The Daisy Ducks (22 page)

He paused to wipe his lip and sniff.

"Assuming this statue thing is bogus—why, I
wouldn't know—can you think of any object that could have been
taken from the village that would be worth a lot of money?"

He thought for a long time before answering.

"I can't think of any object, Doc. But I can
think of a substance, especially when I think of Cambodia."

"And?"

"Pure opium, in brick form. It's been cultivated
for centuries In Cambodia. They dry the resin into bricks, like hash,
and sell to smugglers who sneak it into Marseilles, where they turn
it into heroin."

"How much would a couple of bricks be worth?"
I asked.

"A lot." He sighed. "I couldn't name a
figure. But let me tell you: we saw a few poppy fields in Cambodia.
Those peasants need the bread—they still grow the stuff."

"From what you've said, I could believe that
Roantis is not an honest man. But having known him for about six
years, I have no reason to think this. Though I'm not about to let
him slide, if you know what I mean. Why do you think Liatis is
lying?"

"I'm not saying he is. Roantis was a good
soldier—that's why he was picked for team leader. We weren't paid
well for risking our necks, either. Therefore, he's got to be a
little honest. No crook would have taken it on. But I will say this:
special operations is hairy stuff. You've got to think on your feet.
Truth becomes a relative thing. The rule book goes out the window.
Follow? A lifetime of doing that stuff can make you say and do all
sorts of things most people wouldn't do. That's all I'm going to say
about it."

He stood up and offered his hand. Civil enough, but
the message was clear: the interview was ended. We shook hands. On
the way out, I made what must have appeared to be a strange request.

"Did you wear braces growing up?" I asked.

"You mean on my teeth? No."

"That's interesting. Your bite is perfect. May I
look at your teeth a second? Do you mind? It helps me in my
profession."

He complied. I had him bite down three times. Amazing
fit. "Good-bye, Bill. Thanks a lot for your time. I apologize if
I put you through any trauma. And listen: if you hear of the
whereabouts of Vilarde or Jusuelo, would you call me collect at the
number on this card? Thanks."

"Sure. What are you going to do now?"

"I guess I'll turn around and do a little
sightseeing on my way home to Boston. Might as well. I'll say hello
to Roantis for you."

I said good-bye to Sairy, who was knitting in the
living room, and left. It was not even one o'clock. I went back into
Robbinsville and ate at a fast-food joint. Over the coffee I had
myself a longish think. Royce's version of the village massacre was
interesting, and credible too. Royce seemed intelligent, sensitive,
and sincere. I should probably call up Roantis and give him hell for
sending me on a wild goose chase, even though I'd come down on my
own.

But I didn't. Because two things about Mr. Royce had
me thinking. One was the condition of his hands. I felt the right
hand as we shook good-bye. He had that horny ridge of callus running
along the side of it. Roantis still had his, but he was a martial
arts instructor. Even Kaunitz and Summers had lost theirs. Not Bill
Royce.

The second thing was a vague suspicion that began
gnawing at me as soon as the interview began. The sweat on Bill's
lip. The runny, itchy nose, and most especially the craving for sweet
soft drinks. The glance I got inside his mouth, and the damage to the
teeth and gums, confirmed my hunch. You can tell an awful lot about a
person by looking in his mouth. More than once, after doing minor
surgery on a high school student, I found myself having to make a
painful, but vital, phone call to the parents. But when you see those
symptoms, and the condition of the teeth, you know.

Bill Royce was a heroin addict.
 
