G is for GUMSHOE Page 6

  “I want it locked,” she said with an unmistakable edge.

  “I’ll do what I can,” I said, making no attempt to disguise my skepticism.

  “Thank you.”

  I gave her the telephone number at the Vagabond and she said she’d get in touch with me later on. I changed back into jeans and tennis shoes, hopped in the car, and headed over to a hardware store where I bought an oversize padlock of cartoon proportions that weighed about three pounds. The clerk assured me it would take a blasting cap to pop it off the hasp. What hasp, I thought? While I was at it, I bought the whole mechanism – hinged metal fastening and the corresponding staple – along with the tools to install the damn thing. Nothing was going to keep those kids out. I’d seen at least two holes punched into the trailer shell. All they’d have to do was enlarge one and they could crawl in and out like rats. On the other hand, I was getting paid to do this, so what did I care? I picked up some nails and a couple of pieces of scrap lumber and returned to my car.

  I drove north on 111, doing the eighteen-mile return trip to the Slabs. Offhand, I couldn’t recall the name of the road I was looking for so I kept my speed down and spent a lot of time peering off to my right. I passed a grove of date palms on my left. Beyond, in the far distance, I could see the vivid green of fields under cultivation. Somehow the countryside looked different, but it wasn’t until I spotted the sign reading salton sea recreation area that I realized how far I’d overshot the mark. The road to the Slabs had to be ten miles back. I spotted a gravel side road ahead on the left and I figured it was as good a place as any to make the turnaround. An old high-sided truck was approaching, kicking up a trail of dust in spite of the tact it was only moving ten miles an hour.

  I slowed for the turn, checking my rearview mirror. A red pickup truck was barreling down on me, but the driver must have noted my change in speed. He veered right, cutting around me as I gunned the engine, scooting out of his path. I heard the faint pop of a rock being crushed under my wheel, but it wasn’t until I’d done the U-turn and was back on 111, that I felt the sudden roughness in the ride. The flap-flap-flapping sound warned me that one of my back tires was flat.

  “Oh great,” I said. Clearly, I’d run over something more treacherous than a rock. I pulled over to the side of the road and got out. I circled my car. The rim of my right rear wheel was resting on the pavement, the tire forming a flabby rubber puddle underneath. It must have been five or six years since I’d changed a tire, but the principles probably hadn’t changed. Take the jack out of the trunk, crank the sucker till the weight is lifted off the wheel, remove the hubcap, struggle with the lug nuts, pull the bad wheel off and set it aside while you heft the good one into place. Then replace all the lug nuts and tighten them before you jack the car down again.

  I opened my trunk and checked my spare, which was looking a bit soggy in itself. I wrestled it out and bounced it on the pavement. Not wonderful, but I decided it would get me as far as the nearest service station, which I remembered seeing a few miles down the road. This is why I jog and bust my hump lifting weights, so I can cope with life’s little inconveniences. At least I wasn’t wearing heels and panty hose and I didn’t have glossy fingernails to wreck in the process.

  Meanwhile, the flatbed had turned out onto the highway and had come to a stop a hundred yards behind me. A dozen male farmworkers hopped off the back of the truck and rearranged themselves. They seemed amused at my predicament and called out suggestions in an alien tongue. I couldn’t really translate, but I got the gist. I didn’t think they were giving any actual pointers on how to change a flat. They seemed like a good-natured bunch, too weary from the short hoe to do me any harm. I rolled my eyes and waved at them dismissively. This netted me a wolf whistle from a guy grabbing his crotch.

  I tuned them out and set to work, cussing like a stevedore as the flatbed pulled away. At times like this, I tend to talk to myself, coaching myself through. It was midafternoon and the sun was beating down on me. The air was dry, the quiet unbroken. I don’t know the desert well. To my untutored eye, the landscape seemed unpopulated. At ground level, where I sat wielding my crescent wrench, all I could see was a dead mesquite tree a few feet away. I’ve been told that if you listen closely, you can hear the clicks of the wood-boring beetles that tunnel through the dead wood to lay their eggs.

