Packard walked himself down the wall till he could reach out, through the dusty webs, and touch the bones. That’s when the tingle started. The one he got at those too rare, brink-moments when he was about to unearth something that might be really old. The concept of it. The sheer ancientness. The people who had been there. The temples and tombs of Egypt had had the same effect on him. The knowledge that there had been living beings in these places so many thousands of years earlier, people going about their daily business, people who ate, talked, breathed, fought, bled, loved, hated, farted...
He prolonged the thought, methodically moving the lantern till it gave him the best angle of illumination. Then he pulled away some of the spiderwebs and snapped a few more shots.
“All right – the shaft appears to extend for at least, oh, another three or four meters below the topmost bones. It’s hard to tell.” Packard groped in his kit-bag, located the little camel-hair brush, and with his other hand carefully grasped the top of a skull. He brought it up, dusted it gently, and looked into its fossilized half-face, at what were left of its rotted, broken upper teeth. He brushed away more dust, observed the shape of the partial cranium, the cheekbone. “I’m looking at a skull. Old, mostly mineralized, but otherwise in excellent condition. Probably male. Homo sapiens...” He ran his thumb along the slightly protruding brow-ridge. “But the weird thing – the cranial morphology – it does not appear to be Caucasoid. More robust – but – but not quite Neanderthal-robust...”
Packard tried to remain calm as he pulled a brown paper sack from his kit-bag and shook it open. He slipped the skull inside, folded the bag, used his teeth to uncap his felt marker, and lettered the date on the fold, careful to avoid letting it bleed through to the bone inside. He also lettered a numeral one, then carefully placed it in his backpack.
It was scary. The skull he’d just bagged was consistent with the flake-tools he and Leslie had found. And with the readings Rudy Sanchez had gotten the past week from the charcoal. He tried not to think about what they weren’t consistent with – that nothing like them had ever been found before in the New World.
He’d been staring at nothing in particular. But then he saw it. Another skull – somehow different from the first one. Packard reached down, brought it up to eye-level, dusted the rear surface. “Okay, I’m examining another cranium. This one – doesn’t appear to be as – wait a minute...”
He had turned it so that he was looking into its face. “This one, there are a few hairs still attached. And the teeth – Christ, they’ve got silver fillings.”
TWO
1963
Sunday, November 17th
The phone rang again.
“Your service isn’t picking up, is it?” This was the third call. It was making Dorothy noodgy.
“It’s okay.” Charlie grinned, grabbed the back of her neck, pulled her to him, savoring her face. Then he kissed her sweetly, affectionately. Their lovemaking had been, as always, sublime. The phone continued to ring.
As she reached for the phone, she laughed her throaty, unguarded laugh that never failed to wow Charlie. “God, I don’t know how you can stand it.” She handed it to him, kissed the tip of his nose as she rolled off of him, rose from the sofa.
Charlie answered in his bill-collector-avoidance mode. “Mr. Callan’s office.”
“Jesus, you sound like you just ran a coupla miles.”
“The stairs. I just came in.”
“Yeah.”
“Stan, I’m busy, okay?”
Dorothy was at the sink, pulling on her panties. Charlie loved watching her get dressed.
“Too busy to handle a job?”
“For...?”
“Meet me in half an hour. Hector’s. Over on Mill.”
Stan rang off. Charlie hung up, lit a Camel. Dorothy’s casual, unselfconscious femininity knocked him out. It almost made up for his sinking, conflicted feeling.
She fastened her bra. “Stan Brodax?” When Charlie nodded, she added, “I bet it’s about Marjorie. I hear she’s been seeing some cowboy loser. Ha. That’s whaddyacallit redundant?”
Charlie buttoned his shirt. “Yeah.” Charlie had been hearing the same thing.
Dorothy caught the shift in his mood. “What?”
“I dunno. I’m not real anxious to be in the middle. If that’s what he wants.”
“Hey - maybe it’s something else entirely. Youknow - like to do with the lumberyard.”
Charlie hoped she was right.
She looked at the clock on his desk. “God, I’ve got a show in twenty-eight minutes.” She stepped into her skirt.
Charlie beamed admiringly, pulling up his pants. “Guys’re gonna know you just got your brains fucked out.”
