Читать книгу Drago #5 (#2b) - Art Inc. Spinella - Страница 7

The coastal hills had been reforested, cut and reforested again over the decades. Winter rains often turned the ground into mud, the smell of mold and moss and mildew heavy in the damp air.

Jolly bashed his way through the woods, climbing once clear-cut ridges, pulling himself up by wet limbs, boosting himself by planting a shoe into the dead stump of a long-cut tree, clawing his way toward the top of the hill.

Jolly only had one goal; one compelling reason for climbing these hills: To find a mineshaft of one of the scores of mines once spotting Coos County. The “portal” to coal that powered San Francisco for decades; that represented the fourth leg of Coos County’s economic base alongside timber, shipbuilding and agriculture.

It had been a hot June afternoon when Jolly found the portal purely by accident. This was his fifth exploration of the hill near his home. He had begun a’thinkin’ about the paths he found in the woods; the trails that were overgrown with blackberries; the rutted depressions in the ground that would occasionally cough up a railroad tie or spike.

“What’s up there?” he asked himself, staring hard at the hill, eventually seeing the sporadic growth differences between the older Douglas firs here and the smaller, younger ones there. You had to look hard, but once your eye became accustomed to those differences, there was a visible, though subtle, track up the mountain.

He began the quest as only a 12-year-old with a rambunctious nature could: A blue kerchief filled with an apple, three sugar cookies, a tin of water and a slab of homemade bread slathered in fresh butter.

Aloud, “Tub would just die climbing this hill. He’d be a’suckin’ on that inhaler thingy every two seconds.”

Jolly enjoyed each of the trips up these hills, although he never quite got to the top on the first four journeys. But each time, he’d sit in a clearing or against a tree overlooking the river, take in the clear dry summer air and tip back against a pine to eat his bread and butter, a cookie and a long slug of water.

On this day, at the plateau, sitting Indian style legs folded in front of him, he saw it. Maybe it was just the way the light hit the side of the hill or his eyes getting sharper to variations in the landscape. What looked like a divot in the side of a sandy mound when someone shoots a gun into a hillock. At first, nothing but a shadow. But darker than the surroundings. Not a random, natural shape, rather a precise incision.

Keeping one eye on the shadow, Jolly felt around him and wrapped the water can, remaining cookies and the uneaten half of his apple in the kerchief. He was already walking toward the dark shape in the side of the hill as he unconsciously tied the kerchief’s corners into a knot.

Sal, Forte and I sat silent for a second, trying to take in this monumental announcement.

Clearing my throat, “Are you going to investigate shoe stores?”

Sal choked. Under his breath, the Chief said, “Ouch” and turned his head away as if to distance himself.

Cookie gave me “the look.”

“Do I have to shoot you, Nick?”

I shook my head vigorously. I know when I’ve stepped in it.

“Okay, then,” Sal said, “What’s the name of this agency?”

Tatiana beamed. “Caught Looking. You know, baseball term. And we often catch men looking at us, so it has double meaning.” Looking at Frankie, “Da?”

“Da.”

I began to sing Baby’s Got Her Blue Jeans On, thought better of it and shut up.

Frankie crossed the room and sat in the Chief’s lap. “And we expect local law enforcement will direct some business our way.”

Forte groaned. “Oh, God, help me.”

Cookie continued, “We rented an office this morning at the Old Coast Guard Building.”

My turn, “Don’t tell me. The Commanding Officer’s apartment.”

Cookie nodded. “I love that place.”

As well she should. The building was built in 1937 after a massive fire destroyed the town. The CO’s quarters were first rate. 12-pane interior doors, large living room, real-wood floors, good kitchen, bedrooms and a spectacular view of the river and Coquille lighthouse.

“Nice digs,” Sal said.

“So what’s with the cars?”

“They’re our signature,” Frankie said. “Just like Cookie’s baseball bat.”

“We go for photos now,” Tatiana said.

My quizzical look was responded to. “Need business cards and advertisements. Da?”