  I settled down to work, letting the isolation envelop me. Little by little, I became accustomed to the stillness in the same manner that eyes become accustomed to dark. I picked up the drone of an occasional insect and noticed then the foraging warblers catching bugs on the fly. The true citizens of the Mojave emerge from their lairs by night: rattlesnakes and lizards, jackrabbits, quail, the owl and the Harris hawk, the desert fox and the ground squirrel, all searching for prey, angling to eat each other in a relentless predatory sequence that begins with the termites and ends with the coyote. This is not a place I’d want to unroll my sleeping bag and lay my little head down. The sun spiders alone will scare you out of ten years’ growth.

  By 3:20, I’d successfully completed the task. I rolled the flat tire around to the front of the car so I could hoist it into my trunk. I could hear a foreign body rattle around inside, a rock or a nail by the sound of it. I checked for the puncture, running my fingers around the circumference of the tire. The hole was in the sidewall – a ragged perforation not quite the size of my little fingertip. I blinked at it, feeling chilled, not wanting to believe my eyes. It looked like a bullet hole. An involuntary sound escaped as I was overtaken by one of those rolling shudders you experienced as a kid on leaving a dark room. I lifted my head. I surveyed the countryside. No one. Nothing. Not another car in sight. I wanted out of there.

  I hoisted the tire and shoved it into my trunk. Swiftly, I gathered the jack and my crescent wrench, moved around to the driver’s side and got in. I started the engine and rammed into gear, pulling back onto the highway. I drove faster than I should have, given the condition of my spare, but I didn’t like the idea of being out there by myself. It had to have been the guy in the pickup truck. He’d passed me just as the blowout occurred. Of course, a rock might have caused the damage, but I couldn’t think how it could have penetrated the sidewall, leaving such a nice neat hole in its wake.

  The first service station I passed was out of business. The gas pumps were still standing, but the windows were broken and graffiti, in a garland, had been sprayed along the foundation. Local advertisers were using the supporting columns for their poster art and a real estate company announced in bold print that the property could be leased. Fat chance.

  On the outskirts of Niland, at the intersection of Main Street and the Salton Highway, I found a small station selling one of those peculiar brands of gasoline that makes your car engine burp. I put some air in the spare tire and dropped off the fiat.

  “I’ve got some business to take care of at the Slabs,” I said. “Any way you can do this in the next hour and a half?”

  He studied the tire. The look he gave me suggested that he’d come to the same conclusion I had, but he made no comment. He said he’d pull the tire off the rim and have it patched by the time I returned. I was guessing I’d be back by five o’clock. I didn’t want to imagine myself out in the desert once the sun went down. I gave him a ten for his trouble and told him I’d pay for the repair when I got back. I hopped in my car and then leaned my head out in his direction. “Where’s the road to the Slabs?”

  “You’re on it,” he said.

  I took Main to the point where it becomes Beal Road, approaching Slab City this time with a sense of familiarity. I felt safer out here. There seemed to be more people about at this hour: an RV pulling into a site, kids being dropped off in a snub-nosed yellow school bus. Now the dogs were out, leaping joyously at the sight of all the children home from school. When I reached Rusted-Out Chevy Road, I turned right and soon Agnes Grey’s blue trailer appeared just ahead. I parked short of the place and pulled my tools out of the backseat
. Thoroughly paranoid by now, I took out my little Davis semiautomatic and tucked it into the waistband of my blue jeans at the small of my back. I grabbed an old cotton shirt and pulled it on over my T-shirt, gathered up the lumber, the padlock, and the latch, and approached the trailer on foot.

  The gremlins were in residence. I could hear the murmur of their voices. I reached the front door, unable to avoid the gravel crunching underfoot. The voices were silenced instantly. I leaned against the frame, peering in at an angle. For all I knew, I’d get whacked with a two-by-four. Instead, I found myself face-to-face with the dreadlocked creature I’d spied earlier that day. A second scummy face appeared beside the first. I’d been informed by the neighbors that one was the boy-chick and one was the girl. I was guessing this one to be male, but I truly couldn’t discern any sex-based differences. Neither had facial hair. Both were young, with the unformed features of cherubs, tatty mops on top, ragged clothes below. Neither smelled any better than Agnes had.

