Death by Diamonds

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

            Life is comprised of moments of decision.  You cruise along for days or weeks without ever facing a hard choice, and then a moment crystallizes in front of you.  The moment could be a drowning child or a cat up a tree or a homeless woman struggling to shove a full shopping cart over a curb.  You don’t have to help.  No law forces your hand.  No one will think less of you.  The only conscience you must assuage is your own.  You can walk away.  One of my moments followed the boy into the living room.  I owed no one.  Meryl could handle anything and probably do a better job than me.  Yet, the moment grinned like a fat, greasy mechanic who held the car keys in one hand and a hefty bill in the other.  How could I walk?

            Meryl turned to me; fear and pain clouded her face.

            “Call nine one one,” I told Meryl.  “Come on.”  I grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him outside.

            “Where?” I asked.

            He pointed to a distant field.

            “Get in the car!” I ordered.

            I bounced my Thunderbird recklessly through the rutted field.  The Bird groaned and complained, but what’s a car compared to a life.  The boy’s voice returned as I drove; his tears didn’t stop.

            “Shirt,” the boy said.  “Tried...run for help.”

            An old, red, Massey-Ferguson combine waited in the far corner of the field.

            “Couldn’t shut off the engine,” the boy said.

            “Stay in the car!” I ordered as I slid the Bird to a stop next to the combine.

            Sy Benning was pinned to the far side of the machine.  One glance at Sy’s black face told the story.  Sy’s shirt tail had become tangled around a belt and shaft.  As he struggled, the shirt had looped around his neck like a noose.  Before the engine stalled, the noose had tightened until the shirt was embedded in Sy’s neck.

            I stepped around the combine.  The boy climbed out of my car.  His face knew the truth his mind wouldn’t accept.  Sy’s rusted pickup bounced crazily across the field toward us.

            “Is he...?” the boy asked.

            “Yes,” I answered.

            The boy started past, but I stopped him.  “Son, you’ll see enough of it before you’re through.”

            He buried his head in my coat and began to sob, his shudders echoing through my body.  The pickup ground to a stop, and Meryl jumped out.  She looked at me and slowed.  The spirit that had buoyed her through so many bad seasons leaked away like helium out of a balloon.  She seemed to shrink before my eyes, compressed by some monstrous weight.  With infinite slowness she stepped forward and turned the boy to herself.  She looked past me with horrible pain.  I saw Job in her eyes, a deep sorrow she neither deserved nor understood.  Life had taken a 100 mile detour to kick her in the belly and mock her loss.  The sky began to spit rain, big, cold drops that pinged on the reaper.

            “Give me the letter,” I said huskily.

            She stared at me.

            “The letter!”

            Meryl reached into her pocket and held out the envelope.  I snatched it and started for my car.  Staying would only confuse things.  I had the letter, and I would find the diamonds--for her and the boy.  I would find the diamonds because I was good at finding things.  I would find them even though I hated finding things.  I would find them because Sy’s death was more than I could stomach.

            I hated the figures by the combine, mother and son huddling against the cold rain.

            I hated the Thunderbird bouncing through the muddy field, windshield wipers screeching, shocks moaning.

            I hated myself most of all.

*****

            I had been studying Angel’s letter for an hour when my phone rang.

            “Mr. Caine,” a husky voice said.  “I desperately need your help.  Meet me in the Radisson lobby at Keystone at the Crossing in an hour.  It’s about Angel.”

            The line clicked dead.

            I didn’t recognize the voice.  The caller could have been Elvis trying to reach me from the nether world.  I wanted to ignore the call, but Sy’s black face lay imprinted on my mind.  If I were going to find the diamonds, I’d have to chase every lead no matter how nebulous.  Damning Sy, I grabbed my car keys and left my apartment.  The cold rain didn’t improve my mood.

            The Radisson lobby pretended to style, one of those hotels where the “glass” in the Tiffany lamps turned out to be plastic and the bar booze came in ten gallon drums.  I wasted an hour on an uncomfortable bench studying Angel’s letter.  Separating the real from the paranoid in Angel’s writing became increasingly difficult.  Perhaps the only link between the diamonds and the “clues” existed in the dead mind of Angel Leshing.  Damaged psyches decorated their worlds with imagined furniture.  Had Angel invented clues?  She had fed Chester Maupin a special story.  Was his better than mine?  Holiday Park and thirteen steps sounded every bit as plausible as painted portraits and unspecified skills.

            When no one met me at the Radisson, I knew the Angel Leshing memorial scavenger hunt had leaped to a higher plateau of importance.  Ordinary people didn’t divert ordinary salesmen.  Someone wanted me out of my apartment for a reason.  I made certain the Radisson desk clerk would remember me and the time.  Diversions hid things, perhaps nasty things.  Alibis were good things to stow in a hip pocket for future use.

            By the time I reached my apartment, I had reverted to the habit of circling the parking lot, looking for suspicious vehicles.  Guys armed with binoculars might have been bird watching or scanning the apartments for babes emerging wet from their showers, but I didn’t want to take a chance.  Nothing caught my eye, I noted the time.  Precision was becoming important.

