Double eagle, p.4
Double Eagle, page 4
“Sheriff’s your man,” said Thumps. “He’s got a badge. He’s got a gun. He’s got a car with flashing lights and a nifty siren.”
“I’ll pay you.” Archie put his glasses back on. “What are your rates?”
“One hundred an hour,” said Thumps. “Prints are extra.”
“I don’t want a photographer.”
“That’s what I am.”
“I want a friend to help out a friend,” said Archie. “Is that too much to ask?”
“One fifty an hour.”
“Hell of a deal,” said Duke.
Archie put his head in his hands. “It’s always a mistake to have the two of you in the same room. Okay, how about this. Come up to Buffalo Mountain, look at the set-up, tell me if you see anything untoward.”
Thumps waited.
“And I’ll give you two free meals at the restaurant.”
“Three free meals,” said Thumps. “For two.”
“That’s my buddy,” said Duke.
“I’m not feeding you,” said Thumps.
“Okay. Two free meals for two. But you can’t order the octopus.”
“Three free meals for two,” said Thumps, “and you can keep your octopus.”
Archie pushed out of his chair and went to the bookshelves. Back and forth he went, including a trip up the rolling ladder to fetch a book from the top shelf.
“Read these.” Archie stuffed the books in a bag. “A crash course on gold coins.”
“I’d rather read War and Peace.”
“I’m staying at the resort for the duration of the show. Unit 824.” Archie headed into the store, stopped in the doorway, turned back. “Meet me there. This is important.”
Duke waited until Archie was out of the room. “He thinks something’s hinky.”
“Such as?”
“He won’t tell me. Figures the mystery will lure me up there.”
“And you want him to lure me.”
“You need the exercise,” said Duke. “It will help with your depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“You live alone with two cats,” said Duke. “End of story.”
“I am only doing this because of Macy.”
“I know.” Duke swung his legs off the sofa, stood, rolled his shoulders. “And don’t even think about taking one of the chocolate-coated. Those are mine.”
6
The decision to go to Buffalo Mountain had little to do with Archie and the gold-coin exhibition and everything to do with Claire. If properly managed, the two of them could have a vacation of sorts. Swim in the large indoor pool, walk the trails, even take a turn in the casino.
Or they could just lie around in her condo and do nothing. Much.
Yes, Claire would have to spend time with Scoop and the genome project. And in those moments when he was left to his own devices, he could take a quick peek at whatever it was that was causing the little Greek distress. He’d check the security, make reassuring noises, and disappear before Archie could drag him into deep water.
All in all, a perfect plan. More or less.
But first, he had to go home, grab his toiletries, a change of clothes, and his new camera. He had finally broken down and stuck a toe in the digital age. Nothing too serious, a street camera, a trial run at the future.
Lynn Langfield had talked him into a Fuji X100V, a small, fixed-lens rangefinder.
“It looks like some of the old cameras from the ’50s,” Lynn told him, “so the shock won’t be all that great.”
Thumps had to admit that the camera was handy. And quiet. He could hardly hear the shutter. Lynn had volunteered to process the shots, put them up on his computer, show Thumps how easy digital photo processing was.
“I’ll print some of your shots,” said Lynn, “show you what a good computer and printer combination can do.”
“So, if I go digital, I’ll have to buy a computer and a printer? What’s that going to cost?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Lynn. “Don’t want to scare you off right out of the gate. Let’s sneak up on this.”
“Okay.”
“Look, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll buy the Fuji back. You’ll lose some money, but it won’t be the end of the world, and you can chalk up the difference as a rental fee.”
The one thing that didn’t change between film and digital, Thumps discovered, was the extent of the accoutrements, a lovely French word that referenced all the additional stuff you needed to make the camera whole and complete.
