Someplace to Be Flying

by Charles de Lint

  "So do you think she did it?" Moth asked.

  Hank shook his head. "No. But don't ask me why. I wouldn't trust her with anything that wasn't nailed down tight, but I didn't see a killing instinct."

  "People do a lot of things you don't expect. She bought the gun. And she had cause."

  "It's Couteau that bothers me."

  "You sure we're talking about the same guy you saw get dropped?"

  "I wouldn't forget that face." Hank sighed, looked away over the empty lot, the abandoned buildings beyond it. "There's some kind of connection here, but I just can't put my finger on it."

  "Where, exactly, are you going with this?" Moth asked.

  "I can't see that far yet. I've got to dig a little deeper first."

  "Maybe this photographer—"

  "Lily."

  "Maybe she's working on something the Couteaus don't like."

  Hank nodded. "Could be. I'll ask her."

  " 'Course you could just drop the whole business," Moth said. "Eddie wouldn't give advice he didn't mean. If he says they're out of our league, I'd believe him."

  "I've made promises," Hank said.

  "To who? The lap dancer? To Lily?"

  Hank shook his head. "To myself. I'm not going to let Sandy Dunlop take the fall for something she didn't do, and if the Couteaus are gunning after Lily, she's got no one standing between her and them except for me."

  Moth sighed. He took the time to light up another cigarette, blew out a stream of smoke the same cool gray of the cloud cover. There was too much going on here—too much that strayed from odd all the way over into seriously weird. He could feel a storm coming and all he wanted to do was get them all under cover. His family. Let the world deal with its own problems. But maybe it was too late. Maybe the storm was already catching up to them.

  It sure looked that way when you counted up the score. If he believed Jack, and he half did. If Katy was really what she said she was, and he was starting to lean toward accepting that as well. If he believed his own gut feelings, and they'd never let him down before.

  But were they in the eye of the storm, or still watching its approach? Maybe they had time to retreat, get under cover and pull the boundaries of their small patch of the world in behind them. He knew what Hank would say, but he had to try anyway.

  "You're set on this," he said.

  Hank nodded. No hesitation.

  "Who's the skinny guy in that book, used to tilt at windmills?" Moth asked.

  "Don Quixote."

  "Take a lesson from what happened to him to see how the world treats idealists."

  "I can't let it go," Hank said. "Guess you taught me too well."

  Moth ground his cigarette out on the pavement. "Only you weren't listening. I told you to keep it in the family."

  "I can't do that."

  "That's your problem in a nutshell," Moth told him.

  But he didn't really mean it. Truth was, he admired Hank's generosity of spirit. He only had to think about how Hank had been there for Terry and Paris, took them off the street when no one else gave a damn. And it wasn't just them. Hank had a habit of stepping into what wasn't his business and doing the right thing. A lot of people owed their life, or a second shot at making something of themselves, to Hank. That kind of selfless charity wasn't something Moth had ever been much good at mustering in himself, except when it came to family. When he was being honest with himself, he saw it for the failing it was.

  "But first we've got to deal with Katy's problems," Hank said.

  Only, when they headed over to where the Volvo sat rusting in the back of the junkyard, Katy was gone. Anita hadn't seen her go, and she'd been keeping an eye on the car. They checked Jack's bus, but she wasn't there and neither was Jack. So then everybody got into looking for her. The whole crew. Benny, Terry, Paris, the dogs. But it was no good. And not even Moth's sixth sense at finding things could help them track her down.

  It was as though she had stepped right out of the world. And when you knew her history—if what she'd told Hank had been true—maybe that was just what had happened.

  17.

  Tucson, AZ

  Lily found herself with more free time over the weekend than she might have liked, but since the video production company was paying for the shoot, she couldn't really complain. It was like being paid to take a holiday. In somebody's oven, it was true, but a holiday all the same.

