Zeno then stopped and locked on to us, tail erect, motionless. When he looked at me straight on, I could see the soulful wrinkles of his forehead, both vertical and horizontal, heavily converging on his prodigious eyebrows. Beneath which the pale gray eyes registered me with a somber intelligence.
“That dog will bond with Lindsey in less than five minutes,” said Burt.
Zeno lumbered along on Rose’s left side as she walked back to Bruno and Lindsey. No leash. He nudged Bruno’s hand while looking at Lindsey, tail not wagging. Lindsey opened her hands and the dog looked up at her, then returned to Rose’s feet to rule the space between his master and this stranger.
Then Rose slung the red backpack over both shoulders and, with Zeno close on her left, strode off across the barnyard with Bruno and Lindsey in tow. They followed the dirt road to the south shore of the pond, moving briskly, stepping around the mud puddles left by yesterday’s storm. They rounded the pond and continued south into the hilly grasslands that make up most of Rancho de los Robles.
Bruno stopped at the crest of a rise and watched the others continue down. Rose was in the lead, with Zeno walking close to her left and Lindsey a few yards behind. After a moment Bruno started back toward us, while Rose, Lindsey, and Zeno vanished into the swale and dropped out of sight.
“I had a quick look around Lindsey’s casita last night when she was out on the patio,” said Burt. “Two quarts of Stolichnaya—a plain and a pepper—sitting right out on the kitchen counter. Some good-looking smoked almonds, and a pile of Ghirardelli seventy-two-percent-cacao chocolate bars. Two of those crescent-roll tubes and a tub of whipped butter. She must be quite the midnight snacker.”
I nodded but said nothing. I wasn’t expecting she’d bought the orange juice or energy drinks I’d hoped for.
“Any thoughts on who hired Bayless?” Burt asked.
“I’ll get back to you on that, Burt.”
“Excellent, Boss.”
I watched Bruno traipsing back around the pond toward us. He veered not one step to avoid the puddles, splashing right through them instead, like a boy. A plume of smoke trailed behind him from the cigarette in his mouth.
Beyond him, Rose and Zeno climbed upward into my view again, Lindsey now on Rose’s right and Zeno still on her left. A moment later they went around an outcropping of granite boulders and back out of sight. A couple of hawks circled in the clear blue sky.
Bruno approached, flicking his cigarette butt to the wet road and hopping to squash it. “It is going very well. Zeno is very interested in Lindsey. It helps that Lindsey is of good size, like Rose, because Zeno has always loved big women. He does not care for men. Rose was his first and his constant mistress. Lindsey will be his fifth.”
“The others rented him and sent him back?” I asked.
Bruno nodded. “One kept him for almost a year. The others only a few months. Immediately after a mistress returns him, Zeno becomes depressed and confused. Rose heals him. I was that way when I was young and had a broken heart, too.”
“How will Rose transfer that affection and loyalty to Lindsey?” I asked.
Bruno crossed his arms and looked across the rolling hills to where the trio had disappeared behind the rocky hillock. The hawks had shifted in the sky to circle above the dog and women, alert for flushed birds and game.
“The affection and loyalty are natural,” said Bruno. “The Cane Corso heart is the biggest of all the dogs. As is his courage and intelligence. So Lindsey will have to give the dog attention, respect, affection, and food. Attention is most important, and food is second. She must always have for him occasional treats and meals twice a day, eight a.m. and eight p.m. I have brought her one month’s supply. Zeno also loves being talked to. This may sound foolish, but I believe he understands fifty percent of what he is told. Fifty percent he is absolutely the master of. The other fifty? Well, he has no idea—because he’s a dog!”
Bruno exploded into laughter at his own joke. “Come to my truck. I have the food and dog treats that Zeno loves.”
“Why haven’t they come out from behind the rocks yet?” I asked.
