The Collector

by R. Allen Chappell

  His baser foibles notwithstanding, Vermeer did have his charitable side, including the sponsorship of many deserving causes. Not the least of these admirable pursuits was his involvement in funding educational grants and scholarships for disadvantaged students: some of which were designated for tribal peoples…chief among them, the Navajo. Students considered it quite a coup to snag one of these grants as several of the recipients were singled out upon graduation for lucrative positions in Vermeer’s own far-flung enterprises.

  There were those people, of course, who belittled Percy’s philanthropic efforts, alleging them more tax-deductible displays of self-aggrandizement than any true upwelling of the human spirit. Even so, various political advocacies thought his good works might be worthy of higher aspirations. Some even wondering aloud if the man was not suitable for public office.

  “Archibald, I want to know where the woman lives and I don’t mean just the general area of the reservation; I want to know the exact location. And I want to know what she’s currently working on as well—as soon as possible if you please.” He lifted a brow in Archie’s direction. “I assume you’re investigating that list of collectors who own her work?” Vermeer lifted a finger in warning. “I’ve recently been informed that another faction is interested in her and could become problematic going forward. It’s important no harm should come to our artists out there. I trust you’ll see to that?” He lowered his voice to a whisper, “As usual, Archie, it’s important no one know of my part in the project.”

  Blumker nodded his head and smiled. There was no need to mention anonymity, and yet Percy never failed to do so. Archie and his employer were of a kind, and despite their dissimilar stations in life, each sprang from the same Dutch roots. Whether that had anything to do with it or not, each man seemed to have a deep and intuitive understanding of the other. Archie knew quite well what was expected of him.

  “Oh, and Archie, how’s that other thing we discussed coming along? Any word yet on how that’s working out? Has your man been in touch?”

  Archie had hoped he wouldn’t ask. He never told the man less than the truth and the truth was he didn’t know. This was not what Percy would want to hear, but it was honest nonetheless; that had to count for something.

  “Ah, that…well as it stands right now, I’m still waiting to hear. But I have no reason to think things aren’t progressing as they should.” Archie’s operative in New Mexico was late reporting in. That could mean nothing of course, but now he thought it prudent to fly out there and see for himself what the matter might be. His operative was still due a considerable amount of money and though there was an intermediary who acted as a buffer, one couldn’t be too careful.

  Archie Blumker required few things of an employer and they were, for the most part, quite simple. Chief among them was that he be treated with at least some modicum of respect, and this was what he admired most about Percy Vermeer—the man took great pains to treat people with dignity and respect, no matter their position. Be that respect sincere or not was uncertain, but just the perception was quite enough for Archie. From the people he himself employed, regardless how valuable their skill set, he demanded a strong sense of duty, and reliability. A lack of either was cause for censor in one degree or another.

  The two men spoke for nearly an hour before Blumker left the house patting a fat envelope in his breast pocket. For propriety’s sake, he took the back road out of the estate. He sighed as he pulled up to the barrier, then got out to drag open the ancient and unwieldy affair. Why is there not a modern gate with an electronic opener as at the front entrance? It isn’t like the man can’t afford it. Archie shook his head and smiled to himself for thinking such thoughts, Bite your tongue Archie… No, Percival had been very good to him and he intended to repay that kindness by doing the very best job possible. The work was not easy and carried some inherent risk. Still, it was interesting, even exciting at times. He was a company man in the truest sense of the word.

  Percy, always generous to a fault, seemed to have little regard for cost or expense once he sat his sights on a thing. All his employees said so. His chosen people were given cart-blanche in pursuit of their tasks. No accounting for expenses was required and no questions were ever asked in that regard. All in all, Percival Vermeer was as near the ideal employer as one could wish.

  What was bothering Archie at the moment, however, was the lack of word from his operative out west, a growing concern he couldn’t reason away. The person was a professional, sourced through a trusted intermediary. This particular operative was the go-between’s first choice for the job and thus would be that person’s responsibility. Ultimately it was he who would be made accountable.

  Uppermost in Archie’s mind was that Percival Vermeer be kept isolated from the mechanics of the business. A man in Vermeer’s position couldn’t risk the slightest hint of such a connection. That was Archie’s responsibility; it was up to him to make sure Percy never had reason to regret that trust.

