BLINDSIDERS

By J. Fontana

22 short-short Blindsiders and a short Blindsider art mystery introducing Italian Inspector Paolo Frascati of the Ministry of Art and Culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J. GALLICANO
• Release date: Dec 21, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519975003

Book preview

-1-

Ponderosa Sourdough

The staff at the California state assay office in Salinas called him the Ponderosa Sourdough because he was a prospector and his name, by one of those curiosities that make even reality look suspicious, was Ben Cartwright.

He was a tall, gangly kid, in jeans, Kodiak boots and checked shirt, not more than twenty-five, who spoke in short sentences made up of monosyllabic words.

Once a month or so he would show up at the assay office looking thin, sunburned and ‘bushed’.  He would place his small knapsack of rock samples on the counter and with obvious but unashamed difficulty, fill out a ‘Request for Assay’ form that authorized the forwarding of the samples to the state lab in Sacramento for analysis. He always paid cash, handing the clerk, Jenny Caldbick, the prescribed twenty dollar fee.

Jenny's boss, Calvin, mischievously arranged things so she would have to deal with Ben personally because even though the staff always joked about the Ponderosa Sourdough being a dim-wit, Jenny was rather taken by his outdoorsy good looks and quiet demeanour. He's not a dim-wit, she would counter. He's just shy from living alone out in the desert so much. I think he's real nice!

Ah, the impoverished young prospector captures the heart of the fair maiden, Calvin joked. More than once Jenny had gotten angry and taken an early coffee break.

The reports coming back from the lab were always discouragingly consistent. Samples unremarkable. Or, Traces of gold, zinc and silver pyrites in amounts not sufficient to quantify.

Jenny felt sorry for the young prospector who never seemed to give up.

She learned that Ben had inherited the mining claims − a few hundred acres of boulders and desert southeast of Salinas − from his grandfather Amos Cartwright. No one had set foot on the property for years since Ben's own father had died.

Then, a few days before his twenty-first birthday, he had received a registered letter from a Sacramento attorney. He had gone to the lawyer's office to discover that the property was now his with all the timber and mining rights as well as all right, title and interest in his grandfather's old company, the Cactus Creek Mining Co. Ltd.

The company is to all intents and purpose worthless, the kindly old attorney assured him. Although, technically, it is still in business because it has never been wound-up. It has no capital or assets except that patch of desert. We can't understand why the State didn't cancel the company charter years ago. The company shares were de-listed from the San Francisco Exchange about fifteen years ago, although there are still a few hundred thousand shares floating around out there in attic trunks and dresser drawers. You own all the rest now. Nothing legally wrong with selling them if you can find a willing buyer . . . maybe someone who wants the corporate shell for tax reasons or something.

Worth nothin', huh? Ben asked, a hint of discouragement in his voice.

Oh, maybe five cents a share just because of the desert acreage. It was as high as a dollar a share back in '62 when there was some rumour of a gold strike near there. Then it fell back, right off the board.

The attorney handed him a sealed envelope he had been keeping in his vault. It was from Ben's grandmother. Back in 1956, the letter said in his grandmother's shaky pen-and-ink handwriting, Amos had made what he believed to be a good find. Some of the ore samples actually glistened with gold flakes. But the assay office in Salinas had apparently mixed his samples up with another prospector's and then tried to cover up its mistake by saying that old Amos had ‘salted’ the area with high grade ore from a distant mine.

The ensuing scandal had killed the discovery, the company and, eventually, old Amos himself. The letter ended with a postscript that old Amos believed until the end that there was good money to be made with the claim.

The story had been long-forgotten by the time young Ben started tramping over the property again, but some yellowed newspaper clippings from the San Francisco Times business section that were tucked in with the letter, confirmed the scandal.

It was on the same day that Jenny had made up her mind to invite Ben out for coffee the next time he came in, that Calvin came storming out of the inner office after opening the mail. And was he in a lather!

My gawd, Jenny! Look at this! Would you believe it? Calvin was clutching the carbon copy of a lab report.

What's got you in such a snit, Cal?Jenny asked.

Kee-ripes! That last bunch of rocks that Sourdough brought in last week . . . well look at this! Calvin thrust the report at Jenny. The analysis showed between an ounce and an ounce and a quarter of gold per ton of ore. Do you believe it?

Right on! Jenny exclaimed, beaming over Ben's good fortune.

It's as close to pure gold as you can get these days, Calvin said sounding a bit conspiratorial. Definitely commercial potential!

He's going to be one happy fella, Jenny said.

No he isn't. At least, not right away! I want to find out more.

You can't do that, it's illegal as hell to withhold that information Calvin, and you know it!

I'm not withholding. I'm just sitting on it temporarily.

Same thing. I don't know a damned thing about this, okay? I'm staying right out of it!

Good, Calvin shot back and closed his office door.

The next time Ben came in Calvin met him at the door personally, grabbed the knapsack of rock samples and even helped him fill out the assay requisition form. He also lied and told him the latest report wasn't back from the lab yet. They had been swamped with work and fallen behind, Calvin said. It might be ready sometime next week. Ben didn't seem to mind. He just shrugged and left but not before showing him on a claims map precisely where these new samples were coming from.

Right about in this area here, this rift just north of Cactus Creek, Ben said drawing a square on the map with a red pencil that Calvin had thrust into in hand.

