“What’re plus fours?” Nelson asked.
“Knickers.”
“What’re knickers?”
Lynn said, “I think our generation gap is insurmountable. I’ll bet you’ve never tasted a stewed prune. Plus fours? Like Payne Stewart wears?”
“Wanna stop by John Lugo’s house on Southridge before we go back to Breda’s?” Nelson asked.
“He’ll still be out on the course.”
“Okay, wanna go get a pick-me-up at The Furnace Room, and then come back here and stake out Ibañez?”
“I gotta do the other thing with Breda, remember?”
“How bout afterwards?”
“I’m not coming back here tonight,” Lynn said. “I’m getting a good night’s sleep. We’re gonna wrap this up tomorrow by catching Ibañez here in the morning, or by staying closer to John Lugo than his caddy.”
“How do ya wanna do it?”
Lynn said, “Here’s what I propose: Tomorrow morning I’m coming back to the hotel bright and early, ready to spot him if he returns from L.A. to pick up his clubhouse badge. If by chance he decides to go straight to the tournament without stopping here, you’ll be there.”
“But how’ll I know him? I didn’t get a good look.”
“You’ll know him,” Lynn said. “After all this, you’ll know him, won’t you?”
Nelson looked at Lynn for a second and said, “Yeah, I think I would, if he gets near John Lugo.”
“Okay, the obvious thing to do is, find Lugo and stick with him. If our guy shows up wearing a wig, or a Batman suit, or cross-dressed to look like Bette Midler, you’ll be there.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll recognize him. I think.”
“When you drop me off, go straight to a phone, call Lugo’s lawyer at home and tell him you’re gonna hang around his client tomorrow. Grishman’ll tell Lugo you’re around. He doesn’t want anything to happen to his old-age-annuity client.”
“How bout Breda?”
“I’m gonna ask Breda to shuttle back and forth from the golf tournament to the hotel if necessary, or to relay phone messages between you and me.”
“Sounds okay,” Nelson said.
“Try to look like a golf fan tomorrow.”
“Do golf fans wear cowboy boots?”
“Only one. Glen Campbell.”
After Nelson dropped him at the mansion, Lynn went directly to the ice maker in the pantry and scooped some cubes into a Ziploc bag to put on his throbbing knee. As he sat there in the “gourmet kitchen,” thinking that a thousand Chilean miners must’ve died for half the unused copper pans in the butler’s pantry, he plunged into a lightweight bout of depression. He realized that when he finally lost this house-sitting job he’d probably end up in a couple of rooms that were smaller than this kitchen that had never even served more than four people at one time, according to the homeowner.
Lynn wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of the place. The scale of the house was making him feel more alone than he’d ever felt in his life. And feeling alone made him think of Breda.
He took his ice pack with him and climbed the staircase to the master suite. He wanted to lie in a warm bath with the ice on his knee until it was time for their six o’clock date with Clive Devon. He turned on the country station, and by the time he’d gotten into the Jacuzzi tub, Vince Gill was singing for him.
Never knew lonely could be so blue
Never loved someone like I love you
Never knew lonely till you.
Well, there wasn’t any sense feeling spooky about it anymore. The rednecks had his number, that’s all there was to it. But, whatever the hell they sang about always applied to losers, so maybe that was the logical explanation.
He should’ve known the relationship couldn’t go anywhere. What’d he have to offer? But wait a minute! He did have some connections in this town just by virtue of having been a cop for a long time. And he’d have a fifty percent pension tax-free, which, even allowing for the greater salary she’d earned at LAPD, would be worth more than her retirement checks. So maybe the sugar-coated fantasy he’d nibbled at for the past several days wasn’t so farfetched, the fantasy of working part-time with her in her business. Maybe it could’ve worked out if her head wasn’t more twisted around than the kid in The Exorcist.
And all the while, Vince Gill never let up, not for a minute.
Never knew lonely could be so blue
Never knew lonely till youuuuuuu.