  The shoot was in an airplane graveyard in the south part of the city. It reminded her of the junkyard near Jack's bus in Newford, only on a much larger scale. Here, rusting cars stacked two or three high had been replaced by row upon row of rusting aircraft—a drowsing elephants' graveyard of helicopters, transport planes and fighters, suddenly invaded by a film crew with their lights and gear, and of course their subjects: the latest Nashville chart-toppers. The director had the band members playing in the open bay doors of junked transports, line-dancing on their wings, gear all set up under the old propellers of others, marching with guitars over their shoulders down the rows of out-of-commission helicopters and fighters. Lily's job was to keep a photographic journal of the proceedings.

  It was fun at first, dealing with the desert and the towering saguaro cacti, the big sky and the wonderful light as it played upon the hulking metal shapes. The band members were all photogenic—pretty boys in cowboy hats, tight jeans, and pointy-toed cowboy boots. The lead singer wore a Nudie suit, but he didn't have either the grit of a Buck Owens or the good-natured party attitude of a Marty Stuart to pull it off. Shooting them got old fast. The film crew was much more interesting—probably because they all looked like individuals rather than interchangeable mannequins pulled off some Nashville assembly line.

  The single for which they were filming the video was played over and over again, a slick, catchy song that sounded more pop than country to Lily's ears, but then that was what it was all about these days. New Country. Young Country. It was all just Boomer pop with the addition of a steel guitar or fiddle, so far as she was concerned. When it came to country, her tastes ran more to that high lonesome sound that had come down to the cities from the Appalachians, or music that had its roots in the border music of Texas and Mexico.

  But they weren't paying her for her taste in music, and she was enough of a professional to get the shots the director was looking for, candid and casual, but with the band still looking good. Some of them were going to be used in the video—short flashes juxtaposed against the action sequences; some for promo. Most would gather dust in the director's file cabinets.

  The most interesting subject on the shoot, the one her viewfinder kept returning to, was a tall young woman in a black tank top, raggedy blue jeans, and cowboy boots as pointy as the band's, only hers were scuffed and well worn. Her blue-black hair was long and tangled, with two bands of white running back from her temples. She was deeply tanned, or naturally dark-skinned, it was hard to tell which. Her eyes were so dark they were almost black, but with a faint hint of yellow in them, and she liked jewelry. She was wearing a half-dozen earrings, a charm necklace that had to have thirty or forty silver charms dangling from it, rings on the pinkies and ring fingers of both hands, a fistful of bracelets that jangled when she moved her arms.

  After a while, Lily got the idea that the woman wasn't really involved in the shoot. It was more as though she'd simply wandered onto the set when no one was paying attention. And they still weren't. Perhaps she was a local, Hispanic, or from the Tohono O'Odham Reservation west of the city. By the end of the first day, everybody was feeling wilted by the heat, except for her. She looked as casual and fresh as she'd been when Lily first noticed her.

  Putting away her cameras and gear, Lily went over to where the woman stood leaning up against the shiny bulk of some junked plane, thumbs hooked in the belt loops of her jeans.

  "So what's your secret?" she asked.

  The woman looked startled, as much, it seemed, from the fact that she'd been approached as by the question.

  "I'm
Lily, by the way," she added, offering her hand.

  "Margaret."

  Her handshake was firm, her skin dry, almost rough.

  "It's just so hot," Lily went on, "but it doesn't seem to bother you at all."

  Margaret smiled. "If you think this is hot, don't come visiting in the summer."

  I was right, Lily thought. She was local and probably not supposed to be on the set. Not that Lily cared. Security wasn't her responsibility and Margaret didn't give the impression that she was about to cause any trouble, though she did look as though she could deal with any that might come her way.

  "So you're from around here?" she asked.

  "I never really think of myself as being from anywhere specific," Margaret said. "But I've been most places and this is a place I always come back to."

  "Why's that?"

  Margaret cocked her head like a bird and grinned. "What are you up to tonight?"

