“That’s it. Take it outside.” The bartender glared at the trio. “It’s time you guys were moving along, as well.” This was directed at Roy.
Roy grinned again. “So long, folks.” He gave another casual wave and walked out into the bright, hot air of the Mojave Desert. He stepped immediately to one side of the push-through door and squinted away from the light, letting his eyes adjust. His right hand closed around the roll of nickels he kept in his pocket.
He raised his voice and called into the bar. “Come on, Jace.” “Let’s go.”
Instead, the trio of hunters came bursting through the door into the bright light, blinking in the whiteness. Roy caught the moon-faced thick one in the kidneys with the fisted nickels as he came through the door. The man dropped to his knees and rolled into a fetal position, gasping in silent agony. That’s one, Roy thought, feeling the familiar adrenaline rush pumping up his pulse. The man’s companions stood looking at their downed leader, eyes full of surprise.
“Hey, wait a minute, man.” The one closest to Roy put up his hands.
Roy looked at him, shaking his head in disbelief. Why’d these guys always want to talk? Jason caught him from behind and pinned his arms. Roy stepped forward and drove his fist deep into the softness of his stomach. The man on the ground struggled to all fours. Hickey kicked him in the side of the head and grinned over at the remaining youth, who stood immobile, mouth agape. “What you gonna do there, man, take a picture?” Hickey laughed. Frightened eyes shifted from Hickey to Jason and Roy and back to Hickey. As he stumbled backward toward the door, the bar emptied in a rush, everyone trying to see the action.
Roy raised his hands up, palms out. “Hey, it’s all over. The man was rude; now he’s polite.” He bent down over the ashen face. “You have to be careful how you talk to people, right?” The man nodded. Roy cupped his hand to his ear. “What’s that?” Can’t hear you.”
“Right. That’s right.” The man’s voice was hoarse with pain.
Roy turned away, ignoring the onlookers by the tavern door. The paper that had the news of Donnie’s death was stuffed in the back pocket of his white denims. It was all that was left of Donnie—Donnie, the one who remembered when they’d all lived along the river in Oro Grande. Now there was just himself and Jason, and Jace could barely remember what had happened yesterday.
He grabbed Jace by the arm, fingers digging in. “Donnie’s dead.” He slapped the newspaper into his face. “That’s right, dickbrain, Donnie’s dead.”
“Come on, man. We gotta go.” Hickey pulled Roy toward the bikes. As Roy reached for his brother’s arm, Jason jerked away from Roy’s grasp, his bright little eyes alive with malice. Roy looked back at the men standing in confusion around the door and raised his hand in a gesture of farewell, his mouth pulled into a flashy smile, exposing the gums made blood red by the whiteness of his skin. “Hope you enjoyed the show, assholes.” His voice soft as dry leaves. But they couldn’t hear him.
3
As Frank pulled into the dirt parking lot next to the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, he found himself sucking dust. His beloved ’53 Chevy pickup pinged from the gravel thrown up from some motorcycles careening onto 395 in an earsplitting cacophony. He cursed under his breath as he watched them disappear down the highway toward Boron and Kramer Corners. He shook his head.
He wondered if the new owners of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club were turning the old place into a biker bar. He hoped not. The desert didn’t need any more macho vacuumheads littering up the landscape. Still, it was none of his concern.
He pulled his truck in well away from the other vehicles scattered about on the weedy, oil-soaked dirt patch that passed for a parking lot. It had taken him more than a year to bring the truck back to life. He liked the way it felt when he drove it, not much speed, but a lot of torque. A five-window pickup with the original chrome grille and bumpers, real bumpers, not five-mile-an-hour aluminum foil. People looked at the truck. “Nice truck,” they’d say. It made him feel good.
