Harold Ames, the town historian, gave a stab at explaining it to me one day. “Some of our most prominent politicians have done time around here. It’s sort of a badge of merit.”
Considering the fact that the town is only an hour from Vegas, it somehow made sense.
Shifting into reverse, I backtracked and pulled into the Gold Bonanza, the only place in town to grab a bite to eat. A large neon sign flashed its $1.99 breakfast special, and there were enough cars and pickups to make you think they were giving food away. But in Nevada, there is no such thing as just a restaurant. The Bonanza was part casino, part coffee shop, and part karaoke bar. I’d also discovered the food was only partly edible, but I was rarely, if ever, given the opportunity to eat.
Opening the door, I was immediately enveloped in a cloud of smoke as I squeezed past the crowd at the slot machines, already busy at eight in the morning. The ching, ching, ching of slots swallowing coins accompanied the rumbling of my stomach as I pushed my way over to the hostess, Lureen. A relic who’d been working here as long as the Bonanza had been standing, Lureen had to be at least seventy years old. It seemed to be the required age to obtain employment in the place. Lureen’s scrawny arms poked out of a sleeveless tiger-striped top. This morning her legs, the width of small chicken drumsticks, were encased in bright purple spandex pants. Rhinestone eyeglasses matched dangling earrings, while her hair, tinted cotton-candy pink, was swept up in a creation that defied definition.
I received my usual friendly greeting. “We’re full up.”
And as usual, I looked out at a sea of empty tables. “I see a table over there.”
Lureen took a deep drag on her cigarette, blowing the smoke out through her nose in a slow, steady stream as she contemplated me through her force field of rhinestones. “It’s reserved.”
I tried my best imitation of Little Orphan Annie, only to remember why I had given up my career as an actress in the first place. “Come on, Lureen. I’m starving this morning. How about an exception, just this one time?”
Letting loose a deep, phlegmy cough, Lureen wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Listen, kiddo, why do you keep coming in for the abuse?”
“Heck, Lureen. It reminds me of home. Besides, you keep calling me kiddo. Who can resist that?”
Lureen crushed the butt of her cigarette into a coffee container while she reached into her breast pocket and removed a pack of Marlboros, the official cowboy cigarette. Taking her time, she flicked open a lighter encrusted with knockoff garnets and pearls. The fresh cigarette twitched between her lips in anticipation of that first lung-wrenching gulp of smoke.
“Don’t matter what I call you, kiddo. We’re still full up.” Plucking at her hair, she pulled out what appeared to be a dead fly that had become enmeshed in her heavily lacquered helmet. “You keep coming back like a bad case of heartburn, girl. You’re lousy advertising for our place. Do yourself a favor and eat somewhere else.”
I knew it was a hopeless battle. As a Fish and Wildlife agent, I tend to be looked upon with all the affection given pond scum. Of course, there’s a reason for that—one with four legs, a hard shell, and a neck with as many wrinkles as Lureen.
It all started when the desert tortoise landed on the endangered species list. Biologists claim the critters are dying because of stress from rampant development, grazing, and mining. Locals argue that God just decided it was time to do them all in. What it’s led to are restrictions on federal lands where the tortoise exists—which is just about everywhere in southern Nevada.
Except nobody tells a cowboy what he can do. Certainly not the damn government. Especially not some greenhorn girl from back East. It’s been war ever since, with me as the latest target.
I felt a body brush past me and watched as Clayton Hayes seated himself at one of the open tables. A local rancher, Clayton had recently sold his land to an environmental group, which turned around and converted it into a tortoise refuge. While the sale had made him the richest man in town, it hadn’t changed his contempt for environmentalists one damn bit.
Clayton dressed as if he were still out riding the range. A plaid shirt and dust-bitten jeans were his daily uniform. Old, scuffed-up boots declared that he was still a cowboy at heart, even if some secretly whispered he’d gone soft and sold out. His face and hands, a rich, dark brown, were as tough and resilient as cowhide from years of working outside in sun, sand, and dry wind.
