The Low Desert

by Tod Goldberg

  Around the boy’s right ankle, however, there was something odd.

  A ring of missing flesh, a wound too uniform to have happened arbitrarily, not like the deep gouges in the boy’s back where it looked like maybe the engine blade of a boat had gotten to him. I took out my penknife and pushed back the flaps of skin and found what I was looking for: a length of concertina wire tied down to the bone, slicing all the way through the boy’s Achilles.

  “Recognize him?” Jim asked. He was a few feet away, not watching too closely.

  “I think it’s Mr. East’s boy,” I said. I flipped the body over on to its back. “I met him for just a minute the other night. His name is Darren.”

  Jim stumbled backward a few steps. “Oh no,” he said, and then retched into the sand.

  Woodrow East was the vice president of Claxson Oil, the kind of guy who told you to call him Woody but didn’t mean it. His bungalow, which he stayed in when he wasn’t in Chicago, was two blocks away from my house. Only time I’d seen Darren was on the Fourth, running down the beach holding a sparkler in one hand, his mother, Brenda, skipping to keep up, bursts of silver burning past her, the golden hour behind them both. Kat and I pleasantly drunk, a cooler of beer between the lawn chairs we’d dragged to the shore.

  Three nights ago.

  Brenda introduced herself and Darren to us as we walked home, the last firework dying in the sky, told us we’d be seeing a lot more of one another, Kat remarking that she sure was nice.

  Jim wiped his mouth. “I’m just . . . not adequately prepared for this.”

  A black speedboat roared across the water, setting a flock of egrets into the air, a flood of white splashed against the deep blue sky and the dawn sun. The boat was maybe two hundred yards away. Soon, the shore would be filled with people watching the race. “We need to get this boy off the beach.”

  “Should we call the police?”

  Another speedboat, this one painted like the flag, shot by, followed in short order by a metallic red vessel. The racers were doing practice laps.

  “They won’t get out here for two hours,” I said. “At least. Cancel the race; I’ll stand here all day with the boy.”

  “That can’t happen,” Jim said. The race wasn’t just a race. It was Claxson paying off about fifty different entities in order to do business in the region. Already there were vendors setting up inside the beer garden, the Cadillac dealership in Palm Springs had a giveaway going on, a new DeVille for a lucky guest, most of us sure that lucky guest would be one of the tribal leaders invited to sit with George Claxson himself to watch the finals. There was talk of Congressman Wilson showing up to hand out the trophies and award money. Lena Horne had rented a house. Rumor was Artie Shaw had, too. They’d been spotted water-skiing. “I’ll take him to La Casita,” he said. That was the hospital in Indio, forty minutes away. “What do I say?”

  “The truth,” I said. “That you found this body.”

  “Do I tell them his name?”

  I thought about that for a moment. “No,” I said. “Give them my contact information. Let me get the family on the horn first. Make sure.”

  “They’ll John Doe him,” Jim said.

  “Not for long,” I said. “It’s fine. I’ll handle it.”

  “Okay, Morris,” Jim said. “It’s your call.”

  “You ever had a conversation with Mr. East?”

  “Nothing substantive,” Jim said. “When he’s in town, I try to avoid him.” He looked down at the boy. “His face, Morris. Lord.”

  “Look,” I said, “I can do this if you’re not up for it.” It occurred to me Jim might be in shock.

  “Gloria worked at a vet’s office before we moved out here,” Jim said. “She’s better with this stuff. I’ll have her drive with me.” We stood there for a moment, not speaking, a dead body between us. “Morris,” Jim said, finally, “why hasn’t anyone reported this boy missing?”

  I PULLED UP in front of the Easts’ and already their sprinklers were running, barely 7:30 a.m., the sun casting rainbows through the water. Woodrow East’s bungalow had a lush green lawn from the road to the front door, full rose beds, and manicured box-hedges of flowering yellow lantana, even though he only spent about a week a month at the Salton Sea, overseeing production, and the rest of the time he was usually in the corporate offices in Chicago. And even though everyone else had a patch of rocks in the front of their house and a patch of dirt in the back.

