A Dead Man's Tale Page 5

  “Okay, you’ve had your say.” Parris glowered at the smart aleck who was teasing his buddy. “If you’ve got some hot information about the beef market, spit it out!”

  “There’s no need to get miffed.” Reed straightened his immaculate tie. “I was merely having a little innocent fun. I am certain that Mr. Moon was not in the least offended.”

  The Ute smiled to show that this was so.

  Before spitting it out, Reed feigned a cough and cleared his throat. “It just so happens that within a few weeks, prices for American beef will take a steep rise.” He read the Why would that happen? expression on Moon’s face. “The reason for this turnaround will be a rumor—which will prove to be all too true—of the outbreak of a dreaded bovine malady. This misfortune will occur on a major cattle operation in Argentina.” Aware that gestures oftentimes speak louder than words, Reed touched the tip of his cane lightly on the toe of his polished shoe, the knobby end to his lower lip.

  The gesture was entirely transparent to the Ute rancher: Reed was alluding to the worst horror of the cattle industry. Hoof-and-mouth disease.

  Scott Parris also got the message.

  Sam Reed was pleased to see the effect of his dreadful gesture. “You two gentlemen—I use the term loosely in one instance [he arched a brow at Parris] and without reservation in the other [he grinned at the Indian]—have truly made my day.” With this, the happy man removed his homburg, bowed again, donned the spiffy hat, turned away with a twirling flourish of ivory-knobbed cane, and was gone.

  The lawmen sat still as stones while the wall clock ticked and tocked, neither uttering a word.

  As was customary in such circumstances, the white man broke the silence. “Charlie, what’n hell just happened here?”

  The tribal investigator unfolded his lean frame from the chair. “I’m not sure, pardner.” Moon strode to the window and took a long look at the raven, who gawked back at the man on the inside of the pane.

  “From what I hear, Sam Reed’s got enough hard cash to buy up the whole county.” Parris fixed a perplexed frown on his friend’s back. “How d’you figure that sneaky little slicker has built up such a fortune?”

  Moon smiled at his reflection in the glass. “Forty dollars at a time.”

  “I expect you’re right.” Parris shook his head and grinned. “But I feel a helluva lot better than I did before that fast-talking rascal showed up.”

  “So do I.” Which is a likely sign we’ve been flimmed and flammed by a first-class flimflam man. Charlie Moon winked at the raven. And I don’t have the least notion of what Reed’s up to. But ten-to-one odds was enough to tempt an ordinary man, and the Ute would bet on anything you might happen to mention, and that at the drop of a hat. The compulsive gambler straightened his black Stetson. “I’ve got a thing or two I need to attend to, so I guess I’d best be getting on down the road.”

  “See you later, Charlie.” After his best buddy’s departure, Parris suffered a sudden attack of inexplicable loneliness. His insides felt as hollowly empty as his office, where the only sounds were the rusty-raspy creak-creak of the ceiling fan and the gasping-gurgling of the plumbing that sounded like a drowning man. It was enough to make a fellow start up a conversation with any dull-witted creature who happened by, so the tough cop turned his sunburned face to the window and cracked a grin at his feathered friend. What do you say to a crow? “I ain’t got any bird food to pass out, ol’ Double-Ugly, so you might as well hit the road.”

  Scott Parris heard the raven’s throaty chuckle before that irascible descendant of dinosaurs launched herself from the second-story windowsill. The dark lady winged her way gaily through the bright sunshine and circled the Methodist Church’s soaring white steeple twice before disappearing into the soft, cool shade of U.S. Grant Park.

  Chapter Eight

  Conducting Some Funny Business

  As he emerged from the GCPD building, Samuel Reed paused on the concrete steps to reflect on what had transpired upstairs. That business with Scott Parris and his Indian friend went pretty well. The thoughtful man reviewed his performance. Did I forget anything of consequence? Thinking not, he stepped onto the sidewalk. I may have overplayed my hand a bit, tipping Mr. Moon about the pending surge in beef prices. He immediately dismissed the self-criticism; in a singular situation such as this there were more important matters to concern himself with. Right at the top of the list: I must pay a call on Lily.

