" 'This is the moment!' "Otto suddenly sang. " 'My destiny calls me!'
"That's the spirit, kiddo," Sidney Blackpool said, a la Archie Rosenkrantz. "Golf s a mystery but murder isn't. You look at a whodunit the way you look at the desert. This desert changes from one minute to the next. Same with a whodunit. But you gotta be able to see it."
"Hope I don't get the spider in my chili tonight," Otto said. "Looks like we're dining at the Eleven Ninety-nine Club."
Twenty million years ago the Coachella Valley was created by fault action, and today the huge San Andreas Fault runs along the mountains on the north side of the valley. Mount San Jacinto and the Santa Rosas, which partly shelter this valley, are much younger than the neighboring San Bernardino Mountains, less rounded, more dramatic and impressive to the human eye. The bottom of the Salton Sea is 273 feet below sea level, only a few feet higher than Death Valley. In the daylight this desert valley seems lifeless and inhospitable. But the desert at night is quite another story.
The Santa Rosas are home for 650 bighorns. There are birds as huge as the turkey vulture soaring over open country. There is the great horned owl glowering forever like the boss ayatollah, and there's the spotted skunk, which can fire its scent while doing a handstand like an Olympian. There is an occasional lion sighted in this country and packs of coyotes everywhere. There are diamondbacks more than six feet in length.
And there are smaller, more secret night prowlers, the kit fox for one, no larger than a house cat. And kangaroo rats, as cute as chipmunks, with large white tails used for balance as they hop. There are leaf-nosed bats flitting like shadows on the desert floor in the moonlight. There are black widows, scorpions, cockroaches as big as locusts, and 340 species of birds. The desert at night is not at all lifeless. But it can be inhospitable, especially to detectives from Hollywood.
Sidney Blackpool drove as far as was comfortable into Solitaire Canyon on the main asphalt road. Then he took a flashlight from the glove box and led Otto on foot toward the smaller canyon where the Watson car was found.
"You didn't happen to stick an off-duty gun under the seat a your car when we left L. A., did you, Sidney?" Otto asked hopefully.
"Didn't think we'd be up against too much physical danger on the links," Sidney Blackpool said.
"This freaking place's spooky," Otto said. "Listen to the wind howl. When it really blows I bet it could turtle the Queen Mary."
"It sounds like surf crashing against the rocks," Sidney Blackpool said. Then he switched off his flashlight and gazed up the canyon toward the lights in the shacks and cottages occupied by outlaw bikers.
Smoke trees clawed wispily at the wind. On the rocky slope a tree of vertical whips cracked out from the hillside. It was twelve feet tall and the branches floated and wavered in the moaning wind as though it were underwater. All around them were twisted tormented shapes of desert plants and trees, gargoyle shadows. And there were banshee laughs and screams of nocturnal creatures killing and being killed on this perfect November night. Neither detective knew for sure if the demented sounds were made by animals or by those who lived on the road above in the shacks where the lamps flickered in utter darkness.
"Listen!" Sidney Blackpool said.
Under a desert willow that would soon have flowers of rose and lavender, they heard the melody of a burrowing owl living in an abandoned coyote den: COO-COOC0000000.
Then as Sidney Blackpool stepped closer in the darkness, the owl felt threatened and cried "KAK KAK KAK!"
Sidney Blackpool stepped yet closer and the owl imitated the buzz of an angry diamondback.
And two city boys turned tail, hotfooting it toward the road.
"Kee-rist!" Otto cried.
"Was that what I thought it was?"
"What the hell you think it was?"
"Well, I was reading in the tourist guide that desert creatures can imitate rattlesnakes. It could've been a desert impressionist."
"A hog's ass could be kosher, but I don't think so! And I don't wanna catch his act again, even if it was Rich Little! Now let's get out of this freaking place before we get gobbled by buzzards or something."
Then they heard it coming: a motorcycle. A Harley came thundering down the dirt road from the shacks at a speed that seemed impossible at night. The driver was obviously very sure of himself or didn't give a damn.
Instead of going out the main road, he turned the bike back into the canyon, back by a stand of strange shaggy trees. He stopped the bike and got off. He stood for a moment and peered around in the light from the Harley's headlight.