  The boy and I eyed each other and swelled up in the manner of apes. So ludicrous. We were both the same size-five six, neither one of us over a hundred and twenty pounds. Little banty-weight toughs. One possible difference was that I was willing to kick the shit out of him and I didn’t think he was prepared to do likewise. With a glance at his companion, he rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets as if he had all day. He said, “Hey, Poopsie. What the fuck are you doin’ here?”

  I felt my temper flash. My nerves were already on edge and I didn’t need any aggravation from a little punk like him. “I own this place, ass eyes,” I said snappishly,

  “Oh really? Let’s see you prove it.”

  “No problem, Poopsie. I’ve got the deed of trust.” I pulled the gun out of my waistband and held it with the barrel up. It wasn’t loaded, but it looked good. If I’d had my old Colt, I could have cocked it for effect. I freely confess – while I can intimidate little boys, I’m not that good with the grown ones. “Get lost,” I said.

  The two of them fell all over each other trying to scramble out the back. The trailer shook with their trampling feet and then they were gone. I ambled down the passageway and peered into the bathroom. As I suspected, they were using a hole in the wall as an emergency exit.

  The first thing I did was board up their escape route, pounding nail after nail into the flimsy bathroom wall. Then I used a handheld drill to set the screw holes for the hasp I was mounting. I can’t say I worked with any astonishing skill, but I got the job done and the physical labor improved my mood. It felt good to smash things. It felt good to sweat. It felt good to be in control of one small corner of the universe. As long as I was here, I did a quick search, looking to see if there was anything of Old Mama’s left. I couldn’t find a thing. The cupboards were bare, closets stripped, the various nooks and crannies emptied of her possessions. Most of them had probably been sold at the flea market on the road coming in.

  I went out to the VW and snagged the 35-millimeter camera I keep in the rear well. I had part of a roll of film left and I snapped off as many photos of the place as I could. I didn’t think Irene Gersh was going to “get it” otherwise. She had talked as if her mother might retire here in her golden years.

  Before I popped the padlock into place, I bundled up the gremlins’ sleeping bags and miscellaneous belongings and left them by the front step. Then I went across the road and told Marcus what I’d done. As I returned to the trailer, I spotted a slice of crawl space underneath, makeshift storage, where a few items had been crammed. I got down on my hands and knees, reaching back among the bugs and spiders, and pulled out a couple of dilapidated cardboard boxes. One was open and contained a motley collection of rusted garden tools: trowels, a spade, a short hoe. The second box had the top flaps closed, sections interlocked to secure the contents without anything actually being sealed shut. I pulled the flaps back and checked inside. The box contained numerous pieces of china wrapped in newspaper, a child’s tea set. It didn’t even look like a full set to me, but I thought Irene or her mother might like to take a look. Certainly, I wasn’t eager to leave the dishes for the gremlins to raid. I closed the box up again. I snapped the padlock shut on the trailer door. I had no hope whatever of keeping the little buggers at bay, but I’d tagged the necessary bases. I toted the box to my car and shoved it in the backseat. It was still light when I left the Slabs, but by the time I picked up my tire and headed back into Brawley, it was fully dark.

  In my pocket was the .38 slug the mechanic had removed from the tire. I really wasn’t sure what it signified, but as I’m keenly aware of the obvious, I had a fair idea.

  Chapter 6

  *

  I went back to the Vagabond and got cleaned up. I made a wad of my overshirt and tucked it in the duffel, pulled on a fresh T-shirt and buckled on my shoulder rig. I put my briefcase on the bed beside me while I took out a box of PMC cartridges and loaded my .32, which I tucked snugly under my left arm. A threat on your life is a curious thing. It seems, at the same time, both abstract and absurd. I didn’t have any reason to disbelieve the facts. I was on Tyrone Patty’s hit list. Some guy in a pickup had shot out my tire on an isolated stretch of road. Now, it could have been a wholly unrelated prank, but I suspect if the flatbed full of farmworkers hadn’t pulled up behind me, the guy in the pickup might have circled back and plugged me. God. Saved by a truckload of Mexicans making obscene digital remarks. I might have been abducted or killed outright. Instead, providentially, I was still in one piece. What I was having trouble with was figuring out what to do next. I knew better than to go to the local cops. I couldn’t tell them the make, the model, or the license number of the truck itself and I hadn’t gotten a good look at the driver’s face. Under the circumstances, the cops might sympathize, but I didn’t see what they could offer in the way of help. Like the Santa Teresa police, they’d be long on concern and short on solutions.

