Assumption

~ ~ ~

Ogden followed Interstate 25 to 40 to 17 and ended up in Tempe, he believed, without an FBI escort. The drive took him about ten hours. He took a nap along the way, at a rest area WITHOUT FACILITIES as the sign said. He took a room in a cheap motel outside town with the thought of getting some rest. In the telephone directory he found two columns of Robbins, see also Robins, but no Lester G., no Lester, no L.G. The one L. belonged to Linda Robbins and she liked the sound of Ogden’s voice, wanted to talk a little more.

The next morning Ogden drove to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Office and introduced himself, showed his badge to the grumpy officer at the desk, who was duly unimpressed. He told the man he was looking for someone and needed to see the phone company cross-directory. The desk officer gave Ogden the book, dropped it on the table, and went about his business. Ogden looked up the number he’d found in Emma Bickers’s things. He jotted down an address.

Ogden thanked the man.

“What was your name again?” the desk officer said, pulling a pad in front of him.

“Ogden Walker. I’m a deputy of the Plata County Sheriff’s Department.”

The man at the desk gave him another look.

Ogden showed him the address. “How do I get there?”

“German Town,” the officer said. “I don’t think you want to go there.”

“Oh, but I do,” Ogden said.

The man shook his head. “No, you don’t.” He scratched his head and looked at Ogden. “I’ll draw you a map, but remember I told you.”

Ogden nodded. “Do me a favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Will you run a name and tell me if there are any outstanding warrants?”

“What’s the name?”

“Lester G. Robbins. Lester Robbins.”

He typed the name into the computer and waited. “Nothing.”

“Can you run it through DMV and give me the address.”

“You’re a pushy little son of a bitch.” The desk officer groaned and did it. “Nothing.”

Ogden thanked him.

“What you want this guy for?”

“He’s the relative of a murdered old lady.”

“You should be careful over in that part of town. It’s kind of rough. Especially for someone like you. Being from out of town and,” he paused, “black like that.”

“Got you.”

Ogden found the address in a section of town that his mother would have called seedy. The city seemed to stop and start again with shotgun shacks and shotgun racks and, he assumed, shotguns. There were abandoned refrigerators at the side of houses, cars on blocks, and a sight that Ogden thought he might never shake, a three- or four-year-old boy alone in a front yard bouncing on a trampoline. The boy stared at him as he drove by. A woman in another yard gave him a hard look as he turned a corner. Confederate flags were on the back windows and bumpers of pickups. Ogden stopped in front of the house and got out of his truck. His nerves were charged. He was both happy and dismayed that he was not wearing his sidearm. He knocked.

A short, round man opened the door. He wore a flannel shirt with breast pockets ripped off, jeans. He looked Ogden up and down.

“Mr. Robbins?” Ogden said.

“No.”

“Do you know Lester Robbins?”

“I ain’t never heard of him.” The man tried to push the door shut, but Ogden stopped it with his hand. The fat man smiled. It was a scary smile. “What?”

“How long have you lived here?”

“Who the fuck wants to know? You a cop?”

Ogden stared at the man’s milky eyes. “No, I’m from a bank in New Mexico. I have some business with Mr. Robbins.”

“You don’t look like you’re from no bank.”

Ogden nodded. This was true. “I can’t help that.” He glanced up and down the street. A few people had stepped out of their squat houses and were looking his way. “He’s got some money coming to him.”

“Good for him,” the fat man said.

“Okay, thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“How much money?”

Ogden smiled at the man. “You have a good day.”

Ogden found his way out of German Town as quickly as he could without attracting even more attention.

He found a diner and sat with a cup of coffee and a doughnut, felt like a cliché. Perhaps old Lester’s phone number had been put back into the system. He would go to the library and look through old telephone directories. He would find Lester G. Robbins and the man would shoot Ogden in the chest. Mystery solved.

Ogden found the books. He started ten years back and worked forward. Six years earlier there was a listing for a Lester G. Robbins. Same phone number. He jotted down the address.

It was about noon. The sun was high, almost hot. Ogden rolled up his sleeves. The neighborhood was a far cry from the squalor of German Town. It had a kind of eerie, suburban safeness. He sat in his truck for a couple of minutes, watched the house. He wanted to have his routine down a little better than last time. He walked to the door.

A woman answered. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, ma’am, I’m trying to locate a Lester G. Robbins.”

She turned around and called back into the house, “Carl!”

Carl came to the door. He was a tall, skinny white man. “What is it?” he asked. The woman walked away.

“I’m looking for a man named Lester G. Robbins. Do you know him, where I can find him?”

The man had tattoos on his arms, a serpent on one, a lion on the other.

“What do you want with him?”

“Do you know him?” Ogden asked.

“I might.”

Ogden cleared his throat. “Might is not good enough.” He turned to leave.

“Yes, I know him.”

“How do you know him?” Ogden asked. This was good. He’d managed to change the dynamic. He was once again the one asking the questions. “Are you a relative?”

“I bought this pile of lumber from him.” He referred to the house.

Ogden pulled some bills from his pocket. “Perhaps you know where I might find him.” He peeled off twenty, then another ten.

“Some old folks’ home. That’s all I know.”

Ogden gave him twenty. “Thanks.”

The man sneered. “He’s probably dead now anyway.” He slammed the door.