Mary Alice had accused him of taking better care of his truck than of their “relationship.” How did a love affair, a romance, become a relationship? Only with the help of the psychobabblers. She was always reading self-help books and articles about “quality time” and building “self-esteem.” Weren’t there people who were justified in their self-loathing, when it was just an accurate appraisal? Assholes with insight? He could see her peering intently at a book and then intently at him, cataloging his shortcomings, particularly his “inability to communicate his feelings.” Maybe she’d never liked what he said. He shook his head. The seven, ten, twelve steps—twelve steps seemed to be in—to a more fulfilling relationship were always cluttered up with the jargon of confession and failed communication. Was that Bogey’s problem in Casablanca? Was he thinking about failed opportunities for communication as he put Ingrid Bergman on the plane to Lisbon? That must’ve been it. If old Bogie had only gone to a few sensitivity sessions, he would’ve gotten his head right, given up gambling, drinking, and heartbreak, and taken up with a rich widow.
Frank stepped up onto the short, board sidewalk that extended along the front of the bar and pushed past a knot of guys hashing over some sort of bar fight. Inside, it was the same place he remembered, and yet it wasn’t. Someone had taken all the crap off from behind the bar; no jars of greasy sausage, no mini racks of stale chips, no neon signs for Bud or Coors. The backbar gleamed, the dark mahogany rubbed with polish, the beveled mirrors reflecting back his curious gaze. Long ago, he had come to terms with his unprepossessing appearance—slight build, the face somewhat enigmatic, laugh lines at the corners of sad hazel eyes set evenly above a prominent nose, the mouth and chin serious.
Behind him, caught in the tavern’s permanent half-light, the men went about the timeless business of spinning the tedium of the day’s events into the stories where they beat their enemies and won the women. Frank could make out snatches of excited conversation. The rhythm of the beery brotherhood had been disrupted. Maybe the latest gold strike. They were forever waving about little glass flasks of gold flakes caught in water. Bottled hope.
A tall, hawk-nosed man watched him from the far end of the bar. Frank nodded as they made eye contact. That was a big thing with men. In college, he’d read about the way chimps, gorillas, and baboons established dominance by staring one another down. You could see it in any bar.
Frank stood with his arms resting lightly on the polished wood. Perched on a stool your feet lost contact with the ground. It was too easy for the rest of the body to follow. He preferred standing. The bartender ambled down to where Frank leaned against the bar.
“What’s been going on?”
“Not much. A couple guys sharing pain.” The blue eyes were watchful, looking him over.
“How come?”
The bartender leveled his gaze at Frank. “Who knows why bikers beat on people? What’ll it be?”
Off to a bad start. Frank looked at the bottles lined up along the top of the backbar. He smiled to himself at the sight of the ubiquitous jackalope, where it kept watch over the beery brotherhood from above the bar. There used to be one in every desert bar and hotel. A marvel for children, and the taxidermist’s triumph—the horns of an antelope protruding from the head of a rabbit. He remembered the one in Simon’s Pool Hall in Mojave, the rail town where his dad, Francis Flynn, had been a freight conductor for the Southern Pacific. He could see the sun-wrinkled face of Three-Fourths Larson telling him how he had stalked a jackalope for days and finally lassoed it, caught it by the horns using a rope made from owl feathers. Three-Fourths had explained that it had to be made of owl feathers so it would fly through the air so silently that not even a jackalope could dodge the loop.
“Beer or not?” The bartender lifted a cigar from under the counter, bit off the end, and spit it behind the bar.
“What’s on tap?”
“Sierra Nevada.”
Frank studied the beer along the bar again. “So much
to do and so little time.”
A small smile creased the broad face.
Frank gestured toward the bottles along the top of the bar. “There’re quite a few up there I’ve never met, but I see you’ve got Guinness, Dublin’s finest.”
The smile widened. “I see you’re another lover of God’s own gift to thirsty men.”
“And women,” Frank added. “I’m Frank Flynn.” He hesitated for a moment, then offered his hand. “From the Bureau of Land Management.”
“Well, Officer Flynn, welcome to the Joshua Tree Athletic Club.” The bartender’s hand was leathery and dry. “Jack Collins. This is my place. You here on business?”
“Not officially, and make it Frank, okay? I’m off duty. Just dropped by, so to speak. I’d be sorry to make you or your patrons here uneasy, Mr. Collins.”
“Just Jack will do. Mr. Collins was my father.”
Frank nodded. “Okay, Jack.”
Collins’s broad face waited impassively for Frank to continue.
