Nick slowed his car on the unpaved road as it led him to the back of a brick building where four Harley Davidson motorcycles and three worn pickup trucks sat in a dirt lot. He parked between a couple of the trucks, took his gun from his holster and placed it in the glove box.
He went up a set of brick steps where a large plaque on the wall said, “Loyal Order of the Moose.”
Nick approached the wooden door and knocked. Cobwebs hung from the overhang above him. The sound system inside was loud enough for The Allman Brothers Band to bleed through the door. Duane Allman was ripping his slide guitar during one of their live performances. Nick couldn’t recall the song. In Memory of Elizabeth Reed?
A sliding peephole opened and a pair of eyes examined him. It was late afternoon, but there was enough light to make Nick completely visible.
“I was hoping to speak with Sarge, if that was convenient for him.”
The peephole scraped closed and Nick waited.
A minute later the door opened. He stepped inside and held up his right arm, while his slinged arm stayed by his side. A scraggly middle-aged man with a “Hog Heaven” t-shirt patted him down, then nodded him in.
The place looked like an old cowboy bar you’d see in the movies. Round wooden tables were spread unevenly across the uneven floor. A long bar took up the back wall with a ceiling-to-floor mirror behind it. A bartender wiped glasses with a brownish towel. There were a dozen men wearing jeans and a variety of tee and flannel shirts. The two men playing pool stopped to stare at Nick. As a matter of fact, every eye in the place was now on him. The Allman Brothers were still cooking on the jukebox, but nothing else in the room made a sound.
Nick found Sarge sitting at a round table playing poker with a few of the boys, his back against the wall. One by one the poker players dropped their hands on the table and slowly stood up, leaving the table for Nick.
Sarge had a big belly, a long beard and hair that hung well past his shoulders. He’d had a cigarette in his mouth and was shuffling the cards as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Nick wasn’t halfway to the table before the smell hit him and he realized the cigarette was marijuana.
“How’s it going, Sheriff?” Sarge said while flipping the cards between his stubby fingers with the skill only years of practice could provide.
“May I sit?” he asked.
Sarge put the deck of cards down, then took a huge drag on the joint and blew it out just above Nick’s head.
Nick worked hard to control himself. He took his seat across from the large man.
“What can I do for you, Sheriff?”
Nick looked around at the roomful of eyes taking in the scene, then looked back across the table.
“Sarge,” he said in a low voice. “I realize this is a private club, but I came here and showed you the ultimate respect. I asked for permission for a sit down. I allowed a pat down. I even asked permission for a seat.” Nick nodded to the joint in Sarge’s hand. “I think the least you could do is allow me the dignity of not smoking that in front of me.”
Sarge gave him a steely glare. He took a long drag, then blew the smoke out the side of his mouth. With a yellow-toothed smile he snuffed out the joint into a half-full metal ashtray.
Sarge lowered his head, then said, “I’m listening.”
Nick’s heart paced a little quicker than he’d hoped. Composure was a key when dealing with the Harley Mafia. They were mostly ex-soldiers, patriots who’d found a home transporting marijuana across the Arizona border and running a gambling racket. A bunch of misfits who would normally have trouble working in an office, but found the freedom of self employment.
Nick cleared his throat. “All the months I’ve been Sheriff I’ve never once paid you a visit or even spoken with anyone in your club.”
“What club would that be?” Sarge said with an antagonizing tone. “The order of the Moose?”
Nick rubbed his temple, then took a breath. “The reason I let it go is because it’s mostly harmless stuff in my world. I’m a big picture kind of guy. Marijuana should probably be legal. I don’t care about it. You book football, basketball … I don’t give a crap. Shit, I’ve been known to throw down a dime or two on a game myself.”
The bearded man sat still and waited.
“What I need to know is, what’s that sticker doing in the back window of your pickup truck?”
Sarge looked baffled. His eyes roamed in thought. “The only thing I got on my back window is an American Flag.”
Nick pointed his index finger. “Exactly. Why would you do something like that?”
Sarge’s face lightened up. He seemed amused now. “Because I’m a fucking patriot,” he bellowed, causing a few chuckles from men at the nearby tables.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” Nick said. “Because my next subject concerns your patriotism.”
