Skorpio (9 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

"
The Sun Courier
"

AZUMA CURSE?

By Don Mulaney, Creighton Sun Courier

The CU Anthropology Dept. broke out the champagne bottles this Summer when it was announced that Arizona Rancher Jepson Hayes, of Cross Creek, Arizona, had chosen them as the recipient of an uncatalogued collection of Native American artifacts. Mr. Hayes' family had known of the collection for two hundred years and had deliberately kept it secret to protect it.

Mr. Hayes said that he had chosen CU not only because his granddaughter had played on the varsity basketball team, but because he had seen a National Geographic article about CU Professor of Anthropology Vaughan Beadles, who has been conducting research on the Azuma.

Now Beadles stands accused of stealing priceless artifacts from the collection and of being party to the death of undergraduate Robert Whitfield of Waukegan. Whitfield was bitten by a scorpion last Saturday. The scorpion was alleged to have arrived as part of the Azuma Collection. The collection is kept under lock and key in Merrill Hall. Professor Beadles broke university rules in admitting Whitfield to see the collection before it had been examined by a panel of experts.

Mr. Hayes told the Sun Courier that there have been other deaths associated with the Azuma over the years, which have contributed to his desire to donate the collection. In 1889 Mr. Hayes' ancestor Prudence Wipperfurth, whose sister Joan married Nathaniel Hayes, picked up one of the pots and was bitten by a rattlesnake. She died two days later.

"We considered the collection bad news," Hayes told the Sun Courier. "Some of the Indian folks we knew said it had belonged to a bad tribe and they prayed the tribe would never return."

It was Professor Beadles who gave the Azuma their name, based on petroglyphs he found in the Sonoran Desert. Professor Beadles declined to be interviewed for this article.

***

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

"Beadles Resigns"

He turned in his letter of resignation Friday morning. It wasn't just the alleged theft. It was the diversity claim and the porn on the hard drive. When he got home a process server handed him divorce papers.

You think you know someone. You marry them. And you find you didn't know them at all.

He spent the weekend putting things in storage and listing items on Craig's List, including the Mustang. Two of his students, Bob and Frank helped. On Monday the court released his hard drive and laptop. He spent the evening transferring data to flash drives and drinking. There was still a chance Dan Potts would help him.

If he could prove the Azuma were a distinct tribe, and more importantly find the center of their ancient civilization, it would be the greatest story since the moon landing.

He would break the Curse.

He had to know more. Much more. By this time his legal bills were fast approaching six digits. He'd been forced to hire a lawyer to defend himself from the Whitfield's wrongful death suit. It wouldn't matter if he won. By the time it was over he would be so deep in the hole it would take a miracle to dig out.

The Azuma were that miracle.

On Wednesday Panny phoned to tell him that the PI had tracked Cerveros to a PO Box in Durango. "Mr. Cerveros is not Navajo. It says Ute on his application form."

Beadles was shocked. Why would Cerveros lie to him? But was it a lie? Hadn't he in fact assumed the man was Navajo? The janitor obviously didn't think it worthwhile to correct Beadles' impression.

Maybe it was because the Indian had no respect for Beadles. Maybe it was because he regarded all white interest as patronizing. Wasn't it racist and condescending to even entertain such explanations?

"I also learned something about Liggett. I won't have time to pursue this further. I'm devoting all my resources to a missing dog starting tomorrow. I'd like to give you what I have in person."

They agreed to meet at La Luz.

A dozen choppers lined the curb out front. Los Negativos, a Mexican biker gang, had taken over the back patio so Beadles and Panny sat in a booth in the dim bar as Los Lobos wailed on the juke.

Panny's bill came to 1256.75 including expenses. Beadles wrote him a check. He now had a balance of 200 in his checking account.

"I found out something about Professor Liggett," Panny said craning his neck. No one paid them any attention.

Beadles' face spoke for him. Panny reached into his jacket pocket and slid a folded sheet of white paper across the tabletop. Beadles opened it up. It was a black and white photo of what at first glance appeared to be a Nazi SS party, with a half dozen improbably young looking Nazis goose-stepping around a beer hall. The uniforms were comically exaggerated like something in a Mel Brooks movie.

"What is this?"

"Liggett attended the University of Wisconsin and was a member of the Tau Ceti Fraternity. This is a photograph of their end of semester party, May, 1990." The PI's finger fell on a plump young Nazi throwing a seig heil. "This is young Herr Professor."

A phosophorescent light ignited in Beadles' chest. "Holy shit. Where did you get this?"

"I have friends in Madison. I don't know how he obtained the photograph. He scanned it and sent it to me. I also sent a copy to your email. You may keep that."

There were no identifying marks on the photo but the figure was unmistakeably Liggett. But what could he do with it, really? Anything he did now would be perceived as sour grapes. His brand had been tarnished. Even were he to convince the university that the photo was genuine the most he could hope for was a forced resignation but Liggett had become so important to the university they would probably brush it over as a childish prank. Which it was.

