Authors: James D. Doss
The Town Cop’s Tale
After considering any number of anecdotes that might be derived from his adventures in the Windy City, the ex-Chicago cop decided against ancient history and in favor of current events. “I bet you fellas would enjoy hearing what happened at the country club last night.”
“Not me.” Moon smiled at his image in the bedroom window. “None of my rough cowboy friends mix with that crowd.”
“It’s a dandy story, Charlie.” Parris pointed his chin at their host. “And Sam’s a member, so I know he’ll want to hear it.”
The Ute’s likeness grinned back at him. “Go ahead then.”
“Okay, here’s the short version. A Mrs. Aldershott is jogging along last night on the Sand Hills Golf Course. Lady hears something peculiar and stops to get an earful. Sounds like somebody’s breaking into the groundskeeper’s toolshed, so the conscientious citizen calls 911. Dispatcher sends Knox and Slocum, then advises the caller to stay on the line and keep clear of the supposed felon—who might be our notorious Crowbar Burglar. But she’s already hung up. And I don’t have to tell you what happens next.”
“No, you don’t.” Prior to his appointment as a tribal investigator, Charlie Moon had put in a decade as a uniformed cop with the Southern Ute Police Department. “The citizen went to check out the alleged bad guy.”
“You know it. And after that, it only gets better.” Parris inhaled a deep breath. “Our black-and-white shows up dark and silent. Knox and Slocum split up in hopes of cornering the mischief-maker before he can split.”
Moon liked it. “So far, so good.”
“According to the jogger, when she gets to the shed where she heard the sounds, somebody has pried the door open. But far as she can see, the perp has hit the road without so much as a ‘by-your-leave, ma’am.’”
The tribal cop nodded. “More or less what you’d expect.”
“But there’s something on the ground.”
“Don’t tell me—a crowbar covered with incriminating fingerprints.”
“Sorry, Charlie—no cigar.”
“Don’t keep us in suspense, pard.”
“Let me see if I can quote the lady from Knox’s written report: ‘It was a rectangular something. Dark in color. Black, probably. Or maybe navy blue. Could have been royal purple. And’…” Parris paused to smirk. “It might’ve been some kind of electronic thingy, like a cassette tape recorder. Or maybe a toolbox. Or it could’ve been a book.”
“Piece of cake,” Moon said to the windowpane. “I got the whole thing figured.”
“Amaze us with your awesome powers of deduction, Chucky.”
“Alleged felon is actually the country club’s innocent night custodian. After checking all eighteen tees and fairways and sand traps for any sign of gophers or other interlopers, Joe Custodian figures he’s due a break from his labors. So he saunters over to the toolshed, sits down, and unpockets his pocket-size copy of
The Complete and Unabridged Works of J.R.R. Tolkien.
After reading a few thousand pages, he dozes off.”
“Is this going somewhere, Charlie?”
“Patience. After he drifts away into dreamland, our night custodian begins to snore. That’s what the lady jogger hears when she thinks somebody’s prying on a door. As she approaches to investigate, the country-club employee wakes up, figures it’s the boss come to check those nasty rumors that he sleeps on the job. He drops his copy of J.R.R. Tolkien and makes a run for it.”
“Then who pried the toolshed door open?”
“Don’t expect me to explain every detail, pardner—I’ve just about shot my wad.”
Parris glared at the Ute. “You want to hear what really happened?”
Moon nodded. “As the thirsty hart pants in the desert.”
“Okay. According to the jogger, about the time she spots the
rectangular something
on the ground, she hears another sound and turns around and finds herself face-to-face with a gorilla.”
“Pardon me, pard—but it sounded an awful lot like you said—”
“Yes I did. And this gorilla made grunting ooga-booga-ooga sounds like them big jungle apes make, and beat on its hairy chest and
shook a crowbar
at the lady.”
Moon turned from the window to blink at his friend. “You’re kidding.”
“Wish I was. You want to hear the rest?”
“My ears are fairly aching for the big finish.”
“Faced with this latter-day King Kong, the lady takes off like a rocket.”
“Good move.”
