The Phone Tree

1980’s Rural Nebraska

“Do you think he will be here today?” the voice asked.

Bob Metcalf poured the cup of coffee in front of him and cradled the heavy phone between his shoulder and ear.

“Who says it’s a he?” Metcalf replied.

The voice was quiet for a spell.

The static, all too familiar crackling sound that was all to frequent on old country phone lines was the only sound heard.

“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you ain’t. Any stranger that comes around…we need to be ready.”

Metcalf said, “I got the best view in town. Any stranger comes through, I’ll be the first to know.” He paused, thinking.

“Well, besides Lemon. His farmhouse is on the outskirts.”

The diner had a wide ceiling to ground window in the front, a view of Main Street, and more importantly, the entrance into town.

Miles of flat Nebraskan land.

Few places to hide.

You could see a car coming easily.

He put the phone back on the receiver and looked at the customer in front of him. Donald Weed, a thin man with the rough face typical of a Mid-Westerners, looked at him expectantly.

“Well…”

“Nothing. Ben is just worried like the rest of us.”

The phone Metcalf had just set down rang again.

It was a loud, off putting sound.

Both men gave the phone a look and then at each other.

The ringing continued.

“You gonna get that?” asked Weed, taking a sip of coffee.

“I guess I should…” He leaned back and picked the phone up, “Metcalf’s Diner.”

This time the voice was female and older. “Anything?”

Metcalf looked at the window. It was deserted outside except for the occasional towns person shambling by; all of which he knew.

“No. No one.”

“I don’t like this.”

“Who the hell does?”

“Will you let me know the second you see a stranger?”

“Yes.”

He placed the phone back on the cradle, turned his attention back to Weed.

“Margaret is worried.”

The door chimed.

Weed and Metcalf turned their heads toward the door.

Tom Lemon entered, along with a blast of dry heat. He removed his stray hat, a layer of dust seemingly falling to the ground. A quick look around confirmed no one else inside except the two men at the counter. He hitched his overalls and joined them.

He was sweating profusely.

“I’m worried,” said Lemon sitting down. He wiped his forehead and nodded to the coffee pot.

Metcalf filled his cup and looked toward the window.

“No need to be worried yet. We ain’t seen anyone.”

“Been busy today ever since you called. Getting equipment ready. Just in case.”

Metcalf nodded, his eyes gravitating back to the front door. Across the street, an American flag outside the barber shop stood still in stark contrast to the red, white, and blue electronic barber pole.

Lemon took a sip of coffee. “Jule’s is watching the road. Told her to call here if she sees any strange cars.”

Weed and Metcalf nodded.

The trio went into an uneasy silence.

“This detective,” began Lemon.

“It’s a private detective. Not a real detective,” said Metcalf.

Lemon wiped his forehead again. “It doesn’t matter. This detective is going to be poking his nose around here. That is not a good thing.”

“Could be a female detective,” said Weed.

Metcalf sighed. “We need to remain calm. We’ve kept it together for ten years and no one has been the wiser.”

“How would they even know to come here?” Lemon asked.

Metcalf gave an exasperated sigh. “It’s an obvious choice. Think about it. Besides, the real cops couldn’t find anything. Why would a rented one have any more luck?”

Weed spoke. “Because a rented one is usually a retired one. And a rented one is being paid to focus on only one thing. That’s why we should worry. Not panic. But worry.”

Lemon looked at Metcalf. “Are the others worried?”

Metcalf looked behind him. “The phone tree is working overtime.”

“What did our inside man say? When did he call you?” asked Lemon.

Metcalf started cleaning several mugs with a rag before he spoke.

A truck he recognized lumbered slowly past the diner, leaving a trail of exhaust smoke.

“Early this morning he called. Our man said the company never let it go. They always wondered what happened to their product. He said the police no longer wanted to investigate things. He said the company was hiring a PI firm from Chicago. The PI firm was sending its best person.”

Metcalf placed the clean mugs on the counter, lined up ready to pour if more customers decided to amble in just then.

Weed slid his mug across the counter for another refill. The coffee steamed as he took a sip. He steadied his gaze at the owner of the diner.

“What else did the inside man say?”

“Nothing,” Metcalf said meeting his stare.

“I don’t like this,” said Weed.

“We need to meet. With everyone. In person,” said Metcalf.

Lemon gave him a bewildered look.

“Why?”

Metcalf said, “We need to be on the same page.”

“Agree,” said Weed.

“What if the detective shows up?” said Lemon.

Weed looked at Metcalf. “You said Chicago? That’s at least a days’ drive.”

“Agree. I say we have until the morning,” said Metcalf.

Lemon gulped the remaining cup of coffee and checked his wristwatch. “Until what?”

“To make a plan.”

The phone tree started ringing. One house to another. It was understood that everyone was to meet at Tom and Julie Lemon’s home by seven. Plans would be discussed, and action would be taken. Six people were finally settled in Lemon’s living room. Around a worn oak table, everyone sat.

The farmhouse and barn were lonely islands surrounded by oceans of cornfield.

An ancient grandfather clock ticked loudly in the hallway outside the room.

Ben Crabtree was tapping nervously with one hand, smoking his tenth cigarette with the other. A heap of gray ashes in an ashtray.

Margaret O’Neil had a cup of tea. She stirred the teabag silently. Her cane placed between her legs.

