Clint Faraday Collection C: Murder in Motion Collector's Edition (10 page)

“
Well,
they won’t listen to me, it’s their own problem.”

Clint had to bite back a remark. He didn’t
like Tom at all. The ass was worse than the people he was
supposedly giving the benefit of his great experience. If there was
anyone at all in Bocas Town who knew everything there was to know
about everything and who wouldn’t listen to a word from anyone who
disagreed with him it was Tom. All the people at that table were
accepted and liked by the locals except him. He was blind to that
and believed everyone native to Panamá hated all gringos. He didn’t
like Clint to the point he was rude because the Indios were such
good friends to him. He told everyone new that they had to be
careful around the Indios because they would steal everything they
had the minute their back was turned. The blacks were thieves to
the same extent and dangerous as well. The Indios were, at least,
mild-mannered and respectful to your face.

Clint would like to smack him in the puss
when he started that stupid rant. He simply was unable to recognize
the fact that he was the misfit.

Clint said he’d better get back home before
the rain started. Everyone said their good lucks to him – except
Tom, who sat there and looked over the parque. Clint made it a
point to wish each of them well by name. He acted, as almost
always, like Tom wasn’t there.

Next stop was home. What to do now?

He read a
book Judi Lum, his attractive nextdoor neighbor left for him. It
was by Dave, his nutty musician–botanist friend. Clint had been
surprised when he learned, after knowing him for three months, that
he had over a hundred books published. It was a thing called
Enter Merlin
Tyana
. The character was
originally based on an Agatha Christie character, Harley Quinn, but
that lasted for less than one story, then Merlin took on a mystique
of his own. It was certainly no literary masterpiece, but was more
readable than most of the crap on the market.

Phone
Chat

The phone was buzzing when he turned it on in
the morning. It was Sergio Valdez, head of the police.

“
Good
morning! How are things going, now that you have time to sit around
and do nothing?”

“
Regular,” Clint replied. “How are things with
you?”

“
Not much
changes in Bocas. A different crop of tourists. Different faces,
but on the same complainers.

“
We have
some people over on Bastimentos who are in for a rough time, I’m
afraid. Henry and Catherine Dickerson and assorted cousins and so
forth for a week or so at the time. They aren’t going to fit and
they’re on the old Flannery place. George got along with most
people here and a lot of them over there, but couldn’t put up with
the ones he didn’t like. They stole everything he had, broke into
his house a few times, killed his dog – you know about that. He was
a basic sort and not a bad person at all.

“
These
are the type who want to order everyone around them. I mean, by
that, it’s, `Hand me that fork!’ Never a `please’ or `Thank you’
from that crowd. That woman was in the China here and Yveth and
Juan were there. She just pointed to her bags and said, `Bring
those to the water taxi!’ like they were serfs and she was a
princess.”

“
That one
went over big with Yveth, I can guess,” Clint said,
laughing.

“
Yveth
looked her right in the eye and said, `Portage is twenty five
dollars per hour plus tourist tax, minimum two hours.’ She could
have sh ... crapped in her panties.”

“
The
Flannery place. Down by that little cove half a kilometer from the
town? That section isn’t where I’d want to be!”

“
Or me. I
see trouble ahead. They won’t put up with that attitude out there
from whatever serves as friends. From gringos? I really don’t think
so.”

They chatted. Clint worked with the police on
a number of things. Sergio said there was something about them that
had his suspicions on full tilt. He was used to one or two members
of a family being arrogant egotistical snobs. These were all that
way, including the cousins. That said a lot about them without
wasting words.

Clint looked thoughtful, then said he’d call
a friend. Maybe they were from somewhere into something that his
friend would know about.

“
Ah! That
mafia man. Marko. He’s living in the Mediterranean and still gets
that information for you.”

“
Yeah.
HE’s living on an island in the Med. His organization’s
everywhere.

“
Do you
have any information about them? Where they came from?”

“
Their
passports say they came from New York City. I’m not good at accents
and I imagine that you have a lot of them very different in a place
like New York. The accents don’t fit the name. At all.”

“
Oh?”

“
Dickerson? And an accent that’s a lot like some of the
French or Suiza.”

“
It’s a
name that could be Swiss or Swedish. That area,” Clint pointed out.
“I’ll see what I can find. Having the US passports says maybe it’s
witness protection, but they surely wouldn’t put them in a place
like Bastimentos!”

“
That had
occurred to me. The US screws up that way all the time.”

They chatted for a few minutes more about
generalities, then Clint called Marko Boccini, a mafia don who had
gotten out of the business with Clint’s help and was living with
his family on Isla San Cristobal as Manny Mathews. He didn’t know
anything about them, but would check. It sounded like a typical WPP
from the states that was so screwed up it would probably get the
whole family wiped out, just by different people than they were
being protected from.

Clint went to several places to chat and shop
for fresh vegetables, then headed back home. He spent the afternoon
in his boat, cruising around. Later, just before dusk, he went up
the bay around Bastimentos and looked at the house being built on
the old Flannery place. It was far too upscale for the area and as
far into crass ostentation. There was a bullish and somewhat fat
balding man yelling at the workers. Clint could hear from the
distance when he cut the engine. He was railing about leaving
something out to get rained on and did they have any least idea
what that stuff cost and he would take it out of their salaries if
it happened again.

The workers seemed mostly to ignore him. He
was yelling mostly in English (which most of them spoke, but they
would keep that from him), but there were a number of words mixed
in that definitely weren’t English.

A tall woman came to ask what the yelling was
about. It was giving her a headache. They would stop it right now.
She was darker than the man and had a slightly different accent.
That would be the one Sergio thought might be French. The man’s
accent was more guttural.

