Fool's Gold Read online

  Fool’s Gold

  A Reid Bennett Mystery

  Ted Wood

  For my son Ted, who taught Reid Bennett how to fight

  1

  It looked like your standard domestic argument. A large him holding a smaller her at arm's length by the hair, while she swore and kicked and swung at him. I was four hundred miles from home, pulling my car into the parking lot of a motel. But I'm still a policeman, so I stopped with my headlights focussed on them and got out, hissing for Sam, my German shepherd, to follow.

  There were about half a dozen men standing around them, mostly laughing, all dressed alike, rough heavy jackets and baseball caps. Miners, I figured, from the new gold mine twenty-five miles up the Trans-Canada Highway. And today was the thirtieth of the month. Payday. They were celebrating with a few drinks and some commercial female company that had driven into town for the occasion, probably in the recreational vehicle I could see at the end of the lot, which meant that this scuffle might not be a routine domestic. Anyway, I watched.

  She was shouting, "You lousy sonofabitch. Gimme my money," and writhing like a snake as she kicked and flailed at him. He was laughing. He probably laughed at most attempts to hurt him, right before he tore the arms and legs off whoever tried it. He was six-foot-three and had the square-as-a-door build of the lifelong manual worker. He looked and sounded mean.

  "That was my goddamn money, bitch. You think I'd spend fifty bucks for a piece of ass?" he roared. Not domestic, I decided, the world's oldest professional argument.

  I could see that the woman was thirtyish, slim, and blond. And she was spittingly, helplessly angry. When he let her go, I thought, he had better watch what she did with her feet. For the moment, though, he was in charge and he was enjoying himself. "You had a good time," he told her, and his circle all laughed. I guessed he was the camp bully. There's one on most sites and most men avoid trouble by Uncle Tomming him to death.

  He grinned at the woman. "You shoulda heard yourself. You was nearly outta your mind. How long's it been since you had a real man?"

  She flailed another useless hand at him and railed. "Real man? You limp-dick wimp." And that was when he hit her. Holding her aloft by her hair he slapped a cracking right hand across her face hard enough to make her body jump in the air, as if she had dropped to the end of a rope. Then he let go and she fell in a heap at his feet. He made a production of brushing his hands clean on his pant legs, looking down at her as if she was something he had just stepped in.

  She pulled herself up on one elbow, shocked and stunned, hardly able to move. I went and squatted down next to her, making sure I had a clear view of the big guy. There was blood in her mouth.

  The big man said, "You wan' her? Help yourself. On me." He laughed and one or two of the others laughed until I stood up and moved a step closer to him.

  "Sounds like you ripped her off," I said evenly.

  He stopped wiping his hands and looked at me, surprised, squinting through the beam of my headlights that lit up his big square face. "You her pimp?" he sneered.

  "No. I thought you were. Only guys ever slap whores around are pimps and queers/' I said. "Either way I could be right."

  He was as dumb as he was big. He roared and charged me, head down like a bull. I sidestepped and kicked his right foot behind his left ankle as he passed. It sent him sprawling, face first, full length, scraping his hands flat out on the gravel. Behind me a man said in French, "Hey, he's fighting Carl, let's get him." I told Sam "Speak" and he sprang into action, stiff legged, moving out, barking at the menace as I went sideways so the light wasn't blinding me as the other guy got up, wiping his hands again. The woman was flapping away on hands and knees like an injured sea gull.

  I watched the man, listening to Sam's working snarl behind me as he kept the others out of reach. Slowly the man reached behind him and I knew what was coming. He had a knife. "Bring that thing out and my dog'll have your balls," I warned him. "You wanna fight, forget the knife."

  "I don't need no knife to cut shit like you," he said. He was calm now, with the first move made. He came toward me more slowly, arms half circled out to grab me if I tried to sidestep.

