Twenty-Six

Arn stopped by Starbucks and grabbed coffee with three extra shots. He’d been up all night watching two different pastures, hoping to catch the Midnight Sheepherder after Wooly Hank called and gave him a heads-up. The Wool Growers Association had had an emergency meeting: although sheep hadn’t been stolen in the last two weeks, they were concerned that their money spent on a range detective was money down the toilet. They wanted someone prosecuted for the thefts, and they blamed Arn for not catching the rustler. And last night had been no different—he’d had no luck catching the thief, sitting listening to coyotes and seeing the occasional shooting star. He’d been alone with his thoughts surrounding Jillie’s murder. It showed him he was missing some things that had been right before him.

He made his rounds to local body shops on the list he’d made last night. He drove to other dealerships and independent repair shops looking for any evidence of someone bringing in a truck with fresh, unexplained damage. The sixth shop—the body shop connected to the Ford dealership—panned out. The shop manager, Roy Bechtholdt, emerged from under a new aluminum-bodied Ford Super Duty and wiped his hands on his trousers. “Dotty said you were looking for someone who might have brought in a truck with front end damage.” He waved his hand around the crowded shop that looked like a bone pile from the demolition derby. “We got us a bunch of wrecked trucks. Take your pick.”

Arn handed him a business card. Roy took his reading glasses from the top of his head and held the card to the light. “You’re that PI the TV station hired.”

Arn nodded. “I’m not sure just what kind of damage I’m looking for, but I know it might come across as front end damage about this color.” He unwrapped the envelope and showed Roy the paint chip.

“Pretty common-looking blue,” Roy said.

“Then what do you make of this.” Arn unwrapped the other tiny envelope with the marker or taillight lens he’d recovered from beside Wooly Hank’s gate.

Roy carefully took the slivers of plastic and held them to the light. “Ah,” he said knowingly. “It’s from a 1998 Dodge Ram truck with a Cummins diesel and a five-speed transmission.”

“You can tell that from that tiny piece?”

Roy laughed and handed it back. “Of course not. I’m just shittin’ you. There’s not enough to determine what the hell vehicle this came from.”

“Thanks,” Arn said. “Call me if anything unusual comes in.”

He’d started for the door when Roy stopped him. “Some cowboy came to the dealership last week wanting to trade in a truck.”

“Is that odd?”

“No.” Roy hitched up his jeans, which were falling a bit south. “The boss wanted me to check it out. See what kind of shape it was in for a trade. The frame was bent, the box catawampus. It had a hundred twenty thousand miles.”

“I still don’t follow you—”

“The truck was two years old and been in one too many scrapes,” Roy said. “Who the hell puts that many miles on a ranch truck? I told the boss it was junk, and he passed on offering a trade to the guy.”

“You have a name?”

“Roy.”

“I meant the guy with the truck.”

“Can’t help you there.”

“You recall what the guy looked like?”

Roy shrugged. “Looked like you or me. Well, he looked like you anyway—kinda plain.” When Arn didn’t laugh, Roy continued. “I mean the guy was like a dozen other fellers who come through the shop every day. He was just average height. Average looking. Sorry.”

Arn was half-way to his car when Roy called after him. “When the boss turned the guy down for a trade-in, the new kid in the shop—Brandin—said his brother might be interested in buying it outright. Brandin called his brother, and he made a deal over the phone.”

“What’s his brother’s name?” Arn asked as he grabbed his pen.

“Don’t know,” Roy answered. “Brandin will be back after lunch, and I’ll call you with the name.”

Roy called Arn after lunch and gave him Brandin’s brother’s cell number. “Floyd is just finishing up his welding class at the college for the day.” Arn called Floyd’s number, and he agreed to meet at the campus.

When Arn drove onto the campus grounds, he spotted Floyd’s truck right off: a Ford three-quarter ton sporting oversize wheels and tires more at home at the Baja than driving the mean streets of Cheyenne. He pulled beside Floyd and craned his neck upwards. “You Floyd?”

“Yes siree,” he said, and looked over Arn’s car. “Cool ride. For sale?”

“You couldn’t afford the gas.” Arn rubbed his neck. “Can you parachute down from there so we can talk?”

Floyd used the grab handles to climb down. When he landed on the pavement, he looked up at Arn. Floyd was bigger than Flo’s bouncer Karl. But not by much.

