There were two dozen other passengers taking the last car, and most of them looked like they'd been drinking at least as much as Breda. Lynn remembered the old days when if you wanted an easy drunk-driving arrest you just had to hang around on Highway 111 and catch them coming down.
The tram ride was more impressive in daylight, but plenty thrilling at night. At Lynn's insistence Breda had taken her wind-breaker from the trunk and draped it over her shoulders. It was possible for the temperature to vary 40 degrees Fahrenheit from the valley floor to the top of the aerial tram.
"I had no idea it was so steep," Breda said when the car started climbing on the two-inch cable. "It's straight up."
"Almost," Lynn said. "Over a mile vertically."
Most of the passengers in the enclosed tram car were at the rear of the car hanging on to the handrails, gazing down on the Coachella Valley. The clusters of lights showed that more people lived and played in the desert valley than most people supposed.
The tram car glided with hardly a ripple over the cable that was stretched over five towers, erected by helicopters in the early 1960's. As they climbed, Lynn could sense that Breda was maybe a bit uneasy. Her body pressed against his, perhaps to steady herself.
"God, look at the stars from here!" she said, and his body felt disturbingly good to her.
"The desert sky," Lynn agreed.
He looked up at bushels of diamonds scattered on black satin. And the moonlight flooded down behind them from over the mountains onto the snow-patched limestone and granite through which they soared. As they ascended through the crags, Breda could see swirls and marbling in the cliffs, and clumps of palm, yucca and cactus swaying in the whistling freezing wind.
In fourteen minutes they were at the mountain station, at 8,516 feet but still 2300 feet from the peak of Mount San Jacinto, overlooking 13,000 acres of state park wilderness. When they stepped from the car a blast of wind made her glad she'd brought her windbreaker. They scurried inside the mountain station with other giggling passengers, none of whom were properly dressed for the ride.
Just climbing the steps to the observation area made Lynn a little dizzy, and he could guess how Breda felt even though she was in better shape, a lot better shape. They stepped out onto the observation deck, and the moonlight took her breath away. Thousands of sugar pines-bearers of the world's longest cones-filled the air with pine scent. There was sycamore up there, and cottonwood, alder, black maple. Even wild grapevine grew on the mountaintop. The cloud shadow on the snow seemed fluorescent.
"One a the reasons we live out here," Lynn observed.
"Magic!" Breda said.
And then she did lean against him. She might just be giddy from the altitude, he thought.
She was fighting an impulse to be held in his arms. It might just be the cold and the altitude, she thought.
"They got hot butter rum inside," Lynn said. "Ever tried it?"
"How about Irish coffee?"
"Let's go," he said, guiding her to the glass doors.
When they got to the cocktail lounge there were a dozen tables of drinkers and one cocktail waitress serving. Lynn considered sitting at the bar, but thought better of it when he envisioned what a few drinks might do to her. She could fall off.
"I gotta go to the john," Breda said. "Grab us a table with a view."
The drinking area of the mountain station didn't lend itself to viewing, it lent itself to drinking. The decor was faux-alpine, with peg-and-groove flooring, and there were flags from Alpine countries attached to poles extending horizontally from the walls. There were posters from Lucerne, Innsbruck, Grindewald, Zermatt. The chunky cocktail tables and ersatz captain's chairs were like those you see all over California in medium-priced restaurants where booze is a big item.
When the waitress came to the table, Lynn said, "Irish coffee and Scotch on the rocks."
"Baileys or Jameson's for the Irish coffee?"
"Jameson's," Lynn said. "Double, okay?"
"Okay," the waitress said.
When Breda got back from the restroom, Lynn actually made a feeble attempt to stand up, causing Breda to say, "Don't overdo it. Too much gallantry makes me flutter my eyelashes and I'm not wearing them tonight."
"You don't need em," Lynn said, gazing for a moment at her electric blues. "Your eyelashes're almost as thick as Jack Graves'."
"Wonder what he's up to," Breda pondered.
When the waitress brought the drinks, Lynn said to her, "Run a tab."
Breda sipped the hot Irish coffee. "Wow! By EPA standards this oughtta blow up!"
