The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  He stood up, his massive body filling the small space. “By the way, only a few people know that Caroline was HIV. We’re trying to keep it from the media; it wouldn’t do her any good to reveal it now. You okay with that?”

  “Of course. Although I’m surprised Ted hasn’t said anything. He strikes me as a loose cannon.”

  “Not when it comes to this. You can take it to the bank. The media won’t ever hear about it from him.” He squeezed her hand. “Thanks for being such a good friend to Caroline. It meant a lot to her. Oh, I almost forgot. Right before ...” His composure cracked, and Alex saw the naked grief in his eyes.

  “Right before we shot, you know, that scene ...” He paused. “She took off her necklace, the one with the shell. She couldn’t wear it on camera. I left it at the desk for you. I know she’d want you to have it.”

  One thing Alex knew: Luther van Cleeve really loved Caroline Arnet. Tears burned her eyes and her throat filled up so that she almost couldn’t reply. “Thanks.”

  On the way back to her room, Alex stopped at the check-out desk and asked for the necklace.

  “Luther van Cleeve left it for you.” The clerk scrutinized Alex, obviously trying to figure out what Luther van Cleeve saw in her. He reached beneath his desk and handed her the necklace, wrapped in paper. She unfolded the paper. The shell was old and flaky, not a pretty one at all. She wondered where the other half was. In a box somewhere at her parents’ house? Or in Tucson? She hadn’t seen—or even thought of it—since college.

  Alex undid the clasp and hung the necklace around her neck, felt its heaviness against her throat, and thought of it draped over Caroline’s collarbone, gleaming in moonlight. The first time Alex had seen her friend in fifteen years. And the last.

  As she walked away from the desk, she heard the clerk ask, “Is Lute as good a guy in real life as he is in his movies?”

  Fifteen

  The nadir of Caroline Arnet’s career was her appearance in the low-budget action-adventure flick, Sasquatch!, produced by husband Ted Lang, so awful it wasn’t even slated for theatrical release. But even in this ridiculous King Kong parody, Caroline’s star quality was clearly evident and her performance even more compelling than in her more recent films, particularly the embarrassingly pretentious Linked Hearts.

  —Newsweek

  Nick had spent most of the day in New Year, going through the pitiful detritus of the three-month location shoot, the accumulation of Caroline Arnet’s life in Arizona.

  She’d had several video cassettes, mostly old movies. Nick remembered that Saratoga had been sitting on the TV in her hotel room, so he punched it in and watched it.

  He wondered if he were wasting his time. Probably. But it struck him as ironic that Jean Harlow had died during the filming of Saratoga and Caroline had watched the film recently.

  He found himself looking for the point in the movie when the stand-in took over. It wasn’t difficult; one minute Clark Gable and Jean Harlow were steaming up the screen, the next, the camera focused on everything and everyone but the two lovers. When the story line required Jean Harlow’s character to be in evidence, a woman dressed as Harlow, wearing a floppy hat or keeping her back to the audience, would appear. It was amazing to Nick how suddenly the film lost its momentum, foundered. Pasted together, so that even the climactic scene where Gable admitted his love was reduced to a shot of him holding a white-gloved hand while a canned voice answered him.

  Nick thought of Caroline and Jagged Impact and was surprised at the sadness he felt. At least Jagged Impact wouldn’t suffer; film production had come a long way since the thirties.

  He looked through her other things—Caroline favored men’s shirts—but her effects were pitifully few for such a big star. There was a crocodile-leather appointment book that had been scribbled in sporadically, but not enough to form a pattern. He turned to the week leading up to her birthday. A few notations, scenes and people’s names, which he wrote down. Most of them he recognized as cast and crew members. One entry, three weeks ago, caught his eye because he’d been thinking about the astrologer. “Ask Lana to ask Barry.” That was it. He wondered who Barry was.

  On her birthday, Caroline had written in large letters “D- DAY” and had later scribbled it out with a different colored ballpoint pen.

  He noticed there were no scenes or appointments listed after her birthday.

