The Final Country

TEN

I had been going to Vegas for various things for thirty years. Foolishness, mostly – gambling, whoring, that sort of thing – and I also had married my fourth wife there on a cocaine toot almost twenty years before, one of my several marriages in which the divorce seemed to take longer than the marriage. Except for my second wife, who had died in a car wreck with four sailors on a mountain curve outside Susanville, California, it seemed all my divorces were like that. Maybe that's one of the reasons I stopped getting married. Eventually. And I seemed to have stopped gambling about the same time, too. I had heard that the new corporate Vegas – which was as unfamiliar to me as if I had never been there – was just as sharp, shifty, and greedy as the old one but not quite as friendly. I rented a Mustang convertible at the airport, then checked into one of the less expensive Strip hotels, a faux-stucco castle not too far from Molly Molineaux's address, using the Malvern ID, hoping to lose myself in the crowd of nickel slots players.

During a room service meal and a couple of beers, I skimmed the classified ads, found a 10mm Glock 20 for sale – a pistol I didn't particularly like – called the number, slipped into a pair of thin leather gloves, then drove into a bedroom neighborhood beyond the UNLV campus, where I paid an out-of-work pit boss as much cash as he wanted without dickering for the pistol, a nylon holster, and three loaded clips. Judging from the man's shaking hands and sweating face, the cash would be up his nose before I got back to the hotel. I found a twenty-four-hour auto parts store, bought a can of Armor All, then went back to the room, broke the piece down, unloaded the clips, and sprayed every surface that might hold a fingerprint. Often, buying a pistol in America is easier than buying drugs. I wondered if perhaps it shouldn't be the other way around. Then I packed the pistol, the fake ID, the cocaine, and my badge into a briefcase, dropped the briefcase at the desk to be locked in the hotel's safe, then drove through the sparkling electrical night into the soft dark of the desert to call Betty on the scrambled cell phone.

"I'm at Cathy's," she explained when she answered. "The ranch house, it seemed so… I don't know," she said. "Lonesome, maybe."

"I hope I haven't ruined your lifestyle by taking you out into the world," I said, then chuckled.

But she didn't. "It's a goddamned wild-goose chase," she said seriously. "That's what's ruining our lives. Where are you staying?"

"I'll probably be moving around," I said. "Take your time on the way out here, love. Take I-10 to Phoenix, then go north to I-40, cross at Bullhead City, then check into the Golden Nugget in Laughlin, and call me on the scrambled cell phone. I'll meet you there."

"And just how fucking long am I supposed to wait?" I could almost hear her foot tapping on the other end of the connection.

"Trust me. I'll be there."

"Trust you?" she said. "Ha. Isn't that a little far out of town?"

"We've had a lot of luck so far," I said. "There's no need to push it. I don't want you in Vegas until I'm sure what's going on."

"Remember, cowboy, you don't do a single goddamned thing until I'm there," she said. "Just look around, all right?"

"Trust me," I repeated.

"I sure as hell hope I can," she said, sounding very far away, "I feel very goddamned left out." In the background I could hear Willie Nelson singing the opening bars of "Redheaded Stranger."

"And tell Cathy to kiss my ass," I said, but Betty didn't laugh, so I hung up.

The next morning, though, my luck ran out big-time. Molly Molineaux's address was one of those chain mailbox drop and packing outfits instead of an apartment complex, and on a busy street, not exactly a place I could stake out without drawing the attention of the local police. So I took myself down to the police station like a good little boy. It took two hours to work my way past a bored desk sergeant, a surly lieutenant, and into the office of a deputy chief, a tall, thin man named G. Donald Willow, with drooping jowls and wispy hair. Somebody once told me that when you meet a man who uses an initial in front of his name, you should at the very least lock up the hen house. And not because you're worried about him stealing the eggs. Even a sardonic smile didn't lift his wattles as he tossed my license back to me. I hadn't used my badge because I didn't want anybody in Gatlin County to know where I was in case Willow checked.

"Okay, partner," he drawled. "What the hell do you want?"

"Well, sir, I wanted to let the local law enforcement know that I was in town," I said. "I'm looking for a skip," I added even though I suspected it was already a lost cause.

"If you've got a name and address and a warrant," Willow said, "I'll have him picked up."

"All I have is a picture and places he sometimes hangs out," I said.

"Degenerate gambler?"

"That's what his boss says."

"No criminal charges involved?"

"No, sir. The boss is his brother-in-law. He just wants him back."

Willow looked out the window into a desert sunshine as thin as his hair. "I just love you out-of-town assholes. Do you have any idea how many of you creeps show up every day," Willow said. "If you had a bail-jumping warrant, maybe, instead of a license that means as much to me as a sheet of used toilet paper, I might give you permission to hang around my town. But being as how you're some low-rent peeper without a warrant, my advice for you is to gather up some local licensed professional help."

"I'm sorry?" I said, confused.

