“Why didn’t you?”
Linda stared out the window, watching the town of Trona go by. “Oh, I don’t know. I knew Dad would need help, especially with his drinking buddies for partners. Living in Red Mountain was a bit much.”
“Who are his drinking buddies?”
Turning toward Frank, she lifted her chin. “Ben and Bill. They’ve all been friends for more than thirty years. They quarrel and make plans, mostly plans that don’t happen, but they’re inseparable. I know it sounds funny and old-fashioned, but they’re closer than blood relatives.”
He looked over at a wrecking yard north of town, where the rusting hulks of cars lay strewn across the desert floor. The Mojave Desert, graveyard of dead machines, their engines finally falling silent, ashes to ashes, rust to dust. Maybe her dad and his buddies were like that. Maybe they’d come to the desert to die. Frank liked the way she stuck up for them. She made no apologies for their peculiarities.
Linda breathed deeply and looked out at the desert. “Did you know the Joshua Tree Athletic Club was what the miners liked to call a ‘pleasure palace’?”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard. Some of the old-timers still talk about it.” He grinned. “With fond memories, I might add. To hear them tell it, the girls were all beautiful, warmhearted, and never took a dime from the guy telling the story.”
“Yeah, sometimes I hear Ben and Bill talking about Janey’s place over in Nevada. They make it sound like a social club. Maybe it is. Did you know about the tunnels leading from the bar to the crib houses where the girls worked?”
Frank downshifted as they approached a low pass. “I’ve heard about them.”
“Well, they’re real. When my dad and his buddies fixed up the old crib house where I live, they cleaned out the tunnel leading from the bar to the house. They even strung lights. I hardly ever use it, though. It’s full of spiderwebs, but it’s sort of fun to think of the girls leading their men through the tunnels to escape being caught by the sheriff.” Linda sighed, staring into the darkness of the hills sloping down to the steeply cut bank on her right.
“I love being with Dad, and I’ve known Bill and Ben since I was born. But when I first came to Red Mountain, I was kind of going crazy. Working at the bar, reading everything in sight, and playing hearts with Dad and his pals just wasn’t enough.” She turned to face Frank, giving him a soft smile. “You know how it is. You plan on doing this or that thing, just for a little while, and then the next thing you know, you’ve settled in.”
Frank nodded. “Um-hmm. Yeah.” He knew exactly how it was. “If you let it, life makes the decisions for you, and the next thing you know, you’re just sort of following along.”
They rounded a corner, and he could see her face in the moonlight, a frown creasing her forehead, her lip sticking out, ready to be nibbled. He needed to get a grip on this. She was doing a story. He was showing her where the bighorns were. This isn’t a social outing, he told himself.
“The job opened up at the Courier. That’s been great. I really like being a reporter, especially for a small paper.” She laughed quietly. “Hey, if it happens, I get to cover it, from bake sales to crime.”
They came to the top of the rise, and Frank slowed the truck. He stole a glance at Linda, who was sitting there in her khaki shorts and hiking boots, her hair blowing around from the open window. “You ever regret living out here? It’s sure not L.A.”
“Oh, now and then. Like when I want to go to a good restaurant that’s not a steak house, or see a play or go to a concert. But it’s so”—she paused, searching for the right word—“primeval here. It reminds me of the beginning of the world.”
Her response made him feel momentarily empty. She seemed to see the beginnings of things, where he saw life leaking out of everything. The cancer had come to his mother without warning and took away everything but her quiet patience. His foolish, drunken, loving father—God, how he missed the fun! As he wept by his mother’s bedside, she had blessed him, resting her brown hand on his head, slowly moving her fingers in his hair. She knew he had no belief in God, but she blessed him because she believed that she had enough faith for the three of them. Grief squatted in Frank’s stomach like a living weight, cutting him off from life. He used his love of solitude as a means of keeping passion at a safe distance. Dry as the desert.
The first hint of gray light softened the sharp lines of the land, washing away the stark contrast between canyon darkness and moonlit slope, blurring the distinction between ridge line and sky. Frank pulled the jeep into a dirt turnaround at the crest of the hill. Linda gave him a questioning look.