His film cameras didn’t require a battery. The Fuji did. In fact, Thumps had to buy two batteries, so there would always be one fully charged at any time. And a battery charger. No film, but he needed an SD card. The strap came with the camera, but a case was extra. And if you wanted to deck it out with a festive look, you could get an anodized button in red or gold to brighten the shutter release.
“The best part of digital,” Lynn said, “is that it will get you out of the darkroom. Place is a death trap.”
Thumps couldn’t argue with him about that. After a session in the basement, his clothes would smell for days afterwards, and the cats, who were always on the lookout for a warm lap, would shun him until the stink of the chemicals had disappeared.
THERE WAS A car parked at the curb in front of his house. Thumps didn’t own the space on the street, but over the years, he had come to think of it as his own. Not that many cars parked there. His two next-door neighbours had garages off the alley. Dixie always parked his car at the back. Mura Tanaka was eighty-seven and didn’t have a car.
The car at the curb was an expensive number, built for speed and agility. Thumps parked in front of it, kept a couple of car lengths separation, so no one would be tempted to compare the two.
There were lights on in the house, and the front door was ajar. Thumps stepped inside, stood in the kitchen, waited. The house was quiet, but he could hear the washing machine going, and just for a moment, Thumps wondered if he had walked into the wrong house. There had been a song about a guy who did exactly that.
“Charlie, the Midnight Marauder.”
The Limeliters or The Kingston Trio.
It happened during a power outage. A subdivision where all the houses looked the same, so the mix-up was an easy mistake to make. Charlie had gone to the bedroom, had kissed a woman he thought was his wife. She ran out into the night screaming, and Charlie was arrested. It wasn’t really his fault. Still, Charlie was put in jail for a year, which didn’t make a lot of sense, until you realized that the songwriter had to rhyme the word fear with the line “put him away for a . . .”
Month or suspended sentence just wasn’t going to do it.
“Hello.”
Nothing.
Thumps tried to think of the very small group of people who would feel free to wander into his house and do their laundry. Only one name came to mind.
CISCO CRUZ WAS standing next to the washing machine, a towel wrapped around his waist. A banana in one hand.
“Pancho!”
“Shit, Cruz. I could have shot you.”
Cruz aimed the banana at him. “You don’t have a gun.”
“I know where to get one.”
“Does your washing machine always make this much noise?”
Now that Cruz mentioned it, the washing machine was clomping along more than usual.
“What’d you put in it?”
Cruz shrugged. “Usual.”
“Such as?”
“Underwear, socks, couple pairs of jeans.” Cruz shifted from one leg to the other.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Runners,” said Cruz. “An old pair.”
“You put runners in my washing machine?”
“It’s an old machine,” said Cruz. “The old machines can handle shit like that.”
There was a black T-shirt neatly folded on the dryer.
“You going to wash that separately?”
“My T? Are you crazy?”
The washing machine shifted into a spin cycle. Thumps could hear Cruz’s runners banging off the sides of the drum.
“You wash a good T-shirt, you take out all the colour.”
“It’s black.”
“There a good dry cleaner in town?”
“You dry clean your T-shirts?”
“You don’t?”
The washing machine was on the move, the vibrations walking it across the floor. Thumps braced his leg against the front to keep it from trotting off into the kitchen.
“Runners?”
“Runner/boot combination. Ballistic fibre. Vibram soles. Probably the steel toes that’s making the noise.”
Thumps closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out, and opened his eyes. Cruz was still standing there in his towel.
“What are you doing here?”
“What happened to that vaunted western hospitality,” said Cruz. “Howdy, partner. Good to see you. How you been doing? Sit a spell and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“What are you doing here?”
The washing machine was slowing down, the banging less pronounced. Maybe the appliance would survive the close encounter with the footwear from hell.
“It’s sort of a secret.”
“How about you sort of tell me.” The thought was sudden. And it struck Thumps full in the face. “You’re staying here?”
“What? Here? With you?” Cruz shook his head. “No way. I just stopped in to say hello. You weren’t home, so I figured I’d do some laundry while I waited.”
