Golden Orange

by Joseph Wambaugh

  “Whoa, Dollar! Whoa!” Tess yelled. And another ricochet preceded an echoing pop from a gun fired hundreds of yards downwind.

  “FORGET THE HORSE! GET DOWN, GODDAMNIT!” Winnie screamed.

  Tess lost her glasses, scrambling behind the rocks, but Winnie picked them up before diving after her on his belly.

  Dollar galloped in the general direction of the house. Sally was uncertain. First she started after Dollar, then she turned and looked toward the cowering humans. She whinnied in confusion, then galloped toward home, her reins trailing in the sand.

  “What is it, Win? What is it?” Tess cried.

  “Some maniac! Some asshole! Some stupid son of a bitch!”

  Tess started to peek over the top of the rock, but Winnie jerked her back down. His heart was pounding so hard his own voice sounded ten feet away and he could almost hear his heartbeat thudding off the canyon walls. It sounded like the drumming of a sailboat in rough sea: Baloom! Baloom! Baloom!

  Winnie crawled out on the trail, ready to leap back behind the rocks if the shooter fired again. He squatted, then he duck walked. Then he advanced ten feet and stood up.

  “Gone!” he said to Tess. “The asshole’s gone! I think.”

  “Where were the shots coming from?”

  “I don’t know, but let’s get the hell outta here! We’ll be lucky to make it back before dark. Is that when the rattlesnakes come out? After dark?”

  Winnie was limping by the time they got close to the ranch. He’d stumbled a dozen times, walking behind Tess on the horse trail while the twilight shadows faded into desert night. Even when the Milky Way spilled across the vast open void, like the heavens he often saw miles out at sea, he couldn’t really pause to admire that desert sky. He was hurting, and fearing all the sounds from crawling flying hopping slithering desert creatures who hunt and prowl only when the blazing sun vanishes.

  Winnie was trying not to fear a two-legged desert prowler, having by now all but convinced himself that the shots had been fired by a careless hunter or some cretin who liked to scare the shit out of dudes on the riding trails.

  When he saw the white walls of the hacienda a hundred yards ahead, he said, “I think we’re gonna live.”

  Before going to the house, Tess walked straight to the stables, where she found both horses in their proper stalls nibbling alfalfa, their bits still in their mouths. She switched on the stable lights and unsaddled the animals, who hadn’t suffered any injuries and seemed to be content.

  When the horses were secure she put her arm around Winnie’s waist as they crossed the motor court toward the house.

  “How’s your back?”

  “It’ll be okay tomorrow,” he said. “But I don’t think I’m up to going out tonight.”

  “Neither am I,” she said. “You have a drink and a bath and rest. I’ll fix dinner.”

  The moment they got inside the house Winnie picked up a phone in the living room.

  “What’re you doing?”

  “Calling the cops, of course. Who patrols this area? Sheriffs?”

  “Should we do that?”

  “Whaddaya mean, should we do that? Some asshole took a couple shots at us!”

  “You said it was probably some kid.”

  “Exactly why we gotta report it. Some nutcase kid out here shooting at people on horses? Who patrols this area?”

  “Riverside County sheriffs,” she said. “Indio office.”

  Winnie was lying on the leather sofa in front of the fireplace when the uniformed deputies arrived. He pulled himself painfully to his feet while Tess admitted a buxom young woman and a middle-aged Latino who walked like his feet were hurting even more than Winnie’s back.

  “I’m Win Farlowe. Retired, Newport Beach PD.” Winnie shook hands and motioned them to the side-by-side chairs. The female deputy was carrying the reports and did the writing.

  “This your place, sir?” the Latino asked.

  “Not hardly,” Winnie said. “I’m jist a guest.”

  “It’s my … it was my father’s home,” Tess said. “Now it’s owned by Warner Stillwell. He’s away for a few days and we’re guests. My name’s Tess Binder.”

  While the young woman wrote, the male deputy said, “So somebody took a shot at you?”

  “Two,” Winnie said. “Off on the trail about, oh, two miles back in the canyon.”