Cookie nodded. “Da. And brochures, pamphlets.”

The three left as quickly as they arrived, chattering, pushing up their hair this way and that. Girl stuff. A minute later, the rumble of three Ford V8s and the crunch of wide tires on gravel.

Sal, Forte and I sat unmoving.

Finally, “Gentlemen, I need a donut.”

Sal bobbed his head. “Make that a dozen. Cinnamon?”

Forte returned to Bandon to do police work which mostly consisted of – to hear him tell it – paperwork and cruising around town to keep his small force on the lookout for the occasional tagger, tipsy tourist or rabid field mouse. Actually, under his tutelage and 20-some years experience with the Los Angeles police before taking the job, Bandon kept the crime rate low by attending to little infractions the assumption (correctly) being if you snuff out the small stuff the big stuff withers. A good plan.

Sal and I sat on the new deck, each in our respective favorite patio chairs, the sun high in the sky and the temperature hitting the high 70s.

“Dos Equis?”

“You betcha,” Sal responded, eyes closed, beard resting on his massive chest.

Pushing myself out of the chair, I went to the kitchen, snagged two Dos from the fridge, popped the tops and returned, handing an ice-cold bottle to my long-time bud.

Sal and I grew up together in Bandon. Became virtually inseparable in high school, playing football and pulling pranks. He disappeared for a while after college to work for a government agency of some sort. I think it was CIA, but he denies it. Adamantly. College wasn’t in the cards for me. I worked the woods, did a bit of welding on demand, headed out to see the world and became a bouncer at any number of bars from Portland to Eugene before coming back to Bandon.

The town has changed a lot since we were kids. From hippie enclave to tourist mecca. Before that, it was a fishing-logging-lumber mill kind of Oregon rural town. With a view. And before that, shipbuilding, sea port to San Francisco and Seattle, agriculture, gold rush… Hard men and hearty women sort of place.

Sal returned a few years back and we picked up the friendship where it left off. He bought the spread next to Willow Weep – the name given to our property by my oldest daughter some decade and a half ago – and we sit in these same chairs almost every morning drinking coffee and eating ‘nuts. Once noon rolled around, it was Dos Equis and pizza. The good life.

“Ask you a question?”

“I never was nor would I ever be CIA.”

“No, not that one.” I took a long swig of brew from the long neck. “Does Tatiana ever tickle you?

Sal turned his head toward me and opened one eye. “She tickles my fancy, if that’s what you mean.”

“No. I mean physically. Does she tickle you? Goochie, goochie, goo kind of tickle.”

Sal chuckled, closed his eye and shook his head. “I’m not going to answer that, Nick.”

“Just wondering. I mean, you’re 300 pounds…”

“299.”

“You’re 299 pounds. She’s, what, two inches taller than you and a pretty big girl herself. I’m trying to picture you and her rolling around on the floor with her tickling your belly. It’s quite an image. Know what I mean?”

Sal exhaled long and slow. “Nick, shut the hell up.”

Later that afternoon, Sal dropped a stack of photos on my dining room table, pulled out a chair and sat across from me.

“Gaelic,” he said.

Rummaging through the slick, high-res 8-by-10s, the words captured in the photos meant nothing to me. Not even close.

“Should we call the nutty professor, Renolds?”

“As much as I would prefer not to, I think it’s a good way to go,” Sal said.

Sal clicked on his iPhone, opened the email app and typed in the professor’s address. In the text box, he wrote: “Need Gaelic translation. Can you help?”

The response was almost immediate. “Mr. Donut, I presume. Skype. 11 minutes. Don’t be late!”

Sal and I scurried into the den where I fired up my new Mac and launched Skype. Clicking on the professor’s Skype address a couple of wizzes and warbles then the image of the professor filled the screen. He hadn’t cut his white explosion of wiry hair and his face looked even more craggy than the last time we spoke.

“Ah!” he said, staring into the screen. “I see both of the country bumpkins are in attendance! What, no powdered sugar crumbs in your beard today, Mr. Donut?”

