FOURTEEN
Look like a diamondback to you?” said a guy in a uniform, what kind of uniform I didn’t know. The sun was turning a milky kind of color—milk’s not my drink at all—and lots of different uniformed guys were around—Metro PD, state troopers, Border Patrol, maybe some others. “Looks like a diamondback to me.”
“I’m no expert,” Bernie said. “Isn’t there supposed to be a clear-cut diamond pattern?”
“Don’t know about clear-cut, but right there, see? Looks like diamonds.”
“Sort of.”
“Or maybe it’s a goddamn sidewinder. But what’s the difference? Poor son of a bitch—what a way to die.”
By that time, they’d taken Uri DeLeath’s body away, gotten busy with cameras, asked Bernie questions. I was pretty tired and not really listening. All I knew was that the more they asked him the less he said. Bernie had dark patches under his eyes: he was tired, too. A curved sliver of the sun topped the rise, and Bernie’s face went all sorts of hot colors, and with the tiredness at the same time it kind of scared me. Then the sky turned blue and everything was all right. I lay down, my back against a rock that still felt cool from the night, that huge saguaro towering above me. Another conversation started up, maybe about what to do with the snake. It was still going on when we left, me and Bernie.
The motion of the car was nice. I curled up on the shotgun seat. Bernie was quiet for a long time. Then he said, “What could we have done differently?” About what? I wasn’t sure, and no ideas came. Bernie rested his hand on my back. Hadn’t we done well? We’d killed that horrible snake without getting bitten. My eyes closed, but right away I saw those two puncture wounds in DeLeath’s swollen hand. I opened my eyes, watched the side of Bernie’s face. My eyes closed again. This time I saw nothing bad, just lots of clouds rolling in.
“You look like shit,” said Rick Torres, “but Chet looks great.”
And felt great, pretty much tip-top. I gave myself a nice shake, the kind that ends with a ripple all the way to the tip of my tail. Can’t tell you how good that feels. I’d slept the whole way.
We were outside Metro PD, central station. It’s downtown, not far from the tall buildings, and has some comfortable benches in front where friends and family of perps sit and wait. They were doing that now, but not on our bench—and not on the benches near us, either, for some reason—which had Rick at one end and Bernie at the other, with me climbing up on the middle as soon as the rippling shake was all done. Sometimes it’s nice to sit up high.
“Want to know what I think?” Rick said.
“Probably not,” Bernie said.
“That’s because you’re a conspiracy theorist.”
“The hell I am.”
“No? Are you ready to accept that the guy went a little crazy, saw himself as this great elephant liberator, ended up wandering in the desert, probably with no food or water, and ran into the kind of trouble that’s waiting out there?”
“No.”
Rick laughed. “Here we go.”
“Let’s start with Peanut,” Bernie said.
“Whatever you say.”
“Where is she?”
“Couldn’t tell you, but so what?”
“So what? If they were wandering around the desert together like you said, there’d be signs.”
“What kind of signs?”
“Ever heard of elephant dung, Rick?”
All this talk had been flowing back and forth over my head in a pleasant way, but elephant dung: that got my attention.
“Not hard to spot,” Bernie was saying. “And I looked. Even if I hadn’t, do you think Chet would have missed something like that?”
“Got a point there,” said Rick, giving me a quick pat.
Damn right, Bernie had a point. I’d never overlooked dung of any kind, not once in my whole career.
“But,” said Rick, “that could just show they got separated earlier, like before they reached the border.”
“You think it’s a coincidence,” Bernie said, “two Cuatro Rosas trucks showing up in the same case?”
“Spoke to that guy, Tex Rosa—absolutely clean, by the way, not even—”
“Don’t say it.”
“Don’t say what?” Rick said.
“‘Not even a parking ticket,’” Bernie said. “It’s one of those cop clichés that drive me crazy.”
“Okay,” Rick said, “I won’t say it. Am I allowed to say he denies that any of his trucks were anywhere near the fairgrounds the night of the disappearance?”
“I’ve got a witness who contradicts that.”
“Name of?”
“Ollie Filipoff—one of the acrobats.”
Rick wrote in his notebook. “I’ll check him out.”
“Do that,” Bernie said. “And then ask yourself what the second truck was doing down there.”
“The so-called second truck’s back in the yard,” Rick said. “Saw it myself this morning. According to Rosa, it was headed to Santa Fe with some engine parts last night, but developed an oil leak at spaghetti junction and turned back.” Rick paused, cleared his throat. I always listen for the throat-clearing thing, in case I haven’t mentioned that already. “Bernie?”
