All of that went down, except for the KA-BOOM. At just about the exact moment of the KA-BOOM—or even later!—Bernie’s fingers made a little movement, and so did his feet, and the yellow car thundered right through the space we’d just been in. As for us, we zipped along the edge of one cliff—and then the edge of the other!—on only two wheels, and maybe none. We were free, me and Bernie, free as the wind. Don’t you want to be like us? I’m not sure that can happen.
Free as the wind until we came down to earth, landing softly on the dirt track, slowing and turning, so smooth, just in time to see the yellow car whack a big boulder on one cliffside and come to a rocking stop. Everything got very quiet. We pulled up alongside the yellow car.
“Jordan?” Bernie called. “You all right?”
No answer. In fact, no sign of Jordan.
“Jordan?”
And there he was, popping up into view and wriggling out through the passenger-side window.
“Jordan? You okay?”
No reply from Jordan.
“Aw, Jordan. Try thinking ahead, just a little.”
But maybe he couldn’t. Instead he took off down the mountain on foot.
“For god’s sake, Jordan—how’s that going to work?”
Jordan kept running. A fine runner for a human, as I think I mentioned, and this time he was in sneakers, not flip-flops. Well, one sneaker, the other flying off. We hopped out of the car. Jordan’s legs churned away so fast, a pleasure to see. But did we have all day? No. You have to get down to business in this life. I loped after him, stuck out my head, grabbed him by the pant leg. He went down, wriggled around, tried to crawl, wriggled some more and—good grief! His pants were coming off again? What was with this dude and his pants? Wriggle, wriggle and all at once he’d wriggled himself right to the edge of the track and over the cliff. I hung on by that pant leg, but Jordan was slip-slipping away. He screamed, maybe at the sight of where he was headed, a long way down to a rocky landing. And then Bernie was beside me, reaching with one hand and hauling Jordan back up. Still with one hand, he sat him down on the track with a thump.
Jordan gazed up at us, bloody, dusty, scared, angry, young. That was my first impression, more than good enough, in my opinion. No point in working yourself to exhaustion. Bernie looked angry, too, an unusual sight.
“We’ve run out of patience, me and Chet,” he said.
We had? Good to know! Was it time for me to give Jordan a nip or two? I waited for a signal from Bernie.
“So before things get regrettable,” Bernie went on, “let’s have the truth. Did you kill Clint?”
“You out of your fuckin’ mind?” Jordan said. He spat out a little blood, and also a tooth. The tooth sparkled in the sunshine and disappeared over the cliff. I was just thinking to myself that there’s all kinds of beauty in life, when Jordan started to cry.
Eighteen
Women cry more than men, but some men cry quite a bit, and lots of men cry at least once or twice. I’d even seen Bernie’s eyes tear up, the day Charlie’s things got hauled away to Leda and Malcolm’s place in High Chaparral Estates. Also it was okay for men to cry. I’d heard it right from Bernie’s lips, one day when Charlie started crying because of some bully in school.
“It’s okay to cry, Charlie,” he’d said. “But first try not to.”
“Huh?” Charlie had said.
“Never mind,” Bernie had told him. “Make your hands into fists and stand like this. Are you a righty or a lefty?”
“Dad!”
“Just kidding. I’m going to teach you the simple right cross. It starts in your legs—”
“Legs?”
“Actually the balls of your feet. And finishes smack on some ass—some jerk’s nose. No one likes getting hit on the nose. They try to avoid situations where it might happen again.” He’d held up the palm of his hand. “Here’s some jerk’s nose.” And Charlie’d thrown a punch. Smack. “Nice. Now punch like you’re punching something a little behind the nose, so you have to punch through to get there.”
SMACK.
“That should do it.”
And Bernie had been right about that, except for an angry call from the bully’s mom a few days later. But back to Jordan, crying on this mountaintop overlooking Phantom Springs and the desert all around. A lovely sight, and the air was lovely too, cooler than down below. Take away Jordan and we’d have been enjoying a peaceful little break.
Bernie crouched in front of Jordan, who was kind of sobbing now, hands over his face. “Uh, there, there,” Bernie said. “What are you crying about?”
The crying stopped at once. Jordan peeked at Bernie through spread fingers. “You and your fucking hound tried to kill me—is that good enough?”
“It’s actually problematic on multiple grounds,” Bernie said. “First, any neutral observer would say we saved your life. Second, Chet has very little hound in him, if any. Third, and most important, you can’t use language like that about him.”
Jordan lowered his hands. His face was an unpleasant sight. Was there any way to make the sobbing start again, get his hands back up there?
“I can’t say fucking hound?”
“Neither one about him. You know I’m right.”
“I do?”
“Sure. You’re basically a good person,” Bernie said. “But I’ve known some basically good people who’ve killed other people, usually basically bad ones, like Clint.”
Jordan raised his voice to a screechy level that my ears just hate. “You’re trying to hang that on me?” His eyes got squinty. “I don’t get it—weren’t you the one who set her up? Led that goddamn sheriff right to her door?”
Bernie’s voice got low, but with this throb in it, hard even for me to hear. “I got set up myself. The point is I don’t believe Lotty killed Clint.”