Sal wiped his hand over his face just to make sure, “Not today, doc.”

“What’s this about Gaelic? Haven’t you finished that chapter in your pathetic rube lives? Come on, get on with it! Time is of the essence!”

I held up one of the photos close to the camera lens.

“Good God, man! I’m not blind! Back it away!”

I did as directed. The professor began mumbling to himself, eyes scanning the hi-res picture. “Show me another!”

Flipping to a second photo, careful to keep it a good distance from the camera, he began bobbing his head.

“What do you know about languages, class? Never mind, nothing I’m sure.”

Sal began to respond but was cut off.

“That’s Gaelic alright, but it’s an ancient strain of the language. Here, look.” He began rummaging around on his desk out of view of his camera and came up with a large sheet of paper. He held it up to the screen, but only a portion of it showed. It was hard to read.

“What do you see, class?”

“A bunch of boxes and words.”

The professor fell silent for a few seconds, shaking his head. “Of COURSE you see boxes and words. Care to tell me what the words say.”

“Indo-European and, I presume, the languages that are offshoots.”

“Close enough, Mr. Drago. This is only a small portion of the roots of languages. Do you see the word ‘Celtic’ by some chance?”

I nodded.

“And do you see the word Isular?”

“Yup.”

The professor’s face replaced the chart, eyes glaring out of my screen. “Did you just say ‘yup’? What are you, 12?” He put the chart back on screen. “Insular categorizes the Gaelic languages that began in the British Isles, not on the European continent. Small matter to you. But the words in your photos are under the word ‘Goidelic.’ I’m not moving too fast for you rubes, am I?”

Sal and I shook our heads.

“Good. The Irish version of Gaelic came from the Miliseans, another word for the ancient Irish. About 5,000 years B.C. For you two, that means a very long time ago. The Miliseans, like all good Irish, spread their seed into Scotland and beyond taking their language with them. Good God, if it weren’t for the Brits and Romans beating them to a pulp for a thousand years, we’d all have red hair and speak Gaelic! I tell you, the Irish are humanity’s equivalent of rabbits! They’re damn near everywhere!”

“Professor, we’re getting off track. Can you translate this stuff?” I asked.

“Of course! But you’ll have to give me one of those gold balls as payment!”

Sal and I looked at each other. “You know about the gold balls?”

“I said I could read the words, people. See the words on the first photo?”

I flipped to the picture. “All I see is ‘le corp brataithe no cludaithe le oir lomhar.”

“Gad! That was the worst accent I’ve ever heard! Don’t do that again, Mr. Drago. It means a ball or object made from a gold metal. Ancient Irish Gaelic. Maybe handed down from three or four thousand years ago. Send the photos and I shall translate for you.”

The professor spat out his address and the screen went dark.

Sal leaned back in his chair. “He’s such a joy to talk to.”

As the crow flies, Bandon to Holly, Colorado is something around two hours in a private jet. But commercial airlines don’t fly that way. They stop here and there and everywhere and the same trip becomes a full day (17 hour) affair. Bandon-to-Portland-to-Denver-to-Holly with an assortment of delays, waiting for connections and dealing with Denver weather conditions which can be horrendous.

Sal and I climbed in my Cirrus at 8:30 a.m. While I completed the typical safety check outside the plane, the big man fired up all the glass panel dashboard instruments, plugged in the flight path data and played with the techy stuff, his favorite part of the aircraft. We’d be in Holly by 1:30, some 12 hours faster than commercial flights.

Taxiing the Cirrus, my heart rate bumped up a couple of notches. I love to fly – as long as I’m behind the stick. This little single-engine craft is the Lexus of small planes and with a few minor modifications it was faster and roomier than the standard model. A turbocharger bumped up the horsepower and removing the rear seats to accommodate my longer legs and Sal’s let’s say larger frame, made the SR22T perfect for these kinds of trips. Besides, it was the only plane Cookie would let me have because of the built-in parachute.