“Don’t want to hear it.”
“I’ll say it anyway—spaghetti junction’s a goddamn nightmare, plus it was nighttime, and anyone could go in tailing truck A and come out tailing truck B.”
The muscle in Bernie’s jaw jumped. “That didn’t happen.”
“Suit yourself,” Rick said. “But big picture—what we’re left with is a missing elephant and the body of the guy who stole it. Not much rationale for a big commitment of Metro resources.” Rick got up. “But if something new comes up, let me know.”
“That’ll be my number one priority,” Bernie said.
They didn’t shake hands.
The door to Popo’s trailer was open. We went in, found him sitting in front of a mirror, putting on his clown face. He had the white stuff on already, and the thick red lips, but he hadn’t started on the eyes or the nose.
“Hi,” he said, turning; his eyes looked very small. “What brings you here?”
“Uh.” I felt Bernie steel himself. That’s what he does at tough times—stands straighter, makes himself hard like steel. “We’ve got news,” he said. “Not good.”
“Oh, no,” Popo said. He put one hand to his mouth, smearing the red lip stuff over his face.
“I’m sorry,” Bernie said.
Popo sucked in air, real fast, making a rasping sound. He turned his face away from us. Popo was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, one of those wife beaters, I think they’re called, not sure why. The one wife beater we’d come across wore a leather jacket. We broke down his door and caught him in action. Bernie made him pay. But that’s another story. Right now I was watching Popo’s shoulders, skinny shoulders, not at all like Bernie’s, and his neck was skinny, too. Something about the back of his head was very nice, hard to explain. He was trembling, just the tiniest bit. I went around and sat down in front of him, at his feet. Maybe he didn’t see me right away, on account of his eyes being so damp and cloudy. But then he did, and reached out. I gave his hand a lick. It tasted of lipstick, a taste I knew from having chewed up one of Leda’s lipsticks in the old days, or possibly more than one, even lots.
Popo’s eyes, overflowing now although he didn’t make a sound, stayed on me. His face was very strange, part clown, part man, and all smeared with red and tears, but I wasn’t afraid. I moved closer, pressed against his leg. Popo was the kind of human I really liked, don’t know why. He put his hand on my shoulder and pulled me closer. I let myself be pulled.
Bernie told Popo the whole story about what had happened out in the desert. Popo asked some questions and Bernie explained again. Then came more questions and more answers from Bernie. I ended up almost understanding the whole thing myself.
Popo wiped what was left of the makeup off his face. “I want you to keep looking,” he said.
“For what?” said Bernie.
“For Peanut, of course. That’s what Uri would have wanted.”
“Um,” said Bernie, “I’m not sure that—”
Popo’s voice rose, got real loud, in fact. “Name the price.”
Bernie nodded. “The normal rate—four hundred a day plus expenses.”
Four hundred a day? Wasn’t our normal rate five hundred? Which was more? That was the one I wanted.
Popo opened a drawer and took out his checkbook.
“That can wait,” Bernie said. Oh, Bernie.
Popo glanced at a wall clock—and, yes, gave himself a little shake. Then he turned to the mirror, and began spreading white stuff from a jar onto his face.
“What, uh . . .” said Bernie.
“Showtime,” Popo said. From the set of his skinny shoulders I knew he was steeling himself, too, the best he could.
We left Popo’s trailer. Outside were a bunch of circus people, some I knew, like Fil and Ollie Filipoff, and lots I didn’t, like a bare-chested strongman, a woman in motorcycle leathers, a man with one of those single-wheeled bikes in his hand. They all started filing inside.
We drove out of the fairgrounds. The patches under Bernie’s eyes were even darker now. He made some calls. I kept a close watch on the car in front of us, specifically a car with a cat lying on the rear-window shelf, as cats often do. What’s wrong with the shotgun seat? This cat was watching me, too, watching me in a way I didn’t like one little bit.
“Chet! Knock it off.”
I tried to knock it off.
“Chet! What’s gotten into you?”
Bernie didn’t know? The cat was practically right in his face, yawning and stretching in a way that made me want to . . . but then we turned onto an exit ramp and the cat was gone. I settled down, no problem, quiet, alert, professional.
Pretty soon we were going by a golf course. Lots of golf courses in the Valley, always the greenest land around. That bothered Bernie, on account of—hey! We weren’t actually going by this one, but turning in and following a curving driveway lined with flowers. In the lot at the end we parked beside a long, white car that seemed familiar.
