17: Helen Waite, by Cadlin

MURDER AND MAYHEM AT CHERRY CREEK

EPISODE

17

BY: CADLIN

 

 

Hellen Waite

 

    The black Buick sedan swerved off the road and rolled to a stop in front of Cadlin & Scotty's garage. White clouds of steam poured from under the hood. A tall, dark man stepped out of the car and surveyed the scene. His black wiry hair was cropped close and had gone white along his temples. He wore a dark suit, white cotton shirt, dark blue tie and black well polished shoes. The sweetly bitter scent of wet sage blew in from where thunderheads were building in the south.

 

    The dark man walked between the two gas pumps and stepped into the glass fronted office. His deep brown, red rimmed eyes took in the space. His nostrils flared at the heavy musk scent of oil and grease mixed with dust. On the left, a low shelf of sorts ran along the plate glass window and held pyramids of oil cans and engine additives. A pinup calendar of a model in a bathing suit anchored the left wall. The bathing suit was painted on a fly sheet of clear cellophane. Underneath the model would be naked.

 

    On the back wall shelves of automobile manuals framed a soda pop machine. To the right stood a coin operated machine filled with three type of nuts: Beer Nuts, Corn Nuts and Planters Peanuts. An assortment of parts and boxes littered the floor under the dispenser.

 

    Centered in front of the left wall was a steel desk with a well scared top. A set of well worn dents indicated where someone's boot heels spent a good amount of time. A rack of free road maps decorated one corner.

 

    The place was empty.

 

    The man stepped back out into the service bay. From a diner across the road he saw a tall man in coveralls approaching. This man walked in a shuffling gait with his hands in his pockets. The clouds of steam from under the hood of the car had tapered off.

 

    "How do," Cadlin said as he approached the dark Buick.

 

    "How do you do," answered the dark man.

 

    "Looks like ya got yerself a sick puppy," Cadlin said, nodding at the car.

 

    The man smiled and chuckled a bit.

 

    "For all that I know of cars, it could be a dead duck," he smiled. "However, if you say it is a sick puppy, then I would be much obliged to have it repaired."

 

    Cadlin swiveled the hood ornament a half turn left. He reached under the front, released the safety latch and lifted. He stepped back as a cloud of steam rose from under the raised hood. The pungent, syrupy scent of coolant and rusted water engulfed him. The problem was easy to see, a small slit on the bottom side of the top radiator hose. Cadlin slid his hands back into his coverall pockets.

 

    "You fuel-up just recently?" He asked the driver.

 

    "Yes sir, I did," the dark man answered. "Just ten or twelve miles back."

 

    "That'd be Joe Chaco's place out on the main highway," Cadlin said. He leaned forward and looked over the flathead V-8 engine.

 

    "Yes, Chaco's Summit was the name of the establishment."

 

    Joseph Chaco owned two places on the main US Highway, fifteen miles apart. Cars that had drove into one of his places after hundreds and thousands of trouble free miles seemed to never make it past the other place without needing radiator hoses or new tires. Cadlin hated that kind of cheap scam, but he knew it did no good to bad mouth the competition.

 

    "Well sir, Mr.--?" Cadlin started.

 

    "Coleman," the man answered. "Ronald Coleman."

 

    "Pleased to meet ya," Cadlin smiled. "I'm the Cadlin part of the Cadlin and Scotty on the sign up there." He pointed up. "Well, Mr. Coleman, sir. You gotta have a new radiator hose. What with coolant and labor it's gonna cost ya twelve dollars and seventy-five cents."

 

    The man agreed to the repair, and asked about a wash room.

 

    "Around the corner there," Cadlin answered as he walked into the shop for a screw driver.

 

    Ronald Coleman walked around the corner. The first door was marked WOMEN. He continued to the second and stepped through the door marked MENS. The room was surprisingly clean and scented. The sink was clean, not even a trace of Boraxo dusted the sink under the soap dispenser. Coleman smiled. The men's room at Chaco Summit had been a pig sty.