Takeoff from the south end of the Bandon airfield is a breeze. Wheels lifted off and I banked right to take us on the heading directly toward Holly.

“Airport in Holly, Sal?”

“Checked and yes, there is. Long runway. About 4,000 feet. More than you’ll ever need.”

“Fuel?”

“By the bucketsful.”

“Well, then, settle back.”

The sky was that perfect cloudless blue every pilot loves. The horizon as clear and sharp as a well honed knife blade. The ground rolling slowly under the wings, every detail down to the swing sets in backyards and old cars on blocks, crystal images of rural Oregon.

Sal’s bright gray eyes were half closed as he scanned the instruments with occasional glances out of the side window.

Watching the city of Myrtle Point pass below, he asked, “You brought the donuts, right?”

“Thought we needed a change of pace. Packed up some apples, peaches, lots of cherries and a tub of yoghurt.”

Sal squinted and his eyes slid toward me. The nerve in his left cheek began to twitch.

“No?”

The twitch became more pronounced.

“Don’t go all Joe Biden on me. Got donuts. By the bucketsful.”

The big man’s beard wiggled. The twitch came to a halt. “And coffee?”

“By the bucketsful.”

When piloting, I’m not a big talker. I’d rather take in the sights. Feel the pure amazement that there’s 20,000 feet between me and the hardpan. Everything drains away once I’m at cruising speed and altitude. The engine settles into a soothing buzz. The incremental movements of the joystick come naturally in response to minute shifts in wind currents. Some pilots prefer quick, snappy, noisy aircraft they can toss around like a beach ball. Not me. I’m into sedate and heart-rate calming flights. Every once in awhile I’ll toss the plane into a quick bank just for the heck of it, but those times are rare. Give me some Dwight Yoakam in the headset turned way down low and a long stretch of good air and I’m happy as a clam.

Sal’s flown with me at least a hundred times and has this uncanny ability to fall asleep regardless of the weather, speed or maneuvers. I always assumed it was a knack from his government days – whatever those were – where the standard operating procedure is to sleep whenever and wherever you get the chance. You may not have the opportunity for days afterward.

After a long nap, he began tossing around in his seat. “Are we there yet?”

“Another hour or so, Sal. Glad for the extra fuel tank. We’ll have a sip or two left when we land.”

Sal stretched, sat upright and reached for the coffee, giving me a sideways glance.

“How big is a ‘sip’?”

I held my fingers about an inch apart.

“Good enough.”

He poured two mugs, popped the sippy lids on both and handed me one.

“First stop lunch. I’m starving.”

“The airport’s only a mile from downtown Holly, according to the map.” He pulled a long swig from his mug. “We made good time, Nicky. Tailwind?”

“Big ‘un. Shaved a half hour off of the trip. With the time change, we’ll touch down around 2.”

“What do we use for transportation?”

“Forte was going to call the PD in Holly. Ask their chief if he’d mind picking us up in exchange for buying him lunch.”

Sal slid some Lil’ Orbits on a paper plate, resting it between us.

“These are good,” Sal noted, popping one and following it with a swig of coffee. “You know what?”

“What?”

“We need a pizza maker. I saw one on line that slings out pizzas in less than 10 minutes. All the ingredients are fresh and word has it they taste pretty good.”

If Cookie was complaining about the smell of donuts every morning, I couldn’t imagine what she’d have to say about pizzas.

“Good idea. Worth considering.”

The wind, as is usual in Colorado, was strong and coming out of the northeast, but the sky was blue with a light haze.

“There it is,” Sal said, pointing to a patch of a town in what was clearly ranching and farming land. To its south, a long, dead-straight runway. I know. What other kind would there be? Ever land a plane on a Mexican dirt road for lack of a better place? I have. Straight it wasn’t.

Circled to the south for an approach and within minutes were bumping down an old runway. I turned off toward the lone hangar with its horizontal fuel storage tank. Next to the small office, a police car with a tall, thin man dressed in tan with a white Stetson and a silver six-pointed star on his shirt leaning against the fender.