“At first, the jogger’s dead certain the ugly ape’s right on her heels—but after a couple hundred yards, she figures she’s putting some distance between him and her.”
Moon turned his face to the window. “I won’t ask why she figures it was a male ape.”
“Thank you. Now this is the
good
part.” Parris paused for another deep breath of stale air. “She’s going lickety-split down the pathway toward the parking lot, when all of a sudden—she encounters a
second
gorilla.”
“Sorry, pard. I’m doing my best to keep from laughing out loud—but that’s an ape too much.” Seeing movement, the Ute raised the binoculars to his eyes. It was a prowler, but not of the biped persuasion. A skinny coyote was trotting across the Reeds’ backyard. The canine lifted her long, thin muzzle to sniff at something on tonight’s menu. A platter of rabbit, served rare.
“It wasn’t funny to the citizen,” Parris countered with feigned solemnity. “One big, hairy ape chasing after her—another one blocking her path.”
“Okay.” The Indian with the IR binoculars watched Ms. Coyote tear out after Mr. Cottontail. “So what’d our hemmed-in jogger do?”
“Ran the second ape down, left him flat on his back like he was so much roadkill.”
The rancher made a low whistle. “Tough lady.”
“If I ever see her headed toward me on a dead run, I’ll stand aside and wave as she passes by.” Parris grinned at Sam Reed.
The odds-making Ute couldn’t imagine a night runner knocking Eddie Knox down and living to tell the tale. “Must’ve been Officer Slocum who bit the dust.”
“Safe guess. But he can’t believe that a hundred-pound woman sacked him like he was a grade-school quarterback.” Parris sniggered. “At first, Slocum claimed he’d been trampled by a huge wild animal—most likely a bull elk. After he heard the jogger’s story, he decided it must’ve been one of the apes.”
“What about the gorilla at the toolshed—the endangered primate with the crowbar?”
“He got away.”
“And took the book with him?”
“Looks like it.” Parris shrugged.
If it was a book.
Moon lowered the binoculars and shook his head. “Gorilla Number One—annoyed at his solitude being disturbed—waves a pry bar at the jogger who interrupted his reading. And depending on who you believe—the lady or the cop—Gorilla Number Two gets knocked on his butt by the fleeing jogger, or one of them hairy apes comes cannonballing along and bowls Officer Slocum over like a spare tenpin. Scott, that’s the best danged story I’ve heard in hours—maybe even minutes.”
After listening to Parris’s narrative in amused silence, their host was obliged to offer a compliment. “I also enjoyed your tale, Mr. Parris.”
“Thank you kindly.” The chief of police made a guttural sound that was halfway between a grunt and a growl. “But to tell you the honest, unvarnished truth, I’d like it a lot better except for the ending.”
Samuel Reed nodded. “It does leave the critical question unresolved—who or what was this apish, crowbar-brandishing creature who chases ladies off the golf course? If your subordinates had subdued the shaggy rascal and pummeled him mercilessly until he revealed his identity and criminal intentions, your rather disjointed anecdote would at least have some sense of closure.”
Scott Parris accepted Reed’s constructive criticism in good humor. “Once this story hits the street—and it will—the local rag’ll have loads of fun haw-hawing about how us Granite Creek cops couldn’t find a six-hundred-pound brass monkey if its momma left it on the GCPD doorsteps, all gift wrapped in a pink satin sheet and trussed up in ten yards of shiny red ribbon.”
Moon pressed the binoculars to his eyes. “Got something.”
Parris tensed. “What is it, Charlie?”
“Pair of headlights…slowing.” Two heartbeats. “Turning into the driveway.”
Launching himself from his chair, the chief of police hurried to peer over Moon’s shoulder.
The Ute focused the night-vision binoculars. “It’s Mrs. Reed’s Cadillac.”
They lost track of the Caddy as the pink GMC earthcraft orbited the far side of guest house. When the gleaming machine reappeared, Charlie Moon fleshed out his report. “Mrs. Reed’s driving.” In a barely audible whisper to Scott Parris: “No passenger.” As the Cadillac approached the residence, the lawmen watched the attached-garage door chinkity-chink its way open, the sleek luxury automobile glide in, a willowy Irene Reed slide out, and the garage slowly close its gaping mouth.