            I stepped inside my apartment and knew someone had searched the living room.  Little had been disturbed, and most people would have attributed the discrepancies to a faulty memory.  But I noticed.  I wanted to notice.  Someone had drawn me out in order to search my apartment.  I worked through the living room noting the mistakes.  A pile of socks that wasn’t my pile of socks, an empty beer can on end that should have been on its side.  There was a method in my sloppiness.  I worked carefully.  Perhaps the searcher had left a calling card.

            I found Nona in the bedroom.

            She lay sprawled like a lifeless dummy across my unmade bed, a neat bullet hole in her temple.  Not dead long, a small, black revolver rested in her hand.  She hadn’t bled much; the stain on the sheet was small.  Nona’s body had gone slack for the first time since she ran her first mile.  Such a powerful body.

            I stared at Nona and shivered.  Walking the short plank with a corn combine wasn’t pretty, but it wasn’t death by bullet--what appeared to be self-inflicted death.  Why was death so cold?

            I left Nona as I found her and phoned Hogan.  Grabbing a beer I settled in the living room to wait.  Something about Nona’s eyes bothered me.  I hoped Hogan would sprint over.  He did.

*****

            “So you were at the Radisson.”  Hogan spoke as if he didn’t believe me.  The lab techs and ambulance jockeys had finished with Nona and my apartment, leaving the bloody sheet.  I had a feeling the technicians would drop by home to scrub their hands and disinfect their clothes.

            “Didn’t even have a drink,” I said.

            “To meet someone who never showed?”  Hogan sat in my favorite chair, not a very comfortable chair.  His once carefully combed hair now clumped together on top his head, exposing a flaky scalp.

            “Someone lured me out of my apartment,” I said.

            “Why?”  Hogan’s eyes bored into me like twin laser beams.

            “To water my plants?”

            He didn’t smile.  Hogan wasn’t in a smiling mood, but then neither was I.  “We’re talking suicide, Caine.  Why did the babe nix herself in your place?”

            I leaned my head back on the couch.  “Not my girl.  Not my weapon.  I barely knew her.  I certainly don’t know why she’d shoot herself.”

            “You knew her?” Hogan asked.

            “She was a neighbor.”

            “She was in your apartment,” Hogan wheezed.

            “But I wasn’t.”

            I sensed the anger building inside Hogan, the anger and fear that the diamonds were slipping inexorably from his grasp.  Men cling to dreams even as the dreams turn to sand and leak between their fingers.  Hogan had dreamed for ten long years.  Why hadn’t he abandoned the quest long before?

            “Damn you, Caine!  You’re holding out.  Why was she in your apartment?  Why did she die?!”

            I looked at Hogan.  More than ever, he reminded me of a talking corpse.  “Nona was my neighbor.  Why she didn’t shoot herself in her place is beyond me.  Maybe she was a neatness freak and couldn’t bear to mess up her sheets.”

            “Why?”

            “Who knows why?  Maybe she had lost her lover.  Maybe her pet rock died.  I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

            “But it’s YOUR apartment!”

            I shook my head.  Hogan was stuck to me like a barnacle to a hull.  Nona could have collected her dues after hearing she had terminal cancer, and Hogan would have doubted her motive.  Trying to reason with Hogan was like trying to persuade the Pope to take a wife.

            “Take me downtown or get out,” I told Hogan.

            He stood and loomed above me, fear devouring his guts.  Wheezing, spittle flecking his lips, he summoned all the intimidation he could muster--not much.  “You think you’re so smart, so smooth.  Well, you’re not.  If you think you’re good for the diamonds, forget it.  You’ll never collect the ice.  I’ll see to that.”  Despite the sickness devouring his insides, Hogan meant what he said.

            Hogan whirled and stomped out of my apartment.  I looked around and felt more lonely than I had felt since the bad days in California.  Death reinforces individual mortality, and I had seen enough death for one day.  Sy and Nona.  Two unnecessary deaths.  Black tongue and bullet hole.  The grim reaper had had a good Friday.  But then October was his season, wasn’t it?

*****

            The bane of aging is the inability to sleep.  When life has pummeled you into a bleeding, senseless, exhausted zombie, Morpheus abandons you.  A 25 year old could stuff twenty waking hours with non-stop activity and fulfill but half his dreams.  A 45 year old needs twelve hours to bore himself to tears.  Some people contend wisdom grows like a mushroom during those long, dark hours when sleep seems a thousand planets away.  Those same people claim life begins at 40.  I never knew when my life began, but I was reasonably certain I would know when my life ended.  In between, I wanted to sleep late on Saturday mornings.  People always want what they can’t have.

            I was half-way through my second cup of coffee and a review of Angel Leshing’s written legacy when someone knocked on my door.  The only person I knew wouldn’t be knocking was Nona.  I stashed the letter before I opened the door.

            “Good morning,” Hogan growled and stomped past.

            “Come on in,” I said sarcastically.

            Hogan plopped into a chair.  He was wearing Dockers two sizes too big and a hard Rock Cafe T-shirt.  He wasn’t on duty.  “Christ!  It’s gonna be hot today.  Who’d think it’d get hot this time of year.  Hell, it’s fall.”

            “Have a seat,” I added.

            I fired up a cigarette and remained standing.  Hogan wiped his face with a handkerchief and wheezed like an abused jalopy hitting on half its cylinders.

            “The desk clerk at the Radisson remembers you,” Hogan began.  “You’re lucky.”

            “Depends on your point of view.”

