Ring of fire II (assiti shards) Page 53

  She shook her head. "There's another mixed-blessing character for you. By all accounts, Billie Jean is a crackerjack office manager-"

  "I thought those were a kind of cereal candy."

  "What is it with your sudden obsession with learning every bit of American slang in one sitting? But whatever skills Billie Jean has in an office, she's a dumb blonde in the rest of her life."

  Eddie was now eyeing Noelle's hair dubiously.

  "Fine," she snapped. "It's sort-of blonde. It's just an expression. Some of the world's champion dumb blondes are brunettes and redheads. Trust me on this one, for just a moment. Who else but a dumb blonde would ever get hooked up with a guy like Jay Barlow? You can't even credit her with being a gold-digger, since she brings in most of the gold."

  She raised the fingers of her left hand and began counting them off with the thumb and forefinger of her right hand, forgetting also her solemn vow not to draw attention to her fingers because they were too slender and nimble and, well, sorta elflike.

  "First, he's a loser. Second, he's a sleazebag. Third-"

  "I thought the term was sleazeball," Eddie complained.

  Noelle contemplated strangling him. Then, simultaneously concluded her hands were far too delicate for the task-Eddie was on the heavily-built side-and remembered her vow not to display them. Hurriedly, she put her hands back in her lap.

  "Third," she said forcefully, "he's thirteen years older than she is. Remembering my charitable Christian nature-"

  Eddie was looking more dubious by the minute.

  "-I will forego pointing out that his potbelly matches his age and then some. Fourth, he's lazy. Fifth-since after two months Bart Kubiak gave him the boot and told him to enjoy his piddly little share of the partnership back in Grantville where he'd be out of Bart's hair-he spends most of his waking hours lounging at the 250 Club, trying to pretend he's a tough biker even if the only part of 'biker' he has down pat is the boozing. Sixth-"

  She broke off suddenly, and stared at the wall. Nothing there to look at, just getting an idea.

  "What is it?" Eddie asked.

  She started scratching her chin again, forgetting her solemn vow to work on her memory so it wouldn't resemble Swiss cheese. Just what she needed, having people think she was as flighty as an elf.

  "I was just thinking, now that I think about it, that Jay Barlow is the mirror opposite of Buster Beasley. There's a guy who has 'tough biker' down pat every other way, except he finds most bikers pretty boring. So he doesn't hang out much at the 250 Club, true enough-but I'll bet he knows where all the bones are buried and whose skeleton is rattling which bike. He's honest, too. Well… allowing for a certain casual attitude toward mind-altering substances and stuff like that, but who cares? Those laws aren't in force anymore and even if they were you and I are working for the Treasury department, not the old DEA."

  "I am now completely lost," said Eddie.

  Noelle flashed him a grin, forgetting her solemn vow to suppress her quick way of smiling since she thought that was probably the silly way that elves smiled if elves existed which they didn't but too many damn people had heard of them and thought they probably did and she was suspect number one.

  "I'll introduce you." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "It's only eight. He's probably still at his storage rental place."

  She got up, grabbed her purse and shrugged into her coat, then headed for the door. Eddie followed. "If we're lucky, maybe his daughter Denise is there too. There's a real pip."

  Outside, Eddie asked: "What is a 'pip'?"

  Noelle did her best to explain, as they walked. She'd never realized before, just how hard it could be to explain a colloquial term like "a real pip." But, when she was done, Eddie nodded sagely.

  "Ah. Sort of an American elf."

  "There's no such thing as an elf," Noelle snapped.

  She thought his ensuing silence had a dubious flavor, too.

  "Forget Simmons," said Buster Beasley. With the booted foot he had planted on an overturned crate, he kept rocking back and forth on his chair. Given that it wasn't a rocking chair, just a beat-up old wooden kitchen chair, and given Buster's heft, Noelle wondered how much longer it would last.

