
“No.”
“If it’s what I think it is,” he said, his eyes on the rock, “then it’s the first sample we’ve managed to get our hands on.”
“First sample of what?” I asked.
“Dreamsicle.”
SIXTEEN
Danny-boy decided to be civil in exchange for information. I got him a damp towel from the bathroom and he dabbed at his suit with it. Then I broke the seal on a bottle of J&B scotch, the chosen beverage of Billy Clyde Puckett and Shake Tiller, and poured some over ice for both men. Peace offering. They accepted, as they were not on company time, an unspoken token to the urgency of their visit. I poured coffee for myself.
“You’re not drinking with us?” asked Morrison.
“Gave it up for Lent,” I said.
Morrison tasted the whiskey and studied me over the rim of the glass. He expressed satisfaction at its flavor, then said, “You’re an interesting study, Storme.”
“What is dreamsicle?” I asked.
They looked at each other. I really wanted them to stop that.
“On the West Coast and particularly in Hawaii the big-ticket item is a drug called ice. More potent than crack, with a higher street value, and as addictive. An individual addicted to ice becomes unpredictable, even dangerous. Crack is scary, but ice is worse.” He paused, as if gathering wind. I waited.
“There has been a street rumor circulating that an outlaw chemist has developed a compound that is more addictive than either crack or ice, has a longer duration of effect, and is cheaper to manufacture.” I thought about the guy Chick was trying to corral, the guy who had stolen the chemicals from the university. “Unlike crack, dreamsicle requires no paraphernalia, such as a pipe, to use it. Detection is tougher. It’s so new we weren’t even sure what form it would be used in. Then we got a break. One of our agents made a felony arrest. Interstate transportation of stolen goods. When he was bringing the perpetrator in, the guy kept complaining of a cough and dipping into his pockets for what he called ‘cough drops.’ The more cough drops he ate, the happier he became. He was flying by the time the agent figured out what was happening. When our agent asked for the cough drops, he swallowed the last one. The thing is, the guy was sucking on the things just like they were cough drops.”
“Getting high off the vapors?”
“It appears so. At least initially. This guy has figured out how to make dreamsicle palatable and nearly undetectable, if that was a sample. They get an initial rush from the vapors. And then they milk the rush for several minutes. If you catch them with it, they just swallow. Once in the stomach, the drug is absorbed into the bloodstream through the stomach lining. There is nothing else like it. But most of what we know is conjecture and rumor. But if even part of it is reality, the person controlling the supply could become a multimillionaire virtually overnight. Unlike marijuana, which is large and bulky, dreamsicle could be carried like candy. Worse, we don’t even know if the ingredients could be transported in their base form to mix at the site of distribution. This stuff is the fantasy of every punk on the street. It would replace crack as the drug of choice on the streets within a matter of weeks. Even days.”
I sat back in my chair and chewed on it. Thought about Willie Boy Roberts. The way he heaped only the best things around him. Special coffee. Special cigars. A former pro wrestler–NFL lineman for protection, even though in a place like Paradise, Sultan Cugat was superfluous. Breck and Vance, the salt-and-pepper thugs, could handle anything around here. But having money and being the most powerful man in Paradise County meant little to Rob
erts. His businesses and holdings generated enough income to keep him in chicory and handmade cigars for a long time. Maybe it wasn’t enough.
“Besides the money,” I said, “how powerful would a man be who had control of such a product, its distribution and supply?”
“It’s conceivable such a person could become one of the most powerful men in the country,” answered Morrison thoughtfully. “Certainly, one of the most powerful criminals. But it would be difficult to keep out the Sicilians, the Colombians, the Chinese, and the Jamaicans. You would have to fight off the wolves.”
“But if somebody could pull it off?”
“Then we have a nightmare scenario. We have one immediately if this stuff hits the streets, but one person controlling it might, by sheer force of the revenue generated, be able to pull together some of these factions. And if that happened…” He let it trail off. His eyes dropped, and his mouth constricted.
“So how does a guy like Roberts come across something like this?” I asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow,” said Morrison. “I didn’t say Roberts had anything to do with this.”
I looked at him and then at Candless. Their faces were impassive, blank with the mask that all feds learn to utilize. “Come on. You want me to stay away from Starr Industries. You’ve got a DEA man in tow, and I picked up three of these rocks, which by your account are rare, in a matter of days. This is your first sample, so this is the place they’re coming from. Roberts has trucks, money, and muscle. It was his dog I killed in the marijuana field. Has to be Roberts. So we’re back to the original question, the one you’re dancing around: How does Willie Boy come across something like this? He wouldn’t have the contacts or the knowledge to go big time. Willie is a big dog around Paradise, but so what? Unless there is more to Willie Boy Roberts than you want to say, and you think I know more than I want to say. So if we’re going to trade, I want the straight skinny.”
Morrison appeared lost in thought. He looked at Candless. The DEA man shrugged, said, “What difference does it make?”