When Beadles thought back on his own college career he cringed at the shit he'd pulled. That pot bust was just the tip of the iceberg. He was in no position to throw stones. He refolded the paper and slid it into his pocket.

"Thanks, Rolf. Good luck on your new hunt."

***

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Courtesy Call"

Potts agreed to see Beadles Thursday afternoon at his home in Evanston. Beadles had a buyer for the Mustang but had to hold off until the following week because he needed transportation. He was already downsizing in his mind. The court had granted Betty primary custody of Lars. His phone calls were not returned.

Three p.m. on a bright June, Beadles drove the Mustang between the stone pillars marking the Potts residence, a Taliesen design made of fieldstone and shingles shielded from the street by a stone wall and a line of poplars. He parked his car in the brick turn-around. Potts came out of a glass door to the right of the main entrance and waited for Beadles to follow him into a home office. Potts shut the door behind them. A window was open admitting a cool breeze. Potts sat in a leather chair and motioned Beadles to a sofa.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Got any Coke?"

Potts got up, opened a refrigerator in one corner and pulled out two cans of Coke. He handed one to Beadles and sat. They popped their cans. It was the loudest thing in the room.

"Thanks for seeing me, Mr. Potts."

"What can I do for you, Beadles?"

"I didn't steal that artifact. I was framed."

Potts just looked at him.

"Who would do such a thing and why?"

"I don't want to speculate. I have an idea but I'm going to keep it to myself until I have proof."

"Good luck."

Potts' manner had obviously cooled. He was being courteous, nothing more.

"Mr. Potts, your son was right. The Azuma were real. I know they're out there. I am going to prove it."

"While proving you were framed?"

Beadles colored and he sat back. "This is outrageous. The university forced me out on the most specious of grounds."

"Then why aren't you fighting back? I've spoken to several members of the faculty who told me some things about you. Things that don't go with the whole academic image."

Beadles couldn't defend himself without looking guilty as hell. He saw his chances slipping away.

"Ronnie learned about the Azuma from the same obscure Spanish text I did. Did he ever say anything about a map?"

Potts' eyes narrowed and he looked up. "He did mention a map."

Beadles' heart quickened. The diary spoke of a map but the expedition's fate was unknown. "Did he have any leads?"

"He said he spoke to an old guy--a WW I vet he encountered in some little town outside of Breckinridge, CO. The old guy was a member of the County Historical Society. Said they had a whole warehouse of stuff they'd bought off Indian scouts, prospectors and the like who spent their lives searching for gold in the Marble Canyon area--all over northern Arizona. The old guy--look who's talking--said they had a bunch of Spanish artifacts including manifests and maps but hadn't got around to sorting it all out. Ronnie was going to do that the following summer as part of his senior thesis."

"Did he have a name, or the name of the town?"

Potts heaved himself out of the chair and Beadles saw age pressing down on the old man. He went behind his cherrywood desk, opened a bottom drawer and pulled out a binder filled with letters. He returned to his chair and opened the binder.

From where he sat Beadles saw that they were letters from his son. For a moment the old man got misty eyed and had to put a hand to his face. He shrugged it off and began going through the letters. Beadles waited in silence.

After a few minutes Potts held one much folded letter up. "Dear Dad: Great news! I ran into a WW I vet in Permission which is just west of Nederlander outside Boulder! Nederlander is where Chicago, Fleetwood Mac, and a whole bunch of great rock bands recorded.

"The old dude is a member of the Permission Historical Society. He's heard of a lost tribe and told me that the HS has a warehouse filled with old maps and manifests they'd been purchasing from desert rats since the nineteenth century! He invited me to come back next summer to help him sort through it."

Potts set the letter back in the folder and closed it.

"There you are. Permission."

"Mr. Potts, would you still be willing to underwrite my expedition?"

Potts stare icily. "I care about the University. It's reputation matters to me. Are you planning a protacted battle over your resignation? Are you planning to sue?"

"Never crossed my mind," Beadles lied.

"I'll tell you what I'll do. I will give you a one-time stipend of five thousand dollars if you'll use it to solve this mystery. Naturally if you come across evidence of what happened to Ronnie and Curt, that's another story."

"Thank you, sir."

Potts got up and retrieved his check book from the desk.

***

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

"Leaving Las Vegas"

Summer knew Vince was goint to hit her when she saw the little vein popping over his narrow hillbilly eyes.

"You fucking whore," he said and smacked her hard with the back of his hand. She stumbled but she didn't go down.

"I wasn't coming on to him! He was just another drunk!"

"Is that why you let him stuff his hand up your pussy?"

"He was giving me a twenty, Vince!"

