Details, Details

It was a pretty useless waste of 20 minutes was what Harry Bunting thought. But Darlene wanted him to question Hopscotch, aka Sammy Martin. And she also correctly assumed he would have no log of the drive of the marine vet, Yankovich, from Las Vegas to The Zanzibar Club.

It was interesting that no one was fretting before when the random johns went missing. There were periphery investigations, of course, interviews, but never a concerted goal of any sort. Not that they were negligent, but that there was never any sure piece, any sure witnesses; in fact, there were no eyewitnesses. Just aimless horndogs that vanished. Even when the Nevada FBI briefly got involved over the disappearance of a tech executive out of L.A. It was just impossible work without witnesses or fingerprints. When all they ever had was security tape from within The Zanzibar Club and it never revealed the missing person ever having been there. What can a Sheriff’s Department do?

But now it was one of their own in Margot… by way of Corning, Nebraska. Now it was more personal. It inspired more thought, more detective work. And what Harry did conclude, it was that chronic lapses of Hopscotch’s limo service that might speak to more nefarious motives, so he went there.

“So, you say you didn’t drive the marine vet…” he paged in his notes, still unable to recall the name, “… Donald Yankovich? Or you did and you just don’t have it logged?”

“Well, sir, that sort of sounds like you’re saying, I’m coverin’ stuff up. Which I am not! Put that on the record.” He offered with a pointing index finger in the air for amplification. Harry wrinkled his forehead, what a zany thing to say.

“Hopscotch, this ain’t a court, and yes,” he held up his steno pad full of efficient notes, meaning not many, “Everything is going in my record. It’s my investigation, not a trial.” He looked a little sideways at Sammy, and again thought, what a truly silly thing to say. Unless one felt uncomfortable? Maybe a little guilty? Deny before an accusation is made, sort of thing.

“So, no, no Donald Yankovich, is what you’re saying. And no, you did not have a drop off of clients two nights ago at Big Sal’s place?”

“No, I didn’t say that. I did have one earlier in the day, three guys from Vegas, but never this one guy you’re talking about.”

“Hey, now. You made it sound like you had no fares to Zanzibar, now you did?”

“No, Detective, I did not have your guy as a fare. No one named Yankovich, Popovich, any vich!”

“Okay, so let me see your log for the three you brought, then.” Sammy “Hopscotch” Martin was blinking excessively and answering slowly… that was a thing, Harry remembered… a sign. He jotted in his notes, “blinks a lot, afraid to answer?” The universe was out of balance because Hopscotch decided he would try to be a little honest about something, so he could always come back to that minute truth, so he never felt criminal. Now, he had trouble keeping his thoughts straight. So, he reverted.

“Sorry. No log. Detective, you know I don’t have a call service, I’m the guy, and when I’m running, that stuff slips my mind. I’m in Vegas far more than I am in Pahrump.”

He and Darlene knew it would end exactly like this!

“You know, Hopscotch, pretty soon you’re gonna lose your limo license because you don’t play it right. I’m gonna ask the sheriff if she wants you cited. But for now, no more questions…” he was standing to go, and in some moment’s rage at never making progress on any of these missing persons cases, he decided to lay into the lazy limo driver. “But for Christ’s sake, you big dummy, log your damn fares. How the heck are we supposed to keep the peace when people don’t all do what they’re supposed to?”

Hopscotch was relieved all he had to do was apologize. Harry was pleased he wrote some good notes and could report to Darlene.

He was heading over to talk to Big Gal Sal again, causing him to slip into a surly disposition. Boy, howdy, did he love this part of a lousy day!

***************************

“Sheriff, I think this is a call you want to take?” Dispatch did not usually impose on Sheriff Coyle’s lunch – it was “My only moment of peace in each day”, as she said time and again.

“Carrie,” she held up her sandwich, “…you know me. If it ain’t the mayor’s home burnin’ down can you please take a message? I’ll be sure to call ‘em back by the end of the day.”

