Moon Music

by Faye Kellerman

  Jensen exploded as he gave a final shove deep inside Gretchen. Holding those bodacious ride-'em-cowboy hips, his hands squeezing her luscious, ripe ass. She gave out her little moan—a signal that she was waiting for him to withdraw. But damn if he didn't want to savor the moment. Finally, he pulled out and collapsed onto the bed.

  "Wow!" Gretchen exclaimed. "That was just great!"

  Jensen grunted.

  She slapped his ass, got up, and headed for the bathroom, her surgically perfect tits holding a stiff posture as she walked. A moment later, Jensen heard the water running. He looked down at his body. His cock was still semi-erect. Give it a few minutes more and he'd be ready for round two. He wanted to tell Gretchen not to bother to douche, but why not screw a clean woman?

  She returned a minute later, buried her hips under the sheets. Jensen looped his arm around her neck, brought her mouth to his, then inched those fantastic lips to his crotch. She gave him a long, lubricious suck, then lifted her head.

  "Why do you stay with her, Stevie? We could be doing things like this every night."

  Doesn't that sound like heaven? "She's a sick woman, baby. I just can't leave her. I'm not that type of guy." Again, he aimed her face at his groin. She began to mouth him deeply. He felt himself growing down the shaft of her throat.

  Then she backed off. "She's manipulating you, you know. She doesn't fuck you, but then she gets all mad when you fuck me. If that isn't being a manipulative bitch, what is?"

  He felt his pecker deflate. Why the hell did she always want to talk about Alison? "Baby, don't be concerned with my problems."

  "Of course I'm concerned with your problems, Stevie. I love you."

  He wanted to shout: Don't say that! Instead, to his horror, he heard himself say, "Well, I love you, too. But it's just not the right time—"

  "It'll never be the right time."

  Goddammit, Rom, where's your fucking page when I need it? "Baby, you have to be patient."

  "Stevie, I've been patient." Gretchen was all pouty now. "It's been almost six months. I do have limits."

  He really didn't feel like breaking in another woman. Stall her, you asshole! "Baby, I love you so much. I just need a little time—"

  "Stevie, we had this same discussion a month ago."

  "I need more time, Gretchen."

  "How much more time?"

  "Another month. That's all. Then I'll leave her, I swear. Please? Just give me a month to arrange something for my sons."

  "Stevie, I love you, but I don't believe you. I think you're giving me the runaround."

  And then his pager went off.

  Thank you, God! He looked at the blessed box. "Dammit," he said, containing his joy. "It's the station house."

  "Oh, drat!" Gretchen exclaimed. "That stupid thing is always going off at the wrong time!"

  Excitedly, Jensen punched Rom's number into the hotel's telephone. The line connected. "Yo, Sergeant, it's Jensen."

  Over the line, Poe said, "I heard you went home because Alison wasn't feeling well. I stopped by your house. But you weren't there. Did you go out for cigarettes?"

  Sarcastic prick! Jensen said, "What can I do you for, Sergeant?"

  Poe paused. Steve sounded so…happy. "I found the name of the kid Jane Doe's pimp. Ali Abdul Williams. Far as we can tell, he's rabbited. But I do have a search warrant for his apartment." He gave Steve the address.

  Jensen said, "I'll be there in ten minutes."

  "Man, you're an eager beaver." A beat. "Trouble in paradise?"

  "Yes, sir, that is correct."

  Poe smiled. "Then you owe me for this, don't you?"

  "Indeed I do." Jensen cut the line.

  Poe grinned. He liked having Stevie in his debt.

  SEVENTEEN

  BAD GUYS 2, Poe 0.

  Naked City had turned up zilch. Ali Abdul Williams was a tornado that had come and gone, leaving destruction in its wake. No one had admitted to even knowing him, let alone being a friend, associate, or relative. A.A. had stayed in a single-room bungalow sty in North Las Vegas, and Poe had given Jensen the dubious honor of searching it. The confiscation included several handguns, a sawed-off shotgun, several cellophane bags of rock crystal, and a stash of pot crawling with a plethora of insects thought to be exclusively indigenous to the Amazon. Poe had finally made it to dinner around ten-thirty, thanking God for the weekend.

  Rukmani had offered plenty of sympathy as well as her bed for the night. But after sex, she moved away from him and drifted into her own world. Poe felt restless. Wiggling out of the soft sheets, he tiptoed away, left a note, and was out cruising the Strip at one in the morning. He still hadn't given back Remus's rental. The car lady over the phone had been a bit miffed, as the Volvo should have been returned six hours ago. But being as Poe was police, she had been cooperative if not friendly.

  He pulled into valet parking at the MGM Grand, left the keys with the attendant. Walking into the lobby, straight into the Emerald City diorama. Scarecrow, Tin Man, Cowardly Lion, and Dorothy were happily romping through a twinkly-lights field of narcotic-laced poppies, just minutes away from disaster. If that wasn't a metaphor for Vegas, what was?