Calvin put a rush on the new samples and the report was back in less than a week. It confirmed the earlier report. He was so excited his hand was trembling as he dialled his broker in San Francisco. The broker didn't ask too many questions. He just took Calvin's instructions and checked some loose-leaf registers.

By the time the market closed that day he had made a dozen phone calls and bought six hundred thousand shares of Cactus Creek for his client Calvin at five cents a share. People were happy to get rid of it. With this flurry of activity and the inevitable rumours, the stock jumped to fifty cents a share within three days and long-time shareholders joined in, happy to sell to recoup old losses.

The attorney who had carried out the terms of old Amos' will heard what was happening and although he couldn't understand why the stock had suddenly jumped, he called Ben in and advised him to sell the three hundred thousand shares he had inherited. With some apparent reluctance, Ben agreed. But before his shares were put on the block Calvin leaked the last two assay reports to the press and the shares shot up to ninety cents.

Calvin sold his new four-by-four pick-up truck and bought another twenty thousand shares with the money.

I'm going to make a fortune, Jenny. Those shares aren't going to stop at ninety cents, you'll see! Calvin smiled, the poster-boy for smugness.

You're a con-man, a liar and a crook and you could lose your job for what you're doing. And besides, it's just not nice! Jenny said.

The lawyer sold Ben's shares for eighty-five cents a share ‘over the counter’. Ben would stand to pocket a cool quarter million after commissions, he assured him.

Then, as Calvin was debating with himself whether to sell or hold on to the six hundred and twenty thousand shares he had accumulated, without warning, the State Trading Commission issued a Stop Trading order against Cactus Creek shares. Calvin got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. An inspector was being dispatched to Ben's claim to confirm the gold strike and ascertain the reason for the meteoric rise in the value of the stock.

It took the government geologist less than an hour to ascertain and announce that the claim had been salted. That's right, he said. Chunks of high grade ore sprinkled around the patch. The stuff's not even from around here. The whole thing's a fraud!

The inspector found Ben having coffee with Jenny at the Bus Depot Cafe and he lost no time accusing Ben.

But I didn't do anything wrong, sir, Ben said looking wide-eyed and hurt. If you look at the claims map in the assay office you'll see I showed Calvin the mining clerk the very spot where I got the samples from. Would I do that if I was up to no good?

Well, you've got a point there, son. But the news of the strike was kept secret until certain persons accumulated the stock!

Calvin did that, sir! Jenny interjected. Just to give himself time to buy up the stock. That's not Ben's fault. You'll have to talk to Calvin about that. Ben already owned his shares, inherited from his grandfather. Just ask the lawyer!

Well, I guess you're right, Miss. But the fact remains that the claims areas was salted. Now that's a federal offence young man! the inspector said, turning back to Ben.

Ben looked at the inspector with a look of innocent wonder and pulled an old newspaper clipping out of his shirt pocket.

Then that rumour from thirty ago must be true, Ben said in apparent wonder. Old grandpa Amos must have salted the area alright. Why that sneaky old son of a gun . . . Ben reached into his knapsack and pulled out the yellowed envelope and clippings. Here sir, it's all right here in the newspapers. You can't take me to task for what old Amos Cartwright must have done thirty years ago, can you?

The inspector read through the clippings and scratched his head, bewildered. No, I guess I can't, he said finally.

Can I buy you a cup of coffee, sir? Ben offered as the inspector shook his head and sank lower into the booth.

By the next morning Jenny had resigned her job with the State Assay Office. She and Ben were seen getting on the Greyhound bus for Sacramento just after he came out of the bank with a certified draft for two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

Old Amos had been right. There was money to be made with that claim.

-2-

Idle Thoughts and Open Mics

Buck Randall sat snuggled in his generously padded couch, his feet up, waiting for a phone call from the President of the United States.

He turned his head and glanced through the window of the multi-million dollar tower, ten stories above the ground. From this window he could see miles of Florida coastline, foam flecked waves rolling in from an azure ocean onto the endless beach. It was paradise. Why would anyone ever want to leave it? He wouldn’t be seeing it again for a very long time.

Buck had done very well for himself and was smug about his success. Not only that, but he had done it all on other people's money. Not a cent of his own. True, he had worked hard, he had politicked, and he had been blessed with a good dose of Irish luck. But he had done it. The payoff was about to come. Right after he had his chat with the President. Buck grew impatient.

It went without saying that having achieved his singular goal in life, he had, in the process, become famous as well. At least as famous as Donald Trump, he mused. People recognized and acknowledged him everywhere he went. The women, in particular, really paid him notice. He was good looking, lean, athletic and tending toward the maturity of early middle age. And he was a risk-taker. The women liked that in a man. Every day he looked at the odds and stared them down. Just like Trump.

Buck shifted in his couch. His thoughts ran back to four nights ago before he had gone into mandatory quarantine. He wasn’t supposed to drink but he had stopped in for a quiet drink in a nondescript little roadhouse called the Island Hut along the coast. That’s where he had come face to face with the most beautiful, buxom young woman he had seen in some time. She was the hostess and he followed her up to the bar. She had obviously recognized Buck and just as obviously had tried not to show it. But during the hour he was there, she never left him alone. She was, as they say, all over him. Buck had been tempted by the clear invitation. Maybe one day . . .

Buck was proud of his steel will and inflexible self-discipline. These characteristics had taken him to the pinnacle of success. He had said good-night to the woman and left after two drinks. Besides, in the old days before their separation, Cindy would not have approved. Not that she would have gotten angry mind you, just a little hurt in her own quiet way. She might have