by W L Ripley
“I agree,” said Morrison, then he looked at me. “Willie Boy Roberts is an alias.”
“Who is he, then?”
“Roberts is actually Max Beauchamps, a hired hitter from New Orleans, one of the best around in the late seventies. He came back from Vietnam and hired himself out to the loan sharks. Come up short on the vig and Max comes to see you.”
“Leg breaker.”
“Right. He graduated to mechanic work. Took a couple of out-of-town contracts, then he was arrested, ironically for a crime he didn’t commit. The real perpetrator was a connected guy. Max kept his mouth shut and was prepared to take the fall, but a high-dollar lawyer showed up. A mob lawyer. Max got off. The Sicilians like a man who can take the heat, so they set Max up, even let him be a little independent. Let him have his quirks.”
“What quirks?”
“They say he won’t take a contract on a vet. And he likes it dangerous. Even dramatic. Likes to take it right to the edge, like it was the Old West. He especially liked to hit the Colombians and blacks. Max is more than a little of a racist. He liked shooting Colombians because of their reputation for violent retaliation. Legend has it he invited three brothers of a Colombian he killed to try to take him out. He even named a time and place. The brothers came, along with two soldiers—”
“And Max is still around,” I said.
“But the brothers and the shooters aren’t. They say he took out all five. Alone. Nobody knows how, but after that they left him alone. Supposedly, he didn’t get a contract he wanted and offered to shoot it out with the hired man, the winner getting the contract.”
“So what’s he doing here? Sounds like he had it made in New Orleans. Why change his name?”
“In 1981 Max took a contract on William Boswell Roberts, but that isn’t what precipitated the identity switch. Not directly, anyway. This is where the story gets interesting.” Morrison pulled a pipe from his suit pocket, tamped some tobacco into it. A commercial interruption. “The real William Roberts was shot in front of an eyewitness.” Morrison paused to light his pipe with a silver butane lighter. He sat back, took a puff. He was enjoying himself. The storyteller. He was waiting for me to ask, so I did.
“So why didn’t they arrest Roberts, or Beauchamps, or whatever his name is?”
Morrison smiled. “The eyewitness was the wife of a key foreign diplomat.”
I thought about that for a moment. “The diplomat hired Max to take out his wife’s lover?”
Morrison nodded. “The government hushed it up, and we couldn’t burn the diplomat because of his immunity. Nor could we go after Beauchamps for killing Roberts. Beauchamps outsmarted us.”
Beauchamps had killed Roberts, and they knew it. And he had taken over Roberts’s identity. So how did he get away with that? I asked them how that came about.
“Simple,” said Morrison. “There is no William Roberts. He is fictitious.”
SEVENTEEN
I had decided talking to these two was like going to the dentist. It was painful and you had to extract everything with pliers. “Who is Roberts, then? A cartoon character? A ventriloquist’s dummy? Stop talking in riddles and get to it.”
Morrison took a deep breath. He sipped his scotch. “Sorry. I am being a little obscure. The so-called real William Roberts was actually a former mob lieutenant named Mickey ‘the Rodent’ Scullzinni. Scullzinni rolled over on some of his former employers in exchange for immunity and a new identity in the witness protection program.”
“So, Beauchamps shot a man who didn’t exist in front of a witness who wasn’t there on behalf of a man who couldn’t be prosecuted, and now he’s walking around with a spic-and-span ID provided by the government.” I smiled, considering it.
“Not to mention,” said Morrison, “he gets paid by the diplomat—and probably the mob as well—for killing one man with two names.”
“Two contracts, one bullet? It has a certain symmetry when you think about it. Why doesn’t the government just turn him out?”
Morrison massaged a spot between his eyebrows. “The witness protection program is under the jurisdiction of the U.S. Marshal’s service. They have no love for the Bureau. Scullzinni’s identity was brand-new when Beauchamps took him out. None of their people knew what Mickey the Rodent looked like. So Beauchamps just took Scullzinni’s papers and reported to the U.S. marshal in charge. By the time we sorted it out, it was too late. To the marshal’s service, it’s a reality that Beauchamps is Roberts and they must protect his identity. So now Roberts has two identities. Two sets of papers. We have no choice but to play along. Scullzinni was no loss. However, the whole episode is a little embarrassing.”