  I didn't. Instead I dropped into a crouch and shot out a straight left that hit him square on the end of his nose, bursting it like a tomato. He howled and covered his face and I stepped in and sank a heavy right into his gut. He grunted but didn't fold and then grabbed me, both arms around me like a bear as he tried to sink his teeth into my face. I could hear his friends cheering above the metronomic barking of my dog and the sobbing breath of the woman who was standing up now, on the fringe of the tunnel of light, all of this in the moment before I head-smashed him on his damaged nose and scraped my boot down his shin and ground it into his instep. He was wearing work boots, but I hurt him enough that he yelled and let go. This time I made my fingers into a chisel and dug them two knuckles deep into his solar plexus. He collapsed writhing, and I spun to face the crowd. "Who's next?" I shouted in French. "Who feels lucky?"

  I wanted an encore about as badly as I wanted a case of herpes, but nothing discourages violence like the appearance of being crazy. I played it to the hilt, running toward them and shouting as they scattered in all directions, Sam snapping and barking at their heels.

  I watched them go, then went back to my car and got in, feeling dirtied as I always do after fights, wishing it could have been avoided. I pulled along to a parking spot against the motel wall, got out, and whistled for Sam. He came to me while I got my bag from the trunk and I fussed him and set him to "keep" the area around my car—that way nobody was going to prove how big and tough they were by taking a knife to my tires. Then I opened the rear window and put him inside the car to sleep. He's an outdoor dog and the overnight chill wouldn't bother him any.

  When I had Sam settled comfortably, I went around to the office. In the light from the little neon sign over the door I could see the woman bending over Carl as he sprawled on the gravel. I guessed she was getting her money back. I ignored her and went inside.

  There was a woman behind the desk, working on something that she slipped out of sight under the counter as I came in. She was a dish, by my standards, handsome rather than pretty, but her face was unlined and her hair was set in a mass of curls that God hadn't given her. She was around five-two, one-twenty-five, built on a scale that my father, who was a Brit, used to call "bonny." She was in her thirties, probably a year or two younger than me.

  "Hi," she said, and frowned. "What did you do to your head?" I reached up automatically and checked my forehead. It was wet with the other guy's blood.

  There were tissues on the counter top. I took a couple and wiped the blood off. "Sony about that. I ran into some kind of tribal rite in the parking lot. That better?"

  "Good," she said, frowning up again like a mother checking her boy's face for jam. "Yes, that's fine." She gestured to the door. "Another fight, was it? God! I hate paydays." I noticed a smear of color on her hand.

  "You smudged your burnt umber," I told her, and she looked down at her hands and blushed, then looked up, surprised.

  "You're not an artist?"

  I didn't look like one. I was wearing the combat jacket I brought home from Nam and a heavy plaid shirt and jeans. I figured I looked like the rest of the guys she saw. But maybe that's how artists look these days, I've never met any. "No. But I owned a paint box when I was a kid," I told her, and she grinned. She had a nice grin, showing white, even teeth.

  "Who was doing the brawling?" she asked, reaching for her box of check-in cards.

  "An oversized rounder by the name of Carl. He was slapping a woman around and I objected."

  "That bastard," she said passionately. "I hope you clobbered him." Then she gave a little laugh. "I guess you
must have, you're here, unhurt, no marks. Good. I'm glad."

  "It's nice to be needed," I said, just to keep the conversation perking along. I liked it a lot more than brawling in the parking lot.

  She smiled again. "You're needed, believe me. He pulls this same stunt every payday. He generally picks on little guys. The police must have taken him in half a dozen times, nothing does any good."

  There was no modest reply, so instead of shuffling my feet, I picked up the pen and started filling out one of her cards. Reid Bennett, Murphy's Harbour, Ontario. Company—I debated this one with myself. I'm still the police chief at the Harbour, but right now nobody needed to know. Finally I lied and wrote down "Prudential Assurance" and handed her the card.

  She read it and laughed. "You're the damndest piece of the Rock I ever saw."

  "It's a living." I tried to look sincere. The reason I was here was business, right enough, but not business I wanted known in the local pool hall. I figured insurance would cover me. Nobody would ask questions for fear of being sold a policy.