Cisco Cruz had popped up in Thumps’s life on a number of occasions, and after all this time, he knew no more about the man than he had when he first met him. Archie called him “the ninja assassin,” which was hyperbolic and somewhat derogatory, but Thumps wasn’t sure that it was entirely inaccurate.
“You came all this way to do your laundry?”
“Our laundry,” said Cruz. “We’re on vacation.”
“We?”
“Zarina and me.”
“And this Zarina is a . . . secret agent?”
Cruz was all smiles. “Cabrón, she’s my fiancée.”
“She’s here?”
“Relax, Pancho. It’s just you and me.”
The washing machine came to a staggering stop, dinged its little bell. Cruz gave it a pat.
“I’m going to toss this load into the dryer and get dressed,” said Cruz. “Why don’t you make us lunch.”
“Sure,” said Thumps, “you want caviar or goose pâté with your chateaubriand?”
LUNCH WAS TOASTED tomato-cheese sandwiches with a side of leftover spaghetti and coffee. Thumps put a border of red grapes around the edge of the plates for accent.
“Beats burgers at that giant squirrel place,” said Cruz.
“So, you have a fiancée.”
“How are you and Claire?”
“A fiancée as in you plan to get married?”
“Got to settle down sometime,” said Cruz. “Zarina works in Seattle. Hates the place. Rain, rain, rain. Wants to get into the country.”
“And you said, ‘Hey, I know just the place.’”
Cruz held his arms out. “Open spaces. Big sky. Land in all directions, friendly people, cheap real estate. Check, check, check, and check.”
“You know I don’t believe you.” Thumps picked up a grape and bit it in half. “When do I get to meet this mysterious fiancée?”
“Any time,” said Cruz. “Maybe we could double date. Me and Zee. You and Claire.”
“Sure.”
“We’re staying at Buffalo Mountain. Hit the hot springs, take a run at the casino. Just enjoy ourselves.”
“Buffalo Mountain doesn’t have a hot springs.”
Cruz took a bite of the sandwich. “The hell you say.”
“Why are you really in town?”
“You are one suspicious burro. You got to learn to trust. Relax. Enjoy life.”
“Says the ninja assassin.”
Cruz pointed the sandwich at Thumps. “Is that Greek buddy of yours still calling me that?”
“He thinks you work for one of the alphabet agencies,” said Thumps. “He thinks you kill people for a living.”
“Man’s got one vivid imagination,” said Cruz. “Doble O Siete, that’s me.”
Thumps stroked the side of his cup. It was pleasantly warm to the touch. “So, what exactly do you do for a living?”
“Between engagements right now. You hear of something, let me know.” Cruz pushed his plate to one side. “In the meantime, it’s rest and relaxation and Zee.”
The bell on the dryer went off.
“There’s my signal to adios your hacienda.” Cruz stood and stretched. “Think about that double date. Be fun. Just like high school.”
Cruz disappeared into the laundry room and reappeared with a bag slung over his shoulder.
“You need bananas,” he said, as he got to the door. “And you’re out of orange juice.”
7
Thumps spent more time than necessary packing for Buffalo Mountain and Claire. Should he take a swimming suit? Absolutely. Evening wear? Would he need a suit? Did he have a suit? Yes, but it was that vintage thing that Archie had given him. The double-breasted, dark-blue pinstripe with lapels the size of vulture wings. Walking into the dining room dressed up like a 1940s gangster might work if the style had come back when Thumps wasn’t looking, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.
Business casual. That was the safe choice. Sports coat, slacks, dress shirt, shoes other than runners or boots. Socks any colour other than white.
Along with hiking boots. Cold weather jacket. Wool toque. Gloves. His new camera, extra battery and SD card. Just how many shots could one of the cards hold? Toiletries. Should he take his pillow with him? In his experience, motels and the like had lousy pillows. Would he look foolish standing at reception with Mr. Fluffy in hand?
