Authors: James D. Doss
The Country Club Manager’s Small Victory
Before the chief of police was quite out of sight, Howell Patterson had returned to his office, checked the 990-gigabyte cache memory on his high-end copy machine, and determined that the coarse policeman had copied only one page from the Confidential Employee Information. His suspicions verified, the savvy manager of the Sand Hills Country Club made an instant decision. Seating himself behind his immaculate desk, he paused to purse his lips in anticipation of the pleasure he would derive in lording it over a lesser soul. Thus prepared, Mr. Patterson lifted his cordless telephone from its cradle and made the call.
Backfire
This was not a time to mess with Janey Bultmann. Testy on her best days, the lady was (for the sixth time this week) attempting to quit smoking before she left on her annual vacation. Busy at her cluttered pine desk, she wore three nicotine patches (don’t try this at home!) and was chewing a disgustingly sweet cherry-flavored nicotine gum. When her plastic Walmart telephone jangled, Janey lurched and yelped. Being a marvelous multitasker, simultaneously with the lurch and yelp, she spat the medicinal chewing gum into a cup of tepid black coffee, threw a Cattleman’s Bank ballpoint pen across her small Copper Street office, and glared with heartfelt malice at the offending instrument. “Who the hell is that!” The answer to this reasonable question was provided by the helpful caller ID on her telephone. “Oh, it’s that prissy little country-club creep.” Pretending not to know who was calling, she greeted the man she detested in the vivacious tone of a nineteen-year-old receptionist on her first day at work: “Bultmann Employment Services. How may we help you?”
“This is Howell Patterson, Ms. Bultmann.”
Janey B.’s minuscule supply of vivaciousness was already exhausted. “This is
Miss
Bultmann, Mr. Patterson.” She snatched a half-smoked cigarette off a filthy ashtray, lit it up, and took a puff.
Oh, that’s soooo good.
“What’s up?”
Howell Patterson smiled at the unexpectedly apt straight line. “Mr. Perez’s tenure as assistant groundskeeper at the Sand Hills Golf Course.”
“What?” She coughed and tossed the cigarette butt aside, missing the ashtray by a yard. “What’s the problem?”
“The first problem,
Miss
Bultmann, is that you have evidently forgotten our arrangement, which is that I decide when the services of one of your clients is no longer required at Sand Hills Country Club—without the necessity of explaining my reasons for reaching such a decision to you or any of your dubious ilk.” He paused for her response, which he planned to interrupt.
Bastard.
“Oh, I remember what’s in our contract. But you know, I thought maybe you might let me know what’d gone wrong so I could make sure that…you know—”
“The
second
problem is your execrable habit of using the phrase
you know
as a byword, as it were.” Patterson’s self-satisfied smile bordered on a smirk. “The third is that you seem incapable of providing temporary help which meets even a modest benchmark of quality, much less the high standards of Sand Hills Country Club.”
Dirty rotten stinking bastard!
Janey ground her teeth. “Don’t worry about Chico Perez. I’ll let him know right away that—”
“In addition to not requiring his services as assistant groundskeeper, be advised that I do not want to see your temp on club property. Immediately after this delightful conversation, I shall inform Club Security that Mr. Perez is not to be admitted at the front gate.”
He had pushed the frantic woman too far.
Janey Bultmann’s eyes appeared to bulge halfway from their sockets. “Not even if he arrives as the guest of one of your members?”
Hah! That’ll shut his mouth.
Her mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. “From what I hear, Chico is popular with some of the rich bitches who pass for high class through your fancy front gate.”
“Take care what you say, Miss Bultmann.” Howell Patterson paused to give this monotone warning time to sink in, and to clear his throat. “Several of your clients are still drawing pay at the club. I would hate to think of letting those unfortunates go, and taking our business to your competition. But it might become necessary if you do not learn to bridle your venomous tongue when addressing me—”
“Don’t threaten me, you two-bit cross between a fussy old maid and a brass horse’s ass!”
Oh, my—I shouldn’t have said that!
But in for a dime, in for a dollar. “I know a thing or two about you that the president of the club’s governing board might like to hear about—and he’s a good friend of mine. So if you dismiss another of my clients without due cause I’ll nail your nasty hide to the barn door and charge your fancy-pants club members a dollar a pop to shoot bullet holes in it!” Janey Bultmann cut the connection before Howell Patterson could reply to this concoction of outrageous bravado and sinister innuendo. Getting in the last word made Janey feel better than she had when she gave up smoking after breakfast this morning. “Ha-hah!” She picked up the noxious butt, which was busily burning a small brown hole through the cover of
Time
magazine, and popped the deadly pacifier between her lips. “That’ll give that mean little bastard something to think about!”
