Читать книгу Drago #5 (#2b) - Art Inc. Spinella - Страница 6

Jolly Davis was known around Coquille as a rambunctious kid. Not ADD rambunctious, just, well, active. A schosh more scrappy than most rural 12 year olds, a tad over 5-foot-five with a mess of red hair befitting his Irish ancestry and with feet the size of Oklahoma. “Lots of growin’ left in that boy,” his dad would say.

Jolly sat on the Coquille River bank, thumbing through the pages of a history book about the Indians in these parts and the industries that sprung up because of the area’s abundant natural resources. Fish, game, timber, coal, gold, to name just a few.

His dad fished and hunted and could brandish a chain saw with the best. Mikey Slaughter’s dad still had a small gold mine up on Seven Devils Road. Didn’t produce much, but Jolly thought owning a gold mine would be the coolest of the cool.

But no one talked much about coal. What’s to talk about? Dirty black stuff that didn’t burn as good as wood. Needed to go underground to get it. At least Douglas fir was on top of the earth where anyone with a chainsaw and a log splitter could get hold of it.

Maybe it was coal’s nearly invisible history in Coos County that attracted Jolly to it. Maybe it was the history book’s story of Patrick Flannigan, an Irish immigrant who made a fortune mining and transporting it. Maybe it was the notion of dropping 3,000 feet below the surface – 1,400 feet below sea level -- to get at it. Didn’t matter, really. Jolly just liked the idea of coal. Kinda like the way hoarders like the idea of salt and pepper shakers.

With a nub of a No. 2 pencil, Jolly wrote a one then 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0 0.

He looked at the scribble. “Them’s a lot of zeros,” he said to himself.

He re-read the passage in the history book. “A 1902 government assessment of the amount of mineable coal in Coos County was put at 1 billion tons.”

Jolly looked at the passage then at his penciled number. In a whisper, “Holy catfish. A billion tons of coal. Them’s a lot of coal.”

The air was cooling and the Coquille River began rippling as the north wind scurried across its surface and tree tops began the low hum that comes with a stiffening breeze and the sun began its slow dip into the west behind the hills to Jolly’s back between him and the Oregon coast.

“Time to go, Jolly,” he said aloud. “Pops will tan me good if I linger.”

Standing, stretching his legs and stuffing the history book under his arm, the 12-year-old began trekking along the bank, taking a second or two to step on a twig just to hear it snap or another second or two to kick a stone out of his way or another second or two to lift a small rock and toss it into the river.

Twirling through his head he wondered, “How many steps is a billion?” He began counting as he walked, but stopped at 100. Jolly was a kid and numbers couldn’t hold his attention as fastly as kicking stones or throwing rocks or snapping twigs under his worn black tennis shoes.

Passing the open hay fields that spread to the east between North Bank Road and the Coquille River, Jolly pulled in a big breath of air. “Cow,” he said aloud. And sure enough, around the next bend, a small herd of cattle, bellies distended with a full feeding of new hay, pushed against the wire fence that separated them from the rare passing vehicle.

“Hi, cow.” Jolly smiled and touched a white and tan Hereford’s nose through the wire. “Can’t linger. Gotta get home.”

The black top road was warm from a summertime sun and Jolly’s tennies were thin on the bottom. He liked the sensation. Better than winter when he’d walk the same route but on a cold road that made his feet tingle, just on the verge of uncomfortable.

“A billion tons,” he said aloud, still awed by all the zeros. “Them’s a lot of cookin’ fires.” Oh, Coos County was in the new century, for the most part, but some folks still used wood and coal burning stoves in the more rural parts. Even today some don’t have a proper indoor shower. One of Jolly’s classmates comes to school smelling like iron. He showers in an outdoor stall using well water so thick with the metal it’s almost like a thin tomato soup. Got ya clean, but tended to add a light red tint to the skin.

The sun fell behind the nearby hills just as Jolly pushed through the back door of the old farmhouse, a farmhouse that’d been in the family for nearly 150 years, sitting on the side of the hill in a stand of middle-aged Douglas fir, a well-tended garden of vegetables that made up a sizable chunk of each night’s dinner.

“Hi, moms.”

“Just in time, Jolly. You cut it pretty close. Your father just went upstairs to take a shower.”

“Do you know how big a billion is?” Jolly scuffled across the linoleum floor, twisted the old wooden chair away from the table and tilted back, staring at his mother.