“We had a nature trail out by the Hole-in-the-Wall campground, signs identifying the plants and animals. People seemed to enjoy it. So when the BLM got a few extra bucks, we put in some signs in braille.” His voice trailed away. Collins leaned forward to catch his words. “Someone came along with a rock or a hammer and pounded the little bumps flat so the blind people couldn’t read ’em.” He looked calmly up at Collins’s round face. “I wish we had caught the guy, but we didn’t.
“Then there’re folks who kill the animals that live in the desert, for no particular reason other than it’s pretty easy. I’ve found tortoise shells with bullet holes in them.” Frank drank half his beer and set the glass down. He looked at it absently and then drank the rest. “It’s tough bagging a desert tortoise, especially on the move. But you gotta follow the gun nut’s code. ‘If it moves, shoot it.’” He looked up into the bartender’s face. “I used to save the tortoise shells. Too depressing.” He shook his head. “So I boxed up six or seven shot-up shells and sent ’em to the NRA. Made me feel better, even though it was an empty gesture, so to speak.” His smile was mirthless. “They probably used them for ashtrays, gave them a laugh.”
He leaned forward for emphasis, engaging the large man’s gaze. “Now they’re back to killing the bighorn sheep.” The tall guy at the end of the bar seemed to be listening to him. “It’s a lot easier to do now than in the old days, when a hunt meant four or five days of living in camp, stalking, reading sign. Now they come in close by plane or helicopter and wait by the water holes with automatic weapons. Wham, bam, thank you, ram. Gone back home after a tough half day hunting. Of course, if the horns are too small, they leave the animal to rot. If they bag a trophy ram, the so-called guides lug the heads out for them. It’s a lotta work lugging a big old ram’s head around, but then, the fees are pretty good. Maybe ten grand if the horns make the book.”
“‘The book’?”
“Yeah, well, there’s a scale, the Boone and Crocket scale, and a record book. If the ram makes the book, you’ve earned major bragging rights. There’s the head up on the wall, where clients and colleagues can see they’re in the presence of a big white hunter.” Frank looked up at Collins’s ruddy skin and graying blond hair, suddenly aware of his own olive complexion. “Sorry.” He grinned. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Collins took a mug from the refrigerator under the bar and opened a Bishops Finger for himself. “Frank Flynn.” Collins eyed the uniform. “You the Francisco Flynn in the paper, the one that found the dead guy?”
“Yup, that’s me. I found the dead guy up in the Panamints. A story with a happy ending. A poached poacher. Too bad he’s not the last of his kind.” He eased himself up on a bar stool and leaned forward, his voice barely audible. “I’m trying to get a line on these sports folks.” He paused. “Unofficially. Trying to help out Fish and Game, my colleagues in law enforcement. Someone who knows something about the desert has to be taking them in, showing them the places the sheep go.”
“So that’s what brings you here?”
Frank studied the brown liquid in the bottom of his glass. “Bartenders hear things. I’d like to give the sheep an even break. If you hear about poachers, I’d like to know. Sometimes, they’ve just got to brag about it.” He looked up into Collins’s broad face and plunged on. “Just that. Nothing else. Most of the guys in this room, I know they don’t give a damn for BLM regulations. Hell, most of them were here before the BLM. They’re not my concern.” He looked around the room. “Actually, not so. They are my concern. They’re an endangered species.”
Collins took a clean mug from under the bar. “Try a Bishops Finger. It’s a wonderful beer. A balm to sore hearts.” Giving Frank a blarney grin, he poured the amber liquid not quite to the rim. “On me. Hang on for a bit. I need to talk with a fellow.”
Frank watched as Collins and the tall man at the end of the bar had a quick, quiet exchange. The tall man unfolded himself and crossed the room on long legs. He bent over a man with a gray beard streaked with dark whiskers on either side of his mouth. The bearded man was leaning forward in an observer’s chair, watching a game of pool, smoking a pipe. The tall one spoke into the pipe smoker’s ear. A pair of sharp eyes fixed on Frank from under a snap-brim fedora. A Bogie hat, thought Frank. The man took the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the heel of his shoe, a soft leather desert boot. Then he fished a pipe cleaner from his pocket and stuck it in the pipe, and began absently pushing it back and forth, just listening. Now and then, he glanced over at Frank. Finally, he looked up and nodded once, and returned his attention to the pool players. The tall guy returned to the bar and nodded at Collins.