"Hire yourself a licensed private investigator here in town," Willow said, handing me a card, "because if I catch you on the street – loitering, shadowing, or spitting – you'll spend your Vegas vacation in a holding cell. But you probably called it the drunk tank back in the old days."

I started to tear up the card and toss it on the desk, and tell the asshole something about the old days, but I swallowed my anger, glanced at the card, and stuffed it in my pocket. J. Michael Fresno, Investigations. Another one.

"Well, thanks for your advice," I said, then left, figuring to take my chances on my own.

I stopped at the hotel, checked out, picked up the briefcase, and found a gun locker where I could stash the briefcase and the phones. Then I drifted down the Strip until I found a suite with a Jacuzzi at one of the more expensive hotels, where I checked in, threw my war bag on the bed, and went to work. I didn't have any interest in subcontracting my case to some other PI but I hoped that if I hired a cab and some help it would pay my dues into the local economy. So I gave the doorman a fifty-dollar tip and asked him to find me an independent cab or car service that would be on call twenty-four hours a day. With a driver who only answered to himself. Or almost only to himself, as it turned out.

The first car was driven by the doorman's cousin, and the second two by guys with heavy beards and the superficial politeness of ex-cons, so I declined. Then a perfectly maintained shiny black classic Buick Invicta station wagon with heavily tinted windows pulled under the hotel's portico. "Red's Car Service/The Last of the True Independents" was lettered on the side. The doorman waved it toward me. As the Buick stopped in front of me, I opened the front passenger door. But somebody was already in the front seat.

"Excuse me," I said as I climbed into the back.

"No, excuse me, please," the shadowy figure said with a soft elegant voice, then turned to offer a gloved hand. "I'm Mrs. Eileen McCravey, and this is my son, Craig, who prefers the unfortunate sobriquet, 'Red.'" Mrs. McCravey was as tall and darkly majestic as an Ashanti queen – so much so that I nearly kissed her hand – but her son's face was as white as the Nevada sun except for a faint trace of freckles across his cheeks and a pair of sunglasses that were large and dark. A vague notion of pink nestled at the roots of his white kinky hair that poked out from under his soft cap. Even sitting on a pillow, Red was almost short enough to see under the steering wheel, and he had padded extensions on the pedals. I introduced myself to the McCraveys as politely as if they were long-lost family.

"How's it hangin', man," the driver said, holding out a palm to be tapped lightly, then he handed me a card. "Doorman says you looking for a long-term investment in car time. You making a movie or what?"

"Or what, more likely," I said as I placed ten hundred-dollar bills in Red's hand. If this notion was going to work, I wanted it to work quickly. I had to trust somebody. "I'm looking for a woman."

"That ain't my style, man," Red said stiffly, glancing at his mother.

I dug out my PI license and showed it to them. "A long-time stakeout, then maybe a long time tailing. Let me know when this runs out."

Red handed the money back to his mother. "She your wife? Or she steal your money?"

"More like my pride," I said. "She set me up to be killed." I had no reason to be candid with this strange couple, but perhaps it was easy to be honest with them because they seemed so odd, as far outside the norm as I was.

"Killed, man? That's cold. You gonna pop her?" Red asked.

Mrs. McCravey gave her son a hard look and a sardonic moue, then folded the bills and stuffed them into her purse. "Thank you, sir. And please forgive my son for his curious candor. He's both cynical and excitable."

"Whooee, that's me, man. The excitable cynic," Red said. "You mind if I drop my Mom off before we go to work?"

"Not a bit. It's a pleasure to ride in a classic station wagon big enough to be a hearse."

"Hell, man, it's big enough to live in," Red said.

As we drove down the Strip toward downtown, Mrs. McCravey continued, "We're at your service, sir. The cards have been remarkably unkind for several weeks now."

"She's a professional poker player," Red said proudly, "with a Ph.D. in economics from Wharton. So she knows her numbers, man. Me, I'm more a people person. I ain't into numbers. Not like she is."

"Actually, it was just a master's," she explained. "And a long time ago. When I tried to go to work on the Street, my race and my gender seemed an insurmountable problem. Or if surmountable, certainly not worth the effort on my part. So I went back to Detroit and another sort of life altogether. Then moved down here on the arm of a second-rate Sammy Davis wannabe." She paused, smiling like a woman who had enjoyed this other sort of life as well as she could. "Mr. Milodragovitch – is that right? – have you been in the investigation business for a long time?" she asked.

"Except for forays into the bar business, I've been a PI since I got out of law enforcement thirty years ago," I told her.

"But you have no Texas in your accent."

"Texas is a fairly new vice," I admitted. "I grew up in Montana. Meriwether."

"You must have known Big John Reynolds?" she said.

"Sure. John owned the game at the Slumgullion, where I made my first foray behind the stick. He and my father were cronies. I can't remember when I didn't know John."

"I played against him a few times down here," she said. "He was charming, but lord was he tough. There aren't too many players like him anymore."

