thick, onion, jalapenos, cheese, a hint of a special sauce, tomato, some kinda mustard that reminded me of the hot dogs in Langlois south of Bandon. Other stuff I couldn’t identify but right out of the Hamburger Heaven cookbook.
Sal and I groaned our way through the burgers and the double-fried fries with nary a word of English. The police chief just kept chuckling and nodding his head at our ‘burger rapture. I didn’t even care that the beer was Budweiser.
Meal done, second round of Buds, bottles dripping ice-cold sweat.
Sal leaned forward, put his tree-trunk forearms on the table and looked directly in Lightfoot’s eyes. “You don’t know that Littleton is dead, but you’ve been approached about the gold balls.”
The police chief blinked as if he’d just been slapped. “Beg pardon?”
Sal didn’t repeat himself. No need. He’d taken in Lightfoot’s words, expressions, responses and in typical fashion came to a conclusion.
Finally, “No, I didn’t know Detective Littleton was dead. Heart attack?”
“Gunshot to the head,” I said.
“Christ. When?”
“About a year ago.”
“And it’s related to the gold balls?”
“Yes.”
Sal broke in, “And someone’s asked about the gold in the past few weeks.”
“Just last week, actually. How’d you know?”
I tapped my beer bottle on the table, “Because Sal is smart and intuitive. Who approached you?”
“Said his name was Williams. Claimed to be working on a book about Native American mythology. Thought it was odd he came to me because I’m not a tribe elder or Arapahoe historian or much into the culture. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud to be Indian, but no more proud than say someone who’s Italian or something. I’m not big into the whole woe is me thing.”
Sal asked, “You didn’t buy that this guy was writing a book?”
“At first I did, but after a couple of hours not so much. He dressed baggy. Like he was hiding his body. Once I glommed onto that, I began to notice he was a lot bigger, harder, stronger than I’d picture a writer. Lots of guys around here keep their hair cut short, but this was military short. Part cut into his hair with a razor, I figure. His vocabulary was decent, but not writer smart. Or at least what I thought should be writer smart. He had no life in his eyes. No ingrained curiosity, if you know what I mean. Hard to explain.”
“How’d he get here?”
“Rental car. Out of Denver. Avis.”
“Have a phone number or address for this guy?”
Lightfoot pulled out his billfold, a worn brown leather affair, scarred from years of use, stained from sweaty hands. I caught a glimpse of the bill compartment. A 10 and a couple of ones. He pulled a few business cards from one of the inside flaps, thumbed through them and slid one across to me.
I picked it up and tipped it toward Sal. “W. Robert Williams. Writer. 313 area code and the phone number.”
Sal took it from me and rubbed his thumb and forefinger across it. “Cheap. Get ‘em online for 10 bucks for 250. Detroit area code, but the first three digits aren’t a Detroit exchange.”
Lightfoot smiled. “You know the phone exchanges for Detroit?”
Sal cracked his first grin. “Dated a woman from Detroit. When she broke it off, she gave me a phone number. Fake one. She tried the same thing, using a false exchange. Pissed me off so badly, I memorized every exchange in the 313 area code.”
I knew Sal was lying through his teeth. He never dated a woman from Detroit.
Never got the chance to call him on it.
Just as Clarise approached the table to ask if we wanted anything else, a hole appeared in the middle of her starched white blouse. Then it turned red. Then she crumpled like cheap aluminum foil.
Dead before she hit the floor.
CHAPTER THREE
The divot grew the closer Jolly got. First it was only a shadow, then a small, irregular rectangle, but clearly manmade. Jolly was breathing hard. Part the climb. Part the anticipation. The ground leveled, little plumes of dust under each step of his black high tops.
“Ohmygod. Ohmygod,” he repeated with each step, eyes locked on the ever-growing rectangle. The trees, scrub brush, time and the hand of men virtually hid the boards from view, even at 20 yards. Only luck and the angle of the sun on this particular day at this particular time revealed the treasure.
Jolly stumbled over an old sign. Wiping his sneaker across the battered face of the small square of plywood, once black now gray letters.
Jolly bent, wiped more dirt and decades-old coal dust from the face of the sign to show all of the letters.
“Ohmygod,” he said aloud to the dust spools. “Number One.”
In the dry-rotted boards covering the entrance of the mine, a small chunk missing. Jolly walked to the covering, ran a hand slowly over its rough, splintered surface and peered through the chink into darkness. The smell of old air, musty and damp. But he could see no more than a foot or two into the shaft.
But from the bowels of the interior, a moan. Long, reverberant. Deep from the bottom of a barrel. From the belly of a ghost. Fingernails on a chalkboard.
Jolly stepped back, nearly tripping over his own feet. Stopped and stared at the hole.
“Dang. Wasn’t ‘specting that,” he said aloud.
He inched closer to the old, ratty boards, pushing his red hair out of his face; put an eye to the hole.
“Cain’t see nuthin’.”
A puff of air escaped from the opening, stinging his eyeball.
“Dang! That smells like the leakens from a septic tank.” Shaking his head, “Pee-yuuu.”
Another long deep moan. “Heeeere. Heeeere.” At least, that’s what Jolly thought he heard.
Stepping back again, eyes locked on the black hole, “Oh, don’t chu worry, Mister Mine. I’m comin’ back. Just you wait and see.”
Lightfoot jumped to his feet, kicking back his chair, had his Colt in hand and scrambled to the exit door. I was on his heels, my Taurus drawn from its small-of-my-back holster.
“Sal! Check her!”
Sal scrambled to Clarise’s side, felt for a pulse, found none. He yelled to two cowboys at a nearby table, “Get everyone down! NOW!”
Most of the patrons never heard the shot and only a couple saw Clarise hit the floor. One of the cowboys, tall, thin, jeans, John