Dorothy smiled that great-broad smile of hers. “Good. They should eat their horny little hearts out.” She shook out her hair, brushed it once with her hand, reached for her bag.
Charlie melted. “Y’know how lucky you are?”
“Mm-hm. I’ve got you. Well---”
Charlie read her flash of regret for what she’d almost said. He jumped into the moment of awkward silence. “I meant – how you look.”
Charlie had recognized it the first time he saw her, walking across Harrah’s parking lot. Dorothy Purviance was one of those few, remarkable, gifted women who could climb out of bed – even after the wildest night or the deepest sleep, fluff up her hair, and look great – no – sensational. Ready to face the world. No makeup. No maintenance. A natural beauty. Amazing. Especially at that instant, in the November afternoon sunlight fighting its way through the smoke-stained window. “God damn, I am so crazy-ass nuts about you.”
She kissed him, moved to the door, opened it, turned to him, smiling. “Charlie, honey – you really gotta get that ‘g’ fixed.”
“Pizza – or Mex?”
Her smile got even brighter. “Tonight? Really?”
Charlie grinned, shrugged. “Unless you’ve had enough of me.”
“Mex. I’ll pick it up.”
She left. Charlie watched the door as it swung shut.
207
CHARLES CALLAN - Investi ations
Charlie shook his head. It was as if his inability to deal with the missing “g” was symbolic of what his life had become, how difficult it was stay on top of – of plain, day-to-day, garden-variety stuff.
He pulled his Baseball Digest from underneath the wrinkled final notice from “The Belles of Reno” answering service, the stack of other bills and the brochure for the ‘64 Chevvies, which was open to a glamour shot of the Impala convertible.
Slick.
Fat fucking chance.
Charlie sagged a little. Not about “g’s” – or cars. Dorothy wasn’t going to wait forever. And while he was determined to marry her, that wasn’t going to happen unless he got himself straight with a lot of other things. First off, he didn’t want to hurt Phyllis. Or Lynnie. Hell, there was no way he was going to pull that off. But some bucks would sure make it easier. He glanced at his desk calendar.
Christ – the seventeenth already, and all I’ve seen is what - a coupla low-end repo’s and that Elko skip-job.
Charlie snubbed his cigarette, grabbed his jacket, headed for the door.
“Pal, that goes without saying. I mean my lips’re sealed...” Charlie waited a beat, then: “Jesus. Marjorie?” He winced inwardly, hoping he hadn’t overdone it. Despite his pretense that it was news to him, the sympathy Charlie felt for his friend was genuine. The elderly waiter who delivered his bourbon-and-water looked not-too-many-days off a boxcar.
Stan Brodax loosened his necktie, poured himself another glass of beer. He wasn’t much of a drinker, and the pitcher was already half-empty when Charlie showed up. “What can I tellya? She’s a fucking whore.”
“Hey, it could all be a youknow a misunderstanding.” As Charlie had anticipated, the conversation was already making him uncomfortable.
“Yeah. And I just busted the bank at the Nugget.” Stan belted th
e beer.
Charlie’s eyes were still becoming accustomed to the gloom of Hector Quieroz’s saloon. Not one of Reno’s better joints. But not a bad place for a prosperous businessman from the other side of town to confer with a private investigator without being recognized.
From their rear booth Charlie could make out two regulars at the bar, backlit from the horizontal sunset-glare. A third customer was disinterestedly, rhythmically feeding dimes to one of Hector’s five ancient slot machines. Hector was standing on a chair, banging the side of the decrepit TV, trying to get a decent picture of all those teenage tits and asses on American Bandstand. Charlie shook a Camel loose from his pack, making a stage-wait out of the ritual of tapping it on his thumbnail, groping for a match, lighting it. He wondered how the hell Stan could see anything in here through those sunglasses.
“Charlie, I wantcha to go after her.”
“And – and bring her back.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Fuck back. I want proof. So I can get a divorce that the rotten little cunt won’t see a penny. Or him. From the yard – or the rental units, or---”
Charlie cut in. “Stan – do yourself a favor – get somebody else. There’s this guy Kellner I know works outa Vegas. He’s---”
“Whaddya talkin’ about? You’re my man.”