Walking over to Clayton, I pulled out a chair and sat down.
“How you doing, Clayton?” I asked, plunking my elbows down on the table.
Hayes gave me a sidelong glance before spitting a hunk of rancid tobacco into his water glass to create a brown sludge. “Go to hell, Porter.”
“I’ll buy you breakfast.” I had learned the fine art of bribery in Louisiana. Besides, I figured $1.99 a pop wouldn’t break the bank, meager as mine was.
But Clayton wasn’t taking the bait. “You better save your pennies for that plane ticket of yours back home. Unless you want to hang around and join us for our barbecue, that is.”
Invitations didn’t come my way all that often. I decided to forego common sense and take the plunge. “What barbecue is that?”
“When we set the desert on fire and roast all these damn tortoises out of here.” Clayton slapped his knee and broke into a cackle. He spat another slug of tobacco into his glass, and the liquid balanced precariously on the rim before sliding down onto the table to form a thin puddle of mud.
My stomach rumbled again, this time from the stench of chewing tobacco. “Better be careful, Clayton, or I’ll have to cite you for polluting a public place.”
Rolly Luntz, another local with a grudge, sauntered over to join in. Having retired after working forty years in construction, Rolly had become a resurrected cowboy. Today he was garbed in a denim shirt and jeans complete with a belt bearing a fist-size silver and turquoise buckle. High-heeled, pointy-toed boots that definitely weren’t made for walking gave him more swish than swagger. Topping off the ensemble was a cross between a cowboy hat and Abe Lincoln’s stove pipe chapeau. He was determined to look like a cowboy if it killed him. If he wasn’t careful, it might.
“Hey, Rachel. Do you know how to get a tortoise off the road when it’s crossing?” Rolly asked, a grin sneaking to first base across his face.
This just wasn’t my day.
“If you catch ’em just right with your tire, they’re like a hockey puck. You can shoot ’em straight across the road.” Rolly chortled, his grin sliding to home.
This was the latest joke in a popular local game known as tortoise tiddlywinks.
“That’s very clever, Rolly. Your jokes are getting better,” I said in an attempt to improve cowboy–federal agent relations.
Rolly grinned in delight at the praise. “Heck, Rachel. I got another if you like.”
I held up my hand, cutting him off at the pass. “That’s okay, Rolly. I’m trying to limit myself to one laugh a day.”
“Hey, Rolly. I’ve invited Porter to the barbecue we’re having. Why don’t you tell her what’s on the menu?” Clayton asked with a wicked gleam in his eye.
Rolly tucked his thumbs inside the waistband of his jeans and made an effort to puff out his chest. “It’s gonna be real good this year, Rachel. What we’re having us is a whole lineup of crispy critters, including some rigor mortis tortoise and shake ’n bake snake.”
“Don’t forget about our chunk of skunk and swirl of squirrel,” Clayton chimed in.
But Rolly wasn’t to be outdone. “Yeah. And there’s our smear of deer and poodles ’n noodles.”
The two men convulsed into a fit of the giggles.
“That’s great, boys. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I especially want to be there so that I can serve you up something real special after I land your rear ends in jail. How about a helping of three-hundred-and-sixty days Hayes along with a serving of twelve-months Luntz? Sound good to you?” I asked.
The two men stared at
me a moment before breaking out into a roar of laughter. Rolly pounded on the table with his fist, causing Clayton’s lethal concoction to spill over. The river of tobacco juice made a beeline directly for my lap. Jumping up out of my seat, I decided to forsake a down-home western breakfast and opted instead for my regular: a cup of coffee, a bag of barbecue chips, and a Snickers bar to go. If possible, my eating habits have gotten worse: my idea of good nutrition now is Taco Bell Lite.
But before heading out, I went to the pay phone to check the answering machine at work. I entered my code, and a mechanical voice with all the warmth of Lureen informed me that I had one message. The call was from the Desert Tortoise Conservation Center just outside of Vegas.
