Clint Faraday Collection C: Murder in Motion Collector's Edition

  Clint Faraday Mysteries

  collection C

  Murder in Motion

  5 books

  See You In Hell

  Dead Certain

  The Body in the Bay

  Dead End

  A Detour Through Hell

  Collector’s edition © 2014 by C. D. Moulton

  Smashwords edition © 2014

  all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any other information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/ publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  These are works of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons or events is purely coincidental unless otherwise noted.

  About the author

  CD Moulton has traveled extensively over much of the world both in the music business, where he was a rock guitarist, songwriter and arranger and in an import/export business. He has been everything from a bar owner to auto salvage (junkyard) manager, longshoreman to high steel worker, orchid grower to landscaper, tropical fish farmer to commercial fisherman. He started writing books in 1983 and has published more than 200 books as of January 1, 2014. His most popular books to date are about research with orchids, though much of his science fiction and fantasy work has proven popular. He wrote the CD Grimes, PI series and the Det. Nick Storie series, Clint Faraday series and many other works.

  He now resides in Puerto Armuelles, Panamá, where he writes books, plays music with friends, does research with orchids and medicinal plants – and pursues his favorite ways to spend his time: beach bum and roaming the mountain jungles doing his botanical research. He has lately become involved in fighting for the rights of the indigenous people, who are among his closest friends, and in fighting the extreme corruption in the courts and police in Panamá.

  He offers the free e-book, Fading Paradise, that explains what he has been through because of the corruption.

  Clint Faraday Mysteries

  #11

  See You In Hell

  (c)2011 by C. D. Moulton

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

  Clint is on his way from David to Chiriqui Grande when he gets a call that there is trouble on the comarca. He goes to find four rednecks from the states with guns. He then discovers they were set up to distract him from ... what?

  Then it gets hairy.

  Contents

  What Now?

  Murder in Bocas Town

  Rednecks, Go Home!

  Clue Search

  Who Are These People?

  Why Panamá?

  No Bluff

  The Mine

  Just a Distraction

  Back With Friends

  See You In Hell

  What Now?

  Clint Faraday, retired PI from Florida, USA, stepped off the Changuinola, Bocas del Toro, Panamá bus at the Rambala road on the twelfth. He was visiting friends in Miramar earlier and was heading to David when he got a call from Ernesto, an Indio friend, who said there was about to be big trouble on the comarca. Some gringos were there treating the people like dirt. They were armed and Orlando, the chief, didn’t want to call the Policia Nacional onto the comarca. Clint said he was close and would meet Ernesto at the Rambala road. He slipped his Glock into the holster and waited less than three minutes for Ernesto to come in his old Jeep. He didn’t say much as they rode the distance onto the rough road into the comarca. Ernesto told him the gringos seemed to think they had the right to go anywhere and treated the natives like servants. They were drinking beer, but huge amounts of it. They were driving one of the very few Hummers ever seen in the area.

  Clint came into the picturesque little village and immediately saw the Hummer sitting outside the little tienda with a number of the Indios milling around. He went inside to find four large and slightly obese men threatening the woman who ran the place with a rifle. Clint took his Glock from the holster and shoved the muzzle roughly into the ear of the one with the rifle and said “Drop it or I drop you! Now!”

  He dropped it. Clint stepped back and told Ernesto to collect all the guns, knives, or baseball bats – any weapons – these clowns were carrying. Ernesto waved to the several Indio men in front and picked up the rifle. One of the other gringos started to reach for a pistol he was wearing and Clint aimed directly between his eyes and said, “Give it a go, turkey! I’ll have a turkey shoot!”

  He told the Indios to collect every weapon of any type these were carrying.

  “They ain’t got no permission to get in my car!” one of them spat. “They got to get a warrant to get in my car!”

  “No. They don’t,” Clint replied easily. “This is the comarca.”

  “So the fuck what?” he demanded.

  “The comarca has its own laws. Laws from anywhere else don’t apply. One of those laws is that nobody carries a weapon or even brings it onto the comarca.” He was making it up, but that was probably what the laws of the comarca were. Clint knew and loved the people.

  Orlando drove up in his old Toyota truck and came inside where Ernesto told him what was happening while the rednecks were arguing with Clint. The several Indios were going through the Hummer carefully and had three more rifles, two pistols, a lot of hunting knives and so forth and some assorted things they laid out because they didn’t know what they were.

  “You will produce permits to have these things here in Panamá,” Orlando said sternly. “There are no permits for weapons on the comarca. These things will be confiscated.”

  “Hey! Who ... what is he saying? I ain’t got much EE-spaniola.”

  “He said you had better be able to produce permits for the guns and such from Panamá City or he might just turn you over to the police instead of simply throwing you off the comarca,” Ernesto said in his excellent English. “You forfeit the weapons by even bringing them here.”

  “What the fucking hell! You ain’t taking my stuff! I’ll bring an army out to this hole and wipe the bunch of you gooks off the face of the earth!”

  “Give it a go, asshole,” Clint said. “You might find these people can make a game out of slicing the bunch of you into lunch meat.”

