by Jon Talton
“Didn’t know Harry real well. He was pretty sick the whole time I was out here. So I’d come over and check on him. He could get out here in front, and we’d just sit and watch the world go by, which isn’t much out here. But it’s peaceful, you know? Harry’d been married once, and he’d talk to his ex-wife occasionally on the phone. Then he’d go off on the worst cussing jag…”
“Ever meet the ex?”
“Nope. She never came out here, far as I can tell. Harry was a hard one to get close to. Full of piss and vinegar, as my mom would say. He hated the government, sure they were going to come get him.”
“What for?”
“Beats me,” Davey Crockett said. “He listened to talk radio for hours. He’d smoke and drink and listen to his radio. Louie, now he was more personable. He was a good guy—helped me get groceries and stuff when my mom and sister couldn’t make it out here. He loaded me up in his pickup a few times and took me to the casinos. It was nice to get around people for a while.”
I asked him where the brothers got their money.
“Social security, I guess,” he said. “They didn’t have much, as far as I could tell. I think each one only had two or three pairs of pants. See I notice things. I might have made a good deputy.”
“I bet you probably would have been. You knew the brothers how long?”
“I’ve been out here for three years this July.”
“And they didn’t seem like they had much money. How about cars? What did they drive?”
“Just an old Chevy pickup, 1978, Scottsdale trim package,” he said knowledgeably.
“That’s it? Not two cars?”
“No, Harry was too sick to drive. When he died, a doc came out and signed the death certificate and Louie and some of the guys from Hyder loaded him in the truck to bury him out in the desert. Harry was really firm about that. He didn’t want to be embalmed. He was convinced it was some kind of government conspiracy, where your organs were sold off to aliens. Sounded kinda weird to me. But that was Harry…”
“What about Louie? Was he paranoid?”
“Nope, not a bit of it. We’d sit out and drink at night, watch the stars, talk about life and women. Louie’d never been married, but he’d had his share when he was a younger dude.”
I asked, “Anybody who would want to hurt Louie?”
The man shook his small head. “Nobody I can think of. It’s pretty isolated out here, as you can tell. But, I’ll tell you, I’ve probably seen more comings and goings at this trailer since Louie was killed, than in three years’ time.”
“Comings and goings?”
“There’s you.” He counted off on slender fingers. “There was a couple of cop cars with deputies. They told me what happened to Louie, and they spent some time looking around. Then, maybe a couple of days later, I woke up around midnight to take my pain pills and there was a truck, kinda parked right over by Louie’s trailer. Stayed there for at least an hour, and he kept the headlights on, trained at the trailer. I saw a man come out, and he got into the truck and it drove off.”
“Pickup truck?”
He nodded. “And then, maybe a week later, I saw the same truck. He came after midnight, and shut off his lights and went inside again. This time he stayed longer. I don’t know how long, ’cause I fell asleep.”
“What kind of truck? Could you see?”
“It was dark,” he said. Then he brightened. “But it was a Dodge Ram pickup, extended cab, diesel. It was black, with chrome accessories. And…”
“And?”
“Had a set of balls dangling from the rear bumper, that kinda amused me.”
I took in a sharp breath, and said, “You could see all that?”
He made a face. “It’d been there before, a couple times before Louie was killed. In the daytime. Dude would knock on the door and go in, and they’d talk a while, then he’d leave. Louie was always upset afterwards. Really nervous. But he wouldn’t talk to me about it.”
“What did this guy in the truck look like?”
Davey closed his eyes tightly. He said, “White guy, probably thirty years old, shaved head.” He opened his eyes. “He had this really big tat, you know? On his right shoulder and arm. He wore a tank top every time, to show it off. Kinda scary looking, you ask me. He didn’t know I was watching. But I told you, I notice things.”
All that was missing from the description was a bandanna and a sap—this was my adversary from the other night. I asked, “Any chance you noticed a license tag?”
“Nope. Never thought I’d need to. Want me to get it if he comes back again?”
“No, Davey,” I said. “Don’t let him see you. But if he does show up again, give me a call.” I handed him a business card, asked if there was anything I could do for him, and when the answer was no, headed back to the city.