  I’d not seen Woodrow for at least ten days, his wife and the boy coming alone for the holiday.

  I’d stopped at home first, showered, and changed into my uniform, put on my silly, meaningless badge. Still, I could smell Darren East on my hands when I knocked on the front door. There are times, even now, when I think I catch a whiff of him.

  No one came to the door.

  I tried the handle.

  Locked.

  On the driveway were three newspapers. I picked one up. It was from July 6.

  I hopped the padlocked side gate and made my way into the backyard. There was an aboveground pool there—blue vinyl stretched tight over a steel frame. I climbed up the short ladder and looked inside. It was drained, an inch of drift sand spread across the bottom, along with palm fronds and dead date roaches. I climbed down, felt the ground. It was dry, but I dug an inch down with my hand and found a hint of moisture, brought up a handful of sand, smelled it, thought I caught a suggestion of chlorine.

  There were two chaise lounges on the deck, both still with towels bunched up on them. One also had a paperback novel, Hawaii by James Michener, beneath it, the pages yellow and brittle from being out in the sun. I flipped through it and a bookmark for O’Gara & Wilson Bookshop in Chicago fell out.

  I stuffed the paperback into my back pocket.

  I tried the sliding glass door into the house. Also locked. I peered into the Easts’ kitchen. There were dishes on the counter—two glasses, a plate, a cereal bowl—and dishes in the sink. The Desert Sun newspaper was spread out on the small kitchen table. The front page had a photo of the Palm Springs Fourth of July parade down Palm Canyon. The lights were off, and when I pressed my ear to the door, I didn’t hear the TV or radio. I didn’t know if that was good or bad.

  I went back to my car and got on the radio to the Claxson barracks, where my only quasi-deputy, Mark Sarvas, kept our office. He was at least twenty-five years older than me and had been a cop out in Springfield before he got fired for running over a man with his cruiser. An accident, he swore, but he’d been drunk. So now here he was, sober, but his addiction had been replaced by a kind of free-floating anger at everything. I only bothered him when I really needed him.

  “You hear of any missing kids?” I asked.

  “Negative,” Sarvas said. “Something going on, Captain?”

  “Had a floater this morning,” I said.

  “Indian?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Only a Mexican or Indian would get in that water on their own. It’s polluted as shit, in my opinion. I tell all our people to stay out of it, ones who speak the language anyway.”

  “You got Mr. East’s home phone there? In Chicago?”

  “Yeah, you better let him know,” he said. When he came back, he said, “Just anecdotally, this boat race is bullshit, Morris. From a public-safety standpoint. This were in Springfield? It would never go down like this. Why they got a private security company doing crowd control is beyond me. I’m going on record here that if a boat flips into the crowd and kills a dozen people, you and me both will be out of a job.”

  “You got that number?” I said into the radio.

  He gave it to me, then said, “How old was the kid?”

  “Hard to tell. Maybe five.”

  “A little guy,” Sarvas said. He whistled through his teeth. “The world is a shit can, Captain. You’re still young enough to think otherwise, but it’s a shit can.”

  “10-4,” I said.

  I CALLED WOODROW East from my den, where I had a comp
any phone to handle corporate business. Claxson had offices all over the world, wherever there might be oil, from Texas to Iran, and calls came in at all hours. Which was fine. Having first been a Marine rifleman in Korea and then a police officer in Granite City, the idea of being cooped up behind a desk for any time longer than it might take to type up a report felt like solitary confinement, so I spent most of my days patrolling. Even though I wasn’t the real law, my uniform, my car, and my gun eliminated any difference in most people’s minds.

  Katharine sat on the loveseat in the corner. “Be formal,” she told me before I dialed, “but don’t sound practiced. You can be practiced sometimes, when you’re scared or worried. This is a moment when empathy is called for, Morris. Do you have something thoughtful prepared?”

