Shadow Man (30 page)

Daisy Perika tried to count to ten, made it all the way to two before she spoke to the obnoxious man. “I came back here to apologize, and that’s what I did. You’ve got no reason to say nasty things to me.”

Removing the cigarette from his mouth, DeSoto reached out, tapped ash on the woman’s head.

She clenched her fists, grimaced.
I’ve had just about enough.

He laughed in her face.

This was enough.

Daisy snatched the cigarette from his fingers. Well aware of the hazards of such objects—which range from cancer and cardiovascular disease to starting wildfires—she thought it best to put the thing out. Immediately. This, she would later claim, was why she stuffed the burning end of the cylinder into DeSoto’s disgusting belly button.

Where the fuzz was.

This tinder in the tender orifice burst into a torchlike flame.

Having had his attention diverted by the smelly thing the Columbine hound had found, Moon was startled to hear the shrill scream.
What now
—

The scene across the fence was one that boggled the mind.

Mr. DeSoto was leaping around, patting his belly
hard
—like it was a drum. The
slap-slap
provided a comical rhythm to accompany his energetic dance.

Aunt Daisy was laughing so hard it looked like she might fall on her face.

Though perplexed by this bizarre piece of theater, he came to an instant decision.
I’d better get her outta here.

During the long drive back to the Columbine, a westerly breeze rippled the grass, a dusky twilight swept across the prairie. It was that unsettling few minutes of half-blindness that heralds night—not dark enough for headlights, not quite enough light to see what might be scurrying across the blacktop.

Having waited in vain for Charlie Moon to show some curiosity about her small adventure, Daisy volunteered a brief account of her meeting with DeSoto.

As he strained to see the road ahead, Moon would merely nod or grunt.

Her nephew’s apparent lack of interest annoyed Daisy Perika no end.

Despite appearances, the driver had heard every word.

Daisy leaned her head back on the seat, closed her eyes. As the miles slipped away with the minutes, she spent them reliving the day’s delightful experience.

On the far horizon, Charlie Moon watched the arrival of a furry herd of buffalo clouds. He was a man who knew too much—and yet not quite enough.

When the Mercedes sedan pulled into his yard, Mr. DeSoto was in his cellar, tending to business. He did not hear the marvelously engineered German engine purr—only the soft crunch of tires on the gravel. Pausing in his work, he took a look through the narrow ground-level window, grunted with displeasure at the sight of an unfamiliar automobile.

DeSoto stuffed his pistol into a hip pocket that was concealed under the tail of his purple shirt. He grunted his way up the cellar stairs, arrived in time to hear the rhythmic knock. Shave-and-a-Haircut…Six-Bits.

Easing the door open, DeSoto frowned at the man in the gray hat, gray suit, gray gloves, gray boots. He shot a wary glance at the expensive gray sedan, where a driver sat behind the wheel. Unable to make out the features of the man concealed by the smoke-tinted windshield, he took another suspicious look at his visitor. “Who’re you?”

The gray man’s thin mouth smiled. Hard eyes glittered behind the pink-lensed spectacles. “A potential benefactor.” He pitched the repulsive man a leather pouch.

DeSoto caught it, was surprised at the weight of the thing.

The potential benefactor spoke in a disinterested monotone: “Inside, you will find a dozen Krugerrands. According to the most recent quote on the Jo-burg exchange, that amounts to just over five thousand dollars.” He waited for a moment, watched the stupid man’s stupid face. “If you sincerely believe you can help me, you may keep them as a down payment for future services rendered. If you are not able to provide the necessary assistance, it will be in your best interests to return the Krugerrands to me immediately.”

The greedy man weighed the gold in his hand. “Whatta you want me to do?” DeSoto managed a nervous grin. “Punch somebody’s ticket?”

The visitor lost the humorless smile. “Don’t ask questions. I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”

“Uh—awright.” He jingled the bag, heard the reassuring clink of precious metals.

“As we attempt to communicate, there’s no need for you to strain your minuscule mental powers.” The gray man’s lips curled in a sneer. “Just nod for ‘yes,’ shake your head for ‘no.’” A pause. “Think you can manage that?”

DeSoto almost spoke, then remembered to nod. He wanted ever so much to open the pouch, examine the contents, but something about the arrogant visitor prevented him.

The gray man looked past DeSoto, addressed his remarks to the ugly stucco house. “On top of the advance, I am authorized by my employer to offer one hundred Krugerrands for certain information. I don’t care where you get this information, or how. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

A nod from the pockmarked man.