  "I don't know. We're finished here for the day, so I guess we'll all be going back to the motel. I've no idea what anybody else is planning to do, but I'm going to have a long cold shower."

  "Let me show you around a little tonight."

  Lily hesitated for a moment, then thought, why not? She was tired, but not that tired. Her only other options were staying in her motel room by herself or hanging out with the others from the shoot, which was too much like joining the band's admiration society.

  "Sure," she said. "But I have to have that shower first. Do you know where we're staying?"

  Margaret nodded. "Do you have a car?"

  "No, I came down with the crew."

  "Well, let me drive you back. I don't want to rush you, but before we do anything else, we have to do the sunset, and that doesn't give us much time."

  "Do the sunset?"

  "You'll see."

  Lily glanced over to where the others were packing up. Well, in for a penny, she thought. They wouldn't miss her, except maybe for the bass player, who'd been making it clear that he could show her a good time, all she had to do was say the word. Yuck. She turned back to Margaret.

  "Okay," she said. "Let's do it."

  "This is so unbelievable," Lily said later. Now she understood what doing the sunset meant. They'd driven west of the city to a lookout on Gates Pass Road, parked Margaret's Jeep, and climbed the red dirt hills to a vantage point from which they could see the hills on all sides, dotted with scrub, towering saguaro, and other, smaller cacti. Staghorn, aptly named. Teddy-bear cholla which wasn't nearly as endearing as its name—get too close and the thorns seemed to jump right off the plant at you. The city was a distant grid of lights and squares to the east. And in the west, the sunset.

  It was like nothing Lily had ever seen before. She didn't even bother to try to capture it on film. Instead, she wiped the dust from her glasses and then, like Margaret, she lay back on the wide flat stone that Margaret had led them to and simply let the rich palette of color swell inside her, holding it in memory where it could live forever, unchanged, untouched by the whim of how film was developed, the printer's colors.

  They weren't alone. The parking lot by the lookout had been filled with cars and the hillside was dotted with other climbers, tourists and locals, all taking in the sight. There'd been laughter and talking while she and Margaret climbed to their vantage point, but when the sun finally floated down to the horizon, a hush fell over them all as though everyone held a collective breath.

  Lily glanced at her companion. "This'd be worth living here for—all by itself."

  "I knew you'd like it," Margaret said. "You've got an artist's eye."

  "I don't think you have to be an artist to appreciate this," Lily told her.

  "No," Margaret agreed. "You just have to be alive."

  From the lookout, they drove to a small Mexican restaurant on Fourth Avenue called La Indita. It looked like nothing special inside—booths and some tables, set up no differently than a hundred other greasy spoons Lily had been in—but Margaret led the way through the front part of the restaurant to a patio in back overhung with vines. Lily's stomach grumbled as they passed the kitchen and its hot spicy smells. Happily, a waiter followed them outside, bringing water, a basket of tortilla chips and a small bowl of salsa to their table as soon as they sat down. Margaret ordered Mexican beers for both of them while Lily sampled the salsa.

  "Hot," she managed after having some water.

  "But good?"

  "Mmm."

  On the wall in front of them was a stylized terra-cotta sun with small birds perched on its beams. From the birds' studied looks, Lily decided they were waiting for her to drop a tortilla chip on the flagstones underfoot. When she obliged, small brown shapes winging down to pluck the morsels up, she looked up to find Margaret smiling at her.

  "I guess that just encourages them, doesn't it?" Lily said, returning the smile with a rueful one of her own.

  Margaret shrugged. "Even the little cousins need to eat."

  Though she wasn't exactly sure what Margaret meant, Lily liked the sound of it. Little cousins. She crumpled another tortilla chip and tossed the broken pieces onto the flagstones for the birds, licking the salt and crumbs from her own palm.

  It had cooled down with the sunset and Lily was glad she'd brought along a jacket. The change in temperature didn't seem to faze Margaret at all. She was still in her tank top, unconcerned, boots propped up on one of the table's spare chairs.