“Pretty big, darlin’.” She was half-way through frying up three nice-sized lamb chops in one cast iron pan and dipping a wire spatula in another, pulling out fried potato skins, dropping them into a bowl lined with a towel to soak up the grease. Jolly’s stomach growled.

“Smells great, moms.”

Mrs. Davis had just gotten the one lamb slaughtered so the freezer was packed with fresh chops, ground and leg. Lamb chops were always the first to make the dinner plates. It was the family’s favorite.

Jolly didn’t need to be told. He automatically climbed from the kitchen chair and pulled plates and glasses from the cupboards, knives and forks from the utensil drawer and grabbed a gallon of whole milk (fresh from Mr. Hancock’s cows) from the refrigerator, putting it all on the table in the usual places.

“Hey, Jolly my man.”

Tim Davis tipped this side of large. Topping six feet and 210 pounds with hands that could palm a basketball with inches left over, Jolly’s pops spent his days as a welder in Coos Bay. Made a good living and spent it all on his family. The Irish in him dragged the body to a local pub on occasion, but not often enough to get the former Colleen O’Shaugnasee’s own Irish temper up.

"How big's a billion?"

Tim Davis thought about the question then pushed away from the table. "Follow me."

Colleen scowled, “Be back in 10 minutes. Dinner’ll be on the table.”

Father and son walked into the yard, across the country lawn to a large wooden barn. The paint was fresh. Brick red. White trim. Neat and thick with 150 years worth of paint.

"Go out to the garden. Mom has a sand pile to mix with dirt for the vegetables. Bring me back one grain of sand. Just one."

Jolly learned long ago that his father always taught a lesson with some hands on demonstration. When he asked how the tractor’s diesel engine worked, pops made him pull a glow plug on his own. Not only did he learn to use a wrench, he began to understand that it took the glow plug to ignite the fuel to make the pistons go up and down.

The 12-year-old grabbed a hand full of sand and pulled his pocket knife from his jeans. Used his teeth to unfold the blade. He licked the tip of the blade and touched the point into the handful of sand. He checked the blade and saw there were quite a few grains stuck to the shiny steel point. Jolly dropped the handful of sand and wiped his palm on his pants. With his tongue clamped between his teeth, Jolly began fingering excess sand from the blade until he had about a dozen grains. He carefully flicked at them until there was only one.

Being careful not to drop the lone grain, Jolly walked back to the barn where his dad stood in the doorway watching.

"Got it," Jolly said, satisfied he'd accomplished a magical feat. "Mighty small, pops."

"How much does it weight, you think?"

Jolly pushed the sand into the palm of his hand and made a weighing motion with his palm. Up and down. Up and down. "Nothing, pops."

"Okay, put it right here," patting the top of a six-by-six that once was a hitching post.

Slowly tipping his palm sideway, Jolly used the index finger on his other hand to carefully scrape the grain of sand onto the post.

"Now get the shovel and those five pails and bring them over to the garden."

Jolly grabbed the old shovel and picked up two steel buckets by their handles. Tim Davis was already standing next to the sand pile, arms crossed, a smile on his lips. His son dropped off the two pails and the shovel and returned to the barn to grab three more containers.

"Line 'em up next to each other," Davis said.

Jolly did as told and set them one by the other in a row.

"Now, fill each of them with sand right up to the top."

It took Jolly only five minutes to shovel sand into the pails then stood waiting for his next order.

"Haul them back to the barn."

It took three trips, but shortly the five containers of sand were hip to jowl next to the hitching post.

"What do you figure those buckets weigh?" Davis leaned against the barn door and watched.

Jolly picked up a bucket and hefted it like someone would a barbell. "Four, maybe five pounds, I'd guess."

"Times five."

The 12 year old knew his multiplication as good as any kid his age.

"20 to 25 pounds."

"Don't guess."

Jolly hoisted one of the buckets to the small weigh scale used for mixing feed. The needle stopped at 4 pounds three ounces. He did the same with each bucket. Using the nub of his pencil to write the weights on the side of the hitching post; he stuck his tongue out of the corner of his mouth and began adding.

"20 pounds, 15 ounces." Jolly finally said.

"And what was the weight of the one grain of sand?"

"Not anything I could weigh."

"Okay, you want to know what a billion is. A teacher once told me -- he was English, so I can't swear to his honesty -- that a billion grains of sand would fill five regular pails that size." Davis licked his fingertip and put it on the lone grain of sand where it stuck fast.

"One grain," holding up his finger and then with a sweep of his arm at the five buckets, "One billion grains."

"That's a lot of grains, pops."