“You’re not worried I might let this story out? Why not?”
“First, there is your known dislike of the media. Also, no one would believe you if you were to tell. Besides, there is no way to connect Beauchamps to Roberts to Scullzinni, since Mickey no longer exists. A phony death certificate was arranged, along with a bogus autopsy report. I’m telling you for the sake of your safety and because you have helped us in your own…ah…singular fashion.”
Candless added, “He means you haven’t screwed it up too badly—yet.”
I ignored him. “How long have you been following Roberts?”
Morrison explained that he hadn’t really followed him here. Morrison had been stationed in New Orleans at the time Beauchamps made the identity switch. Two years ago Morrison had been promoted and transferred to Kansas City. He accidentally stumbled across Beauchamps-cum-Roberts while doing a check of a former special forces operative.
Click. “Chick Easton,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Why are you checking on him?”
“That’s classified,” Candless said.
“Agent Candless means it is not within our province to reveal the nature of the government’s…ah…interest in Mr. Easton.”
I set my coffee mug down. It was empty and clunked hollowly. “Why not just arrest him?”
“He has committed no crime,” said Morrison. “None of which the Bureau is aware, that is.”
I sat back and looked at them, smug and businesslike in their button-down suits, two federal agents who, on their day off, thought it necessary to drive twenty miles back to find out what I knew about Chick Easton. And about a strange new drug. What had I stumbled across? “If he’s committed no crime, then why don’t you back off?”
“We just do what we’re told,” said Morrison. “That’s our job.”
“Just good Germans, huh?” I searched his eyes. He blinked and looked away, uncomfortable.
“I don’t expect you to understand,” Morrison said apologetically. I was beginning to suspect he was human. “However, Easton possesses certain knowledge, information that could prove…ah…embarrassing. He worked for the government for a time and will not allow himself to be debriefed regarding his final mission.”
“You mean Vietnam? Or something else?”
“I’m afraid I can’t make that distinction for you.”
“What is it about Chick that makes the federal government afraid?”
“There are certain organizations within the umbrella of the federal government that thrive on paranoia. They are not afraid of Easton, the man. They are afraid of Easton, the maverick.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Several years. Since 1975, in fact.”
“Your tax dollars at work,” I said, then thought about the absurdity of spending nearly two decades following a man who had committed no crime. Then I remembered the chemist.
“What if Chick could do something for the government? For the Bureau and the DEA? What if he could give you something you wanted? Would you back off?”
“Possibly,” said Morrison. He studied me, as if trying to determine if I was bluffing. “Depends upon the nature of the information. However, I can’t be the spokesman for all the agencies.”
“But would you be willing to try to get the CIA off hi
s back?”
Morrison’s eyes widened. “Nobody mentioned them.”
“You’re right. But if the IRS was after him they and the Treasury Department would be all over him. Neither of you appears particularly interested, and I doubt if ATF cares. He’s committed no crime, yet he’s been shadowed since 1975. You mentioned paranoia, and the p is silent in CIA. Get them off Chick’s back and I’ll try to get him to hand you a career arrest.” He looked as if he was trying to decide something. I said, “What’s the CIA done for you lately?”
Morrison smiled and shrugged. “Not a thing. What kind of deal are we talking about?”
“We give you something that makes you look good. Real good. Allows you to wrap up this whole thing. Maybe even turn the key on Willie Boy Beauchamps or whatever his name is this week. For a long time. Promotions for both of you.”
“How could you do that?” asked Candless. “What have you got that we don’t already have or know? And why are you interested in getting Easton clear?”
