Shadow Man (6 page)

“That will be quite satisfactory.”

Moon ripped off the cellophane, opened the small carton. He checked the deck, offered it for Blinkoe’s inspection.

The orthodontist expertly spread the cards into a fan, passed them back to the Ute.

Moon shuffled.

Blinkoe cut the deck.

Using the sandy earth for a table, Moon dealt five cards each. He watched the odd man check his hand. “How many do you want?”

“Oh,” Blinkoe said with a shrug, “I suppose I’ll stick with what I’ve got.”

Moon knew a bluff when he saw one. He looked at a pair of fives. “Dealer takes three.” He dealt himself a deuce, a nine of spades—another five! “I’ll raise you three more days of services.”

“I’ll see that with another thousand dollars.”

Moon laid his hand down. “Three of a kind.”

“Well,” Blinkoe said, “that is pretty good.” He smirked. “But not good enough.” He showed the Ute his hand. All hearts. Ten. Jack. Queen. King. Ace.

Moon stared like a man who has stumbled over a tombstone and found his name engraved on it. And today’s date.

Blinkoe beamed at the Indian. “Well, well—looks like this is my lucky day.”

The Ute spoke slowly, his words cutting like an ax. “Dr. Blinkoe—the odds against being dealt a royal flush are not even one in half a million.”

“Is that a fact?”

“To be exact, it’s one in six hundred and forty-nine thousand, seven hundred and forty.”

“Then I am extraordinarily lucky.”

“You’re extraordinarily reckless. You should’ve gone for something barely believable—like a straight.”

Blinkoe’s voice went thin. “What, exactly, are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re an outright, bald-faced cheat.”

“Sir, that is highly offensive.” The player made a valiant attempt to appear outraged. “After all, you dealt the cards. How could I have possibly—”

“The old-fashioned way. You marked the deck, put it back in the box, used a heated butter knife to reseal the cellophane.”

“Really, now—”

“And you had that flush stuffed up your sleeve along with all the other aces and faces you might’ve needed—depending on what I was holding.”

“That is absolutely absurd.”

“Then prove me wrong—take off your jacket, roll up your shirtsleeves.”

“And if I refuse?”

The hostile Indian picked up the deck. “I’ll check to see if the ace of hearts is still in this deck. Along with the rest of your flush.”

The card cheat blanched. “Mr. Moon, I am compelled to make a critical statement—you are taking a friendly little card game far too seriously.”

“Dr. Blinkoe, there is nothing more serious than poker.”

“Oh, all right.” He threw his hands up with an air of exasperation. “I admit it—I did play a bit of a prank on you. But it was all in good fun.”

The Ute continued to stare holes in him.

“I have confessed—what else do you want?”

Charlie Moon told him what he wanted.

Blinkoe said a painful farewell to twenty hundred-dollar bills.

Moon counted the money twice. “If any of this turns out to be counterfeit—”

“Oh, posh. I would never consider such a monstrous deceit.”

The Ute held a bill up to the sunlight. “Looks like the genuine article.”

“Well of course it’s genuine.”
He is really a very picky fellow.
“I hope you will be willing to forgive and forget—”

He glared at the white man. “I can’t think of anything makes me madder than a card cheat. Compared to you, a horse thief could teach Sunday school.”

Blinkoe blinked. “You are really angry with me?”

“If you was on fire, I wouldn’t spit on you.”

“You should not be so judgmental.” The shameless man looked away. “It is not my fault that I had cards in my sleeve.”

This was more fun than he’d had in weeks. “How do you figure that?”

“I suffer from a serious medical condition.” There was a well-executed hesitation. “If I reveal my humiliating secret, will you promise to keep it to yourself?”

“Sure.”
This should be good.
“Cross my fingers.”

The habitual liar took a deep breath, exhaled the contrived confession. “I cannot control myself. It is true that I am a compulsive cheater—but this fault is entirely due to a defective gene.”

“Well, that throws a whole new light on things.” Moon choked back a grin. “Is there any treatment?”

“Psychiatric counseling has been of no use at all.” Blinkoe exhaled a martyr’s sigh. “But last month, I met with a group of biomedical scientists in Palo Alto who are hopeful that advances in stem cell research will eventually provide a cure.”

“You mean like implanting cells from an honest person into you?”

“It’s a bit more complicated than that, but you are more or less on the right track. Needless to say, I have invested heavily in their research.”

Moon was absolutely in awe of the man. “I guess I was a little hard on you.”

“Does that mean you will agree to help me?”

“Haven’t made up my mind yet. But if I do, it’ll be for five hundred bucks a day. First ten days in advance.”

“Ouch! That is rather steep.”

“If you’d like to bargain, we could discuss paid holidays. A medical-dental plan. And a bonus if I have to work on Chief Ouray’s birthday.”