And how many nights? That would depend on Claire. One for sure. It could be as many as three. He didn’t have much to do. The cats wouldn’t miss him. He could stay for a week, so long as he could get Dixie to feed Freeway and Cookie, and clean their litter boxes.
THUMPS TOOK HIS time on the drive to Buffalo Mountain. So, Cisco Cruz was back in town. With a fiancée in tow. At least that was the story the man was trying to sell. Thumps was guarded in his reaction to the news. Other people he could name would find the notion of a domestic Cisco Cruz incredible. And if he wasn’t in town with a fiancée and the promise of settling down, why was he here? The man didn’t show up unless there was some game afoot. Each time he had come to town, someone had died.
Not a ringing endorsement for a potential neighbour.
Thumps wondered if the law of averages might be at play here. After so many calamities, maybe this time would be different. Maybe Cruz would prove to be a benign presence. They had gotten along well enough in the past. Thumps didn’t have that many friends. Another one wouldn’t hurt.
The problem was going to be breaking the good news to Duke and Archie. Both men would view Cruz’s return with alarm and suspicion. There was a history there not easily dismissed. Maybe this Zarina would be the oil to smooth the troubled waters.
Thumps turned off the main road, began the winding climb up to the resort and the casino. He parked the car at the far end of the lot, sat behind the wheel, waited for divine intervention. A cataclysmic omen in the heavens, perhaps. A flaming text message burned into his windshield.
So far, it had been a day of bad ideas. Helping Archie was a bad idea. Helping Duke was a bad idea. Cisco Cruz in town was a bad idea. Leaving his house was a bad idea.
Which he didn’t need to compound by getting out of the car.
Yet here he was. Out and about in the world. With little protection from obligation and community.
THE DINING ROOM was mostly empty, the dinner crowd still an hour away. He searched the tables. No Claire, no Archie, no sheriff, no Cruz. So far, so good.
“You’re late.”
Thumps had no idea where Roxanne Heavy Runner had come from, how she had materialized out of thin air. The woman was part magician.
“She’s been waiting.”
And part aircraft carrier.
“Claire didn’t specify a time.”
“That a suitcase?”
“Clothes.”
Roxanne loomed over him. Thumps could feel the temperature in her shadow drop several degrees.
“Hope you brought a suit.”
“You bet.”
“That a pillow?”
Thumps liked Roxanne. In much the same way that tourists at an animal park liked seeing lions from the safety of a bus. With Roxanne, you always knew where you stood. There was nothing subtle about the woman. You were either safe or in danger of being eaten alive.
“Leave your junk with me,” she said. “I’ll have it sent to Claire’s condo.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t suppose you brought her something nice.”
Thumps tried a smile. “Is the sheriff around?”
“The sheriff?”
“He has doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts are not going to get it done.”
Roxanne tapped Thumps on the chest. To his credit, he stayed on his feet.
“I keep telling her to check out those dating sites. Don’t hurt to walk the aisles, see what’s on the shelves.”
“Good advice,” said Thumps.
Thumps didn’t think that Roxanne disliked him, and he didn’t think she went out of her way to hurt his feelings.
“It’s not your fault,” said Roxanne. “She wants to shop at the mini-mart, that’s her business.”
Thumps reckoned that it was just an unfortunate by-product of her scorched-earth approach to life.
“So, you’re going to help her.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I am.”
Roxanne took the suitcase and the pillow. “’Cause right now, looks like you’re all she’s got.”
“I suppose I should go and find her.”
“I suppose you should.”
ACCORDING TO ROXANNE, Claire Merchant was to be found in the Blackfoot Room. Thumps wasn’t sure how many meeting rooms Buffalo Mountain had, but he found seven others before he stumbled onto the right one.
Claire wasn’t there. In fact, no one was in the room except Scoop Macleod, who was sitting at a table by herself.
“I’ll pay you.” Archie put his glasses back on. “What are your rates?”
