Snowbirds

Chapter 9

NINE

Ivan

“Cleevus Buckley. Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a hot minute.”

The wizened older person selling kettle corn appeared thoughtful. The kettle corn booth was directly next to the space Cleevus Buckley apparently usually rented.

“I haven’t seen him around for a while now.” He closed one eye as he tried to remember. “Maybe a couple weeks? Maybe longer? But he could be shacked up with that woman he’s been seeing, she seems like she has money. Cleevus likes the money.”

Ivan almost laughed out loud when the man said shacked up . Who used terms like that these days? This guy, apparently. The light breeze changed directions, and Ivan’s stomach rumbled in response to the heady scent of gourmet-style popcorn actively assaulting his senses.

Later. After they got the information they needed.

“By any chance does she ride a bike?” Chris asked, oblivious to Ivan’s intense desire for a midmorning snack.

“I don’t know about that. It’s weird that Cleevus hasn’t been around now that you mention it. He doesn’t like to miss snowbird season.”

“Oh, yeah?” Chris said. “Any particular reason why?”

“His freaky stuff is popular with the tourists. My corn sells all year round,” he said proudly.

There was something about the way he said “stuff” that had Ivan thinking about taxidermy and yard art.

“His taxidermy or the terracotta pieces? The frogs?” asked Ivan, picturing the frog he’d seen near Chris’s borrowed address.

“Those frogs, man. They’re twisted, but I swear the ladies snap ’em up. They sell like hot cakes when he has new ones. People think they’re the funniest things they’ve ever seen.”

“He doesn’t sell the stuffed animals? The taxidermy?” Chris clarified.

The popcorn guy didn’t answer immediately. He squeezed one eye shut, his gaze shifting back and forth while he considered the question.

“Not as far as I know. Leastways, not here at the market.”

Ivan was tempted to push for more but something made him hesitate. Instead, he asked again, “And he hasn’t been around lately?”

“Nope.” The man shook his head. “Like I said, not for a while.”

“Thanks for the information,” Chris said, getting ready to turn away.

“We’ll take a small bag of corn,” said Ivan. “Nah, make it a medium.”

The vendor’s grin was missing several teeth but it was bright. Quickly and efficiently, he filled a bag and handed it over. Ivan slipped him a twenty.

“We appreciate you talking to us. Don’t worry about the change.”

Opening the bag, Ivan held it out toward Chris as they continued making their way down the aisle of booths.

After hesitating for a second, Chris dug in and took a handful, popping it into his mouth.

The popcorn vendor had been the third person they’d talked to, and the consensus was that Cleevus Buckley being MIA at this time of year was not normal. If it had been summer, people might not have noticed, but this was just the beginning of high tourist season. Spring training was coming up and Buckley was not out hawking his wares.

“Wow,” said Chris around his crunchy treat. “This stuff is amazing.”

“You’ve never had kettle corn before?” Ivan asked.

“Nope.”

“Well, keeping hanging around with me, and I’ll make sure you try all sorts of new things.”

Chris shot him a grin. “Promises, promises.”

Ivan mentally replayed what he’d just said. “I didn’t mean—ugh.” Giving up, he shoved a big handful of the popcorn into his mouth so he wouldn’t say anything else stupid. However, if saying shit like that meant he got a grin out of Chris Hatch? Then he’d never stop.

“What made you ask about frogs?” Chris asked when he’d swallowed.

“Oh, yeah. When I got here yesterday, I noticed your buddy Frank has a masturbating frog in his front yard.”

“A masturbating frog? Seriously?” Chris’s voice rose. “And he’s not my buddy, I’ve never met the man.”

“Want to go check it out? I think we’re done here, don’t you?” Ivan knew Chris would be horrified by the self-pleasuring amphibian. Hatch wasn’t so much a prude as hyper focused on his work, causing him to miss the fringes—the lacey bits.

“Yeah, let’s get out of here. It’s starting to get hot. I have to say, this vacation I’m on is becoming more fun by the minute. Motorcycle gangs, taxidermy, masturbating frogs. What’s next?”