She picked him up in front of the house at twilight: low, blue and purple twilight. Breda didn’t say anything at all when he got into the Z, so he said, “Nelson and me struck out today.”
“I know. Nelson called me.”
“I figured he’d fill you in, that’s why I didn’t call you,” Lynn said, causing her to show him that smirky little grin of hers that said: I don’t give a ferret’s fuck whether you ever call me, scumbag!
“I’ll do the talking with Clive Devon if you don’t mind,” she said, with a voice pretty far up on her irritation scale.
“It’s your case,” he said. “I’m along to flash my buzzer at the only guy in this hemisphere that I ain’t shown it to since I met you.”
“Look, I know things haven’t turned out the way I said they would.”
“Not quite. I almost got killed. I probably will get killed sometime tomorrow when our bald guy goes after John Lugo or me, whichever one he spots first.”
“So explain,” she said, not looking at him as she roared away from a red light, all of a sudden as macho a driver as Nelson Hareem. “Why’re you risking your ass like this?”
“Tell you the truth,” he said, “I’d call the sheriffs tonight and lay it all out for them if we really had anything to lay out. Believe me, if I spot the bald guy tomorrow morning I’m picking up the phone and calling nine-one-one. I’ll point out their smuggler to the first deputy that arrives, and let their detectives work out what all that tombstone stuff is about.”
“Call the sheriffs now,” she said. “Let them in on it now.”
“I would if …”
“If what?”
“If I was more sure that all a the work we’ve done means anything at all. We’re not positive Francisco Ibañez is the guy we’re after. I don’t wanna look stupid if we got nothing.”
Breda switched on the headlights and rolled her eyes the way he’d done so often with Nelson Hareem.
“Men!” she said. “Typical male-pattern bullshit! He put some hurt on you last time, yet you’d let him hurt you a lot, even to the max, rather than risk looking stupid in front of the other boys!”
“We all have our idiosyncrasies,” he said. “You ain’t exactly a mental-health poster girl.”
“At least I stay sober, most of the time! At least I have a job!”
“I’m gonna have one soon as my pension comes.”
“What, bartending at The Furnace Room, when you’re sober enough?”
That did it! He was really steamed! “Maybe!” he said. “But at least I won’t have somebody at The Furnace Room calling me a sick degenerate when about the most decadent thing we ever do in there is sit around watching 1950’s black-and-white movies with edgy background music about girls that look for love in all the wrong places with oily guys named Nick!”
When he finished that speech he wondered if it made any sense whatsoever.
The argument stopped when she made a screeching left turn from Palm Canyon Drive into Clive Devon’s Las Palmas neighborhood.
The sky was darkening fast as Breda parked on the street. They walked to the gate of the Devon house and rang.
The maid, Blanca Soltero, answered the intercom. “Who ees there, please?”
“Police,” Lynn said. “We’d like to talk to Mister Devon.”
“Moment, please,” she said.
Then Clive Devon’s voice came on the intercom and said, “Hello, can I help you?”
“Police Department, Mister Devon,” Lynn said. “We have to talk to you for
a few minutes.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“We’re investigating an assault on an officer. It involves the man you picked up three days ago in Painted Canyon.”
There was silence for a few seconds, then Clive Devon said, “Come in, please.”
An electronic beep opened the swinging double gates, and Breda led Lynn up the driveway.
Clive Devon stood in the doorway, apparently relieved to see a woman. He barely glanced at Lynn’s badge before he stepped back to allow them to enter. Lynn saw that it was one of those Spanish colonial houses he’d always liked, with shuttered windows deeply inset, Mexican tile roof, and stucco walls a foot thick. But it didn’t have the massive masculine furniture usually found in this style of house. The place was full of lighted paintings on rose-colored wall covering. The drapes were meant to imply natural desert pastel, but it was all too feminine, an obvious attempt to please Rhonda Devon, Lynn decided.
Clive Devon was as tall as Jack Graves, but not nearly as thin. His hair was sparse and white, and he had regular sunburned features and a prominent chin. He wore a knit shirt, chinos, and bedroom slippers. He shook hands with both of them but Lynn didn’t volunteer their names.