"I got a feeling," Sidney Blackpool said quietly. "You got a feeling what?" Otto whispered.
"That he's looking in the very spot where the Watson car was found. I bet it was down in those trees."
"My neck hair's doing the boogaloo and the freak-a-
deek," Otto whispered. "Let's make a run for the car."
"Let's duck behind the rocks and watch him." "He might catch us and think we're cops!"
"We are cops, Otto."
"I'm losing my fucking mind! I mean he might think we're local dope cops. He might shoot first and apologize later after he finds out we're only harmless homicide dicks from Hollywood . who don't even have a nine iron to defend themselves with!"
The biker gave up looking and got back on the Harley, digging it into the sand, which made him get off and rock it out. He was a very big man, that much was certain even at a distance.
"Too late to run now," Otto breathed. "Here he comes.
The Harley growled toward them at a much slower pace. Then the driver spotted the Toyota far down the road and made straight for it. Both detectives peered over the rocks as he passed, but he punched it and kicked up a dust cloud. They could see his silhouette stop beside the Toyota as he peeked inside for a moment. Then he was off and heading toward the main highway and Mineral Springs.
As they were walking back toward the car, Otto said, "Sidney, I really want you to get the job with Watson and all, but maybe I don't want it as much as you want me to want it. I mean, when that biker was jamming by I was maybe two inches from a spiny plant shaped like something that hangs over the top of a French church. One more foot sideways and I'd have more harpoons in me than Moby Dick. Are you listening to me, Sidney? I'm forty years old. I should be an awning salesman in Van Nuys. Now I need some maxi pads. I can't take this kind a fun no more. Are you listening to me, Sidney?"
Sidney Blackpool shone the flashlight back down the dirt road toward the stand of shaggy trees. "Otto," he said, "if you were driving a big car out here at night and you wanted to get to that row a shacks up on the canyon wall, you could easily get confused. The road that goes off left toward the houses crosses the other road. Did you notice how it crossed back there where we heard the owl?"
"You ain't been listening to me," Otto said.
"So it'd be easy to get on the wrong one and keep climbing and not realize you were going the wrong way till maybe the condition of the dirt road gave you a hint. And then it'd be very hard to get a big Rolls-Royce turned around on that trail."
"So?"
"I was wondering. The Palm Springs lieutenant said at first they thought it was an accident. I can see why."
Listen, Sidney. We already discovered that the Watson kid was probably A. C. D. C. Now're you saying this is a gay version of Chappaquiddick? If so, you got two problems: he was alone when he went over the canyon and he was shot through the head."
"I was wondering if the killer shot him and drove him up here maybe trying to go to one a those shacks. And then got himself turned around and . . . no, that doesn't work. I forgot the kid was belted in the driver's seat. Goddamnit, nothing works! It doesn't make sense no matter how you figure it."
"It makes sense only one way, the way it's been figured all along. The kid was shot. He was driven up here by the killer or killers. He was strapped behind the wheel, but I don't know why. The car was torched and pushed over the canyon into all that desert shrubber
y and it wasn't found for a couple days. Period."
"But there're so many better places to dump a car with a body in it. Less risky than dealing with a big Rolls up there on that skinny dirt road. I just can't work it out to have it make sense."
"Let's go over to the Eleven Ninety-nine and eat some grease," Otto said. "Couple drinks it won't matter so much to ya."
Sidney Blackpool stared up at the canyon wall and listened to the chirp and chatter of desert birds and insects and the yapping of a young coyote loping along a ridge, and beneath it all was the relentless moaning of the wind. He said, "Murder should make sense on some level even if the killer's nuts."
"There's not a cause for every effect," Otto said. "Life's a crap game."
"Partner," said Sidney Blackpool, "you have to make believe there's cause and effect at work or you'll never solve a whodunit."
"Sidney, I realize an old corpse cop like you has instincts about dead bodies. Just like the buzzards and coyotes and scavengers around these parts. But if you don't get me fed soon, I'll be the second cadaver they pull outta Solitaire Canyon."
"Let's go get some grease," Sidney Blackpool said.
At about the time that Sidney Blackpool and Otto Stringer were in the desert getting faked out of their loafers by a foxy owl, Prankster Frank Zamelli was patrolling the outskirts of Mineral Springs so bored he could spit. He was teamed up with Maynard Rivas but couldn't get the big Indian cop to go along with anything.