  "Simmons is a clown," he continued. The light cast into the office of Buster's rental storage operation from a single naked light bulb in the ceiling threw his face into deep shadows, making him look more like a prophet than the middle-aged, long-haired, heavily-bearded and burly ex-biker that he was. If you ignored the muscular arms exposed by the cutaway denim jacket, anyway. Noelle was familiar with the lives of many of the saints and the Old Testament prophets, and she was quite sure not one of them had had a Born to Raise Hell tattoo on their shoulder, with or without a dagger through it.

  "He can manage to slice bread on his own, I suppose, but anything more complicated would stump him for sure. The only reason he got that job heading up the training program for the Department of Transportation was because his ex-wife Lorraine talked her twin sister Lauren into getting it for him, even though she'd dumped the bum years ago."

  Buster's fifteen-year-old daughter Denise was perched on an upended crate not far away, as was Eddie. Noelle had been given the one stool in the office to sit on. She'd have preferred a crate herself, actually, since the stool looked to be as rickety as the one and only chair in the office that was getting a workout from Buster.

  "I don't get it, Dad," Denise said. The girl's expression was one of intense curiosity, which seemed to fit her face quite nicely. She shook her head a little, causing her long dark hair to ripple. "I mean, sure, I like Lorraine. Who doesn't? But where'd she get the pull to land an ex-husband-not even the guy she's married to now-a job that good?"

  Denise didn't seem to think there was anything odd about her father calling another man a bum and clown. This, despite the fact that Buster's office furniture consisted of upside-down crates and stools, a cheap metal cabinet that looked like an antique except no antique shop would have bothered trying to restore anything that badly stained and covered with rust spots, and a desk-Noelle was still trying not to grin at the thing-that was actually the bed of a junkyard pickup truck that Buster must have cut out with a torch and provided with legs made out of parts from the frames of old motorcycles. He ran a welding business on the side and was quite good at it. Good enough, in fact, that if he'd concentrated on that business he could have become very prosperous. But Buster valued his free time a lot more than he did money.

  Noelle wasn't surprised by Denise's respect for her father, quite evident despite the relaxed and informal ease of their relationship. Buster Beasley, like Tom Stone, was one of those people who managed to live outside the normal boundaries of social custom without being considered a hopeless screwball. Screwball, maybe, hopeless-no. They were just too effective at managing their lives, each in their own way. In Buster's case, of course, the tattoos helped stifle vocal criticism, especially combined with the seventeen-inch biceps displayed by the cut-out jacket. Not to mention the scars.

  Despite her appearance, which she'd inherited from her mother-slender and very attractive, where Buster was neither-Denise was a chip off the old block. She was just a few weeks shy of her sixteenth birthday. Most girls her age would have been either egotistical or confused by her good looks, and the effect it had on boys. Denise was neither. She took it for granted, didn't seem to care in the least-she certainly didn't pick her girlfriends based on their looks-and God help the overeager high school boy who didn't take "no" seriously. Denise was the only girl Noelle knew who'd been hauled in front of the high-school vice-principal for punching a kid out. Fortunately, there weren't too many boys stupid enough to harass Buster Beasley's daughter.

  Buster gave his daughter a grin. "How many times have I told you not to underestimate networking skills?"

  Denise snorted. "Coming from you!"

  He shrugged. "I didn't say I was good at it, I just told you not to underestimate them. In this case, sure, Lorraine doesn't have
any direct clout worth talking about. But-"

  He held up his thumb. "Her twin sister Lauren owns and runs the town's best restaurant, along with her husband Calvin." He raised his forefinger alongside the thumb. "If there's a power-that-be in Grantville that doesn't hang out there, I don't know who it is." The middle finger came up to join them. "For sure and certain, Joe Stull-remember him? he's the secretary of Transportation-eats lunch there practically every day."

  Buster brought up the ring finger, somehow managing not to haul the little finger along with it. He was a very well-coordinated man, despite the graying beard and the muscle. "Moving right along, since Lauren and Calvin Tyler's daughter Rachel has all the sense when it comes to men that Lorraine doesn't, she married that Scot cavalryman Edward Graham, who-he ain't no dummy, either-immediately left the Swedish colors and wrangled himself a partnership in the restaurant with his new in-laws. And-"

  Finally, the little finger came up. "That damn Scotsman could charm a rattlesnake, which Joe Stull ain't-and Graham makes it a point to be the waiter any time a bigshot shows up."