“This is a good spot.”
Frank got out of the truck and walked to the edge of the dirt, where the land sloped sharply away into the darkness of early morning.
“From here, you can see up Panamint Valley and, back there, Searles Dry Lake.” He pointed up at the mountains bathed in silver light and shadow. “That’s Telescope Peak. It’s the highest point in Death Valley, over eleven thousand feet. Pretty soon, we’ll be directly below it, but you can’t see it from down in the canyon.” They walked back to the truck in silence. Frank went to the right side of the vehicle to open the door, suddenly feeling awkward. Standing close to Linda he smelled her soap and shampoo again. There was a constriction in his chest. He opened the door and stepped back quickly, beating a clumsy retreat from his feelings. He couldn’t tell if she’d noticed his awkwardness or not.
She spoke without turning her head. “Sometimes, when I’m up early, working on something I’ve put off, I watch the sunrise on Red Mountain.” She turned to Frank, smiling now. “It always seems to put things in perspective.”
Frank winced at the irony. Right now, moonlight in the desert wasn’t doing much for his sense of perspective. If anything, the dry perfume of sage and creosote seemed to be fused with the smell of Linda’s shampoo. He concentrated on the pale edges of her ears. The rush of sensation wasn’t unfamiliar. Alone in the desert, he’d let himself merge with the surroundings, the land and sky seeping into him, but there had never been a woman in these moments.
The Panamint Road lay before them in a straight line that bisected the valley floor. Frank concentrated on driving now. He was pleased to find that neither of them found it necessary to fill the silence with the comfort of small talk. He needed the time to regain his composure. It had been almost three months since Mary Alice had departed for Los Angeles. This hermit thing had been going on too long, despite bruised egos and broken hearts. He liked women in his life. He was pretty sure he’d like this particular woman in his life. She hadn’t inquired into the incongruity of the Irish name and the brown skin. He smiled to himself. He had been wondering about the Reyes name and the oh-so-white skin.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Nothing at all, Linda Reyes. Just thinking the thoughts of an Irish cop.”
“Well, when you want to share, let me know.”
They bounced their way up the last three miles of the dirt track leading to Surprise Canyon, their stuff shifting around in the back of the truck. The glove compartment flew open, spilling maps and pencils on the floor and causing Frank to curse. Linda just grinned and held on to the wind-wing bar. Two things particularly set Frank’s teeth on edge, wind blowing everything every which way and being bounced around in the cab of a vehicle. By the time he pulled off the track, he was in a state of irritation.
Linda had brought a soft half-gallon canteen, good for hiking, and an aluminum camera case. She wore sturdy lightweight ankle boots, a light long-sleeve shirt, and a straw hat with a strap. He wondered about the advisability of shorts when they’d have to scramble up some of the steep slopes. He hoped she was in shape for the tough climbing ahead. He thought about her pale white legs catching the faint light.
“It’s about five miles from here to the end of Surprise Canyon. It’s a steady climb, and some of it’s damn steep. We have about nine hours to make the round-trip, which means we’ve gotta mak
e pretty good time.” Frank looked at Linda inquiringly, giving her a chance to back out. Now that they were here, he wasn’t completely sure this was such a good idea. He’d made this hike many times, but walking was part of his life. It was part of his job, part of his Paiute heritage. Vehicles were a means of getting to a place where he had to go on foot. They were meant to be left behind. If a place could be reached by car, there would be people, cans, papers, trash. Walk a mile away from the road, it was a different world. Walk a couple miles into the desert, you could hear the silence.
Frank watched Linda, her foot resting on the bumper of the truck as she concentrated on tightening up the laces of her boots. She seemed to know what she was doing. She had put a small first-aid kit in her day pack, along with the lunch stuff that she had brought for both of them. Frank strapped on two half-gallon soft canteens, shouldered his pack, and started up the trail that led toward the spring. In a couple of miles, he’d know whether she was up to doing this or not.