  In the mood for a brisk walk, Reed left his flat-black Hummer parked on Copper Street in front of the police station and strode purposefully along Granite Creek’s main drag for six blocks. As he was approaching the Sugar Bowl Restaurant, Reed felt the skin prickle on the back of his neck. Someone is staring at me. The edgy pedestrian paused, made a pretense of reading a menu posted on the window, and glanced in the direction whence he had come. He saw nothing remarkable. Merely the usual midmorning shoppers. Vehicular traffic zipping along this way and that. Nothing’s amiss; I’m imagining danger where there is none. Smiling ruefully at the thought of this epitaph sandblasted into his tombstone, the man who was living on borrowed time resumed his vigorous walk.

  After turning the corner off Copper onto a shady side street aptly designated Spruce Lane, Sam Reed slowed his pace to enjoy on the tranquility of a neighborhood comprised of brick apartment buildings and a scattering of small businesses. Ignoring signs that attempted to attract passerbys’ attention to shops providing Expert Spinal Manipulations, Handmade Toys for Men and Boys, and Quality Pre-Owned Apparel, the determined pedestrian approached his destination in a single-minded fashion. His business was of a highly personal nature—and with a citizen of dubious reputation. The moderately prosperous lady conducted her trade in a small ground-floor apartment at 21B Spruce Lane. The sign over the door proclaimed the nature of her public business.

  LEADVILLE LILY’S TATTOO PARLOR

  Body Art Applied by Hygienic Electrical Applicator

  Or upon Special Request by

  Japanese, Samoan or Thai Technique

  Samuel Reed knew that the name on the proprietor’s driver’s license was not Lily. He was also aware of the fact that she’d never spent a minute in Leadville, but this small deceit served only to enhance her mystique as a somewhat shifty character. Whatever Lily was up to “on the side,” she was a capable craftsman in her stated vocation. If someone was in the market for for a first-class piece of skin artistry, the so-called Lily was the person to see. Not that there was much call hereabouts for epidermal ornamentation. The bulk of Lily’s trade was with out-of-towners, though not those tourists one typically encounters in gift shops crammed with Chinese-made souvenirs of Colorado landmarks, Old West museums that provide gunfights thrice daily during the season, and noisy restaurants that cater to the average American family, which is comprised of a pair of harried adults and 2.6 pint-size terrorists. The dispenser of tattoos depended primarily upon shifty-eyed passersby. Also furtive passers-through. And, on occasion, a local citizen who had a hankering for one of her services, advertised or otherwise.

  Samuel Reed had already forgotten about the skin-prickling premonition that someone on Copper Street was displaying an inordinate interest in him. If he’d had the least inkling that he had been stalked all the way from his parked Hummer by a sinister-looking character, the cautious entrepreneur would have walked past the tattoo parlor without so much as giving it a glance. Regardless of the hoary old proverb, what a man doesn’t know certainly can hurt him, and in this instance Reed’s ignorance would come back to bite him.

  After trying the knob and finding Lily’s door securely latched, the man of business tapped his ivory-headed cane lightly on the thin glass pane. He waited expectantly for her appearance, expecting that this transaction would be much like all the times before.

  Sure enough, the tattoo artist pulled a dusty lace curtain aside and scowled at him with a wrinkled face. Her throaty voice was barely audible, but her lips said, “Whatta you want?”

  As he h
ad expected…The poor old soul doesn’t recognize me. Reed tipped his homburg at the frosty countenance. “Open up, madam—you have a customer who is eager to part with some hard cash.”

  The magic words.

  There was a click of the latch, a quick twist of the knob. The proprietor’s leathery face regarded the self-assured man with a half measure of suspicion. I guess he’s okay. She stepped aside to admit the potential client. “Okay, big spender. C’mon in.”

  Samuel Reed stepped inside, watched the lady lock the door, then followed her to the back room. Which was where all of Lily’s serious business was conducted.

  Neither the no-nonsense businesswoman nor her eager client noticed the shadowy presence that momentarily blocked the soft glow of filtered sunlight from her glassed front entrance, then vaporized like a puff of fairy dust—as if it had never been there.