  Denise was looking a little cross-eyed by now. For that matter, Noelle thought she might be herself.

  The fingers started closing back down, one at a time, gracefully despite their heft. "So Lorraine talked to Lauren and she talked to Graham and Graham put in a word with Joe Stull, and I guess Joe must have been having one of his rare off days because he agreed to hire the clown. And that's how it happened."

  Throughout, he hadn't varied in the slightest the metronome regularity of his chair-rocking. Now, he looked back to Noelle. "So, like I said, forget Simmons." He gestured with his thumb to the tattoo on his shoulder. "If Mickey had a tattoo, it'd read Born to be a Small-Time Loser. No, the people you want to start looking at are the Barclays."

  Noelle frowned. "Pete Barclay? The guy who works for Dave Marcantonio?"

  "Yup. Him and his wife Marina. She works there too, y'know." He finally ceased the chair-rocking and stood up. Then, picked up a big black flashlight perched on a shelf, one of those long, heavy Maglites favored by cops because they could double as a club in a pinch. Buster was holding it the way cops did, too, with the lamp cupped in his hand and the shaft perched on his shoulder, ready to swing forward if need be. So far as Noelle knew, Buster Beasley hadn't been in a brawl in years. But he'd been notorious for brawling in his younger years-if not for starting fights, certainly for ending them-and he clearly still had the ingrained habits.

  The big ex-biker headed for the door, not bothering to put on a coat to fend off the autumn chill outside. "Come on. Let me show you something."

  A minute later, they were staring into one of Buster's storage sheds. It was one of the big ones down by the end.

  "There is nothing in it," said Eddie, puzzled.

  "Not today, sure enough. But if you'd looked into it three mornings ago, you would have found it packed full. The Barclays showed up right when I opened, along with Allen and Neil O'Connor-I think most of the stuff belonged to them, actually, even though the Barclays are the ones who paid the rent-and cleaned it all out. They had three wagons for the purposes. Well-built wagons, driven by some down-timers I don't know. The guy who seemed to be in charge was a real dandy, dressed to the hilt. Fancy plumed hat, the whole works."

  Noelle hissed. "The O'Connors? But…"

  There seemed to be a thin smile on Buster's face. Between the beard and the darkness, though, it was hard to tell.

  "But they have a successful business here? I wouldn't be too sure of that, the way they go through money like it was water. I can tell you this much, for sure. Since the Barclays rented this shed six months ago, they've been steadily filling it up with mechanical equipment-smallish stuff, of course, no big machines-tools, blueprints, diagrams, you name it. I'm pretty sure some of it was swiped from Marcantonio's machine shop, although I couldn't swear to it."

  "Oh, wow," said Denise. "Dad, the fuckers are defecting."

  "That's my guess. Got no idea where to, though."

  Noelle's lips were tight. "You know, Buster, you could have maybe said something about this earlier."

  He swiveled to face her. Whatever smile might have been on his face was gone now. "Said something to who? The so-called 'authorities'? Meaning no offense, Ms. Murphy-"

  "It's Stull, now. I changed it."

  "Good for you," said Denise. "I kinda like your mother, but her ex-husband-the guy who was supposed to be your dad and wasn't-is a complete shithead."

  Clearly enough, whatever parental instruction Buster had felt it necessary to give his daughter had never included "proper language for a young lady." Noelle couldn't really fault Buster for that, though. He made a lot better father in everything essential than Francis Murphy had, she didn't doubt that in the least.

  "Yeah, good for you," echoed Buster. "Your real dad Dennis is an okay guy, in my book. But like I was saying, Ms. Stull, I mind my own business. I'm as likely to go to the cops as I am to eat tofu for breakfast. I got along with Dan Frost well enough, once him and me straightened out a few issues. But I've generally got as much use for cops as I do for cockroaches. Especially since, in this case, I can't see where they were doing anything illegal anyway except for maybe some petty theft from Dave's machine shop."