“The information I require is in the possession of a Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe.” He shifted his gaze, watched DeSoto’s face intently. “If you know nothing about this woman or where she might be contacted, now is the time to return the dozen Krugerrands. But if you believe you can help me, nod.”

A hesitation, then a nod.

“Good. Now listen carefully, because I’m going to tell you exactly where she keeps this information. And I’ll only tell you once.” His rapt audience listened. He told him.

DeSoto gulped, started to speak—thought better of it.

The gray man glanced at the cellar window. “Do you wish to tell me something now?”

DeSoto licked his lips, squeezed the leather pouch. Shook his head.

“That is acceptable. I suppose you’ll need some time to do whatever you need to do. But as soon as you have something useful to tell me about Mrs. Blinkoe—or the information I’m after—hang that hideous shirt you’re wearing on the clothesline.” He pointed a gloved finger at the cotton rope strung between two rusty poles. “And hang it
upside down.
Can you remember that?”

The man with the bag of gold coins nodded.

Amused, the visitor smiled. “One last thing.
Do not mess with me.
If you do…” He told him exactly what he would do. And how long he’d take doing it.

The lurid description had the intended impact on DeSoto, who broke into a cold sweat. But he did not give up the pouch of Krugerrands.

As they motored away from Garcia’s Crossing, the gray man spoke to his chauffeur. “Mr. DeSoto is a putrid pimple on the face of our fair civilization. Way I see it, he’ll hold on to the gold and give us nothing in return—aside from measured doses of misinformation.” He removed the rose-tinted glasses, waved at a pretty girl on a blue bicycle. “If there’s anything I cannot stand, it is a dishonest man.”

The man at the wheel nodded his agreement.

The gray man leaned toward the front seat. “If this punk tries to jerk us around, I say we teach him a lesson.”

Late in the afternoon, Father Raes dropped by the Columbine headquarters. He was disappointed to learn from Daisy Perika that her nephew was not at home. She had seen Charlie Moon leave with the county agent again, probably to go check on some sick cows.

“All day and half the night—it’s nothing but work-work-work for Charlie.” She glowered out a kitchen window. “He don’t own this ranch—it owns
him
!” While spewing off for another minute or two, she made a pot of extraordinarily strong coffee, and invited the priest to join her in the parlor.

Seated before the massive fireplace, they watched magical flames transform ordinary pine into glowing embers and crumbling cinders.

Unable to take more than a sip or two of the brackish brew, the priest cupped the cup in his hands. “So. How have you been getting along?”

Daisy shrugged. “Okay.”

The kind man smiled, firelight danced in his dark eyes. “Did you consider my advice?”

She gave him a wary look. “You mean about making nicey-nice to Pineapple—to Mr. DeSoto?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”
Just as I expected, she has not done it.
“And did you attempt to make amends?”

Daisy nodded the old gray head. “Charlie took me out there. And I apologized up one side and down the other.”

The coffee cup almost slipped from the priest’s grip.
This is truly astounding.
He tried not to sound surprised. “And having done so, I’m sure you felt better.”

“Yes I did.” She allowed herself the merest hint of a smile. “
Lots
better.”

Being a teacher at heart, the Jesuit was determined to make certain the tribal elder understood the significance of what she had done. “Though the gentleman was undoubtedly blessed by your act of humility and contrition, I have no doubt that you received the greater blessing.”

The shameless woman put on a saintly expression. “I expect you’re right about that.”

Garcia’s crossing

One Minute before Midnight

In certain inner circles, where old men converse with those in other worlds and sacred pipe-smoke twists and twirls, the one who came calling is called by a
secret name.

Makes No Tracks also makes no sound. Except when he intends to.

Having counted the gold Krugerrands at least twenty times, DeSoto had the pouch suspended from his pockmarked neck, concealed under his hideous shirt. Ever since the big Mercedes had pulled away, he had tried to decide how he should respond to the gray man’s proposition. Having worn himself out in this futile effort, he had finally fallen into a restless sleep. DeSoto was dozing in front of the television when he was awakened by the heavy
thunk
of a stone hitting the metal roof. He groaned.
It’s those damn stupid kids, chunking rocks at my house again.
The disgruntled tenant got up from his reclining chair. With the pistol in his hand, he stomped to the door, opened it a crack.

A sinister broom swept away the sounds of night.

Cricket forewings ceased to stridulate.