 

15

I KNEW HOW I could find out where Bill Royce's farm
was without alerting him or anyone else. The Graham County Courthouse
was easy to find. It was just down the street from the Robbinsville
Police Department. The police department was simply a blue door on
the street. It appeared to be a one-room department. I suppose the
total police force was about three men. I went to the front desk of
the courthouse and asked where I could find the real estate
transactions for the past year. Since all real estate transactions
are a matter of public record, it is the duty of any county clerk's
office to show them to interested parties. In twenty minutes I was
sitting down in front of voluminous records detailing every sale and
title transfer in the county. It didn't take long. One William R.
Royce had purchased forty acres of bottomland from one Randall J.
Plemmons on September 22. Six months previous. The farm property,
complete with dwelling and two outbuildings ("herein described")
was in a valley seven miles northwest of town. I rode out there and
had a peek. I saw the place briefly from the highway. Most of the
farm was the wide valley, with a bottom that was ironing board flat.
That was extremely rare in these mountains. A stream zigzagged lazily
through the valley. That meant nice topsoil. All in all, a prize bit
of farmland. I didn't park the bike. I knew that Royce or his buddies
would spot it immediately, and I wanted him to think I really was
returning to Boston. I headed back to Asheville to trade in the bike,
if only temporarily.

I arrived in midafternoon, grabbed a phone book, and
located a big dealer at the edge of town specializing in recreational
vehicles. After an hour and a half of looking and haggling, I rented
a chassis-mounted camper on a GMC truck. It slept four and had a big
double bunk extending out in front, over the cab of the truck. It was
roomy but not too big. The dealer assured me it could go off the road
for short distances and was powerful enough to handle the mountain
grades. I gave him a week's rent, stowed the BMW in the back of his
garage, and repacked my gear in the camper. I kept the keys to the
bike. I stopped at a supermarket and stocked the camper with enough
food for four days. I bought rib-eye steaks, chicken, game hens, and
lamb chops, plus a few sackfuls of produce, spices, sauces, and other
things I knew would make my chow at least bearable during my short
recon visit. The grocery store was interesting. In place of the
kosher deli section, which was all but absent, there was a huge
counter display of tobacco in all its various guises—the most
popular, it seemed, being chewing tobacco and snuff. They had leaf
and they had plug. They had cable twist, too. They had wet and dry
snuff. The products had names like Days O Work, Cannon Ball, Red
Coon, Hound Dog, Brown's Mule, Taylor's Pride, Levi Garrett,
Beechnut, Big Duke, Workhorse, and so on. just for the hell of it, I
bought a little can of dry snuff—the kind you sniff up your nose,
as they all did in Concord in the days of the Revolutionary War. I
took the live sacks of food and supplies out to the camper and stowed
them all neatly in the paneled cupboards and little racks. The camper
reminded me of my sloop, the
Ella Hatton
.

The dealer had given me a little directory of nearby
campgrounds. I found one right by Robbinsville that was open year
round for RVs, called the owner, and reserved a spot. So back out I
went, this time lacking all the speed and maneuverability I'd had on
the previous trip, but taking my house on my back. Best of all, with
the camper rig I had a Carolina plate on the buck, so I fit right in
with all the other campers, hunters, and sightseers. My first stop
was at the campground, where Mr. Hardesty, the owner, showed me my
site. I backed into it, made sure the proper cords and connections
fit, paid Mr. Hardesty for two nights, and was told that the gate to
the grounds was never locked. I liked that. There were only two other
rigs in the entire campground that I could see. One of them, a big
motor home, was occupied by a retired couple. The other camper was
scarcely visible from my site. The campground was surrounded by hills
and thick woods. I told Mr. Hardesty that I was enjoying a three-day
vacation from the wife and kids. He nodded in sympathy. I
disconnected my power cords and water hose and rolled out of the
campground. Soon I was again on the tiny highway that bordered the
Royce farm. I passed it twice, deliberately not slowing down. There
seemed to be no convenient, inconspicuous place to park the rig, so I
went farther up the highway opposite the next farm. There I found a
wide, flat space off the road where I could leave it when I returned.
It wasn't perfect, but it would have to do.

I returned to the campground, hooked up my rig again,
and went outside to start a campfire. When it was going, I went
inside, popped two small potatoes into the oven, and made a drink. I
sat watching my small fire and thought. I realized that I was at the
turning point. I could still pack it in and go home. I could then
tell Roantis all I had learned from my little trip and my debt to him
would be retired, at least to my own satisfaction. On the other hand,
I was here now. I had arrived at my destination, discovered enough
about Bill Royce to sense that something wasn't right, and was now in
a position to perhaps find out something more specific and concrete.
Wouldn't I be a fool to quit now?