Ivan parked Blue where he had when he’d arrived the day before, in the shadow of a large palm tree.

“It’s right there.” Ivan pointed at the terracotta amphibian clearly jacking off.

Chris peered out the car window. “Huh. You weren’t kidding.” He sounded amazed, as if he might have thought Ivan had been exaggerating.

“I never said I was kidding.”

“Yeah, I know that, but I’d kind of hoped you were.”

“Nope.” He turned off Blue’s engine and turned to look at Chris.

Chris was staring across the street at the possibly missing taxidermist’s house.

“I wonder…” His voice trailed off.

Ivan loved watching Chris Hatch think. It was almost better than sex, the way he nibbled at his lower lip, his jaw flexed. It was almost more than Ivan could take.

“What do you know about taxidermy? Did your creepy uncle ever tell you anything?”

“Uncle Scott? He could be dead by now. One can always hope anyway. I don’t know much about the process really. I do know there are some animals people need permits to stuff, and some need to be tested for diseases they are known to carry so humans don’t get sick. And endangered species are a big no-no. Which is why they always claim, ‘Oh no, Mister Fish and Wildlife Officer, I just found this perfectly intact northern spotted owl lying in the road.’”

“Maybe our friend Cleevus got mixed up with the wrong kind of people?”

“The kind who deal in black market shit?” Ivan asked.

“Or he could be the wrong kind of people. Is that a thing in taxidermy?”

“Sure.” Ivan nodded. “Just like in the art world, there are freakos out there who want to own the last white rhino and will pay big money to acquire it just so they can stuff the thing and display it in their massive jack-off library. Also exotics and endangered things like sperm whale penises.”

“Sperm whale penises?” Again Chris sounded shocked.

“There’s a penis museum in Iceland,” Ivan explained. “They don’t have human ones, I don’t think. We should go.”

Chris didn’t immediately respond, processing, Ivan assumed, things like taxidermized penises and going to a museum in Iceland together. “Well, while that is interesting,” he finally said, “and maybe information I never needed to know, look around you. This retirement community doesn’t scream big money to me. Does it to you? Are residents here clamoring for grizzly bear dicks or out hunting the last known Tasmanian tiger? No.”

Ivan was impressed that Chris brought up the long-extinct creature. He did have a point about the community though. These were people living on a fixed income, not highflyers.

“Might be a good cover for him,” Ivan said. “Who would suspect some rando living in a fifty-and-up community to be dealing in black-market stuffed creatures? But maybe it’s not the animals. It could be the terracotta,” he added. “If I was smuggling something, it seems like in those would be a way to do it without getting noticed. That stuff is everywhere.”

“You could be onto something there. What if our friend Cleevus was the middle man for something small enough to hide in pottery?—”

“Or a taxidermized owl,” Ivan interjected.

“Or a taxidermized bird.” Chris actually rolled his eyes. “And instead of passing it along, he took it for himself.”

“Okay, but then what? Someone found out and—and what? Offed the guy? Why would a bunch of MCs drop by to say hi if he’s dead? Maybe he’s enjoying a vacation somewhere far away?”

“They don’t know he’s gone. He’s probably not dead. He could have scarpered.”

“Scarpered?” Ivan frowned and stared over at Chris. “What kind of word is that?”

“A good one when we’re discussing taxidermy and seventy-year-olds.”

“Why didn’t they trash the place, then?” Ivan asked. “Why shoot off their weapons?”

“No idea there.”

“If they didn’t want to alert Cleevus that they’re onto him, the guns were a bad idea. If he knows someone is looking for him, he might decide to permanently disappear.”

Even in the shade, Big Blue was heating up fast in the Arizona heat. Ivan shifted to open the door, automatically glancing in the rearview mirror first.

“Or,” he said, “we could talk to them. This is them, am I right?” A group of five motorcycles rumbled up behind them and came to a stop in front of Cleevus’s house. “How about first we sit tight and see what they’re up to? If they’re up to no good, they aren’t being very sneaky about it,” Ivan pointed out.