Vince grabbed her hard by her slim but muscular bicep and twisted her around, shoving her into the hot little bedroom of the hot little apartment they rented in North Vegas not far from the Speedway. You couldn't fight Vince. He was a force of nature. He shoved her down on the unmade bed, ripped off her shirt, shorts, and panties and stuffed himself into her like she was some kind of appliance. Summer gritted her teeth and turned away. Vince put his hand on her face to wipe her out, to depersonalize her, so he didn't have to look at her.

After five minutes of grunting he couldn't come so he pulled out, flipped her over like a pancake and reached for the vaseline in the bedside table drawer. He fucked her up the ass until he came, stiffening like a garden hose, then collapsed with his full 230 lbs. on her. Biting her lip to keep from crying Summer crawled out from under him onto the floor where she panted on hands and knees. Vince's hand shot out and grabbed her by her long straight black hair.

"Bring me a fucking rum and coke. I'll give you a boost."

Summer got to her feet and went into the bathroom. She turned on the shower.

"RUM AND COKE, YOU FUCKING WHORE!" Vince bellowed.

Wrapping herself in an old Lakers jacket Summer went into the kitchenette. She looked out the window at the parking lot filled with used and broken-down vehicles. The dealer cars were all hot --300s, Chargers and Camaros. Their homes were shit, their children lived away with their mothers without adequate medical care but the dealers had nice whips.

Summer opened the cabinet and took down the bottle of Ron Rico. She opened the refrigerator and took out the once-opened liter bottle of Coca-cola. She reached into Vince's leather jacket and took out a small plastic baggie filled with six black capsules. Rophynal.

She didn't want a bump from Vince. Ever again. She had had it. Ma Funderburk's little girl was a slow learner but she did learn. It was time to cut her losses and run.

Vince sold roofies to tourists down on Fremont St. Coke, speed, whatever you need. Back when they first met he'd treated her like a queen but little by little, as she got to know him, Vince revealed himself to be just another psychopathic asshole. He'd picked her up at Dante's when she was feeling particularly weak and vulnerable.

"A broad looks like you shouldn't have to beg," was his line. Picked her up, treated her to a decent meal, hosed her down and made her his woman. She'd done his coke and even tricked for him a few times. The money was good and she didn't have to trick if she didn't want to. Unless Vince made her.

Vince had a deal with Alex, the greasy pig who owned Dante's. Vince sold Alex the blow he used to control his girls. The deal was, Summer would dance for Alex but would only get her blow from Vince. And she didn't date customers. Unless Vince said so.

Summer mixed two rufies into the rum and coke and hoped it would be enough. She didn't want to kill the guy. She took it into the bedroom where Vince lay on his back, his left arm inked like a boa constrictor. He sat up, took the drink and downed half in one gulp. He opened the bedside table and took out an amber vial and a small mirror. The mirror's surface was smeared. He dumped a mound of white powder on the mirror and began to chop it up with a knife. He divied it up into two lines and handed Summer a cut soda straw.

"I can't Vince. We're outta rum and tequila. I need to make a run."

Vince leaned over the lines and did them both. "More for me."

"Can I take your car?"

All anger had left him. It was party time. He reached down to his jeans on the floor and pulled out the fob. "Don't crack it up."

He finished off his rum and coke. Would the rufies overcome the coke? He'd been up for thirty-six hours running from pawn shop to storage unit, convinced he could make a fortune because he was such a great trader. He watched
Pawn Stars
and
Storage Wars
frequently and loudly. He'd visited the Pawn Stars store and made a scene when they declined to meet his price on a Civil War era pistol he'd taken in trade from some addict.

"Oh man I gotta lie down," he said.

"I'll be right back," Summer said clutching the keys tightly. She was all packed. She had four hundred dollars she'd managed to keep hidden plus another eight hundred she'd taken from Vince's wallet. This was it. Adios you flaming asshole. She would run so far and so fast he'd never find her again.

He might not even report the car as stolen. He was already on cop radar for a bust last year in the Luxor parking lot. The lot attendant spotted him doing a deal and reported him to the LVPD who swooped down and caught him with 200 hits of Oxycontin still in their pharmacy bottles. Vince side-stepped by turning in his source, an assistant pharmacist with a habit.

It was eleven p.m. Summer had come off her shift at nine. Shortly before quitting time Vince entered Dante's and saw the guy stuffing the twenty down her crotch while she played kissie-poo with the john. It was all an act. But Vince was crazy jealous.

She could only fuck the guys he chose and they were all unattractive because of his immense ego.

Well fuck that shit.

She was outta there.

She let herself quietly out of the apartment. From what she knew about rufies he would be out for at least twelve hours. Maybe forever. Summer was not a vindictive woman but Vince had brought it on himself.

She went down the stairs, out into the parking lot and beeped open the Camaro. It was a yellow and black LT 1 with over four hundred horsepower and a six speed transmission. Summer had learned to drive a stick back on the rez.

The engine snarled to life, she snicked into gear, chirped the tires and headed toward the Hoover Dam.

***