"The altitude makes the alcohol jump out and seem strong," Lynn lied. "There's a reason for it but I forget what it is."
"So," Breda said, "Nelson's not gonna run out and buy a terrorist-killing rocket launcher qr anything, right?"
"I think he'll have to let loose of that one," said Lynn. "Arab terrorists don't usually terrorize tombstone companies and mortuaries. This deal's about something else."
"Any idea?"
"Nada. Zip. Zero. I think we gotta talk to John Lugo to see what he knows about Francisco V. Ibanez. I doubt the car rental angle's gonna work. If Ibanez rented a car I bet he wouldn't put the right hotel on the rental agreement."
"His I. D.'d have to be good," Breda said. "And he'd need a good credit card to rent a car."
"There's no question in my mind, this guy's gonna have whatever he needs. He knows how to hot-wire a car. He knows how to get information and he'll do anything he has to do to get it. He sure as hell knows how to fight. So far he hasn't wanted to kill anybody but I'll bet he can do that real good too."
"You're positive he's the same guy you saw through the binoculars down in Painted Canyon?"
"Without the stash," Lynn said, nodding. "It was him."
Lynn noticed that after her Irish coffee cooled, Breda drank it easily.
"This stuff isn't bad," she said.
"Warms you right up," Lynn agreed. "Think I'll have one if you'll go for another."
"One more," she said, and he saw that her eyes weren't quite focusing. The high-altitude drinks on an empty stomach were even causing him a few problems. Her freckle was a bit fuzzy.
While Lynn and Breda were busy getting bombed almost two miles above sea level, Jack Graves was still on his second beer and cold sober, watching a young cowboy and a middle-aged woman slow-dancing between the shuffleboard and the snooker tables to "Heroes and Friends" by Randy Travis.
By then, Jack Graves was well acquainted with Malcolm the dog, Doc the vet, and Clive Devon, in that order. The steak was pretty good, and he'd already heard about thirty-three golf jokes from the retired veterinarian.
All of a sudden Clive Devon looked at his watch. "Well, gentlemen, it's time for Malcolm and me to cut trail."
"Good to've seen ya, Clive," Doc said, reaching over the table to shake hands.
"Nice to meet you, Jack," said Clive Devon, shaking hands with the man who'd dogged him unobserved for thirteen hours.
"It was my pleasure," Jack Graves said, and he meant it. He liked Clive Devon. "So long, Malcolm," he said to the big mongrel dog.
Jack Graves didn't get up even though he'd paid his bill. He stayed with Doc and watched the action now that two other couples had gotten up to dance to "Cowboy Logic." The lyrics held Jack Graves in place.
Cowboy logic . . . ev'ry cowboy's got it
He's got a simple solution for jist about Anythaaaaaang.
That's when it came to him! Jack Graves had always done police work grounded in the belief that there's a simple solution for just about anything. With notable exceptions. He knew all about exceptions and insoluble dilemmas.
He turned to the old vet and said, "How about another drink, Doc? I'd like to hear a little more about your golf course up here. I'm thinking about joining it."
Breda had switched to Scotch at Lynn's suggestion. She spilled some when she made the. second unsteady pass at her own mouth, and didn't say a word when he ordered her another
"to replace spillage."
He decided to put a stop to it after this one. Her freckle was swimming all over her lower lip! They were both tanked, and into cop-talk, which is inevitable when cops get that smashed.
"I used to work with . . ." She lost the thread, then picked it up after another sip of Scotch. "Oh yeah! I was saying, I used to work with this alky detec . . . detec . . ."
"Detective," Lynn said, helping her.
"Yeah. Anyhow, he went through treatment programs three times. Last time he fooled his wife for six months. He's the one that told me a twenty-five-foot garden hose holds a pint. A fifty-footer holds a quart."
"That's sad," Lynn said sadly, putting down a big gulp, watching that freckle bounce and dive, pitch and roll. "I worked with a lieutenant who made four trips to the hospital. They had him make moccasins for therapy. All those trips, he coulda made a hand-tooled saddle."
"Real sad," Breda said, and this time she splashed booze all over the front of her silk blouse, but didn't notice.
