Mace nodded at the motel’s proprietor. “Of course.”
“Now what are we gonna watch?” Clearly upset by this latest turn of events, Mad Max began flicking through the channels wildly. “Maybe some of the other channels will come in. Maybe we can find another tractor pull.”
Mace checked his watch. It was a few minutes after seven o’clock on Sunday evening. He thought of suggesting 60 Minutes, then thought better of it. “Max, tell me a little bit about Sugar Grove.”
Mad Max put the remote down on a small table next to his chair, stroked his beard for a moment, and leaned back in the chair. He did not question Mace’s desire to understand Sugar Grove’s history because he simply assumed that a visitor would want to know about his town. “It was settled in 1866 by the black sheep of a Richmond, Virginia, family who didn’t want to live with the Yankees after the Civil War. He figured they’d never find him here, and he was right. Not many Yankees find their way here. I’m kind of surprised you did. And I’m kind of surprised you’re still here.” For some reason Max found this last observation hysterical and laughed for several minutes before regaining his composure with a few large gulps of beer.
Mace did not ask Mad Max why he had found the observation so funny. He did not want to know.
Finally the proprietor went on. “In the early 1900s the big paper companies came calling. They provided the town with jobs and made the grandson of the town’s founder a rich man. In the late 1940s the coal companies came, bringing more jobs and making the great-grandson of the town’s founder a really rich man. But since the downfall of Richard Nixon, the country’s last real president, Sugar Grove’s fortunes ain’t been too good. Twenty years ago the paper companies pulled out because they could get timber a lot cheaper farther south, and now the coal has just about run out. The town’s population is around half of what it used to be.” Mad Max shook his head sadly. “In another twenty years there won’t be anyone left. Then my cousin won’t have anyone to sell his groceries to.” He took another gulp of beer.
“Your cousin owns one of the grocery stores?” Mace took a sip of beer too.
Mad Max hesitated. “He owns both of them. He owns both of the hardware stores too.”
Mace nodded. So that was why prices didn’t seem any different here from in New York. Mad Max’s family was running a monopoly. “And you probably own the motel on the other side of town, don’t you?”
Mad Max showed his expansive pink upper gum again. “Of course. And that garage where your car’s sitting. My wife runs that. Which works out real good. Keeps her busy. That way I don’t have to see her too much. Means I can go hunting more.”
Mace laughed out loud. “My God, you all are modern-day robber barons.” He smiled broadly at the mountain man.
The smile disappeared from Max’s face. He wasn’t certain what a robber baron was, but it sounded criminal, and he didn’t appreciate the implication.
“I bet some branch of your family owns everything in Sugar Grove. Is that right?”
“Just about.” Max nodded stiffly. He didn’t understand why that would so interest this man from New York. Max popped another Coors. “So why are you here, Yankee?” He winked at Mace. “Were you just passing through our fair town when your car broke down?”
“No, I wasn’t just passing through. Sugar Grove was my destination. I was coming here for a few days. But I’m beginning to think I’ll never make it out of here again. It’s taken a little longer than I thought it would to fix my car’s engine.” Mace raised an eyebrow at Mad Max.
Max smiled. “I gotta keep you a few nights so I can make some money. As you can tell, we ain’t doing a bang-up business here.”
That was true. Last night there had been only two other guests, and tonight Mace was the only paying occupant. “In fact I had to be here until tomorrow anyway,” Mace said.
“Why?” Mad Max sat up. Suddenly he was interested. “Why are you here?”
Mace eyed the other man for a few moments. “I work for the government. We are investigating one of New York’s crime families.”
Max leaned forward. Now he was interested. He had heard about these families. “You mean the Mafia?” he whispered.
Mace nodded solemnly. “We think they are laundering money through the Sugar Grove branch of the Charleston National Bank and Trust.” It was an inane story, but Mace knew that “laundering” sounded official and that Max would have no idea what it meant and probably wouldn’t ask to have it explained either.
“Oh, God, my niece works for that branch.”
Mace glanced up from his lap. Bingo.
“Are the people at the branch in trouble?” Mad Max was suddenly concerned.
“No, no.” Mace realized that the mountain man would be on the phone to his entire extended family with this news in the next two minutes if he wasn’t careful. “No, it’s nothing to get excited about. And I need your word that you won’t say anything to anyone.”
“Nothing.” Mad Max swallowed. His eyes were wide.
“Max, what does your niece do at the branch?”
“She’s a teller.”
“Do you think she’d be willing to help me?” Mace asked right away.
Max hesitated for several moments before responding. There was something in the eyes that told the mountain man to trust Mace. “Sure. What would she have to do?”
“Nothing difficult. I just need some information on one account. She would have access to that information, I assume.”
Max nodded emphatically. “She has access to everything over there. She’s a senior teller.” He paused. “There isn’t any chance that anyone will know that she was involved, is there?”
“None.”
“And I’m sure the government would be willing to pay for the information she would provide, wouldn’t it?”
Mace’s eyes met the mountain man’s. So that was his angle. Mace chuckled. “Yes, it would.” He did not bother explaining that if the government wanted information on an account, it could simply walk through the front doors of the bank and get it. When it came to money matters, there were no rights of privacy.
