“That’s it?”
“I said it was simple. Easy to remember, easy to translate. Like ‘Live long and prosper.’”
Willie was disappointed and the can in her hand was warm. She’d only managed to choke down half. “So Rigg Dexon dies, and you all come out here for some impromptu convention?”
Fake Dexon continued to smile. “You haven’t been watching the boards, have you? Death Valley Free Speech.”
“I don’t like the Internet.” Melanie, the waitress at Shorty’s, had mentioned DVFS. Was that really only a week ago?
“Well some people do. Anyway, a dude calling himself JTC got a lot of folks excited after the old man passed. JTC said he was from the Valley, and that he’d met Rigg Dexon. He also said that Dexon had found The Juliet. You can imagine how exciting that kind of news would be to a certain constituency.” He gestured to the rocks and the scrub as if they were proxies. “But the kicker was, JTC claimed that Dexon gave him The Juliet the day before he died.”
Willie was about to call bullshit, but then she worked it out: JTC stood for Joshua Tree Carter. “Why would he be telling everyone that?”
“Said he didn’t know what to do with it. He didn’t even know what she was all about until he started poking around the Web. He struck me as a little jumpy-like in his notices.”
Damn. Willie felt a bolt of something hard form in her chest. Carter must have made an impression on Dexon, same as Willie. She got the house, but Carter got The Juliet. Why the hell couldn’t it have been the other way around?
“What did JTC say he was going to do with the stone?”
“Well, that’s the thing. Everybody pretty much dismisses the dude as a troll. You know, Dexon dies and all of a sudden someone’s claiming he has an answer to The Great Question. Smells of bullshit, you know?”
“Indeed.”
“Except then JTC goes dark. Stops posting. He chatters like a monkey for five solid days with no time off for sleep it seems, and then nothing. Boom.”
Willie sat back. Boom indeed.
Fake Dexon leaned so that the fire could illuminate his shoulders, his cheekbones, his jaw. He looked pretty sure about her. What he didn’t know was that he and Willie Judy had already shared one of the most intimate moments of her life with him back at The Mystery House. She wasn’t going to spoil that memory with a clumsy bout of tent sex.
“Anyways,” he continued, “Silence is almost worse than information. When JTC vaporized, everybody started taking him seriously. So that, I believe, is the answer to your question. The Juliet is somewhere nearby.”
“Nearby,” Willie said. “And you’re looking too.”
“In my fashion. I’m a lucky guy sometimes. Just need to be in the right place at the right time.” He showed the tip of his tongue. “Think of it. Piece of green rock about the size of your fist—I bet you throw a mean little punch—and more than 5,000 square miles of desert hidey-holes. Better chances than the lottery, though.”
He was saying that the world was full of bored people. Willie asked, “And then what happens if you find it?”
“Well, first I’d have to prove she was the genuine article. The other half’s in pieces in a museum in San Diego. There’s good provenance on that. Came from the lady who took care of the dude who killed his mother.” He drew his finger across his throat.
“Why is it in pieces?”
“She tried to get it cut so she could sell it. She went through a dozen cutters till she found one willing to take it on. And the emerald went kablooey, just like everyone said it would. It wasn’t the good half, anyway.”
So Dexon had found the good half. Willie said, “Do you think someone would kill for The Juliet?”
“People have,” he said. For the first time he looked away from her, like he was uncomfortable. “A lot of folks are saying you done just that. That you put the old man down.”
He expected Willie to be defensive on that point, but her mind was too far away, solving another puzzle entirely. Suddenly she stood up like she just remembered an appointment. Fake Dexon was disappointed. He thought they were just settling in for the evening.
Willie brushed off her jeans and fished out the card he’d left her earlier in the day. It read Carl Palas, Entertainer. “Carl. Of course that’s your name.”
“Excuse me?”
She jammed the card back into her jeans pocket. “Carl. I was a little rough on you today when we met. I appreciate your taking care of the place for me, I really do.”
“My pleasure, ma’am.”
“So why don’t you just continue to do that? Move your stuff in there and watch the place. Like a caretaker. While I’m gone.” She turned her back on him to stare down at the rocks that blocked her view of The Mystery House. It was just a house now, wasn’t it? With no prize inside.
“You going away?”
In her head she tried to tally the number of illegal moves she’d made over the past week. “It’s beginning to look like that. You know anything about the law?”
“I’m an actor.”
“What do you think the time is for tampering with evidence?”
Carl was now seriously stoned. He had the words, but his arms were making gestures that were less than graceful. “I’m assuming that’s one of those wide variables. Depends on whether you pissed off the judge.”
“Sounds about right. What about drug trafficking?”
“That’s more serious. Maybe you can leverage it if you can lead the cops up the supply chain.”
Willie thought that might be the case as well. However the chain, or what she knew of it, was broken. “How about negligent homicide?”
That one made Carl lean back in his cheap little beach chair. His mouth was open and the bong dangled from his slack grip. His answer was hoarse, both from the smoke and the surprise: “You saying you done it? You killed Dexon?”
Willie shrugged. She’d never be sure.