            “You said you never met this Nona before?”

            “The day before.”

            “She worked at the Mystery Club.  You had dinner there, didn’t you?”

            “Not with Nona.”  I saw where Hogan was headed.  “If you’re trying to connect Nona to me, you’re wasting your time.  I never laid eyes on her before Thursday.  If you’re looking for a network, try Nelson Pergot.  He owns the Mystery Club.”

            “He claims she was just another waitress--didn’t even have big ‘balumbas’.”

            “Probably why she killed herself.”

            Hogan laughed.  “Why would the babe shoot herself over Nelson?”

            “Are you sure she suicided?”

            “One bullet fired.  Powder residue on her hands.  What can we think?”

            “Where did she work before the Mystery Club?”

            “Waitress around town.  Coed Kitty.”

            “Studying what?”

            “Psychology.”  Hogan chuckled.  “Ain’t it funny how the weirdoes study other weirdoes.  She moved into this dump Wednesday.  Did you know?”

            “I hadn’t seen her before.”

            Hogan wiped his face again and eyed me as if deciding something.  “Caine, I’m gonna lay out my hand.  I think you know where the Pergot diamonds are hidden, or you know how to find them--same thing.  I also think Nelson Pergot planted Nona next door to ace the info from you.”  Hogan took a deep breath.  “I want the diamonds, but I’m no hog.  We split down the middle.  Half’s plenty.  Half will see me through any time still on my punch card.”

            “Do you really think the insurance company will let you keep half?” I asked.  “They’ll know you found the diamonds if you retire to a Vegas dice table.”

            “What insurance company?”

            “The company that paid off Fran Pergot-Meyer.  The carrier has the only valid claim to the ice.”

            “Nobody’s told you, have they?”  Hogan laughed.  “The Federated Insurance Company of Muncie, Indiana went belly up eight years ago.  Bankruptcy court liquidated all assets and settled all debts.  All claim to the diamonds dissolved with the company.”  Hogan grinned.  The diamonds are public domain.  Finders, keepers.”

            I understood why the diamonds had become so tantalizing.  The Pergot diamonds no longer represented a finder’s fee or a risky fence.  The game had become take-the-money-and-run.

            “Half would be enough?” I asked.

            “More than I could spend.”

            I didn’t doubt Hogan would find it difficult to spend three-quarters of a million dollars.  He might not last till payday.  His body would fail before his mind, and I wasn’t sure that wasn’t the right order.

            “Whatever happened to Garrison and Dysan, the cops who discovered Claude?”

            “They’re no help.  They didn’t get the ice,” Hogan said.

            “Humor me.”

            Hogan mopped his brow.  “Cap Garrison resigned from the force, but not before he got Dysan killed.”

            “Oh?”

            “Liquor store.  Three Johnnies with sawed-off shotguns.  Two in, one out.  Garrison and Dysan stopped at the doughnut shop across the street.  Dysan spotted the two Johnnies inside and told Garrison to call the cavalry.  Garrison wanted no part of the take down.  Doughnut maker at first claimed Garrison and Dysan argued about the bust.  Dysan waded in thinking Garrison was covering the rear window.  Garrison wasn’t there.  He was sittin’ on the bakery crapper his revolver c****d between his legs.  The outside Johnny hit Dysan in the back.  One shot.  More than enough.  Dysan didn’t have time for the Lord’s prayer.

            “Garrison claims he went to the crapper first and next thing he knew Dysan had met his maker.  Doughnut maker developed memory gaps and couldn’t remember what happened when.  No disciplinary action but nobody wanted to partner with Garrison.  He escorted rookies until Danny Klobus sold Garrison to the Feds in exchange for easy time.”

            “Danny Klobus?” I asked.

            “Local talent.  Hookers and bookies.  Used to keep his worker bees in line by chopping off little fingers.  Nine fingered Klobus girls were a dime a dozen.  Klobus Garrison on retainer.  When the Feds walked in with an IRS offense, Danny bartered his records.  Danny’s books showed big tips to Garrison and a couple others.  The Chief had Garrison by the shorts, but Garrison was lucky.  It was an election year.  The Chief let Garrison resign in order to avoid embarrassing headlines.  Garrison bought a bait shop in Cicero, Indiana.  Case closed.  No diamonds.”

            Hogan stopped and waited for me to speak.

            “I don’t know where the diamonds are,” I admitted.  “I don’t know how to find them.”

            Anger crossed Hogan’s face.  He had expected me to enlist in his plan, join the “Diamonds R Us” brigade.  “Then stay away from the Mystery Club and Meryl Benning and anyone else connected to Angel.”

            “If I don’t?”

            Hogan stood.  “There’s always one way to stop you.  You ain’t bullet proof, Caine.”

            “I think you’re serious.”

            “Depend on it.”

            Hogan moved toward the door.  “Some of the boys downtown remember when you wore the badge.  Some say you weren’t too bad for being so smart.”

            “Look around,” I answered.  “Does this dump look so smart?”

            Hogan laughed, a choking laugh, and shuffled out of the apartment.

