While Drowning in the Desert

Chapter 8

The state trooper was not amused.

“Was the vehicle locked?” asked Trooper Darius.

We were standing in the gas-station parking lot where the temperature was only about 109.

“No,” I said. “The car was not locked.”

Even through his reflective sunglasses I could see the disdainful stare. Yeah, all right, I could imagine it, anyway.

“May I see the keys?” he asked.

“I don’t have the keys.”

A long, disgusted pause.

“You left the keys in the vehicle,” he said.

“I left the keys in the vehicle.”

“Your insurance company isn’t going to like that.”

“It’s a rented car.”

“Then your insurance company really isn’t going to like that,” he said. “Have you reported the loss to the rental-car agency?”

“Not yet.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

“License-plate number?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because it’s a rental car.”

“That’s right.”

“The rental agreement will have it,” Trooper Darius said. “Don’t tell me, it’s in the vehicle.”

“With the keys,” I said.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh, then asked, “What kind of car is it?”

I thought about it for a few seconds.

“Red,” I answered.

His hand twitched in unconscious yearning around his nightstick.

“What make?” he clarified.

Now I sighed.

“I know it’s not Japanese or German,” I said. This time he took the glasses off to stare at me. More of a squint, really, in the sun.

“I don’t suppose it’s much use asking you the year, right?” he said.

“I don’t know a lot about cars,” I said.

“No fooling.”

“I’m from New York,” I explained.

“Don’t they have cars in New York?”

“Subway cars,” I joked.

I should have had one of those cards that said Laugh.

“You want us to look for a red car,” Trooper Darius said.

“I can identify the driver.”

“How?” he asked.

“Because he was in the car.”

“When?”

“When I was driving it,” I said. “Before he took it.”

Another long pause while the sun beat down on his Smokey the Bear hat and my bare, sweating head.

“The passenger stole the vehicle?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I’d say ‘stole,’” I answered. “But, yes, the passenger took the car.”

“You know the suspect.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Describe him.”

“An older gentleman…” I began.

“How old?”

“Eighty-six.”

I had never before seen a state trooper struggling not to laugh.

“An eighty-six-year-old man stole your car,” he said.

“Well again, I wouldn’t necessarily say-”

“Did he beat you up?” he asked.

“No, I-”

“Threaten you in any way?”

“No, you see-”

“Was he armed?”

“No,” I said. “I went to use the bathroom and when I came out I saw him driving away. I thought he would turn around and come back, but-”

“Didn’t the old man need to use the bathroom?” he asked. “Because usually-”

“That’s what I thought, but he said he didn’t.”

“Now we know why.”

“I guess so.”

“Name?”

“Neal Carey.”

“His name,”

“I thought you meant my name.”

“No, his name,” said Trooper Darius. “I already know your name. Your name is Neal Carey.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

We stood for a few seconds enjoying the sunshine.

“So what is it?” the trooper asked.

“What’s what?”

“What’s his name?” the trooper asked. “Take it slow, now. His name, not yours.”

“Nathan Silverstein,” I said. “Or Natty Silver.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

“How many eighty-six-year-old men stole your car?” he asked.

“Just one,” I said.

“So we’re on the lookout for a red car driven by an eighty-six-year-old man named Nathaniel Silverstein aka Natty Silver,” the trooper said.

“That about sums it up.”

“Which way was he headed?”

“He went thataway,” I said, pointing west.

“He could be a long way thataway,” said the trooper.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you think so?”

“Because he was driving about twenty miles an hour.”

Trooper Darius thought for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, “Get in the car.”

“The car’s gone.”

“My car.”

“Oh.”

We were cruising west on Interstate 15 when the trooper said, “I thought if we can catch up to the old man, and if everything checks out, then you can just get back in the driver’s seat and you won’t have to call the rental-car people or your insurance company and I won’t have to file a stolen-vehicle report.”

“I really appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.”

We were doing eighty miles an hour so it wasn’t long before we found the car in a ditch at the side of the road.

We pulled over and I jumped out of the cruiser, my heart pounding. I was scared to death I’d find Natty slumped over the wheel, hurt or worse.

I jumped into the ditch and looked into the car.

Nathan wasn’t in it.