“Oh, very well. I accept your terms.” Blinkoe glanced toward the trailer, where his impatient lawyer was waiting with the old Indian woman. “I suppose you’ll want all sorts of personal information.”

“
If
I decide to do some work for you, I would need to know something about your business activities.”

“Other than a few investments, I am retired from the world of business.”

“That must give you plenty of time to spend with your family.”

“I am, sadly—an orphan. But I do have a devoted wife.” Blinkoe rubbed a gold band on his finger. It was set with a heart-shaped stone. “This six-carat ruby was a gift from my loving spouse on our first wedding anniversary.” He blinked moist eyes. “Pansy saved up every penny from her allowance.” For a moment, he was so moved by this magnificent lie that he could not speak. He cleared his throat, glanced at the Swiss-made timepiece strapped to his wrist. “I suppose we should return to your aunt’s quaint domicile. Spencer is a very impatient fellow; he’s probably in a tiff by now.”

“Whether or not I decide to take you on as a client, there’s one thing I’m bound to do for you.” The tribal investigator stared hard at the fascinating man. “I’m going to give you some advice.”

M. W. Blinkoe looked mildly alarmed at the prospect. “What sort of advice?”

“The sort that might save your life. Here it is: Don’t ever,
ever
cheat at cards again.”

The response was immediate and scented with insincerity. “Oh, very well.”

“You promise?”

“I give you my solemn word.”

Moon grinned.

Blinkoe looked to be deeply hurt. “I don’t like that look in your eye—do you think I would lie to you?”

“Well, you had your mouth open—and I could hear words coming out.”

“I have informed you about my medical condition, Mr. Moon. You should make an attempt to be more tolerant. And understanding.”

“Next time you have some aces and royalty up your sleeve, you’re liable to run into somebody who’s not nearly as tolerant and understanding as me.”
Somebody who’ll slit your throat and pocket your poke.

Having managed to lure the lawyer into her home, Daisy Perika pointed at a chair by the kitchen table. “Sit down.”

Though Spencer Trottman was not in the habit of taking orders, he was far too civilized to invite a confrontation with this old savage. So he sat. And looked around. “Well, well.”
Rather a tiny place.
“Have you lived out here very long?”

“All my life,” she muttered as she puttered around the propane stove. “And don’t ask how long that’s been. I just had a birthday and I don’t like to think about it.” Daisy raised the top of the range, used a kitchen match to touch a flame to each of the pilot lights. There was a satisfying
pop,
then another.
Looks like Charlie got that gas line fixed.
She turned to her visitor, gave him a jerk of her head. “Come over here.”

The lawyer got up from his chair. “What for?”

“I want you to get down on your knees in front of this stove, stick your head in the oven.”

He paled. “I
beg
your pardon?”

She gave him a box of matches. “You got a young back and long arms; see if you can light the pilot. It’s in the broiler, way near the back. I’m too old and stiff to try it—if I get down there, I might get all stove up.”
Stove up—that’s a good one.
“And if I did, I might not be able to stand up straight for a month.”

The white-collar worker frowned at the grease-spotted linoleum in front of the stove, considered his razor-creased trousers.

Daisy pitched a newspaper onto the floor. “You can use that.”

Trottman knelt on the obituaries, flicked a wooden match to life, stuck his arm into the broiler, closed his eyes in the hope that the subsequent explosion would not blind him for life—and by some good fortune managed to ignite the pilot flame. It was the first useful manual labor the attorney had performed in ages. It felt good. He got to his feet, brushed nothing in particular off his knees.

Daisy pointed at the floor. “Pick up the newspaper.”

Now accustomed to being the Ute woman’s house servant, he performed this task without protest.

She snatched the
Ute Drum
from his hands, stuffed it in a plastic wastebasket. “I don’t get many visitors out here, so I’m not set up for entertaining people.” She pointed at the ancient television set. “I’d turn on a baseball game for you, but that worthless box of tubes and wires is on the blink. The picture’s all slanted, so when I want to watch
Oprah
, I have to tilt my head like this.” She demonstrated. “And it makes my neck hurt.”

His stiff face almost smiled. “Don’t give it a second thought. I rarely watch TV.”

“Then I’ll make a fresh batch of coffee and heat up some Indian stew.”

It would be impolite to refuse her hospitality. “Well—I suppose just a little coffee.”

A few minutes later, Daisy Perika plopped a mug of black liquid in front of her guest. “You want any milk or sugar with that?”

Spencer Trottman shook his head. There was a rainbow sheen floating on the tarlike liquid.
It has a film of grease on it. She has not properly cleaned the cup.

The old woman slammed a bowl down by his hand.

“Ah—excuse me, madam—”

“I’m no madam,” she snapped. “And there ain’t no young floozies in this house.”

“Well of course not, but what I mean to say is that I really didn’t want any—”

This feeble protest was interrupted. “It’s an old Apache recipe. You’ll like it.”

“Dr. Blinkoe and I had breakfast only a short while ago. I really have no appetite for…”
for whatever this is.