            I watched the door close and was surprised by my calm.  There had been a time when Hogan’s threat would have stirred something deep inside, something that didn’t tolerate threats.  I had once dislocated a man’s elbow for flipping me the bird in traffic.  Now, I felt nothing.  I remembered an old man I once knew who was afraid to visit the doctor.  The old man feared the doctor would stick a pin into aged leathery flesh, and the old man would feel nothing.  I started for the shower.  I wondered what would happen if I turned the hot water as hot as it could get.  Would I feel it?

            I did.

*****

            I knew my way around the library which seemed to surprise the chubby, short woman who wanted to help.  Looking at my slacks and wrinkled shirt, she probably thought I was a street urchin taking refuge from the October heat.  Did she look forward to shoving me out the door at closing time, watching me slink down the sidewalk to my shanty under the viaduct?  With a offer to help if I needed it, she slipped away to hassle some other patron while I started my research on Angel and Claude and diamonds that had never been found.

            The newspapers had thoroughly covered the Pergot murder.  An enterprising reporter named O’Connor grabbed the story the day after the murder and ran with it for a week.  His front page article the day after the murder told the same story I had heard from Hogan.  Angel and Tim had been pulled over by Garrison and Dysan, and after the shoot-out, Garrison and Dysan drove to Pergot’s and found Claude.  A photo showed the open safe, the same safe I had seen.  The diamonds had disappeared.  O’Connor’s follow-up articles during the week featured the club--Sparkles--Angel, Tim, and Claude.  Sparkles was nothing particularly special, song, dance, and over-priced booze.  The paper made the club sound like a haunt for the local Mafia, which didn’t surprise me.  Selling papers was more important than the truth.  Angel’s background was sketchy.  Her real name was Theresa Lesniak, a local girl who correctly reasoned that Angel Leshing would play better than Theresa.  She had a sister named Meryl, but her parents were dead.  I copied down Angel’s old address, but I didn’t expect to find anything there. 

            Tim’s story was little more than rumor and innuendo.  O’Connor didn’t uncover much about the trigger man.  Tim came from Massachusetts originally, and no one knew why.  He wasn’t a bad musician, just lazy.  Other musicians claimed Tim didn’t practice much, and that he liked chasing women more than anything else.  Tim’s photo showed a handsome man with a nice smile.  I didn’t think he had any trouble getting women.  What struck me was Tim’s obituary.  He was survived the three sisters and his mother.  Seemed the women outlived the men in his family. 

            The enigma in the story was Claude Pergot.  He ran a successful microfilm business but seemed to have a wild streak running through him.  He had divorced one wife to marry Fran, and he ran Sparkles like a private fiefdom.  More than one unquotable source intimated that Claude didn’t turn enough business to keep the club running and live like he did.  He owned a string of classic cars, a mansion, and belonged to two country clubs.  An avid golfer, Claude was popular on the charity tour, donating a fair chunk of change.  While civic leaders bemoaned the loss of generous Claude, not everyone would miss Claude’s other side, the Sparkles side. 

            As I read the stories, I was reminded of a man who couldn’t make up his mind.  What did he want?  He had Fran and Angel, a respected business and Sparkles.  He seemed to be a split personality, half living the American dream, half living a Mafia fantasy.  I wondered how he held up under the stress.  I didn’t know many people who successfully melded opposite personalities into a single human mind.  How successful had Claude been?

            I traced Sparkles  and discovered Fran sold the club six months after Claude died--time enough for a thorough search.  The entrepreneur who purchased the club converted it to a diner that lasted exactly ninety days.  The conversion must have provided the wannabe millionaire a down-to-the-bedrock examination.  Since the guy filed for bankruptcy a year later, he obviously didn’t find the rocks.  The building had been razed three years after Claude’s death to make room for a parking lot.

            O’Connor wrote a one year and five year anniversary articles on the Pergot diamonds.  The stories were rehashes of the original series and provided no new information.  Several prison inmates claimed a variety of roommates actually killed Claude and squandered the diamonds, but their stories never held dew, let alone water. 

            O’Connor had been thorough enough to trace two stones from their birth to their disappearance with Claude.  The Capetown was a large, blue diamond that had once belonged to a Dutch Boer who smuggled it out of South Africa at the turn of the century.  The Dutchman escaped the wars and landed in New Jersey.  The Capetown’s color was said to mesmerize with its clarity, a blue as captivating as a beautiful woman’s smile.  The size and color turned everyone bug-eyed.  The gem passed from Dutchman to bootlegger to magazine heir before it landed in Pergot’s safe.  Along with the Capetown, Claude owned the Shirja, a yellow diamond from India.  The Shirja’s history was spotted.  One story claimed a Maharaja had given the diamond to the beautiful wife of a British governor.  A second tale laid the blame on the governor who stole the diamond after squashing a rebellion instigated by the Maharaja.  In any case, the Governor transported the stone to England where an American millionaire bought it. The Shirja delighted passengers on its voyage to the colonies where it eventually slipped into Claude’s collection.  While the diamond stories made fine reading, they didn’t help solve the mystery.  I wouldn’t be surprised if f O’Connor was planning a ten year anniversary story.  Claude would be good for an article till long after the diamonds surfaced, if they ever did.

            I didn’t spot my helpful librarian as I left, which was all right.  Perky little people always irritated me for some reason.  Why should they be happy when I wasn’t?  The sun was shining as I drove to my apartment.  I knew where I had to go next, and I didn’t want to go there.  But I had to.  Why is life full of “have to’s?” 