"Want to try for a trillion?"

Jolly turned and looked at the garden.

"Moms don't have that much sand."

Cookie stood in the kitchen doorway, nose flaring. “The house smells of donuts.”

Sal and I, standing over the Lil’ Orbits machine, watching the batter drop into the hot grease in perfect little “o” shapes, float halfway down the bubbling channel of oil, automatically get flipped and continue their journey to the flapper that pushes the delectable tidbits into a receiving tray. My job was to watch. Sal’s job was to sprinkle cinnamon-sugar on the hot mini donuts.

“Ain’t it great?”

Sal’s stomach growled agreement.

“Listen, Drago,” Cookie said, “that machine goes off every morning at seven. By seven-thirty the whole damn house smells like a bakery.”

“And your point?”

Cookie’s eyes turned into slits. “Move it, sluggo, or I’ll move it for you.”

“Aw, jeez, it’s perfect in here.”

“Put it in your den or one of the dozen outbuildings around this place. But get it the hell out of my kitchen! The drapes are beginning to smell of hot grease!” Cookie walked to the end of the donut maker, snatched two and left.

Sal asked, “Twelve enough?”

“It’s a start.”

“Get the coffee. I’ll take these to the picnic table.”

Grabbing the platter of Lil’ Orbits, I elbowed the slider open and stepped down to the deck. Sal put the coffee pot in the middle of the table along with a couple of mugs.

The big man turned somber. “Have you told Cookie?”

Grabbing a donut and popping it into my mouth. Warm. Sweet. Fried. Best purchase I’d made in a long time. “Not yet. But I think your plan is going to work.”

“It had better. Our collective butts are on the line if it doesn’t.”

“The Plan” was one of revenge.

The year previous, Sal and I got enmeshed in the Tree Man fiasco. Gold balls and Celtic symbols and the murder of some innocents by people unknown. Mostly unknown. Government for sure. But we couldn’t determine if it was official or off the books. Whole families disappeared. Entire databases were wiped clean. The mystery centered on the possibility local Indian tribes were predated in America by Europeans. Or were parallel civilizations.

A warning from a friend at Homeland Security to “unwind” from the investigation; we ignored it. And everything began to unravel.

When one of the “innocents” was suddenly and unexplainably dead, someone Sal had grown fond of, someone Sal pulled a couple of strings and had transferred to Walter Reed Hospital, Sal decided to take things into his own hands and get even.

Over the past year, however, he (and I) had moved from the outrage of emotional revenge to a more clinical “get even” attitude. We drifted from finding the maniac behind the deaths so we could rip his arms off to uncovering the face of the kingpin and understanding why. Then ripping his arms off.

Where Sal goes, so do I and vice versa.

“Here’s what we know,” the big man began, taking alternating pulls from his coffee mug and popping another mini-donut.

I pointed at his beard. He swiped a large left hand across his face to rid the whiskers of the errant crumbs.

“The fact that Homeland Security got wind of the plot and Artemus warned us off, tells us we’re dealing with government. Federal. Either the SOB behind this works for the government or he or she has inside info on the non-government group behind it.”

“Agreed.”

“We also know they – whoever they are – have some mighty big pull to be able to call up a black ops hit squad to take out anyone with knowledge of the Celtic arrival in America at or around the time Native Americans established their roots here.”

“Also agreed.”

“So why? What purpose? Why would anyone get their tighty whities in a knot because of something that happened ten thousand years ago?”

“Some sort of financial payoff…”

“Or damage to a financial source. Correct. This has to be based on money. And lots of it,” Sal said. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes and went silent for a minute. We’d been friends since high school and I knew when to keep my mouth shut and let him ponder. He was pondering.

I let the early morning sun wash my face, closing my eyes and seeing the glow on the backs of my eyelids. “Government and money usually means politics. Who loses if Indians are somehow found to be the second nation in America?”

“I’ve given that a lot of thought, Nick. Not the judicial branch. No reason. In fact, they’d probably welcome a case as complex as one pitting two ancient peoples fighting over who came here first. The legislative branch is a good possibility because, as we’ve so smartly determined, this is about money and who are the money grubbers of the first order? Senators and representatives.”

“Yeah, but do any of them have the power or connections to call in a hit squad?”

“A couple, maybe, but not likely.”

“That leaves the Executive branch. You think?”

“FBI, CIA, NSA, DHS…”

“Don’t forget CTU.”

“Please no Jack Bauer jokes, okay?”