  “More like a mile,” Tess said. “It just seemed that far to a tenderfoot.”

  “You sure it was a shot?”

  “Two shots. Yeah, they ricocheted. If they hadn’t a ricocheted I wouldn’t a been sure. Gunfire sounds funny out there in all that space.”

  “Rifle or handgun?”

  “Don’t know,” Winnie said. “Popped like a handgun. I’d guess handgun, but I can’t say.”

  “From what direction were they fired?” the young woman asked.

  “Northwest, I’d say,” Tess volunteered. “There’s a big stand of tamarisk trees by the cliffs, about, oh, a hundred yards from the trail. In the past I’ve seen guys in off-road vehicles shooting at cans. My father used to call you about them. In fact, your people once sent a helicopter but didn’t catch them.”

  The Latino said, “So it coulda been just somebody shooting at beer cans?”

  “Coulda been,” said Winnie. “But the first round was pretty close to her.”

  “Did you see where it hit?”

  “No, but I heard it. I heard it hit and zing. I don’t think I could point out the exact spot. All those rocks and cliffs look alike.”

  “Well, we’ll sure get this down on paper,” the Latino said. “If you hear any more shooting out there don’t hesitate to call us.”

  “Would you like some coffee?” Tess asked. “Or iced tea? I’ve made some tea.”

  He said, “Iced tea would be great.” Then to Winnie, “Bet you’re glad to be off the job, huh? Living in Newport Beach? Man, you got the life!”

  Tess prepared another light Mexican meal for him: chicken tacos, frijoles, some tossed salad, and Alicia’s homemade salsa. She served it to Winnie in the living room, where he sat in front of the big fireplace in one of the leather chairs. His body exactly fit the contour of the one closest to the hearth.

  When he mentioned that to Tess she said, “Daddy’s chair. Warner has always been slender. Daddy was more your size.”

  After his fourth beer Winnie got up the nerve to pry. “Two well-worn chairs?” he said. “They sat here for hours. For years. Each in his own chair.”

  “They did everything together,” she said. “For thirty-five years. Until Daddy died seven months ago.”

  “What happened to your mom?”

  “Died of stomach cancer when I was twelve. Daddy raised me, and Warner helped. He used to work for Daddy.”

  “Yeah? What’d he do?”

  “Anything Daddy wanted done. Warner was a failed tennis pro with no other skills of any kind. At first he was our houseman, back in the early days. Back when Mother was sick. Daddy actually hired him to clean and cook and help look after me. My father was in mortgage banking and did lots of business back east and even in foreign countries.”

  She got up and put the dishes on a tray.

  “Can I help with the dishes?”

  “You stay there and rest that back. I want my boy in the pink tomorrow.”

  “We’re not going riding again!”

  “Maybe in the hammock,” she said, not looking back, as she clicked across the rusty red Mexican tiles. “If you’re up to it.”

  When Tess came back it was with a vodka for him and what looked like Scotch for herself. She sat down in Warner Stillwell’s leather chair and sipped from a glass. It was a four-ouncer, with very little ice.

  The vodka emboldened him. He said, “Kinda … unusual for an employee to end up inheriting the estate, isn’t it?”

  She smiled ironically.

  “You’re too good a detective for that,” she said. “Why don’t you just come out and ask?”

&
nbsp; “They were lovers, huh?”

  “Take a look at their rooms,” she said. “Daddy’s pictures are plastered all over Warner’s room and vice versa. It started before Mother died. They must’ve been like an old married couple at the end.”

  Winnie glanced down at the arms of the leather chairs. They were shiny, a patina like polished walnut. Thirty years of use. An aging married couple, as comfortable together as a pair of old boots. “You, uh, said your dad was kinda tough on you. How did Warner treat you?”

  “Don’t misunderstand. Daddy was demanding. On me. On Mother. On everyone who worked for him at his bank. Mostly on himself. On everyone except Warner. Warner had the dominant role in their relationship at the end, but Warner was never that way with me. He tried to be more of a father to me than Daddy did. He tried too hard. He was always just Warner to me. I never could forget that at one time he was our houseman.”