Yes.

But wouldn't I be a fool to continue, especially
alone and so far from friends?

Also, yes.

What conclusion can thus be drawn from these two
inferences, Dr. Adams?

"I'm a fool," I said out loud to myself.

Well, that was hardly news.

But one thing I should definitely do: call Roantis,
now. I secured the fire by putting big rocks around it and walked
back to the campground office, where the pay phone was. I found him
at home, of all places. Surprise, surprise. Roantis had definitely
turned over a new leaf.

"And you're already in Robbinsville? How'd you
do that?"

"Just kept pushing on."

"You move real fast. What's the name of the
campground again?"

I told him. Then I told him about my interview with
Bill Royce. I didn't mention that I'd showed Bill the photo of the
statue, but Royce's comments had me going. I had to ask Roantis a
question.

"Liatis, is there really a Siva, or is it a
cock-and-bull story you made up so I'd help you find Vilarde?"

"Why don't you believe me?"

"A lot of reasons. One: nobody else saw it, and
it was supposedly big and heavy. Two: a poor village wouldn't have a
gold statue, especially one depicting another religion. Now are you
going to level with me?"

"I have already. Siu Lok was a river pirate, and
that loot was his, not the village's. I think he was a selfish old
crook who gave us the loot just to spite the Reds. He knew the Khmer
Rouge would find his stash and use it to buy more guns. Nobody saw
the statue because Ken and I wanted it that way. Now listen Doc: sit
tight in that campground. Don't budge. Mike and I are starting down
there early tomorrow. We'll be there the next day. And watch out for
Royce, too. I don't like what I hear about him so far."

We hung up, and then I called Mary. It wasn't bad at
all. She missed me. I missed her. I explained that I was about to
head home, but not before Liatis came down to take over.

"Take over? That means he'll be in danger and
not you?"

"Absolutely. He's good at it and I'm not."

"You're not kidding."

"So when he gets down here to wrap things up,
I'll start home."

"Good. Let's do this: you call me tomorrow at
dinnertime and tell me when you're starting back and what your plans
are. And leave me the number of that campground. And goddamnit,
Charlie, don't do anything stupid."

"I'll use my best judgment."

"Don't. Your best judgment is inadequate. I
said: don't do anything stupid"

We said good-bye, and I left the little office and
walked back to my rig. The potatoes were nearly done. The fire was
low and beginning to make big coals. I mixed together equal amounts
of cottage cheese and sour cream in a small bowl. Then I added a
little grated Parmesan cheese, some chives, and crushed garlic. I
fried three bacon strips in a pan. Then I took the rib-eye steak from
the tiny icebox and put it on the wire grill I'd bought and placed it
on the fire. When it was done, I yanked it off fast and stuck it in
the oven on a plate. Then I crushed the bacon strips and put the
crumbs on a bowl of raw spinach and cut mushrooms. Into the rewarmed
bacon grease I mixed in sugar, white vinegar, a raw egg, and a
teaspoon of stone ground mustard. I heated and stirred this mixture
until it thickened, then poured the hot, German-style sweet-sour
dressing over the spinach and tossed it. I cut the potatoes open and
put butter and the cheese and sour cream mixture over them, then put
them on a warm plate with the steak. I wolfed it all down. It was a
sin, a Sodom and Gomorrah of the palate. To help wash it down, I had
a split of dry red and a whole bottle of sparkling mineral water.
Then I had a cup of strong coffee. To top everything off, I opened
the can of dry snuff I had bought at the grocery store. It was a
small cylindrical tin with a blue label on it showing a steam engine.
It read: "Railroad Mills Mild Scotch Snuff." Mild, huh? I
sniffed in a couple of doses and could feel my pulse go up. Talk
about substance abuse. I thought of all the old geezers, male and
female, up in the hills, who dipped snuff continually. The junkies in
the South Bronx had nothing on them.