Sarge leaned back in his chair and placed his chubby hands on his belly.
“I’ve spoken with Clark over at Nelson’s,” Nick said, “and he told me about a delivery of cigarettes which were stolen from a van outside of Payson about three months ago. It was an insignificant robbery as far as I was concerned. Cigarettes are bad for your health anyway.”
Sarge didn’t appear pleased about the subject.
Nick continued. “Someone with your connections would know who’d done this job. I mean, this is your turf. I can’t imagine someone would be allowed to work in your own backyard without permission.”
“Sheriff if you think-”
Nick held up his hand. “Please. Wait.”
Sarge glanced down at his joint, as if he considered lighting it up again.
“I’m sure you know there’s a terrorist cell in the area. These are people who hate patriots like yourself. I track these people for a living. Or at least I did. But now I’ve discovered a cabin here in Payson where they’ve been holding up and low and behold we discover a Turkish cigarette butt. The same brand cigarette which was stolen just a few weeks back. Sarge, if you really are a true patriot, then tell me where I can find the bastards who’re trying to kill Americans. People like Devon Grabowski, whose house was bombed by this group. Devon was in the Navy during the-”
“I knew Devon,” Sarge said, his jaw tense now as he leaned forward onto the table. “You’re certain the KSF killed the Grabowski’s?”
Nick nodded.
Sarge sat upright and began pulling on his scraggly beard while mulling things over. Nick understood Sarge wasn’t exactly a friend of the law, so this was a tough spot for him. He couldn’t afford to look as if he were assisting the authorities.
Nick leaned over and spoke in a whisper. “Should you feel the need to talk, I’ll instruct the dispatch at the sheriff’s office to put you through to my cell phone anytime, twenty-four hours a day.”
Nick pushed away from the table and stood. He raised his eyebrows and received a subtle nod in agreement.
As he walked to the door, Nick heard Sarge call him.
Nick turned.
“Tell your cousin Tommy to stop by and have a drink with me,” Sarge said. “On the house.”
Nick smiled. Was there a place on the planet where Tommy wasn’t welcome?
Nick stood on the front porch of the sheriff’s office staring through the stand of trees to the main road. He was there for five minutes before a car went by. A couple of minutes later a green Humvee slowly drove by, patrolling the area. Soldiers casually showed their assault rifles as they examined their surroundings. Payson was down to twenty-five percent occupancy.
A white van came speeding up the gravel entrance and stopped short in front of Nick. A large man with a blue cap and blue uniform hopped from the vehicle and pulled opened the back door. He yanked a giant cardboard box from the back of the truck and carried it toward Nick.
“Looking for Steven Gilpin,” he said, holding the box on his knee for a rest.
“Stevie,” Nick called through the open door.
A moment later Stevie came out and smiled. “Great,” he said, signing the invoice and grabbing the box. He hauled it up the steps into the open door and plopped it down on the vacant receptionist’s desk.
“What is it?” Nick asked, following him in.
“It’s a Keating 7600,” Stevie beamed like a proud parent. When Nick didn’t say anything Stevie looked at him and said, “It’s an analytical chemistry analyzer. Before you sent Semir down to the Phoenix Field Office, I took samples from his shoes and fingernails. I thought I might be able to find out where he’s been lately.”
Nick slapped him on the shoulder and said, “That’s why I asked for you Stevie. You’re always a step ahead of me.”
Stevie smiled, then began tearing open the cardboard box.
Nick returned to the porch and tried to clear his mind. The silence of the normally busy road gave him a creepy feeling. “What are you up to Barzani?”
“He’s making you crazy,” Matt said from behind him, stepping out onto the deck. “That’s what he’s doing.”
“He told me on the phone, ‘Arizona will be a very different place,’” Nick said. “Not Payson will be a very different place, not America will be a very different place. Arizona.”
“Maybe he wanted to spread you out so you don’t focus on just Payson.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe it’s a mistake.”
Nick turned to face Matt. “See, it’s my job to know that. To be able to read him and know the difference. But I’m coming up empty.”
“So, we do what we do best,” Matt reminded him. “Start with what we know.”
“And what do we know?” Nick said.
“We know Barzani is a bomb-loving fiend.”
