Moon Underfoot (33 page)

A
T EIGHT THIRTY
Monday morning, a full hour before the Gold Mine’s scheduled opening, Jake sat in his pickup truck across the street and down the block from the business. He looked through hunting binoculars to see if he could get a glimpse of Moon Pie. He wondered what had happened to cause there to be yellow police tape across the front door. He wasn’t sure what he would do if he saw Moon Pie. He actually didn’t know what the guy looked like but hoped he’d be able to pick him out. The police described him as fence-post thin, except he had a pronounced paunch. He had shoulder-length, stringy brown hair, and he shaved only once a week.

In the seat beside Jake, in an unzipped canvas case, was a new Ruger 9 mm semiautomatic pistol. Jake reached over and grabbed the weapon without pulling it from the case. It felt good in his hand and gave him a sense of assurance. Jake wanted to walk up to Moon Pie and settle things. He suspected that Moon Pie would be equally willing. Jake was tired of wondering and worrying. He was ready to move on. Jake had yet to hear from R.C. He wanted him along, but now he was going to have to go it alone.

Jake’s BlackBerry was blowing up with interoffice e-mails. The market was open, and his day was already getting crazy busy.
He dreaded it. He hated talking to customers about domestic and foreign financial markets, the global recession, the disaster that was the European Union, and how the collapse of the euro was going to affect the value of the US dollar and their investments. He hated discussing how the Chinese yuan was being pushed by our own treasury secretary to become a reserve currency in order to stoke inflation in America. And he hated that his clients were never satisfied. They always thought he got them out of a stock either too soon or too late. They all thought they were the only ones missing out on some position or play that would make them wealthy or at least recover some of their portfolio losses. Clients always thought they were just getting the leftovers, the crumbs. They bitched about having to pay commissions on trades, whether it was bought or sold. They all had stories about out-of-town friends whose brokers were making them rich beyond measure. Jake was sick of it.

Jake just wanted to stick the barrel of his pistol in Moon Pie’s face and permanently end this game of cat and mouse.

He cranked the truck and slowly pulled away from the curb. On the radio, Mike and Mike were on ESPN, recapping the weekend’s college football games, which was a welcome distraction. Jake headed to his office for another day of the grind, although he had no intention of putting in a full day.
I’ll come back here later
, he thought, zipping the gun case shut, and then placing the pistol under his seat.

T
HE COLUMBUS POLICE
department had to release Moon Pie. They had exhausted every technicality that would justify keeping him longer. Although his lawyer looked like an idiot, he actually knew what he was doing.

The search of Moon Pie’s trailer didn’t turn up anything illegal, and there wasn’t any contraband or anything suspicious at the Gold Mine, other than the mounted lion. The police suspected that the mount had been stolen from a local doctor who had endured a bloody public divorce, but it was never reported as stolen, since the doctor had much more important things to worry about during that time.

The Mercedes key tied Moon Pie to Tam’s car, not to a specific person. It was circumstantial. The police knew Moon Pie’s lawyer could argue successfully that Moon Pie simply had a key to a vehicle that was parked in a public area for security purposes, in case a building caught fire and the car needed to be moved. The key did not prove that Moon Pie had ever met, much less worked with, Tam. They knew it was pure bullshit, but it gave him some wiggle room.

“We’ll just have to keep an eye on him,” the Columbus police captain explained. “I’ve got men that I can put on him.”

“That son of a bitch is slick, now,” John Wesley cautioned.

“These fellas are good. Real good.”

John Wesley’s phone vibrated, signaling receipt of a text. Everybody saw a relieved expression as he read it. “My son found his retainer. Those damn things are expensive,” he said with a smile.

Most people don’t consider that police officers have normal lives and sometimes kids and wives—lives trudging inexorably forward without regard to ongoing manhunts. The captain knew that an officer away from home needed those tidbits of familial information to keep him grounded and sane.

The captain chuckled as he stood. “Good. Been there, done that. As to Ethan ‘Moon Pie’ Daniels, I ain’t got a choice. I gotta cut him loose in an hour.”

“Okay, I get it. I understand. Well, then, I guess we’re gonna head back to Jackson and then probably to Biloxi. I’ll keep in touch,” John Wesley explained.

“Don’t ya worry; we got your back up here. We’ll keep a sharp eye on your boy. If we get a lead on that FJ Cruiser, you’ll be the first to know.”

S
INCE MOON PIE
wasn’t arrested but was being held for questioning about Tam and other things, he demanded and was granted telephone access. He used it to contact Levi. In code, he carefully instructed Levi to first call the Tennessee Mexicans and plead for time to get him out of jail and then to sort out the other issue. Moon Pie almost retracted that direction, realizing that the safest place for him (due to the pissed-off Mexicans) was locked up. He thought better of it and then told Levi to alert Tam’s crew and to make sure no one called Moon Pie’s cell phone while the police had it. Finally, Levi was to contact their lawyer cousin.