I thought about Chick passing up the shot on the buck, how he tried to talk three guys in a parking lot out of a fight when he knew he could take them without breaking a sweat. Thought about his ever-present grin, then about the world-weary hurt that flickered like a silent movie behind the laughing eyes. I didn’t owe these guys an explanation. “We got a deal or not?” I asked.
Candless looked at Morrison. Morrison said, “If it’s good enough. And you can deliver. I’ll see what I can do.”
“But it had better be good,” said Candless. “Or all bets are off. Now, what have you got?”
“Chick knows where the dreamsicle chemist is.”
EIGHTEEN
Special agent Morrison of the FBI used my phone to make a couple of calls to his superiors. His people were satisfied. If we produced the chemist, the Bureau would do what it could to reduce its monitoring of Chick Easton. The CIA wouldn’t like it and would probably conduct unauthorized surveillance of Chick, but it would do so without the assistance of the FBI. Morrison admitted there was a certain amount of tension, even jealousy, between the two agencies. As for the DEA, it had not been participating but was aware of the arrangement.
They left and I drove into town to see about Chick. I stopped at a fast-food restaurant and bought four sandwiches. They smelled great. I figured Chick would be hungry. Thirsty, too. I bought a bag of ice and put it into a cooler along with the six bottles of Carta Blanca Chick had purchased.
I got into the Bronco and pointed it to the highway. Sandy had called before I left the cabin for town. The station told her I’d phoned.
“I can get off a couple of days early,” she had said. “Karen can cover me. How about starting our reconciliation a little early?”
I wanted to see her. But I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of resentment. Three months I’d waited. Three months in limbo, wondering. Then she decides it’s time to reconcile. I loved Sandra Collingsworth, of that there was no doubt. But I’d started something I’d have to see through. Make sure Chick turned in the chemist. Then there was Tempestt. Where did she fit in my feelings? First, get Chick loose of the CIA, then figure out my next step. Soon, though. Colorado called.
“Sounds good to me,” I said, careful to conceal my irritation. “Got something to do, then I’ll head back.”
“What have you got that could keep you away from me?”
Good question. “Something that has to be done.”
“Not the Red Ryder thing again,” she said. “Where you right some wrong that makes no difference in the overall scheme of things.”
“Makes a difference to me.”
“There it is,” she said. “The thing that confuses me and makes me feel alone. And yet, I know it’s part of you. It fascinates me, but it puts me on the outside. You can’t fix everything, Wyatt. When are you going to learn that? It’s not a perfect world.”
“Darn,” I said. “I was afraid of that.”
“You’re being evasive. You won’t allow yourself to be touched in certain places. Won’t let anyone in. Not even me, sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.” Guilt over Tempestt tugged at me. “That’s not my intention.”
“I know you mean that. But at the same time maybe you’ll never be able to control it. I’m just selfish and jealous. When the quest becomes more important than me.”
“Sometimes I feel the same way about your job,” I said. “Sometimes I become every cliché about machismo, and goofy romanticism. I’m not fair when I protect you from the things I see and am involved in. It’s condescending. I know that. But I’m drawn to things I should avoid. I wouldn’t call it a quest. It’s more a need to finish things before moving on. Don’t know what to do about it. It’s just the way I am. It’s not much, but it’s me.”
“And,” she said, “if you weren’t that way, you wouldn’t be the man I love.”
“Marry me, Sandy.”
She was quiet, then said, “Come home so we can talk about it. It can’t be done over the phone.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“My heart is ready. But, I’m…afraid, I guess. Maybe I can’t live up to your standards. To your expectations.”
“You exceed them.”
“I’ll bet you say that to every girl who has beautiful golden tresses and a sunbeam smile.” I detected a catch in her voice.
“Brunettes with dusky jewels for eyes, too,” I said, my voice husky.
“Damn you, Storme. You get your rickety old bones back here soon, or I’m going to return some of Robert Redford’s calls.”
“Nobody likes a pushy broad, sweetheart,” I said, in a pretty good Bogart impression.
“Nobody except you, anyway,” she said. “You require direction. And keep working on the Bogie, you’re getting closer. At least, now you sound like Bacall instead of Glen Campbell with a lisp.” She laughed, pleased with herself, then became serious again.