“Ah, my dear wife has returned home.” Samuel Reed checked his wristwatch. “And more or less on time.”
The Cop has Doubts
Though it was still early, Scott Parris was haunted by the thought that aside from Sam Reed’s payments pumping up his and Charlie Moon’s anemic bank accounts, this stakeout was a waste of time. The chief of police could not shake the nagging conviction that by one means or another…
Mrs. Reed knows something’s up.
He thought it was highly unlikely that she had become aware of Charlie Moon’s presence during the last few days. More probably, Samuel Reed had let something slip. And even if he’d kept a tight lip, a wife’s antenna can detect a signal from what her husband
doesn’t
say, or a blank look on his face when she pouts and asks, “Why do you have to work so late on my birthday?” Sam’s pretty young wife was expecting her punctual husband to show up at 11
P.M
. sharp, and as the evening wore on, Parris became increasingly confident that the woman had no intent to do her spouse any grave bodily harm.
Not tonight, anyway.
Which meant that the boyfriend wasn’t going to show his face on the place.
Scott Parris had a better-than-average track record for guessing right, but every once in a while the experienced lawman’s hunches were way off the mark. Which raises the question—
What is Irene Reed Up to?
As the chief of police ponders this pressing issue, the object of his suspicions is removing something from her purse.
A shiny something.
A shiny nickel-plated, pearl-handled, .32-caliber something.
Watch the lady make sure the magazine is fully loaded, then expertly inject a cartridge into the barrel. See how carefully she verifies that the safety is in the Off position. Observe how confidently Irene Reed holds the automatic pistol at arm’s length, closes her violet-tinted left lid, and uses her pretty right eye to aim the lethal instrument at the back door.
“Bang!” m’lady says. “Bang bang!”
Did her imaginary target fall dead onto the floor?
Evidently.
Her curvaceous lips are curling into a contented smile.
Refreshments and Entertainment
Samuel Reed brought a tray of coffee, tea, and fixings from the parlor kitchenette into the bedroom and placed it on the mirrored cherry dresser. The fixings included a twenty-four-ounce jar of honey from a first-rate apiary somewhere east of the Mississippi.
After thanking Reed, Charlie Moon poured a cup of coffee for Scott Parris and another for himself.
Reed tasted a cup of strongly spiced tea before lifting it to toast his stalwart companions. “Gentlemen, I drink to you—and your efforts to preserve my life.”
The Ute returned the salute, then stirred a spoonful of honey into his coffee.
“You’re welcome,” Scott Parris said. “And thank you for paying me and Charlie for our time.”
Reed insisted that he was pleased to have the privilege.
Moon had not realized that the chief of police was also on Reed’s payroll.
If the mayor or DA gets wind of that, there’ll be hell for breakfast.
If Parris was concerned about negative official repercussions, his expression did not reveal it. “Despite what you may’ve heard—it ain’t easy being chief of police.” He ripped open three packages of Splenda and poured the snowy contents into his cup. “And the job’s pure torment when times is hard.”
Moon nodded. “And times are.”
Parris took a sip of the steaming brew. “Starving wolf’s scratching at the door.”
“And gnashing her pointy teeth.” The Ute tasted his coffee.
That’s good. Would be even better if the honey was from Tulia, Texas
. He added a second helping of the product that was not concocted by Tule Creek’s finicky bees. “And like those tough old ArKansas farmers say, it’s ‘root hog or die.’”
Parris helped himself to one of Reed’s ivory toothpicks, unaware that it had been carved from a twenty-thousand-year-old mammoth tusk. “What a man needs these days is a recession-proof profession.”
Charlie Moon had been hoping for just such an opening. “I’ve taken on a sideline.” A sip of seriously sweet coffee. “I might even go so far as to call it a new profession.”
Samuel Reed seated himself on the bed. “Ah—I do believe Mr. Moon is about to tell us a tale.”