The task force guys and the local police grilled Moon Pie relentlessly until everybody was exhausted. On the rare occasion when Moon Pie answered their questions, he didn’t say anything important or incriminating. When they returned him to the holding cell, he spent the rest of his time there avoiding eye contact with his cellmates, particularly the one Mexican.

On Monday at 10:00 a.m., when the jailer came to let him out, Moon Pie really didn’t want to leave. But he knew that the longer he stayed in jail, the better chance they had of digging up something that could actually stick. His instincts were telling
him to run—to put as much distance as he could between himself and the police, Tam, and the Mexicans.

Moon Pie’s cousin dropped him at the Gold Mine, and by ten thirty, he was at his desk, trying to come up with a plan. His cash was gone, Tam’s cash was gone, and, to add insult to injury, the rifle he loved the most was gone too. His world was a disaster, and he knew that he had only a matter of hours, if not minutes, before the Mexicans arrived. Moon Pie had entered the Gold Mine though the back door. He didn’t want any customers. At the moment, he only wanted Levi to show up with a fresh change of clothes. He absentmindedly picked up the Copenhagen can as he thought about how quickly his life had gone to shit. The shiny silver lid glinted off the light from his desk lamp. As he turned it, the
M
became a
W
and then became an
M
again.

“Them sons of bitches,” he spat angrily. “Damn wetbacks,” he said aloud as he thought about how the Tennessee Mexicans had ripped him off. He was trying to figure out how they had learned the safe’s combination when his cell phone rang. He recognized the number as his Alabama taxidermist.

“What up?” Moon Pie answered, skipping all pleasantries.

“How many good deer ya killed?” the criminal taxidermist asked as he watched an intern clean the paint overspray from a freshly mounted turkey’s eyes.

“Would you believe that I ain’t even been but twice since gun season opened?” he said, happy to talk about something other than the stolen money. “And on one of those hunts I had a landowner all over my ass.”

“You gotta get with it, man. Early season, you’re usually good for five or six. I got orders for about twenty heads I need to get filled.”

“I’ll get plenty; you know I always do. I got you a couple things you’ll like, and I got a nice buck in full velvet I took on Labor Day weekend when everybody was shootin’ doves and had the game wardens all tied up. You’ll love him. Lately, though,
I’ve just had too much shit goin’ on around here. Really bad shit, man.”

“You always do.”

“I know, man, but this time it’s really heavy-duty.” Moon Pie suddenly had an idea. “In fact, I need a place to crash for a while. Can I stay at your place? Just till things cool down some.”

“Yeah, sure, come on and bring that deer. We can make some money while you’re here, night huntin’.”

“Thanks, dude. I can always count on you. I’ll see you in a day or two,” Moon Pie replied, thinking it might be more trouble than it was worth to take his horses.

“Hang on. I called for a reason.”

“What was it?”

“Don’t you know where there are some bald eagles?”

“Yeah. I know several.”

“I need one. A collector called me.”

“Finding one ain’t that hard. I know right where a pair is, and they are close to town. But gettin’ caught with one is a whole new world of federal shit.”

“I understand. I need a mature male, big-ass whitehead.”

“So your customer wants what no one’s got. We’re talkin’ serious risk here and big money.”

“You’re the best, aren’t you? Deliver it in good shape and I’ll split the money with you. Fifty-fifty.”

Moon Pie was desperate for cash. “Okay. I’ll see what I can do. I’ll really have my ass hanging out big-time on this one.”

J
AKE HAD ENDURED
the morning in his cubicle and several times had popped his head up like a meerkat when he heard a strange voice. He struggled to focus and avoided most telephone calls and e-mail, while his frazzled mind raced over the events of the past few days. He constantly checked his silenced cell phone to see if R.C. had called or texted.

It was the week of Thanksgiving, and his coworkers were verbally jabbing each other about the upcoming Egg Bowl—the annual college football game between Mississippi State and Ole Miss. Like so many rivalries, it divided families, friends, and coworkers each year. Today these sometimes-heated exchanges were nothing but a bunch of yammering to Jake.

The more Jake thought about his conversation with the Tupelo police sergeant, the more confused he became. R.C. had stated that the Tupelo police knew about his situation, but they were obviously not watching Moon Pie very closely. They had allowed the guy to get within a few yards of him.
How and why would they let that happen?

What Jake didn’t appreciate was that most police departments are short staffed, and budget constraints impede them from conducting many ancillary investigations. Crime was rampant,
and most departments were stretched thin dealing with actual victims, as opposed to potential ones. The truth was, all things considered, most were doing an exceptional job with dwindling human and financial resources.

The insurance company wasn’t inclined to pay Jake’s claim for the burned camp house. That old cabin had been a big part of Jake’s life, and now it was gone. He knew he could not rebuild it anytime in the foreseeable future. He assumed it was either arson or faulty wiring that had destroyed it. Deep in his gut, though, he was beginning to believe that it was an act of vengeance by Moon Pie. Jake also realized that there wasn’t just some random Peeping Tom at his house but that it was most probably Moon Pie.