Tom Lemon and his wife sat close to each other, each holding hands, looking down for the most part.

Donald Weed had a tumbler of whiskey, his eyes already red shot.

And Bob Metcalf stood near the window, watching the road.

He looked around at the people at the table.

Everyone shared the same secret.

And no one was willing to take any initiative so he would.

“Let’s begin.”

Eyes turned toward him.

Bodies shifted.

“We all know the problem. Let’s work on the solution.”

No one spoke.

“It’s been ten years. And no one has lost their marbles, so we are not going to start tonight. Understood?”

Nods and murmurs echoed in the small room.

“When this detective shows up in the morning, they are going to ask questions. It’s a small town and I’d be sure he, if it is a he, will talk to most of us.”

He looked at the Lemons’.

“If the detective arrives from the east, and I’m assuming he will, he will see your house first. When the detective sees your house, he might pull over and want to talk. The story doesn’t change, OK? You don’t know anything. Got it?”

The Lemon’s nodded.

Metcalf looked at Ben Crabtree who ran the town’s feedstore.

“Ben, I’m sure they will stop by your store. Just act busy and act like the detective is bothering you.”

Crabtree nodded and let out a puff of cigarette smoke.

“Margaret, if the detective makes it to your home, just act old and confused. Not that you are, my dear. Eighty years young,” he said jokingly.

That got the elderly lady smiling.

“Don, you will be with me at the coffee shop. Just a regular day for us. Got it?”

Weed nodded, downing the whiskey.

“We have been good the last ten years. No one has gone out and spent the money in a way that would attract attention. I assume we have all spent a little here and there and that’s OK. We need to keep it that way. Six million dollars is something that attracts attention.”

“So does a missing truck and two bodies,” added Weed.

“Yes. Yes it does,” said Metcalf.

“The phone tree will be in full operation tomorrow morning. Everyone will need to be standing by. I will be letting everyone know where the detective is at all times and vice versa.”

He walked away from the window and stood before the group.

“I didn’t put my million in the bank and I know no one here would be stupid enough to do the same. My million is spread out between three storage lockers in Omaha and Lincoln. Everyone needs to let us know where your hidden remaining cash is.”

Metcalf raised a hand when he saw several people starting to raise objections.

“I would never ask in any other circumstances, but this is different. If that detective gets ahold of that cash, we are all going to jail. Remember, all of those bills have serial numbers that are marked and can be traced. If we know where the other’s cash is, we can steer the detective away. Once that detective leaves, I want everyone to move the cash somewhere else.”

Tom Lemon nodded and clutched his wife’s hand. “It makes sense.”

Crabtree shrugged and put out another cigarette before starting on another. “I got a floorboard behind the counter in my store. It’s loose. It’s all there.”

Margaret blew on her tea and shifted her cane with her right hand. “You know the old outhouse behind the house?”

“Yes,” said Metcalf.

“There are several big rocks surrounding it. It took me awhile, but I have it buried six feet under in big metal cases. Keeps the animals away.”

“Smart,” said Metcalf.

Weed said, “My money is in my house. I got some hidden behind the walls. Some under the floorboards. Hell, I even hid some in my old car’s tires in the garage. No one would even think to look,” he said proudly.

All eyes turned to the Lemon’s.

Tom looked at his wife who smiled. He looked sheepishly at Metcalf.

“It’s still with the truck.”

Everyone looked at the Lemons’ in disbelief.

Margaret said, “You left it in the armored truck?”

Tom Lemon spread his palms.

“The backhoe dug pretty deep and I can do it again. We figured what better place to hide it then the truck? It’s safe, right?”

Metcalf nodded, returned to the window, and looked out into the vast field beyond the Lemon’s home.

The sun was slowly falling, an orange light slowly turning off.

The armored truck and the bodies of the two guards were buried about one hundred yards from where he stood.

Ten years before, the plan had been hatched.

The armored truck company passed through their dusty town every Friday like clockwork. Just one point on the map to another.

It started as a joke through the phone tree.

The joke evolved.

Into something serious.

The plan began.

Miss Margaret had been lying by the side of the road, yelling in pain, her car off to the side of the road.

Who wouldn’t stop and help an elderly woman, right?

The truck stopped.

Both men, violating company policy, climbed out, concerned, not aware of the ambush waiting.

It was quick.

No one suffered through the rapid succession of gunfire in the early morning.

It had been brilliantly executed.

The authorities thought the two guards had taken off on their own and were now living in a non-extraditable country enjoying the fruits of their labors.

If they only knew…

Metcalf turned back to the group, drawing his chrome shined revolver.

The first shot hit Ben Crabtree, closest to the door, in the right side of his temple. He slumped to his left, falling out of the chair slowly. He wasted no time with another shot to Donald Weed’s face as his friend turned toward him in shock.

Two more shots entered the chest area of the Lemons’ who had started to stand.

Margaret O’Neil remained sitting.

Her eyes moved from Metcalf to the teacup in front of her.

The house grew quiet as the smoke from the six shooter filled the room.

The grandfather clock in the background ticked on, slowly.

Tick Tick.

Margaret’s hands moved slowly to the cup.

Her hands shook as she brought the cup to her mouth.

“So under the stones, around the outhouse?” asked Metcalf.

“You bastard,” she whispered.

Metcalf nodded, his finger slowly squeezing the trigger.