23
It was a little after five p.m. on Friday when there was a tap on the pebbled glass of my office door. I invited the knocker in, and it was Robin. She was wearing a calf-length skirt with a blue paisley pattern and a white knit top. It was the most feminine I had seen her dress, but the change didn’t end there. She was wearing makeup. The transformation was remarkable. I won’t say it made her beautiful, but she looked very attractive, and I told her so.
“Thank you,” she said, and sat down facing me. “I’m under orders from Lindsey to take both us out—me because I’m mending from a broken heart, although I never had my heart that involved with Edward. And you, because Lindsey told me the bad news.”
It was true. Lindsey would be in Washington for another two weeks. The computer security breach had become big news, affected dozens of companies, and another penetration had happened the night before. She had been assigned to a task force, and she couldn’t tell me much more. They would also be monitoring her phone calls, and I wouldn’t even be able to come up and visit her—she would be working every day and night. If the feds had been listening, they would know our call hadn’t gone well. Her delay would mean we couldn’t leave on our long-anticipated vacation. I knew she was as disappointed as me, maybe more so. But I had been looking forward to time away from Phoenix, away from the heat and the endless lookalike subdivisions and crackpot politicians and their wives. I had been short with Lindsey, and after we hung up I was instantly remorseful.
“You’re really dependent on her, aren’t you?” Robin asked, looking at me with an intense expression, as if trying to read my thoughts.
“I think it’s mutual,” I said. “I hope so. What are you in the mood for?”
I took her for drinks to Tom’s Tavern, where Peralta joined us after making the rounds with some politicians at other tables. They seemed pleased to see each other. The conversation was light, and, as usual, Robin could talk a lot. But she talked about interesting things, in this case eight months she had spent in Paris, and I was content to listen. Then Peralta left to give a speech. Robin vetoed my suggestion that we go to the galleries over on Roosevelt Row—“I go there all the time”—although I think the real reason was she thought it was too young a crowd for me. So, after being told the wait for a table at Pizzeria Bianco was four hours, we went to dinner at Lombardi’s at Arizona Center and then saw a movie. A few days later, I couldn’t have told you the title. Afterward, Robin wanted a nightcap, so we swung by Portland’s.
I noticed she had drunk bourbon when Peralta was around, but maybe the two were not connected. At Portland’s, she drank red wine, and I ordered a snifter of cognac. She held her liquor and was full of stories and opinions. But she also seemed genuinely interested when I talked about history and culture. I found myself liking her and setting aside my earlier misgivings.
She asked, “So how’s your case going, David?”
“Well, it’s not really my case. Peralta doesn’t want me nosing around it.”
“Oh, he seemed nice enough when we saw him.”
I said, “That’s because you were around.” Her lips made a small secret smile, and I talked about “my�
�� case. It did feel that way to me, and it had since Dana deposited her bogus letter on my desk months before. Since my trip to the Bell trailer, I had called the doctor who signed the death certificate. He had said Harry Bell suffered from emphysema, a bad heart, high blood pressure, and bleeding ulcers. Harry wouldn’t take medicine or take care of himself. To the doc, the death had all the signs of a stroke. Then I had read the case file on Louie Bell’s accused killer, Jesus Esparza. Even the county attorney agreed the man had the mind of an eight-year-old. His rap sheet had no indication of violence. His prints were not found on the ice pick. Together, the evidence didn’t conjure the image of a killer who could dispatch someone in a crowded casino with an ice pick, and never even knock the victim’s body off its stool before the slot machine. I believed what the kid’s public defender said: he picked up the wallet from the floor, and never knew Bell was dead.
“So it sounds like they got the wrong guy,” Robin said, patting my hand. “You rock, David.”
“That isn’t the way the sheriff sees it,” I said. Not only that, but I still hadn’t heard from Dana Earley. Not so much as a “Sorry we missed each other that night in Carefree. Hope you didn’t get a concussion.”
“You and the sheriff act like brothers, do you know that?”
“No,” I said. I would think about that one later. I went on, “Maybe I can talk to Patrick Blair about the case. He was the detective who investigated it.”