It did.
Pale with rage and nauseated with stomach-curdling fear, the austere manager of the Sand Hills Country Club placed the telephone gently into its cradle without exhibiting the least outward evidence of his emotions.
What an odious woman.
He frowned at the lovely view framed by his office window.
She’s bluffing, of course.
As was his habit when vexed, Mr. Patterson pulled at the lobe of his left ear.
That vicious harpy knows nothing of my past
. For the cautious soul, there is always a But.
But what if she’s not bluffing?
The Lady’s Last-Minute Business
After allowing herself a full four seconds to calm down, Miss Janey Bultmann looked up her client’s cell-phone number and placed a call.
Chico Perez was saying hello when the woman’s raspy voice shouted in his ear.
“This is Janey, sweetheart. Bad news, baby. You’re fired. Pink-slipped. Canned. Sacked. Laid off. Made redundant.” She listened to Perez’s response. “No, the silly little prig didn’t say why, but we can guess, can’t we?” The smoker paused to cough. “You’ve been messing around with one of those married women at the club again, haven’t you? No, don’t tell me, let me guess. I bet the lucky chicky is that good-looking Mrs. Reed.” Janey took another puff before lighting a fresh cancer stick with the butt. “Okay, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.” The busy businesswoman glanced at her wristwatch. “Look, I’m getting ready to hit the road on my vacation but I’ll cut you a paycheck and get it in the mail before I close up shop and—What?” She shrugged. “Okay, sweetie. Just this once, I’ll pay you in cash. But you’ll have to sign a receipt. And I can’t wait all day; I’m about to close so I can go home and pack for my trip.” Another puff. “Okay, honey-bun. Yeah, that’ll work fine. See you then, big guy.”
Routine Police Procedure
Scott Parris barged through the doorway into his second-floor corner office, seated himself behind his desk, and started tapping on the computer keyboard. After accessing a familiar site, touching the Return button, and waiting for a dozen seconds, a Chico Perez with a matching Social Security number and birth date popped onto the screen. According to an appended note, less than seven months ago Mr. Perez had reported losing his Social Security card and applying for a new one. The cynical lawman snorted.
I bet he’s also got himself a forged birth certificate.
The cop clicked on another link and performed a routine criminal-background check. As Parris had expected, this preliminary search turned up nothing of importance.
Either the guy’s clean as a whistle or he’s hiding his past with faked ID
. His mouse finger decided to click on the box next to a line that read
TRAFFIC VIOLATIONS.
After an annoying delay while the sizable .pdf file downloaded, he leaned close to the screen to squint at a facsimile of a speeding violation issued in Bloomington, Indiana. The infraction was no big deal….
But wait a danged minute.
A curious detail had caught the cop’s eye. He did some mental arithmetic.
That ticket was issued thirty-five years ago. Which would make Mr. Perez at least fifty years old.
He grinned.
Maybe I ought to take a closer look at Mrs. Reed’s boyfriend.
Parris promised himself that when he had a few minutes to spare, he would fax a form to the FBI requesting detailed information on the Chico Perez with the Social Security number listed in the country club’s employment records.
Unless I forget to remember—I’d better make myself a note right now.
The harried public servant was looking for something to write on when he was distracted by the musical warble of his desk telephone.
“Parris here.”
“Hiya, Scott. It’s me—Pug. I wondered whether you could join me for lunch?”
The chief of police rarely got an invitation from the district attorney. “Sure, if you’re buying.”
“That all depends on you.” DA “Pug” Bullet’s chuckle might have been a death rattle. “If you can come up with some official business we gotta talk about, I’ll put both our meals on my expense account.”
Scott Parris decided that this call fell under the heading Providential. “Well, as a matter of fact, there might be a thing or two we need to discuss.”
“Okay, fellow grafter. See you the Silver Mountain main dining room in twenty minutes.”
Samuel Reed’s Mysterious Rendezvous
No. Resist the temptation to leap to an unwarranted and uncharitable conclusion. In contrast to his wife’s frivolous affair, Sam Reed’s clandestine meeting was
not
with an attractive member of the opposite gender. Quite the opposite.
