The Pallbearers

Chapter 53

The Blue Mountain Lodge was a concrete-block, one-story motel situated near a garbage-disposal pit.

The motel sat outside the resort security wall and, as a result, had paid a high price in broken windows, litter, and spray-can graffiti. It was about a half a mile down the road from Old Town, which, as I drove past, gave off the tired look of despair. The structures in Old Town were ramshackle with broken equipment advertising broken lives.

When we pulled into the parking lot, it was only a little past five, but as I got out of the cab, I was immediately hit by the toxic smell of garbage coming from the clump across the street.

I went to the front desk and showed my credentials to a tired-looking, overweight Indian woman with a lined face and rat-nest hair who was perched on a high-backed stool behind the desk. I gave her a twenty and asked her if Sabas Vargas was registered here. She never got up, but told me that Vargas was in room six. I reached over her shoulder and plucked the room key off a peg.

"Do not call and announce me," I told her, then flashed my creds again to make the order stick.

I walked down the cracked cement walkway, past scarred wood doors, until I found room six. I unlocked without knocking and stepped inside. The room was threadbare and smelled of cooking grease and cigarette smoke.

Vargas was sprawled on the bed in his underwear. When he heard the door open he reared up on his elbows and squinted at me with unfocused eyes.

"What the fuck?" he growled.

I crossed the room, pulled his pants off the chair, and handed them to him. "Get dressed," I said.

"I'm through taking orders from you, Scully."

"Let's go. I'm buying breakfast."

He blinked a few times, then stood and put on his pants. He grabbed a denim shirt off another chair, then went into the bathroom and closed the door. I heard water running. When he returned to the bedroom he was wide awake but still trying to figure out what was going on.

"You have a rental car?" I asked.

"Yeah, the red Mustang out front."

"You're driving. Come on."

We exited the room and walked to his car. I waited while he fished around for his keys and unlocked the door. We got in and pulled out onto the highway.

"I saw a coffee shop a mile back," I said. "We gotta get away from this smell."

"Yeah… I didn't see the dump cause it was dark when I checked in and the wind was blowing the other way."

We drove to a small wood-sided restaurant on the highway that advertised a farm breakfast special: Eggs, potatoes, choice of chicken or fried steak.

We climbed the steps, went inside the half-full diner, and sat at an empty booth at the front window. An Indian waitress came over, poured our coffee, and left two menus. When she was gone, I leaned forward.

"Okay, Sabas. I'm only gonna say this once."

"I don't wanta hear it."

"Yes you do. Its an apology."

He sat back, not sure how to react.

"You were right," I said. "I was trying to shut you guys out. I wanted this to be just between Walt and me. All those years since I graduated Huntington House, I've been running away from him, Sabas. It was such a bad time in my life I didn't want to go back. I didn't want to deal with those old memories. If I'd gone over there, I would have seen this coming. I wouldVe gotten a nose full of Rick O'Shea. I woulda sensed something and stopped him. Like you, I've been kicking myself."

We were silent, eyeing each other across a scarred linoleum table-top. At first, his eyes were shiny black marbles, radiating distrust, but slowly, they softened.

"Sucks, doesn't it?" he said. "Knowing you could've saved Pop but were too wrapped up in your own bullshit to even try."

"Yeah." I sighed. "I've been dragging it around for a week. I just figured since I screwed up so bad, that it was my job to fix it. I didn't want help from the rest of you. I kept telling myself you were amateurs and you'd just screw it up. Maybe from a law-enforcement standpoint that was correct, but from an emotional one, it was selfish. I'm sorry. That's the whole apology. It's the best I can do."

Sabas reached across the table and put one of his big, scarred paws on my left hand and squeezed it once before letting go. "Apology accepted."

"Jacks still running with these guys" I told him. "He called last night and told me Diamond showed up here yesterday. She got into an argument with O'Shea in the casino. O'Shea pulled her out of there. Jack said it caused a big ruckus.

"According to the tribal police, there's no record of either of them being on the reservation, but since Jack saw them both yesterday they gotta be here. I'm worried about Diamond. Her name's not registered at the security gate, so I have no idea how she got in. But if Jack's right, then O'Shea got his hands on her, and I don't have a clue yet where she is."

"Maybe I do," Sabas said. He set his coffee down. "I saw Chris Calabro in the casino last night right after I first got here around seven. He was alone playing the slots. I hung back and watched. After he wiped out I followed him.

"He goes back to this little house that's about a half a mile down the road from the casino right on the golf course. I asked around and found out the casino has two or three bungalows that aren't listed on the room charts. They give them to the main acts who play the show rooms. The guys from Team Ultima are all staying in one of those. That's probably where they took her."

"Good stuff," I said.

He smiled. "So how do we do this?"

"I found out last night that E. C. Mesa owns the Talking Stick Hotel and Casino."

"Yeah, I learned that too. It's why I went down and registered at the Blue Mountain Lodge. But I can't put up with that smell another night."

"We're all at the resort under Seriana's name. We should be okay there 'til tonight. We've got plenty of room in our suite. Let's move you in with us. Then we can start working on a strategy."

He nodded, gazing out at the hot dry Tohono O'odham reservation. Then he said, "It's turned into a fully developed sea, bra."

It was what Pop always called any dangerous sea where without warning, a riptide could sweep you far out into the bay with little chance of getting back to shore. Pop never let us surf when it was like that.

"I guess sometimes you just gotta take a chance and go out anyway," Sabas said softly.