A bloated owl paused in mid-regurgitation.

DeSoto’s heart began to palpitate. He opened the door—just far enough to poke the revolver out. Then his head—just far enough to catch the big fist on his jaw.

He would remember nothing after the smashing right hook—until almost an hour later. As he began to drift up toward something resembling consciousness, the dazed man thought he heard the toilet flush. And flush again. And again. The sounds reminded him of his worst hangovers.
Or that bad case of the flu, when I threw up my socks. Maybe somebody’s sick—
He suddenly had a terrible sense that
something was missing.
His hand leaped to his neck, trembling fingers scurried around in a frantic search. The heavy pouch was gone. Now, somebody was definitely sick. When he eventually discovered what else was missing, sickness would be replaced by utter terror.

In DeSoto’s chosen line of work, failure was punishable by death.

When the office door opened, Spencer Trottman was searching his desk for a client’s business card. A tall, slender man entered—carrying a small black suitcase. He was decked out in an expensive ash-gray suit, suede gloves and Tony Lama boots of the same sooty shade, topped off with a matching Golden Gate cowboy hat. He observed the attorney through the proverbial rose-colored glasses. Literally. “You’re Mr. Trottman, am I right?”

“You are and I am.” The attorney got to his feet. “And you?”

The newcomer mirrored the professional smile, shook the lawyer’s hand. “Me, I’m new in town.” He glanced at the window. A smoke-gray Mercedes was parked at the curb. “Matter of fact, I just blew in with the wind.”

“I don’t believe you’ve mentioned your name.”

The stranger gave the attorney a slow, appraising look. “My friends call me Smitty. I suppose you can too.”

“Okay, Smitty. Have a seat.” Trottman indicated a comfortable armchair by a potted palm.

“Thanks, but what I need is some standing-up time.”

Trottman seated himself behind the desk. He prided himself on being able to size up his man.
This one is interested in real-estate investments.
“How may I help you?”

“Now that’s the spirit! I like a man who gets right down to the meat on the bone.” Smitty produced a gray suede pouch from an inside jacket pocket.

The attorney watched the mysterious stranger remove twelve South African Krugerrands, line them up on his desk. “This should cover a few minutes of your time.”

Trottman nodded, stared dumbly at the golden disks, nodded.

The visitor produced a gray cell phone that matched his suit and hat and boots and Mercedes. “’Scuse me for a sec. Gotta make a call.”

The attorney watched with keen anticipation.
He’s representing a well-heeled investor who prefers to remain anonymous.

Having pressed a programmed button, Smitty spoke into the small instrument. “Yes sir, I’m here. Is he ready?” A pause. “Okay, put him on.” He smiled. “Hello there, hotshot—I’m with your lawyer. You want to have a word or two with him? Good, I thought you would.” He offered the cell phone to Spencer Trottman.

Puzzled, the attorney pressed the phone against his ear. “Who is this?”

Though strained, the voice was crisp and clear. “It’s me.”

Trottman felt the blood drain from his face. “Manfred? You’re
alive
?”

“For the time being. Look, Spence, I’m in a bad spot and I don’t know how long they’ll let me talk. So don’t ask any questions, just listen and do
exactly
what I say. You understand?”

“Of course.”
This cannot be happening.
“Please continue.”

“I need something. And it’s really, really important that you get it for me.”

“What?”

“A series of numbers.”

Manfred Blinkoe’s attorney had heard the rumors about the millions hijacked from the Colombian drug cartel, and the alleged foreign bank accounts.
It must all be true.
He heard himself say: “Account numbers?”

“No questions, Spence—please!”

“Uh—I’m sorry.”

“I kept one set on the boat—we can forget about that. Pansy has the other copy.”

“Manfred, I haven’t seen Mrs. Blinkoe for quite some time—”

“Keep your mouth shut and listen, dammit! You’ve got to talk to her, get those numbers. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes. Certainly.” Spencer Trottman looked up at Smitty, whose long face was grinning wolfishly.

Blinkoe’s voice continued. “Thing is—Pansy don’t even know she’s got the numbers.”

“But, Manfred, if your wife doesn’t—”

“Just shut up and listen!” There was a brief silence. “I’m sorry, Spence. It’s just that I’m in
serious
trouble.” An intake of breath. “Now pay attention—Pansy has the information
right on the tip of her tongue.”