  Chapter Nine

  The Shadow

  His important business at Lily’s Tattoo Parlor successfully completed, Samuel Reed was both relieved and gratified. Twirling his cane and whistling the lively tune to “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby,” the happy man retraced his steps along Spruce Lane to Copper Street, which thoroughfare he followed back to the GCPD building, where he had left his Hummer parked at the curb.

  Reed’s shadow?

  The hombre who had killed more men than he cared to remember lurked nearby. (Though highly adaptable and able to improvise on the spot, he reputedly leaned toward head shots.)

  As Reed slipped inside his gas hog, he experienced that eerie, tingling sensation again. The one where hairs stand up on the back of a paranoiac’s neck to confirm his deep suspicions that…Someone is stalking me. He looked this way and that at dozens of locals who were busy with their various errands. None of them was taking the least notice of the rich man in the flat-black SUV. It occurred to Samuel Reed that his murderer might have hatched a new plan. I could be shot down like a dog in broad daylight. The potential victim squinted at the murky entrance to Burro Alley. Perhaps from a littered alleyway. The well-bred man curled his lips at the distasteful notion. That would be extremely vulgar. A professional assassin with any sophistication would conceal himself behind barely parted curtains in a third-story window and watch his victim through a telescopic sight. The jumpy fellow in the presumed crosshairs imagined a silenced, 8-mm Czech BRNO Vz24 Mauser rifle, a steady finger already taut on the trigger. Reed’s wide eyes scanned dozens of windows above Copper Street. Any one of them might be concealing a cold-hearted (but tasteful) killer. The potential victim attempted to convince himself that his fears were groundless: This is merely a leftover emotion from last evening’s unsettling experience. But from deep down in that part of his brain that simply knows, Sam Reed was getting the message that something extremely unnerving was about to occur and there was not a thing he could do to prevent it. Which, in light of his current location, was extremely vexing. Here I am, parked right in front of the police station. But where was a cop when you needed one? A hired killer with a pistol could simply walk up to my automobile and shoot me through the—

  Bang-bang! (Within six inches of his left temple.)

  “Yiiieee!” (Reed’s shriek.)

  “Hey!” (Charlie Moon, who had rapped his knuckles on the driver’s-side window.)

  Samuel Reed lowered the Hummer window and glared at the Ute. “What?”

  “Just wanted to ask you a question.” Moon eyed the nervous man. “That bet you made with Scott at ten-to-one odds—I wondered whether I could have a piece of the action.”

  “Well…” Reed’s angry glare faded to a sheepish stare. “I don’t see why not. How much action can you stand?”

  The destitute rancher flipped a folded piece of paper into Reed’s lap. “That’s my back wages for serving as Scott’s part-time deputy. It’s made out to Fred Thompson at the Cattleman’s Bank.”

  Reed blinked at the paycheck. “This amounts to quite a substantial wager, Mr. Moon.” His mouth made a wan smile under the meticulously trimmed mustache. “Are you sure you can afford to lose this much?”

  “I can’t afford to and I don’t plan to.” The man who couldn’t pass by a bet without saying “howdy” reflected the smile back at Reed. “One way or another, I figure Scott’ll keep you alive through the fourth of June—and I’ll end up in the chips.”

  Reed nodded slowly. And with that happy prospect in mind, you will be bound to provide your friend with every assistance on my behalf. “Consider yourself a partner in the wager.”

  “You can take it to Fred with the rest of the pot.” Moon squinted in the bright sunlight. If I take that check to the bank, all the way there it’ll be whining: “You’re a fool, Charlie—you should’ve used me to pay the back taxes and electric bill.”

  “Very well.” Reed started the Hummer engine. “I shall see to it forthwith.”

  As he watched the wealthy investor pull away from the curb, make an illegal U-turn, and head straightaway for the Cattleman’s Bank, the destitute rancher took a deep breath. That may be the dumbest bet I ever made, but the thing’s done so I might as well stop thinking about it.

  But he didn’t.