“Neither did I,” Jordan said.
“Can you prove it?”
“My word’s not good enough?”
Bernie laughed.
A crafty look came over Jordan’s face, a look we sometimes see from perps who think they’re about to put one over on Bernie. What fun we have at the Little Detective Agency! And we also get paid! At least some of the time!
“If I’m basically a good person,” Jordan said, “then how come my word’s not good enough?”
“Uh-oh,” said Bernie. “That’s the kind of question the basically bad ones ask.”
The crafty look shifted around and turned confused, always a pleasant sight.
“Where were you the night Clint got killed?” Bernie said.
“Home. Home on fucking painkillers from him beating me up. Or can’t I say fucking painkillers?”
“I’d actually prefer not, but no biggie,” Bernie said. “Who can vouch for you?”
“Rita was there the whole time.”
“Anyone else? Someone not so invested in you?”
“Invested?”
“Someone who doesn’t care about you so much.”
“You think she cares a lot about me?”
“Isn’t she your girlfriend?”
“Yeah, but we fight a lot.”
“What about?”
Jordan took a deep breath, then shivered like it was cold outside, which it wasn’t. “All this shit,” he said.
“With Clint?” said Bernie.
“That, too.”
“What else?”
Jordan shook his head. “Just all the shit.” He gazed past us, beyond the edge of the cliff, and shivered again.
“Let’s stick with Clint for now,” Bernie said. “What went on with the tip jar?”
Jordan turned, took a look at Bernie. I got the strange feeling that he was really seeing Bernie for the first time, actually getting to know him.
“Are you rich?” he said.
“No.”
True, but I knew we would be someday, possibly soon.
“Then how come you put in a C-note?”
“I like Lotty’s music,” Bernie said. “And I did
n’t like the way that guy was treating her.”
“The one who wanted ‘How You Hung the Moon’?”
“Yeah,” said Bernie. “Why doesn’t she sing it?”
“She won’t talk about it,” Jordan said. “Rita thinks that’s the key to the whole thing.”
“What whole thing?”
Jordan opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but he ended up just sighing. “It’s hopeless. And even if I had the facts, why would I tell you?”
“Because I care about Lotty. Your grandmother’s in jail right now, arrested for a crime she didn’t do.”
“You keep saying that, but how do you know?” said Jordan.
Bernie, still crouched in front of him, reached out and touched his chest, very lightly. “What are you telling me?”
“Nothing.”
“Do you have reason to believe she killed him?”
“Goddamn right,” said Jordan. “He’s a parasite—was a parasite, charming this old lady to fall in love with him and robbing her blind. And meanwhile he’s got a real girlfriend in the Valley.”
“Those are reasons for motive, not reasons for guilt.”
“What’s the difference?”
“You can figure that out,” Bernie said. “Did Lotty know he was robbing her blind?”
“She doesn’t say it that way. He just worked on her weakness, made it like he was doing her a big favor.”
“How so?”
Jordan shrugged. “Like it was her fault she was broke, on account of being careless. Or if he was in a good mood, on account of her being an artist. ‘You’re an artist, Lotty. Artists can’t be managing the money, not with those imaginative minds of theirs.’” Hey! All at once Jordan sounded just like Clint, except an even meaner version. Whoa! Could a mean Clint somehow be inside him? For a moment I was more scared than I’d ever been in my whole life. But then Jordan kept going in his normal voice, and I went back to being my normal self, just sitting near the cliff edge minding my own business, keeping watch on Jordan’s ankles.
“But, yeah,” he said, “she knew.”
“So that’s what your tip jar caper was all about?”
Jordan nodded. “The bastard was even taking the tips.”
“Whose idea was it?” Bernie said. “Hers or yours?”
“Mine.”
“Planning to keep it for yourself?”
“Hell, no. Stealing from my own grandma? What do you take me for?”
Bernie gave him a long look, and then nodded slightly.
“She’s a great artist,” Jordan went on. “Even if hardly anybody knows.”
“I know,” Bernie said.
“Yeah? You’re into music?”
“Hers, for sure.”
“Poor Grandma. Got off on the wrong foot and never really…”
“Never really what?”
“Got to where she shoulda been.”
“But how come? Got off on the wrong foot in what way?”
“Maybe there were drugs involved, but I don’t know, man. No one talks in this family—not about the big things.”
“Drugs involved in what way?”
“Don’t know that either,” Jordan said. “This one day she caught me—not caught me, just sort of saw me with a beer and these pills of Rita’s. Legitimate pills, left over from Rita’s root canal.”
“What kind of pills?” Bernie said.
“OxyContin. Lotty read the label and got real mad. ‘Want to knock holes in your mind like I did?’ That was all she said. But it’s where I got the idea—like, her and drugs.”
Bernie thought about that. Then he said, “Did you take the pills?”
“Not then,” said Jordan. “After she left.”
Their gazes met. Jordan looked down.
“Is your father in the picture?” Bernie said.
Jordan shook his head. “He’s a sperm bank.”
There’s a look that comes over Bernie’s face when he gets real interested in someone. I saw it now.