The drill was simple. Open the phone book and start dialing. He called hospitals, retirement apartments, nursing homes. The next morning he left the motel and drove to the West Village Convalescence Hospital.

It was a sad-looking place. Ogden parked in a visitor’s slot and walked up the carpeted ramp to the front door and into the main building. The large nurse at the desk was not fully awake even though it was after nine.

She looked at Ogden over her glasses. “May I help you?”

“Do you have a Lester G. Robbins here?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak with him, please.”

The woman looked surprised, almost startled. “You’re sure you want to talk to Lester Robbins?”

“Lester G. Robbins, yes, ma’am. I don’t know what the G is for. Doesn’t he get visitors?”

“No.”

“Then maybe I’ll lift his spirits a little,” Ogden said.

The nurse laughed and pulled her dyed blond hair away from her face. “Okay, I’ll take you to him.” She came from behind the desk. “Do you know Robbins?”

“Never met him.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said. She laughed without laughing. She stopped at a door, opened it. She didn’t enter, but stepped aside. “Lester,” she called into the room.

“What is it, bitch?” a scratchy voice fired back.

“You have a visitor.” The nurse gave Ogden a look as if to say, You’re on your own. She then turned and walked back down the corridor toward her desk.

Ogden entered the room. “Mr. Robbins?”

“Bitch,” the man said. He did not look up.

Ogden paused and regarded the crumpled old man. He sat in a tattered vinyl recliner, wore dirty pajamas, and had a half-eaten breakfast on a table tray in front of him.

“My name is Walker, Mr. Robbins. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Why the fuck you want to ask me questions? Who the fuck are you?”

Ogden realized the man was blind. “I want to ask you about Emma Bickers.”

The man paused, tried to straighten himself in the uncooperative recliner. “What about her?”

“You do know her?”

“What’s this all about? You a friend of hers?”

“Yes, I am. Maybe the best friend she’s got.”

“I doubt that,” Robbins said. “You a member?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the door closed? Close the door.”

Ogden walked over and closed the door. He returned and sat on the hard chair next to the man.

“You know I haven’t heard from her in years,” Robbins said, more to himself. “She’s a pistol, that one. She was gonna change the world. We was gonna change the world.”

“I see. How so?”

“You see how many niggers they got working in this rat hole?” Robbins wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“A lot of them,” Ogden said.

“Nigger nurse gives me a bath. Another nigger takes me to the toilet. Another one brings me my pills.” The old man shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

“How do you know they’re niggers?” Ogden asked.

“I can smell a nigger.”

“When was the last time you heard from Emma?”

Robbins paused. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Ogden said. “Emma Bickers is dead.”

“Hmmph. God rest her soul,” Robbins said. He leaned his head back and pointed his useless eyes at the ceiling. “I was sure she would outlive me.”

“Did you know her long?”

“Grew up together. She lived with us after her mother died.”

“Somebody killed her, shot her,” Ogden told him.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit.” Robbins pounded his claw of a fist down onto the arm of his chair, then grabbed at a loose piece of tape there and nervously played with it. “Who did it?”

“The police don’t know.”

“Of course they don’t. Fucking idiots. They probably killed her. This used to be a free country.” He coughed. “She called me last year or was it two years ago?”

“She called you?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What did she say?”

“Something about things getting out of control, but she didn’t explain. I think she just told me things to make me feel like I was involved in something. She said she was sending me a package, but I never got nothing.”

Ogden noticed a stack of unopened letters on the table behind the man. He walked over and looked through it. “When did you lose your sight?”

Robbins dropped his head. “Two years ago. It was coming on for a while.”

Ogden moved to another stack.

“What are you doing?”

“Just stretching,” Ogden said. “She didn’t say anything else? She mention any names?”

“No, like I said, she just made stuff up for my benefit. I’m sure she did.”

Ogden found a thick manila envelope from Emma Bickers. He held on to it.

“What’s your name?” Robbins asked.

“Howell,” Ogden said. “Thurston Howell.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“Really? Did she tell you she was afraid of anything, something happening, somebody?”

“The niggers in this place are trying to kill me. I just know it. You say somebody shot her?”

“Yeah.” Ogden let the lie stand. “How long have you been a member?”

“What is this about?” Robbins asked again. “You ain’t no member. You tell me what you’re a member of.”

“Thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Robbins shouted.

“Just another nigger,” Ogden said and left.

Back in his truck, Ogden broke federal law and opened Lester G. Robbins’s mail. He stared at the list of numbers. There were two rows of twenty ten-digit numbers. There was another slip of blue paper with a note:

To think I kept this in a coffee can for twenty years. You’re the only one who has this. Be careful, Lester.

Emma

Ogden started the drive back home. He knew enough more to be sure that he knew nothing, a feeling that was becoming sadly familiar. He imagined that Emma Bickers was a part of the hate group the FBI agents had talked about. She’d always been unpleasant enough, but still he couldn’t believe it. He had no idea what to make of the numbers. He learned little from talking to Robbins, except to find out that Bickers had been a member. Perhaps the holes in the meadow up Niebla Canyon made some sense; someone was looking for a coffee can. Then he became anxious and a little afraid. Someone was going to a lot of trouble to find what he had stuffed into his pocket. Perhaps Emma Bickers had even been killed for it.