  “No,” I said. What would I tell Woodrow East? That I’d found his son. That I was worried his wife might be dead. That I was prepared to contact the police but wanted to be the person to tell him first. “Something will come to me.”

  “Are you positive it was the boy we met on the beach?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “If he drowned,” Katharine said, “could it be Brenda tried to save him?” I hadn’t mentioned to Katharine the wire around Darren’s ankle. “Could it be she’ll wash up next?”

  “Could be,” I said. I started to dial. “You sure it’s Brenda? Her name?” Katharine nodded. The phone rang twice and then was answered. By a woman. “Oh,” I said. “Is this the East residence?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Who is this, please?”

  “It’s Morris Drew,” I said. “From Claxson. Out in California. Sorry to be calling on Saturday, but there’s a situation here at the Salton Sea project.” I waved Katharine over. “Is Mr. East available?”

  “Oh,” she said, vaguely surprised. Katharine came around the desk and knelt beside me, so she could hear the call. “It’s no problem. But Woody is away.” Woody. “He’s down in Corpus for the week. Do you need the number there?”

  “No,” I said. Katharine mouthed, Go on. “I have that number. I’m sorry. Is this . . . Mrs. East?”

  “I have my own identity,” she said. “But yes.”

  “We met on the Fourth,” I said. “I’m the director of security? And my wife, Katharine? You and your son, we met on the beach, after the fireworks.”

  “I’m afraid not,” she said, but something had crept into her voice. “I’ve never been down to the site. I can’t imagine why I’d want to. And I don’t have a son. Or a daughter.” She paused. “What made you think we’d met?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I must have made a mistake. Must have been another Claxson family staying in the bungalow Mr. East usually stays in. I’m terribly sorry. I’ve made a grave error, I’m afraid.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s fine. Don’t worry. I just . . . did the person you met tell you they were Woody’s family? You can tell me if they did.” She paused. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  “It wouldn’t?”

  “Have you met my husband?”

  “I have,” I said.

  “I don’t suppose that means you know him, does it?”

  “I’ve only shaken his hand twice,” I said.

  “Morris Drew, is that what you said your name was?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Morris, my name is Eliza. This woman you met. Did she have my name?”

  “No,” I said. “Her name was Brenda, I think.”

  “Brenda,” she said. I heard a drawer close, and I heard what sounded like her scribbling something on paper. “That’s a new one.”

  “Ma’am,” I said, “I’m sure I’ve made a mistake. This certainly has nothing to do with you or Mr. East. I’m very sorry for bothering you this morning.”

  “Wait,” she said. “Don’t hang up.” She cleared her throat. “My husband is a very important man at Claxson,” she said. “I suppose you know that well enough. But he’s just a man in a very nice suit. I know you’re worried now that you have to cover for him, I can hear it in your voice. But you don’t.” I heard her light a cigarette and then blow smoke out above the receiver. “What happened? What’s pulled you out of bed on Saturday?”

  “Nothing to worry about,” I said. There was a knock on our door. Through our thin Venetian blinds, I saw a long black Cadillac idling on the street. It looked to me like George Claxson’s car. His daughter, Gretchen, had grown up across the street from Katharine, which is how we all ended up here together. I’d solved her disappearance—which is to say, her murder—two years ago. When George was in town, he always made a point of sending his assistant to drop off some fresh flowers or smoked salmon from Granite Lake. Sometimes George would just come to talk with Katharine about Gretchen, because Katharine had more memories of her than he did. As grief and time had compounded, the memories he did have were becoming more opaque in his mind. Her death had left him with a genetic ache that I’ve come to understand myself as the curse of growing old in good health.

  Katharine went to the window, peered out. “Of all days,” she muttered, and then she left me there in the den, closing the door behind her.

  “So you’re calling the vice president of Claxson Oil at—what time is it there? Nine o’clock? You’re calling to tell him . . . nothing?”