"I'm depressed, Maynard," he said. "What say we drive by the exterminator's store, steal the big statue of the Terminix bug and sneak it into the Mineral Water Hotel. Then we could call the maid and say, 'Come quick! We got a big roach in our room!' "
"Paco said no more pranks. You're starting to wear him down a little bit."
"But I'm depressed!" Prankster Frank griped as the Indian cruised the main drag watching Beavertail Bigelow staggering against the red light, heading for the Eleven Ninety-nine.
"Good thing Beavertail don't drive no more, Maynard Rivas said.
Just then O. A. Jones came blasting by on his way to the station after having booked a drunk driver down at the county slam in Indio. He was trying to get to the Eleven Ninety-nine before the first gaggle of manicurists went home to dinner.
"There he goes," the Indian said, "taking his end-of-shift O. A. Jones Memorial Roller Coaster Ride. Only thing can stop that guy is a high curb."
"I'm depressed," Prankster Frank said again. "You wouldn't wanna borrow J. Edgar's catamaran, would ya? We could raise the sails and haul it to the hotel swimming pool. Then we could call J. Edgar and . . ."
"The possum gag was enough for one night," Maynard Rivas said. "We'll be lucky we don't get beefed over that one."
"It was worth it," Prankster Frank said.
He was referring to a call earlier in the evening at No-Blood Alley where one of the old dolls was in a tizzy because an opossum had gotten into her mobile home. Upon spotting the animal she immediately went flying out the door but her cat didn't make it. When the cops got there the terrible yowling of the cat and hissing of the opossum had died to a dreadful silence.
"Officers," the old dame wept. "Millie's inside. The possum probably killed her!"
"Who's Millie?" Prankster Frank asked.
"My cat!"
Prankster Frank and Maynard Rivas drew their sticks knowing that an opossum can have a nasty temper when riled. Both had worked the desert long enough not to be fooled by any possum-playing either. The little bastards would lie there belly up with tongue lolling and eyes staring as unblinking as Sergeant Coy Brickman's, and the second you got close they'd come up like a furry knuckleball. Both cops had their clubs cocked and ready.
Prankster Frank crept into the bedroom of the mobile home and heard the soft mewing behind the bed. He'd never heard of an opossum killing a cat but you never knew. The mewing got rhythmic and louder. He crept in after waving Maynard Rivas to stand still. He peeked behind the bed and caught them in the flashlight beam. It was the same as many other sneaks and peeks in his police career, exactly the same.
The opossum had that spotted tabby pressed against the wall and was humping for all he was worth. In fact, Prankster Frank hadn't seen such a hosing since Johnny Holmes stopped doing porn flicks. He switched off the light, turned and walked back outside with Maynard Rivas.
"Just leave the door open and wait a while," he told the distraught old dame. "He'll be through in a few minutes. Of course they might want a cigarette after."
When the cop told her what was going on in her bedroom, she got mad and said she didn't like the way he was making light of a tragedy, and she was calling Paco Pedroza about his unprofessional demeanor first thing in the morning.
Afterward, Maynard Rivas asked Prankster Frank if he had to make the crack about the cigarette.
"Maynard, when you get a chance for a line you gotta deliver the line," said Prankster Frank.
"If you're Johnny Carson," the big Indian said. "I don't want another lecture from Paco. He already said he didn't appreciate you getting Choo Choo Chester to do his Stevie Wonder smile-and-head-roll when he was jerkin off that rubber dildo in the locker room."
"I thought it was a panic," Prankster Frank said. "Old Chester going 'Ain't it w00000nderful' while he's loping that old rubber donkey!"
"Yeah, but you shouldn't a sent Anemic Annie in there on a phony errand. Poor old broad."
"I'm s0000rry," Prankster Frank said. "Hey, tell you what! Let's drive by Shaky Jim's just one time! Just one lightweight prank and I'll call it a night and go to sleep or something."
"Okay," Maynard Rivas sighed, pressing the accelerator and heading for the outskirts of Mineral Springs.