"He was a great friend," I said.

"So what can we do for you?"

"There's this mailbox place over on Trocadero," I said, handing her a picture of Molly Molineaux. "Maybe we can park somewhere around there until she shows up. Then follow her home."

"Then what?" Mrs. McCravey wanted to know.

"Then I try to talk her into going back to Texas with me," I said.

"I've seen this woman somewhere," Mrs. McCravey said as she handed the picture back. "And it is not my impression that she was exactly a hooker. If she is, she's one of the few true freelances in town. Which means she's either very connected or very tough."

"If she's expensive, maybe she'll respond to money," I said as we parked in front of Benion's. "That would make it easier," I said, "if she'll talk to me for money."

"Be cautious, sir, and remember that everything in this town turns on money," she said, "but not always the way you want it to turn out." Then she climbed out, and walked into the front door as I climbed into the front seat.

Driving to the Strip, Red prattled at me. "Hey, man, I thought about bein' a PI. Hell, driving a cab, that's a perfect cover. 'Course my ride is more like a bus than a cab – the longest production station wagon in Detroit history – but I got two other classic cherry rides. A Checker and one of them English hacks. 'Course in Vegas, between the cops and casino security, a PI license ain't all that easy to get.

"'Course I got a little record back in Detroit to deal with, too," he continued. "Did a little collecting for a shy named King Kong Elmo. You ever hear of him? No. Well, he is big, man, so big now he's almost legit. But that should count for me, you dig, collecting. Some of them people are tougher to find than a whole peanut in a pile of elephant shit. But you just gotta know how to ask the right question, you dig?"

I had to agree. "Didn't we just drive past the place?"

"Oh, shit," Red muttered, then popped a U-turn that parked us right down the street from the mailbox drop. When I saw the light bar on the police unit behind us fire up, I thought Red was about to get a ticket. Until the unmarked unit pulled in behind the marked one.

"Maybe if you just drive away," I said as I stuffed another ten C-notes into his hand and opened the door, "they'll be satisfied with me." Then I added, "See what you can dig up, man. I'll call when I get out of jail. Now go."

Willow didn't even bother getting out of his unit until the two young officers had patted me down thoroughly and cuffed my wrists tightly behind me.

"No weapons, huh? I would have thought an asshole as dumb as you are would surely be carrying a piece," Willow said.

"Didn't seem necessary," I said. "This looks like the kind of place where I could shake a piece off the first skateboarder I saw, or buy one off the nearest cop. Who turned me?"

"What makes you think that little albino asshole McCravey didn't burn you?"

"He doesn't hardly seem the type."

"If you weren't going to use the doorman's cousin, man, you should have given him a C-note, you cheap asshole, because it's going to turn out to be an expensive economy," Willow said.

"I guess I haven't kept up with the price of graft in this shithole," I said.

"This is a family town," he said. But he didn't say which family.

Even in the middle of the afternoon among the scrubbed walls of the jail, even empty, the holding tank didn't look like any place I wanted to be. And I knew it wasn't going to get any better as the sun fell. At least the other prisoners wouldn't be fighting over my clothes: everybody's jailhouse sweats and slippers would be the same. I didn't know how long the Vegas police thought they could hold me before letting me make a call, but I assumed it would be a considerably uncomfortable length of time, so I found a corner where I could pretty much cover my back, slid to my haunches, and pretended to sleep, while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on.

The confusion must have started fifteen or twenty years before, either with the death of Dwayne Duval or the failure of Enos Walker's last cocaine scam. Already three people were dead, one was still in the hospital, another was on the run, and I didn't have the faintest idea what I'd done to stir up this ancient hornet's nest of death and disaster. And I couldn't even begin to guess why the hell somebody had sent the Molineaux woman to charm me and a cop to kill me. And how the hell did Betty end up in bed with the McBride woman before I did? Just to steal her piece to shoot me with? And what the hell did Sylvie Lomax want with the Molineaux woman? Shit, I thought as I went back to pretending to be asleep. At least I could do that.

It was a long pretend, broken only when they allowed me my telephone call.

The first customer to try me was a drunken college kid about midnight who poked me on the thigh with his foot and asked, "Whattcha you in for, old man?" I ignored the first kick, then the second, but when the third came, I dropped the kid with a leg-lock, rolled up his body, kneed him hard in the crotch and jammed a thumb against the kid's eye.

"First jailhouse lesson, punk," I said softly, "people don't like being in here, so you'll want to leave them alone. First lesson's free. Second one costs you an eye."

"You best pay attention, gringo," growled a huge, tattooed Chicano from the far corner.

I moved back to my corner, leaving the crying kid curled in the middle of the cell. Things actually stayed so quiet that I drifted off about three A.M., and only woke when I heard my name being called just before six. A sleepy young man in a rumpled sport coat stood beside one of the jail-house bulls.

I rose slowly, too long on the cold floor, creaked to the cell door, only able to say "Yes" very quietly.