“One hundred an hour,” said Thumps. “Prints are extra.”
“I don’t want a photographer.”
“That’s what I am.”
“I want a friend to help out a friend,” said Archie. “Is that too much to ask?”
“One fifty an hour.”
“Hell of a deal,” said Duke.
Archie put his head in his hands. “It’s always a mistake to have the two of you in the same room. Okay, how about this. Come up to Buffalo Mountain, look at the set-up, tell me if you see anything untoward.”
Thumps waited.
“And I’ll give you two free meals at the restaurant.”
“Three free meals,” said Thumps. “For two.”
“That’s my buddy,” said Duke.
“I’m not feeding you,” said Thumps.
“Okay. Two free meals for two. But you can’t order the octopus.”
“Three free meals for two,” said Thumps, “and you can keep your octopus.”
Archie pushed out of his chair and went to the bookshelves. Back and forth he went, including a trip up the rolling ladder to fetch a book from the top shelf.
“Read these.” Archie stuffed the books in a bag. “A crash course on gold coins.”
“I’d rather read War and Peace.”
“I’m staying at the resort for the duration of the show. Unit 824.” Archie headed into the store, stopped in the doorway, turned back. “Meet me there. This is important.”
Duke waited until Archie was out of the room. “He thinks something’s hinky.”
“Such as?”
“He won’t tell me. Figures the mystery will lure me up there.”
“And you want him to lure me.”
“You need the exercise,” said Duke. “It will help with your depression.”
“I’m not depressed.”
“You live alone with two cats,” said Duke. “End of story.”
“I am only doing this because of Macy.”
“I know.” Duke swung his legs off the sofa, stood, rolled his shoulders. “And don’t even think about taking one of the chocolate-coated. Those are mine.”
6
The decision to go to Buffalo Mountain had little to do with Archie and the gold-coin exhibition and everything to do with Claire. If properly managed, the two of them could have a vacation of sorts. Swim in the large indoor pool, walk the trails, even take a turn in the casino.
Or they could just lie around in her condo and do nothing. Much.
Yes, Claire would have to spend time with Scoop and the genome project. And in those moments when he was left to his own devices, he could take a quick peek at whatever it was that was causing the little Greek distress. He’d check the security, make reassuring noises, and disappear before Archie could drag him into deep water.
All in all, a perfect plan. More or less.
But first, he had to go home, grab his toiletries, a change of clothes, and his new camera. He had finally broken down and stuck a toe in the digital age. Nothing too serious, a street camera, a trial run at the future.
Lynn Langfield had talked him into a Fuji X100V, a small, fixed-lens rangefinder.
“It looks like some of the old cameras from the ’50s,” Lynn told him, “so the shock won’t be all that great.”
Thumps had to admit that the camera was handy. And quiet. He could hardly hear the shutter. Lynn had volunteered to process the shots, put them up on his computer, show Thumps how easy digital photo processing was.
“I’ll print some of your shots,” said Lynn, “show you what a good computer and printer combination can do.”
“So, if I go digital, I’ll have to buy a computer and a printer? What’s that going to cost?”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” said Lynn. “Don’t want to scare you off right out of the gate. Let’s sneak up on this.”
“Okay.”
“Look, if it doesn’t work out, I’ll buy the Fuji back. You’ll lose some money, but it won’t be the end of the world, and you can chalk up the difference as a rental fee.”
The one thing that didn’t change between film and digital, Thumps discovered, was the extent of the accoutrements, a lovely French word that referenced all the additional stuff you needed to make the camera whole and complete.
His film cameras didn’t require a battery. The Fuji did. In fact, Thumps had to buy two batteries, so there would always be one fully charged at any time. And a battery charger. No film, but he needed an SD card. The strap came with the camera, but a case was extra. And if you wanted to deck it out with a festive look, you could get an anodized button in red or gold to brighten the shutter release.