As I shut down the engine, he began walking toward the Cirrus, arriving just as Sal and I climbed out.

“I’m guessin’ you’re Drago,” he said to me, dark eyes with a hint of sparkle taking in my height, weight and build. Typical cop measuring up a stranger just in case things got dicey, which, of course, they weren’t going to do.

To Sal, “And you’re Rand.”

We both nodded.

“I’m Tommy Lightfoot, no relation to Gordon but I can sing better than him.” He smiled, stuck out his hand which I took. “Your chief called ahead, said you’d be comin’ today.”

“Good to meet you Chief.”

Sal gave Lightfoot a quick handshake, never taking his eyes off of the cop. I sometimes wonder about Sal. He’s got a big heart, but he’s cautious of people who are too nice too soon. He has this uncanny knack of knowing things about people before they tell him. Sal ID’d Tatiana as a Russian secret service agent days before I tumbled to her status.

“Climb aboard and we’ll get some lunch and jaw a bit. How’s that?”

“Fine with us,” I said.

We climbed into his dusty cop-version four-door Jeep Wrangler.

“Fly that pretty little plane a lot?” he asked.

“Not as much as I’d like.”

“We’re used to crop dusters, mostly. Don’t often see new planes.” He scratched his ear. “Well, actually, a couple of the ranchers have those planes with the V-shaped tail they take up to Denver or wherever. Me? I don’t fly too well. Give me a Jeep, any day.”

The landscape was pretty stark. Mostly dirt on both sides of the highway, only a few buildings and those well worn from use. The occasional tree looked healthy enough, and the fields were well tended. About half-a-mile from the airport, a few grain silos behind the tin-shed “Farm Fleet Tire Service,” its four fuel pumps sitting on the only concrete pad in an otherwise all-dirt parking and transport lot. We bumped over some railroad tracks and quickly hit a stretch that clearly was getting closer to town. A few nicely tended houses abutted the highway followed by the typical rural pole barns that housed an assortment of ranching support businesses.

A pile of used tires maybe 8 feet high marked Cliff’s Gas and Diesel followed by a plain white building with A TO PARTS in big red letters above an old Pepsi dispenser and what looked like a cockeyed refrigerator.

“We’ll go to Porky’s,” the Chief said shortly after passing the “Welcome to Holly” sign.

He pulled the Jeep into a dusty parking lot in front of a steep-pitch, compact building that looked like someone couldn’t make up his mind to do Spanish Mission, Swiss Chalet or Cowboy Basic. We climbed out of the Jeep; the aroma of good food floated in the air like the smell of hot metal in a machine shop.

A pert little blonde smiled at us. “Hi, Tommy.”

“Clarise. Keepin’ busy?”

“You betcha.” She waved an arm, “Sit anywhere and I’ll be with you guys in a sec.”

We took a table for six next to a window.

True to her word, Clarise quickly returned to the table with glasses of water.

“What’ll it be?” she asked.

Lightfoot looked at me, “Burgers are good. Fries are double fried.”

To the waitress, “I’ll do a burger with everything you got in the cupboard, fries and a beer if you have it.”

“Bud okay?”

“Sure.”

Sal held up two fingers.

The Chief held up three.

Turning to me, “Now, what can I do for you, Mr. Drago?”

“Nick.”

“Okay, Nick.”

“You remember a Denver cop named Littleton?”

“Sure. Some years ago, but he tracked down a killer-child-molester to these parts.”

“Well, the way he told it, you tracked him down, he just came to haul his ass back to Denver.”

“Maybe so.”

“Anyway, he said you two got along pretty good and you told a story of the Arapahoe tribe having a tale of people being found inside tree tombs.”

Lightfoot’s eyes flashed on and off in a matter of a split second. “This about that old wives’ tale?”

“Is it?”

“Is it what?”

“An old wives’ tale.”