  As he drove back toward Palo Duro, Nick pondered the cryptic notation on Caroline’s birthdate.

  D-Day

  The reference to World War II aside, she could have meant a couple of things. That it was an important day because it was her birthday or because Lana Deane had told her that her luck would change or ...

  Had she known she would die?

  Near Quartz Springs he spotted a Toyota truck and camper shell parked on the side of the road. A young woman in shorts and a halter was struggling to remove a recalcitrant lugnut. A spare tire rested against the navy-blue truck.

  He pulled over. “Need some help?”

  “Thanks. Theoretically I’m supposed to know how to do this, but it’s a heck of a lot harder in reality.” She had a wholesome face, freckled and devoid of makeup. Her snub nose was currently undergoing a peeling burn which almost matched her red hair, parted in the middle and pulled back into a no-nonsense ponytail. She wore Birkenstocks and smelled of patchouli. He would have said on a scale of one to ten she was three points up the New Age scale from Alex Cafarelli.

  “Like some water?” she asked when he was finished. She thrust open the camper shell door and pulled the tailgate down, then sat on it, legs swinging as she got out the water jug. “I’ve also got carrot juice.”

  He grimaced. “Water’s fine.” The shell did little more than cut the sun in half, but he was grateful for it. It was a warm day and the lugnuts had been practically frozen to the wheel. Nick drank the sweet water gratefully. He reached back to return the plastic cup to the cardboard box just inside the shell.

  A diorama was laid out in several pieces across the bed of the truck. Some portions curved up, blocking the side windows.

  “Did you do this?” he asked, staring at the young woman, who couldn’t be more than twenty-five.

  “Yup,” she said proudly, taking another swig of carrot juice.

  He studied the painting. It was so lifelike he could have been looking at a photograph. The section on top was a rocky area with desert foliage, and beyond that stretched the bajada to distant mountains. The mountains receded in layers, like blue veils overlaying one another. “This is incredible.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Who’s it for? The Desert Museum?” The Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum, which displayed the desert plants and animals in their natural habitats, used dioramas in some parts of its sprawling complex.

  “No, a private person.”

  “Not for trains, though. All this stuff is too big.” He motioned to a hanging palo verde bough, a spray of olive-green freighted with heavy yellow blossoms, every detail perfect down to the bee drowsing among them. Some of the rocks beneath it were the size of softballs.

  “I don’t really know what it’s for. I did it from a photograph.”

  “Do you do dioramas for train sets?”

  “Sure. I did the one at the Ironwood Mall.”

  “You did that? Mount Lemmon?”

  She grinned. “You have a train set?”

  “My daughter Ellie and I have a small one. We’ve got a freight engine and some rolling stock. I just sent away for a Hiawatha.”

  “Shovel-nosed streamliner, 1935.” She saw his expression and laughed. “I grew up with trains. That’s what got me into this business.” She put out her hand. “I’m Ginny McGrew.”

  Nick introduced himself They spent a good ten minutes talking about American Flyer and Lionel trains, the various size gauges, and from there the discussion turned to building scenery: cast-plaster rocks, sawdust grasses, decomposed granite, lichen, tree armatures.

  “Why don’t
you give me your card?” He was already thinking ahead to a Christmas present for Ellie. Of course to enjoy it she’d have to come down here more often, and that would suit him just fine.

  “Cool.” She rummaged through her purse and handed him a dog-eared card. INCA DOVE GRAPHICS—MURALS AND DIORAMAS.

  She closed up the tailgate and locked the shell door. “Gotta get going, I don’t even know where this place is.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “The Hotel Sonora.”

  “You take 95 going east. There’s a sign, you can’t miss it.”

  “Thanks. Whew!” she brushed the sweat from her forehead. “I wish now I’d gotten a truck with air conditioning. Of course, when I’m done with this job, I’ll have plenty of money.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah, Mrs. Deering hired me a couple of months ago. She wanted three dioramas—one of the rain forest in Brazil, one of Copper Canyon in Mexico, and this one. I’m not sure where this place is, but it’s gotta be close. So I finish this baby two days ago and she calls and says she wants another one. It’s just so cool. She doesn’t even know I finished this. I thought I’d bring it down and surprise her, you know, see her reaction. You really like it?”

