“Did Clint Swann know about the butterflies?” Bernie said.
“Of course not! Why the hell—” Flaco went silent.
But maybe a shade too late. I’d seen this before, one of Bernie’s many techniques for getting the job done. Soon we’d be cashing a fat check. I tried to remember from whom.
“Forget the butterflies for now,” Bernie said. “What did you and Clint discuss?”
Flaco didn’t reply.
“Come on, Flaco. The introductions are over.”
“I told him nothing.”
“What did he want to know?”
No answer.
Bernie took a long look at Flaco and said, “I can find out from him if you don’t tell me.”
What a puzzler! Was it possible Bernie had forgotten the last time we’d seen Clint? This was turning out to be a difficult case. Was there big money waiting at the end? Or any? Suddenly I remembered! Myron Siegel was paying the tab. Older than dirt, and there were other old men in this case. Also Lotty herself was pretty old. And all at once, from being totally lost I found myself right on the edge of figuring the whole thing out!
“He’s a friend?” Flaco said.
“Far from it,” Bernie said.
“You don’t work for him?”
“How could I work for someone who treats Lotty the way he does?”
“You’ve seen Lotty?”
“Yes.”
“You’re a friend of hers?”
“That’s why I’m here.”
Sunshine poked around the corner of the casita, shone on Flaco. His chest was lean and brown, with a long white scar running down the middle.
“She was good with horses, too,” Flaco said. “Like you. I haven’t seen her in a long, long time. How is she?”
“Not good,” said Bernie.
“No. She was never the same.”
“After what?”
Flaco shook his head. “Why dig up the past? It’s dead and gone.”
“Is that what you told Clint?”
“Yes.”
“What was his reaction?”
“He offered money.”
“Did you take it?”
“No. He went away—went away angry. I want you to go away, too.”
“You really think the past is dead and gone?” Bernie said.
“Why not?”
“Because it keeps changing all the time. That’s a sign of life. And living things need to be understood.”
Wow! Had I ever heard anything so lofty? I didn’t get it at all, not the slightest bit. Flaco’s gaze was on Bernie. Seeing or not seeing? I didn’t know. Mingo’s tail tried its luck with another fly, missed again.
Bernie was meeting Flaco’s gaze. No question about Bernie’s eyes seeing. He was very good at spotting things, like a windshield glare on a distant ridge, or a tiny tremor in a hand, just before some perp makes a play for his gun.
“I lied to you about Clint,” he said.
Flaco went very still.
“Clint’s dead—stabbed in the heart. They arrested Lotty for it. She’s in the county jail. The case is a lock, but I don’t believe she did it. I’m a private investigator, trying to help.”
It was quiet beside Flaco’s casita, no sound except the swishing of Mingo’s tail.
“This is the curse,” Flaco said.
“I don’t understand,” said Bernie.
Flaco rose. “You are right about the past.”
Flaco walked past the window and entered the casita, leaving the door open. We followed him in—me and Bernie, not Mingo. I’ve only seen a horse inside a house once in my life, a horse, by the way, capable of climbing stairs, although not going back down. Why it was our fault I never got clear, but that was definitely Malcolm’s take, and it was his and Leda’s bedroom where the … climax? Would that be it? Where the climax of that little incident took place.
Flaco’s whole casita could have fitted into Leda’s bedroom. It was mostly one room, very tidy, part bedroom, part living room, part kitchen, a cool room although there was no smell or sound of AC.
“What curse are you talking about?” Bernie said.
Flaco opened a small footlocker and took out some sort of machine. I’d seen one like it before, on a case involving hipsters and a stolen truckload of PBR. It was a cassette player, some old way of listening to music, according to Bernie. Flaco fished around in the locker, found a cassette, stuck it in the player, pressed a button.
What came next was a man’s voice, humming softly. But: beautiful, beautiful right from the very start. I’ve heard a lot of music in my time—“If You Were Mine” being my very favorite, Billie Holiday singing and Roy Eldridge on trumpet at the end, that trumpet doing things to my ears I can’t describe—but I’d never heard a man’s voice like this.
His humming grew louder, but very slowly. I felt like I was floating on a river, kind of strange since our rivers hardly ever have more than a trickle, so I’ve never actually had the experience. From the look in Bernie’s eyes I knew he was floating on a river, too.
And now, kind of on top of that humming, a woman began to sing. I had an idea I recognized that voice, although this woman sounded much younger.
With one little smile
And the touch of your hand
That’s how you hung the moon.
Then the woman took over the humming and the man sang. Not loudly, but my paws felt him through the floor.
The sound of your voice
The promise of your love
That’s how you hung the moon.
And then they sang together. A feeling went all the way down my back to the tip of my tail.
And even in darkness
I’ll never forget you
And how you hung the moon.
The singing stopped. There was a little laughter, his and hers. Then the woman said, “What do you think?” “Think?” said the man. “That’s the enemy.” More laughter. “But what about ‘even in darkness,’” she said. “Maybe it should be—” “Shh,” he said. That was followed by what might have been a kiss, and silence. Flaco pressed a button, put the player back in the locker.