* * *
By the time she made it back, the Alkali was dark except for a few security lights in the lot. The last of the evening’s customers had long since stumbled off to bed and bunk. Willie imagined Scottie lying awake, wondering if she’d run off for good this time and enduring the discomfort of his wound. He’d told her that it itched and burned, cycling on and off. With fifteen months until Badwater 2006, there was just enough time to heal and train before runners and groupies from all over the world would come to see him compete. The resort would be fully booked and the pantry would be stocked with almonds and sweet potatoes and smoked salmon. He claimed to hate those things, but she knew better. Scottie craved them. He craved in general. It was his default mode.
Pretty soon she’d be out of his way so he could see that for himself. There were plenty of fish in the sea, but not that many in the desert. Scottie just needed a lover, any lover. It didn’t have to be Willie.
She parked in front of the grease barrels, and before she turned off the headlights she saw him staring out of the kitchen window at the space where his truck was usually parked.
Willie slipped out of the cab and crossed the lot to her old beat Camry. She leaned on it and stared up into the sky, waving at Scottie to come join her. In seconds he was outside, picking his way through the gravel lot with his cane, moving faster than a man in his condition should. The motel rooms were a dark, silent line behind him, but across the highway soft lights glowed in the campground. Lights over the toilet shed, lights in the occasional trailer window. The flicker of a miniature television.
When he was close, Willie tossed him his keys and said of the stars, “Wild night up there.”
“Down here, too.” Scottie’s voice was low. He selected a spot on the Camry to lean against so he could be next to her. He didn’t look comfortable, though. “Dawn was just picked up at Carter’s.”
“Tony’s daughter?”
“I paid her too much for the autograph. A thousand. I thought she would put it toward tuition.” He
sounded a little out of breath, both excited and sad. “She didn’t know Carter was dead.”
“Why’d she go to Carter’s?”
“Dawn’s an addict. Clean for about a year and a half now. The smell of cash is one of her triggers, apparently. She was trying to score, and the police intercepted her. They found Tony’s knife and tried to put two and two together. Tony’s out there now. It’s going to be a long night.”
Willie said, “I’m on my way to the Sherriff’s. Maybe I can help straighten a few things out.”
“That might be helpful,” Scottie said, every word coated with doubt.
Willie was going to miss him. They’d gotten to a point in their friendship where he did not believe a single thing she said, and that fact made things between them more stable somehow.
She said, “You know, Dexon found The Juliet.”
Scottie shrugged. “How does that change anything?”
“Well, I’m not so sure he committed suicide.”
“You read the note.”
“I did,” Willie said. “And it was pretty general, one-size-fits-all goodbye. I think he knew he was at risk, and he was right. Someone killed him because of The Juliet. And when Dexon gave the stone to Carter, he put a target on his back, as well.”
“Is that really what you want to tell the Sheriff?”
Willie laughed at the ridiculousness of it all. “Exactly. All he has to do is find The Juliet if he wants to solve Carter’s murder.”
“Easy peasy,” Scottie said. “The rock’s only been missing since…when did the documentary say they lost track of her? The ‘50s?”
“Right. Then I’ll tell the Sheriff his retirement party will be held on Atlantis.”
There hadn’t been any traffic since Willie pulled in, but in the distance the soft glow of headlights reflected off the desert. The vehicle was about a mile away.
Scottie was suddenly somber. “Tony said Dexon wanted to change you. Did he?”
The lights grew stronger. “You want me to tell you my secrets,” Willie said. “Okay, how’s this? I wish I had found The Juliet, but I’d be just as happy living in The Mystery House, being a person with a life. I guess that’s a change.”
Together they watched the police cruiser pull into the parking lot. It rolled by the green truck and paused. When the officer saw Willie in the lot, he pulsed his light and siren once. Stay put.
“Oh, Rhys,” she said. “What have you done?”
“I didn’t think you were coming back.” His voice cracked. “I was angry about Dawn, about how we may have screwed up her life trying to protect you. So I reported the truck stolen.”
Willie nodded. The cruiser’s interior light was on, and the officer was on his radio. “Well, the inevitable has arrived a little sooner than I expected.”
“You’re pissed at me,” Scottie said.
“I’m really not,” Willie said, and she could see he was disappointed by that.
“Come here, quick,” Willie said. She grabbed Scottie’s neck and pulled him towards her, pressing her mouth on his forehead to kiss him hard, no pucker. Her lips were flat across the wrinkles of his brow.
When she released him, Scottie staggered a half-step back, clutching his cane. He gave out a dry, half-chuckle. “I just figured you out.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He touched where she’d kissed him. “You’re that crazy Auntie with the jewelry who scares the cousins at Christmas. Except you’re young and you don’t smell like basil leaves yet.”
“What kind of jewelry?”
“Copper bracelets with turquoise. All the way up both skinny arms.”
“I’ll take it,” she said. “It’s nice to know I may amount to something someday.”
Together, Scottie and Willie watched the officer step out of the cruiser. It was hard to believe he was coming for her.