  After deliberate consideration, Archie decided not to fly out of JFK even though that would be easiest. There were several nonstop red-eyes from New York to Albuquerque and it was early enough he would probably have his choice. His other alternative, the more discreet itinerary, would take considerably more time and effort. For Archie, however, the peace of mind was worth the trouble. He was a man who believed the devil was in the details, ultimately that could make the difference between success and failure...

  ~~~~~~

  It was a long drive to Baltimore, fighting rush hour traffic the first part of the way. Archie was then left with a short layover for a flight out of BWA.

  Being told there was only one seat left in “economy” hadn’t helped, he was pretty sure which seat it would be, and he was right. The most undesirable seat on the aircraft—in the tail section—and backed up tight against the bulkhead of the food service module. Seat adjustment would be minimal at best. Despite the lack of a meal being offered in Archie’s section there still was plenty of galley noise and the constant bustle and clatter of flight attendants with their drink carts carrying assorted small bags of unappetizing snacks. Now, he was exhausted and hungry and meant to do something about it. He thought fleetingly he might better have abandoned his ironclad rule and flown first class. But that might have drawn attention and left an impression in someone’s mind that could well be a problem later on. No, staying under the radar was the proper way to go about it.

  When he stepped onto the main concourse at Albuquerque’s International Sunport, it was with an aching back and growling stomach.

  This was one of his many flights to New Mexico’s international hub, and he had long ago learned his way around the terminal. Striking off toward the car rental counters he noticed an elderly Hispanic woman with a gaily-decorated food cart featuring a southwest favorite. “Green Corn Tamales,” the sign read, and then in smaller letters, “Just like your Mamacita used to make!” Archie considered himself more of a gourmand than gourmet, but the smell of the steaming tamales was enticing enough he surprised the woman with what she considered a large order. Archie, for his part, was taken aback at how small the little corn-shuck wrapped delicacies proved to be. He sighed, appraising the first tamale with a skeptical eye. He had hoped for something more substantial yet found them, in fact, to be so delicious he made a mental note to have them again on his return.

  At the counter, Archie listened patiently to the car-rental agent as he described what was available—and then without hesitation selected a four-wheel-drive Chevrolet pickup. He wanted something generic enough to blend in, yet capable of off-road use. Where he was headed this tan Chevy should fill the bill. Leaving the rental agency’s desk, he found an open-front phone booth affording some small protection from prying eyes. He sucked down a tamale as he dialed the number.

  “Mondé?”

  “Raul…please.”

  “Raul? Si…”

  In only a moment another phone was picked up and a man’s voice…brisk,
educated… came on the line.

  “Yes, this is Raul.”

  Archie thought the man sounded harried from what he remembered of their previous sessions. In previous conversations, Raul exuded a calm self-confidence with a self-deprecating sense of humor that made Archie smile. He hoped the man wasn’t stressed on his account. That might indicate something had gone awry.

  Raul Ortiz ran one of the largest American Indian art galleries in the city, a business he inherited from a father who had fingers in many pies. It had fallen to Raul to carry on the Ortiz family tradition. Though educated in art and business, the man’s real specialty was procuring talented and trustworthy people for difficult and sometimes clandestine assignments. Raul was not unknown to Albuquerque authorities.

  “Have you heard from our friend?” Archie asked cordially enough.

  “No, I haven’t. He may have run into something …if you get my drift.”

  “No… I do not get your goddamned drift.” Archie’s voice remained perfectly calm. “He’s overdue, that is already a problem.” Archie purposely let the phone go silent a moment. “I’ll need to know something within the hour.” He leaned into the booth and partially covered the mouthpiece. “…Or I’ll find him myself…and you along with him.” With that, he hung up and nonchalantly plucked the last of the tamales from the paper bag. He slipped off the shuck wrapper and stuffed the entire thing in his mouth, chewed with bulging cheeks, and thought to himself, I wish my Mamacita had known how to make these things. He crumpled the empty paper bag and placed it in a receptacle marked in both English and Spanish—Trash/Basura.

  Archie picked a motel on the outskirts of town, not overly expensive, but respectable enough to avoid undue attention. The manager himself was at the desk and after receiving his key Archie eyed him for a moment before leaning across the desk to murmur something. The manager smiled then nodded and Archie passed him a twenty-dollar bill.

  Archie woke after exactly fifty-nine minutes, looked at his watch, then redialed the number.

  “Yes?”

  “Raul?

  “Yes, I’ve been waiting for your call.”

  “And?”

  “It’s complicated…”

  “Oh… How so?” Archie felt a tickle run up his spine.

  “Our friend has a broken leg…” There was a nervous little laugh Archie didn’t like the sound of.

  “Ah, I see, and how did that come about?” Archie’s voice still friendly enough, almost pleasant should one not know the man.

  “I don’t know how it happened exactly…he said he stepped off a curb and the leg just went out from under him…fractured a femur when he hit the pavement.” Raul hurried on as one might logically do when trying to convince someone of an illogical occurrence.

  “What…is he eighty years old?”

  “No, no, only in his thirties I would say. Trust me… it was just one of those one-in-a-million accidents…you know?”

  It was one of Archie’s cardinal rules never to trust a person who thought it necessary to ask that you trust him. He found it an immutable clue to a person’s character. To discern such things was one of Archie’s more remarkable abilities—possibly learned in his early years as a cop. Some thought it a sign of paranoia…and they were right to think so. Archie, however, felt ten years of looking up society’s rectum was enough to give anyone a shitty outlook.