“What about your mom’s father?” Bernie said. “Your grandfather.”
“Not in the picture.”
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. It was some brief thing. Lotty doesn’t talk about it.”
“Does your mom?”
“Just that it was a brief thing.”
Bernie walked over to the edge of the cliff, gazed into the huge distance. I eased over a little closer to Jordan and watched Bernie from there.
“This dog of yours is kind of part of the team, huh?” Jordan said.
“You should be crystal clear on that by now.” Bernie turned to him. “Who killed Clint?”
“I don’t know.”
“What’s your best guess?”
Jordan just sat there, said nothing.
“Are you the uncurious type?” Bernie said. “Hard to believe—the uncurious type doesn’t send away for an Arizona PI application.”
Jordan’s heart started beating faster. Hearing human heartbeats was no big deal, but I was close enough to feel Jordan’s as well.
“How the hell do you know that?”
“I’m an Arizona PI myself.”
“Yeah, but … but you all share applications?”
Bernie walked over to him. “PIs investigate things. What do you want to investigate, Jordan?”
Jordan looked up at Bernie, tried to meet his gaze and … did! “My grandma thought you were a good man—from how the dog acts with you. Before you set her up.”
The expression in Bernie’s eyes changed. Jordan caught that and added real quick, “Or didn’t.”
But way more important was this news that some member of the nation within was suddenly part of the show. When would I be meeting this newcomer?
“Does Lotty know about your investigation?” Bernie said.
Jordan shook his head. “And there isn’t any investigation, not yet. Not by me.”
“Then by who?”
“Nobody now.”
“Is that your way of saying Clint?”
Jordan nodded.
“What was Clint investigating?”
“Maybe some guy who works at a dude ranch.”
“What dude ranch?”
“I never found out. All this was from just one time I heard him on the phone.”
“With who?”
“I don’t know.”
“How about the name of the ranch hand?”
Jordan shrugged. “Might have been Flaco.”
“Did Lotty know about Clint’s investigation?”
“Not that she ever said to me.”
“What about your mom?”
Jordan made a small sound, like a groan but very soft. “My mom and Lotty don’t get along. More like my mom kind of hates her.”
“Why?”
“Lotty wasn’t around much when my mom was growing up. Since she came back they were only at the beginning of making things right, if that’s what they were doing. And now this.”
Bernie gestured with his chin, down at Phantom Springs. “Why were you going to your mom’s house just now?”
“To pick up some of her things.”
“And take them out to the RV?”
“Yeah.”
“Why is she out there?”
“That break-in at her place,” Jordan said. “She doesn’t feel safe.”
The wind rose and ruffled Bernie’s hair. Which was the whole point of the wind rising at the moment—just to see that sight. That’s the kind of thing I like about the desert: sometimes you get to look inside the mind of the wind.
Bernie extended his hand. “Let’s see if you’ve still got a functioning ride.”
Jordan gazed at Bernie’s hand, finally held out his own. Bernie pulled him to his feet. Was cuffing him next? That was my preference, but it didn’t happen.
* * *
No question the yellow car was dinged-up pretty bad, but Bernie did some nice work with the tools—even throwing in a good solid kick t
hat made all the difference—and Jordan drove it back down the mountain with us following behind, not real close but never losing sight of him.
“Got to keep him safe, Chet. Him and the whole family.”
I went over that in my mind a few times while we swung by Leticia’s house, trying to make sure it would stick. And just when it was about to stick forever, I smelled a lizard, of all things!
“You stay here,” Bernie said. “First sign of trouble, let me know.”
Aha! We were working separately. Not my favorite technique but perfectly doable, as long as it was over real quick. Bernie and Jordan went into the house and came out again just as I was starting to get—let’s not say agitated, more like slightly concerned—Jordan now carrying a suitcase. Bernie managed to unjam one of the back doors of the yellow car and Jordan put the suitcase inside, then sat behind the wheel.
Bernie spoke to him through the open window. “I’m going to describe someone—big guy, six five, two fifty, well-dressed, well-spoken, uses hair gel. Recognize him?”
“Sounds a bit like that bouncer at the Crowbar,” Jordan said. “Excepting for well-dressed, well-spoken, and hair gel.”
“Not to mention that Shermie’s more like six two, three hundred. But the male part is bang on.”
Jordan thought about that, then smiled a quick, small smile, actually kind of sweet, like a kid’s. “You saying I’m not cut out to be a PI?”
“Not in so many words,” Bernie said. He tapped the roof.
* * *
We drove up to the RV, first Jordan, then us. Cottonwoods, dry wash with that blue trickle among the rocks here and there: a peaceful scene. The door of the RV opened and Rita stepped out: ponytail, bare feet, metal-blue eyes, plus the shotgun again, muzzle down. What wasn’t to like, except for that shotgun being with her at all times?
“Her, do you think?” Bernie said.
Her in what way? I had no clue, hoped that one might come along.
Jordan walked up to Rita.
“What the hell are you doing?” she said to him.
“Couldn’t help it, babe,” Jordan said. “They were waiting at the house.”
“Christ,” said Rita. “And don’t call me babe.”
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