“The best part of digital,” Lynn said, “is that it will get you out of the darkroom. Place is a death trap.”
Thumps couldn’t argue with him about that. After a session in the basement, his clothes would smell for days afterwards, and the cats, who were always on the lookout for a warm lap, would shun him until the stink of the chemicals had disappeared.
THERE WAS A car parked at the curb in front of his house. Thumps didn’t own the space on the street, but over the years, he had come to think of it as his own. Not that many cars parked there. His two next-door neighbours had garages off the alley. Dixie always parked his car at the back. Mura Tanaka was eighty-seven and didn’t have a car.
The car at the curb was an expensive number, built for speed and agility. Thumps parked in front of it, kept a couple of car lengths separation, so no one would be tempted to compare the two.
There were lights on in the house, and the front door was ajar. Thumps stepped inside, stood in the kitchen, waited. The house was quiet, but he could hear the washing machine going, and just for a moment, Thumps wondered if he had walked into the wrong house. There had been a song about a guy who did exactly that.
“Charlie, the Midnight Marauder.”
The Limeliters or The Kingston Trio.
It happened during a power outage. A subdivision where all the houses looked the same, so the mix-up was an easy mistake to make. Charlie had gone to the bedroom, had kissed a woman he thought was his wife. She ran out into the night screaming, and Charlie was arrested. It wasn’t really his fault. Still, Charlie was put in jail for a year, which didn’t make a lot of sense, until you realized that the songwriter had to rhyme the word fear with the line “put him away for a . . .”
Month or suspended sentence just wasn’t going to do it.
“Hello.”
Nothing.
Thumps tried to think of the very small group of people who would feel free to wander into his house and do their laundry. Only one name came to mind.
CISCO CRUZ WAS standing next to the washing machine, a towel wrapped around his waist. A banana in one hand.
“Pancho!”
“Shit, Cruz. I could have shot you.”
Cruz aimed the banana at him. “You don’t have a gun.”
“I know where to get one.”
“Does your washing machine always make this much noise?”
Now that Cruz mentioned it, the washing machine was clomping along more than usual.
“What’d you put in it?”
Cruz shrugged. “Usual.”
“Such as?”
“Underwear, socks, couple pairs of jeans.” Cruz shifted from one leg to the other.
“Where are your shoes?”
“Runners,” said Cruz. “An old pair.”
“You put runners in my washing machine?”
“It’s an old machine,” said Cruz. “The old machines can handle shit like that.”
There was a black T-shirt neatly folded on the dryer.
“You going to wash that separately?”
“My T? Are you crazy?”
The washing machine shifted into a spin cycle. Thumps could hear Cruz’s runners banging off the sides of the drum.
“You wash a good T-shirt, you take out all the colour.”
“It’s black.”
“There a good dry cleaner in town?”
“You dry clean your T-shirts?”
“You don’t?”
The washing machine was on the move, the vibrations walking it across the floor. Thumps braced his leg against the front to keep it from trotting off into the kitchen.
“Runners?”
“Runner/boot combination. Ballistic fibre. Vibram soles. Probably the steel toes that’s making the noise.”
Thumps closed his eyes, took a deep breath, let it out, and opened his eyes. Cruz was still standing there in his towel.
“What are you doing here?”
“What happened to that vaunted western hospitality,” said Cruz. “Howdy, partner. Good to see you. How you been doing? Sit a spell and tell me what you’ve been up to.”
“What are you doing here?”
The washing machine was slowing down, the banging less pronounced. Maybe the appliance would survive the close encounter with the footwear from hell.
“It’s sort of a secret.”
“How about you sort of tell me.” The thought was sudden. And it struck Thumps full in the face. “You’re staying here?”
“What? Here? With you?” Cruz shook his head. “No way. I just stopped in to say hello. You weren’t home, so I figured I’d do some laundry while I waited.”