It seemed three hundred and fifty desert tortoise hatchlings had just disappeared.
Two
The location of the Center is kept fairly secret because of the science-fiction-type research that’s performed there. In a sort of Nietzschean superman twist, young hatchling and juvenile torts are fed what amounts to Michael Jordan’s diet. The result has been a production line of “super juvees,” tortoises three times as large as a normal reptile left to fend for itself. This would be my first visit.
I passed the 7-Eleven, the only civilization for miles around, and turned onto an unmarked dirt road. Dust balls of fine, powdery silt rolled off the sun-stunned desert floor, caking my Blazer in a replica of Miss Havisham’s ancient wedding gown. Soon a cyclone fence came into view, racing alongside my car mesmerizingly, and leading to a locked gate. Beyond that lay the one-story Center, camouflaged the same drab beige as the land. I beeped my horn to announce my arrival and waited inside my portable sauna for someone to open the gate.
A funny thing happened in Clark County, Nevada, when the desert tortoise was placed on the endangered species list. Since the reptiles have their burrows just about everywhere, all construction was forced to a grinding halt. Housing developments came to a standstill. Schools couldn’t be built. The new airport was put on hold, along with half-finished highways and casino hotels. What was at stake was money. Big money. Billions and billions of dollars.
Because Nevada’s favorite colors are gold, silver, and greenbacks, money changed hands, and, in the blink of a tortoise’s eye, Las Vegas was back in business. The Fish and Wildlife Service was handed a large chunk of cash along with an offer they couldn’t refuse: builders would construct a conservation center for tortoise research. In return, developers were once again free to obliterate the desert.
The conservation center quickly turned into a dumping ground, with captive tortoises breeding as prolifically as rabbits. In fact, the problem was now what to do with all the critters. It seemed someone had just created his own solution.
Five minutes had gone by, and I was still waiting to be let in. Having passed through the stages of steamed and baked, I was now well on my way to being deep-fried. Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not mine. I was at the point where I’d kill for a Coke.
Getting out of the Blazer, I opened up my handy-dandy Leatherman—a multi-pliers pocket tool kit, complete with wire cutter, straight and serrated blades, screwdriver, bottle opener, metal file, scissors, tweezers, and nail file. In less than ten seconds flat, I managed to jimmy the lock and I drove on inside. So far, security at the Center was worse than my old ground-floor apartment back in New York, which had been referred to by the local Hoods ’R Us as an easy lay.
I walked through the front door and was greeted by an array of stuffed desert wildlife frozen in lifelike positions. Since no one running the Center was to be found among the lot, I made my way down the hall, passing one sterile enclosure after another, until I finally arrived at the darkened lab. A small, sparse room, its decor was wall-to-wall wire cages. Each pen was marked to identify the tortoise inside. All stood eerily empty. It wasn’t the high-tech extravaganza I had expected for the millions of dollars that had been spent.
“What are you doing in here?”
I turned around and saw a young man in his early twenties, wearing a white coat as if dressed up to play doctor. Remnants of teenage acne marred his face, and heavy tortoiseshell glasses gave him the air of a nerd. He stood ramrod-straight with his hands clenched deep inside his coat pockets and looked me over as if I were an annoying piece of sagebrush that had somehow blown in.
“I’m Agent Rachel Porter with Fish and Wildlife. You left a message that a number of tortoises were stolen?” I inquired, using my best official tone.
The young man made an effort to peer down his nose, even though I stood a good inch taller. He then began to sniff around the room, his nostrils dilating with each whiff, as if in search of a missing piece of cheese.
“I don’t believe the term ‘stolen’ was used. What was said quite precisely was that they had disappeared,” he corrected me.
I glanced at his name tag, which identified him as William Holmes. “Well, Bill, unless Houdini’s been here, I’d say your super juvees have been nabbed.”
“My name is William, and we have no evidence of a break-in. As was stated before, they’ve simply vanished, Porter,” he haughtily replied.