8
Jason shuffled along the buckled sidewalk, simian-gaited, his thick torso rocking on bandy legs. On the other side of the chain-link fence, the dogs kept pace in watchful silence. Now and then, he stopped to stare at the muscular black bodies of the rottweilers, which were casually alert, their tongues lolling in the thick heat. His head bobbed up and down in an eerie pantomime of primate behavior, the rottweilers’ huge heads mimicking the motion. Roy got out of the van to stand in the partial shade of its squat profile. His brother and the dogs continued their silent parade down the bright new fence. From time to time, Jason reached out a furry red hand and jiggled the fence, enticing one of the dogs to jump at his flattened palm in frustrated fury. Bits of sunlight glittered from the razor wire topping the fence.
Roy found a familiar reassurance in his brother’s oddities. He watched Jason come around the corner of the property, a location momentarily screened from the building by a eucalyptus tree, its slender gray-green leaves dusty and motionless in the humid valley heat. Jason reached into his pants pocket and produced a package wrapped in butcher paper. He opened the package and leaned forward, sniffing the contents with care—ground meat laced with chloral hydrate, a canine Mickey Finn. He hunched over, his large head shifting from side to side as if to ward off detection. Then he lurched near the fence, shoving gobs of meat through the wire squares, high up, out of reach of the crushing teeth.
The larger of the two dogs gulped the meat down without hesitation. The smaller one, the female, sniffed suspiciously, eyeing Jason. He crouched forward and pushed another gob of meat through the fence and backed away. This time, the dog took the meat into her mouth.
“Sleepy time, dogs. Oh yes, sleepy time, dogs.” Roy hummed to himself and moved toward the gate. As he drew near, the dogs broke away from Jason and trotted to a security gate complete with electronic locking mechanism and two-way speakers. The smaller of the dogs bared her teeth, a barely audible rumble coming from deep within her throat. Roy looked on them with a sort of approval. They were creatures of menace, trained not to bark, more threatening in their silent watchfulness than slavering junkyard dogs. Passersby hurried their steps or crossed the street to avoid the dogs’ attention.
Roy pushed the buzzer next to the gate and waited.
A half acre of asphalt surrounded a large single-story corrugated-iron building topped by a small cupola. The clerestory windows of the cupola were painted black, with the unpainted exception facing Holt Boulevard and the gated entrance into the compound. Above the streetside door, a new, professionally done sign in foot-high black lettering against a Caltrans yellow background proclaimed GOLDEN STATE FIREARMS. The coils of razor wire topping the bright, new eight-foot-high chain-link fence suggested a sort of recent prosperity. It was a safe haven, an untouchable retreat. Roy nodded to himself. A place with something soft at its center.
Jason padded after the dogs, grinning in anticipation, happy again to be back in Roy’s good graces. A suggestion of movement in the unpainted window confirmed Roy’s suspicion that they were being watched. “Hey look me over …” Roy hummed. He had dressed for the occasion in soft chamois leather pants, matching shirt, lizard-skin boots—eight-hundred-dollar threads, topped off with a low-crowned, wide-brimmed 10x Stetson. A rich dude, flush customer. Even Jason passed muster in clean, pressed Wrangler pants and shirt, hired help.
The dogs’ ears pricked up in unison, probably responding to a silent whistle. They turned as one and trotted toward the building, disappearing through the corrugated door, which was partially open, allowing them to pass.
“Identify yourself, please.” The voice coming from the speaker sounded tinny and slightly garbled.
“It’s Mr. Hauptman, Eric Hauptman—we spoke on the phone—and Mr. Rojas, my associate.” Roy smiled at his little linguistic joke.
“When you hear the buzzer, push the gate.”
The sound was familiar—that of institutional lockdown, doors controlled from a bulletproof booth. Roy gave the gate a shove. They were in. A visit from the Miller boys.
A smallish pear-shaped man stood back from the door, well behind the phalanx of dogs. “The dogs are okay. Just don’t touch anything.”
It was the same soft, indistinct voice Roy had had trouble hearing on the phone. The pear man was all dressed up like an urban storm trooper—khaki T-shirt, camo pants, and brightly polished jump boots, sort of a combat Pillsbury Doughboy. Hickey would be cracking up, wanting to know if he got his clothes at Banana Republic. The guy’s stomach ballooned over a tooled belt and threatened to swallow up the butt of a 9-mm Glock semiautomatic pistol. The Glock rested in a clip-on holster, easy to reach, a point of consideration.