*****

            The Keppel Funeral Home in Rushville resembled a local Grange Hall. The spacious, red brick building provided ample parking and a lighted sign over the door.  Inside, farmers in funeral suits and women in print dresses jammed the steamy viewing room.  A few children, self-conscious in Sunday church clothes, circulated through the crowd looking for the pop machine.  Evidently, many people knew Sy and Meryl--or they had nothing better to do.  I always suspected country people looked forward to viewings; death provided the opportunity to compare crops and children, another crop for some people.

            Meryl huddled amidst a knot of women all dressed in black, women who were on a first name basis with death.  These clear-eyed, country women protected Meryl from the insensitive clods who wanted to recount when Sy guzzled beer from a boot or felled a mean boar with a single swing of an ax handle.  Meryl needed to mourn.  Her ebony costumed guards would guarantee her the space.  One of those guards, a hefty, grim-faced matron with hair the color and texture of steel wool, intercepted me ten feet from Meryl.

            “Friend of the family,” I muttered and tried to slide past.

            Most mothers can spot a lie at twenty paces; this mother was no exception.  “No need to upset her more,” she said.

            “I’m no bill collector or lawyer or anything,” I explained despite my seedy suit.  “I need to talk to her for ten minutes.”

            “Make peace with Sy and give the woman a chance to heal.”

            “Look...”

            “It’s OK, Bernice,” Meryl said softly.

            I turned.  Meryl stood to one side.  Fear and worry had combined with tears to ravage her face.  She clung to the end of an exceedingly short rope.  I had seen Meryl’s face before, worn by a 20-year-old, short-haired engineering major perched on a narrow, stone ledge eight stories above a concrete sidewalk and jeering crowd.  I had been a policeman then, a patrolman.  I had talked to the boy for six hours through the hot afternoon and into the humid night.  His name was Zubek, and his favorite color was black, and he was afraid of spiders.  He smiled at me right before he launched himself into the dark.  The spotlights followed his plunge all the way to the sidewalk.

            “I won’t take long,” I told Meryl.

            “Won’t you sit?”  Meryl led me to a vacant corner, a quiet spot where we could talk.  She fell into a chair as if she had been standing for a week.

            “This isn’t a good time,” I began.  “But I have to know more about Angel and Claude and Gentle Tim Reily.  Anything you can remember.”

            She shook her head.  “It’s been too long.  I’m not thinking well.”

            “You have to try.  If we’re going to get anywhere, you have to remember.”

            She sighed and rubbed her eyes, clutching a Kleenex in one hand.  “What do you want to know?”

            “Tell me about Angel.  Was she in love with Pergot?”

            Meryl shook her head.  “Angel went with Pergot because he had a lot of money, a bad marriage, and a sense of humor.  He once sent her a bouquet of dandelions and a box of Snickers bars.  But Angel didn’t love him.  Not really.”

            “Was she in love with Gentle Tim?”

            “The musician?  He was the man she talked into helping her steal the diamonds, nothing more.”

            “Talk about Tim,” I urged.

            “What’s to tell?”  Meryl dabbed at her eyes with the tissue.  “He played good saxophone and came from the East, New York I think.  A small man, he was finicky about his clothes, had nice manners, clean fingernails.  Bragged he’d been kicked out of the best schools.  Said his family had money but no style.  That was his word, ‘style’.

            “Tim was crazy about Angel.  Hung around the clubs where Angel sang.  Wrote songs about her.  Mostly dopey songs with bad rhymes.  Angel used one in her act once.”

            “Why did Angel steal the diamonds?”

            “Pergot wanted Angel to marry him, but she couldn’t.  She wanted to leave town, to start over some place west.  Pergot had sort of promised Angel part of the diamonds.  Drunk talk, I imagine.  Drunks promise the world.  But you know that.”

            Drunk or sober, I had never promised anyone the world.  “Angel tapped Gentle Tim as her accomplice?” I asked.

            “Tim had done work for some gamblers.  Bag man, I suppose.  Tim bragged a botched bank robbery sent him west, but that was smoke.  Tim didn’t have the stomach for heavy work.”

            “Stickman?” I asked, remembering Angel’s last words.  “Who was Stickman?”

            Meryl looked past me, to the coffin.  Her mind had leaped from Angel and Tim to Sy, to the funeral home, to the grave.  Who could blame her for thinking of something besides Angel?

            “Did you know Sy planned to farm a whole section of the county?” Meryl asked.  “He worked out the plan one winter when he didn’t have a lot to do.  Sat down and added up all the acreage, all the crops and livestock.  Knew exactly how much to pay for each acre, how many bushels he could turn on which crop, how to maximize his income.  He even laid out the order of plowing and how many tractors and combines he would need.  Worked out the plan for dry or wet, early or late, government subsidy or no.  Made up schedules.  Spent the whole winter writing it down in a notebook.  Sometimes late at night I’d wake, and Sy would be gone.  I’d find him in the kitchen going over that notebook.  An idea had come to him in the dark, and he had to add it to his plan, see how he could improve his profits.  Called that notebook his ‘Treasure Map’ and kept it in his top desk drawer.  When things weren’t going good, he would pull out that book and study it, see where he had turned wrong.  The notebook’s still there.  I was wondering if maybe I should bury it with him.”

