by Blackie Noir
No, some things she was sure of. A bona-fide memory, not a hallucination. An abandoned motel, perhaps a dozen weathered faux adobe cottages, with a slightly larger, but equally decrepit, office building. Everything, including signs, sandblasted and shorn of pigmentation, almost a natural extension of the desert itself. She had just invested a three-hundred mile drive on that memory, it had fucking better be real.
It was. Sarah’s self doubt was sent scurrying, faster than a scorpion sliding under a rock, when the desolate little buildings shimmered their way through sun blasted asphalt induced heat-waves, and into her line of vision. Good. She’d successfully found her landmark, her destination would follow.
Sarah downshifted, rolled past the motel at twenty-five, and saw the RV park. The wrong RV park. This was the huge, modern, well fitted operation catering to the hundred-thousand dollar rolling behemoths. RV’s, mobile castles, humongous enough to devour Sarah’s diminutive blue bus in a single gulp. She’d gone a half-mile too far. Using the RV park’s circular drive, she turned around. She had her bearings now, next stop, her new home.
This time she found the dusty turn-off without a problem. She could already see the vehicles belonging to some of her soon to be neighbors. Couple of small, battered Airstreams. One VW micro-bus, perhaps a great-grandparent to her own. A few pickups with campers, two full sized vans, and even an ancient Buick station wagon. If any of these vehicles had any paint remaining, it was well hidden beneath the beige dust that covered all.
Marking an almost invisible entry, was an almost unreadable sign - - - Doc’s Docks. Yeah, a lot of it was coming back. She remembered Doc, a huge Vito-esque man who easily carried as much weight as Vito had, but none of his evil attitude. He’d rented a spot to her and the dude she’d been with that weekend. They’d been traveling in an F-150 with a shell, home away from home. Not only had their slot been cheap, but it had been isolated as well. Exhausted, drained, after a three day run of crystal, sex, and booze, they had needed a place to crash, a place where folks kept to themselves, were adept at minding their own fucking business. Doc’s had delivered. Sarah hoped that the protocol still applied.
Easing the stiffly sprung van over the rutted drive, Sarah pulled up in front of a modest, but presentable, double-wide, obviously the crown jewel and flagship of Doc’s Docks. A hand painted sign, appearing to be the work of someone struggling desperately with carpal-tunnel syndrome, proclaimed the trailer to be the ‘Office.’
Shutting the van down, Sarah got out, pocketed her keys, stretched, and walked a circle around her vehicle. Returning to her starting point, she was greeted by a long low growl. Shepard. Very large Shepard. Looks more like a wolf, type of Shepard. Teeth exposed, hackles bristling, the dog glowers at Sarah.
Burdened by more than a few fears, some of them bordering on phobia, Sarah gives thanks that a dread of dogs isn’t on her list. Her life-long affinity for canines had always proved to be reciprocal, Yorkie to Mastiff, Chihuahua to Great Dane, the critters just loved her. Her new acquaintance wasn’t an exception.
Dropping to one knee, avoiding eye contact, she extends a hand, palm up and low to the ground. Voice soft, calm, with a touch of banter, she says, “Hey, boy. What’s up with the tude? I ain’t the one stole your Alpo.”
No longer growling, fur laying back down, the still wary Shepard approaches Sarah’s hand. A few exploratory sniffs, and he is whuffing lightly, licking her palm. Sarah is scratching under the smitten dog’s chin with one hand, behind his ear with the other, when a shadow falls over her, interrupting the impromptu get acquainted party.
A woman’s voice, cracked and dry, “Don’t see that ever day. Ol’ Cat, he don’t take to strangers. Just as soon bite your hand off as lick it.”
“Cat?”
“Yeah. He’s Cat and I got a whole passel of cats named Dog. Dog 1, Dog 2, Dog 3, it just goes on, and on.”
Giving a final ruffle to Cat’s hair, Sarah stands, grins at the woman, while checking her out. Fifty? Sixty? Hard to tell. Definitely done some hard traveling in her day. Taller than Sarah, angular, gray hair and well weathered skin. Faded housedress worn over jeans and lace-up hunting boots, long fingers opening and digging into a tin of Copenhagen. Extracting a hefty pinch, the woman places the snuff behind her cheek, extends the open tin to Sarah, “Dip?”