Obviously, Stan wasn’t getting it. Charlie put it more on-the-nose. “Look, pal, I like both of you too much.”
Stan was in mid-swig. He studied Charlie’s face for a moment across the top of the glass. Then he lowered it, leaned forward. “Even with what she’s doin’ to me?” When Charlie didn’t respond, Stan added, “Okay, who’ve you known for longer?”
“Awforchrissakes Stan, this is not a position I wanta be in.” Charlie contemplated suggesting that Marjorie might have her reasons. Like maybe Stan’s boorishness, or his legendary (among their friends) clumsiness as a lover. Or his tightfistedness. It never came to that.
Stan relented. “Okayokay. I unnerstand.”
Charlie knew he didn’t, really. But he could see that Stan was chewing on it.
Stan came to a decision, breathed deeply: “Awright, look, here’s the deal. Get me the dead-bang goods – youknow stuff I can take to the bank – pictures, bedsheets with jizzum-stains, whatever – and there’s a ten – no – make it a fifteen grand bonus waitin’ for you.”
Charlie noted Stan’s struggle when he went to the higher figure.
Stan added his capper, buttoning it with the old South Bronx challenge: “That’s on toppa your fees and expenses. I mean whatsamatter with that?”
Charlie glanced at Stan’s usually-manicured, clear-polished nails – now ragged and bitten.
I guess I’m not the only one fallin’ apart. What the hell, I could pay off what Phyl and I owe, file for divorce, maybe even have enough left for a little honeymoon and a down on a new car. It isn’t gonna make me love this, but...
Charlie sighed. “Any idea where she – they went?”
Stan shook his head, emptied the pitcher into his glass. “Prob’ly better I don’t – or you’d be workin’ for my lawyer, tryin’ to get me off on a double murder charge.”
“She got money?”
“Six – seven hundred is all. How I know is she cleaned out her account.”
“Credit cards?”
“Had. Texaco, Diners, American Express. I cancelled ‘em this morning.”
“Tough life. Well, get me the account numbers anyway. She’s been signing for stuff, I can track her at least through yesterday. They go in her car?”
Stan shook his head. “His. Marjorie – in a fuckin’ truck can you believe it?”
“The guy got a name?”
Stan’s eyes went to a spot halfway up the wall. He had to force himself, as if the words were, even for him, too dirty to utter: “Millgrim. Joe Bob fucking Millgrim.” He pronounced it as if his wife fooling around with a guy named “Joe Bob” was the unkindest cut of all. Then he looked at his friend. “Charlie, I knew you were the guy to put on this.” He drank up, stood, flexed his neck and shoulders. “Jesus. This’s got me tighter than shit.” He sighed. “Anyway, I gotta be gettin’ back to the store. You’re gonna need some walkin’ around bucks, right?”
Charlie nodded. Stan remembered that unlike their usual custom, Charlie’s drink was on him; he tossed a pair of silver dollars on the table.
“Okay, listen, on the off-chance I’m wrong, I don’t wanta write any checks I might hafta explain to her, y’knowwhatimean? So why don’t I tonight I’ll put an envelope with a thousand cash under your office door.” Stan paused with an afterthought. “Thanks, buddy.” He turned, shambled across the room, his body-movement betraying his pain. And outrage. Charlie felt for him.
The poor schmuck. Those tits and legs – and that hair.
Charlie had always assumed it was only a matter of time. Hell, everybody in the poker group had her figured for a bimbo from day one. Everybody but Stan Brodax. Thing was, when you got to know Marjorie, she really was kind of sweet, goodhearted. And nowhere near as dumb as she looked.
Charlie nursed his drink, lit another cigarette. Hey – Dorothy, and now this. After a shitty start, the day was still improving. He heard the slot pay off.
Jesus, the bozo was probably there an hour – for what sounds like maybe twenty lousy dimes. It’s like nobody in this town ever learns.
This morning’s drama had gone into motion while Charlie was in the shower. Actually, of course, it had begun god-knows-how-long-ago, with Phyllis’s mother’s mother’s mother. Or before. Back in the fucking stone-age, probably.
When he entered the kitchen, Lynnie, their daughter, was seated at the table sullenly picking at her cereal, a small duffel on the floor beside her.