  “I’m green with envy.” Nick knew Maybelle was remodeling the hotel and thought the dioramas were an excellent idea, although he wasn’t sure where she was going to put them. The restaurant, maybe.

  Nick watched Ginny McGrew go, thinking how badly he wanted a diorama for Ellie. And how he wished she could play with the Lionels every day of her life instead of on a few choice weekends and holidays.

  Suddenly, he remembered a night not long before his divorce when Ellie’d had a nightmare. He had sat with her, reading stories before finally turning out the light, and he remembered telling her not to be afraid of the dark because if he had anything to say about it, she would always be safe. “If you need me, I’m right here, just down the hall.”

  If you need me, I‘m right here.

  The pain assailed him so abruptly it took his breath away.

  Nick McCutcheon had always thought of himself as a decent man who didn’t shirk his responsibilities. So how had it come about that he had broken a promise to the one person he loved most in the world?

  Alex decided to go with Luther and his friends to Mexico after all. Although relaxing by the pool with a book was tempting, she had way too much nervous energy to work off. The relief that Booker Purlie wouldn’t bother her anymore had electrified her; she couldn’t sit still. Tramping around open-air shops and bargaining with the vendors might take the edge off.

  When she arrived in the lobby, Lute was already there, talking to a couple of Teamsters who drove the movie trucks. He introduced them as Dave, Al, and Al’s girlfriend Shari. Shari’s most salient feature was the incredible length of her red lacquered nails.

  “Who else is going?” Dave asked, taking out a soft drink from the cooler at his feet.

  “Jonas.”

  “I hope she’s not coming,” Shari muttered. “But then I’m surprised they ever leave the hotel room.”

  Twenty minutes later, a couple entered the lobby. The Afro-American man Alex recognized instantly. His face bore old acne scars and his pugnacious nose had been broken at least once. He was Jonas St. Johns, the Oscar winner for best supporting actor last year. Alex knew he was in Jagged Impact, but didn’t know what kind of part he played. With him was a statuesque black woman whose hair was braided in cornrows. She wore a tropical off-the-shoulder sundress that fell in scarves around her shapely, creamed-coffee legs. The jewelry she wore was understated but expensive—all gold. She looked vaguely familiar.

  Luther’s jaw tensed as he introduced the woman as Latte.

  Latte. The rapper known for the diamond she wore in her navel. Even Alex had heard of her, although she didn’t watch MTV. Latte favored baggy shorts, baseball caps, and black exercise bras for her performances. She belonged to the Church of Scientology.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Jonas said. “Latte was reading Ted’s book.”

  “How is it?” asked Dave.

  “It’s a crock.”

  They took one of the movie vans to Palo Duro, about ten miles south of the hotel. Latte wasn’t interested in the conversation, choosing instead to stare at the scenery, bored and beautiful.

  The main subject of conversation, needless to say, was Booker Purlie.

  “He was crazy as a loon,” Al said, “but I never thought he was dangerous.”

  “Poor Caroline.” Shari sighed. Alex guessed Shari was around eighteen. She wore black jeans and a nubby, black sleeveless sweater which accentuated her big bust and plump arms. Her brown hair fell in loose, layered curls below her shoulders. It had been trimmed shorter on top, teased into that generic nonstyle rural hairdressers throughout the country embraced, probably because they couldn’t think of anything else to do. Her eyes were ringed with kohl. “So you were the person that found him? That must have been, like, gross.”

  Alex stifled the urge to say yes, like, it was. She began to wonder if this was such a good idea. She didn’t know these people, except for Luther, and you could cut the tension with a knife. Something was going on here—something between Latte and Luther—and she didn’t really want to be part of it.

  The sheriff’s substation flashed by on the right. Briefly, Alex wondered what Nick McCutcheon was doing. Probably he was still working on Booker Purlie’s suicide.