"Let's get your stuff and get out of here," the sleepy man said.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Me? Me, I'm the unfortunate son of a bitch who went to law school with that fucking Thursby," the young man said as he handed me a card. "Byron Fels," he added, "but don't shake my hand. Please. I don't want to catch whatever you caught from Chief Willow."

"He's not a pleasant fellow, I take it."

"He's a mean son of a bitch," Fels said. "And such a degenerate gambler that if he wasn't a cop, not a single casino in the state of Nevada would let him in the door."

"So I guess I don't get to file a complaint or anything, huh?" I said without any real hope of getting even. Legally or otherwise.

"Charges are dropped. Paperwork has disappeared. Just get out of town as soon as you can. And don't come back until Willow is retired or, preferably, dead."

"Thanks," I said. "Can I get a ride back to the hotel?"

"What do I look like? Taxi service?" he grumbled, but gave me a ride anyway.

"Send me a bill," I said as Fels dropped me at the hotel.

"Forget it," he said. "I owe that fucking Thursby."

Thanks to the wonderful twenty-four-hour ambience of Las Vegas, I found a quiet lounge where I had three slow drinks until Fresno's office was open, when I called to make an appointment with the boss as soon as possible that morning. Then I climbed into the Jacuzzi. Half an hour later, after some stretches Cathy had shown me, and a light breakfast, I was almost human again. I called Red. He came over, filled me in, and we agreed to meet that afternoon.

On the way to Fresno's office I took a quick detour by the safe locker to pick up the Glock and call Carver D. He did a bit of Internet sleuthing for me, then I stopped at a bank before I went to the courthouse, where I discovered that George Donald Willow was married to one Patricia Kay Fresno. Interesting but not unexpected. Fresno's offices were in a glass cube set among a landscaped greensward. Inside they looked more like law offices than the lair of a tough, intrepid investigator. Obviously, there was more PI work in Vegas and it paid better, much better than Meriwether, Montana, or any other place I had ever worked. J. Michael dressed like a successful lawyer, but the diplomas framed on his wall suggested a more violent education: Navy SEAL, State Department Security Service, Clark County Sheriff's Department. J. Michael was somewhat larger than his brother-in-law and looked considerably more fit and he seemed to have a smaller greedy gleam in his eye and no smug little smile.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Milodragovitch?"

I tossed a certified check face down on the desk.

"You know who I am. Let's cut the shit," I said.

"I understand that you're looking for somebody. And that you've done some investigative work yourself," J. Michael said smoothly, carefully ignoring the check. "So I'm certain that you understand the high risk of failure and the cost of such an investigation -"

"How much would you want for a retainer?" I interrupted.

"Five thousand," J. Michael answered immediately. "Surely your client can afford that."

"I'm the client in this matter," I said.

"That's unusual," he said. "In that case, I suspect my retainer should be more substantial."

"At least I don't have to worry about my client lying to me," I said. "I'll give you two grand."

"It's my understanding that you've already spent one night in jail over this," J. Michael said. "I wouldn't think you would want to bargain over something as unpleasant as that?"

"You know," I said, "I've been a PI off and on for years. And I did some shit I didn't particularly like. For the money. Protected people and things I didn't particularly approve of or care for. Committed the occasional misdemeanor, but lately I've had cause to suspect that as bad as I've been, some of my fellow PIs are truly pieces of shit."

"I'm sorry to hear that -" he started to say, and for a moment he sounded sincere.

"For five thousand dollars, asshole," I interrupted, "I can make you and your loser of a brother-in-law disappear into the desert." I signed the back of the check. "This is a cashier's check for two grand made out to cash. Pick it up, call Willow, and let's say 'so long.'"

"I don't -" he started to say.

"Whatever you're going to say, don't," I said. "You're not the only asshole in the world with a computer. Don't let your bulldog mouth overload your bullfrog ass. Like you did in Reno last year. How old was that guy who kicked your ass with his cane? Seventy-two?"

"Goddammit, he was a kendo master."

"Whatever," I said.

J. Michael put the check into his desk drawer, called Willow to tell him that we had a deal, then turned to me, saying, "I hope you realize that this isn't my idea. But I've got to keep my sister out of the poorhouse. Maybe I can actually help you find this person?"

I almost believed him, but I was already mad. "Buddy, I wouldn't trust you to find the fucking men's room."

After lunch I followed Red's directions out into the desert a few miles off the Interstate up Highway 93, where I turned on a dirt road that led behind a stony, brush-smudged ridge, then to the edge of a deep wash. When I got out of the Mustang, Red climbed out of the station wagon dressed in a rumpled camouflage suit covered with faded paint ball spots, a floppy bush hat covering his hair, large dark goggles protecting his eyes, and his facial skin slathered with sunblock. His mother sat in the front seat, cool and elegant in floral gauze over silk and a floppy straw hat, a painted fan in her hand.