“Once someone tried to tell Jack Bauer a ‘knock knock’ joke. He not only found out who was there, but who they worked for and where the damn bomb was.”

Sal shook his head. “Enough.”

“Jack Bauer shot Helen Keller in the knee to make her talk.”

“I said enough, Nick.”

“Know why there’s no life on Mars?”

“Stop.”

“Because Jack Bauer visited there once.”

“Are you done?”

Draining my coffee mug, “I got a million of ‘em, Sallie.” Opening my eyes and leaning forward so I could reach the donut plate, “So you think it was one of the alphabet gang?” Popping a Lil’ Orbit, “Don’t buy it. For what purpose? They’re good at getting the DNA of a dog dropping so they can send a hit team to capture someone’s Shih Tzu, but what reason would they have to get in the middle of an ancient civilization scuffle?”

A moment of silence, then, Sal said, “Aside from the gold, none. I’m not saying the orders came from the military or FBI or NSA or whoever, only that they’re the only ones with a black ops team sufficiently cold and ruthless that would kill innocent bystanders.”

“I could name drug cartels that would disagree with that.”

“For what purpose? The cartels don’t need the cash. They could care less about ancient civilizations unless there’s more gold to be found. And that would only be a drop in the bucket compared to what they make off of drug running.”

I shrugged. “Got me. But that goes for everyone we’ve been thinking about. Who has the pull to order up such a team?”

“We’re talking in circles, Nick. And once again we’re into the Executive branch of government.”

“Bureaucrat, you think?”

“High level, for sure.”

“Committee, group, rogue, what?”

“I’d bet on a deep background committee. Don’t think a single rogue bureaucrat could put the squeeze on one of the alphabet agencies to murder people. Again, almost every security or intelligence group in the government has its own black ops team, but it takes some mighty big muscles to convince the head of the CIA, for example, to turn a sniper loose and make people disappear.”

“Could be, probably was, a bunch of freelance shooters. Ex-military.’

“Still has to come from someone in government.”

I stood and walked down the deck stairs to my fabulous country lawn of mowed dandelions, scrub grass and an assortment of other weeds. Don’t mock it. Green is green even if it’s not Kentucky Blue.

“Sal, we’re not going to figure this out by guessing.” I picked at the bark of an old shore pine that I’d notch every year with the height of the kids as they grew up. I’d fire up the chainsaw, lay the bar flat on each kid’s head, tell them to run like hell (which they did) and make an inch deep cut in the tree. Today that’s called child endangerment. Back then, it taught kids to respect, not fear, dangerous equipment.

“Agreed. We need to start where the trail started.”

“Maine?”

“Well, we have to eventually get to Maine, but I thought we could backtrack. First Colorado then Illinois.”

The entire Tree Man episode began when we found a perfectly formed, highly polished and magnificently valuable gold ball in a clay egg hanging around the neck of a skeleton entombed in a 200 year old Madrone tree. Long story short, it pointed to a band of Europeans arriving on the Oregon Coast hundreds of years before any previous record of Europeans in America. The clay egg, when opened, revealed a minutely detailed map of the Coos County region in artistic perfection and accuracy with gold inlays.

As further investigation unfolded, we found similar stories of Tree Men across the country of those who had knowledge of the gold balls. Some had cashed in and paid off mortgages; others had invested in real estate. Unshackled from the chains of debt, all had become moderately wealthy.

And dead.

“What was the name of the town in Colorado?”

Sal pulled his iPhone, tapped on a few keys and pulled up a file from his iCloud account; scanned the information and, “Holly. Holly, Colorado. Southeastern part of the state. Arapaho Indians had a tale of gold balls and men in trees.”

“Are you suggesting we go to Maine, too?”

“Nick, that’s where it all started.”

“I won’t go to Maine.”

Sal sighed, “And why not?”

“There are no important people from Maine. The most notable thing about Maine is a lobster. Ain’t even human.”

“Stephen King is from Maine.”

“He’s an alien. That doesn’t count.”

Sal chuckled. “You’re just jealous because he sells more books than you.”

“He’s an alien. He can mind-control people into buying his stuff. Come on. Evil clowns? You think a publisher would give anyone other than an alien a few million bucks to write about a clown living in sewers and eating kids? Ha.”

Sal sighed again, but I continued, “Illinois, Abe Lincoln. Louisiana has Satchmo. Tennessee, Davey Crocket. Texas, well there are just too many to name. California has the Cisco Kid.”

“And Jerry Brown.”

“Another alien. Doesn’t count.”