Mad Max nodded. “Tomorrow morning go to the bank and ask for Carol Shifflette. She’ll be happy to help you.”
27
Mad Max had exaggerated his niece’s desire to be of help to what she thought was an agent of the United States government. The young woman’s eyes, set far apart on her broad, freckled face, revealed her reluctance. Mace smiled at her from in front of the teller’s window, but she did not smile back. “Carol?”
“Yes.” The woman’s voice was hushed. The branch was small and not crowded this early in the morning. Clearly she did not want her superior, a chunky man sitting at a desk not far away, to hear their conversation.
“My name is Mace McLain.” Mace lowered his voice as well. “Your uncle Max Shifflette sent me to see you.”
“I know.” Carol seemed annoyed, as though she were repaying a favor she wished she had never been the recipient of. She glanced around nervously. “Give me the account number.” Her red hair hung straight down both sides of her face, and Mace noticed that her upper gum protruded terribly during her infrequent smiles, just as her uncle’s did.
Mace slid a piece of paper and a twenty-dollar bill beneath the dark wrought-iron bars separating them. “Could you give me four fives please?” he asked loudly.
The chunky man glanced up from his coffee and paper but only for a moment.
The young woman picked up the piece of paper—on which was written the account number—slid it in the pocket of the floral-patterned dress, then made change. “Meet me at the Shell station on the corner of Main and Ridge in a half hour,” she whispered through the bars, handing him the fives. “I’ll be able to get away for only a few minutes, so if you’re not there, you lose.”
Mace smiled at the woman, but again
she didn’t smile back. She was not impressed with the handsome city slicker. He was doing something wrong. She had no doubt of that. But Uncle Max had instructed her to do this, and she did not want Uncle Max to tell her father that she and her boyfriend had been using the Deliverance Motel as their backseat for the winter.
“I’ll be there,” Mace assured her.
Twenty-five minutes later, as Mace stood in the dilapidated telephone booth in front of the Shell station with the receiver pressed tightly against his left ear, speaking to no one, he saw Carol Shifflette walking hurriedly up Main Street. She leaned forward as she walked to protect herself against the wind and cold. One hand was pressed against her chest, and the other held a lighted cigarette. In the hand pressed against her chest was a manila envelope.
Mace slammed the receiver down and moved out to meet her. The whole thing was probably a wild-goose chase, and here he was about to spend his own hard-earned money. Again. And for what? Probably nothing. But what the hell? He’d come this far.
The young woman saw him exit the telephone booth and moved quickly across the icy gas station asphalt to where he stood.
“Why didn’t you wear a coat?” Mace asked, genuinely concerned.
She shook her head and shivered. “Then Mr. Griffith would have noticed I was gone. He checks the coatroom a lot.” She glanced around. “Here.” She thrust the envelope at Mace. “Three months of activity for the account number you gave me. Pictures of all the canceled checks. Everything. But there isn’t much to it. I hope it’s what you’re looking for, whoever you are.” She stared at him for a moment. “Or maybe I don’t,” she said softly.
“Don’t worry,” Mace tried to reassure her. “Here.” He slipped an envelope to her quickly. Inside was a thousand dollars.
The young woman snatched the envelope and stuffed it deep into a pocket. “How much did you give Max?” she asked evenly.
“The same. Exactly the same.” It was a lie. Mad Max had required five thousand dollars to set up his niece. But Mace wasn’t going to tell her that. He glanced down at the pocket into which Carol had stuffed the envelope filled with the hundred-dollar bills he had withdrawn from his bank account before leaving New York, part of the twenty thousand he had withdrawn just in case.
“You want it back now?” The young woman suddenly moved both hands to the envelope as if protecting it. “You can’t have it. I’ll start screaming if you touch—”
Mace held up both hands. “All I want is that piece of paper that I passed to you at the bank. The one with the number of the account on it.” Mace cocked his head to the side. “I don’t want that floating around. Neither do you. I think you understand.”
Wordlessly the woman reached to the bottom of the dress pocket, found the piece of paper, and handed it to Mace. Then she turned and began to walk quickly back down Main Street toward the Charleston National Bank & Trust. It was the easiest money she had ever made. That was why she was so worried.
* * *
—
“So you been staying at the Deliverance, huh?”
“That’s right, I have.” Gene Shifflette, owner of Gene’s Food Market, stood before Mace on the loading dock at the back of the building. Gene was a carbon copy of Mad Max. He possessed the same protruding upper gum, the scraggly hair and beard as his cousin, the same paunch, the same distant look. If they stood side by side, one would have pegged them for twins or at the very least brothers, not just cousins. But perhaps the years of inbreeding here made a Sugar Grove cousin about as close to a brother as possible without being one.
“Move it on out!” Gene screamed at several boys who were unloading a truck at one of the four loading bays.
The boys could not have been more than ten years old. So that was how businessmen did it here: through monopoly pricing and thumbing their noses at federal child labor laws.
Gene shook his head. “Good for nuthin’. Where were we? Oh, yeah. So what do you need? Max said you wanted to ask me something.”