  Raul waited, the palms of his hands sweating, making his grip on the receiver uncertain. He cradled the phone with his chin while drying the hand on the chair’s brocade. Given Archie’s reputation, it might be wise to take some measure of his thinking before pressing him too far.

  Neither man knew where the other was located or what they looked like, but Archie’s ability to find people was legend—he’d found him originally, hadn’t he? That had been several years ago and though Raul thought their relationship mutually satisfactory, they had never actually met in person. This thing with the operative, however, had the potential to change all that, and should that be the way of it there would, most assuredly, be consequences. No one wanted that.

  After a desperate silence and despite the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Raul pressed on. “Uh… I was told to ask about the rest of the money…do you have that with you?” A considerable portion of the operative’s final payment was Raul’s cut and he felt he would be remiss should he not at least mention it.

  Archie, on the other end of the line, remained silent.

  Raul himself was a person of some reputation thereabouts, and it galled the man to think this arrogant New Yorker should cause him to doubt his own abilities. His resources were, in fact, considerable. And in the face of this, there was always the chance this man’s perceived reputation was in itself unwarranted. Should push come to shove Raul dared think his own people might be up to handling such a person. Being from New York didn’t necessarily make him any smarter or more threatening than someone from Albuquerque. There were some very dangerous men in New Mexico—some of whom Raul knew personally—any one of them might be happy to do him the favor.

  When Archie finally did speak it was almost in a whisper, “You…you want the money…?” and then more briskly, “Does this mean the assignment has been completed as we asked—the information in hand?”

  “I assume so,” Raul’s tone became slightly more assured. Despite feeling the game might be slipping away he plucked up his courage and plowed on. “The man’s a professional after all; I would assume he has an understanding of what’s required.”

  Behind the bravado, Archie thought he caught some slight hesitation in Raul’s manner, a hint of fear perhaps. This registered somewhere at the back of his mind and he didn’t like it…he didn’t like it one little bit.

  “Well, in that case,” Archie went on, “and since he has that fractured leg and all, I assume I will have to go to him. I can manage that.”

  “Oh, no, you needn’t bother, we’ve caused you quite enough inconvenience already. I can send one of my people to pick up the information, and bring it to you…you can just pay the courier what’s owed…where did you say you’re staying?”

  A little alarm sounded in the back of Archie’s brain and he hung up the phone.

  Raul knew then he’d made a terrible mistake and had no idea how to go about rectifying it. Archie had been a generous and reliable client and he hated to lose him, but that, of course, was the least of his worries now.

  The Party

  It was just past eight o’clock that night as Lucy Tallwoman, hoping she hadn’t waited too late to call, dialed Carla’s hotel. The desk clerk let it ring; causing Lucy to think the woman might be out to dinner or in the shower. But in fact, it was only a few minutes later that Carla called back. Lucy immediately apologized for the hour.

  “Oh, not at all, I was just coming back from the restaurant. I still have a load of paperwork to attend to, before I can even think about bed.”

  The FBI Agent sounded happy enough to hear from her so Lucy lost no time inviting her to the little cookout they had planned for the next day. “Charlie Yazzie and his wife are coming, and one or two other friends might show up…not too many…we should have plenty of time to talk.”

  This seemed to please the woman as she immediately accepted, “How exactly would I find your place?”

  “Charlie already thought of that. He and Sue will be picking up some things I need in Farmington and can swing by your hotel…you can follow them out if you like.”

  “Hmm, well that was certainly nice of the Yazzies. Yes, that would be great! Please tell them I appreciate it.”

  “Good then. They should be by about four o’clock. That should leave us plenty of time to eat and talk, and for you to get back to town before dark. It’s hard to see those cows on the road at night.”

  Lucy thought the conversation went well enough. When Thomas came in from the corrals and heard she’d invited the FBI agent, he seemed proud of her bold approach to one in so important a position. His wife didn’t
have a lot of experience with whites, not on a social level, and certainly not one of Carla’s caliber. Her friend Sue Yazzie was the one who was good with white people, often urging Lucy to be more open to the idea as well.

  Lucy Tallwoman’s early experiences with white people at her boarding school had not always been pleasant ones. Now, however, she was beginning to think her friend, Sue, might be right. Maybe it was time to be more like her. Sue’s stint as Office Manager at Legal Services had lent a whole new perspective to her outlook on social engagement and she was obviously convinced her friend would also do well to become more involved with her patrons; it was those people’s support, after all, that made up the bulk of her income.

  The next morning Lucy was up early, as were her husband and the kids. Thomas was determined to get some work done on the sheep and it looked like it would be a nice cool day for it, with perhaps a shower or two should the weatherman be right. That might hold the dust down, he thought.

  Most of the preparations for the cookout would fall to Lucy Tallwoman and her father, old Paul T’Sosi, and she wondered if he would be helping out at the grill. Before he got sick he had insisted on being in charge of all outdoor cooking. Now she didn’t know if he would feel up to it or not.

  Just as Lucy was having these thoughts, her father came in from his hogan grousing that it was way past time to eat “Where’s lunch?”