  “Mrs. East,” I said, “what I meant is that it doesn’t concern you. I don’t want you to worry about something that isn’t in your purview.”

  “In my purview,” she said, and laughed. “Did the boy do something? Was that it?”

  “Neighbors thought he might have untied a boat,” I said.

  “Well,” she said, “listen. If someone needs to be paid for damages, just tell me. I’ll send a check, okay? Whomever the child belongs to, if they needed to lie and say they were Woody’s family, then they have bigger problems than this boat.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “How old are you, Morris?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  “Good god,” she said, “we’re the same age. Stop calling me ma’am. I’ll send a check for $500. Do you think that will cover it?”

  “You don’t need to do that.” Five hundred dollars in 1962 was more money than I made in a month.

  “I’ll put it in your name,” she said. “Handle it as you see fit.” Before I could respond, she’d hung up.

  I FOUND KATHARINE in the kitchen, putting salmon into our freezer. “George sends his regards,” she said.

  “He come in?”

  “No, it was his driver.”

  “Did you say anything?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Mrs. East says that we didn’t meet her. That she doesn’t have children.”

  “I got that much.”

  “We met those people,” I said. “Didn’t we?”

  “You need to speak to Mr. East.”

  “I called his number in Corpus Christi,” I said. I walked over to our back door and locked it. “They said he’s here.” I showed Katharine the piece of paper I’d scribbled the information on, as if it were evidence. “Got into Palm Springs last night. Staying at the Riviera. Room 305.” I put my gun belt back on. “I asked if he was in town for the races and they didn’t know what I was talking about.”

  “Is that strange?”

  “I don’t know what goes on in Corpus,” I said. I went to the front window and looked to see if Jim and Gloria were back yet. They weren’t.

  Katharine came and stood next to me. “We’d had a lot to drink on the Fourth. Maybe your memory is clouded.”

  “Even if I’m wrong,” I said, “Mr. East has some explaining to do.”

  “To his wife,” Katharine said. “He owes you nothing, if that boy isn’t his.”

  “Soon as that woman and that boy showed up here and said they were his family,” I said, “it became my business, too.”

  Katharine put a hand on my back. “What are you planning on doing?”

  “I’m going to drive out to Palm Springs and have a
conversation with Mr. East.”

  “Why don’t you wait until he’s here on the property?”

  “Because on the property, he’s my boss.”

  “You could call him,” Katharine said.

  “I could.” I went back into my den, opened my desk, took out two more clips, stuffed them in my pocket. If I had to shoot someone two dozen times, I was now prepared. “Someone tied concertina wire around that boy’s ankle. Which means they probably held him underwater using a gaff and then cut him loose when he was dead.”

  Katharine sat down, hard, on our sofa. “I could have lived the rest of my life without ever knowing that.”

  “People do terrible things, Kat.” I came and sat beside her, took her hands, kissed them. “I want you to know that I love you,” I said. “When Jim and Gloria get home, I want you to go stay with them. Do you understand?” She nodded. “Anyone comes to see me, don’t let them in. And Katharine? Lock the door behind me.”

  THE RIVIERA HOTEL was located on the north end of Palm Springs, about an hour from the Salton Sea. It was the kind of hotel Elvis stayed in when he was visiting. The kind of hotel where you stayed so you could tell people you’d stayed there.

  The hotel consisted of six two-story villas surrounding a serpentine pool, the hundred chaise lounges in perfect rows adjacent to the water mostly empty—I counted eleven people using them—the season in Palm Springs long over. It was already at least a hundred degrees, the sky half filled with high, white clouds, the air alive with the electric buzzing of desert cicadas. A sweating bellman dressed in black velvet directed me to the correct villa, and I climbed a narrow, carpeted staircase to room 305 and knocked on the door.

  “You’re not who I was expecting,” the man who answered the door said. He was short, maybe five foot five, with red hair combed straight back. He had on swim trunks and a tank top, which stretched uncomfortably over his gut, and had a cigarette between his lips.