opened the package of cheesecloth, knifed off a wad and carefully picked up the ball, resting it in a nest of material.
“And it is truly heavy. A couple of pounds. Maybe more.”
“At the price of gold today, around 60 grand,” Sal calculated. “As an historically significant artifact, what, a hundred times that?”
Forte and I fell into chairs, passing around the ball, each of us in awe of the seemingly flawless finish.
“Who would you trust to assay it?” Sal asked.
Stumper. Bandon had some fine jewelry makers who could tell us if it were gold or not, but none of us was sure they had the capabilities to provide a true assay that would define its purity without destroying at least part of it.
“Send it to the state assay office?” Forte suggested.
“They’re morons. They’d cut it into pieces,” Sal responded.
“Sal knows some Federal types.”
“They’re bigger morons,” the big man responded almost instantly. “I’m hesitant to suggest this, but I do know a guy who is in the exotic metals and jewelry business, has the equipment to test it without destroying it, and we can watch while he does the assay. Besides, he loves Nick.”
“Oh, Christ. Bo,” I said.
“And he owes you big time,” Sal added.
Shaking my head, “Not Bo. Please. The guy makes me crazy.”
“Bo the weird? Any better suggestions?” Forte asked.
He never got a chance to hear my answer.
The first shot caught him right below his badge sending him backward and to the deck. The second entered Sal’s bicep and instantly erupted into a massive spurt of blood. The third whistled past my ear, a bee buzz I’d heard too many times before.
Hitting the ground, I crashed through the slider, tore open the kitchen drawer next to the sink and pulled the Taurus Magnum from the mish-mash of kitchen utensils. Popped the slide. Took a quick look out the door. Saw a figure wearing a hoodie and jeans 50 feet away partially hidden by a Douglas fir, silver handgun aimed toward the deck. I let off four quick rounds. The magnum’s voice a baritone that rattled the windows. Pieces of bark exploded. Return fire sounded light. Nothing hit. Nothing gained. Weak compared to the Taurus. From the corner of my eye, Sal was scrambling behind a bush, belly to the ground, the sleeve of his shirt soaked in red. Forte shook his head, spun to his knees and simultaneously pulled his Glock, saw where I was aiming and let off eight shots.
The hooded assassin disappeared into the brush.
I yelled, “Sal!”
“Mosquito bite. Okay.”
“Chief!”
“Vest. No harm, no foul.”
I let out a long exhalation, dropping my arm to my side, the Magnum’s weight a comfort. Forte stood and gave a deep sigh, refusing to holster his gun, cradling it like a new-born baby, dropping the clip, checking the number of bullets remaining and slamming it back home.
Sal sat up, “Could one of you get me a Band-Aid? Please?”
Scooping up the gold ball and shoving it into my pocket, Forte and I pushed Sal into the passenger seat of his cruiser and I followed in my Vic. The hospital was barely seven miles away and they quickly patched up the big man. The slug ripped some of his abundant flesh, but damaged nothing of importance.
Tatiana would not be pleased. And Cookie would rip me a new one.
An hour later, Sal and I left the Bandon hospital and climbed into the Vic. The Chief left us at the hospital and was busy at Willow Weep with a crew of deputies and the county sheriff looking over the crime scene.
“You okay?”
“Nick, this is not the first time I’ve been with you and gotten shot. I’m fine. But that may be the pain meds talking. Ask me in the morning.” He leaned back in the seat. “How ‘bout a donut?”
We drove to Bandon Bakery, picked up some cinnamon rolls -- enough for us and the boys back at Willow Weep – and headed home.
On the way, my cell phone rang.
“Drago.”
“Hi sweetie,” Cookie’s voice. “Whatcha doin’?”
Sal’s cell rang.
“Hi sweetie,” he mimicked. I couldn’t hear Tatiana’s part of the conversation, but I was catching snippets of Sal’s responses.
“Not much,” I told Cookie.
“Not much,” Sal said.
“Anything new there?” Cookie asked.
“Nope. Just Sal and me playing with our guns.”
Sal followed my lead, “Just Nick and me goofin’ around with our guns.”
“Sounds dirty,” Cookie said.
“I accidentally shot Sal,” I responded. “Just getting back from the hospital with cinnamon rolls.”
Sal grinned and told Tatiana, “Nothing important. Fell off the deck chair and punctured my arm on a gorse bush. I keep telling Nick to rip those damn things out. Needed a couple of stitches, is all.”
“Tatiana and I heard about a new shop in Salem,” Cookie said. “We’re going to spend the night and get back in the morning.”
“Have fun,” Sal said.
“Have fun,” I said.
We both clicked off.
And laughed all the way home.
The cops were nearly done at Willow Weep. Forte was sitting on the deck waiting for us.
“All okay?” he asked.
We nodded, passed into the kitchen and pulled three beers from the fridge, returning to the deck and pulling up chairs. I put the donuts on the table and yelled an offer to the cops on the ground.
To Forte, “What’d you find?”
“Spent casings.22s. Obviously from a semi-auto,” Forte explained, taking a long pull from the Dos Equis. “Found some footprints. Could be size nine or so. A piece of fuzz stuck to the tree, probably from the hoodie. Nothing else.” Another pull. “Dug out two slugs. One from my vest, in bad shape, another from your siding. Not so good shape, but better than mine. Sent them to the lab in Coos Bay for ballistics match, but I don’t think we’ll need the