 

    Repairing the car was no problem. The problem came after. Cadlin shut the hood on the Buick and presented Coleman with the itemized bill totaling $12.75. Coleman pulled a long thin wallet from his inside coat pocket. He opened it and proffered a plastic card.

 

    "What's this?" Cadlin asked.

 

    "A credit card, of course," Coleman answered, taken back a bit.

 

    Cadlin eyed the card. NSA, National Security Agency it said in bold letters. Under that, in raised letters, United States Government, Department of Defense, and under that a whole series of raised numbers. Cadlin looked up at the man. He saw the bulge under his left arm. That'll be a snub-nosed belly gun, Cadlin figured.

 

    "Helen ain't here, Mr. Coleman."

 

    "Helen," the man asked with a quizzical look in his eyes.

    "Yeah, Helen Waite," Cadlin said. "You want credit here you got to go to Helen Waite."

 

    Coleman's brows knitted, then raised as he laughed aloud at the joke.

 

    Cadlin didn't laugh.

 

    "I assure you Mr. Cadlin," Coleman said, "that card is as good as any standard credit card."

 

    "Well that may be, Mr. Coleman, but my bill is for twelve dollars and seventy-five cents, and this here piece of plastic is not any kind of money I know anything about."

 

    Coleman's eyes quickly took in the service bay. There was no credit card machine, and he knew there was none inside the office. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did not think to ask, and I haven't any cash on me just now."

 

    "Well sir, you got yourself a problem," Cadlin said as he handed the card back.

 

    Ronald Coleman, Operations Officer, National Security Agency, with direct access to the Secretary of Defense could not believe he had stumbled into the only garage east of the Rocky Mountains that didn't know what a credit card was. No matter how he explained it, he could not persuade the coverall clad mechanic to take the card.

 

    "I'll tell ya what," Cadlin finally said. "The lady what owns that diner across the road there," he said nodding towards Fat Sally's. "Her name is Abbey. She's from a big city back east called Boston. Perhaps you've heard of it?"

 

    Coleman was getting real tired of this bumpkin mechanic. He smothered his rising anger under a deep breath.

 

    "Yes sir, I am acquainted with the city of Boston," Coleman said as he exhaled.

 

    "Well, Mr. Coleman. Why don't you walk on over there and talk with Miss Abbey. Being as she's from Boston and all, she'll probably know some way to turn that plastic card into real money."

 

    Coleman was tired of arguing, and he was plain tired from the long drive. The prospect that the lady named Abbey might actually be intelligent and informed as to the ways of the larger world presented a pleasant prospect.

 

    "Very good, Mr. Cadlin. I will drive directly there."

 

    "Nope, ya gotta walk," Cadlin said.

 

    "You have completed the repairs to the car, have you not," Coleman asked. For the first time there was an edge to his voice.

 

    "Oh yeah, she's all fixed up," Cadlin agreed. "But until my bills paid the law gives me a mechanics lien on this automobile, and it ain't goin' no where."

 

    Now Coleman laughed. "Of course, the law!" Now why hadn't he thought of that. He was still chuckling as he started across the road to Fat Sally's. Then he stopped, and looked at the itemized bill.

 

    "Mr. Cadlin, may I ask you something about this bill?"

 

    "Sure thing, Mr. Coleman." Cadlin ambled towards the man.

 

    "I see the hose is $6.50, the coolant is $2.50 which adds up to $9.00." Coleman glanced up at Cadlin, then his dark eyes returned to the bill. "The two percent tax comes out to 18 cents, which is correct." He licked his lips. "That leaves your labor being $3.57." Coleman looked up again. "Is that correct?"

 

    "Sure is," Cadlin said.

 

    "That is a curious amount for labor, Mr. Cadlin. How did you arrive at that amount?"

 

    Cadlin smiled real big. He pulled one hand from his coveralls and scratched at the back of his head.

 

    "Well, Mr. Coleman, that happens to be just the amount Miss Abbey sent me over here to talk with Helen about getting to pay for my breakfast."

 

    Now Coleman really laughed. He waved Cadlin off as he resumed his walk to the diner. He knew now where he'd be buying all his gasoline while in Cherry Creek.