“That was Lotty,” Bernie said.
“Si,” said Flaco.
“And the man?” Bernie said. “Incredible. Is he someone I should know?”
“The man is El Cantate,” Flaco said.
“‘The Singer’?”
“Correct.”
“His real name?”
“Hector de Vargas.”
“A relative of yours?” Bernie said.
Flaco nodded. “My … my big brother. He was twenty-one years old in that recording. Lotty was still in high school, or maybe she’d dropped out.”
“They were writing ‘How You Hung the Moon’?”
“You know the song?”
“I love it,” Bernie said. “I didn’t realize Lotty had a cowriter.”
“He was much more than that,” said Flaco. “Hector was a visionary.”
“In what way?”
“A spiritual way,” Flaco said. “The music was only the voice.”
Bernie got one of his thoughtful looks. His thoughts at that moment were very strong. I could feel them in the room.
“That was how he put it,” Flaco said. “Music is the voice of the spirit, so if we work on the spirit, the music gets better by itself.”
“What was Hector’s relationship with Lotty?”
“At first, teacher and student.”
“And then?”
“In love.”
“I’d like to speak to him,” Bernie said.
“So would I,” said Flaco. His milky gaze went to the window. “Hector died that same winter.”
“What same winter?”
“When they made that recording. Maybe three weeks later, maybe four.”
“How did he die?”
“Drug overdose,” Flaco said. “Unfortunately—as I see it now—drugs were part of the vision. Peyote, at first. Well, no sham
e in that, not in these parts. But then they started in on other things, very pure, very powerful.”
“Like what?”
“Mescaline for one,” Flaco said. “I don’t know the others.”
“Why do you know mescaline, specifically?”
“Because I met the supplier a few times. He was a doctor in the Valley.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“Dr. Wellington.”
“First name?”
Flaco shook his head.
“Where did Hector die?” Bernie said.
“Not far from here,” said Flaco. “Lotty had a tent they were living in, at least some of the time. That was another part of the vision—to return to earlier days.”
“Where was Lotty when he died?”
“With him.”
“In the tent?” Bernie said.
“That’s right,” said Flaco. “She woke up in the morning and Hector was dead. He died in her bed.”
Twenty-three
Somebody died in Lotty’s bed? Hadn’t I heard that before? And then it came to me: Clint! Wow! I was on fire, so on fire that I attempted a so-therefore, all on my own: so therefore Clint died twice in Lotty’s bed. Amazing. Not only a so-therefore, but a so-therefore with numbers in it. I gave myself a very energetic shake, as energetic as it gets.
Bernie shot me an odd sort of glance and turned to Flaco. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“A long time ago,” Flaco said. “But yes, okay. I accept.”
“A loss for music, too,” Bernie went on. “Did your brother release any records?”
“Hector didn’t believe in the music business. Maybe he would have changed his mind, but…” He shrugged.
“Did he and Lotty write other songs, besides ‘How You Hung the Moon’?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who ended up with his estate?”
“Estate?”
“His possessions, after he died.”
“Hector had no possessions. Some clothes, a guitar, just things like that.”
“What happened to the guitar?”
“Maybe Lotty took it.”
“And what about the song credit? Many of the big stars in country music sang ‘How You Hung the Moon,’ and Lotty had a hit with it herself.”
“I don’t understand,” Flaco said.
“A song credit means there are royalties. There’s supposed to be a payment for every play—very small per play, but a lot of plays add up to real money.”
“I never knew this,” Flaco said. “What does it mean?”
“We need more facts,” Bernie said. “Maybe your brother wanted Lotty to have sole credit. Maybe they made some other arrangement. I’ll have to look into the song’s history, see how much time went by between that cassette recording and the first release. A year or two is my guess, might have been more.”
“By then she was forgetting Hector a little bit?”
“That’s possible,” Bernie said. “Do you remember her reaction to his death?”
“Not right at the time,” Flaco said. “I was working on a ranch in Colorado, didn’t get back until the funeral.”
“What was Lotty like at the funeral?”
“Just the way you’d think. Sad and crying.” Flaco turned again toward the window. Did his milky eyes clear a little? Or was that impossible? “But the next day, something happened where … where I saw maybe how she felt. In the evening I went with flowers to the grave, and Lotty was already there. She sat on the ground with her arms around the stone, sobbing and saying all kinds of crazy things. I left before she could see me.”
“What kind of crazy things?” Bernie said.
“Like ‘I’m so sorry, Hector,’ and ‘I was insane from the drugs,’ and ‘Take me, take me,’” said Flaco. “Crazy things.”
“Did you ever talk to her about any of that?”
Flaco shook his head.
“Did she ever try to kill herself?” Bernie said.
Oh, no, not that. We’ve seen it happen twice, me and Bernie, this strange and horrible human thing, so mysterious to me. We just don’t do that in the nation within. Those were our two worst cases, except for the broom closet case, where we’d arrived too late. We’d made the bad guy pay, me and Bernie, pay big-time, but afterward we hadn’t felt any better. I’m a champ at forgetting, so why can’t I forget the moment when we opened that broom closet?