Roy slipped into persona, smiling confidently. “I’m Eric Hauptman. This is my driver and assistant, Jesus Rojas.” He gave the name Jesus the Spanish pronunciation, hay—zoos. Roy gestured toward Jason, who bobbed his head, his tiny blue eyes bright with concentration.
“You’re Calvin Bates?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
Bates bent down, squinting into the open action of a large-bore sporting rifle resting in a padded cradle. The bolt lay next to a small padded vise on the bench.
“As I said on the phone, I’d like you to custom a thousand-yard rifle for me. I’ve seen your work. It’s the best.” Roy delivered his slow personal smile, his teeth pale yellow against white skin and red gums.
“Where’d you see my work?” Bates blew some invisible debris from the open bolt action.
Roy spoke with enthusiasm. “Pomona Gun Show. Some Japanese guy was selling a very nice three seventy-five Weatherby Magnum. He said he’d had it customized by Golden State Firearms. That’s you, right?”
“Yeah, I know the little yeller feller.” Bates nodded without looking up. “A dentist who can’t talk English and who can’t hit shit.” He fished a large cigar from the cargo pocket on his fatigue pants. He bit off the end and spit the severed tip in the direction of a trash bin. “Ol’ Doc Jap took it to the range to sight it in. What a fucking joke. He said it kicked too hard, asked would I fix it.” Bates looked up at Roy. “I told him it would knock his Asian butt on the ground.” He shook his head in disgust. “He shoulda bought a twenty-two and stuck to tin cans.”
Roy nodded his head in shared disgust. It was easy to empathize. Roy liked “yeller fellers” even less than Bates.
Bates shifted his gaze from Roy back to the rifle he was working on. “You know, that was a really nice piece I made for him. So how come you didn’t buy it when you had the chance?”
“Like you said,” Roy replied, “a three seventy-five’s too much, unless you’re hunting really big stuff. Besides, it’s not for reaching out, is it? And the stock was too short, made for little Jap arms.” Roy grinned in conspiratorial fellowship.
Bates took a wooden match from his shirt pocket and struck with his thumbnail. He applied the match to the end of the cigar, puffing carefully until it was evenly lit. Clouds of smoke hung in the still air.
“If you think a three seventy-five’s too much, you ought to try this baby, a four fifty-eight, the most powerful shoulder weapon made. Want to stop a car, this fucker’ll do it. Purdy’s makes them in doubles, but I like the Weatherby bolt action, the strongest—five shots, three more for insurance.”
He waved his hand absently at the cloud of smoke.
“So what you’re thinking of—I mean, if you want the thousand-yard shot—is maybe a two twenty or a two seventy. The two seventy’s got the flat trajectory, and it’s steady, groups tight. The two twenty’s fast, but not much stopping power, and to tell you the truth the loads are critical. They have to be just right or the thing shoots all over the map. The two seventy does more work.”
Roy looked past Bates to the stock blanks neatly resting from Peg-Board pins against the wall behind the workbench. “Mind if I look over the stocks?”
The dogs sat panting heavily. The male, especially laboring for breath, half-slid into an outstretched position. Bates squatted down on one knee next to the dog. “Hey, boy, what’s up?” He rubbed behind the dog’s ears, talking softly. “Hey, Nero, come on, boy.”
Roy stepped swiftly past the long workbench and the dogs and kneed Bates in the face. The male dog was too stupefied to respond, but the female struggled to her feet and staggered at Roy, a growl rumbling in her throat. Jason kicked into her side hard enough to crack ribs. Her rear end collapsed in shaky spasms. She sank to the ground with a soft whimper, feet splayed awkwardly against the floor.
Roy grasped Bates by the throat with one hand and grabbed the Glock with the other, pushing him down next to the prostrate dogs. He smiled affably.
“Surprise, Mr. Bates, you’ve got company.”
Bates sat up, a small, soft hand unconsciously rubbing his throat. His eyes shifted quickly about and came to rest on Roy, sizing things up. Too calm by half, Roy thought. He’d been fucked over before.
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