Double eagle, p.8
Double Eagle, page 8
Thumps held the camera so Hunter could see the monitor.
“I normally do landscapes.”
“Yes,” she said, “I can see that.”
Hunter turned and jogged back up to the resort. “Think about this evening,” she shouted over her shoulder. “We can be quite entertaining.”
Thumps considered taking a couple more shots of the woman, and then thought better of it. The little camera was making him shutter happy. With film, you had to plan your shot, practise economy. Even with a thirty-five-millimetre roll, there were only thirty-six exposures.
Thirty-seven if you didn’t wind the leader onto the spool all the way and the first frame didn’t get fogged in the loading.
With digital, you could snap off hundreds of shots without even thinking. Thumps suspected that this profligate impulse could be addictive. Blast away, sort through the bodies, find the survivors. Take a hundred shots. One or two of them should be alive and well.
Holding the little camera at his side, as though it were a purse, and shooting blind had been somewhat exciting, and he was anxious to check the file to see where the adventure had taken him.
THUMPS PULLED OUT of the parking lot. The limo was still parked at the entrance. He slowed, noted the licence plate number, and almost missed the panel van parked by the side of the building.
Zarina Benoit.
She was behind the wheel, in sunglasses, a hat, trying to look inconspicuous. Thumps stopped as he came abreast. Benoit ignored him. Thumps stayed where he was. Finally, Benoit rolled down her window.
“Go away.”
“Are you watching Boris?”
“Damn it, DreadfulWater,” said Benoit. “Stay out of this.”
“Why?”
“Cruz told me you were a boy scout.”
“Just don’t like being lied to.” Thumps put the car in park, took his foot off the brake.
“Get used to it,” said Benoit. “Now get the hell out of here before you blow my cover.”
“Tell Cruz we need to talk.”
In the rear-view mirror, Thumps saw one of the bodyguards come out of the resort and get into the limo.
“I could honk my horn. Introduce everyone.”
“All right, I’ll tell Cruz,” said Benoit. “I’ll let him kill you.”
Thumps rolled up the window, pulled the car into gear, let it float down the road and into the trees. In addition to making him distrustful, being lied to also made him extremely curious.
12
Lynn Langfield was behind the counter, talking with an older woman.
“So if you want high resolution, you’ll want a camera with a decent pixel count.”
“And that will guarantee that all my photographs are sharp?”
Thumps wandered the store, took his time peering at the cameras in the glass cabinets. Nikon, Canon, Sony, Fuji, Olympus, Panasonic.
Sad.
The world he knew, the world of film, of mechanical cameras and manual lenses, was gone. All replaced and made digital.
Did anyone still remember the old TV show The Six Million Dollar Man?
So, what he was looking at were not cameras per se, they were computers. But then most things were computers nowadays. Televisions, cars, cellphones. Digital instruments performed surgeries. Computer-controlled drones dropped bombs. Thumps had heard rumours that the advent of digital pets was on the horizon.
Thumps smiled. A digital Freeway. There would probably be a menu that controlled temperament with separate settings for levels of affection.
“No,” said Lynn. “High resolution will give you excellent dynamic range. Much of what we perceive as sharpness is a combination of proper focus, correct aperture and speed, and high-quality lenses.”
“And my photographs tend to be dark.”
“That’s a matter of exposure.”
Lynn took out a business card, wrote on the back. “Here’s a camera that I think will do the trick.”
“And what kind of film does it take?”
THUMPS WAITED UNTIL the woman was out the door and on the street.
“Tough sell.”
“Norma Woodbridge,” said Lynn. “She comes in once a week. I think she’s lonely.”
Thumps gestured to the rows of cameras. “You ever ask yourself why we need so many, when they all do the same thing?”
“Consumerism,” said Lynn. “What keeps me in business. So, how do you like the new camera?”
“It’s handy,” said Thumps. “Just don’t know if it’s going to work for me.”
Lynn held out his hand. “You got some shots on the card?”
“A few.”
“Then let’s see what we have.” Lynn opened up his laptop, took the SD card out, stuck it in a reader. “Okay . . . That’s nice . . . This Ivory?”
“It is.”
“That a cartwheel?”
“Most of it.”
Lynn worked the mouse. “And some grab shots.”
“No-look photography,” said Thumps.
“A little wide.”
“I couldn’t get any closer.”
“Unless we do this . . .”
Suddenly, the limo and Boris—no last name—filled the screen.
“You pick up a bit of noise punching in like that,” said Lynn, “but you can clean it up in post.”
“Post?”
“Is that a Mercedes stretch?”
“It is.”
“The guy reminds me of Tom Selleck in that cop show.” Lynn squinted. “Is that a stick pin?”
“A what?”
“There, on his jacket.” Lynn touched the mouse and Boris’s lapel came into focus. “They were all the rage the last half of the nineteenth century and the first half of the twentieth. Lot of the old movies you see from that period had guys with stick pins.”
“What do they do?”
Lynn shrugged. “Nothing. Ornamental. Like a watch fob or a ring. Most of them were made out of fourteen-carat gold, so they wouldn’t bend. Some had enamelwork on the end. Some had diamonds. Some just had an initial.”