“No thanks.” Sara opens the vans door, grabs her cigarettes, lights up, and says, “All those cats named Dog, must be hard keeping track of them.”
Dropping the tin of snuff into her dress pocket, the woman cackles, “Shit girl, who’s keepin’ track? Maybe the coyotes, I sure ain’t. Them cats is survivors, they do just fine. Now, old Cat here, different story, he’s a big baby. Hell, I do ever thing for him but wipe his ass.”
Hearing his name, Cat responds by stepping up to the woman, nudging at her hip with his big head. Patting him, the woman takes a large Milk-Bone biscuit from a pocket, holds it up, says, “Now, you can have it, but just one. Mind, you take it gently. Good boy. Go, go lay down in the shade, leave us be.”
Watching the big Shepard head off behind the trailer, Sarah says, “Well, you gotta admit, he’s obedient.”
“That he is, more than most males. Now, what can I do for you, missy?”
“I’m looking for a spot, with water and an electrical hook-up, for my camper.”
“You sure you got the right place? Big new RV park is about a mile down the road.”
Sarah takes a hit on her cigarette, gives the woman a big smile exposing the vacancies where her front teeth had recently resided, and says, “Yeah, I got the right place.”
The woman nods, “I reckon you might, reckon you might. Ever stayed here before?”
“Few years back, rented a spot from a big heavy-set guy. The price was right, so was the privacy.”
“Big heavy-set guy. Don’t sound like no one I know. Now, if you’re being polite and what you really mean is a big fat fucker name of Doc, well, that’d be my husband.”
Sarah laughs, “Yeah, I guess that’s a more direct way of putting it. You fix me up with a spot, or do I need to talk to Doc?”
“Only spot Doc can fix you up with is one in hell, and if you can talk to him, tell him I miss his fat lazy ass. Doc passed, a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too, hon. Doc loved his sour-mash. Last couple of years his liver and his heart were having a race, seeing which one would self-destruct first. Liver won. He’s buried under that sorry excuse for a tree over yonder.”
Instinctively, Sarah reaches out, gently places a hand on the woman’s shoulder, says, “May he rest in peace, may you find strength through your pain, joy through your sorrow.”
The woman pats Sarah’s hand, gives it a squeeze before removing it. Turning her head, she spits a stream of tobacco juice, then turns and grins, “You’re alright girl, I got a real nice spot for you. It’s off a bit, private, even has what passes for a shade tree in these parts. How long you want to stay?”
“I’m not sure, awhile. What’s the rate?”
“Ten bucks a day. Fifty-five a week, two-hundred a month. All payment’s in advance.”
Taking a fold of bills from her pocket, Sarah peels off four fifties, “Here you go. One month. I’m Sarah.”
The woman takes the bills, hikes up her dress, stuffs the money into the front pocket of her jeans, and says, “Peach.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m Peach. Peach Dockery.”
Sarah smiles, “C’mon Peach, you gonna make me ask?”
Peach grins back, “Hell, you just did. Story I got from Momma went like this; first time Daddy took me in his hands, he looked at me, said, ‘she’s a peach,’ Momma said, ‘indeed she is.’ The doc was writing up the birth certificate, asked Daddy what my name was, Daddy said, ‘what, you deaf? Girl’s name is Peach.’ I been Peach for sixty some years.”
“Pretty cool.”
“Well, let me tell you, wasn’t all that cool when I was a kid. You ever hear
that song, the one about a boy named Sue? Wasn’t much better for a gal named Peach. Tell you one thing, seasoned me, it did. Taught me not to give a shit about what idiots said, or did. Made me tougher than an old boot. Now, you give me a ride in this fancy little bus of yours, I’ll show you where your spot is. Hon, I’m sure you’re gonna love it, but if you don’t, we’ll just drive around till you find one to your liking.”
#
It still hurt to stretch but, once she made it past the initial pain, it felt so good Sarah figured it was worth it. Stretching, luxuriating, reveling in the fact that she’d made it. At least for now, and that was what counted. Wasn’t it? Damn straight, one day at a time, baby. Live in the moment. Her narrow bed was firm but comfortable. The roof-mounted air-conditioner was totally kick-ass, efficient and quiet, aided by the small shade tree the micro-bus was parked under, it brought the van’s cramped interior down a good thirty degrees from the triple digit temperature of the outside air.