She stirred the stew, raised the spoon to his lips. “Open your mouth, so I don’t spill it on your pretty blue tie.”

Seeing no viable alternative but to obey, he opened his mouth.

Daisy shoveled the food inside.

He chewed. Swallowed.

“Now, isn’t that good?”

His eyes were wide with surprise. “It is
delicious.
”

“Then finish it up.” She seated herself across the table, started in on her bowl.

Spencer Trottman considered himself a chef of sorts. Halfway through his helping, he had to ask. “May I inquire about the recipe?”

“You start with some onions cooked in butter. Then you add some sweet corn and sliced summer squash.”

He nodded. “And there’s a pinch of paprika.”

“I used a cup and a half.”

Her guest looked as if he doubted this.

“I made the original batch outside, over a piñon fire—in my big copper pot. Took all day and half the night to cook it up.”

“Oh.”

“It was way too much for my freezer, so I canned it up in gallon jars.”

He chewed at a piece of stringy meat. It did not taste like beef. “You must have used an entire lamb.”

Daisy shook her head. “That ain’t lamb.”

The finicky man grimaced at his bowl. “Goat?”

The old woman snorted. “Lots better than that.”

“Of course. I should have known. Pork.”

“You’re getting warm.”

“Please—you really must tell me.”

She leaned over the table, lowered her voice to a whisper that he could barely hear. “I guess you bein’ a lawyer, you know how to keep a secret.”

“Certainly.” He crossed his heart. “I promise never to reveal the ingredients of your recipe.”

“If you want to brew up a mess of Old Apache stew, first you got to catch yourself an old Apache.”

Trottman was startled by this tasteless remark.

“Of course,” Daisy continued in a thoughtful manner, “I prefer
Young
Apache stew myself, because the meat is lots more tender. But way out here off the beaten path, a person has to be satisfied with whatever happens by.” She shot him a look. “You ever hear of Albert Stone Foot?”

He shook his head.

“Well, he was an old Apache who happened by one day.” Daisy stopped chewing, put a finger in her mouth. “What’s that?” The Ute elder removed the offending morsel, examined it, made a horrible face. “Ugh—I
hate
it when I get a ’Pache toenail in my mouth!”

The Mercedes SUV was a mile from Daisy Perika’s trailer when Spencer Trottman finally spoke to his passenger. “So what did you think of Mr. Moon?”

“Honest to a fault,” Blinkoe said. “A bit too ethical for my tastes. But considerably more intelligent than I had expected. I have no doubt he will live up to his reputation as a highly competent investigator.” He grimaced as the automobile chugged over a pothole. “On the whole, I like him. And by the by, he will be looking into this threat on my life. You shall provide him with every cooperation.”

“Of course.”

Blinkoe turned his face toward the driver. “Did you enjoy your visit with Mr. Moon’s aunt?”

The lawyer snorted. “The woman is a lunatic.”

“Hah—did she play another trick on you?”

“She is a very coarse, crude person. It would not be going too far to describe her as a malicious old witch.”

The orthodontist clapped his hands. “Oh please—tell me what she did!”

Trottman set his jaw. “I absolutely refuse to discuss it.”

“Oh, very well then.”
Spoilsport.
He turned away to stare at Chimney Rock.

Trottman was well aware that while Manfred Blinkoe had difficulty recalling his Social Security number or zip code, he seemed to have almost total recall of what he read in a half-dozen newspapers or watched on the television news.
Not that I believe one word that came out of the old woman’s mouth. But it won’t hurt to ask.
“Manfred, do you recall any news reports about an Indian by the name of Albert Stone Foot?”

“Certainly,” the news junkie replied. “Mr. Stone Foot was reported missing last autumn on the Southern Ute reservation. There was quite an extensive search by tribal police and volunteers.”

Trottman grasped for a straw. “Then he was a Ute.”

Blinkoe shook his head. “Mr. Stone Foot was married to a Ute woman, but he was a member of the Jicarilla Apache tribe. He is presumed dead, but the body was never recovered.”

The lawyer felt the bile rising in his throat. He braked the automobile to a sudden stop, opened the door, leaned out, gagged. But not one morsel of the Old Apache did he manage to regurgitate.

Charlie Moon finished his bowl of stew. “That was good enough to eat.”

Daisy Perika got the pot, ladled him out another helping. “You’d naturally think so; you brought me the pig all the way from the Columbine.”

“I can’t take any credit for the pig. That was a gift from Dolly Bushman.” For some reason, the Columbine foreman’s wife was quite fond of his aunt. The full-time rancher, part-time tribal investigator, occasional handyman reached for a Saltine Cracker and remembered there was one last chore to do before he headed home. “Didn’t you tell me your TV was acting up?”

“It needs some tweaking. But there’s no big hurry.” The crafty old woman smiled.
I have lots of ways of entertaining myself.