Found Money - James Grippando [39]
He rose early Saturday morning, having managed only a couple of hours of sleep. He showered, dressed, and brought the box down to the kitchen. His mother was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the Lamar Daily News, a local paper put out by the nearest “metropolis”—Lamar, population 8,500. It was usually no more than sixteen pages, three or four of which would typically be devoted to a photographic recap of the annual Granada High School class reunion or the 4-H Horse Show. The sight of his mother and her small-town news made it all the more absurd, the thought of his father flying to Panama and opening a safe deposit box.
“I’ve looked everything over,” said Ryan.
His mother stared even more intently at her newspaper.
“Don’t you want to know exactly what’s in there?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Ryan stood and waited, hoping she’d just look at him. The wall of newspaper between them seemed impenetrable. Fitting, thought Ryan. Most people in Piedmont Springs at least once in a while read the Pueblo Chieftain, the Denver Post, or even the Wall Street Journal. Not Mom. Her world was filtered through the Lamar Daily News. Some things she just didn’t need to know.
“Mom, I’m going to take all this stuff with me, if that’s okay with you.”
She didn’t respond. Ryan waited a full minute, expecting her at the very least to ask where he was going. She simply turned the page, never making eye contact. “I’ll be back late tonight,” he said on his way out the kitchen door.
He put the box in the backseat of his Jeep Cherokee and fired up the engine. The sun was just rising over the cornfields. Miles and miles of corn, all for animal feed, not the sweet corn grown for human consumption. A cloud of dust kicked up as he sped along the lonely dirt road, a shortcut to Highway 50, the first leg of the two-hundred-mile trip to Denver.
The air conditioner in Amy’s truck was still broken, making the Saturday afternoon traffic jam even more unbearable. According to historians, Arapaho Indian Chief Niwot once said that “people seeing the beauty of the Boulder Valley will want to stay, and their staying will be the undoing of the beauty.” Inching toward the fourth cycle of the traffic light at 28th Street and Arapahoe Avenue, Amy was beginning to see the truth in what locals referred to as “Niwot’s curse.”
Amy had a twelve-thirty lunch reservation at her favorite restaurant. Gram had graciously agreed to babysit until three o’clock. For Taylor, that meant nonstop reruns of Three’s Company and The Dukes of Hazzard, at least until she went down for her afternoon nap. It made Amy feel a bit like a child abuser, but tomorrow she’d figure out some way to reverse the brain damage.
She parked near Broadway and walked up to the Pearl Street Mall. For all its natural beauty, Boulder was ironically quite famous for its mall. The four-block open-air walkway was the city’s original downtown area, converted for pedestrians only. Historic old buildings and some tastefully designed new ones lined the brick-paved streets, home to numerous shops, galleries, microbreweries, offices, and cafés. The mall was prime people-watching territory, especially on weekends. Jugglers, musicians, sword swallowers, and other street performers created a carnival atmosphere. Amy smiled as she passed “Zip Code Man,” a virtual human computer who, with no more information than your zip code, could identify and often even describe your neighborhood, no matter how far away. Taylor had stumped him last December, using the zip code she’d posted on her letter to Santa Claus.
Narayan’s Nepal Restaurant was a sizable downstairs restaurant right on the