“I need you, Wyatt. Things aren’t going so well for me right now. It seems as if there is always something that comes between us. My career, your aversion to society…”
“I don’t object to society, it’s society’s definition of civilization I have problems with. But if I have to put up with civilization to have you, I’ll do it.” I noticed I was pacing the hardwood floor.
“I can’t ask you to do that. I can’t lock you in a cage.”
“It isn’t that bad,” I said.
“Are you kidding? You’re like a dog on a short chain. You pace back and forth”—I stopped pacing—“become moody and reticent. Knowing you’ll make that sacrifice makes it harder to decide. You think too highly of me.”
“No. I see you as you are. And what I see I like. I don’t have you on a pedestal or in an ivory tower. I’m not the White Knight, and I’m not some hormone-crazed teenager. I don’t have any illusions about commitment.”
“But I do. I need my illusions. You’re so sure of things. I’m not like that. Sometimes I am like a young girl and things frighten me. I want to see things, experience things, and sometimes I get the feeling you’ve seen too much. Things I wish you hadn’t seen. Things you need to share, but won’t. I need you. Your understanding. Your love.”
“You have it.”
“You say it too easily.”
“I mean it. You know that.”
“Yes. I know it. It’s frightening how much you mean it,” she said. “Come quickly, Red Ryder.”
I told her I would and hung up. Hung up without mentioning Tempestt, which didn’t make me feel better about myself. I didn’t understand her reluctance, though I knew she wanted to be with me. I loved her. Needed to be with her. I wanted to go back, knew I was risking separation if I stayed, but was torn by wanting to see this thing through. A good man had died, maybe Jill Maxwell, too, and Chick was in jail and being shadowed by the CIA. I had a chance to help him out of that situation.
My sense of order was offended by the intrigues of Paradise County. I hated to let go. I hate to fail. Hate to qui
t before it is finished. Win or lose, I was going to get in a last lick, a final attempt, regardless. That stubbornness had saved me in Nam, made me in the pros, but at times it was almost a curse, when it would gnaw at me and whip me on. Sandy thought I wouldn’t let go, but the truth was I couldn’t let go. It was, perhaps, beyond me.
En route to the jailhouse I ate one of Chick’s sandwiches. He wouldn’t miss it. I debated whether he would miss two, but by then I had arrived at my destination. Another opportunity lost due to indecision.
I parked the Bronco in the lot and walked into the Paradise County sheriff’s office. George Fairchild was already there, in a striking gray suit with a subtle glen plaid design, rep tie, and a burgundy pocket handkerchief. His hair was ivory white and his strong chin and slim waist made him appear younger than his sixty years. I was glad to see him.
“Hello, George,” I said.
“Wyatt,” he said, turning to greet me. We shook hands. “You look like you could still be playing.”
“And you look like you could still beat me at tennis.”
“That’s not much of an accomplishment, the way you play.” He smiled, but then his mouth shrank to a thin line and he shook his head. “You’re not going to like this, Wyatt.”
“Couldn’t you get him out?”
“That part was easy enough. The whole arrest is a sham. Ridiculous. They have nothing on him. But you didn’t tell me about the sheriff.”
“A jewel, isn’t he?”
“His ignorance of constitutional procedure is unsurpassed. I’m afraid I was too late to prevent…that is, when you see your friend, you will—” I didn’t have to wait. We were interrupted by the entrance of Sheriff Baxter and Chick. Deputy Simmons had Chick in tow.
I didn’t like what I saw.
Chick had a bruise over one eye. The eye with the apostrophe eyebrow. The right corner of his mouth was cut and swollen. The left ear was an angry red. Still, he smiled when he saw me, the swollen corner making it a lopsided grin, as if he were a kid returning from the dentist.
“Wyatt,” he said. “Good to see you. Knew you’d ride to the rescue. Couldn’t resist, could you? Had a little problem at the senior prom, though, as you can see.”