  “Did that make such a difference?”

  She glanced at Winnie sharply and said, “To me it did. It might be hard for you to understand. When I graduated from Stanford and came back home, Warner was completely in charge of the Newport property and this one. Oh, he tried to spoil me, always giving me money and gifts, but I never forgot that he was giving me Daddy’s money. My money, if our family was like every other one I knew about. Warner was giving me my own money. My future inheritance. I came to hate it.”

  “So what happened?”

  “To whom?”

  “To all of you. How’d it come about that your inheritance went to him?”

  “When Daddy turned sixty-two he sold the bank and liquidated all his stock. I was on my second miserable marriage by then. Daddy hated my second husband worse than the first, but not as much as he came to hate Ralph Cunningham, my last one. Anyway, Daddy and Warner decided to live here permanently. Oh, they traveled a hell of a lot. They loved cruise ships. Must’ve made ten crossings on the QE Two, not to mention two voyages around the world. They spent a whole lot of money, those two, while they grew old together.”

  “Can’t take it with you,” Winnie said. “Not a bad idea.”

  “When you have a daughter you can leave some,” Tess said. Then she looked at her glass and said, “God! I feel like Guppy from Spoon’s Landing. Who took my drink?” She got up and clicked across the tiles to the kitchen. When she returned she wasn’t fooling around. She’d brought a bowl of ice cubes and both bottles: Scotch and Russian vodka. She filled his glass first.

  When Tess sat back down she said, “I was shocked to find out how little they had in the bank after Daddy died. Those old men had gone through everything, apparently. I was left two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which had been kept in trust, and Warner got this place. And that was all there was. I used part of the money to continue living on Linda Isle after Ralph abandoned me. Ralph gave me the furniture that’s in the house.” She paused a moment and said, “Men are such generous and compassionate creatures.”

  “Some are,” Winnie said.

  “Well, there you are,” she said. “I’m an abandoned orphan with a net worth of whatever I can get out of the Linda Isle house. I assume I can get back my down payment of one-fifty, less commissions. You see, I’m buying it from Ralph. At a price he could live with.”

  “A hundred and fifty,” Winnie said. “You’re not so rich. I know cops worth more than that.”

  She laughed out loud, then said, “Does this mean you’re going to abandon me too? Will I be left on the beach by yet another man?”

  “I’ll never dump you, lady,” Winnie said, reaching for her hand across the arm of the leather chair. “I’ll hang around long as you want me.”

  Tess Binder looked at Winnie, at his hand, back into his eyes. Then she removed her glasses, and put them on the table. She knelt down on the Navajo carpet, knelt at his feet and put her cheek on his thigh. Her face was turned toward the fireplace and her shoulders started to heave as though she were crying.

  “I always find a way to make you sad,” he said. “Without meaning to.”

  She sniffled and said, “You make me very happy, old son.”

  “You’re tired,” Winnie said. “Me too. Let’s go to bed.”

  He finished the drink and Tess helped him up. She put her arm around his waist as they climbed the staircase to the guest room.

  “We can sleep together in Warner’s bed,” Tess said. “After all, he shared it with my father and I’m my father’s child.”

  “No,” Winnie said. “I don’t think I’d like that. Much as I wanna feel you next to me. No, somehow that wouldn’t be right. Let’s go to our room.”

  “Right as usual,” she said, kissing his cheek.

  Tess allowed Winnie to undress her and tuck her into one of the twin beds. She looked very sleepy when he kissed her once on the forehead, then on both cheeks, and said, “I think you should go right to sleep. You had quite a day.”

  “See you in the morning, old son,” she said gratefully. Then she added, “Oh, by the way, I found an old book downstairs. All about the Coachella Valley and the inland sea in prehistoric times. I put it in the bathroom on the counter.”

  “Would the light bother you if I read?”

  “I’m gone off already,” she said, closing her eyes.

  “Tess,” Winnie said, just before he undressed. “One more thing. What did your dad die of?”

  She didn’t turn over. With her back to him and only a little of her sunstreaked, butterscotch hair showing from under the blanket, she said, “Suicide. My father shot himself with a pistol.”