The enlargement was coarse and grainy. Thumps could just make out the end of the stick pin. It looked like a tulip.
“So,” said Lynn, “what do you want to do with these images?”
“Could I get a couple of prints of Ivory? Maybe a couple of the guy and the limo as well?”
“Four by six okay?”
“Perfect.”
“The guy have something to do with a case? Do I get to charge the sheriff?”
“Afraid not,” said Thumps. “It’s just something I’m working on.”
“Then it’s free,” said Lynn. “One of these days you’re going to walk through that door and buy a state-of-the-art digital camera.”
Thumps chuckled. “I will, will I?”
“You will,” said Lynn. “Then I’ll load you up with lenses and batteries and SD cards and all the high-profit-margin accessories I can think of, and in a year or two, when another dozen newer and better cameras hit the market, you’ll discover that all your equipment is obsolete, and you’ll be as miserable as the rest of us.”
“Sounds depressing.”
“You have no idea,” said Lynn.
THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE was at the end of the block. Thumps took his time. When he got to Wild Rose Realty, he stopped, stood outside for a while looking at the houses on display in the window. It took him a moment to realize that all the listings were marked Sold.
Ora Mae Foreman was behind her desk, looking for all the world like the queen of the Nile. Off to the left was a young woman at a smaller desk, and off to the right was a young man.
Ora Mae waved him in.
“Well,” she said, “if it isn’t the Lone Ranger.”
Thumps cocked his head. “Probably more of a Tonto.”
“You know why the Lone Ranger never took off his mask?”
Thumps had played this game any number of times with Ora Mae. “Because if he did, everyone would see that the Ranger was really a Black man.”
“A handsome Black man,” Ora Mae corrected, “who would sweep me off my feet, and we’d ride off together into the sunset.”
“Except you’re . . .”
“A lesbian?” Ora Mae raised her arms above her head and stretched from side to side. “You worried about shocking the children?”
Thumps shrugged.
“Boys and girls,” said Ora Mae, “this wild savage is Thumps DreadfulWater. Mind your manners and don’t startle him with loud noises.”
Thumps looked from the young woman to the young man. For as long as Ora Mae had owned Wild Rose Realty, she had worked alone.
“You expanding?”
“Tara,” Ora Mae tipped her head toward the young woman, “and her twin brother, Derron. My sister’s kids,” said Ora Mae. “So I can beat them like a dusty rug.”
“And I’m her favourite niece,” said Tara.
“I’m her favourite nephew,” said Derron.
“I’m the oldest.”
“I’m the smartest.”
“Family,” said Ora Mae. “Nothing much to be done about it.”
The bulletin board on the wall behind Ora Mae’s desk was covered with photos of houses and condos. Most of them had a “Sold” stamped across their face as well.
“Business looks to be good.”
“Business is red hot,” said Ora Mae. “House prices have jumped twelve percent in the last two quarters. You want to know what your charming bungalow on a sought-after street is worth?”
“Last year you called it a sad sack of a dump in a bad location.”
“That was last year.” Ora Mae tapped her fingernails on the desk. “Wait. Are you working for that nice sheriff, again?”
“Maybe.”
“’Cause every time you do, you wind up in a shitpile of hurt.”
“I’m just checking on a couple of things for him.”
“You going to arrest Auntie Ora Mae?” asked Tara.
“Can we watch?” said Derron.
Thumps smiled. “You’re going to have a good time with these two.”
Ora Mae gave a grunt.
Thumps turned toward the door. “Just out of curiosity,” he asked, “what is my charming bungalow on a sought-after street worth?”
Ora Mae considered him for a moment, the way a bird considers a worm. Then she wrote a figure on a notepad, tore off the page, and handed it to him.
“Really.”
“Course, all that don’t mean shit unless you’re planning on pulling up stakes.”
Thumps stared at the figure in front of him.
“However, if you’re finally coming to your senses and thinking about selling and getting a nice place for you and Claire and Ivory, then it would be a sideways move, financially. You wouldn’t make any money, but you wouldn’t lose much either.”
“I’d lose money?”
“There’s my commission.”
Thumps shoved his hands into his pockets. “I think if we were going to get together, I’d probably move out to the reservation.”
Ora Mae went back to tapping her fingernails. “Great place. Wide-open spaces. Clean air. Quiet.”
“That it is.”
“Home on the range,” said Ora Mae. “Where the buffalo roam.”
Thumps waited.
“Course, it’s no place for a kid. Young girl like Ivory needs friends. A movie theatre. Shops to shop in. A good school.”
“She’d have a horse on the reservation. You can’t have a horse in the city.”
“Sure,” said Ora Mae, “but you can’t go galloping across the prairies all day and call it life.” Ora Mae opened a drawer. “Here are four properties. Take a drive by. See if anything catches your eye.”
“Don’t think Claire is ready to move in with me.”
“How old’s Ivory now?”
“Six, going on thirty.”
“Give Claire another couple of months of twenty-four seven with a growing child, and she’ll be yours for the taking. Woman will be begging for another adult to share the load.”
“Unless she’s as easy to raise as me,” said Tara.