Nice smells in the golf course air: flowers, fresh-cut grass, and water, lots of it, even though I couldn’t see any. We walked over to the practice tees—I knew practice tees from the Dalton case, where it turned out Mrs. Dalton was having an affair with her golf pro, although at the same time her game improved so much she and Mr. Dalton won a local husband-and-wife tournament just before the divorce, so everything ended up okay—where only one person was taking swings, a tanned, big-headed, cigar-smoking guy wearing yellow pants, a pink shirt, and a straw hat: Colonel Drummond. He took a short, choppy backswing and jerked his club down at the ball with surprising force. Was that called topping it, when the ball hit the ground almost right away, bounced a few times, and rolled to a stop close by?
Colonel Drummond glanced up. “Mind not moving when a player’s addressing the ball?” he said. He looked more closely. “Oh, it’s you.”
“Your office said you’d be here,” Bernie said.
Drummond reached into the basket, placed another ball on the tee. “This about DeLeath? I already heard.” He shook his head. “Terrible, terrible news,” he said, talking around his cigar. “I’m devastated, don’t mind telling you.” He waggled the club, took another swing, a lot like the last, but this time he didn’t top the ball. Instead it darted rapidly to one side and dinged off a golf cart. “See?” the colonel said. “Can’t hardly think about anything else. Our little world—the circus world, I’m talking about—has lost one of its best.” He teed up another ball.
“What do you want to do about it?” Bernie said.
Drummond, already into his waggle, stopped. “Do about what?”
“Getting to the bottom of what happened.”
“The animal rights assholes got into DeLeath’s head and he went off the deep end, that’s what happened,” Drummond said. “Unless you have a different story.”
“I don’t,” Bernie said. “I only have questions.”
Drummond checked his watch. “Tee time’s in five minutes,” he said, “so there’s time to hear just one.”
“Okay,” said Bernie. “Do you know Tex Rosa?”
“Never heard of him.” Drummond started his waggle again, took the club back, and swung. This time the ball rose off the ground a bit and went down the fairway, although not far.
“More like it,” Drummond said. “What would you say—two twenty?”
“Tex Rosa owns a shipping line called Cuatro Rosas,” Bernie said.
Drummond took the cigar from his mouth, tapped off the ash, smiled. “That’s pretty damn close to a second question,” he said. “The answer’s still no.”
Bernie gave him a long look. “Your stance is too wide,” he said. “Messes up your rotation.”
“Huh?” said the colonel. “You know the game?”
“Not really,” Bernie said. “I caddied a bit when I was a kid.”
Hey! That was new. Bernie could still surprise me, always in a good way. No one comes close to him, if you want my true opinion.
Drummond lined up before another ball. “Like this?”
“Even more.”
Drummond brought his feet closer together, swung again. This was his best by far, not what you’d call soaring, but well off the ground and past some bushes, rolling up to the edge of a sand trap. “Well, well,” said Drummond. “Much obliged.”
“What about Peanut?” Bernie said.
“What about her?”
“Don’t you want her back?”
“How can you even ask me that?” Drummond said. “But we’ve got to face facts—elephants aren’t built for desert survival.”
“Meaning she’s dead?”
“Wish to God I could be more hopeful.”
“Is she insured?”
Drummond laughed. “Can’t buy life insurance for circus animals,” he said.
“So that’s it?”
A golf cart came bumping up with a guy dressed a lot like Drummond and also smoking a cigar at the wheel. “Sneaking in some practice?” the new guy said. “You sly son of a bitch.”
Drummond picked up his bag, turned to Bernie. “It’s business, son. I’m interviewing for a trainer next week and we’ll have a new elephant act up and running by spring at the latest. The show must go on.” He got in the cart. “Thanks for the tip.”
As the cart drove off, I heard the other guy say, “What tip?”
“Gonna cost you to find out,” said Drummond. They both laughed. Cigar clouds lingered in the air behind them.
Bernie watched until the cart was out of sight. “Two twenty, my ass,” he said. Someone’s bag of clubs stood waiting on the next tee. Bernie grabbed a club, toed a ball into place and whacked it. CRACK! ZING! Wow! So high and zooming—that ball just took off, soaring straight, way over the bushes and the sand trap, and a pond and the green with its flag, and some trees and the fence beyond, and over the road on the other side, where I finally lost it.
We went home. I took a ball with me, actually more than one. Golf balls aren’t big—you can fit a surprising number of them in your mouth at the same time.