Cisco Cruz had popped up in Thumps’s life on a number of occasions, and after all this time, he knew no more about the man than he had when he first met him. Archie called him “the ninja assassin,” which was hyperbolic and somewhat derogatory, but Thumps wasn’t sure that it was entirely inaccurate.
“You came all this way to do your laundry?”
“Our laundry,” said Cruz. “We’re on vacation.”
“We?”
“Zarina and me.”
“And this Zarina is a . . . secret agent?”
Cruz was all smiles. “Cabrón, she’s my fiancée.”
“She’s here?”
“Relax, Pancho. It’s just you and me.”
The washing machine came to a staggering stop, dinged its little bell. Cruz gave it a pat.
“I’m going to toss this load into the dryer and get dressed,” said Cruz. “Why don’t you make us lunch.”
“Sure,” said Thumps, “you want caviar or goose pâté with your chateaubriand?”
LUNCH WAS TOASTED tomato-cheese sandwiches with a side of leftover spaghetti and coffee. Thumps put a border of red grapes around the edge of the plates for accent.
“Beats burgers at that giant squirrel place,” said Cruz.
“So, you have a fiancée.”
“How are you and Claire?”
“A fiancée as in you plan to get married?”
“Got to settle down sometime,” said Cruz. “Zarina works in Seattle. Hates the place. Rain, rain, rain. Wants to get into the country.”
“And you said, ‘Hey, I know just the place.’”
Cruz held his arms out. “Open spaces. Big sky. Land in all directions, friendly people, cheap real estate. Check, check, check, and check.”
“You know I don’t believe you.” Thumps picked up a grape and bit it in half. “When do I get to meet this mysterious fiancée?”
“Any time,” said Cruz. “Maybe we could double date. Me and Zee. You and Claire.”
“Sure.”
“We’re staying at Buffalo Mountain. Hit the hot springs, take a run at the casino. Just enjoy ourselves.”
“Buffalo Mountain doesn’t have a hot springs.”
Cruz took a bite of the sandwich. “The hell you say.”
“Why are you really in town?”
“You are one suspicious burro. You got to learn to trust. Relax. Enjoy life.”
“Says the ninja assassin.”
Cruz pointed the sandwich at Thumps. “Is that Greek buddy of yours still calling me that?”
“He thinks you work for one of the alphabet agencies,” said Thumps. “He thinks you kill people for a living.”
“Man’s got one vivid imagination,” said Cruz. “Doble O Siete, that’s me.”
Thumps stroked the side of his cup. It was pleasantly warm to the touch. “So, what exactly do you do for a living?”
“Between engagements right now. You hear of something, let me know.” Cruz pushed his plate to one side. “In the meantime, it’s rest and relaxation and Zee.”
The bell on the dryer went off.
“There’s my signal to adios your hacienda.” Cruz stood and stretched. “Think about that double date. Be fun. Just like high school.”
Cruz disappeared into the laundry room and reappeared with a bag slung over his shoulder.
“You need bananas,” he said, as he got to the door. “And you’re out of orange juice.”
7
Thumps spent more time than necessary packing for Buffalo Mountain and Claire. Should he take a swimming suit? Absolutely. Evening wear? Would he need a suit? Did he have a suit? Yes, but it was that vintage thing that Archie had given him. The double-breasted, dark-blue pinstripe with lapels the size of vulture wings. Walking into the dining room dressed up like a 1940s gangster might work if the style had come back when Thumps wasn’t looking, but he wasn’t willing to bet on it.
Business casual. That was the safe choice. Sports coat, slacks, dress shirt, shoes other than runners or boots. Socks any colour other than white.
Along with hiking boots. Cold weather jacket. Wool toque. Gloves. His new camera, extra battery and SD card. Just how many shots could one of the cards hold? Toiletries. Should he take his pillow with him? In his experience, motels and the like had lousy pillows. Would he look foolish standing at reception with Mr. Fluffy in hand?