"Where in the world did you get this tank?" I asked as I admired the classic station wagon.

"Out of a junkyard, man, brought it back from total death," he said proudly.

"Beautiful," I agreed.

"And clean, too. Dude it's registered to don't know he owns it. And in the right clothes, man, I just look like another fancy redneck."

"Perfect," I said. "You get the ammo?"

"Right here," Red said, holding up a small duffel bag. "Targets already pinned up down the wash. Brought my piece, too, man. Hope you don't mind?"

"No problem," I said.

"Craig, you take the gear on down," Mrs. McCravey said quietly, then stepped over to me and placed her hand gently on my arm. "Mr. Milodragovitch, can I speak to you for a moment?"

"Certainly, ma'am," I said.

"I am in your debt," she said, "that is for sure. Your infusion of cash has turned the cards around for me. You must know how it is. Sometimes one hits a slump and, for no valid reason, loses one's confidence. That no longer seems to be a problem. But no matter how deeply I feel my obligation to you, I must ask a favor."

"Anything, Mrs. McCravey."

"I suggest two things are going to happen – one, that Craig has already found this woman for you and won't tell me; two, that she will not return willingly to Texas with you." I nodded. "Because of his height and his… condition, Craig has always felt he had to prove himself, to be tougher than normal men, so if at all possible and whatever the circumstances, please encourage restraint."

"I'll treat him like he's my own flesh and blood," I said.

"And I'll pray that will be sufficient to keep him safe."

"I don't pray, ma'am," I admitted, "but I'll do my best."

Mrs. McCravey leaned over to brush my cheek, her lips soft on my skin, her scent fragrant on the desert air. I realized that she was much older than she looked. Older than me even. And I felt even older than a dinosaur turd. Because I already knew what Red and I faced.

Thirty yards down in the arroyo, Red had propped two silhouette targets against the dry wall where the wash bent sharply about twenty-five yards away. A Dirty Harry.44 Magnum revolver dangled from his hand.

"Can you hit anything with that cannon?" I asked as I dug a pair of earmuffs out of the duffel. "And don't you have any ear protection?"

"Never needed it, man."

"How often you fire that thing?"

"Three or four times a year, maybe," Red said.

"Listen, kid," I said as I broke the filters off two cigarettes, "if you don't wear ear protection, you'll be deaf quicker than a rock and roll drummer." I stuffed the filters into his ears. "Now, let's see what you can do."

"Shit, man, I already look funny enough," he said as he touched his ears, and we smiled. Then he turned and fired six rounds from the Magnum and put two outside the thorax area and four on the edge of the target, filling the narrow arroyo with the enormous blasts that started small sand avalanches along the steep edges.

I racked the slide on the Glock, then quietly said, "Maybe the noise will scare them to death."

"What's that you said, man?"

"Not bad," I said a bit louder.

"Shit, man," he said. "Hit some motherfucker in the toe with this piece, they hit the dirt."

"Chances are, my friend," I pointed out, "if they're that far away, moving and shooting back, a handgun is probably a waste of time." I took fifteen steps closer toward the targets, ran a clip three rounds at a time until I got the feel of the Glock, then finished the three loaded clips from various stances, most rounds either dead center or just off. "It's not great, but it'll do," I said as I coated the rounds Red had brought with Armor All and reloaded the clips.

"Shit, I'm just an amateur," Red said. "Man, you're a pro."

"Man, if you don't go to the range once a week and fire at least fifty rounds, you're not just an amateur with a handgun, you're a danger to your friends and associates."

Red pulled himself up to his full five foot six, his eyes flaring behind his dark goggles, and started to take offense, then he let out a sigh. "I suspect you know what you're talking about, don't you?" he said, sounding more like his mother than he usually did. "And I suspect you're not giving me advice because I took your money or because I'm a poor, pitiful albino nigger. I guess it's like my Mom says. For no good reason, you trust me. Well, man, you can trust me to hold up my end."

"Truth is, Craig, I've never had any control over who I trusted," I said. "You offered, I accepted. Maybe we'll get lucky, and all this hardware will just be an extra load."

"Call me Red, man," he said. "I got a cooler of cold, cold beer in the rig, so let's have one."

Which we did. Afterward I gave Red one of the cell phones, then we all went back to our jobs. Red to pick up a few things I thought I might need before he picked me up, Mrs. McCravey to a table stakes hold 'em game downtown, and I went back to my chores. On the way into town I remembered something I had heard early on in the search. So I dug out the card Byron Fels had reluctantly given me. He wasn't all that glad to see me but he didn't gouge me too badly for a casino contact. Just as I suspected, no degenerate gambler ever left Vegas with any money. I began to wonder if all Texans' notorious reputation for lying wasn't well deserved after all.