  He gave his daughter a stern look. "How is it 'defecting' when we're not at war with anybody any longer? People got a right to live wherever they want, you know-and take their property with them. You really oughta watch your language, young lady."

  Noelle barked a laugh. For his part, Eddie gave Buster a wary look.

  "We're not actually policemen," he said. "No powers of arrest. We're just investigators."

  Buster shrugged. "Like the guy said in that Muppet movie. Authorities is authorities."

  "He didn't say that," Denise protested. "He said-"

  "Do you want to help them?" demanded her father, gesturing with a thumb at Noelle and Eddie.

  "Yeah, sure. I don't care what you say, Dad. Those fuckers are defecting. Buncha traitors."

  "Then quit arguing with me about movie dialogue and get a move on." He turned back to Noelle and Eddie, smiling again. "If you want to catch them, you'd better plan on starting at dawn. They'll have three days' head start on you, wherever they're going."

  "You have no idea?"

  "Not a clue. Like I said-"

  "You mind your own business. I heard you." Noelle tried not to sound too snappish and testy. Despite his appearance, Buster was generally an easy-going sort of fellow. Still. Aggravating a large ex-biker on his own property in the middle of the night when he was carrying an eighteen-inch flashlight in his hand did not strike Noelle as falling into the category of "good idea."

  Eddie was scratching his head. "We'll need to alert the police, first. Then, we'll have to figure out which way they went."

  Denise grinned. "I'll find that out for you. Me and my bike. I'll get started as soon as it's light enough to see anything."

  "Ain't she a pip?" said her father, admiringly.

  Chapter 5. The Nature of Plans

  Near Grantville, State of Thuringia-Franconia

  "Fucking idiots, what they are," pronounced Denise. She finished the beer she'd ordered at Stephan Wurmbrand's roadside tavern just outside Grantville on the road to Rudolstadt and almost slammed the glass back on the bar. She glared around the room, as if defying any of its habituees to challenge either her use of language or her judgment of police chiefs and cavalry officers.

  No challenge came forth, except from Lannie Yost, perched on a nearby stool. Owlishly, he peered at her empty glass. "Ain't you a little young to be drinking that stuff?"

  Denise gaped at him. So did several of the other barflies in the place. In their case, because they were down-time Germans who thought the notion of anyone being under age to drink beer was silly-one of those up-time fetishes they'd thought must have died a natural death by now, three and a half years after the Ring of Fire. In Denise's case, because her father was Buster Beas
ley and she thought-so did Buster, actually-that she was practically abstemious when it came to substance abuse.

  She was also gaping because she was outraged, of course.

  "You! Lannie Yost, you're pie-eyed half the time! So-called test pilot. You got some nerve-"

  "Hey, Denise, take it easy! I wasn't trying to pick no fight."

  That wouldn't normally have done him any good at all, except he added hurriedly: "You got the right of it when it comes to Captain Knefler, that's for sure. Guy couldn't find his ass with both hands in broad daylight."

  "That jackass. I told him I found their trail, leading south from Rudolstadt. But, noooo. Mr. Military Genius insisted they must have used those rafts the one guy-the one in charge, whoever he is-bought in Jena."

  By now, the news had spread all over the area, including some of the details. "The rafts were gone," one of the down-timers pointed out. He was sitting with a friend at a table nearby.

  Denise sniffed. "Big deal. All the guy in charge-and I think he's got more brains in his little toe than Knefler does-had to do was hire a few men to pole the rafts downriver. There's day laborers hanging around all over the place, in Jena. Probably told them they needed to pick up something in Halle and take it down to Magdeburg. Off goes whichever idiot came in pursuit-his name's Knefler, did I mention that? It's spelled 'k-n' like in numbskull-while the guy with the brains keeps heading up the Saale valley. Hasn't it struck any of you geniuses yet that Mr.-Whoever is good at this? Why would he have been wearing such a flamboyant outfit just to buy some cargo rafts-if he hadn't been trying to draw attention to himself?"

  She was pretty proud of that deductive logic. Maybe she oughta become a detective when she grew up. Finished growing up. Which she was practically there. She'd bet Minnie would partner with her.