As he piloted his sooty-black Hummer along a mountain road nine hundred feet above Granite Creek, Professor Reed was mildly apprehensive about what might transpire at this remote encounter. But, being the plucky fellow he was, the wealthy investor plugged right along on all eight cylinders. Slowing at the designated turnoff, he shifted down and hummed along a narrow forest road shaded by a gloriously green clone of freshly budding aspens. The winding lane emerged into a small pasture frequented by deer and elk. When it dead-ended abruptly at the edge of a precipitous bluff, Reed cut the ignition and set the emergency brake. The punctual fellow checked the dashboard clock against his wristwatch and was pleased to have two reliable witnesses to the fact that he had arrived right on the minute for his appointment. Expecting the other party to show up late, he was prepared for the wait, and the panorama presented to him was so lovely as to be soul satisfying.
It is so wonderfully silent here.
Sam Reed inhaled a deep breath and sighed it out again.
I’ll sit still as a stone and enjoy the quiet—
Boom!
(A five-pound meteorite falling onto the Hummer’s steel roof? No.)
“Ho!” (A startled Sam Reed, who was not as cool a customer as Howell Patterson.)
“Hah!” (An enthusiastic Scott Parris, who enjoyed banging his big fist on top of other people’s motor vehicles.)
Reed lowered the driver’s-side window and shot a nasty look at the chief of police. “You are beginning to try my patience.”
“Ah, don’t be such an old poop, Sammy. What you need is some R and R.” The happy cop opened the Hummer door and patted the angry citizen gently on his padded jacket shoulder. “Tell you what. Let’s you and me go for a little walk so you can unwind some. We’ll sniff the smelly wildflowers, commune with Ma Nature—all that baloney.”
His ivory-knobbed walking stick in hand, Samuel Reed tagged glumly along behind the big, beefy man who was leading him along a deer path. Despite his initial annoyance, the scientist-investor was feeling quite at ease when they paused under a soaring old pink-barked pine that might have been the great-granddaddy of ponderosas. It was Parris’s penultimate favorite spot in Granite Creek County, the top honor being reserved for the pebbled shore of alpine Lake Jesse on Charlie Moon’s Columbine Ranch. From here, a man could see just about everything worth seeing and from a perspective generally reserved for the Deity. Granite Creek gleamed like the most perfectly civilized village in the world, and in every direction of the compass, misty-blue mountain ranges reclined like gigantic enchanted creatures dreaming of a mystical past that never was but should have been. Hovering protectively over all this, a stunningly turquoise umbrella that faded to a far rosy horizon.
To render the effect absolutely perfect, a regal pair of bald eagles circled overhead with impeccable dignity and grace.
After a minute or two of awed silence, Sam Reed realized that he was feeling wonderfully relaxed.
Peaceful
was the word. No, even more than that.
I feel absolutely serene. Like I could lift my wings and fly across yon valley and soar higher and higher until I reach that distant place where the sun sinks into the vast western sea.
This was an absolutely perfect spot. But when a human being is present, he will invent a downside. The fact that Scott Parris was indirectly responsible for his joy was distinctly irksome to Reed.
“Aaarrgh!”
Jolted by what sounded like a bear’s growl, Reed inquired, “What was that?”
“Me.” Having cleared his throat of some unmentionable impediment, Parris spat on a pine cone and slapped Samuel Reed between the shoulder blades. “You’ve had enough R and R to last you for a fortnight. Let’s you and me get down to some serious business.”
“Oh, do go on!” Reed turned his full smirk on the cop. “I am practically quivering with feigned anticipation.”
The Chief of Police is Devilishly Devious
“Okay, here’s the deal.” In an unconsciously sinister gesture, Scott Parris pulled the fedora’s brim down to shade his eyes from the sun. “After thinking over what you told me and Charlie Moon about how you figure a person or persons unknown are gonna do you in on June fourth, I’ve had a powwow with the district attorney. Me and Pug Bullet have decided that when a distinguished local citizen such as yourself requests help from the police, he’s entitled to some consideration.”
“Just like that?” Reed stared suspiciously at the cop. “What’s happened—have you uncovered evidence of a threat against my life?”
Parris turned his blushing face to avoid the man’s penetrating gaze. “Oh, maybe a thing or two. Nothing worth mentioning.” He tilted his head to watch one of the eagles take a dive into a thermal, then soar heavenward to merge into the sun.
That sure does look like fun.
“But with you so sure your number’s about up—and despite the fact that you haven’t told me
why
you think somebody’s gonna shoot you—it’s my duty to provide whatever protection I can.”
“Balderdash,” Reed said. “Something has happened, and you might as well tell me.”
Parris shot a sideways look at the suspicious citizen. “Well, there’s one thing that’s bothering me some, but you already know about it.”
Reed arched an eyebrow. “Please remind me.”