  "How long are you staying?" She had blue eyes the color of Wedgwood china, and I noticed that her hands were free of hardware. Divorced, I guessed. No way a woman this attractive would have stayed single for thirty-odd years in what had been a logging town until somebody found gold just up the highway.

  "I'm not sure, a couple or three days anyway. You got lots of space?"

  "No," she said honestly, reaching for a key. "Since the gold strike at Chaudiere we've been crazy. Prospectors, chopper pilots, then the construction people setting up the new mine. These are boom times in Olympia. You're lucky we've got a room tonight, the Darvon people just phoned from the mine and cancelled their reservation." She waved the hand with the key in it. "They keep one all the time."

  "My lucky night." I took the key. "Is the dining room still open?"

  She nodded. "Be advised, have the lake trout, it's the only thing the chef can handle."

  I raised the key in salute. "Thanks for the friendly advice and good luck with the artwork." I went off down the corridor between yellow-painted walls of concrete block, more cheerful than I had been since my ex-wife came to me for help. Maybe things would turn out well. Maybe I could go home in a week with the news that the police had been wrong, the body they had found in the bush with its head gnawed away by bears hadn't belonged to Jim Prudhomme, the husband of her old college roomie. I hoped so.

  The room was down the end of the corridor and on the way I passed half a dozen open doors. Men, mostly in their shorts, were drinking and laughing and hoping that Miss America would wander by and fall in love with them and force her attentions upon them. It's crazy, but living in a bunkhouse will do that for a man.

  The room was as I'd expected, walls of the same painted concrete block, two beds, a TV that drew its pictures from a dish receiver they had on the roof. Great. If Miss America didn't show, I could always watch "Gilligan's Island."

  I freshened up and put on a sweater instead of my combat jacket and walked out across the lot to the two-story building all the rock music was pouring out of.

  I looked around me as I went into the lot, but there was nobody there. Carl's friends must have taken him home to the mine site. Good. I was over quota for fights. I went to the car and spoke to Sam, who was curled in the backseat. "Good boy," I told him. "I'll bring you a burger on my way back."

  The restaurant was built from the same block as the main building. Downstairs was the bar, filled to the walls with miners and construction men with a few, a very few women. Upstairs was dimmer and quieter—the dining room. I went up and checked. It was typical for this end of the world. The walls were covered with oil paintings one step above paint-by-number. I hoped the woman at the front desk hadn't been responsible, I'd been ready to admire her. There was a stuffed lake trout over the bar and a moose head on the wall by the door. Some wag had put a cigarette in its mouth.

  Most of the tables were filled with men, dinner over, sitting with drinks in front of them. I judged them to be the upper echelon at the mine site—foremen, supervisors, the occasional engineer, people who didn't want to get into the buddy-buddy drinking of downstairs, even if they liked hard rock played at two thousand decibels. One table was empty so I took it.

  After a minute or so the waiter came over. He was a big slow kid who looked as if somebody had told him a joke at lunchtime and he had just seen the punch line. "How're ya tonight, want something from the bar before you order?" There, hospitable as well.

  I ordered a Classic and was looking at the menu when the door opened. I glanced up, wondering if it was friend Carl with his knife, looking for me. But instead it was a woman, the blonde from the parking lot, I guessed. She answered as much of the description as I'd picked up in the headlight's beam and one side of her face was swollen. She looked around and came straight for me. I wondered how the Prudential people would feel if they could see me now.

  She had some seniority, but her figure was taut and good and she knew everything there is to know about makeup. Every guy in the room was watching her, and me. Her with admiration, me with envy. She was wearing a bright green velvet dress, high at the knee and low at the neckline. Someone must have told her it pays to advertise.

  It was a nuisance. I just wanted to be invisible while I talked to people about Jim Prudhomme's death. If she was going to pull the My Hero stunt I'd be remembered for the rest of my stay. And I guessed she was capable of it. Hookers may not have hearts of gold, but they have tongues of brass. She would let the world know I was Sir Galahad.