            “Stickman,” I repeated gently.  “Tell me about Stickman.”

            Meryl’s eyes found mine.  “I have no idea who Stickman was.  He must have been someone from the club or hospital.”

            Mothers weren’t the only lie detectors, and I wondered why Meryl would skip over the truth.  Was she lying?  Who could be hurt?  Still, you don’t grill a woman whose husband lies in a gardenia laden casket fifteen feet away.

            “Anything else?” I asked.

            Meryl shook her head.  “Afraid not.  After Angel went to Fair Oak we were never able to talk plain.  They watched her, trying to see if she was crazy.  Everyone wanted the diamonds.”

            “Did Angel know where the diamonds were?”

            “She knew--or thought she knew.  She hinted they were in Pergot’s mansion, but everyone has been through the mansion a thousand times.  Angel never spoke clear.  She thought they would turn her loose eventually.”

            I stood.  “Last question.  Who shot Pergot?  Angel or Tim?”

            Anger lit Meryl’s face.  “Tim!  Angel never shot a gun in her life.”

            “Tim doesn’t sound like a killer either.”

            She thought a moment.  “Must’ve been Tim.  His gun matched the murder bullet.”

            The guardian in black stepped forward.  “Reverend Hawley’s here,” she said.

            “Will you join us in prayer, Mr. Caine?” Meryl asked.

            I shook my head.  Sweat dotted my forehead.  “The earth would part and swallow us building and all.  God wouldn’t give the devil another c***k at my soul.”

            I smiled and left, not bothering with Sy.  I was afraid I’d look at his face and see the shirt twisted around his neck.  Sometimes, you can’t look at a person without seeing the skull beneath the flesh.

            Outside, the sun shone on the hustle and bustle of Rushville’s town square, a busy place.  As I climbed into my car, I thought about sisters.  Sisters were funny.  I once arrested a woman who called her brothers Tweedledum and Tweedledummer.  She buried them side by side--right after she shot them.

*****

            Klancy’s was dark and cool, the way funeral homes should be, the way graves are.  Orly stood at the end of the bar talking to Veronica.  Veronica wore a yellow suit and looked as fresh and sweet as lemonade.  I wondered how she might taste, like summer?  Her blonde hair shimmered.  Orly laughed and slipped away as I slid onto the stool next to Veronica.

            “Orly says you’re going to be famous,” Veronica began.

            “All I have to do is find the diamonds.”

            “I bet you could,” she said quickly.  “I bet you could find those diamonds in an hour.”

            I laughed.  Veronica possessed a child’s view of reality, a view where wishes and hopes accomplished more than hard work.  Children needed adults to shatter those adolescent dreams.  Luckily, Veronica had me.  Prince Charming was a fairy tale.

            “Couldn’t you find them?”  Veronica sounded hurt by my laugh.

            “How many people have searched for those stones?” I asked.  “A hundred?  A thousand?  Not all of them were bunglers.  Good minds have chased those diamonds.  I know one damn fine detective who’s devoted his last decade to the Pergot ice--without success.  No, I can’t waltz in and unearth the stones like some psychic.”

            “But you talked to Angel.”

            “I talked to an escapee from a mental institution.  Angel Leshing died long before that night.”

            Veronica frowned.  “You can’t find the diamonds?”

            “Finding the diamonds won’t be an afternoon stroll in the country.”

            “But you can find them?”  She gripped her drink; her butchered thumbs looked as if she had been brunching on them with a chain saw.

            “I can find Never-Never Land, but there’s no guarantee Peter Pan and Tinkerbell will have the table set.”

            Orly set a beer in front of me and grinned.  “Ryerson’s the best detective since Sherlock Holmes.  Better’n Holmes cause Rye never forgets his friends.”

            “Even though they forget me,” I added.

            Veronica hugged my arm.  “What do you think, Orly?  Can Ryerson and I find the Pergot diamonds?”

            “Oh ho!” I said.  “When did you join the team?”

            “Rye could find them by himself,” Orly said.  “But he can always use the help of a pretty woman.”

            “Just not out of bed,” I said.

            “See!”  Veronica ignored my comment.  “Orly thinks I can help.”

            I glanced from Orly’s grin to Veronica’s smirk.  They looked like a couple of teenagers leaving for an overnight camping trip.  No one would ever think they conspired together, right?  How stupid did they think I was?

            “This isn’t a sorority scavenger hunt,” I began.

            Veronica’s smile faded.

            “We’re talking a million plus of high grade diamonds, guaranteed danger,” I continued.  “I don’t want to discourage anyone.  I need all the help I can get.  But there’s personal risk, a chance to get hurt, maybe killed.  A million smacks is motive enough for any murderer.  I don’t know about anyone else, but I don’t want to give Mr. Reaper a shot at my neck.  Wanna die?”

            Veronica stared, her face pale and blank.  “Excuse me,” she muttered and slipped off her stool.

            “You scared her,” Orly boomed as Veronica entered the restroom.

            “Yeah.”  I pulled Angel’s letter out of my pocket.  “Orly, keep this in your safe, and don’t tell anyone you have it.”

            “Have what?”  Orly accepted the envelope.

            “If I die,” I added.  “That envelope goes to the police.”

            “Gotcha.”  Orly shuffled toward his back office.