A smarmy wiseass who was probably getting along by living off grants.
“The name is Agent Porter. Would you like to tell me precisely what you mean by the term ‘vanished’?” I responded.
The corners of William’s mouth curled down as if he didn’t have time for such nonsense. “What I mean is that they no longer appear to be here. However, no locks seem to have been tampered with and no windows have been broken. As to precisely what has taken place, I’m afraid I must unfortunately leave those details to your attention, Agent Columbo.”
I already hated the kid. “For your information, Bill, I just unlocked the entry gate without a key. And by the look of it, I could probably do the same with the front door. With the kind of security system you’ve got here, who needs to break windows?”
I switched on an overhead light and began to look around.
William stood stiff as a board. “Would you mind not poking at anything before asking?”
If I’d had a cattle prod, I might have inquired as to what he meant. Instead, I made a slow survey of the room. None of the cages contained food or water and each pen door had been carefully closed.
“What time this morning did you realize that the tortoises were missing?” I inquired.
William paused for a moment before answering. “I first noticed they had disappeared two days ago.”
“Two days ago?” I was stunned. “What were you doing all this time? Waiting for them to magically reappear?”
I’d have to report the kid to somebody. The job was crying out for a replacement. William refused to look me in the eye, which only annoyed me further.
“Well, what did you think? That they had gone out for a quick Burger King fix? Why did you wait so long before reporting this?” I asked.
William’s lips barely moved as he spoke. “I thought they might have been borrowed.”
I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he’d been munching on magic mushrooms for the past two days. But he just didn’t seem the type.
“Borrowed? And what would they have been borrowed for?” I prodded.
William shot me a withering glance. “We do all sorts of experiments here.”
Okay. So the place was a bordello for kinky sex. I still had to hunt down three hundred and fifty missing tortoises.
Turning to leave, I noticed a neon-green tortoise painted on the door to the lab.
I pointed to the painting. “Is this the work of some budding Picasso? Or is it so everyone will know where the tortoises are kept when they’re not being borrowed?”
Holmes gave me a look to kill. “That appeared around the same time the tortoises vanished.”
I stepped in for a closer view. The form appeared to have been hand-painted using a stencil. “So nobody here is taking the credit?”
“No. I guess that must mean you’ve got your first clue,
Porter,” Holmes said, folding his arms.
“And what would that be, Bill?”
A grin, reminiscent of a weasel in heat broke out across his face. “It obviously means that this is the work of some commando group of econuts, who slipped in during the night and liberated the tortoises.”
The kid had to go. “Yep. You’re right, Sherlock. I guess the case is closed.”
I stepped past him and prowled around the rest of the building. The kid was right about one thing—there had been no break-in. It was beginning to look like an inside job.
I turned around and almost bumped into Holmes, who had been tailing my every move. “I take it that you’ve spoken with everyone who works here?”
Holmes pulled back an inch. “Of course I have. No one has the slightest idea what could have happened, but they are all very concerned.”
If they were as concerned as Holmes, there was the possibility that the tortoises could already have been missing for weeks.
“I’d like a list of everyone who works here, along with their address and phone number,” I informed him.
William eyed me suspiciously. “I already told you I’ve spoken with everyone. What do you want that for?”
Good thing the kid wasn’t gunning to be a brain surgeon. “I have some follow-up questions. Is there a reason you should have a problem with that?”
Holmes didn’t bother to respond.
“By the way, Bill, be sure to include a number where I can reach you as well,” I added.
Hesitating for a second, he licked his lips. “Why do you need my number?”
“Backup for the raid on the commando group,” I dead-panned.
Holmes jammed his fists into his pockets again and skulked off to make the list. When he finally returned, he held the piece of paper just out of my reach.
“Ask around all you want, Porter. But everyone who works here does so because they care about tortoises.” There were tiny sweat marks on the paper beneath Holmes’s fingertips.
Tortoise Soup (Rachel Porter Mysteries) Page 2