Bruno squinted out at where we’d last seen them. “There is a small blanket and dog treats in Rose’s pack. She and Lindsey will find a dry place, spread the blanket, and sit too close together for Zeno to get between them. They will talk to each other in quiet, intimate voices. They will touch each other and perhaps embrace. As sisters would embrace. Zeno will try to force his way between them but Rose will not move away from her new dear family member. She is as determined and nearly as strong as Zeno is, believe me! Before long, and with the help of the food for bribing, Zeno will give up and move to Rose’s free side. After all, her closeness is what he wants most. And that is when Lindsey will join him on his side of Rose and sit down close beside him. So now Zeno is in the middle. He has won—but he still has to comprehend it! At this point, he will either stay or growl tremendously and go to Rose’s free side again. If he stays, Lindsey will scratch his throat and give him food, and the first stage of the imprint is nearly complete. If he goes back to Rose’s original free side, then the whole thing starts over again. This beginning method of imprint goes back many generations in the Zacardi family. In the very old days, if the Cane Corso would not imprint with family members, or important friends, after three tries on three days, a dog would be castrated and sold. A bitch would be locked from the grounds to fare for herself in the town or the woods.”
I watched Lindsey, Rose, and Zeno emerge from behind the boulder-strewn hillock. The women walked side by side, relaxed and conversing, the dog between them, with a muscular glide to his stride.
“Zeno has accepted Lindsey into his family!” said Bruno, clapping his hands. “He is very intelligent. He has always loved the women.”
I watched Zeno charge off after a rabbit, which easily out-legged him into a patch of prickly pear cactus. The dog stood at the edge of the cactus patch, tail wagging, nose lowered.
“Rose will give Lindsey the list of commands,” said Bruno. “They are Italiano, of course, and they explain themselves. Zeno has been trained to follow them instantly and fully. Even in the face of death he will follow his commands. Here, I brought a list for you, too.”
From his rear trouser pocket Bruno handed me a smudged and wrinkled sheet of paper. I unfolded it and looked down the menu of Italian commands and their English translations.
The two women and their proud protector came toward us on the bumpy dirt road. Zeno’s prodigious head, sharply cropped ears, and heavy brow gave him a wise and monstrous bearing. His legs were trunklike, I saw, much thicker than the legs of the Labrador retrievers I had had as a boy. His feet were enormous and he splashed as casually through the puddles as Bruno had done. His light formantino coat with the dark gray brindles caught the crisp December sunlight as his muscles bunched and stretched beneath. The bright white blaze on his chest seemed jaunty. I heard the women’s voices as they approached. Rose said something ending in a rise of pitch, and Lindsey laughed.
“Lindsey is expecting genuine trouble?” he asked.
“Pretty damned genuine.”
“Zeno increases her advantage dramatically.”
I nodded.
“A man experienced in killing with a knife is Zeno’s most dangerous enemy,” said Bruno. “Such men are old-fashioned. Rare in this technological country. I brought his body armor. It protects against a knife and bullets. He enjoys wearing it. He knows that he is going into battle.”
* * *
—
Later, as Bruno and Rose walked toward their truck, Zeno took up his usual position on Rose’s left, timing his stride to hers with all his power and grace.
At the door, Rose lifted a finger and Zeno sat and looked up at her. Of course, he was ready for her to open the back door and let him jump in. But instead, Rose knelt and threw her arms around the dog, laid h
er head against his. She looked past him at me, tears streaking her face. Then she stood, turned her right palm to face the ground, and Zeno lay down. Bruno opened the door and his wife swung into the cab, drawing her heavy rubber boots in last. Zeno issued a gigantic sigh with a sorrowful yelp tucked inside it. Bruno pet him once on the head and walked to the driver’s side of the truck. He climbed in and Rose’s window went down.
“Call him to come and tell him to sit,” she said to Lindsey. “Firmly.”
Lindsey held her sheet of commands out and ready in one hand, shading her eyes with the other. “Vieni,” she ordered. Zeno swung his massive head to regard Lindsey, then turned back to his true master. Didn’t budge.
“Vieni!” called Lindsey, with more force.
Zeno came.
“Siediti.”
Zeno sat before her but still looked at Rose.
I saw the dog in profile, his slightly upturned muzzle, which Bruno had told me lay at a breed-perfect one-hundred-and-five-degree angle from the upright plane of his forehead. Moreover, I saw his eye, the beautiful pale gray eye that matched the brindles of his coat. And in that eye? It’s easy to humanize a dog, but they have strong emotions and no interest in hiding them. In this case: heartache and resolve.
“Bravo regazzo,” said Lindsey, gently. “Good boy.”
He sat very still and never took his eyes off Rose as she rolled up the window and Bruno backed up the truck and drove away.