“How did you know I’d picked up a man in Painted Canyon?” he asked, as they sat down in the same living room where Breda had first met Rhonda Devon.
“Your license number was taken down by a policeman patrolling the canyon that day.”
“But why would he do that?” His eyes were pale blue and nervous. He instinctively dropped them whenever he started to speak, and then, as though by force of will, he’d raise them and look uncomfortably into the eyes of Lynn or Breda, and speak so softly they had to listen attentively.
“Did you see the news story about the sheriff’s deputy who was assaulted down at the airport the day before you went to Painted Canyon?” Breda asked.
“I might’ve,” he said. “I think I may’ve heard a news report.”
“We believe the man you picked up was the man who assaulted the deputy,” Lynn said.
“I can’t believe it!” Clive Devon said, sitting back on the sofa. His genuine amazement actually caused him to relax slightly.
“What were you doing down there?” Lynn asked.
Clive Devon didn’t answer that. He said, “But how? How could the policeman have seen me pick up the man and not question us right then, if that was the man he was after?”
“He, uh, wasn’t sure,” Lynn said, “and then he got an emergency call at that moment. A fatal traffic accident. He had to leave.”
“I see,” Clive Devon said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the sofa.
Breda repeated the question. “How did you happen to be down there?”
“I went with a friend,” Clive Devon said. “Hiking.”
“We may need to question the friend,” Lynn said.
Clive Devon dropped his eyes again and didn’t raise them when he said, “I wouldn’t want to frighten her. Esther’s a very shy young woman. She’s the daughter of our housekeeper. I’m sure I can tell you whatever you need to know.”
When he looked up, Breda said, “How did you happen to be with the man?”
“It was very strange,” Clive Devon said. “He just appeared out of nowhere and said his car had broken down farther up in the canyon. And that he needed a ride.”
“To a phone?”
“Yes,” Clive Devon said. “To a phone.”
“And did you take him to a phone?” Lynn asked.
“No, that was more peculiar. I dropped Esther back where her car was parked, and the man changed his mind. He asked where I was heading, and when I said Palm Springs he said that’s where he lived and would I please take him with me.”
“What about his car?” Lynn asked.
“I asked about that too,” Clive Devon said, “but he told me he preferred to wait till his brother got off work, that they could go back down and haul it out themselves to save a tow charge.”
“Did you take him home?” Lynn asked.
“No, when I asked him his address he said just to drop him downtown, that his brother worked nearby in a restaurant. So I did.”
“Where?” Breda asked.
“Near Indian and Palm Canyon Drive.”
“By the Alan Ladd hardware store?”
“Yes.”
“And that was it?”
“Yes. I didn’t see him again.”
Lynn said, “The policeman who took down your license number said there was a dog with you.”
“Yes,” Clive Devon said.
“At first he thought the dog might’ve belonged to the man you picked up.”
“No,” Clive Devon said.
“What did the man look like?” Lynn asked.
“He was a Mexican. Young. Well, young to me. In his forties, I should say. A burly man about your height.”
“Bald?”
“He wore a baseball cap, as I recall,” Clive Devon said, “and he carried a red canvas bag.”
“Did he say what was in it?”
“Yes. Lunch and clothing. But he never opened the bag. He said he’d camped out in his car and couldn’t get it started when he was ready to leave.”
“Was he Mexican or Mexican-American?” Breda asked.
“I’d say he was from Mexico. But he spoke beautiful English with a pleasant accent. More grammatical than most Americans.”
“Do you have anything else to add that might help us?” Breda asked.
“No, except that I can’t believe he’s a criminal.”
Lynn said, “I’ll bet even the dog liked him.”
“Yes, and Malcolm’s a good judge of character,” Clive Devon said softly.
Recalling all the barking when she’d tried to prowl the property for a sneak-and-peek, Breda asked, “Where’s Malcolm now?”
“With Esther at her house,” Clive Devon said.
“Does she ever bring him here?” Breda remembered the swim party when it sounded like Malcolm was doing belly flops in the pool.