“This your new ride?” Arn asked.

Floyd smiled. “A beaut, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Arn lied, recalling what Roy said was wrong with the truck. The color was right: dark blue metallic. Just like half the trucks in Wyoming.

Arn walked around the truck. He took out the paint chip from his pocket but he wasn’t sure if it matched or not. The truck had so many scratches and dings that Arn couldn’t tell which damage was recent. “I understand you bought this truck when Ford refused to allow it for a trade-in.”

Floyd nodded. “Got it for a song, too, ’cause it has a ton of miles.” He grinned. “Don’t bother me none, though. It’s a real chick magnet.” He motioned to Arn’s 4-4-2. “Like your ride. Bet you get a bunch of babes hanging all over you when you drive it.”

“I have to beat them away. A real curse,” Arn said. “What’s the guy’s name you bought this from?”

“Can’t say,” Floyd answered. “Dad took care of getting the title signed over, and the new one’s coming in the mail. Is it important?”

Arn shook his head and climbed into his car. “I don’t think so. The truck I’m looking for had tires near bald, with a chunk out of one sidewall.”

“That’s why I bought the new set of skins,” Floyd said.

Arn shut his car off. “You just bought these tires?”

“And rims, too. I can’t testify to the chunk missing, but the tires were near bald. I needed new ones, and I figured I might as well buy tires that a real chick magnet deserves.”

“And your dad knows the name of the seller?”

“He’s got the bill of sale and all that paperwork.”

Arn grabbed his cell phone. “What’s your dad’s cell?”

“Won’t do you any good,” Floyd said. “He’s an engineer for the Union Pacific railroad and had a run up to Edgemont. Ought to be back in cell range tomorrow night. Maybe.”

Arn punched the father’s number into his cell. He’d call the dad and leave a voicemail later. “Last thing—where did you buy those monstrosities?”

“Fat Boy’s Tire.” Floyd grinned. “I’ll get a twenty-five buck gift card if you buy a set from them. Make sure you give ’em my name—Floyd Pompolopolis. Common spelling.”

Arn stopped at the service desk at Fat Boy’s Tire. The service manager was at lunch but his assistant was in. He shook his head when asked where Floyd’s old worn-out tires might have been tossed. “Can’t say, Mr. Anderson.” He opened a door leading to the shop area. “Adam, drag your sorry ass in here.”

Adam shuffled through the door. A kid Floyd’s age, eighteen or nineteen, he wore his pants south of his plumber’s crack and entered the office picking his nose. He rubbed an eye oozing pus from a sore as he focused on the manager.

“This is Mr. Anderson,” the assistant said.

Adam thrust out his hand, and all Arn could think of as he shook it was that oozing eye.

“Mr. Anderson wants to know what happened to Floyd’s old skins after we put the new set on.”

Adam motioned to the back lot. “Tossed them out with the rest of them.”

“Then what?” Arn asked.

“They’ll be sold later this year. Mostly shredded for road material,” Adam said. “Along with all the tires too worn out or too bald to even be sold as trailer tires.”

“Then you know where they are?”

“I know right where they are if you follow me.”

Arn felt as if he’d finally caught a break.

Until the old Arn Anderson shitty luck kicked in as Adam led him outside. A huge pile of old tires—hundreds of them—waited to be picked up by the truck on their way to the shredder. “There they are,” Adam said proudly, waving his arm at the pile. “In that mountain of tires somewhere.”

“Where, more specifically, in that pile?”

“Can’t say.” Adam rubbed his runny eye. “Sorry I can’t be more help, but we get a ton of business. Lot of ranch folks buy tires from us. Floyd’s not a ranch hand, but his tires had crappy pasture written all over them, is all I can recall without seeing them again.”

“How am I gonna find the ones that came off Floyd’s truck?”

“Easy.” Adam grinned. “They’re Coopers.”

Arn sighed. “Cooper Tires. At least we’re making progress. Can you tell me where the Coopers are?”

“Sure can,” Adam answered. “In that pile. Floyd’s might be at the bottom. Might be the first ones you come to. We just toss ’em there when we get junkers”—rubbing his sore eye—“but if you find ones you think were Floyd’s, you let me know and I’ll tell you if they are.” He tapped the side of his head. “I’ll know. ’Cause I got what they call a photogenic memory.”