  When it was obvious I was the target I started to stand up, but she held out her hand, palm downward. "Don't," she commanded. "You already stood up for me when it counted." She wasn't joking. I had myself a fan. I pulled out the other chair for her. "Care to join me?"

  She said, "I'd be delighted," as graciously as Nancy Reagan. I sat and looked at her, wondering what to say. I settled on, "Are you hurt?" She didn't seem to be. She was a touch puffy around the cheek where he'd cracked her, but she wasn't carrying her head in the whiplashed way I'd expected.

  She shook her head. "No. Thanks to you. I think he was going to kill me."

  "Probably not," I minimized. But she didn't agree.

  "Guys never get rough, not normal guys anyway, unless they have trouble getting it on." So there was the reason Carl had hit her so hard. Now two of us knew his secret.

  The waiter came back and set down my beer. He looked at the woman, then at me, then grinned as if someone had shown him dirty pictures. "Would you like something?" I asked the woman. She thought about it for a moment, then nodded.

  "Yeah, please, a Coke, just to be sociable."

  "You want rum with that?" the waiter asked. It was, after all, payday.

  She shook her head. "Just plain old Coke." He grinned again and left.

  I poured myself a little beer but didn't drink. She looked at me and then reached in her purse for cigarettes, Roth-man's. She picked up the candle off the table and lit it. "I came looking to thank you for what you did," she said.

  "It was for me, more than you. I don't like bullies." In this room it was hard to remember why I had tackled Carl. I had done exactly the same thing once before, in Saigon. It had been a much harder fight against a much better-trained man. Only that time I had ended up with the girl for the night. That wasn't on my agenda this time. I'm not nineteen anymore. I can go for hours at a time without the kind of first aid she dispensed from her Winnebago.

  She drew a long pull off her cigarette, then took it in her left hand and stuck out her right. "I'd like to shake your hand," she said, and before I could move she added, "unless you're the kind of guy who doesn't like to touch women like me."

  I shook her hand. It was cool and dry and the shake she gave me was firm and confident. I figured she could handle most trouble on her own. "Reid Bennett," I told her.

  "Eleanor." She let go of my hand and sat looking at me while the kid brought the Coke and put it in front of
her. I lifted the beer to her and sipped. She lifted her own glass. "Happy times."

  I wondered what she would do next. If she felt dramatic she would go on talking about the fight—and I didn't need it.

  "You're good with your hands," she said suddenly. I shrugged, but she dismissed the gesture with a wave. "No, don't screw around. You took out a guy who's taller than you, got a longer reach, weighs maybe forty pounds more than you do. I thought you were beautiful to watch."

  "Thank you." I owed her no explanation, but sometimes guilt gnaws at me when I find myself using tricks that were taught me in the marines against people who don't want to kill me, just stomp me a little to be sociable. I told her, "The thing is, I was trained by experts. It was a while ago, but I haven't forgotten."

  She took a long pull at her cigarette and then breathed the smoke out through her nostrils, something you don't see often since the surgeon general started telling fortunes on the back of cigarette packs. "I figure you for a veteran, only you're too young."

  I said nothing and she did her smoke trick again and then put the cigarette down and snapped her fingers. "You're American, of course. Viet Nam."

  "I was in Nam, but I'm not American." It's a story I've explained enough times now. About twenty thousand of us went south to the States looking for excitement at the time the same number of their guys were coming north looking for a safe haven. I'm still not sure why I went, but I'm glad I was there.

  She stubbed out her cigarette and took a sip of her Coke. I noticed that she had tiny green sparkles on her eyelids. She was loaded for bear on a night when the entire town was loaded for her. "You did me a favor," she said at last. "I owe you."

  I said nothing and her face crinkled into a smile—a warm human grin, not a working grimace. "Bashful?" she asked innocently.

  "Not exactly. I'm just trying to think of a polite way to say no, you don't owe me a thing."

  "You figured I was going to invite you out into my magic trick truck?" she said, and grinned again.