“That’s right.” Mace felt for the manila envelope stored securely in an inside pocket of his down ski jacket. His thoughts raced to the records Carol Shifflette had given him showing checks written to Gene’s Food Market, checks written over the last two months totaling almost a hundred thousand dollars.
“Whatcha got? Any friend of Max’s is a friend of mine. Hey! Get your asses moving, boys!” Gene screamed at the young boys again.
“Mr. Shifflette.” Mace’s tone was insistent. It was Monday noon. Leeny would have noted his absence by now and had probably alerted Webster. If he was going to find out anything important, he had to do it now. If he weren’t back by tomorrow morning, there would be lots of explaining to do to Webster. One day away from work could be easily explained at this point, but two consecutive days would present more of a problem.
“Yeah, what?” He turned back toward Mace.
“Look, I work for the government. I’m doing a very routine investigation, and I just want to ask you a few questions about some large checks written to you over the last few months.”
Shifflette held up his hands immediately. “Hey, I ain’t done nuthin’ wrong.”
“Mr. Shifflette, we know that.” Mace used “we” to sound more official. “It isn’t you that we’re interested in. I called my counterparts at the Internal Revenue Service last night. You’re clean.”
Shifflette stiffened at the mention of the tax authority. “Of course I am. I’m a law-abiding citizen.” He glanced furtively at the young boys straining to carry several heavy containers of meat. “Why don’t we go in my office and talk about this?” He put a huge paw on Mace’s shoulder and began to drag him toward the inside of the building.
Mace shook his head. “Not necessary. This won’t take very long.”
Shifflette stopped. “Okay.” He paused. “Can you at least tell me what this is about?”
Mace glanced around. “My information shows that over the past several months you have been paid almost a hundred thousand dollars by—” He paused and began to reach for the manila envelope inside his coat. “The name escapes me. Let me just—”
“Don’t bother,” Gene interrupted. “I know who you’re talking about. They come every couple of days for delivery.” He laughed. “They’re the only customer who picks up their stuff back here. They have to. There’s so much of it. It’s been good business. I hope it never ends.” Shifflette shook his head. “They must be feeding an army, for cryin’ out loud.”
Feeding an army? The words echoed in Mace’s head. “Can you tell me anything about them?”
Again Gene shook his head. “Nope. They place the next order when they pick up the current order. Same thing every time. Ground beef, potatoes, and vegetables. Pretty much the same order in the same quantity. That’s about all I can tell you. I couldn’t even tell you what they look like. Seems like a different person every time they come here. At least the times they’ve come and I’ve been out here.”
“Nothing else you can tell me, huh?” Mace was disappointed.
Shifflette scratched his beard as he looked down at his clipboard. “Nope. But if you have something to ask them, why don’t you talk to them yourself?”
Mace’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
Shifflette glanced at his clipboard. “They’re scheduled to make a pickup tonight at nine o’clock after the store has closed.”
Mace inhaled deeply. The transfer had come from the Broadway Ventures account at Chase to an account at the Charleston National branch in Sugar Grove, West Virginia. And now there were almost a hundred thousand dollars of checks written on the Charleston National account to a country grocer who described the orders placed by the payers as big enough to feed an army. He glanced around. Leeny Hunt was interested in his home computer. Lewis Webster had raised an improbable vulture fund. And there was an army in the hills of West Virginia. There were too m
any coincidences now, too many unanswered questions. It then hit him with the force of a freight train. He shook his head violently. No. It couldn’t be that. Lewis Webster considered himself a god, but even he wouldn’t try that. Would he? Mace’s eyes flashed to the mountain man. “Where can I get some wheels? My car is in the shop.”
Shifflette smiled. “I know it is. Sounds like it’s going to be there awhile too. Real sorry about that.”
“I’m sure you are.” Mace suddenly considered the possibility that he had somehow crossed over a border into some foreign country, some twilight zone, in which he was being held hostage without really even knowing it. Perhaps he would never get his car back and have to continue to pay the forty-seven dollars a night to the Deliverance Hotel forever. “Wheels. Where can I get some?”
Gene Shifflette nodded at what looked like a junkyard through the leafless trees.
“What can I get there?” Mace asked.
“Mike will sell you the fastest motorcycle known to mankind.”
Mace stared at Gene. “Let me guess. He’s your cousin.”
Gene smiled. “No. My father.”
“I should have known,” Mace said to himself as he jumped nimbly to the ground from the loading dock. Suddenly he turned back toward Shifflette. “Hey, Gene!”
Shifflette paused and looked back. “What?”
“Not a word to these people tonight. Do you understand that? If I want to talk to them, I’ll make contact. Don’t you say anything. Uncle Sam is watching.”
Shifflette nodded. For a moment he thought about the thousands of dollars of cash receipts from the grocery store he wasn’t claiming on his income tax return. He swallowed hard. Any kind of audit of his tax returns matched against his checking account would reveal significant inconsistencies to even the most junior accountant. He had been cheating so long now there would be no way to cover it up. He shrugged his shoulders. If they wanted to come to Sugar Grove, let them. They’d be sorry they came. “Not a word,” he shouted at Mace, who was already moving through the woods toward the junkyard.
The Vulture Fund Page 29