He was.
The Rancher’s Story
Scott Parris made a pretense of being interested. “Let me guess. You’re gonna buy yourself a beat-up old biplane and make a few bucks dusting crops.”
“You’re not even close.”
But that ain’t an altogether bad notion.
“What, then?”
The reticent raconteur hesitated. “I probably oughtn’t to tell you.”
“Which is why you will.”
“Please do,” Sam Reed implored.
Charlie Moon shook his head. “Neither one of you would believe a word of it.”
“Don’t let that stop you,” Parris said.
When you get that funny glint in your eye, I never believe a word you say.
“So what’s this profession that’s recession-proof?”
For about a while-and-a-half, Moon held his tongue. Then: “Hired gun.”
“I like it already!” Reed was perched on the edge of the bed.
Parris arched a doubtful brow. “You gonna be somebody’s full-time bodyguard?”
“Even worse than that.” Moon avoided his friend’s suspicious gaze. “We’re talking…contract killings.”
Charlie’s determined to outdo my gorilla story.
Parris decided to help his friend along. “Ain’t that practically illegal?”
“Only if you get caught with the smoking six-shooter in your hand.”
“Maybe so.” Parris assumed a disapproving tone. “But ain’t it right on the ragged edge of being not entirely ethical?”
The hired gun contemplated this weighty philosophical issue. “Depends on who gets gunned down.”
A fair-minded man couldn’t argue with that logic. “Well, just be sure you don’t assassinate anybody except them that has it coming.” The town cop asked the obvious question: “Any prospects so far?”
“There’s no flies on me, pard. I’ve already got my first assignment.”
Parris rolled the ivory toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “The money good?”
“Not right off,” Moon said.
“What’s the goin’ rate?”
“Two bits a head to shoot ’em dead.”
“That’s not a lot,” Parris observed. “Considering the risks.”
“Beginners like myself has to start at the bottom.”
“Lots of experienced assassins hogging the high-paying jobs?”
“Mmm-hmm. It’s a matter of seniority.” Moon cocked his head. “The way the hired-gun trade is played…well, I don’t know exactly how to explain it—except to say it’s kind of like a union shop.”
“Sounds like you’ll have to make it up in volume.”
“That’s the way I see it.” Moon’s expression was a picture of fortitude and strength. “But my momma taught me to believe in the American Way. If I wash my face and comb my hair and show up on time and work hard and don’t complain, sooner or later I’m bound get a promotion, a good medical plan, and an annual increase in pay.”
Parris nodded to indicate his approval. “I don’t suppose you’d care to tell me who you’re gonna kill for twenty-five cents.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Moon eyed his friend, then Sam Reed. “Strictly confidential, your ears only?”
“My lips are sewed shut.”
“Mine as well,” Sam Reed said.
“I might be able to stretch the rules and tell Professor Reed—but not you, pard.” Moon managed a wonderfully sorrowful expression. “That file is marked
NOT FOR SMALL-TOWN COPS.”
“Okay. Keep the victim’s identity to yourself.” Scott Parris’s eyes twinkled like two blue stars in the half-darkness. “I don’t suppose you’d care to mention who’s paying you twenty-five cents to off this bucket of buzzard guts.”
Moon shook his head. “Client identity is also strictly confidential.”
“You could tell me.” Parris looked hurt. “I’m your best buddy.”
“Don’t make no difference. Some folks may look down on our line of work, but us guns for hire have a strict code of ethics.”
“Oh, all right. Just the same, I wish you’d found a slightly more respectable sideline.”
“Me too, pard. But there’s not much call for Ute hedge-fund managers with no experience or money to speak of.”
Parris nodded. “Times is hard.”
Moon agreed. “But they’ll get better.”
“I sure hope so.” The splinter between Parris’s teeth had lost its taste. He was not one to complain, but…
Sam Reed ought to buy a box of those colored ones that have different flavors, like strawberry and lemon and ginger.
As his wealthy host cringed inside, Scott Parris tossed the chewed ivory sliver aside, and replaced it with a fresh fifty-dollar toothpick.