  At that moment, she dearly wished she could be let off there. The urge to see the deputy and find out more about Booker was overwhelming. She felt like a prisoner, trapped in this car with people she didn’t know, facing what promised to be a long day. But she knew Deputy McCutcheon wouldn’t appreciate it, especially since she’d have to rely on him to drive her home.

  It was a moot point. His Bronco was gone.

  There was a line of cars at the border. The exhaust fumes mixed with the heat, making Alex feel slightly queasy. She stared ahead of her at the cars, the cluttered, traffic-clogged street, and the town of Palo Duro spread out on either side.

  The border town was built on a series of hills that resembled dried-out baked bread, honeycombed with dusty paths. The poverty of the area was evident even from here. Chickens and burros wandered among the tin and adobe structures or lounged in the sketchy shade of tamarisk trees. Shacks were scattered on the hills like building blocks left out after playtime: faded turquoise, Pepto Bismol pink, chalk-white. It was almost as though their owners hoped the colors would fend off squalor, when in fact, they accentuated it.

  They parked just over the border, paying a ten-year-old entrepreneur to watch their car for them and make sure it wasn’t stolen. The protection racket of Old Mexico.

  Stores lined the main street; open-air shops as colorful as an Arab bazaar. Vendors blocked their path, exhorting them to “come in and see,” “this way, señora,” “lady, this is the best junk in Mexico.”

  They wandered through narrow, dark stores. Wares were stacked on tables and shelves and hung from the ceilings, most of them the same from shop to shop except for the price. The fun was in the haggling.

  “For you, señor, half price,” said an older man in a Guayabera shirt, motioning to the colorful serapes folded and stacked on one table. Alex reflected that Nancy Reagan’s famous admonition would come in handy here.

  From their easy banter and familiarity, Alex could see that Jonas St. Johns and Luther van Cleeve went back together a long way. Al, Dave, and Shari made up their own little group, the men (ten to fifteen years older than Shari) teasing the girl unmercifully. She loved the attention and played the ingénue for all she was worth, which in turn pleased them. It grated on Alex. She wondered sourly if that little-girl act would carry over into her adult life and if it would be so cute when she was twenty-eight instead of eighteen.

  Latte moved like a panther, with a careful indolence that stopped just short of posing. Men couldn’t keep their eyes off her. It was obvious she didn’t l
ike Luther any more than he liked her, and she seemed to seal herself off from the rest of them, occupying her own world. Often she trailed a store or two behind them.

  Luther was very good at haggling. He’d been born in San Diego and spent a lot of time in Tijuana. Alex got into the spirit, bargaining over some blown-glass goblets. They were beautiful, if irregular; clear glass except for the rims, which reminded her of the green rind on a watermelon.

  Luther bought some cowboy boots in a store that smelled of leather. Alex admired the hand-tooled saddles, the well-crafted classical guitars from Paracho hanging from the ceiling.

  She was in the back of the store, squinting in the dim light, when she spotted the stamped-tin lampshade.

  She’d seen several like them in other stores, but this one caught her attention. As she approached the lamp, Alex caught a whiff of something vaguely unpleasant under the leather smell.

  She was surprised at the bad feeling that suddenly welled up inside her, quickly turning to panic.

  It s just a lamp.

  Abruptly the walls closed in, darkness blotting everything out. The smell of leather, so enticing a few moments ago, turned cloying, and underneath it there was that other, repellent odor...

  Old Spice. Alex didn’t know why she had such an aversion to the stuff, but it made her almost desperate to leave. Feeling as if she’d been physically assaulted, she stumbled backward, reached out to steady herself, and knocked the lamp into a display table.

  The lamp hit the floor with a metallic clang. Dizzy, Alex closed her eyes. Particles of light zoomed beneath her eyelids, but the strangling panic gradually loosened its hold.

  What was going on?

  She’d had something akin to a panic attack. Why?

  “Senora? Would you like a drink of water?”

  Alex opened her eyes. The shopkeeper stood before her, his expression concerned.

  “No, no,” she said. “I’m okay. I’m so sorry.”

  He stared at her strangely. “No harm done. You want to buy it? It’s half price.”