"You miss it, Breda?" he asked. "The job?" He was concentrating as hard as he could to make the freckle stop dancing.
"I miss some stuff," she said. "Like when I worked at Hollywood station there was a toilet stall in the women's john. Called it the Hollywood Times. Everybody wrote stuff in there. When you got back from vacation you had to run to the john to find out the latest dirt. If it was in the Hollywood Times, it had to be true, Virginia."
"That reminds me," Lynn said, giggling. "I heard you had a female lieutenant in your department that was always on a diet. And the guys that worked for her'd always put a note with her uniforms when they went to the cleaners, telling them to take the uniform in a quarter of an inch!"
"Huh?"
"Don't you get it? Her clothes were forever tight no matter how much weight she lost!"
Lynn got the screaming giggles until Breda glared at him and leaned over the table saying, "That's the kinda juvenile crap the female officers've been putting up with since the goddamn world began!"
Lynn stopped abruptly, and said, "Oh. Well, I also heard they jacked up her car a few inches and when it wouldn't go she couldn't figure it out!"
Those cobalt blue eyes froze his giggle in place, so he said, "That ain't funny either, is it?"
"It's asinine!"
"That's just what I was thinking," Lynn said, slurring. "I feel the same way about the time they taped a hard-core porn poster to the top of her police unit and when she was directing a field operation every helicopter in the city was doing a flyover."
All of a sudden Breda screamed, "That's funny!" And the waitress shook her head at the bartender. It was, "Cork all bottles as far as those two're concerned."
Lynn gave up then. He couldn't tell anymore what was revolting and disgusting and what was funny. He hadn't meant to get this hammered!
He called for the waitress and paid the bill. The next move was going to be very interesting. Breda was going to try to stand up.
Lynn tried it first and was astonished by the movement under his feet, like maybe a 6.2 earthquake had jolted the San Andreas Fault. Jesus, this was a dumb idea!
There was no point coaxing and coddling. He just put his arm around her waist and said, "Let's go, boss," and she didn't argue.
"What's in that goddamn c-c . . ."
"Coffee," he said, guiding her toward the departure lobby and the last tram car, which was leaving at 9:45 p. M.
"I shouldn't a . . ." she said, but trailed off.
"Caffeine'll kill ya!" he said. "Next time we'll have decaf Irish coffee. It's the caffeine causing your problem."
She almost fell asleep standing up on the ride down the mountain. There were only seven others on that last car and they were all subdued: three amorous couples and a single guy who looked lonely standing among the others.
Lynn kept his arm around Breda's waist to steady her, and she didn't resist. That bike riding paid off, he thought. Her muscles were a lot harder than his.
"What's your size?" he asked.
"Six," she said. "And . . . I'm . . . staying a six."
"You are a buff size six!" he said, looking down at her cyclist's calves. Then he said, "Do you like mustaches?"
"I hate mustaches!" she said. "Half a the LAPD has em!"
"Even the females?"
"Macho crap!" she said gruffly. "All those blue-suited stashes strutting around!"
"I been thinking of getting rid a mine," he said.
Descending the steps of the valley station was a matter that took some planning. Finally, he hung on to the handrail with his right hand, and kept her pressed against him with the left. She was too tanked to know how tanked she was. Lynn knew she'd be dying in the morning.
He half lifted her into her car, and when he got into the driver's seat and started the engine, he turned the radio from soft hits to the country station.
"This is Nelson's influence," he said. "I never listened to country till he came along, but I've discovered that country music's all about me!"
And as though to prove him right, Mark Chesnutt sang:
Brother Jukebox, Sister Wine, Mother Freedom, Father Time, Since she left me by myself
You're the only family I got left.
"See what I mean?" Lynn said. "All about a guy that hangs around in bars. A lonely guy."
"Huh?"
"Never mind, go back to sleep."
He drove straight to his mansion. The automatic security lights were on, illuminating the acre of cactus garden as though it were daylight. Neighbors couldn't complain because Lynn's patron had surrounded his property with a high wall and oleander, to block the glare.