“I’m sending this one to you, Sheriff. He says he’s a friend of that guy that killed Margot over at the Burroughs place.” Carrie didn’t like calling it anything but “the Burroughs place” because Big Sal and the idea of selling your holiest of body parts for cash disgusted her.

Darlene Coyle hustled her chew, and set her sandwich down, wiping her mouth and hands, “Okay, Carrie, you done right, thanks.” She picked up the line, “Sheriff Coyle here, how can I help you?”

“Hello Sheriff. My name is Cliff Polite, long-E, spelled like polite. I’m a friend of Donnie Yankovich’s, and I’m going to be able to help you with this case.”

How interesting, thought Sheriff Coyle, “Well, sir, we can always use help in solving murders. And being we don’t have your friend in apprehension as yet, maybe it is a good idea we talk. Where are you calling from, sir?”

“I’m actually on 160 heading into Pahrump. I got two friends with me, also friends of Donnie’s.” This sounded ominous, like a subtle threat… but she was smart enough to let any criminal hang himself…

“That’s convenient. How long before you and your friends get here?”

“We’re probably 20 minutes out.”

“Okay, why you callin’? Is there something you and your partners are insinuating?” She instinctively thumbed the hammer on her weapon, and felt the weight of the Sig Sauer 226 as she softly lifted it out of the holster to feel how easy it still was to her. It was the things a gunman wanted familiarity with. Or a gunwoman!

“No ma’am. Not at all. Just calling so we can meet. You don’t know Donnie, and I thought it best we meet personally, so we can talk about the things we know…” Cliff thought a little about this next part for the source of the information would be hard to explain, “…and the things we’ve found out.” He deferred to the importance of tracking his friends down.

“Okay, you got my office in coordinates?”

“Yes ma’am, I do. We got two stops to make.” This had an unpleasant ring to it.

“Can I ask where your other stop is?” Even though she pretty well knew.

“A cathouse there; I’m pretty sure you’re familiar with it.” Cliff had to tread easily here, because, for the things he knew, the people who were conspirators he did not fully know, so insinuating by word or emotion would be a dreadful error. “The Zanzibar Club.”

“Yes sir, I know it. But I know all of ‘em. Since I’m the sheriff…” she figured, as premature as it might be, better safe than sorry, and she decided on the early lecture. “And I imagine you’re pretty upset about things, as much as you know of ‘em, so let’s agree to be your first stop. Sound good to you?”

“Yes, ma’am. Always our intent.”

“Our intent? What is your intent, Mr. Polite?”

“Take no offense Sheriff, I only meant we always were coming to see you first.” That still didn’t give her the comfort she sought… something about this series of events that felt more like a tornado than a sandstorm. Both might hurt, but one will sure-fire kill your ass. Yep, lecture it would be.

“Let me offer you some wisdom before your arrival to Pahrump, Mr. Polite, if I may, sir?”

“Yes ma’am, I’m all ears.”

“Listen, I don't make the laws, I enforce them. And all of the citizens of Pahrump get to benefit by my service. The whores and the proprietors that run the whorehouses all the same. We don’t even like using those names, out of respect for working girls. They’re worthy peoples. Citizens. And I look out for their wellbeing. And while you are a visitor to our home, I will lookout for yours as well. Are we understood?”

“Squared up, Sheriff, completely squared up.”

“You’re also military, Mr. Polite?” She could tell from the cliché response for ‘everything is in order’.

“Yes, Sheriff. Also my buddies riding with me.”

“Okay, now, in the interest of my being informed, what are your friends’ names, so we don’t waste time on introductions and family photos and shit?”

This sheriff had her radar on, and an alert and wary mind. Probably ex-military herself. “Sure. Arthur Manaya, the marines, and Johnny Decencies, Air Force flyer.”

“And you sir, what arm were you in?” Cliff knew she was not worried about family photos, but going to run their military records… maybe criminal records…

“Marines, ma’am. First Marines, Iraq, from ’05 through ’11. Donnie was my Lance Corporal. And Mark Denton and Lazlo Pentavo were both PFC.”