18
LATE THAT BLUSTERY AFTERNOON, I sat in my truck across the street and a few doors down from Hector Padilla’s home. I had a hunch and time to bet on it.
It was Friday and this El Cajon hood had a bustling, home-from-work feel. Christmas lights were up and some already turned on. A minivan pulled into the driveway next door to Hector’s. The garage door went up. A woman unleashed two young children, who spilled past her through the sliding door. All three gathered at the rear of the vehicle. The lift gate opened and they wrestled out a tightly wrapped noble fir, which they lugged into the garage. The girl had on pink rubber boots and a pink fur-lined coat, and the boy wore floppy black board shoes and a silver quilted parka. I pay attention to children because Justine did. We wanted one. For starters. We had happily set ourselves to the task of creating one, just hours before she took off in Hall Pass that final day.
My slick, fold-out invitation to opening night of the “Treasures of Araby” exhibition and sale—a gift from Padilla to Imam Hadi Yousef, then from Yousef to me—lay on the passenger seat.
GALLERIE MONFIL PRESENTS
The Treasures of Araby
Collectible Art, Artifacts, and Antiques
From Exotic West Asia
The opening-night party, to which the bearer of this invitation was welcome, was set to begin in two hours, at six p.m. in Solana Beach.
I took my time reading the invite copy and looking at the pictures again. I braced it on the steering wheel so I could read and still see activity at Hector’s house. The booklet opened into four panels on each side, for a total of eight pages. Two panels were dedicated to each of four exhibits:
OF CARPETS & MAGIC
CENTURIES IN TILE AND TEXTILE
ART, SENSE, AND SPIRIT
THE SWORDS OF ARABY
The pictured carpets for “Of Carpets & Magic” made me think of the collection of Persian rugs that had come with the house I live in. The carpets had been collected over the years by the various Timmerman family occupants of Rancho de los Robles, many of whom took their carpets seriously. Some of the invitation pictures looked very much like the rugs I unmagically traipsed over daily.
The pictured tiles were intricate and beautiful, most of them Arabesque variations of flowers, plants, and animals. The elegant calligraphic script reminded me of Caliphornia’s handwritten correspondence.
The image for “Art, Sense, and Spirit” was a reprinted sixteenth-century Iraqi painting titled Prince Conversing with a Mythical Bird. It was done pre-perspective, making it oddly flat and swirling.
“The Swords of Araby” pictured an Arabic saif sword, curved in deadly grace, handle and hilt intricately engraved with calligraphic script and songbirds. I thought of Kenny Bryce and the threat letters to the Headhunters. How could I not? Something alien and cold stirred inside me.
I looked up from the sword to Hector Padilla’s quaint El Cajon home. I imagined his Qur’an, his energy drinks, these invitations, and the large sharpening stone spilling from his upturned backpack to Hadi’s desk. I thought of Taucher’s cogent question: Who carries around a sharpening stone? A seemingly hapless hospital janitor who wants to become a Muslim and learn Arabic in order to find a Muslim woman?
At five sharp, Hector’s garage door rose and the shiny black Cube backed out into the mid-December dark. I fell in behind it. Hector drove as he had driven before, exactly the speed limit, signaling turns well ahead of time, waiting at least three full seconds at each stop sign. He picked up Interstate 8 west to the 5 north, headed for Solana Beach. I was pretty sure where he was going. Nice work, Ford. I stayed two cars behind in the heavy traffic. Predictably, Hector drove only in the slower, second-from-the-outside lane. The Cube, freshly washed and waxed, gleamed in the lights of the exit signs.
Hector exited Via de la Valle, loafed his way to South Cedros Avenue, and turned right. Cedros Avenue was an upscale retail zone: galleries, furniture, lifestyle purveyors, the Belly Up nightclub, where I had spent a number of nights with Justine—and, later, without her. Hector circled the crowded area patiently, finally finding a place. I parallel-parked half a block down, keeping an eye on him.
Not difficult. By the time he had gotten out of his car and made it to the parking meter, which seemed to be puzzling him, I had paid and caught up. I’d never really seen him before, except pictured on Taucher’s wall or sitting in his car. He appeared less than average in height. Bushy dark hair and a small pot belly. Jeans too small and Raiders hoodie too big.