“Does it look to you like anyone around here cares? They could come in blazing like Clint Eastwood, and if hearing aids were turned off, no one would hear them. Plus, it’s community time,” Chris said. “My folks are probably playing Ping-Pong or something, and I bet they aren’t the only ones.”

Ivan watched the group of motorcycle riders slowly dismount. They weren’t all senior citizens, but something about the front man pinged his radar. He wasn’t sure what it was about him—the shape of his shoulders, maybe. His movements, even as an obviously older man, were much like a tiger’s. Not a lion. Lions were inherently lazy and believed they deserved to rule their kingdom. Lions expected to be fawned over, adored. Tigers though. Tigers inherently knew they were the apex predator and they would fight to prove it, but they rarely had to. They didn’t care about being adored or fawned over, they were the supreme ruler.

“Did you tell me what their colors were?” he asked.

“No, that’s not my area of expertise.”

All the “real” MCs had colors. For instance, Hell’s Angels colors were red letters on a white background with a skull of some kind, leading to them also being known as the red and white.

Ivan had spent a few years early in his undercover career trying to get close to Gunnar Sinclair, close enough to catch a motorcycle club president doing something they could get him behind bars for. He’d never been caught with the proverbial smoking gun, and Ivan had been called back, the operation dropped.

And then, a few years ago, the guy had dropped off the radar completely. The Velvet Devils MC was still around, but Gunnar Sinclair was not at the helm and they no longer dabbled in sex and drug trafficking. Instead, the MC raised money for children’s hospitals, animal rescues and, randomly, STEM scholarship programs.

“That’s Gunnar Sinclair,” Ivan said. “I’d bet my retirement fund on it. He was on our watch list for years. Murder, drugs, sex trafficking—those are just some of the things he was suspected of, if not actively doing, at least ordering to be done.”

“What the hell is he doing here?” Chris asked. “In broad daylight?”

“Probably what most everybody else is, trying to enjoy his sunset years. That’s a nice bike he’s got there,” Ivan noted. “We were never able to pin anything on him, although we have a few lower-level Velvet Devils behind bars, plus his son.”

“You’re sure it’s him?” Chris asked. “One hundred percent positive?”

Keeping his attention on the rearview mirror, Ivan didn’t bother to reply, just raised one eyebrow and reached for the door handle.

“How about I ask him?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.”

Ivan didn’t open the door, but also didn’t remove his hand. “Here in the middle of a retirement community, I don’t think he means any harm. Does he look like he means harm to you? Do any of them?”

Chris sucked in a bunch of oxygen as if there was a fire sale on the stuff and then released it.

“No, it doesn’t look that way.”

“Look,” Ivan said. “It’s getting hot in Big Blue, so we can’t stay inside here anyway. Who knows how long they’re going to hang around? Let’s just calmly get out and say hello to them like normal people.”

“For one thing,” Chris said sourly, “I do not randomly say hello to people.”

“Of course you don’t, Agent Hatch, but how about just this once.” Ivan pushed the door open and got out of the car.

The thud of Blue’s doors shutting had the riders turning to look at Ivan and Chris.

“Howdy,” Ivan called out as he crossed the street to get closer to them. Behind him, he could hear Chris muttering threats under his breath. “Not my boss,” he said out the side of his mouth.

“I’ll be having a conversation with your boss,” Chris promised.

“Morning,” a rider, younger than the rest, said. “Well, afternoon by now, I guess.”

“Are you looking for”—Ivan turned to Chris—“what’s his name again?” He had kept moving and was now about twenty feet from Gunnar Sinclair himself. Even in his sixties, the man had power, a draw Ivan could feel.

“Cleevus. Cleevus Buckley,” Chris responded to Ivan.

The younger guy abandoned Gunnar, moving to meet Ivan and Chris. “Have you seen him recently?” the stranger asked. “We’ve been by a couple of times with no luck.”