  As Samuel Reed eased his heavy vehicle slowly along Copper Street, he was startled to feel the warning sensation. His skin began to prickle again. He was absolutely certain that someone was still back there somewhere. Watching.

  Someone was. That same man who had followed him to Leadville Lily’s Tattoo Parlor.

  Imagining a spinning 8-mm Czech bullet shattering the safety glass and his skull, the man marked for death swallowed hard. I’ll never make it to the bank.

  But he did.

  Chapter Ten

  A Job of Work

  After going over the Columbine books in his upstairs office, Charlie Moon returned to the parlor, feeling lower than a snake’s belly button. But don’t start feeling sorry for him; your sure-enough cowboy is not about to sit around the house and mope.

  First, he defines the problem: Until I win the bet with Sam Reed, what I need is some extra cash money.

  Okay, a no-brainer. But essential to the process.

  Now the cowboy figures out how to deal with his problem and jumps right on it. I’ll pick up the telephone and call my cattle broker and tell him to make the best deal he can and—The stockman grimaced at a sharp pain under his belt buckle. The very thought of selling off prime beeves at rock-bottom prices had knotted Moon’s guts. Especially in light of Reed’s tip that beef prices would soar in a few weeks.

  But what else could he do? The hardworking brain under the black John B. Stetson hat came up with another notion: I’ll find a way to earn some extra money on the side.

  Doing what? (He is about to tell us.)

  I could sign on as a guard at the tribe’s casino. Pay would be minimum wage. But a few bucks an hour beats no income at all. But not if it all got spent on gasoline for driving back and forth between the ranch and Ignacio.

  Here comes notion number three.

  I still have my Southern Ute investigator’s shield, so I’ll call up Oscar Sweetwater and see if there’s some police work I could do for the tribe. Before he could think of a reason not to, Moon got up from his favorite rocking chair, snatched up the parlor telephone, and dialed a number he knew by heart. After the fourth ring, he heard the tribal chairman’s gruff “Hello.” For an instant, Moon hesitated. Asking for work wasn’t going to be easy. “Hello yourself, Oscar.”

  “Well, it’s Charlie Moon.” Oscar Sweetwater seemed pleased to hear the part-time tribal investigator’s voice. “Funny you should call this very minute. I was just about to pick up the phone and ring your number.”

  Charlie Moon felt a surge of hope. Sweetwater never called to see how he was doing or talk about the weather or how the two of them ought to get together for lunch at Angel’s Café next time the busy rancher was in Ignacio. The chairman was a strictly business sort of fellow, who rarely contacted Moon unless he had an assignment in mind. “What’d you want to talk abo
ut, Oscar?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing much. A little job of work.” Sweetwater sounded sly as a fox trying to talk his way into the hen house. “We can talk about that when I get up to see you, maybe in a day or two. What’d you call me about?”

  “It’ll keep till you show up at the Columbine.” Charlie Moon said goodbye and hung up. Well that turned out pretty good. With what I make off Oscar’s “little job of work,” maybe I can keep my nose above water for another couple of weeks.

  Chapter Eleven

  One Crafty Old Indian

  It doesn’t take a lot to disturb Daisy Perika’s sleep. The night wind whistling thorough the eaves will do it, the plaintive yip-yip of a lonely coyote, or simply thinking about what she intends to do tomorrow. Which, in this instance, was to visit her home on the Southern Ute reservation. Not that there was really that much to think about. Sarah Frank would load her red F-150 pickup and drive the tribal elder to her snug house at the yawning mouth of Cañón del Espíritu. But Daisy had a talent for finding things to worry about. Such as: Did I get everything packed in my suitcase or did I forget to remember something important? Also: Maybe we should just make it a day trip and come back tomorrow evening and have supper with Charlie. And then…Maybe it would be best to stay overnight so I could enjoy sleeping in my own bed again. A worried squint at the beamed ceiling. I wonder if Sarah will miss any classes over at the university. And worse still: What’ll we do if Sarah’s pickup breaks down and her cell phone don’t work? A moaning groan. I won’t get a wink of sleep.