Phyllis was at the sink, her back to the room, intently scrubbing at a stain. “She wants to go stay with Emily.”
“Not ‘wants.’ I’m going, alright?”
“Just – forget about school and everything. You talk to her.”
“Daddy, she won’t drive me. My bus leaves in 23 minutes.”
“Ask her why. She has to go, I mean.” Phyllis still hadn’t turned.
Charlie suppressed a strong urge to say something on the order of “I’ve really gotta run.” He inhaled deeply, gave a final tug on his necktie, seated himself across from Lynnie. “Why?”
“Because. Don’t ask me.”
“Jesusgod. See?” Phyllis was attacking another spot. Real or imagined, Charlie was never sure.
Charlie tried to find the right words, recognized how banal they were even as he said them. “Lynnie, honey, are you – uh...” Not just dumb. Dumb. He covered the lower part of his face with a hand, partly to muffle the rest of it, partly hoping she wouldn’t see the grimace. “...in some kinda trouble?” It didn’t even deserve a response. Phyllis turned, opened her mouth to speak, but she caught his look in time. He waited, then: “Till when?”
“A few days. I don’t know.”
Charlie’s attempt at noncommittal didn’t quite cut it.
“Daddy, I’m not sure, okay?”
He heard the edginess, saw it in her effort to hold herself in. It had been building for several weeks. She was close to unglued. 16 years old. She shouldn’t be under this much pressure – whatever the hell it was.
Phyllis moved to the stove, forked the the sizzling eggs around the skillet.
Charlie sighed. “So – what about your schoolwork?”
“I made arrangements.”
He knew it was as much as he’d get. Charlie’s mother, Emily Callan, lived in North Hollywood. She was a script supervisor. Freelance. Independent, ballsy, a former librarian, when Charlie’s father died in ’54, she’d picked up, moved to California, and reinvented herself. Lynnie could do a lot worse than hang around Emily while she worked out whatever was eating at her. If he got that bonus, and could afford to break up with Phyllis, it’d be nice to know Lynnie was with his mom.
The Greyhound to Los Angeles was loa
ding as he pulled up at the bus depot. Lynnie squeezed his hand, kissed his cheek. Charlie smiled. He really liked Lynnie. Hoped she wouldn’t turn into Phyllis. “I’ll call you in a coupla days. Tell grandma hello.”
“Thanks, daddy.”
“For what?”
“For youknow not giving me a hard time.”
Charlie exited Hector’s saloon, crossed through the descending dusk toward his car. Something was nagging at him. He had never seen Stan Brodax this upset. On the one hand, who could blame him? Charlie tried to tell himself the bonus wasn’t really out of line, that the money – despite Stan’s reputation – just didn’t mean all that much to him. On the other hand---
Charlie’s line of thought was interrupted by a vicious punch to his left kidney. Before he could react, his feet were kicked out from beneath him. He crumpled to the gravel between his rusting aqua-and white ‘54 Bel Air and the dumpster that shielded the goings-on from Mills Street. Charlie looked up. A lean, weathered, nasty-looking asshole in standard-issue cowboy gear was looming over him.
“I got a message for ya, shithead – from Joe Bob Millgrim?”
“Who?”
The asshole kicked him in the jaw. Hard. “Don’t go takin’ any dick-jobs from Stan Brodax. Like tailin’ Joe Bob and his lady.”
“Fuck you, pal, and the fuckin’ Brahma you rode in on.” Charlie wasn’t thinking too clearly.
The asshole kicked him again, this time in the ribs. Then he dragged Charlie to his feet and slammed him against the side of the dumpster. They were as eye-to-eye as it was possible to be, given the asshole’s six-inch height advantage. “You gonna make me kill you, right, shithead?” With his free hand he unsheathed a Bowie-knife from his belt and jabbed it into the corner of Charlie’s mouth, the blade pulling his lips into a lopsided grin.
“Okayokay!”
The cowboy twisted the blade so that the sharp edge cut into Charlie’s lip, then he withdrew it and wiped the blood on Charlie’s jacket. “Man, you’re just about as fuckin’ stupid as I heard you wuz.” He released Charlie, sheathed his knife and walked off.
The Sixteenth Man Page 2