“Oh, no,” Clive Devon said. “My wife’s extremely allergic to animals of all kinds.”
Breda turned to Lynn and said, “Anything else?”
Lynn said, “Not unless you can think of something, Mister Devon.”
“Well,” Clive Devon said, dropping his eyes diffidently, “I’d just like to offer an opinion. I wonder if there could be some mistake. He just couldn’t be violent. He talked a lot about the desert. He had a very gentle way about him.”
It was more than frustrating, this place. He was driving up the steep narrow road to the highest residential area in Palm Springs, but when he got halfway up the grade, he saw a kiosk with a guard inside. He stopped at the kiosk and the uniformed security officer came out immediately with a clipboard in his hand, accompanied by a guard dog.
“I am sorry,” the fugitive said. “I am not allowed to pass?”
“This is a private road from here on up,” the security officer said. “Is a resident expecting you?”
“No,” he said to the security officer. “I am a tourist. No problem. Sorry. Thank you.”
When he was driving back down from Southridge, he was dejected. He couldn’t fathom how these people lived. Private streets with guards and dogs? Perhaps that’s how they had to live in a country like this. He’d read a story that very day about a serial murderer in Rochester, New York, who’d been sentenced to 250 years in prison for the murder of eleven women. What made it even more horrible was that the man was on parole at the time of the murders from another pair of murders fifteen years earlier. He’d strangled two children. The fugitive kept asking himself: What kind of country paroles a man who has strangled two children?
While he waited at the foot of Southridge for an opening in the traffic on Highway 111, he saw in his mirror a gardener’s truck coming down behind him. He got out of his car, rather certain that the gardener would be a Mexican, and he was.
The fugitive wav
ed at the gardener and when the man pulled over, the fugitive said, in the macho slang of his country, “¿Qué pasa, ’mano?” What’s happening, bro?
In Spanish, the fugitive also said, “I just arrived from Tecate, and I was trying to visit an old family friend who lives up there on that hill, but the guard won’t let me through. My friend went away and forgot to leave my name.”
The gardener also spoke the earthy slang of his country. He said, “Oh, no, ’mano, they won’t let you in unless your friend says to let you pass. Fuck no. No chance.”
“The problem is, he’s gone for the entire day. Do you happen to work for him? John Lugo?”
“No,” the gardener said. “My job is up the left side near the top. Do you know that Bob Hope lives up there?”
“Yes, I’ve heard that,” the fugitive said. “There can’t be more than one pocho up there. Are you sure you don’t know him? Or perhaps one of his servants?” Then the fugitive smiled and said, “I imagine that a rich pocho gets his grass cut by real Mexicans, true, ’mano?”
The gardener laughed at that, and said, “Very fucking true.” Then he said, “I think the man who has that big pink house with the tile roof might be your friend. I’ve seen an old man come and go with his driver. Yes, he’s probably the one. There’s a very big party going to happen there. Many people in vans have been coming all day.” Then the gardener took a close look at the fugitive, and said, “Man, you have very rich family friends.”
The fugitive laughed and said, “But I’m poor. Tell me, are the party arrangers still there now?”
“For certain,” the gardener said. “I tell you, it’s a big fucking party. You’ll see them come down soon and then you’ll see others go up.”
“Well, I’ll just have to wait until my family friend comes home,” the fugitive said, waving goodbye. “Thanks.”
Patience, they had a lot of that in his country. He could wait a long time, but he didn’t have to. In twenty minutes a red van drove down the steep road. There was writing on the side that said HENRY’S GOURMET CATERING.
The fugitive followed the van to an address on East Palm Canyon Drive, near Smoke Tree Village. From there, the fugitive could look up and see not only Bob Hope’s giant house, but the home of John Lugo as well. It was sprawling but undistinguished new construction, one of the tens of thousands of California homes that realtors lump together under the generic heading: Mediterranean. It had to be John Lugo’s home, it was the only one painted orchid-pink.
Fugitive Nights Page 24