Raining mud. Kohl Clement had never actually seen it
rain mud, but he knew mud when he saw it and the brown blobs on the
windshield were so thick they almost kept him from missing the Now
Entering Texas sign.
Rolling down the windows despite the downpour, the fresh
air massaged him, tingled his scalp, and for a second he felt better.
Worthy. Then his mobile rang. He looked at the number. Damn.
He answered: “I told you I’m out.”
“You don’t want to write for UVN anymore? Just like
that?”
He could hear the others: Marty. Lou. That young guy who
never slept. He could see them all doing the read through of this week’s
episode at the conference table, takeout from Feng Long and as much
coffee as it took to get truly worked up about a TV leprechaun.
Kohl glanced at his watch; not for the time but to see
if he’d remembered to take it with him when he fled. It was one of the
few nice things left in his life. No more toys, not after doing a runner
from LA, his contract with UVN, his very existence until then. Not after
his habit caught up with him and kicked his daily paradise in the teeth.
The Auguste Reymond watch. The BMW 7-series. The little
Hatteras 50C fishing boat he’d only taken out twice. He knew he should
have sold these things, or at least downgraded them, to settle his tab
with the Dutchman. But he just couldn’t. At first he told himself he
needed these luxuries for work; a successful TV screenwriter needed to
appear successful, right?
But the truth was he liked his stuff. A lot. Besides,
hocking his stuff to help pay down the Dutchman’s tab would have been
an admission of loss; too much to bear. Just one more bet could have
pulled him out.
Now everything he owned and more wouldn’t satisfy his
debt with the Dutchman after USC’s shocking upset. This was the only
way out now. “And scene,” he said out loud.
“What?” Lou’s voice from the phone brought him
back to the here and now: “Kohl, we were only saying the buried
treasure episode was pulling extra-big numbers for My Favorite
Leprechaun. We just wanted some extra concepts. Is there something else
going on?”
“Not my problem anymore.”
“What? You know how many Hollywood hacks would switch
places with you?” But Kohl wasn’t hearing. They were rambling on
about Hollywood problems when he had bigger problems. Vegas problems.
Problems with a man they say once had a waiter’s privates cut off and
mailed to the sex museum in Amsterdam because the potato chips served
with his sandwich were too crunched up.
“So you’re really not coming in tomorrow? You’re
bugging out on your contract?” Kohl pressed the off button and opened
another beer. He looked into the rearview mirror at the black eye and
the blood-encrusted lips, the nose that would never be the same. In a
way, it felt good when the Dutchman’s men were working him over. At
least he was doing something; making a payment. He couldn’t have shown
up for work looking like this anyway. What would he tell everyone? They
would think he had a problem. They would be right.
As the mud rain turned back into dust, a shape appeared
at the roadside: an old man on his hands and knees--crawling in front of
the cactus, mesquite and sage brush. Kohl slowed, more voyeurism than
concern, pulling alongside. The old man stood slowly, brushing off his
knees.
“You all right old timer?” Kohl yelled through the
window. He was glad to see someone--anyone--with worse prospects than
his. It was the way things were supposed to be, wasn’t it? The old man
wore a cheap suit, shiny and patched. He hobbled to the car, his face
with a grin and eyes that stared at Kohl but didn’t seem to see him.
“If you’re going east I’ll give you a lift,”
Kohl said. With wide eyes, the old man fumbled with the BMW’s door
handle and fell onto the grey leather.
“What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”
Kohl said.
“Working.” He licked his lips. “You got any water?”
Kohl shook his head but handed him a beer from the warm
six-pack. The old man guzzled it--foam running from his toothless mouth.
“Boy howdy that’s good,” he said. “My Sweet Claire used to bring
me beer like this, but no more. Now she just looks out for me from up
above.”
“Sorry to hear that,” said Kohl, already bored with
the conversation and wishing he’d never stopped. “You going far?”
“There’s a gas station ‘bout 20 miles ahead--you
can drop me there--and I can buy you all the fancy beer you want!” he
said, voice rising. And with a holler he ripped off his hat and threw it
out the window. “Kid, you’re about to see me in the newspapers!”
“Oh yeah?” Kohl raised an eyebrow.
“You got that right. I been waiting all my life for
this.” A tumbleweed rolled under the car, where it was shredded and
blew out the back like poor man’s tickertape.
“Damn,” said Kohl. “I hope that didn’t scratch,”
pondering the sad fact that his car now represented most of his wealth.
“Mister, I could buy 100 fancy foreign cars after
today,” said the old man wringing his hands.
“What was it you said you did again?”
“I guess you could say I was a collector,” said the
old man. “Retired as of today. How about you, son?”
“I write sitcoms,” said Kohl.
The old man’s mouth went slack with amazement. “You
write for the television?”
“Sure do.” At least, Kohl thought, he could still be
successful to those who didn’t know him. “My Favorite Leprechaun.
Ever seen it?”
“We don’t have a television, but I tell you what--we’re
gonna buy a big shiny one now! Is yours a good program?”
“We’re on UVN--millions of viewers. I’m writing
one this week where O’Flannery--that’s this baker in town--has to
figure out a riddle to find some buried treasure.”