Sarah had no set theory on heaven, it’s existence, or should it, indeed, prove out as reality, what that reality might consist of. But, for now, for her, this moment was close enough.
Peach had guided her to this spot, which was, as promised, near perfect for Sarah’s needs. Next to an almost dry, but still muddy bottomed, wash, with some type of willow tree maintaining its struggle for subsistence alongside, and the nearest other resident thirty-five yards distant, it was as good as it got at Doc’s.
The VW bus was everything Boob had promised, and then some. The re-built Porsche mill, hard charging, smooth running and sweet sounding. Steering and suspension, beefed and altered, to improve on the micro-bus’s notoriously poor handling. Myriad electrical hook-ups and plug-ins. Mini-fridge. Roll-away, pull-out awning over the side door for camping. Water hook-up, and small auxiliary tank, for the tiny sink. Propane stove. Secret compartments.
Boob, possessed of a tinkerer’s flair for gimmickry, and a paranoid’s need for subterfuge, couldn’t keep himself from creating at least one unique hidey-hole in every vehicle he built. The VW bus had two. Vito’s .380 and its box of ammo, along with 5,000 had gone into one. The other became the repository for another 10,000 of Sarah’s JuicyTown loot. She’d deposited another 10,000 in her Sarah Burns checking/debit account. The remaining money went into her two bags, and the front pockets of her jeans.
While Boob had made last minute adjustments to her new ride, Sarah, driving one of Boob’s shop trucks, had taken care of business. Breakfast, the bank, and the DMV. By the time she’d rolled out of Long Beach at 11:00 AM, the VW bus was totally street legal, shiny new plates bolted on, registered to Sarah Burns.
On the outskirts of Riverside Sarah had hit a Wal-Mart. After an hour spent roaming the aisles of the cavernous store, Sarah pushed an oversized shopping cart, filled to overflowing, across the parking lot to her van. She’d bought a Tracfone cellular system with prepaid cards. Canned food, coffee, two cases of drinking water. Sleeping bag, and a small tent. Towels, washcloths, and shampoo. Hiking boots, thick socks, and a cheap pair of running shoes. Colored T-shirts, an extra pair of Levi’s and a Levi jacket, two pairs of hiking shorts. Wide leather belt and a Buck folding belt knife. A small boom-box and a hodge-podge of her favorite CD’s, a 13 inch color TV, and half a dozen Sharyn McCrumb paperbacks, rounded out the entertainment department of her sabbatical stockpile.
As soon as Peach left, after demonstrating the hook-up procedures at the site, Sarah unloaded the van. Closing the doors and windows, she cranked the air conditioner up full blast, and, after struggling a bit with the instructions, pitched her tent under the small tree. Satisfied with the tent’s structure she filled it with most of her newly acquired gear, freeing up as much living space as possible inside the van. Exhausted, she had crawled back into the van, stripped to her panties, and savoring the chilled air on her sweat glossed skin, dropped into a deep sleep.
Finishing her stretch, reacting to the chilled air forming goose-bumps on her skin, Sarah gets up and slips into her, now dry, T-shirt. Moving up to the drivers seat, she turns down the air, lights a cigarette. Nighttime, full starscape, nice. Quiet. Perfect, if not for the nagging ache in the stumps of her broken off teeth. Well, shit, can’t have everything. She’ll take a few more ibuprofen, wait till they kick in, rustle up something to eat. Yeah, sharpen up those long dormant domestic skills.
Sarah, satiated. Spam and beans. Fucking cluster bomb of saturated fat, cholesterol, and sodium. Right, but it sure filled you up, and, face it, tasted wonderful. Sarah dragged on her cigarette, drank some coffee and laughed. Decades of full-tilt boozing, crystal-meth tooting, finally culminating with two motherfucking psychos trying to snuff her in the parking lot of a sleazy strip club. But here she was, still among the quick. She was gonna worry about some fat and salt? Don’t think so, babe.
Besides, she had a guardian angel, didn’t she? Sara sobered, reflected on what she had then believed to be her final moments. Yeah, she hadn’t been so blasé when that shit at JuicyTown had gone down, had she? Even after her rescuer had saved her from the dragons, Sarah felt that, for a moment, it had been touch and go. Her life hanging by an ethereal spider-string, possibly ending at the hand of her savior. Bullshit. Get a grip. The dude had been concerned about her. Touched her. Gently. Spoken to her. Softly.