While I was in jail, Red McCravey had taken over my search. And Red quickly proved his ability to find people before they got lost. He came up with her address – a high-security high-rise, where she hadn't been seen in weeks – but he assumed that a woman who looked like Molly Molineaux probably had logged considerable time in limos. Sure enough one of his friends not only knew the woman, he knew where she was hidden. He had spotted her on the front porch at the desert house of a second-rate but wildly successful Vegas comic named Jimmy Fish, who had supplemented his comic career by playing gangsters and heavies in movies.

Jimmy Fish had a round, unpleasant face dominated by widely spaced, wild eyes. Even his curly hair looked as if it were psychotic. He had a loud, grating voice, an accent that sounded half-Brooklyn and half-Southern, and he had the manners of an ugly spoiled child. Something about his screen persona suggested that his movie roles didn't call for much acting skill. He was a natural asshole. If only I'd known how right I was, I could have saved us all a great deal of trouble and pain.

Jimmy Fish had a mansion in town where his wife lived but since they had separated he spent most of his time at his desert place outside Blue Diamond. It only took a couple of hours to find out that he was in town and that he didn't have a show on Thanksgiving night. I hoped he'd be at the desert place and not having a party. I planned to ring his doorbell when least expected and use my badge to bluff my way to Molly Molineaux. Once I had my hands on her, I wasn't planning to turn her loose until I found out who had hired her. I resigned myself to the fact that she wouldn't talk easily. I would try money first, then fear, and if it came down to it, pain.

Red dropped me off near Jimmy Fish's place a couple hours before sundown, then went back to Nellis Air Force Base to pick up the last of our purchases. I lugged a new pack stuffed with gear and water up a hogback that overlooked his house from the west. The house, a fake adobe, snuggled like a rock spill at the end of a blind canyon. A pool as dark and blue as the devil's eye sat in a stone patio behind the house. Gleaming razor wire topping a chain link fence outlined the five rocky acres around it. The only opening seemed to be a sliding gate in front of a cattle guard where the driveway ran into the highway. Except for the cactus and creosote bushes, not a spot of green showed. It could have been a rock garden. Perhaps Jimmy hated the sight of green unless it came from money. A battered old pickup was parked in front of a three-car garage.

I set up the spotting scope, checked my weapons, and settled in to watch. For a long time nothing moved but the long shadows creeping black across the desert. Then a small, dark man came out to clean the pool. Overhead long strings of high, dry clouds drifted across the sky. As the sun slipped behind the mountains the clouds fired red, then faded into a soft powdered pink that dissolved in the light breeze. When the pool man put his things away I put my eye to the scope just in time to catch sight of the woman as she stepped out of the sliding glass doors and into the deep shadow around the pool, her white one-piece suit shining against her dark tan, then she threw a bundle of towels on a deck chair, dove in, and began swimming laps with long, smooth strokes, swimming as if she never planned to stop.

Then I spotted a white blob behind sliding doors. I kicked the power on the scope up to full and focused on the round, hungry face of Jimmy Fish hanging like a bad moon behind the pool. Beyond him I could see Mexican furniture grouped around a fireplace. Off to the side a short woman set a large table with silver and linen. I worried about a party until she stopped after only two place settings. When she finished the table, she laid a fire in the fireplace, turned the lights on, then disappeared into the kitchen. Molly finished her laps, wrapped her hair in a towel, draped another over her shoulders, then tied a third one over her wet suit. When she went through the doors, Jimmy – head and shoulders shorter than her and rotund in a running suit that had never run – raised his face like a man looking into the sun. She patted him on the cheek and then walked quickly away toward the back of the house.

At full dark I pulled a windbreaker out of the pack, drank some water, then waited. For an hour nothing much happened. Jimmy sprawled on the couch and watched a football game on a television set into a carved armoire beside the fireplace. The short woman brought in two bottles of champagne in iced buckets and put them and two flutes on the end table beside him. Jimmy cracked one, took the first slug out of the bottle, then filled his glass. The pool man came back outside wearing a blanket-lined denim jacket and a straw cowboy hat that had seen better days. A cup of coffee steamed in his hands. He sat in one of the deck chairs, rolling cigarettes and smoking. When Molly came into the living room dressed in a worn sweat suit, Jimmy waved her over and poured a glass of champagne, patted the couch beside him, but she took her flute and sat on the hearth in front of the fire. She had a sip, then opened a small purse and began to work on her nails. I called Red, told him that this looked like the right night, asked him to head out right now, and hurry.

Then I gutted up and called Betty. I knew she wasn't going to be happy.

She answered in a motel bar outside Phoenix.

"You didn't call last night," she said without preamble. "I don't like that. I had to spend the night in El Paso. I don't like El Paso. It's not Texas. Fuck, Pm not even sure it's America."

"Maybe that's why I liked it," I said, then immediately regretted it. "Pm sorry, but I was locked up."

"Right. Locked up with a thousand-dollar hooker, you asshole."

"Not yet," I said, trying for a joke, but she didn't laugh. "I haven't found her yet," I lied, "but I've got a line on her. Seems like you would want me to find her. After what she did to you. And me."