  11

  The Hotline

  She was up long before Winnie. He’d drunk so little the night before (by his standards), he’d received no three o’clock visitors. Could it be that Tess Binder kept the buzzards away? In fact, he’d slept for ten hours without waking. The book about the Coachella Valley was open on the table beside the bed where he’d fallen asleep after reading the chapter dealing with freshwater shells, like the ones Tess had put in his pocket.

  He put on his swimsuit, a black knit shirt, and deck shoes. When he came down to breakfast he was carrying the book and the little shells. Tess had just come in from the stables and greeted him with a kiss.

  “Want breakfast or lunch?”

  “I never sleep this late,” he lied. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Breakfast, I think. How about an omelet? I make killer omelets.”

  Winnie sat in the kitchen at an oak table that must have been a hundred years old. The table had been cut, gouged, scraped and rubbed shiny from thousands of meals prepared on it. Winnie read, and drank his coffee, occasionally pointing out something in the book while Tess made breakfast.

  “Listen to this,” he said. “It says here that ancient fish traps and oyster shell beds and marine fossils way above sea level are all around these parts. And you know that high tide line on the cliffs? That’s from the last freshwater lake about five hundred or a thousand years ago.”

  “You’re quite a little tourist, aren’t you?”

  “Definitely. My old cop friends know all about that. I used to go on fishing trips with the guys to Baja and they’d be drinking and I’d be off checking out the local scenery, looking for artifacts and stuff. Buster Wiles always called me Winnie the Explorer.”

  “You didn’t drink with the guys?”

  “Not much then. Not like I do since I left the job. You know, I offered to sign a waiver with the city to release them against any medical claim if they’d just let me stay on. But the city attorney didn’t think a waiver’d hold up if my herniated disks really blew out later. So I had to retire.”

  “And the pension isn’t enough?”

  “I could squeak by, living the way I do. Driving a ragtop VW that runs like the Beirut post office. But I owe a few more years a child support to my adopted daughters. My wife’s second ex-husband told me those little monsters caused his triple bypass. Nearly died a blood complications. They had to change his oil about six times, seventy-eight
pints a blood. I donated two, myself. Tammy couldn’t ’cause her nail polish wasn’t dry.”

  “A lot of men might fight it, the spousal support.”

  “I made the deal with my eyes open. I signed the marriage certificate. I signed the adoption papers. A deal’s a deal.” He paused and said, “I’m sadder than a country song, huh? Guess you feel like giving me a telethon.”

  “No, just one killer omelet.”

  While Winnie ate his omelet and drank more coffee, Tess sat and glanced through the book. “I’ve never been much interested in the history of this valley,” she said.

  Winnie washed down a mouthful of omelet spiced with jalapeño chilis, and said, “Earliest evidence of Indians goes back about twenty-five hundred years. The really old camps were probably wiped out by earlier lakes. The prehistoric lake was over a hundred miles long.”

  “Did you learn any more about the little shells?” Tess asked, picking one up and holding it below her earlobe.

  “Cute,” Winnie said. “They’d make cute earrings on your tiny ears. Might look nice as a necklace too, couple hundred strung together.”

  “They are freshwater clam shells, aren’t they?”

  “Some a them. Some a the others …” He took the book and turned the page. “The thin pearly shells are clam. The one you got in your hand, that’s called a univalve. From mollusks. They were pretty new to the scientists about a hundred years ago.”

  Winnie took five white shells from his pocket, each no larger than a button. “Like baby sea snails,” he said.

  “Save them,” Tess said. “Souvenirs of our desert holiday.”

  “I don’t need shells to help me remember this,” Winnie said, but Tess smiled and put the shells back in the pocket of his black knit shirt.

  “You should’ve been some sort of scientist.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Can’t you jist see me all blissed out over a new study on slime molds? But I shoulda gone to college. My dad always told me he’d support me all the way through if I wanted to go. And I was a Nam vet, so I did have options for an education. But no, I had to become a cop. Took some junior college classes over the years, police science mostly.”