The old man grabbed Kohl’s shoulder with such force
and abruptness that the car swerved, weaving an “s” in the dust
behind them.
“Jesus, old man, what’s your problem?” Kohl
shrieked.
“Treasure!” spouted the old man. “That’s what I’m
trying to tell you.” Neither spoke for a second.
The old man leaned close to Kohl, conspirator-close. He
smelled like cigar smoke up close, sour and strong, when he whispered:
“I found it. I finally found it--after all of these years, after all
of the calluses and tears and people pokin’ fun--I finally found
General San Miguel’s buried silver.”
“Buried treasure.” said Kohl.
“Sure as I’m sittin’ here. Out in the old Gypsum
mine. Can you believe it? Big company mining right there and they never
suspected.” The man’s eyes shone with emotion.
“Congratulations,” said Kohl, applying Chap Stick.
He didn’t offer to share.
“I’m not telling nobody,” said the old man, “but
you don’t exactly look like you’re hurtin’ for money,” said the
old man. “Say, what happened to your face, son?”
“Accident.” Kohl wrinkled his forehead and
subconsciously placed a hand to his mouth. The wounds inside were salty
where his cheek had been jammed into his teeth. That was just the
Dutchman’s LA bunch. He shuddered thinking what his goons from Vegas
were like.
“Wait a minute,” said Kohl. “If you found all this
treasure, what were you doing on the side of the road?” The mud rain
had stopped. Cotton scraps from the fields swirled in the road like
tainted chunks of snow.
“Back there’s where the treasure is,” said the old
man, waving his hand.
Kohl concentrated on not easing up the accelerator
noticeably.
“Silver,” the old man continued. “Blocks of it
back from old Spanish Colonial Texas. Almost enough to fill up this big
old car--too much to carry on your person. It’s been 43 years this
month I’ve been looking and, wouldn’t you know, the day I finally
found it that old Jeep of mine up and died.”
Kohl said nothing.
“I’d like to keep this quiet like. I even hate to
tell Dale--that’s the car man at the gas station--that I found it.
Less people the better, and he’s got a big mouth I tell you. But I
gotta get that old rust bucket running so I can get the treasure home.
You know anything about cars?” The old man’s leg pumped up and down,
supersonic, his eyes scanning the scrubby plains around them.
“Where’d you say this gas station was?” Kohl
asked.
“Right there,” said the old man pointing a shaky
claw. “See that sign up there on the left?”
Sure enough, there it was. “I’ve got an idea,”
said Kohl.
Ten minutes later they had been to the service station
but agreed to say nothing to the sad-looking owner, Dale, and now drove
back toward where they’d met. The old man was tearing up a bag of
Ruffles, which Kohl declined with a grimace, and butchering the six pack
of Heineken Kohl had bought with his last few dollars.
Kohl slowed when they got there, turning on a previously
unnoticed dirt lane that wound down a hidden canyon toward a chain link
gate. An abandoned oil well, 50-feet tall, stood near what was once the
guard shack, its assortment of rusted metal pipe and tools littering the
ground like bones.
“I’ll go open the gate,” said the old man, jumping
out.
Kohl’s heart raced. He felt the sweat on his forehead,
a drop trickling down his spine. This could fix everything.
“I’ll make room in the trunk,” Kohl said. His legs
wobbled getting out of the car. This was a new low. Just like Vegas. No
going back now. The BMW’s trunk opened with a muted click and soft
hiss. He pushed aside a layer of manuscripts, golf shoes and car
cleaners before he found what he was looking for.
The old man had removed the lock and chain and was
opening the gate to the mine.
The gun felt good in Kohl’s hand as he checked the
chamber. He’d bought it for the Dutchman’s enforcers. Yes, a new
low. A new low but who would know? He scanned the horizon and saw
nothing but rusted fencing and machinery, the wind howling through pipes
and over the hard ground. His hands shook. How many shots would it take?
The old man was walking fast as he could--hobbling,
really--back towards the car when the shot exploded, echoing in the
distance and reverberating across the oil well’s iron. Kohl clutched
his chest, his $300 Zanella shirt becoming a restrictive paste, dark and
moist. Sliding to the ground, the sun now blinding, he caught a flash
from atop the oil well. Then nothing.
“Good shootin’, Claire,” the old man said as he
shuffled to the derrick to help his wife down from the metal ladder. “Once
again, you lookin’ out for me,” he said.
“Would you look at that fancy automobile?” she said.
“Fetch a pretty penny with Dale I reckon.”
“And this was the easiest one yet--started telling me
about treasure first!” said the old man wiping the sweat from his
brow.
“Well, you done real good at work today, Paw.”
Claire pecked him on the cheek and handed him back his hat. “Put him
with the rest. Then you can remember how to be a gentleman by fetching
me one of them beers.”
Copyright 2008 by William Dylan
Powell
William Dylan Powell is a
Houston-based mystery writer. A member of the Mystery Writers of
America, he was the recipient of the 2007 Robert L. Fish Memorial Award.
He's currently finishing a martial-arts action thriller called The
Formula. Powell is a black belt, a licensed bartender, a big fan of
piano jazz and quite possibly the world's worst golfer.