“I can’t believe you think Stephen King is an alien.”

“That’s my story…”

“And you’re sticking to it, I know.”

Both of us fell silent. Popped a few Lil’ Orbits, sucked down on-the-verge-of-cold coffee. Each absorbed in our own thoughts. Stephen King even looks like an alien.

I was first to break the silence. “Do we really need to see these places first hand?”

“Internet’s good, but I have a feeling it would be to our advantage, yes.”

“Something’s been bothering me about the whole affair. We have gold balls stretching across the country. We have Bo telling us all of the gold we found here came from the same smelter.”

Bo is a metallurgist who performs valuations and assessments for a high-tone clientele and has a laboratory in Bandon with the latest in high-tech assay equipment. Sal and I found his stolen, classic T’bird a couple of years back and he became a friend for life.

“And from Europe, Nick. The gold used to make the balls was Spanish, if you recall.”

“Odd, don’t you think?”

“That the gold came from Spain? Not really. It’s what the Spaniards were known for. They had this thing about gold.”

“No, odd because the gold found here was from Europe which logically means the gold balls in Maine, Illinois and Colorado also were likely from the same batch.”

Sal thought that over for a second. “So the Celts drug gold cross country. We already figured that.”

“Why?”

“Why would they bring it with them? Because it was part of their tradition or heritage or religion or culture. I don’t know.”

Walking back to the table, “Need fresh coffee.”

Sal followed me into the kitchen. “What are you thinking, Nicky?”

“We have all that Celtic writing from Altos’ notes, correct?”

“Sure. I took photos of it all before the government came down on us and gathered it all up.”

“But you still have the photos. Didn’t give those up. What say we have the text translated?”

“Worth a try. But who?”

“How ‘bout that crazy professor who first told us about…”

I never got to finish my sentence. The rumble of V8 engines on Beverly interrupted.

Sal and I walked out to the driveway. First through the gate, Cookie in her ’76 MG, long ago outfitted with a 5-liter Ford engine. On her tail, a beautifully restored 1966 Thunderbird, dark blue metallic followed by a black ’40 Ford coupe.

To Sal, “Did I miss the memo on a hot rod show?”

“Something’s a foot, Dr. Watson.”

Cookie climbed out of the MG. Frankie Blue slid out of the T’bird and Tatiana shut down the big-block Ford just as Chief Forte’s Bandon Police cruiser nosed in beside the three vehicles.

The chief climbed from the Crown Vic, shaking his head.

I walked to Cookie, “What’s the convention? And where did Frankie get David Kime’s T’bird and Tatiana Bruce’s ’40?”

“We’ll explain in 10 minutes, in the living room.”

With that, the three women disappeared – Tatiana giving Sal a toodles wave with her fingers -- into the house leaving Sal, Forte and me in the driveway.

“What’s up, Chief?”

“Got me, Nick. All I know is Frankie texted me to be here at 11:30. It is now 11:25. And I’m as in the dark as you guys.”

“When did Frankie get the T’bird?” Sal asked.

That got a simple shoulder shrug from the Chief. “What about the ’40? Isn’t that Bruce’s car?”

Sal scratched his beard, “Well I know she fell in love with it when we got back after the whole thing in the South Pacific. She didn’t have it this morning when we got up.”

Tatiana, a former Russian agent for that country’s equivalent of Homeland Security, and Sal had been an item a couple of years ago. Then she returned to her Mother Russia only to return as part of the team that captured a Russian tanker and brought it to Hawaii.

“Well, I guess we’ll find out soon enough,” I said. “Want a mini-donut, Chief?”

The living room has been redone a couple of times in the past twenty-four months after a couple of gun battles and a later explosion. It looked pretty good, except Cookie was right, it did have a slight donut smell.

The women were standing next to the big screen TV. Cookie waved the three of us to the couch.

“Tatiana, Frankie and I have made a decision.”

I raised my hand.

Cookie gave me a brief smile, “Yes, dear.”

“What’s with the hot rods out front?”

Tatiana giggled as only a 6-foot-2-inch tall, hot as a branding iron woman can.

“I’ll get to that, Mr. Drago.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“The three of us,” Cookie continued, “are going into business.”

“Pizza palace, I hope,” Sal said. He wasn’t taking this seriously, either. “Nick, don’t you think it would be great if they opened a pizza palace?”

“Only if they deliver, so to speak.”

Forte snorted. Very ungentlemanly.

Frankie gave the Chief the evil eye and the smile evaporated.

“We’re opening a private investigation agency.”