            I couldn’t think of a better hiding place for Angel’s letter.  That Orly slept upstairs with a sawed-off Weatherby as his bed mate was common knowledge among the downtown burglars.  No second story man had had balls enough to test Klancy’s since Orly bought the bar.  I had added a note of my own to Angel’s letter, a summary of what I had done, what I knew, what I suspected.  It was a short note.  If I croaked, the police would know just enough to open a file they would never close.  With any luck, my name would become as legendary as Claude Pergot’s or the Capetown diamond.

            Veronica returned, a grim smile holding her face together.  She perched on her stool and folded her hands in her lap, hiding her ravaged thumbs.  She reminded me of a patient who had been told she had terminal cancer.  Who had the guts to skip down the long walk like a child meeting her mother?  Fear may be a great motivator, but it’s also a great deterrent.  Some people become so afraid they never leave their houses.  Veronica wore a face of fear.

            “I’m not familiar with danger,” Veronica said slowly.  “I’ve lived a pretty sheltered life.”

            “That’s OK,” I said.  “No one’s going to fault you.”

            “It’s not that...yes, I guess I am scared.”  She tried to smile and failed.  “But I’m curious too.  I want to help...if there’s a way to stay in the background?”

            I liked people who watched out for themselves.  Such people saw consequences.  Such people were predictable and reasonable, and reasonable people could be persuaded to your point of view.  In a way, knowing Veronica was frightened made her more reliable.  She would do what I told her--so long as she was genuinely frightened.

            “You can help,” I said.  “And you won’t have to take the point.”

            Veronica grinned happily.  “Really?”  Who wouldn’t be happy being the second man?

            “Really.”

            Veronica hugged me.  She was warm, soft.  You notice a woman’s softness when you don’t hold one very often.  I wanted to hold onto her for a long time.  Her hair smelled of vanilla.

            “Hey!” Orly yelled as he returned.  “This ain’t no lovers’ lane.”

            Veronica pulled away.  “I’m going to help Ryerson find the diamonds!”

            Orly glanced at me.  Orly was easy to read.  He wanted me to take care of her.  My penchant for allowing bad things to happen to good people was legendary.

            “Gopher,” I said.  “She’s my leg man.”

            “Leg person,” Veronica corrected.

            “I’ll say!” Orly added.

            We laughed, a good laugh.  Orly, huge and friendly, laughed too loudly.  Veronica laughed easily.  I laughed hard for the first time in a year.

            “Where should we start?” Veronica asked after the laugh.

            “Where are the diamonds?”

            “Mystery Club?”

            “But I can’t afford dinner.”

            “I can,” she said quickly.  “Besides, you’ll work out the clues, and we’ll win a free meal.”

            “I’m not that lucky.”

            “I am.”  She beamed, completely pleased with herself.

            “OK,” I chuckled.  “Dinner at the club.”

            “It’s too early,” Orly said.  “How about another round?”

            “Set ‘em up,” I told Orly.  “We’ll toast my new partner.”

            Veronica blushed.  Color in a woman’s cheek is about the sexiest thing in the world.

            “She’s certainly the prettiest partner I’ve ever had,” I added.

            Orly set down fresh drinks.  I hoisted my mug to Veronica.  “To a woman who will probably turn out to be much more than I ever expected.”

            “Hear! Hear!” Orly offered.

            Veronica blushed and smiled.  Mixing business, pleasure, and a partner usually produced an explosive potion; I had avoided such entanglements in the past.  Gazing at Veronica, though, I felt this mixture might distill into ambrosia, the nectar of the gods.

*****

            The Mystery Club’s parking lot was full, a tribute to Angel Leshing, the Pergot diamonds, the Indianapolis News, and the human addiction to treasure hunts.  I squeezed the T-Bird between a BMW and a Lexus.  The bird looked like an orphan.  The hostess couldn’t seat us for an hour which was fine with Veronica.  She wanted to spook out the lounge, as if the diamonds had been sprinkled into the salted peanuts or glued to the tiny umbrellas served with the fruit drinks.  Given the dim lighting, no one would have noticed the diamonds buried beneath the stale nuts, but the umbrellas were popular items.  The service was slow.  Our drinks arrived accompanied by a muscle-bound waiter in a striped suit and black shirt who hulked over our table.

            “Mr. Pergot would like to see you in his office,” the waiter growled.

            That the gorilla could speak surprised me, but I wasn’t about to argue.  If Nelson wanted to stop me from guessing the solutions to his trite puzzles, it was OK with me.  We grabbed our drinks and followed the Brutus Domesticus into Nelson’s office.

            Nelson sported a black tuxedo, slicked hair, and bow tie.  He lounged behind his huge desk--an enactment of some nickel writer’s idea of a prohibition rum runner.  A gorgeous redhead in a white, satin dress reclined on the leather couch.  She smiled in a way that made me doubt she was Nelson’s wife.  For a moment, I half expected Nelson to call the redhead “Angel” and send her packing so the men could “chat”--lines stolen verbatim from an episode of the “Untouchables”.

            Veronica walked to the open, empty safe.  She peered inside as so many had peered before her and bit her thumb, poor thumb.  What did she see?  Opportunity?  The office was the only room in the mansion that hadn’t been renovated.  The office remained as Claude Pergot had left it, book shelves, green leather chairs, brown couch, open safe, microfilm reader.  The previous rug had been replaced; the blood stains couldn’t be removed.