  “I know there ain’t no such law here! Every one of them has a machete!” another of them cried.

  “And we didn’t take the ten or twelve machetes you have in that monstrosity sitting out there. A machete is a tool on the comarca, not a weapon,” Ernesto said reasonably. “They were told to take all weapons and left them. That should tell an idiot they aren’t weapons.”

  “You calling me a idiot?!” he snarled.

  “No. Why should I state the obvious?” Ernesto replied.

  The ass grabbed at Ernesto. He was at least twice his size. He got decked before he knew what hit him.

  “The Indios will put up with a lot, but they won’t be attacked,” Clint said conversationally.

  “Hell! that damned fucking ... they’re a bunch of wimps! What the hell!?” the original one whined.

  “Okay. You’re right! This wimp just smacked this big brave macho man in the puss. Want to be next?” Ernesto shot back.

  “I suggest you take your three redneck asshole buddies back to wherever you came from and stay there until you learn to respect your betters,” Clint said.

  “Hey! You ain’t no Indio! Where the fucking hell you get off with giving any orders, anyhow?” the original one said. “We came from
Alabama – and Georgia. Danny. We just wanted to shoot some big game, but there ain’t any.”

  “You think you can just go anywhere you like, treat people like slaves, shoot animals and no one will care?” Clint asked. “You have a lot to learn.”

  “Look, I’m Sam Bills, he’s Freddie Davis, that’s Danny Watts, and he’s Larry Tibbs. We can’t let you keep our stuff. You know what the hell it cost?”

  “I don’t care what it cost. You don’t have it in Panamá legally and certainly not here on the comarca,” Ernesto replied. “You don’t take anything off the comarca Orlando says you don’t. Clint is declared an Indio by Orlando here and by Basilio on the coast. They are the law. He is an Indio.”

  Clint started to say something, then thought it over. The two chiefs had said he was an Indio in a way. Maybe that is the law.

  “You got to be a Panamanian to be any Indio and he ain’t.” Freddie said. “You better be careful who you fuck with. We can come get our stuff with the police.”

  “I see,” Clint said. “You are going to get the police to come onto the comarca – incidentally, the police have no authority on the comarca unless Orlando personally calls them – to retrieve a bunch of unpermitted weapons you brought into Panamá illegally. Neat!”

  “Hey! All you do is slip some guy fifty bucks and they don’t find nothing. All you have to do is slip another one fifty and they’ll come get the stuff. The whole fucking country is on the take!”

  “This ain’t Panamá City, turkey-ass. This is the comarca. You would have to bribe Orlando,” Clint said, then turned to Orlando and asked (in the Indio language), “How much to let them take their stuff and go?”

  Orlando laughed. “Oh, maybe a hundred million dollars and a couple of goodlooking gringas.” Clint translated.

  “I’ll kick your fucking....” Freddie started. Clint interrupted him with, “One more threat and we keep the Hummer, too.”

  The four huddled and whined at each other for a minute. Clint finally told them to get the hell off the comarca – now – or they really would keep the Hummer and turn them over to the police for illegal weapons as the cream on those strawberries.

  “I’ll see you around, fuckhead!” Sam snarled.

  “Probably I’ll see you in hell someday,” Clint returned. The Indios surrounded the four. Clint took several items from the pile of weapons and tossed them back into the Hummer. Larry started to reach for a machete when they got into the Hummer, but saw Clint standing there with eight or ten Indios, all of whom had machetes while Clint still had the Glock, so thought better of it. He gave Clint the bird. Clint laughed.

  They drove off.

  “How many kilometers per gallon in that thing?” Orlando asked.

  “Ten, if you’re lucky and going downhill,” Clint replied.

  “It’ll cost them a hundred dollars just to drive to David! How stupid!”

  Clint laughed and said he’d hang around awhile. The type would probably find some guns somewhere and come back at two in the morning.

  They didn’t come back so Clint went on to Bocas Town in the morning – to find they went there. Sergio, head of violent crimes, met Clint at the dock to tell him some redneck asshole gringo had gotten his throat cut during the night. Something about a fight with Indios yesterday in Rambala or somewhere according to one of his buddies.

  “What? Some Indio came from Rambala and cut his throat while he was sleeping here in Bocas?” Clint asked.

  “Sorta hard to swallow,” Sergio agreed. “I think maybe they pulled that obnoxious act with the wrong person. Nobody seemed to like them and two girls said they were almost raped by them. I think one of the girls’ brothers or something did it. Ben decked that one they call Danny – the one who got his throat cut.

  “I don’t think Ben would kill anybody. They were yelling that they hated queers and pushed at Ben. Bad move! He should get the national citizenship medal, whoever cut the SOB’s throat! I won’t try too hard to find who did it.”

  “They were that bad?”

  “Yeah. Ask Judi (Clint’s neighbor, an attractive oriental woman who helped Clint with his cases). I was ready to shoot the bunch of them myself. They thought they could come into the station and order my men to go to Rambala and arrest a bunch of Indios they couldn’t identify for stealing their supplies they wouldn’t list.”