I window-shopped a contemporary art gallery, fingering the GPS tracker in my coat pocket. Nifty gadget: reports the host vehicle’s location to your phone every second while in motion, so you can become invisible. It never needs a line of sight. Gives you time/date/address for every stop, sleeps when your target isn’t moving, waterproof, with a built-in magnetic fastener strong enough to keep it secure on a car chassis. Fifty hours of charge, one hundred ninety-nine bucks.
I’d had a good long look at the paintings in the window by the time Hector solved the meter, locked up his Cube, and headed down Cedros, tapping what looked like a rolled-up magazine against one leg. I gave him a good lead, then followed, kneeling to activate the GPS tracker and attach it to the rear chassis of the Cube. It jumped to the metal frame with a heavy clunk.
The Gallerie Monfil was a big corner building, a three-level gallery/warehouse I’d visited several times. They specialize in folk and primitive art and crafts from around the world, handmade furniture, ceramics, weaving, textiles, carvings, vessels, and jewelry.
Hector walked toward the entrance. Well-dressed people bustled in around him, winter finery finally on display in sunny San Diego County, and I was surprised by how many visitors there were. Hector stood in the line, the invitation protruding from his magazine, which he leafed through as he waited. He paused and checked his phone, then looked at the people around him, a half-smile on his face. I held back, watched a woman in a green dress stride by, diamonds in her ears, a faux-mink stole on her neck, a man with a phone in tow. She looked at me unhurriedly. A calligraphic sign announced The Treasures of Araby—Level Three. Docent-guided tours at 7 and 9 p.m.
I drifted into the building a minute or two after Hector. Claimed a free glass of champagne off a table in the lobby. Heard the holiday music coming from the PA. Then climbed the wide maple-and-stainless-steel stairs to level three.
I entered a spacious rotunda buzzing with visitors. Dramatically el
evated in the center was a life-size bronze Arabian charger with a warrior astride it, scimitar lifted high. The sculptor had captured speed and balance. Around this centerpiece stood lesser statues, metal sculptures and wooden carvings and large, free-standing ceramic vessels. From amid these rose tapestries and fine fabric pavilions and lilting silk banners, and the walls were hung with carpets. Each object had an orange price tag on it. Beyond all this I saw that four salons branched off in four directions, spokes from a hub, each bannered overhead with the names of the collection’s four exhibits.
Hector stood at the clogged entrance of the “Of Carpets & Magic” salon, looking back toward me and the central rotunda. The Raiders sweatshirt would have been provocative here two years ago, when the Chargers were still in town. He checked his phone quickly again. Then scanned the crowd before he turned and walked in. I gave him a minute, then followed.
Big room, rugs piled high on the floor, and three walls fitted with hangered carpets that glided left and right at a customer’s touch. Docent-salespeople busy answering questions. Lots of interest in these beauties. In the middle of the room teams of young men and women unrolled rugs for viewing, and carried the rejects back to the stacks and racks and the winners to the cashiers down on level two. Faux-Mink Stole looked down at a rug, diamonds swaying, a forefinger to her lips as she considered a purchase. Caught me looking. Hector seemed fascinated by a blue-toned Persian carpet with a background of pistachio green. Sensing my interest in him, he turned and I looked away.
As if he was suddenly bored, Hector walked out of the salon, tapping the rolled-up magazine on his leg again. I watched him go into the rotunda, look up and around at the other salon entrances, then, stepping around the bronze warrior on his Arabian horse, cut diagonally into “The Swords of Araby.” I studied the crowd for a minute or two, then tailed him in.
The “Swords of Araby” salon was more crowded, full of a strange energy the carpet salon had lacked. The centerpiece was a majestic tapestry suspended from the center of the ceiling, depicting a hunter fighting a lion. Both man and lion were much larger than life, especially the lion, which towered on its hind legs over the hunter and everyone else in the room. But the turbaned, high-booted human looked poised and confident, having planted his knife in the animal’s chest. Blood was jumping as the lion snarled, teeth bared. In snippets I read the placard below it, while keeping track of Hector. “Mihr Killing a Lion” had been faithfully re-created from an 1830 silk tapestry woven in Persia. It illustrated one of the adventures of Mihr (the Sun) and his best friend, Mushtari (Jupiter), from a poem about their friendship. You could own this re-created tapestry for twelve thousand dollars, professional delivery and hanging included. I glanced up again at Hector, then away, an eye blink before his gaze hit my face. The holiday music stopped.
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