“Try to kill herself?” said Flaco. “Not that I know. She left a day or two later.”
“Did you go back to Colorado?”
“Si.”
“When did you and Rosita get together?”
“A few years after,” Flaco said. “I’d known her all my life, but … things happen. All of a sudden she was the one.”
“That must have been nice,” Bernie said.
“Nice,” said Flaco. “But it didn’t last.”
“Was she already taking care of Leticia when you came back?”
“That’s right. How do you know all this history?”
“I don’t know nearly enough,” Bernie said, which was just him being modest. No one knows more than Bernie, in case I haven’t made that clear by now.
“So your next question will be, who is the father of Leticia,” Flaco said. “Am I right?”
Bernie smiled. “Actually my next question was going to be about the cause of Hector’s death.”
“But I just told you,” said Flaco. “A drug overdose.”
“Was there a medical exam?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see Hector’s body?”
Flaco shook his head. “The coffin was closed.”
“Where’s the cemetery?”
“Cemetery?”
“You said you saw Lotty crying by the gravestone.”
“The stone isn’t in a cemetery,” Flaco said. He gestured toward the window. “It’s down the trail, maybe half a mile.”
Mingo snorted, just out of sight.
“Right on the trail?” Bernie said.
“A little way off,” said Flaco. “There’s a eucalyptus grove. It has meaning around here, going back a long time. A beautiful place. I’m planning it for myself.”
“Not anytime soon, I hope,” Bernie said.
“The doctor doesn’t agree,” said Flaco. He was silent for a bit, then said, “And now you will ask about the father of Leticia?”
“You’re better at this than I am,” Bernie said.
“I hope not,” said Flaco.
Bernie … winced. Was that the word? He winced like he felt a pain. I’d never seen that from him before, never wanted to see it again.
“As for Leticia,” Flaco went on, “everyone just—how do you say it? Asumieron?”
Bernie took a breath, came back to the here and now. “Assumed.”
“Everyone assumed Hector was the father.”
“But?”
“No buts. Everyone assumed.”
“What did Lotty say?”
“She never said. She just went along with all the assuming.”
“Did she ever discuss it with Rosita? Weren’t they close?”
“Oh, yes, and maybe they discussed it, but does that mean Rosita would tell me? You didn’t know her. A very stubborn woman.”
“But you talked about it with her?”
Flaco’s voice rose again, so fast and unexpected. “Didn’t I tell you that already? And she wouldn’t say a goddamn word? Don’t you listen?”
Outside the window came sounds of Mingo shuffling around, tossing his head, snorting—in short, doing horse-type things, probably just to annoy us.
“You’re scaring him,” Bernie said quietly.
Flaco opened his mouth. I waited for some more shouting, but that didn’t happen. Instead Flaco hung his head and said, “He is a very good horse.”
Then we just sat for a bit, until Mingo settled down.
“What’s your opinion?” Bernie said. “Was Hector Leticia’s father?”
Flaco raised his head. “Does it matter after all these years?”
“I think so,” Bernie said.
“Life just gets messier and messier and then you die?” Flaco said. “Is that what it’s all about?”
“Help me tidy up a little,” Bernie said.
Flaco nodded. “Okay, senor. Maybe it makes sense that Hector would be the father, maybe that’s the simple truth, but two things bothered me. First, the child looked nothing like my brother. A little bit like Lotty, yes, but even that not so much. Second, Lotty left her with Rosita, once as a baby, and the second time when she was older, starting to be a real person.”
“She wouldn’t have done that if Hector was the father?”
Flaco shook his head. “It was special, what they had.”
* * *
We headed down the Hanging Moon trail, me, Bernie, and Mingo. Are there nightmares in the day? Even if there aren’t I had one anyway, all about Mingo joining the Little Detective Agency.
“Hey, big guy,” Bernie said from up in the saddle, “you’re getting a little close.”
Boy oh boy. I headed off the trail, did some crazy running, returned in a better mood, although not much. Not long after that we made our way down a gentle slope and into a grove of eucalyptus trees. No surprise: I’d been smelling them all the way from Flaco’s casita, the smell of eucalyptus—lemony, woody, and also like a kind of tea Bernie’s mom mixes with bourbon—is impossible to miss.
The smell got much stronger in the middle of the grove. A nice spot, shady and cooler than out on the trail. Bernie got off Mingo, tied the reins to a branch. Mingo chewed on a leaf. Just a small one but his chewing went on and on. Mingo! Snap out of it!
Bernie glanced around, took a deep breath. “This is one of those places,” he said. “Where time doesn’t reach.”
Something about time? Were we in a hurry? I waited to find out.
A gravestone, not big but of a pretty sunset color, stood near the biggest tree. We walked up to it. “‘El Cantate,’” Bernie read. “No date, no name.”
Did that make any difference when it came to marking the stone or not? It had been marked by a coyote and not that long ago, a rather bothersome fact. There’s a duty in the nation within to mark over all coyote markings, and I’m not the type to let the team down. I moved toward the stone, even raising a leg a little, or at least giving it a twitch, but just then Bernie put his hand on the stone.
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