  Lily found herself studying Margaret when she could do so without being too obvious. She loved the character in her companion's features, the fluid shift of expressions across them, the dark wells of her eyes. She tried to place her nationality, but couldn't. Margaret spoke fluent Spanish to the waiter, sounding like a native, but her English had a cowboy drawl that appeared entirely unaffected.

  And she certainly knew the city—better than Lily knew her own.

  When they left the restaurant, they drove all over in the Jeep, stopping at places Lily could never have found for herself, all of them with great atmosphere. Clubs, roadhouses, cafés. A biker bar. A little cantina with a Mexican band playing. A dance club playing jungle and trance so loud it was almost impossible to think, little say talk. There was someone Margaret knew wherever they went, and it quickly became obvious that she was equally at home with a wide spectrum of people, blending into any crowd like a chameleon.

  Around two-thirty in the morning, they finally ended up back downtown, close to where they'd had dinner, drinking espresso in a bohemian café that was part of a place called the Hotel Congress. The building was old and worn, not all slicked up like the motel where Lily was staying, and she immediately fell in love with it. Next time she came to Tucson, she decided, she'd stay here, even if the rooms were as small as Margaret told her they were. She couldn't resist taking a few pictures of the foyer with its blend of art deco design and Southwestern art, Margaret posing for her good-naturedly. In the café itself, she kept expecting to turn around and see Leonard Cohen or William Burroughs sitting at the next table.

  "So what do you think so far?" Margaret asked.

  "So far? I've had the best time. But I'm running out of steam, so don't tell me there's more."

  "There's always more, but we can leave some for another night, except … you're only in town for a day or two, right?"

  Lily nodded. "If Kenny gets everything he wants tomorrow, we're flying out around noon on Monday."

  "That's not nearly enough time."

  Lily had to laugh. "What are you? A one-woman tourist board?"

  "I just like to have fun."

  "Well, you'll have to let me return the favor if you ever come to Newford."

  "Oh, I love Newford."

  "When were you there?" Lily asked, surprised.

  Margaret shrugged. "I go there all the time."

  "And do you know as many interesting nightspots there?"

  "More."

  That figured, Lily thought.

  Lily was sure she'd be far too tired to go out again with Margare
t on Sunday night—she couldn't have gotten more than five hours' sleep before she had to get up to make it to the shoot the next morning—but the other woman's enthusiasm and good humor were too infectious to ignore. Once she made sure that her part in the shoot was finished, Margaret drove her back to the motel so that she could shower and change, and they were off again.

  This time they watched the sunset from a hiking trail in the foothills of the Rincon Mountains, then went rambling through the city, following an even more eclectic program than they had the night before. They ate in what seemed to be the backyard of someone's house, an incredibly savory vegetable stew with flatbread and homemade beer. Went dancing in a club so small only six people could press onto the dance floor at a time. Stopped by a foundry where a sculptor friend of Margaret's was working on enormous statues of hawks. He had the wing of one completed and it was easily the length of a car.

  Around one in the morning, they finally ended up on a ranch somewhere west of the city in the Catalina Foothills. A bonfire was blazing, casting shadows to dance with the revelers around it. There was live music: electric guitars, bass, drums, accordion, fiddle. There was chanting and singing, dancing around the fire, and copious amounts of wine and beer consumed. Though there were a few Anglos such as herself, most of the people were dark-skinned and raven-haired. Lily couldn't quite place them any more than she could Margaret.

  "They're crows," Margaret told her when Lily asked in a break between songs.

  Lily hadn't realized that the Crow lived this far south. She'd always thought of them being from around the Yellowstone and Platte Rivers.

  "So you're all Native Americans," she said.

  Margaret laughed. "Oh, very native. But I'm not a crow myself. I'm a 'pie."

  "You mean a Paiute?" Lily said.

  That made sense, because she knew they lived in the Southwest.

  "No, I mean a magpie," Margaret told her.