“Yes, the pretty one,” Robin said. “He has an eye for Lindsey. I bet it really sucks that he’s in Washington right now, too, for that police convention. Lindsey told me he was going to be there, and she was looking forward…”
She saw my face and put a hand on my shoulder. “Oh, David. I’m sorry. Shit. I thought she would have told you.”
“Whatever,” I said, and ordered another cognac. I encouraged Robin to tell me more about her time in Paris, and she talked. It was shaping up to be a really bad day. I guess I had given my wife reason to censor herself. But had I? It’s not as if I flew into a rage at the mention of the man’s name. I had occasionally lampooned him, although the last time I had done that it brought Lindsey’s rebuke. I had never been given a reason to mistrust Lindsey. Why hadn’t she simply told me about Blair? Robin, meanwhile, segued into talking about her lovers. She said Edward had never been a serious relationship. Her most passionate lover had been a polo player from Argentina; they had continued to see each other intermittently after he had married an heiress in Charleston. “I couldn’t compete on the money front,” she said. I half listened.
“I’m kind of surprised you and Lindsey ended up together,” she said. That brought me out of my reverie. Robin looked at me with an expression I can only describe as kindly. She went on, “I mean, Lindsey always liked the bad-boy type.”
“Maybe I’m a bad boy,” I said gamely. She raised an eyebrow and toasted me. I clinked her glass with my snifter, and watched the light play off the dark amber hue of the liquor. The conversation made me feel uncomfortable and vulnerable. A man of the world shouldn’t feel that way, should he?
“Anyway,” I said, “however it happened, it’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
We were both at least a little tipsy when we left. She put her hand through my arm and I let her. I couldn’t drink the volume I once could. We drove the short distance to Cypress Street, where most of the houses had turned in for the night. Inside the door, I thanked her for her company.
“I’m sorry if I brought you down, David.”
“You didn’t.”
“I think she made a good choice,” Robin said. “A good catch. Even if you will be her first husband.”
She said it without smiling. I just looked at her.
“Even if you two stay together, men die early. And she’s several years younger. It’s just the actuarial tables.”
“OK,” I said. “On that cheery note, we’ll say goodnight.” I could hear the harshness in my voice.
Robin cocked her head and put a hand on her hip. For a long moment, she looked at me. She said, “You know, David, I can’t decide if you’re threatened by me, or if you’re attracted to me and don’t know what to do about it.”
She instantly had me against the wall and was kissing me, her tongue warm and agile inside my mouth, her body connecting on all points. I took her shoulders and held her back.
“Robin! Are you crazy? This can’t happen.”
She evaded my hands and was against me again. Her mouth applied gentle suction as she kissed. She said, “That’s not what your body is saying, I can feel it.” She held my head in her hands, and she was very strong.
I managed to turn my head aside.
I said, “Robin, I’m sorry if you got the wrong message from me. I’m not interested.”
“I got the right message,” she said. She was rubbing my groin, which wasn’t supporting the decision I was trying to make. She said, “We’ll have some fun, and then it will be over. If you want it to be. I don’t want to be married and settled down like big sister, if she wants to be.” I grabbed her hand, and she pinned me again, kissing me deeply.
This time I pushed her away with some force. Her eyes bored into me.
She said, “Let it happen, David. You want it more than anything right now. You don’t even know where Lindsey is. You don’t even know if she’s alone. We could have a mutual grudge fuck, me against Edward and you…”
“No.”
She added, a playful lilt to her voice, “I won’t tell. I won’t stain your precious honor.”
“I won’t hurt Lindsey,” I said. An interior voice said, You overestimate my honor. There was a time when I would have already had you down on the floor. I moved sideways and away from the wall.
“Every man wants to do sisters,” she said, following me with a buccaneer’s smile on her face. “I did a pair of brothers once. It was fun as hell. Later you can tell me how I’m different from her, and how we’re the same.”
She advanced on me again, and I started to push her away. She batted away one arm, then the other, and pinned me against the edge of the bookshelves. “You’re too slow, David. I took kickboxing for four years,” she laughed. “Maybe I’ll just rape reluctant David. Give him the ultimate excuse.” She pressed her breasts against me and ran her hands over me. “Not all of you is reluctant.”