As a remarkable notion occurred to him, Trottman frowned. “Did she learn the numbers under hypnosis? Is there some trigger phrase one must utter to release her from—”

“If you’ll keep quiet for ten seconds, I’ll explain.”

The attorney listened. Could barely believe his ears. “Manfred, are you serious?”

“Serious don’t half cover it, Spence. If you don’t get Pansy to provide that information within twenty-four hours, these—uh—gentlemen are going to make things very tough for me. This situation I’m looking at is what you could call
terminal
.”

“But I have no idea where Mrs. Blinkoe is—”

“Then you better get busy and find her. I am in serious trouble and—”

Trottman heard a distinct
click
. Almost before he realized what had happened, Smitty had removed the cell phone from his grasp.

The visitor placed the leather suitcase on the lawyer’s desk. “The Krugerrands were chicken feed. Now I’ll show you something that’d make a duck’s mouth water.” He opened the case. “Take a gander at that.”

Trottman stared in disbelief at the wrapped stacks of twenty-dollar bills.
I wonder how much…

Smitty read his mind, and smiled. “A hundred grand. I’ll leave it here, let you count it.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“It’s yours, Mr. Trottman. A good-faith down payment for services we expect you to render.”

“But as I have already told Dr. Blinkoe, I have no idea whether Mrs. Blinkoe will contact me—”

Smitty leaned on the lawyer’s desk with gloved hands, stared through the pink spectacles. “The outfit I work for has more cash flow than General Motors and Ford combined. It’s not like my bosses worry about a thousand bucks falling through a crack now and then. But a few million here, a few million there, it cannot be ignored. If such misbehavior is not properly dealt with, it could set a bad example. So a meeting is called, a decision is made. What it comes down to is this: If Mrs. Blinkoe would like to get her hands on five million bucks, all she has to do is come up with the numbers to those foreign bank accounts where her old man stashed our liquid assets. She comes across, I will deliver the five mil’ tomorrow afternoon, her husband will be cut loose in good health. The Blinkoes will have a potful of cash to purchase expensive trinkets and fancy duds and this and that. And you will have your fee on the five mil’, which I imagine will be at least twenty percent. But my bosses are not patient men, Mr. Trottman. You will get a call,” he checked his wristwatch, “at precisely ten forty-two
A.M
. tomorrow. You have the list of numbers for us, everything is jake. You don’t, your client is history.” He gave the attorney a lopsided grin. “And I would not want to make odds on your probable life span, or Mrs. Blinkoe’s. And don’t even think about calling the cops. My outfit has top-notch technicians placed in every phone company in the USA. Every time you call for a pizza, we know whether you asked for Italian sausage or anchovies.” A grimace. “Or pineapple. Did you know that some weirdoes are asking for
fruit
on their pizza?” He shook his head. “I mean, what next—prunes?”

Trottman’s mouth gaped. “But…but…”

Smitty shook a finger in his face. “Don’t give me no
buts.
” He paused to straighten a cuff. “To tell you the honest truth, hardly anybody expects you to hear from Mrs. Blinkoe. Among the higher-ups in my organization, the general consensus is that she has already left the country.” He glanced at the case stuffed with greenbacks. “If I were you, I’d try to spend that little bit of cash fast as I can. If Mrs. Blinkoe don’t happen to contact you pretty quick, you’ll be goin’ to that bad place where a hundred thousand bucks won’t buy you a shot glass of cold water.” With this observation, Sooty-Suit turned on his Tony Lama heel and departed.

Half an hour after the door had closed on his earlier life, the attorney was still pacing back and forth, occasionally pausing to stare at the paneled wall where his law diploma hung. The sheepskin was slightly skewed. He reached out to straighten the frame.
What on earth should I do? Call the authorities, no doubt, and report this astonishing incident.
But there were other things to consider. Two other things. Mentally, he enumerated them.

1. If Pansy does not yield up the account numbers, Manfred will no doubt be murdered.
   
2. If she does, quite a substantial amount of cash will be forthcoming.
   

Spencer Trottman’s Juris Doctor diploma was surrounded by scores of photographs of himself with important people. He squinted to examine a recent photographic image. The picture had been snapped the last time he had dined at Phillipe’s. He was standing between Manfred and Pansy Blinkoe.
Manfred looks oddly pensive, like he was worried about something or other.

Mrs. Blinkoe, on the other hand, appeared absolutely ecstatic. Indeed, behind Pretty Pansy’s beautiful toothpaste-advertisement smile, there was a sly look. As if she knew a delightful secret.