  He got away with a couple of hands of blackjack before being given the nod. Bad timing, because he was down a couple of grand. If Ms. Lady Luck was going to be fickle tonight, he might as well work.

  He took out two pictures—the composite of Mr. Caucasian Ponytail and a full-faced mug shot of Mr. A. A. Williams minus his booking number. Poe started by showing the pictures around at the Sports Lounge, then went through the entire casino. Thirty minutes later, he proceeded on foot down Las Vegas Boulevard. Casino after casino, bar after bar. Asking the same question: Do you know or recognize either of these people? Most of the time he was met with shakes of the head. He did get "Maybe I did see him…" a few times. Taking down their names for future questions. Anything that might give him a break.

  By the time he hit Caesars, he was awash in fatigue. The place was monstrously large; it was an aerobic exercise just to make it to the room elevators. He inched his way through the weekend throng, methodically working the bars as tuxedoed waitresses flitted through the pits carrying trays of complimentary drinks. Lights flashing, slots dinging and donging, smoke wafting through the area like mist. He felt a headache coming on.

  Why didn't he just stay with Ruki? Why didn't she ever wake up when he left?

  It was a little past four when Poe took a last look around. The floor space was so expansive he felt as if he were surveying land. Eyes sweeping past the barstools. He blinked, rubbed his aching forehead, then looked up. About one hundred feet away, he spotted a bowler hat sitting atop a ponytailed head. The figure was dressed in black and was moving toward the exit.

  Poe's heart took off as he ran in long strides down the carpeted path through the casino, pushing zombied people moving slow in the wee hours of the morning. He spied

  Ponytail just as he was leaving through double glass doors. Poe bolted toward the exit, stepping outside into a cool, clear, neonlit night.

  A quick once-over.

  A glimpse of the bowler hat under the Caesars marquee. Poe dashed down the elongated valet driveway, almost caught up with the figure. But his body must have given off some kind of extrasensory fight-or-flight vibration. Because as soon as Poe hit the public sidewalk, Ponytail started tearing down the near-empty street.

  "Hey!" Poe shouted as he ran. "Stop! Police!"

  His voice echoed in the nighttime air; he knew Ponytail had heard it. But the cry just made the fugitive pump his legs harder, leaping like a cougar, his steps lithe and coordinated. With each beat of the pavement, the son of a bitch increased his lead.

  Goddamn this job, Poe muttered. Panting like a mutt, his chest stabbing pain as his legs stretched to the max. At full speed, trying to keep pace with the asshole. He thought about drawing his gun, then nixed the idea. He was running too fast, there were still people on the streets, and it was too dark to aim well.<
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  "Stop! Police!" he screamed. "Police!"

  But Ponytail kept going, dodging cross traffic as he sprinted toward the Mirage. Poe ran harder, kept on Bowler's ass, wondering how he managed to run so fast and still keep the hat on. The fugitive kept going and going, finally ducking into Treasure Island.

  Yo ho ho, my fucking ass!

  Once inside the casino, Poe knew he was screwed. He stopped, panting hard. Wiping sweat from his face. There was no sign of the hat. The place had people even at this hour. Treasure Island was always busy during weekdays, jammed on weekends. It was a manageable casino, friendly to families, and floored lots of cheap slots and low table minimums. The kick-off night of the weekend always packed them in.

  Poe's eyes skated over the floor.

  No hat. No ponytail. No nothing.

  A half-hour search proved fruitless. Defeated and deflated, he finally called Weinberg from a pay phone, bringing him up to date.

  Poe said, "As soon as he made it through the doors, I lost visual contact. He could still be in here. But by the time we clear everything through hotel security and get the men out here to search, he could be halfway to Reno or L.A. or deep into the Mojave. It's your call, sir."

  "Well, this is just terrific," Weinberg grumped. "Now the sucker knows we're onto him."

  Poe reddened as he felt blood throb in his head. He held his temper in check. "Loo, all I did was follow him—"

  "You had to identify yourself as a cop, Poe?"

  "Only after he bolted from me. That's standard operational procedure—"

  "Poe, how'd you let him slip? You're the quickest runner on the entire force."

  "The guy flew like wind." Poe became enraged. "Aw, screw it! You want me to say I fucked up? Fine. I fucked—"

  "Poe—"

  "What do you want me to do, sir?"

  "First calm down."

  "I'm calm. Now what?"

  Weinberg paused. "Did you get a good look at his face?"

  "No, Loo, I did not get a look at his face—good or otherwise. I did, however, get a very good look at the hat. It was a black bowler. He was very thin and agile. I chased Stan Laurel with a ponytail."

  Weinberg chuckled. "At least we know this guy really exists."

  "Isn't that comforting?"

  "No need for sarcasm, Romulus."

  "May I go home and collapse, sir?"

  "Anytime now."

  Poe was about to hang up. Then he said, "I can't believe

  the fucking hat stayed on during the entire chase. He must have applied Krazy Glue to his head."

  Again, Weinberg laughed. "Go home and get some sleep."

  "I think I'll go directly to the Bureau. Write up this miserable failure—"

  "Don't whip yourself, Poe. We'll find him. See you on Monday."