“Or me,” said Derron.
Thumps could see the storm clouds gathering in Ora Mae’s eyes.
“Which is why my sister sent her demon spawn out here. To brighten my lonely life.”
Thumps looked at the description of the first property. A large two-storey with a garage. Four bedrooms, two baths. At the end of a dead-end street, a location that was described as quiet and secluded.
“You can’t live by yourself forever.”
“You do.”
“I’m a woman. I can handle singularity.”
“And a man can’t?”
Ora Mae and the twins smiled in unison. The effect was chilling.
“Get out of here, cowboy,” said Ora Mae. “Come back when you’re ready to talk business.”
SHERIFF DUKE HOCKNEY was sitting in the sheriff’s office, sitting at the sheriff’s desk, in the sheriff’s chair, staring at the computer monitor.
“If you’re looking for doughnuts, you’re too late.”
“Don’t want a doughnut.”
“But there’s some coffee,” said Duke. “Fresh made.”
Thumps glanced at the old percolator. There was a stain running down one side that looked like dried blood. As though the pot had been seriously wounded in a shootout.
“Any luck with that Amazon thing?”
“Easier time talking to Elvis.”
Thumps had hoped to find a sympathetic way to address the elephant in the room. Something organic and smooth. Something that spoke to his thoughtful and caring nature.
“Weather’s been good, don’t you think?”
“Christ, DreadfulWater,” said Duke, “you can stop being sensitive. Ask the question.”
“How’s Macy?”
Duke sat back in his chair. “Talked to the doctor. Supposed to be some new drugs that might help.”
“That’s good news.”
Duke shook his head. “None of which are covered by my health plan.”
“Talk to Rawat. He might have some ideas.”
“I did. He suggested that Macy and me make a run for the Canadian border.”
“A pharmacist with a sense of humour.”
“Don’t think he was joking,” said Duke. “Gave me a lecture on the sorry state of universal health care in the lower forty-eight and how we keep voting against our best interests.”
“I know that lecture,” said Thumps.
“He’s going to try to help me with the costs of some of the medications,” said Duke. “Find something generic. Not even sure we can afford that.”
“Sorry.”
“And then there’s the other problem.” Duke sat up, leaned forward on his elbows. “Remember I told you that Lance and Jenny were on their honeymoon.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“That’s the problem.” Duke drummed his hands on the desk. “Seems that his new bride doesn’t like Lance being a cop.”
“When you said the coffee was fresh, exactly what did you mean?”
“Made it today. You want a cup?”
Thumps got to his feet, grabbed a cup off the filing cabinet. “No,” he said, “but I’ve got a feeling I’m going to need one.”
The coffee could put a rocket into space, but it didn’t have that burnt asphalt taste that was the hallmark of Duke’s brewing techniques.
“Tara’s father owns the Chevrolet dealership here in town and the rental car agency at the airport. Going to teach Lance the business.”
“Pays better than being a cop?”
“What doesn’t,” said Duke. “Plus, it’s nine to five, and nobody shoots at you.”
Thumps took another sip. Okay, some asphalt. Just at the edges.
“But it means you’re going to need another deputy.”
“I know,” said Duke, “you’re a photographer.”
Thumps put the cup on the desk. “I’ll give you three months. See how it goes.”
Duke sat up in the chair. “You’ll be my deputy?”
“It’s a bad idea,” said Thumps, “but yes.”
“I don’t have to bribe you, twist your arm, threaten to arrest you?”
“You want me to change my mind?”
Duke opened a drawer and took out a large manila envelope, slid it across the desk.
“What’s this?”
“Your badge,” said Duke. “Contract that you’ll need to sign, a cellphone so I can find you, keys to the office, and my old Glock. You’ll have to buy your own ammo.”
Thumps stared at the envelope for a moment. “You expected me to say yes?”
“I’m a trained investigator,” said the sheriff. “It’s what I do.”
“Jesus.”
“What is it that Ivory calls you?” said Duke. “Dog? That’s it, isn’t it. Deputy Dog.”
“Don’t push it.”
“No,” said Duke, “I like it.”
“Shut up and tell me what you need me to do.”
“How about we start with something simple,” said the sheriff. “How about you ride herd on the gold? Archie tends to overreact, but better safe than sorry. We’d look pretty silly if someone did hit the exhibition.”
Thumps took the photographs out of his pocket, handed them to Duke.
“This guy showed up this morning at Buffalo Mountain.”
“Stretch limo.” Duke gave a low whistle. “Don’t see many of those in town. We know who he is?”
“Boris somebody,” said Thumps.
“No last name?”
“Nope.”
“Our Emily Hunter seems to know him.”
“She does.”
Duke looked through the photographs a second time. “You figure the two NFL linemen with him are his personal trainer and his personal stylist?”
“Absolutely,” said Thumps.
Duke stood and extended his hand. “Welcome to the team, Deputy Dog.”
“Piss off,” said Thumps.
13
Thumps dumped the manila envelope on the passenger seat. Already this was feeling like a big mistake. A badge, a gun—what was he thinking? A cellphone? Really? Next thing he knew, his house would be rigged for internet, and he’d be watching cable.