“And he’s had six months to plant a bomb somewhere in Arizona,” Nick said. “If you were trying to create the most destruction, what would you bomb?”
“Palo Verde?” Matt asked.
“That’s what I was thinking,” Nick said. “A nuclear power plant. But with a group his size? What’s he got ten, twelve soldiers?”
“A Sun’s game?”
“Maybe,” Nick said. “I keep leaning toward a soft target. Something not so conspicuous.”
Nick’s phone chirped. He looked at the screen. “Hey Walt,” he said. “How’s L.A.?”
“I’m done here,” Walt said. “We had dogs sniffing everything but the pilot’s butt crack and there’s no Semtex to be found anywhere near LAX.”
“You sure about this?”
“Positive.”
Nick smiled. “Good, because I could really use some help.”
“I’m bringing a team over there with me,” Walt said.
“Hey, Matt and I are thinking Palo Verde might be a target. Can you get some-”
“Done,” Walt interrupted.
“Okay, good,” Nick said. “Why the change of heart?”
“Because I just got off the phone with the President and he told me to get my ass over to Payson and get you whatever help you need.”
“So maybe going over Ken’s head wasn’t such a bad move after all,” Nick said with a grin.
“As long as I stay out of D.C. I might have to run for sheriff of Payson.”
A roar of multiple engines began to grow in the distance. It sounded eerily incongruous with the serene setting around them. As the engines approached, a trio of men riding Harley Davidson motorcycles slowed and turned into the gravel drive of the sheriff’s office. A couple of American soldiers standing guard in the drive looked at Nick for instruction.
“What’s that?” Walt asked.
“I’ve got to go,” Nick said. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
He shut his phone and waved the group in. The soldiers spread apart to allow the approaching riders to make their way to Nick.
Nick nudged Matt. “Why don’t you head inside, check your emails.”
“You sure?”
“I’m sure.”
All three Harley riders shut off their engines and dismounted. The silence was palpable. They all wore jeans, tee shirts, bandannas and sunglasses. The rider in the middle pulled off a pair of riding gloves as he approached.
Nick stepped down from the porch.
“Sheriff,” the man said with a nod of reverence.
Nick nodded back.
“Sarge wanted you to know he appreciated your visit … I mean the way you handled yourself. He said to tell you he’s sorry he mistook your motive. It wasn’t until you were gone that he fully understood your intentions.”
Nick shrugged. “It’s understandable.”
The leader looked around before he spoke again. His wing men stood with their hands behind their backs.
“The fact is,” the leader said, “Sarge is as American as apple pie.”
“You’ll get no argument from me.”
This put a smile on the man’s face. “So, he wanted you to know the Harley Mafia had nothing to do with any cigarette heist you two had spoken about.”
Nick waited.
“But he did a little research and discovered a coincidence in his gambling books. A little while back, a local resident came by to pay up his debt. This was someone who’d owed Sarge over three thousand dollars for most of the past two years. Sarge has a soft heart, so he let this guy run a tab longer than most. The guy’s a compulsive gambler and Sarge feels a little guilty taking his money, like he’s an enabler.”
Nick let that one go. What else would you call a bookie except an enabler?
“So,” the man continued, holding his gloves in both hands, “Sarge checked his dates correctly to be sure and discovered that the day this man paid off his debt was precisely one day after the cigarette robbery came down.”
Now the man smiled hard, as if he’d just offered Nick the key to the city.
“I see,” Nick said. “Has the man come back since then to place more bets?”
“Yes. He’s down over a thousand dollars already and six hundred of it is sitting on the books awaiting payment.”
Nick nodded. “That’s valuable,” he said. “Care to offer the man’s name?”
“Sarge told me to get a read on you, to decide whether you could be trusted to keep his name away from the connection.” He stared through his sunglasses at Nick as if he were trying to search Nick’s soul. After a few seconds, he said, “I trust you.”
“You should.”
The man began to put on his gloves. “Eddie Lister,” the man said. “They call him Fast Eddie. Mostly because he loses his shirt so quickly.”
Nick reached out and shook the man’s hand. “Tell Sarge America owes him.”
The man mounted his bike along with his two friends. As they sat back in their seats about to push the start button, the man smiled from behind the sunglasses and said, “I’ll have him put it on the tab.”