Clint shook his head and started the engine.
The man turned and stared at him. He acted like he didn’t even see
them and headed back toward Isla Colon.

That house would be finished soon. The people
were staying in the old Flannery house now. That would be a real
move upward to be in the overdone mansion they were building.
Flannery had built a wooden stilt house that was old and beginning
to deteriorate. Those people were in for a life in hell if they
didn’t wake up. As soon as the house was finished and there wasn’t
any work coming from them they’d get a few lessons in human
relations.

Clint was talking to Bob and Aaron at the
Golden Grill table a week later. It seemed the Dickerson’s house
was finished the day before and they were all moving in today, then
the Flannery place was going to be torn down and a gazebo built on
the little hill where it stood.

“
A what?
Out there? A gazebo?” Clint asked. “Sergio said they had spent some
time in India, probably among the elite English. I can picture a
tiki hut there, but a gazebo?”

“
Complete
with carved railings and lattice panels,” Bob reported. “Rukel’s
bringing in the special order crap. It’s probably soft wood and
won’t last two days with the termites.”

“
That
stuff over to Woodstock? It’s supposed to be teak. From Chiriqui.”
Aaron said. “It won’t be there very long. Every one of those taxi
and tour boats’ll end up with, in the vernacular, fancy teakwood
appointments.”

They chatted about it for a bit, then other
subjects. Clint went to the China next door to Rukel and saw the
bullish man going in. He grinned to himself and went in to see if
they had any anti-fouling paint in yet.

The man Gloria, the salesgirl, introduced to
Clint as Henry Dickerson stood there like a statue and didn’t do
more than a very short nod.

“
Oh,
yeah. The new asshole from Bastimentos,” Clint replied with a nod
as curt as Dickerson’s. “I see the people weren’t exaggerating when
they said he was an antisocial misfit SOB.

“
Any of
that Williams Special A-F paint come in yet?” He ignored Dickerson.
He’d just wanted to see if he could recognize anything about him.
Gloria said it was supposed to be shipped Friday, which meant
Friday, but probably not this Friday. They laughed about
it.

“
How in
hell...?! You think it’s funny that you can’t ever get anything on
time here?” Dickerson exploded. “Maybe you trash don’t care what
delays cost, but I DO! The fact you live like pigs and eat bananas
and rice might have something to do with your lack of concern for
the costs! I AM concerned! If you ever had a pot or window maybe
you’d learn some sense about it!”

“
Money?
Here we go again!” Gloria said with a sly wink at Clint. “How much
it costs to live here where everything’s supposed to be so
cheap!

“
Clint,
didn’t you get more than five million dollars for that Puerto
Armuelles thing?”

Everyone knew how Clint always seemed to end
up with ridiculous sums by accident in his jobs. He built schools
and medical clinics for the Indios and so forth with the money.

“
Something like that. I let Judi handle that kind of thing.
She’s good at seeing most of it isn’t stolen. I don’t give a happy
damn if it is.

“
I’ll
drop in Friday afternoon to see if the A-F is in.”

She said her goodbyes and innocently turned
to Dickerson. Clint heard him saying, “That bum has five million
dollars?” as he went out. He stopped just outside the door.

“
Oh, no.
That’s just one thing. He has all that land on the Pacific and got
more than that on several things he did. He really hates having so
much and tries to find ways to make it make a difference for
people.”

“
He’s a
fool! Money is security!”

“
Oh,
bullshit! When the market drops or there’s a land bust, where is
the security?” Gloria replied reasonably. “Your bronze screws are
supposed to be on today’s truck from David. You paid extra so
they’ll be here. About four.”

Clint went on, giggling to himself. He did
get a lot of money, but nothing like she made it sound. Dickerson
would ask a lot of questions about that bum who had a billion
dollars in the bank.

He talked to the group at the Golden Grill
and to some others. They could have some fun. Then he went home. He
would go to Chiriqui Grande in the afternoon, then on to the
comarca, then would get back home in two days. Or three. Or
four.

Super Rich
Bums

Clint tied to his deck and started hauling
things inside. Judi waved and said she just had to talk with the
mulitbillionaire philanthropist bum who lived next door. He waved
back and put his things inside, then went to her place.

“
...So!
You got the five plus million for the Puerto Armuelles thing and
were in a land deal out there, too. You had a hundred million or so
in that. That thing in Mali where you got the two million back for
the Indios sort of turned into two hundred million. We got carried
away and couldn’t stop. I told Manny about it so he was there at
the Lemon Grass with the family for dinner night before last. I was
there with Ben and Gene – he’s someone I have to tell you about! I
found someone I can really relate to!

“
Anyhow,
Manny said you were good at ending up with money. You probably got
a billion or more from the treasure you found. He knew you started
building a huge hospital in some place.

“
It was
comical! I thought he’d explode!

“
I
couldn’t resist. I said, `Oh, yeah. Everybody knows Manny spent a
few hundred million bucks himself building the Isla San Cristobal
place and he was in on the school and clinic there with you, wasn’t
he?’ I batted my eyes and looked so innocent you could puke. Sylvia
said you two built so many of those things so many places she’d
lost count.

“
Dick-head-son said it was smarter to conserve some of that
money for emergencies. Sylvia said they kept a special account for
that. Manny said, `No, we don’t. I kept five million in gold in the
vault. You probably do the same.’

“
He
almost fainted on the table, then I said I only kept fifty thousand
around the house. I couldn’t picture needing any more than that and
it wouldn’t be the end of the world if it was stolen or the house
burned down or something.

“
He said
we sounded like we’re all millionaires. Manny said we just happened
to get together here, that it was a strange place that way – the
people you meet here.