  Weinberg hung up. What Poe should have done next was grab a taxi back to the Grand and head out for the Bureau. Write up the chase before the scene faded from short-term memory. Instead, he headed for the Hi Ho Matey Bar. He requested a beer, lit a smoke, and glanced around the area.

  Spotting the braid.

  Poe waited until he had the glass in his hand. Then he took his brew and his smoke and sat down next to Y. As always, the old man was playing a poker machine. Tonight he wore a black suede shirt, black jeans, and a string tie held together with a malachite clip. A cigarette drooped from his lips. His usual plait was loosely tied and kept in place by a beaded thong.

  Poe inhaled smoke, let it out slowly. "You disappeared on me a couple of nights ago."

  Y dropped a dollar token in the machine. "Next time I'll write you a thank-you note."

  Poe replaced Y's old cigarette with a fresh one. He put the smoke in his mouth. "Where'd you go?"

  "Around."

  "Around? My place is in the middle of nowhere."

  "I'm Southern Paiute. All desert land is my home."

  "Oh, stow it with that shaman crap. Your family wholesales cigarettes, ekes out a living by pocketing the difference between federal and tribal tax."

  "That doesn't mean I don't know the old ways."

  "The old ways?" Poe nodded. "I see. You must mean drinking yourself blind and living on welfare."

  "Hostile tonight, Romulus?"

  "I was concerned about you, Chief," Poe said. "You shouldn't be wandering off at night. There are animals out there—things like snakes, cougars…coyotes. Man, they were howling like the devil after you left. You could have gotten hurt."

  Y lost the poker game. "You're giving me bad vibes."

  "No, you're just playing poorly." Poe put a token in the machine. He wound up winning three to one. "See?"

  Y moved one stool down, started playing another machine.

  Poe said, "Buy you a drink?"

  "Get away."

  Poe was quiet. Y licked his parched lips. "Well, I suppose you could buy me something."

  Poe ordered him a vodka straight up. Like drinking firewater. Y took it and drank it in several gulps. Not a word of thanks. Screw him! Poe smoked down his cigarette, crushed it, then got up to leave. Y held his arm.

  "You ever look at the stars, Romulus?"

  "No Indian mystic moxoam-puts—spirit-in-the-sky—shit, okay?"

  Y smiled, his lined face cracking like parched leather. "Your mom taught you some words, Rom?"

  "None of the good ones."

  "Sit down."

  Poe sat.

  Y said, "As a kid, I knew the constellations like the back of my hand. Since the rivers were dried up…the land gone…on the reservation, there was nothing to do but drink. And when you're too young to drink, you wind up doing a lot of staring."

  Y put another token in the machine.

  "I know this sky like an old friend, Romulus. The Big Dipper always points me in the right direction. As far as snakes…I have my ways. If they bother me, they don't last long."

  "What ways, old man? Do you insult them to death?"

  Y shook his head. "Ask your mother." He pounded his

  fist against the table. "Damn!" He put another coin in the slot. "You ever kill rattlers, Romulus?"

  "As a kid, all the time. In the summer we used to drive out to Sunrise Mountain and shoot the suckers as the sun went down, just when they started coming out…when things cooled off. We used to sell the skins at outrageous prices to naive tourists. Mom would often make stew out of the meat."

  "How is your mother?"

  "Funny you should ask about her. She's coming out here to live for a while."

  Y stopped playing the machine. "Who's going to take care of her?"

  Poe was offended. "I am. I'm setting her up. I've found her an apartment. Now all I have to do is locate a full-time nurse."

  "Ah."

  "What do you mean, ah? I'm going to take care of her. But she's not well. She needs constant care. That's all."

  Y started up the machine. "No, she is not well."

  Poe studied him. "I didn't mean she's going to die tomorrow. Why did you say she isn't well? Do you know something I don't?"

  "No. I said she isn't well because you just said she isn't well. I'm trying to be agreeable."

  "Well, don't be," Poe said testily. "It doesn't suit you." Still, he was disconcerted. Even disregarding all that Indian hoo-ha, when Y made statements like that, it usually held ominous overtones. Poe said, "I'm going back to the Bureau."

  Y said nothing, continued to play.

  "Would you like to see her when she gets into town?"

  "Yeah, I like your mother."

  Poe examined Y's face. It revealed nothing. Without a word, he stood and walked away.

  She came in at four-thirty, wearing a short red dress that hugged her body like a lover. Her hair was long and loose, her skin held a sweaty sheen. Not a drop of makeup except for a fresh application of lipstick. She was carrying a paper sack, tucked under her sleeveless arm. Jensen stopped pacing, too shocked for words.

  "My dad still here, or did you send him home when you got in?" Alison asked.r />
  Jensen couldn't answer. He didn't know whether he wanted to strangle her or make love to her. Instead, he surprised himself by acting the irate husband. "Where the hell have you been?"

  She rolled her eyes and headed for the bedroom. Jensen followed, kept his voice down to a furious whisper. "I asked you a question!"