  What then? One alternative was to pack my car and head back to Santa Teresa “toot sweet.” On the other hand, it didn’t seem smart to be out on the road at night, especially in territory like this, where it was possible to drive for ten miles without seeing a light. My friend in the pickup had already tried for me once. Better not offer him a second opportunity. Another possibility was to put a call through to the Nevada private eye and ask for some help. The community of private investigators is actually a small one and we’re protective of one another. If anyone could offer me assistance, it would be someone who played the same game I did with the same kind of stakes. While I pride myself on my independence, I’m not a fool and I’m not afraid to ask for backup when the situation calls for it. That’s one of the first things you learn as a cop.

  In a curious way, this still didn’t feel like an emergency. The jeopardy was real, but I couldn’t seem to make it connect to my personal safety. I knew in my head the danger was out there, but it didn’t feel dangerous – a distinction that might prove deadly if I didn’t watch my step. I knew I’d be wise to take the situation seriously, but I couldn’t for the life of me work up a sweat. People in the early stages of a terminal illness must react the same way. “You’re kidding… who, me?”

  After the phone call from Irene Gersh, I’d have to come up with a game plan. In the meantime, as I was starving, I decided I might as well grab a bite of supper. I zipped on a windbreaker, effectively concealing the shoulder holster and the gun.

  On the far side of the road was a cafe with a blinking neon sign that said eat and get gas. Just what I needed. I crossed the highway carefully, looking to both sides like a kid. Every vehicle I saw seemed to be a red pickup truck.

  The cafe was small. The lighting was harsh, but it had a comforting quality. After years of horror movies, I’m inclined to believe bad things only happen in the dark. Silly me. I elected to sit against the rear wall, as far from the plate-glass window as I could get. There were only six other patrons and they all seemed to know one another. Not one of them seemed sinister. I studied a clear plastic
menu with a slip-in mimeographed sheet reproduced in a blur of purple ink. The items seemed equally divided between cholesterol and fat. This was my kind of place. I ordered a Deluxe Cheeseburger Platter, which included french fries and a lily pad of lettuce with a slice of gas-ripened tomato laid over it. I had a large Coke and topped it all off with a piece of cherry pie that made me moan aloud. This was the cherry pie of my childhood, tart and gluey with a lattice top crust welded in place with blackened sugar. It looked like it had been baked with an acetylene torch. The meal left me in a chemical stupor. I figured I’d just consumed enough additives and preservatives to extend my life by a couple of years… if I didn’t get killed first.

  On the way back to my room, I stopped by the motel office to see if there were any messages. There were two from the convalescent home and a third from Irene, who had called about ten minutes before. All three were marked urgent. Oh, boy. I tucked the slips into my pocket and headed out the door. Once out on the walkway, I stopped dead in my tracks, struck by the eerie sensation that I was being watched. A silvery feeling traveled my body from head to toe, as chilling as a trickle of melting snow down the back of my neck. I was acutely aware of the glowing windows behind me. I eased out of range of the exterior lights and paused in the shadows. The parking lot was poorly illuminated and my motel room was at the far end. I listened, but all I could hear were the noises from the highway – the whine of trucks, the sonorous blast from a speeding semi warning vehicles in its path. I wasn’t sure what had alerted me, if anything. I peered into the dark, turning my head from side to side, eyes averted as I tried to pinpoint discreet sounds against the obliterating fog of background noise. I waited, heart thumping in my ears. I didn’t like what this business was doing to my head. Faintly, I picked up the musical tinkling of a little kid giggling somewhere. The tone was impish, high-pitched, the helpless snuffling of someone being tickled unmercifully. I sank down on my heels beside a wall of thick shrubbery.