No, don’t make it weirder than it already was. Fucking guy was heaven sent, all there was to it. Thing was, the guy had told her not to look, but look she had. Had a good look, would never in a million years forget the man. Oddly enough, and Sarah knew she was right, she knew this dude. Maybe not his name, but she’d met him, or at least seen him someplace before that night. Hadn’t been entirely casual, there was a reason she should remember it. It was like one of those times when you hear a tune but can’t flash to what its title is. Maddening.
Best way to snag a memory like that, just let it go. Put it out of your head, in a day or two, bam! There it would be, front and center. It would come back to her, absolutely. Till then, until she could be totally sure, maybe it was a good thing Sarah had gotten in the wind.
Chapter Twenty
Stalking a killer branded as the Widowmaker, hoping to locate a potential witness known only as Satana, Nadine felt as though she’d been deposited in the middle of a Batman comic book. Shit, even her new partner, Johnny Vance, seemed to fit the mode. Five hours on the case and already her head was spinning.
Well, there wasn’t anything comic about the three victims she’d spent the morning with. The best thing could be said about that terrible trio, they were all dead. Even in death the three men radiated menace. A menace so palpable, even acknowledging that her childhood background had painted her with the brush of bias, Nadine still felt the Widowmaker’s harsh justice was appropriate. Was Vance on the money? Was her history getting in the way? Or, worse yet, was she becoming a Widowmaker fan?
Ludicrous. She saw the situation exactly as it was. The Widowmaker was a murderer. It was her job to catch him. The fact that she couldn’t generate an iota of sympathy for his latest targets meant nothing. Wasn’t her fault those men were scum.
Grabbing the second half of her turkey sandwich Nadine leaned back in her chair, stared at Puddin. Unblinking, seated on the opposing kitchen chair, the cat returned her stare. “It’s not gonna work,” Nadine said, “you already had yours. No more. Stick to the deal.”
Puddin never broke the eye contact, Nadine took another bite, looked away. When the phone rang she left her sandwich, went to the counter and grabbed the cordless. Swallowing, expecting an update from Vance, she said, “Yeah.”
A guy, definitely not Vance, “Unreal. You actually answered. Three weeks, all I ever got was your machine. I’m flabbergasted, totally unprepared for this.”
Flabbergasted? Shit. Why hadn’t she let the machine pick it up. It was the movie guy, Todd Citron. Shit. Shit. Shit! Caught off guard she stalled, “Who is this?”
“This is the dude has been leaving you messages for weeks, if you’re Nadine Koz
ok. My voice must be familiar to you by now. Unless maybe you’re the cleaning service.”
Cleaning service, right. Getting her bearings back now, thinking maybe for a minute go with it, say she’s the maid, Nadine settles for her best cop-voice, “Either identify yourself, or I’m hanging up.”
“Todd Citron officer. Would you like me to fax you a copy of my drivers license?
“Yeah, that’d be good. I’ll be needing the full numbers of all your major credit cards too.”
“How disillusioning, my favorite hero cop, turns out to be a crooked cop.”
“Life in the big city, sonny. What is it you want?”
“Wow. This can’t be the real you. I mean, like you’re still in character, right. You’ve got your cop face on, that it?”
“In character? I’m not an actor. I’m a cop, it’s what I am. Now, answer the question. What do you want?”
“A date. A meeting. A get together. OK?”
“Which one? Date. Meeting. Which?”
Laughing, Citron says, “Any, either, all, take your pick. I don’t usually have this kind of difficulty, I’m Todd Citron.”
Smiling, Nadine resists the urge to put the verbal boots to the guy, lightening up on her tone she says, “Believe me, you wouldn’t be having any difficulty at all, if I knew you were really Todd Citron. But, I don’t know that. You’re a guy calls me up, says he’s Todd Citron. I don’t know that. A girl’s got to be careful.”
“If I’m talking to Nadine Kozok, I think I’m the one needs to be careful.”
“You keep that in mind, maybe we can work something out. Give me a number where I can reach you. I started a new case today and I’m not really sure what my schedule is going to look like in the near future. I’ll call you, set something up.”