            “I told you not to come back,” Nelson began.

            “I was hungry,” I answered.

            “There’s a Wendy’s half a mile east,” Nelson said.

            “I thought you’d treat me to another free meal.”

            Anger boiled up Nelson’s neck.  “I could give you ten guesses tonight and you’d never sniff the answer.”

            “Is he the one?” the red-head on the couch asked.

            “Shut up, Rhoda,” Nelson told her.

            I glanced at Rhoda who was major league pretty.  “Yeah, I won the free meal,” I told her.

            Rhoda smiled a damn gorgeous smile.  She was too much woman for Nelson.

            “Not tonight,” Nelson said.  “Go scrounge a meal out of the gutter where you belong.”

            “You’re scared,” Veronica interjected and walked toward the desk.  “Ryerson knows how to find the diamonds.”

            Nelson’s eyes narrowed.  Rhoda leaned forward.  “Diamonds” had piqued everyone’s ears.  They looked like German shepherds at attention.  I wanted Veronica to go mum, but she had Nelson on the run.

            “We’re going to find the diamonds.”  Veronica laughed.  “You can keep your silly restaurant.  We won’t care.”

            Nelson stood and glared at me.  “You know where the diamonds are?!”

            I shook my head.  “The little lady doesn’t have her facts straight.”

            “Sure I do,” Veronica said quickly.  “Angel told Ryerson everything.  He’s biding his time.  He can snatch the stones whenever he’s in the mood.”

            Rhoda stood.  “You know?” she asked breathlessly, all pretty, bouncy red hair.  Rhoda went to the high bidder, and diamonds outbid Nelson.

            “You sonofabitch!” Nelson yelled and rushed around the desk.  “Tell me where the diamonds are!”

            I glanced at Veronica.  She grinned happily, enjoying the fracas.  Why had she fueled the fire?

            “Can’t you tell when someone’s pulling your leg?” I asked Nelson.  “She’s jerking your chain.”  I chuckled.  “She’s done a pretty good job if you ask me.”

            Veronica looked at me, her face puzzled.

            Nelson stopped within reach.  He was shorter, stockier, but he looked soft, like the Pillsbury Dough Boy.  I watched Nelson’s hands.

            “The truth,” Nelson growled.

            “The truth is,” I answered.  “I couldn’t find my butt with both hands.”  I shifted my drink to my left hand.

            “Don’t you remember what you told me?” Veronica asked.  “You said...”

            Nelson swung without waiting to hear the rest.  Blocking his slow punch was easy.  Delivering my own seemed natural.  My right hand no longer packed the stopping power of my youth, but the punch was enough to knock Nelson on his butt.  Surprise suffused Nelson’s features.  I shook my hand.  Nelson’s face proved harder than I had expected.  Besides the spilled drink, my hand was the only casualty.

            Rhoda hurried across the room and fell to her knees by Nelson; she immediately examined her left knee for a run in her hose.  Rhoda was no Nancy Nurse.

            “Are you all right?” Rhoda asked Nelson.

            Nelson touched his nose; his hand came away bloody.

            “I’ll get you,” Nelson threatened.

            I wanted to laugh.  I was about to tell Nelson how ludicrous his Lilliputian threats sounded when the door opened and a petite, pale woman in black pants and white blouse slipped into the room.  Wearing glasses and having her frizzy hair pulled into a bushy ponytail, she was no thoroughbred like Rhoda.  In fact, she resembled a mouse from some Disney movie.  The newcomer regarded Nelson and Rhoda and smiled sardonically. She wasn’t surprised or upset.  She noted the tender scene and added the result to some secret tally.

            “Nelson,” the mouse said.

            “Marlyn,” Nelson began.  “What’re you doing here?”  Blood began to trickle out Nelson’s nose and across his lip.

            “What’s she doing here?”  Marlyn pointed to Rhoda.

            I didn’t want to referee a domestic squabble, so I sidled up to Veronica who appeared fascinated by the family drama.  I grabbed Veronica’s arm as the waiter-bouncer and his twin gorilla entered the room.

            “Get him!”  Nelson pointed at me.

            In the fight world, the battle isn’t always won by the fastest and strongest--but that’s the way to bet.  If I had been a betting man, I’d have laid my life savings on the gorillas.

            “Call the police,” I whispered to Veronica and shoved her toward the door.

            People rank the batter who strikes out swinging ahead of the batter who accepts a called third strike.  The result is exactly the same, but people award style points for effort.  In the best baseball tradition, I carried the fight to the gorillas.  My speed and strength surprised them--a little.

            I managed to punch each gorilla once before one of them pinned my arms to my sides.  The other buried his fist in my stomach, and I was glad I hadn’t eaten.  Letting my body go slack seemed natural, but it didn’t stop the bouncer from pounding me.  I thought he broke my jaw as pain exploded through my head.  A dozen more punches landed before the goon dropped me.  I curled up in a ball and tried to protect my head.  Someone kicked me in the back, and I gasped.  Even though the beating stopped, I couldn’t remain conscious for long.

            “Where’re the diamonds?” Nelson hissed in my ear.

            I shook my head and tensed for the next blow.  I hoped to slide into blissful unconsciousness.

            “STOP!” Veronica yelled.