  “Not Rambala. The comarca – and it was Orlando and Ernest along with yours truly who confiscated a pile of illegal weapons when they threatened people on the comarca with them.”

  “Figures.”

  “I think I’ll go home and take a long shower, then lay around most of the day. Anymore trouble with that bunch and I’ll surprise them greatly when I walk in and you tell them I’m with the police all over Panamá as well as a Ngobe Indio. You can ask exactly what kind of stuff was kept by the Indios. That should make them happy!”

  Sergio laughed. “You’re the palest Indio I’ve ever seen. They fell for that?”

  “Orlando said he had declared that I’m Indio, he’s the chief, Basilio agreed with him; ergo, I’m an Indio by law.”

  “Orlando said that? Then you are an Indio and Panamanian. Period. Caso cerrado! That’s the law. They even have to give you a Panamanian passport.”

  “I thought that was good only on the comarcas.”

  “If you’re a Ngobe Indio you are an indigenous Panamanian. The council declares it to be fact and there are no other questions asked. I had a case while on duty in San Andreas. The jefe had declared a German who was living on the comarca giving them free medical was a Cuna. He’s a doctor. It went to Panamá City. The government didn’t like it, but they had the constitution that says the indigenous populations are forever Panamanians. The Cuna are of the indigenous population. Dr. Schweiger is a Cuna. Dr. Schweiger is a Panamanian.”

  Clint grinned, waved and headed for his house.

  Murder in Bocas Town

  Judi Lum, Clint’s neighbor, saw him from her deck over the bay, waved and called a “Welcome home!” across the water to him on his deck. He waved back and said he’d come over. He had some questions about the dead redneck. She waved an invitation.

  “This Danny Whatever – Watts – who got his throat sliced – what do you know about it?” Clint asked.

  Judi made a sour face. “I didn’t do it, but I sort of wish I had. There are four of them who are the most obnoxious redneck assholes I ever saw, including when I was living in the states for umpteen years. They never went anywhere without a can of beer in their hands. Serg had to come when the of guys patrolling told them to go inside or he’d dump them right there. They gave him a hard time, somebody called Serg, he came out and said to give him the beers. That Freddie bastard said he would give him the beer when he was big enough to take it.

  “Serg put his pistol to the asses’ head and said for all of them to give the officer their beers. The cop dumped them in the gutter. Serg said if they were seen with beer or anything else in the streets again his officers had orders to arrest them on the spot by whatever means necessary, including shooting them in the crotch.

  “They went to the Toro Loco and were fairly quiet for a little while. They started getting boisterous and loud so Natalie said they could go on their own or they could get tossed into the streets. Every man in the place stood up and came toward them. There were twelve or so so they let discretion become the better part of valor for the first time in their lives.

  “They went to The Reef and caused some trouble. They went to the VIP and met their equals in the big bad-ass category. They came back into town and saw Ben and Earl Somebody, his boyfriend for the last few nights, and started some kind of loud argument about queers in the streets.

  “I don’t know what happened. I think Ben kicked one of their asses. That’s what I know.”

  “Danny, the dead one, shoved at Ben. Ben decked him. You know Ben.”

  “Ben ... wouldn’t kill anybody while they were asleep. It wasn’t him. He would beat them to death, ma
ybe, but wouldn’t use anything but his hands. He’s big enough and good enough to do it.”

  “I guess one of his buddies did it. That ... wouldn’t make sense. They’re probably meek as rabbits unless the four are together. They spend their time trying to impress each other. Nobody else will put up with their crap. We get a few of the type now and then.”

  Judi nodded. “You want me to see if anybody around here knows them?”

  “I’d appreciate it. I don’t know why they’re here at all, much less why they’re so intent in getting attention. It reminds me of another couple of assholes who were simply being a diversion.”

  “Puerto Armuelles. I remember that.”

  They chatted awhile, then Clint went home to clean up his e-mail and such, then to lay around for the rest of the day.

  “Yo, Clint!” Ben greeted. “Que paso?”

  Ben Longstreet was a gay man who lived not far from Clint. They had become friends from the first.

  “Not much. You cork that Danny character’s bottle for him?”

  “Not like that! I would sort of like to gut punch him to death, but he and his friends are such pathetic types.”

  “Yeah. I met them in the comarca.”

  “They were talking about some crazy gringo who stole their equipment in Rambala. They didn’t know his name. He sounded like you.”

  “Guilty as charged! It was a lot of illegal guns and such they took onto the comarca to threaten the Indios. They learned a little about the difference in Panamanian law and comarca law.”

  “Serg told me you’re a Ngobe. Orlando, the chief, declared it, so it’s set in titanium steel.”

  “Orlando and Basilio! You don’t know how proud I am that they accept me that much!”

  They chatted. Ben told Clint about the little confrontation. Clint agreed that they were the type who would be meek as rabbits if they weren’t all there, so it wasn’t too likely one of them killed Danny. Clint said there was something a little off about them. They seemed almost to be acting.