Lynn had to get out of the car to open the electric gate. It would stay open automatically at 6:00 a. M. for the gardener, pool cleaner and other service people.
"How do ya like my digs?" he asked, and she opened her eyes lazily and said, "Uh huh."
As he was pulling into the garage, Patty Loveless sang:
There's a man in a Stetson hat
Howling like an alley cat
Outside my winda tonight.
"My God!" Lynn said. They knew! They knew every move he made! He was an alley cat!
A little sensitivity
Always seems to get to me . . .
I'm getting tired of these one night stands, But if you're looking for a real romance
I'm that kind of giiiiiirrrrl.
Suddenly, he felt awful! Talk about the guilt monkey! An orangutan had him in a headlock. He looked at poor helpless Breda. This was pathetic. This revolted and humiliated him. He despised himself. He was a sorry excuse for a man. He was slimier than a lung-cookie hacked, from the death-cough out of the putrid blackened lungs of the most low-down crack-smoking degenerate in the county.
He was all of that. But he was also the guy who continued to lead the nearly comatose P. I. up the carpeted stairway to the master suite where there was a round waterbed bigger than Sinatra's helicopter pad.
When they got into the bedroom, he left her sitting on the water-filled mattress at the five o'clock position. He went around to eleven o'clock and turned on the radio with some difficulty, and found the country station.
Breda clearly didn't know where she was and was too drunk to care. She stared unbuttoning her blouse and kicking off her shoes. The effort made her fall back on the waterbed, sending a wave under Lynn Cutter and a powerful thrill through his loins!
Breda rolled off onto the carpet and unzipped her skirt while sitting on the floor. Lynn got up, and with his back turned started undressing.
He said aloud, "This is not my fault." But there was nobody there to hear him. Breda certainly was past understanding.
"I'm not gonna do this!" he cried hoarsely to the ceiling, but then Michelle Wright began singing with one of those low sexy country voices.
You'll know that it's true
'Cause I'll be there for you
Just a heartbeat awaaaaay.
It wasn't his fault! There was Breda,
just a heartbeat away, sitting on the waterbed at six o'clock, glassy-eyed and struggling to get out of her bra and panties. Her underwear was sort of violet, like verbena! What was he supposed to do? He didn't know what was the right thing to do in a situation like this! He didn't know she'd have nipples like ripe swollen berries!
When she was completely naked, she just crawled across the round waterbed toward twelve o'clock. She probably didn't even know where she was. The poor kid. She had such buff calves!
Trying hard to say something nice, he finally said, "I guess I seen tighter skin in my time, but only on a plum!"
All of a sudden she looked up at him and said, "Lynn?" As in, "Lynn, what the hell're you doing here?"
He crawled toward her under the sheet. Like a sidewinder. Like a scorpion. Like a goddamn tarantula!
She looked so pathetic and helpless. Her lustrous earth-brown hair cascaded. Her eyes, like wet turquoise, were at half mast. Her lips were wet and partially open. That frigging freckle was just sort of trembling there beside the corner of her lower lip!
If only Michelle Wright didn't have that low sexy voice.
Youll know that it's true 'Cause I'll be there for you Just a heartbeat awaaaaaaaay.
Okay, I'm just gonna kiss that freckle once or twice, he swore to himself. Maybe touch it with my tongue, that's all. He just had to do that. It wasn't his fault! It wasn't! It was that goddamn bittersweet chocolate freckle!
Chapter 16
The fugitive is cramming Lynn's head into the coffin! The fugitive is gnashing and growling and jumping on the coffin, cracking Lynn's vertebrae with the lid! The fugitive is smacking Lynn across the face because suddenly the fugitive is inside the coffin with him and Denny O'Doul, the poor Irish son of a bitch! And a sloppy undertaker has gone and spilled corn flakes in the coffin! And somebody on a ghetto-blaster is yodeling country music while Denny O'Doul's widow keels over in a faint!
Lynn woke up when she slugged him the third time. "Oooooooooo!" he moaned.
She was wearing her skirt, and strangely enough her shoes! But she was still bare-breasted, sitting astride him, smacking him across the face!
Fugitive Nights (1992) Page 19