“Chris,” Ivan said over his shoulder, not wanting to turn his back on them just yet, “you’ve been here a bit longer than me. Have you seen Cleevus?”

Chris reached Ivan’s side, standing so they were now shoulder to shoulder.

“Nope. I saw you guys a few days ago though.”

Ivan silently wished Chris didn’t sound exactly like the DEA agent he was.

“Oh yeah, we stopped by.” He stuck out his hand. “Tyrone Duke, it’s nice to meet you.”

Tyrone was possibly in his late thirties or early forties but had one of those faces that made it hard to tell.

“It’s a pleasure, Tyrone. Ivan Morrison, and this guy here is Chris Hatch.”

Gunnar separated from the rest of the group to join the three of them at the end of Buckley’s driveway. He slung an arm around the younger man and pulled him close. Smiling, Tyrone glanced up at him, affection and possibly love in his gaze. What the hell was going on here? Last Ivan had known, the Velvet Devils were not rainbow friendly.

“Knock it off with the protective stuff, Gunnar.” But Tyrone didn’t pull away, instead leaning into the older man.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” Gunnar asked, staring intently at Ivan. “I have a damn good memory for names and faces, but I just can’t place you.”

Ivan opened his mouth to say something, but Tyrone got there first.

“Morrison was sniffing around the club a few years ago, I think. Didn’t go by Morrison at the time. Is that a new name or were you undercover?”

Gunnar eyed him warily, but the man wasn’t scared. Neither of them were. Ivan watched as recognition flared in his eyes.

“We’re here on vacation,” Ivan half raised his hands. “Well, to be honest, Chris was here first, and I crashed his PTO. Ivan is my real name.”

If they were going to pretend to be normal folk just enjoying the Arizona sunshine in late February, then so was he.

“PTO?” asked Gunnar, frowning.

“Personal Time Off,” Tyrone explained before Ivan could. “I was corporate for a while before I took over finances for Gunnar’s business,” he added.

The man under discussion still had one arm around Tyrone, and Ivan noted a small rainbow flag pin affixed to his leather vest. Well, well, well. He let himself relax a little more.

“So, Ivan, what brought you and the fed here?” Gunnar asked.

Chris shifted beside him. Ivan knew he wanted to protest his fed status, but facts were facts.

“Chris’s hippie folks live here. His boss forced him to take his vacation time. I followed him so I could woo him and proclaim my undying love.”

“For real?” breathed Tyrone, looking back and forth between them. “That is incredibly romantic.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Chris.

Ivan shrugged, but he also kind of wanted to plant one on Chris’s gorgeous mouth that second. He restrained himself. “True though.”

“Have you?” Gunnar asked.

“Have I what?” The already very weird discussion was getting weirder.

“Declared your undying love?” offered Tyrone.

Ivan glanced at Chris, who looked like he would rather stick a needle in his eye than continue this line of conversation

“I started to last night, but with Chris, I have to go slow. I don’t want to scare him off.”

“Ivan.” Gah, his name that way. “I’ve known you for years now. I don’t think you’re going to scare me off.”

“Yoo-hoo out there, it’s really starting to warm up. We’ve got iced tea and lemonade. Do you want to invite your friends over? There’s plenty of extra. We can all fit under the umbrellas on the patio, and Lance will turn on the outdoor fans.”

If Chris’s parents had been out at the community center, they were home now.

Chris grimaced. “My mother. She’s not going to take no for an answer.”

“You should know that Gunnar and the rest of us here”—Tyrone waved at the other three riders—“we’re all that’s left of the Velvet Devils, and we are extremely respectable these days. We give to charity: Reading Rainbow, The Trevor Project, The Garden of Peace Project, The Boys and Girls Club.”

“Tyrone is a financial advisor,” Gunnar said. “A very good one,” he added, his tone proud.

“We’ll be right there, Mom,” Chris called out. He turned back to the rest of them. “So, this is neutral ground? What happens in Surprise stays in Surprise?”

“Except for me,” Ivan added. He was not going to be part of a list that did not include him and Chris together.

“Except for you, Ivan.”