"Pm sure," she scoffed. "Maybe I should just drop your car and fly back to Austin."

"That sounds like a great idea," I said, tired of trying to convince her that I was doing what I had to do. "Just let me know where the fuck it is."

"Or you could come get me, Milo," she whispered, changing tunes. "We could go home."

"We're in a ton of trouble, and a long ton of other people's futures depend on me working this out," I reminded her.

"You don't even know any of those people," she hissed, angry again.

"It doesn't make a damn bit of difference," I said, then paused a long moment to catch the anger in my throat.

"Well, it fucking should!" she shouted. Then whispered hoarsely, "Just give it up, Milo. Give it up."

"How many drinks have you had?" I asked after a long pause.

"Three. And I'm going to have three more and a turkey sandwich," she said flatly, "and call it Thanksgiving."

"Sounds good to me," I said. "I think I'll do the same. I'll meet you at the casino tomorrow night." Then I switched off the phone, and dug a granola bar out of the pack. When I finished it, I had a nip of brandy and a small toot. I didn't have either the time or energy to deal with a jealous woman as she dithered between anger and whining, or even time for a turkey sandwich. I had another granola bar, then waited again.

Betty called me back shortly, the ringing of the phone loud in the desert night, but I told her I was on a stakeout, that I couldn't talk, to please not call me. I promised to call her. She called me an idiot, then hung up. She called me back twenty minutes later to tell me that a good-looking cowboy was giving her the eye. We had Words, the kind of words that are hard to take back, even if you want to catch them as soon as they're out of your mouth. This time I hung up on her. A sliver of the waxing moon tried to peek through the ambient glare of seductive neon hanging over Las Vegas.

When the short woman brought a turkey to the dining room table, I called Red again and caught him just as he was going through Blue Diamond. Jimmy cracked the second bottle and refilled the flutes as the short woman brought the rest of the trimmings to the table. She said something to Jimmy, but he just waved her away.

A few minutes later she came out the kitchen door wrapped in a short jacket, said something to the man, then they walked slowly around the house to the battered pickup. I moved the spotting scope and the bipod to focus it on the end of the driveway. I could see the interior of the pickup cab clearly in the outdoor light at the gate. The man took a remote out of the glove box and pointed it at the gate. When the gate began to trundle sideways, he tossed the remote back into the glove box. Red was waiting for them when the pickup rattled over the cattle guard. I hoped they didn't live twenty miles away or something. But it didn't matter. They stopped at the first bar down the road. Red said he'd call back when he had the remote.

It took a lot longer than it should have. I hoped he hadn't been caught. Jimmy and Molly picked at their Thanksgiving meal for a while, then moved back to the living room. He went over to the armoire to fetch a silver tray heaped with cocaine with a silver straw sticking out of the pile like a dagger. He cut a couple of lines as big as snakes, but Molly only did part of hers. I said to hell with it and joined them for a brief snort of my own. She switched the television to a black-and-white movie I didn't recognize, while he put half a dozen CDs into the rack, then proceeded to boogie. He waved at Molly to join him, but she didn't seem to want to. She sat down on the hearth again and poked the fire. He took her by the hand, tugging at her, until she waved the poker at him. He laughed and gave up, decided to dance alone, pausing only to gun champagne and snort a line. He strutted his stuff like a bantam rooster in front of her, but Molly seemed more interested in the movie. Like some short, pudgy men, Jimmy had quick feet and an odd grace. He was probably stronger than he looked, I thought, but didn't keep the thought in the front of my head.

I was cold, my nose was running, the brandy in the half-pint had almost disappeared, and I was worried about Red. I couldn't call him. I'd probably catch him with a slim jim down the pickup window as the phone rang in his pocket. In the blind canyon the faux-adobe walls gleamed like teeth. Jimmy had gone back to trying to get Molly to dance, but she kept refusing. It looked as if it was going to get rough. But there wasn't anything I could do until Red called. Finally, the phone rang.

"Where the hell have you been?" I said.

"None of your damn business," Betty said.

"Goddammit," I said, "will you please stop calling me? You're going to get me killed."

"You seem to be doing a fine job by your own damn self," she mumbled, then hung up on me. Which was probably the reason she had called.

The night went on, completely out of control.

When Red finally called, I asked him where he'd been. The man had gone in the bar while the woman sat in the pickup listening to Mexican music. Red had sat in the parking lot, turning away drunk fares, until the woman stormed into the bar to drag her husband out. The only good news was that she hadn't locked the pickup, and Red was on his way. I dug a flashlight out of the bag, stuffed my gear back in, then headed down the hogback toward the road, When I reached it, the dark bulk of the Checker cab loomed beside it. Even in the dark I could see how cherry it was, the hand-rubbed black paint job gleaming even in the night. I fancied I could see stars shining in the finish.

"You sure he won't recognize my car, man?" Red said as he handed me the rest of my kidnapping gear.