“We’re both drunk,” I said, pushing against her. “I won’t hurt Lindsey, and I know you wouldn’t want that, either. She really loves you…”
Robin kissed me, her tongue burrowing past my teeth, and she started unbuttoning my shirt. When I moved my head, she whispered in my ear, “David is reasoning with Robin. David is trying to give himself lots of excuses for when this finally happens, when it happens and he really loves it, that he did everything he could to stop it.”
“It’s not going to happen,” I said. “You’re drunk. Lindsey would be ashamed of both of us.”
“You don’t know Lindsey as well as you think you do,” Robin whispered, her breath hot on my neck. “I bet you don’t know she has a kid.”
The edge of the tall bookshelves was digging into my back. I said, “Lindsey doesn’t want to have children.”
“Well it’s too late for that,” she whispered insistently. “When she was 16, she had a baby.”
“That’s not true. She never told me that.”
“She wouldn’t tell you. She had a boy. She didn’t want to give him up for adoption, but Linda made her. Then Linda made her join the Air Force, to get away from Ryan. That was the father. Now he was a bad boy. Nice try, Linda, but the barn door was already open, don’t ya know. Lindsey had a real thing for him, a real addiction. They got back together a few years later. She found him. They lived together until he killed himself on his motorcycle. But I know Lindsey still wants to find that baby she had with Ryan. I know it. I know the truth hurts, David. I know you want to be Lindsey’s true love. It just didn’t work out that way. Let Robin make things better…”
&nb
sp; I was dully aware that Robin was holding me like a drunken dance partner. When I felt her kiss me again, I shoved her away. She shrugged and smiled and mounted the stairs that led to the garage apartment. She said, “I’ll leave the door unlocked for you, baby.”
24
It’s wisdom as common as a child’s saying: two’s company and three’s a crowd. My personal paradise with Lindsey had become badly crowded by Robin. It was enough overpopulation to make old Malthus turn over in his grave. I’d been mind-fucked by some pros—but Robin was setting a new standard. If she had her way, the congress wouldn’t have stopped with my mind. I knew Lindsey could sense something wrong in my voice from 2,000 miles away. As we talked, I could hear a beep every few seconds—her federal minder—sounding like a supervisor monitoring a sales call. We couldn’t talk about anything real. Was she really working all the time in a highly secure environment? Or was there time off to see Patrick Blair? Could what Robin told me possibly be true? “I’ll be back soon, Dave,” she said, “so don’t fall in love with my sister.” And she laughed her fine, crystal laugh. For just a second, I thought about telling her that Robin had made a pass at me. But then I would want to say more, ask more.
I spent the weekend with my Khrushchev biography, mostly sitting in the study, sometimes with Lester Young and Sinatra on my headphones. How the world had changed—I found myself feeling a little sorry for the Soviet leader. Of course that was hindsight sweetened by the way the Cold War had ended. When K was in power and I was a child, I had lived in mortal fear of nuclear war. There were missile silos around Tucson back then. Reflecting on all that from the safety of my leather chair made the mortal information given me by Robin seem small in comparison.
If I were drafting a biography, I would write, “Mapstone’s family situation became complicated that summer.” I tried to sift this new information at a cool remove: that Patrick Blair was also in Washington with Lindsey; and that Lindsey had a baby, and now would be the mother of a grown man. It might have no more truth than any number of myths that historians are paid to debunk. But I had about the same cool distance as the SUVs tailgating on Central that Monday as I rode the bus downtown. On the sidewalk, a man wearing nothing but dirty cargo shorts walked north with a hand-lettered cardboard sign. It said, “Jesus is Coming.” The weekend had been all anti-climax. I saw Robin as she was coming and going, and both of us acted as if nothing had happened. But the house seemed to lack oxygen, and I was happy to go back to work. I stopped for a mocha at the Starbucks on Adams Street, then walked in the shade of the buildings over to the courthouse. Somehow I wasn’t sweating yet—it was only in the high nineties. So I took the winding steps up to the fourth floor.