There were a few houses scattered in the path of the wind funnel, houses unprotected by eucalyptus. The residents, who got in there for very low rent, usually called it a wrap after one winter of living in the gales. Not so Shaky Jim. He wanted to be out of town but he was afraid of the crank dealers in the canyons. He settled for the wind, but he always had nightmares of being blown, like Dorothy and Toto, clear into another county.
Shaky Jim had lots of fears. He feared that if he got arrested one more time for dealing pot, the cops might contact the welfare people and try to cut off his monthly checks. Knowing this, Prankster Frank liked to cruise down the highway and suddenly whip into Shaky Jim's driveway. He'd jump on the brakes so hard he'd go into a locked skid, and start yelling and slamming all four doors of the police car like it was the biggest dope raid since the French Connection. After which, Shaky Jim would invariably run to his stash and flush it all--maybe $500 worth of grass, which was all he could afford to deal at one time--thereby clogging his pipes. The local Roto-Rooter man just loved Prankster Frank who had brought him lots of business since joining the Mineral Springs P. D.
Prankster Frank and Maynard Rivas were out there on the highway terrorizing Shaky Jim when Sidney Blackpool and Otto Stringer came driving by. The detectives looked curiously at the Mineral Springs patrol car, which did a wheelie in the driveway of a lonely house, after which two uniformed cops started slamming car doors and yelling commands in different voices and languages.
, Hands up!" Prankster Frank yelled.
:Mas arriba!" Maynard hollered.
"Dung lair Frank bellowed, calling on his memories of Vietnam.
And so forth. They yelled nonsense and any gibberish that came to mind and then jumped back in the car ready to do a U-ee and scorch back toward Mineral Springs, except that Sidney Blackpool got out of his Toyota and waved them down.
"We're on a hot call!" Prankster Frank said, figuring a lost tourist needed directions. "We gotta go!"
"We're Blackpool and Stringer from L. A. P. D. '1 Thc detective showed them his badge.
"Oh, yeah," Prankster Frank said, and Maynard cut the engine. "You were in the Eleven Ninety-nine the other night. Heard all about you."
As he was satisfying the curiosity of the detectives as to what the hell the performan
ce they'd witnessed was all about, Shaky Jim came shaking out of the house in his undershirt and bare feet with his hands high in the air, hands all green from processing pot.
He was younger than Harlan Penrod but not by much. He was smoking a cigarette, or rather, one dangled from his trembling lips.
"I can't take it no more!" he cried. "I'm moving away. I can't take it no more!"
" 'Shoot if you must this old gray head!' Prankster Frank said. "He gets real dramatic sometimes:, , "I quit! I had enough!" Shaky Jim cried. "I'm moving to Sun City. You can just go wreck Billy Hightower 's business. You ain't gonna have me to kick around no more.
Shaky Jim stood like that in the beam of the headlights while the detectives looked on in amazement.
"I think maybe you guys went a little too far," Otto said. "He's quoting Richard Nixon."
"Who's Billy Hightower?" Sidney Blackpool asked.
"A biker lives up in Solitaire Canyon. President of the local chapter of an outlaw motorcycle gang that does nothing but cook methamphetamine and ride their choppers and hogs all over the desert."
"Why don't ya never bust Billy Hightower?" Shaky Jim wailed. "He deals more in a week than I made all year. You let the spook slide just cause he was one a you."
"What's he babbling about?" Otto asked.
"Billy Hightower's an ex-cop," Maynard Rivas explained. "San Bernardino sheriffs, I think. He was fired for knocking his captain into a punch bowl or something at some kind a cop party. He's a Nam vet like most a the bikers in the gang. A crank dealer. I never heard a any those lowlifes having the class to deal real big. Crystal's their thing. A lowlife drug."
"Yes, he does!" Shaky Jim said, approaching the patrol car with his arms still in the air. "Billy Hightower deals big to kids from down Palm Springs. You never bust Billy cause he's one a your own!"
"Go back to bed, Jim," Prankster Frank said. "You're spoiling my prank with all this hollering."
While Shaky Jim trembled back toward the house, Sidney Blackpool looked up the canyon to the lights twinkling by the dirt roads on the plateau. "Think he's smoking it or what? I mean, about Hightower dealing to Palm Springs kids?"
The Secrets of Harry Bright (1985) Page 17