* * *
March 26, 2005: Death Valley, CA
Plan A was for Nene and Baron Glatter to go public as the lucky tourists who discovered The Juliet, offering her to the highest bidder. Plan A was off the table. Plan A didn’t anticipate murder. Plan A didn’t anticipate the continued existence of Stiegs out there either. Apparently there was a diaspora of trashy boors trading on the name, as Baron had discovered during a session on the Alkali’s sole computer. The Stiegs of the twenty-first century would pounce on their lost treasure like starving coyotes.
Plan B was more discreet and involved finding an ethically impaired broker.
Plan B, version 2 required the addition of a skilled and furtive lapidarist to the team, one who could carve away a quarter to a third of the egg that could be passed off as the second section. That any one person possessed both halves of The Juliet was a scenario so outrageous that almost no one would believe it. But surely someone would, ideally someone with deep pockets and an imagination that beggared common sense.
The stress made it almost impossible to sleep, and Nene kept squirming and fidgeting on the foam mattress she shared with Baron. They were due to check out of camp in the morning, and morning couldn’t come fast enough.
When she did sleep, she dreamed of the past, of that day when she was strolling through the beach party, insolent as hell, unaware that she was stepping into oblivion.
Nene dreamed that walk through the party over and over again.
By morning she was alone in the bunk. Baron was already up, cooking coffee and going through the checklist of things necessary to prepare the RV for travel again. There was a lot of noise outside. It was the turnover day for the resort, with many travelers on their way out.
Missy thumped her tail against the bunk, and Nene reached out to scratch her ears.
“You picked a bad morning to sleep in,” said Baron. His nerves were fried. He hadn’t slept well either. “I’ve been up for hours.”
Nene didn’t apologize. She took her coffee and watched the hubbub through the slatted window next to the bunk. “To a new beginning,” she said.
Baron gripped the edge of the sink. He wasn’t in the mood for good mornings. There was too much to do.
She said, “If you want to go back to Centenary and buy that picture, it’s okay with me.” This was her way of apologizing for whatever had Baron on edge. “You’ll have to go on your own, though. I think that fat man believes he knows me from somewhere. I shouldn’t risk crossing paths with him again.”
Baron nodded in agreement. “We have been a little reckless.”
Nene sipped the coffee. There were grounds in it. “Take the car. Take Missy.”
Baron looked at her for the first time that morning. She slept in the nude, and even at her age her breasts were better than most, small and high. Rock and roll tits.
“Yeah, I want the picture.” He placed the keys to the RV on top of the checklist. “I’m going to take The Juliet as well.”
Neither of them breathed for a moment. Then he said, “You’re strong.”
That’s when she knew she’d never see Baron again. That was bad news. Not only did Nene love him, in her narcissistic way, she was counting on him to care for her in her declining years.
Plan B, part 2 had broken him. The more partners they talked about taking on, the more dispirited he became. So this was his solution, to go it alone. Maybe he’d been thinking about leaving her for some time.
Nene said, “May I ask you something?”
“Don’t.”
“Thanks for the coffee.” She hoped she sounded more tender than bitter.
Baron took his bag and the dog. The Juliet was probably stashed inside his dirty laundry, jammed in a grocery sack in the corner of his suitcase. The RV shook as he left, and Nene held her cup steady. Then came the sound of the Subaru’s engine turning over.
As Baron pulled away, Nene had a funny thought. Too bad Dexon didn’t survive, they could have kept each other company out here in the middle of hell. Nene tapped out a cigarette from a fresh pack on the table
. New matches too, with Alkali Springs Resort stamped in green on the white cover. Another homey touch from Baron. He was sentimental.
She lit up, and watched the camp activity through the tiny screened window. Everyone was awake, active, outside. Kids running and screaming because somehow the air was making them do it. Grown-ups gossiping in their pajamas, carrying coffee cups like they were academy award statuettes. Nene let her ashes fall where they would. She was past caring, except that she would miss the dog.
She’d give Baron the better part of an hour to change his mind, but then it would be checkout time and after that, no mercy. Baron was gambling on her silence, on her desire to remain hidden from the world, but he hadn’t factored in the most important detail of her life: being Nene Glatter was boring as hell.
* * *
April 30, 2005: Los Angeles, CA
When Nene staggered into a crowded medical center in south Los Angeles, she learned that the Spanish word for zombie was zombi. She briefly locked eyes on the five-year-old who had screamed the word, and her gaze sent the child hurtling into the protective embrace of his mother.
Everyone else in the lobby stopped chattering, clicking, moving—med techs and patients alike. As they should.
The shock of cold air tightened Nene’s skin; it had been quite a while since she’d walked into a room naked, but that was what muscle memory was for. When one of the technicians rushed to intercept her, she collapsed onto him.
The first order of business had been to get rid of the RV. She’d driven it to Sonora and traded it for bus fare to Los Angeles. In L.A. she checked into a transient motel with an empty pool where it only took a month on a diet of gin and vending machine crackers to transform her lean frame into an emaciated horror. After a skillful application of filth, she was skinny and ragged enough to look as if she’d just stepped off the cover of a bootleg Rolling Stones’ album.
She didn’t bother cutting or burning herself to enhance the effect. Ever since she was young, her body terrified all on its own. Age hadn’t softened it, either. Age merely added details here and there.
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