What the hell was this? Now there were five of them coming? She immediately started working in her mind where her patrolmen were… she might suddenly be needing them all.

“Uh, sir, you said there were only three of you. Now you say there are five? Do you want to clarify this for me, please?”

“Yes, ma’am. I was referring to the two marines that were with Lance Corporal Yankovich when they went for some fun two nights ago.”

“Wait a minute. It wasn’t just Donald Yankovich that came out to Pahrump?” She couldn’t believe she was saying this to the ex-marine, because this was almost precisely what she was saying, at least insinuating, to Detective Harry Bunting earlier… “One guy, Harry? Where are his friends? Guys like that travel to a chicken ranch with friends.”

“No ma’am. I’ll show you my texts. Mark Denton and Laz Pentavo both came with Donnie Yankovich. And we haven’t heard from any of them since they left Vegas except for Donnie. He sent me two weird texts the night before last, when they first came over. That’s why we’re here.”

Holy shit, they would have to be all kinds of ready, because there was no telling where this shit blows up.

This would change how she wanted to approach Big Sal.

*********************

“I read you Sheriff. What you got?”

“Are you to Big Sal’s place yet?”

“Just drivin’ up, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, good! Turn right around… In fact, take a flash drive by their front windows. Let ‘em see ya, but don’t stop. Not now.”

“What’s up, Darlene?”

“Something very interesting, Detective Bunting…” she was giving him a lesson, and he knew it… while on coms in the Sheriff’s business, it ain’t ever first names. They might well be friends, they throw darts and hatchets and even go shooting together, but in the course of office business, it’s all business.

“Okay, Sheriff. 10-4. But ya wanna tell me what it is?”

“Yea! Our suspect’s friends are here from Vegas, just coming into town. We’ll be meeting with them in 15-20 minutes, so you wanna get over here.”

“His friends? So, you were kinda right, then.”

“I guess so, sort of. These hombres are comin’ over from Vegas. But why I called you off Sally’s butt? Our suspect, Yankovich, had two friends with him the night he shot…” he caught herself, “… allegedly shot Margot.”

Harry Bunting was excited, thrilled as a child, his boss-lady sheriff called this down to a tee. “You were exactly right, Dar… uh, Sheriff! That’s excellent.”

“We’ll see how excellent. His buddies are coming to prove Mr. Yankovich is not our murderer. And in fact, there is pretty good guessin’ they have an idea that there’s more than just Margot dead. That’s why I need you back here.”

*************************

Cliff had just pocketed his cellphone and frowned, looking out at the rugged terrain.

“What’d she say?”

“Not much. I think you heard most of it. She’s waiting for us. Probably calling some of her force in to be safe.” He had a critical thought right then… knowing appearances are everything. “Hey, stop up ahead… you see that big boulder, the couple Joshua trees?”

“You gotta piss?”

“No… we gotta stow our bags, the weapons. They’re gonna check our car, bet ya Artie’s dick.”

Art chimed in, ignoring the joke, they had seemed to have lost their sense of humor. “Did she say something?”

“No, just thinking, what would I do? Guys are coming into my town, I lecture them about law and order… they’re coming in because they think their friend’s been setup. And I am in charge of the peace.” He looked over his shoulder at Artie… Johnny pulled off the road.

Just then Cliff’s cell whooshed, and in his anxiousness, hoping it was one of the guys, he quickly pulled his phone… and there was no message. He looked curiously, and lit the phone up to confirm… but no message. Johnny and Art were out, heading for the trunk and Cliff turned to exit, hearing that second whoosh, the reminder of receipt of a text.

Then he realized, and lifted the console lid between the seats. It was Johnny’s phone.

“It’s your phone Decencies!”

“What is it?”

Cliff was blinking, how do you say this?

“It’s Mark… he says, “Fucking our brains out. C'mon over and join in the fun!””

He looked through the back window, grinning. Johnny and Art had the same face, Johnny nodding.

“Jackpot!”