Collins shrugged. He lifted his glass and absently set it back on the bar. “I guess you read the piece in the InyoKern Courier, about you finding the body in the Panamints?”
“Yup, didn’t do me justice. I didn’t see anything about me being brave, clean, and reverent. What about it?”
“Well, this might be something you can use.” Collins’s expression was matter-of-fact. “The paper had a sketch of the tattoo on the guy’s neck.”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“Well, one of the bikers in here was asking questions, trying to find a friend of his. Just left before you came in.”
“Uh-huh,” Frank nodded. “What club?”
“Didn’t advertise.”
“Can you remember what they looked like?” Frank thought of the jerks who had sprayed gravel on his truck.
Collins placed both hands on the bar and squinted up into cigar smoke. “There were three of them. One guy in his forties, gray ponytail, bad teeth, skinny, about six feet tall, maybe a hundred and sixty or so, definitely needed a shower. His partner looked like an orangutan—short legs, big torso, red hair all over.”
“You’d have made a good cop.”
Collins frowned. “Protecting the rich from the poor is like protecting the English from the Irish.”
Frank smiled. “Point taken. Notice anything special about them?”
Collins seemed mollified. “Something was the matter with the redheaded one. You could tell the way he bobbed and jerked his head around that he was short a few cards, not at home, you know what I mean? Knock on the door and maybe you’d get an answer, maybe not.”
Frank nodded. “What about the third guy?”
“He’d be hard to forget. I never saw a guy with hair so white and skin to match, and he had strange pale eyes, like doll’s eyes painted on porcelain.”
“Maybe he was an albino,” Frank offered. He remembered that one of the bikers had been wearing a long-sleeved shirt and a kerchief cap. The desert wasn’t an ideal environment for the fair of skin.
“Maybe so.” Collins went on, “And he had this sort of intense way of talking, as if he were reading from a page in his head. You got the feeling he wasn’t really talking to you. That’s about it.”
“Ought to know ’im if I see ’im.”
Collins turned h
is head slightly away from Frank, looking toward the door of the bar, and brought his hand up as if to shade his eyes from the cracks of bright sunlight. “The redhead made funny noises with his mouth. The white-haired guy, the one who did all the talking, didn’t like it. I didn’t care much for it myself.”
“What did he talk about?”
Collins gave a Celtic shrug, a gesture familiar to generations of British constabulary—shades of Francis Flynn. “He asked me to help him find some biker buddy. I didn’t much care for him or his pals, so I wasn’t very helpful, but he left a note for me to pass on if I should run into the guy.” Collins plucked the matchbook with the note on it from where he had stuck it against the mirror and pushed it across the bar.
Frank read the note: “‘Donnie, call home. Roy.’ So how’s this connected to the dead man?”
“Bill over there”—Collins pointed with his chin at his tall companion at the end of the bar—“was reading the paper about you finding the body. There was that sketch of the tattoo. The white-haired guy had one like it on the right side of his neck, like the drawing in the paper.” Frank looked over at the lean, angular face. The man named Bill gave a slight nod.
“Bill showed it to Mr. White Hair. Asked him if he was looking for the man you found dead in the desert. Well, he stares at the paper, swallows a couple times. Then he looks up and says, naw, it’s not him. But he’s obviously upset. He gets up, collects his buddies, and they go outside. He had words with some deer hunters passing through, and they followed him outside. By the time the rest of us went out, two of them were on the ground. The white-haired one holds up his hands and says it’s all over. And it was. White Hair never batted an eye. Cool and calm. He waved to the boys hanging around the door. Then they got on their bikes and tore on down the highway. That’s when you showed up.”
Frank picked up the note and looked at the names again—Donnie, Roy. The dead man must’ve been named Donnie. He looked up at Collins. “Did the white-haired guy mention where home was?”
Shadow of the Raven Page 3