The chief leaned back in the booth, ran his hand through his black hair, measuring the words he would say. Finally, “Let’s just say there are a few in the tribe, and I mean a very few, who believe the story. Others try to put different meanings on the myth, interpreting it in a thousand different ways except literally.”

“You don’t believe it?”

Lightfoot hesitated, then, “Let me put it this way, Nick. My great grandfather was a believer. My grandfather was a believer. My father was a believer.”

“Did they also believe these folks were buried with gold?”

Lightfoot’s dark eyes flashed again. A long sigh. “Yes. But if you say a word about this, I’ll deny it.”

The burgers, beer and fries arrived and the table went silent as we dug in. Juicy, thick, onion, jalapenos, cheese, a hint of a special sauce, tomato, some kinda mustard that reminded me of the hot dogs in Langlois south of Bandon. Other stuff I couldn’t identify but right out of the Hamburger Heaven cookbook.

Sal and I groaned our way through the burgers and the double-fried fries with nary a word of English. The police chief just kept chuckling and nodding his head at our ‘burger rapture. I didn’t even care that the beer was Budweiser.

Meal done, second round of Buds, bottles dripping ice-cold sweat.

Sal leaned forward, put his tree-trunk forearms on the table and looked directly in Lightfoot’s eyes. “You don’t know that Littleton is dead, but you’ve been approached about the gold balls.”

The police chief blinked as if he’d just been slapped. “Beg pardon?”

Sal didn’t repeat himself. No need. He’d taken in Lightfoot’s words, expressions, responses and in typical fashion came to a conclusion.

Finally, “No, I didn’t know Detective Littleton was dead. Heart attack?”

“Gunshot to the head,” I said.

“Christ. When?”

“About a year ago.”

“And it’s related to the gold balls?”

“Yes.”

Sal broke in, “And someone’s asked about the gold in the past few weeks.”

“Just last week, actually. How’d you know?”

I tapped my beer bottle on the table, “Because Sal is smart and intuitive. Who approached you?”

“Said his name was Williams. Claimed to be working on a book about Native American mythology. Thought it was odd he came to me because I’m not a tribe elder or Arapahoe historian or much into the culture. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to be Indian, but no more proud than say someone who’s Italian or something. I’m not big into the whole woe is me thing.”

Sal asked, “You didn’t buy that this guy was writing a book?”

“At first I did, but after a couple of hours not so much. He dressed baggy. Like he was hiding his body. Once I glommed onto that, I began to notice he was a lot bigger, harder, stronger than I’d picture a writer. Lots of guys around here keep their hair cut short, but this was military short. Part cut into his hair with a razor, I figure. His vocabulary was decent, but not writer smart. Or at least what I thought should be writer smart. He had no life in his eyes. No ingrained curiosity, if you know what I mean. Hard to explain.”

“How’d he get here?”

“Rental car. Out of Denver. Avis.”

“Have a phone number or address for this guy?”

Lightfoot pulled out his billfold, a worn brown leather affair, scarred from years of use, stained from sweaty hands. I caught a glimpse of the bill compartment. A 10 and a couple of ones. He pulled a few business cards from one of the inside flaps, thumbed through them and slid one across to me.

I picked it up and tipped it toward Sal. “W. Robert Williams. Writer. 313 area code and the phone number.”

Sal took it from me and rubbed his thumb and forefinger across it. “Cheap. Get ‘em online for 10 bucks for 250. Detroit area code, but the first three digits aren’t a Detroit exchange.”

Lightfoot smiled. “You know the phone exchanges for Detroit?”

Sal cracked his first grin. “Dated a woman from Detroit. When she broke it off, she gave me a phone number. Fake one. She tried the same thing, using a false exchange. Pissed me off so badly, I memorized every exchange in the 313 area code.”

I knew Sal was lying through his teeth. He never dated a woman from Detroit.

Never got the chance to call him on it.

Just as Clarise approached the table to ask if we wanted anything else, a hole appeared in the middle of her starched white blouse. Then it turned red. Then she crumpled like cheap aluminum foil.

Dead before she hit the floor.