And how many nights? That would depend on Claire. One for sure. It could be as many as three. He didn’t have much to do. The cats wouldn’t miss him. He could stay for a week, so long as he could get Dixie to feed Freeway and Cookie, and clean their litter boxes.
THUMPS TOOK HIS time on the drive to Buffalo Mountain. So, Cisco Cruz was back in town. With a fiancée in tow. At least that was the story the man was trying to sell. Thumps was guarded in his reaction to the news. Other people he could name would find the notion of a domestic Cisco Cruz incredible. And if he wasn’t in town with a fiancée and the promise of settling down, why was he here? The man didn’t show up unless there was some game afoot. Each time he had come to town, someone had died.
Not a ringing endorsement for a potential neighbour.
Thumps wondered if the law of averages might be at play here. After so many calamities, maybe this time would be different. Maybe Cruz would prove to be a benign presence. They had gotten along well enough in the past. Thumps didn’t have that many friends. Another one wouldn’t hurt.
The problem was going to be breaking the good news to Duke and Archie. Both men would view Cruz’s return with alarm and suspicion. There was a history there not easily dismissed. Maybe this Zarina would be the oil to smooth the troubled waters.
Thumps turned off the main road, began the winding climb up to the resort and the casino. He parked the car at the far end of the lot, sat behind the wheel, waited for divine intervention. A cataclysmic omen in the heavens, perhaps. A flaming text message burned into his windshield.
So far, it had been a day of bad ideas. Helping Archie was a bad idea. Helping Duke was a bad idea. Cisco Cruz in town was a bad idea. Leaving his house was a bad idea.
Which he didn’t need to compound by getting out of the car.
Yet here he was. Out and about in the world. With little protection from obligation and community.
THE DINING ROOM was mostly empty, the dinner crowd still an hour away. He searched the tables. No Claire, no Archie, no sheriff, no Cruz. So far, so good.
“You’re late.”
Thumps had no idea where Roxanne Heavy Runner had come from, how she had materialized out of thin air. The woman was part magician.
“She’s been waiting.”
And part aircraft carrier.
“Claire didn’t specify a time.”
“That a suitcase?”
“Clothes.”
Roxanne loomed over him. Thumps could feel the temperature in her shadow drop several degrees.
“Hope you brought a suit.”
“You bet.”
“That a pillow?”
Thumps liked Roxanne. In much the same way that tourists at an animal park liked seeing lions from the safety of a bus. With Roxanne, you always knew where you stood. There was nothing subtle about the woman. You were either safe or in danger of being eaten alive.
“Leave your junk with me,” she said. “I’ll have it sent to Claire’s condo.”
“Okay.”
“Don’t suppose you brought her something nice.”
Thumps tried a smile. “Is the sheriff around?”
“The sheriff?”
“He has doughnuts.”
“Doughnuts are not going to get it done.”
Roxanne tapped Thumps on the chest. To his credit, he stayed on his feet.
“I keep telling her to check out those dating sites. Don’t hurt to walk the aisles, see what’s on the shelves.”
“Good advice,” said Thumps.
Thumps didn’t think that Roxanne disliked him, and he didn’t think she went out of her way to hurt his feelings.
“It’s not your fault,” said Roxanne. “She wants to shop at the mini-mart, that’s her business.”
Thumps reckoned that it was just an unfortunate by-product of her scorched-earth approach to life.
“So, you’re going to help her.”
It was a statement, not a question.
“I am.”
Roxanne took the suitcase and the pillow. “’Cause right now, looks like you’re all she’s got.”
“I suppose I should go and find her.”
“I suppose you should.”
ACCORDING TO ROXANNE, Claire Merchant was to be found in the Blackfoot Room. Thumps wasn’t sure how many meeting rooms Buffalo Mountain had, but he found seven others before he stumbled onto the right one.
Claire wasn’t there. In fact, no one was in the room except Scoop Macleod, who was sitting at a table by herself.