"Right now, kid, I don't think he would recognize his own mother," I said. "Assuming he has one."

"I guess I could repaint it," he said. "Go back to the original yellow."

"Nervous?" I asked as I pulled on the surgical gloves and checked the loads of the Glock.

"Just about my car, man."

"Let's do it," I said. "There'll never be a better time."

"Then I guess it's now, man."

I climbed into the Checker. When Red stopped at the gate, I climbed out, then crawled under the cattle guard where I wrapped a bundle of det cord around the supports. Red had a homeboy who was a supply sergeant out at Nellis. For a price he was happy to provide the det cord, a straitjacket, and a cache of "twilight sleep" ampules from an Air Force nurse with a habit. I didn't know what I was getting into with this woman but I intended to get her out of the house and keep her one way or another.

"Should I leave the lights on?" Red asked as I climbed back into the Checker.

"Let's act like we're supposed to be here," I said as I punched the remote. "We don't want anybody to think we're sneaking in."

Red drove through the open gate, then up the driveway. He parked beside the porch facing down the driveway for a quick exit. I slipped out of the cab, checked my weapons, got out my badge, and went up the low steps to ring the doorbell, then stand aside.

Even through the thick door and the roar of music crashing into the still night, I could hear Jimmy Fish curse loudly and wonder who the hell was at the door. The porch light came on and the door swung open. He stormed out on the porch, saw the cab, and muttered "How the hell -"

I stepped in front of him. "Mr. Fish, I have an arrest warrant -" I started to say, my badge in one hand, a makeshift sap in the other. In case he wasn't impressed by the badge. He wasn't. He had a shiny automatic hanging in his hand. He started to lift it, so I laid the sockful of ashtray sand just under his ear. He went to his knees, confused but not out. I kicked the pistol out of his hand and off the side of the porch and stuffed the badge back in my pocket.

"Stay down, asshole!" I shouted at him. "And I won't tell your wife."

Behind him I could see Molly stretched out on the couch. She looked unconscious, her sweatshirt bunched around her neck, her hair down and disheveled. I slammed the sockful of sand against the side of Jimmy's head again. A little harder this time, and he rolled over on his side, moaning.

This wasn't working exactly the way I had planned it. When in doubt, try kidnapping, I must have thought, because I ran over to the couch, pulled Molly's sweatshirt down over her breasts, grabbed her purse, and tossed her over my shoulder. Even unconscious, her body felt strong and lithe against me. I carried her out the front door, down the steps, and dumped her into the back seat of the Checker.

"Duct tape!" I shouted at Red, and he tossed me a roll. I lashed her hands together, then to the hand grip above the door. It didn't seem to take too long, but the little bastard had obviously gotten to his feet, dashed back into the house, and dug up another pistol. When I turned my head, Jimmy Fish was staggering down the steps, another shiny semi-automatic pistol in his hand, screaming, "I don't even have a fucking wife!"

Maybe the divorce had gone through already. Maybe I should have hit him harder. His first shot glanced off the roof of the Checker. Before I could stop him, Red was out of the cab running toward Jimmy Fish, the big pistol wobbling in his hand, shouting, "Shoot my ride, motherfucker!"

The two of them engaged in a serious firefight about ten or fifteen yards apart. How they missed each other I'll never know. Red blew a large chunk of plaster off the house with his first round. His second went through the open door and out the sliding glass door at the back of the house. The third hit something inside the house that exploded like a vacuum tube. At the same time Jimmy Fish gouged several rips in the fenders and doors of the Checker and punched a hole through the front window and out the back. They might have hurt each other, eventually, but I slammed the back door shut, leaned over the trunk as I unholstered the Glock, and put a round in the fat meat of Jimmy's thigh. He went down like a broken puppet and screamed like a wounded rabbit.

"Go!" I shouted at Red.

He looked at me wildly, then turned to the little fat man in a heap at the bottom of the steps, and raised his pistol. "Don't fucking kill him! Let's just go!"

He slid behind the steering wheel as I dove into the back seat.

"Where?" he said as he rammed the Checker into gear.

But I didn't have an answer. I was too busy trying to stanch the blood pouring thickly down the side of the woman's face, cursing myself. "Goddamn!" I felt as if I had been searching for this woman all my life, and now some fucking idiot had shot her in the head. "Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch!"

"What the hell's your problem, man? The asshole didn't put holes in your ride," Red said as he bounced across the cattle guard and stopped so I could ignite the det cord. But when he turned to look at me, he saw the sheet of blood covering the side of the woman's face. "Shit, man, what are we going to do?"

I jumped out, dove under the cattle guard, wrapped the Glock in the extra lengths of det cord, pulled the ignition string, then jumped back in, shouting, "Drive like the wind, my friend."

We fled into the dark, heading into the desert away from the bright lights, the big city, and the disaster of the night. Perhaps in the desert, like an ancient hermit, I could find the answers.