“Last Friday evening while you were singing with your barbershop-quartet buddies, your wife reported an attempted break-in.”
“I am aware of that fact.” The husband gazed at the chalky trunk of a soaring aspen whose equally pale branches were uplifted as if greeting some unseen Presence. “I am a busy man, Mr. Parris, so let’s cut to the chase. What’s the bottom-line purpose of this meeting?”
“I’d like to take some routine precautions, but I’ll need your cooperation.”
“Such as?”
“First thing, I’ll need your permission to mount two or three of my night-vision TV cameras on your property. That way, if the rascal shows up again—and he might—we’ll catch him on video.”
Reed shrugged. “Go right ahead.”
“Great.”
Now for the ticklish part.
“Second thing I’ll need is permission to tap your telephones.”
Reed’s arching eyebrow set an altitude record for the week. “Is that absolutely necessary?”
The cop nodded. “Before they make their move, bad guys who’re planning break-ins commonly call the target residence to verify that no one’s home.”
“Ah, I see.”
Pleased that this was going so well, Scott Parris added in a chillingly ominous tone, “And sometimes, they want to make sure somebody
is
at home before they bust in.”
“Oh, my.”
“First priority is a tap on your landline.” Before taking the final bite, Parris licked his lips. “But just in case the presumed bad guy has managed to get one of your cell-phone numbers—either yours or Mrs. Reed’s—I’d like to cover those too.”
“Well, I suppose that could be arranged. Except that—”
“Except that you can’t give us permission to tap your wife’s cell phone, and neither one of us would want to scare the lady.”
“Ah, yes.” Reed twirled his elegant walking stick. “Which does pose a dilemma.”
Parris assumed an innocent expression. “Unless your wife happens to misplace her telephone.”
“I’m afraid I don’t see how that would—”
“My girlfriend, now she’s sharp as a tack—has a Ph.D. in something or other. But Amber’s always losing things. Her Visa card, her compact, and just last week she left her teensy little electric-blue telephone at the Sunburst Pizza Restaurant. It was lucky for her that a waitress who likes me picked it up before some lowlife got hold of it.” He grinned at Reed.
“Are you suggesting that I—”
“Not me.” The sworn officer of the law raised both palms to ward off the accusation. “But just on the off chance that Mrs. Reed does happen to misplace her mobile phone, you could give her yours to use while you took your time getting her a new one.”
“Oh, now I see. And my phone would already be tapped.”
“Right. That way, we could keep tabs on any felon who happened to call the lady of the house—without her knowing that there might be a threat against her husband’s life. It’s not only better for Mrs. Reed to be protected from any unnecessary worries—and I don’t mean to denigrate the fair sex in any way—but a married man such as yourself is bound to know that the ladies do tend to talk to one another. And this investigation has to be done strictly on the Q.T.”
“Yes. That makes perfect sense. But it does occur to me that I—”
“That you’ll be without a mobile phone for a few days, which is a serious problem for a busy man of business such as yourself.” Another grin. “Please ask me if I have a solution to that problem.”
“Very well. Consider yourself asked.”
“Thank you kindly.” Parris removed a small object from his jacket pocket, which smelled faintly of Howell Patterson’s crumpets. “This is a brand-new TracFone that I picked up during my lunch hour at Walmart.”
Appalled, Samuel Reed accepted the instrument. “Surely you’re joking—you actually dined at
Walmart
?”
“You should try it sometime, Sammy.” The well-fed cop managed a modest burp. “Best green-chili cheeseburger and crispiest danged Tater Tots I’ve had in six months of Mondays.”
A thin smile creased Samuel Reed’s face. “You are not fooling me for a second, Mr. Parris.”
Scott Parris returned a blank stare that might easily have been interpreted as a first-rate poker face. “What?”
“I daresay you know very well.” Reed added a disdainful “hmmph” that spoke volumes.
The burly cop shook his head.
“As it happens, my dear wife misplaced her cell phone sometime yesterday.” Samuel Reed sighed. “I would not care to speculate about
who
might have had a reason to arrange this beneficial mishap.”
Parris shook his head more vigorously. “If you’re thinking I had anything to do with Mrs. Reed losing her phone—”
“Such an unseemly thought would never cross my mind.” Reed reflected Parris’s deadpan expression. “But considering the remarkably coincidental nature of your sordid proposal and Irene so conveniently misplacing her mobile phone—how would you characterize the situation?”
Scott Parris thought about it awhile before grinning like a sinister jack-o’-lantern. “I’d call it
fortuitous
.”