by Pat Price
I stopped for the light at Superior and watched the cross traffic slowly clear. When the traffic from the left turn lane was clear I started off again. I passed the new Trader Joe's deli on the left and stopped for the next light at Newport. I had been driving for fifteen minutes and had covered the grand total of two miles. The light changed and I turned left onto Newport and moved to the left lane. It was ten o’clock in the morning and the traffic was still heavy. I always wonder what people are doing out on the street after commute hour. Why are these people not at work or at home taking care of their families?
I slowly worked my way up Newport Boulevard passing the big condom shop on the left with the never ending daily special of one dollar each, four for two dollars. I passed Triangle Square, the big mall at this end of town. The City of Newport Beach condemned over 30 small properties and gave the land to a big bucks developer who built the shopping square where only the area elite can afford to come and shop.
I finally made it past the last light and thundered onto the Costa Mesa Freeway like a herd of wild turtles at 35 miles per hour. From here on out I could stay in the so-called fast lane until I reached Barstow, about 130 miles to the northeast.
The heavy traffic lasted another half-hour until I transitioned on to Highway 91, the Riverside Freeway. Orange County in Southern California is 1 large city or urban area. You pass from 1 small city to another without knowing when you leave 1 and enter the next. Traffic on the 91 finally increased in speed to 70 miles per hour and I settled into what's jokingly referred to as California auto pilot mode. With the cruise control on I only had to be aware of the car in front of me, and the ones that occasionally passed me on the right.
I thought of myself and how I was spending my life. I had never been close to my family while growing up. I bolted from the house at 18 and went to a local college on a scholarship. I was always a good reader and knowledge came easy to me, much to the annoyance of my friends. I supported myself with part time jobs and the help of the local ROTC commander. 30 days after graduating with a degree in business I entered the Army as a reserve officer with the rank of Lieutenant nothing. 3 months of Officer Candidate School, 6 months of Infantry school, 9 months of Ranger school, and it was off to the Persian Gulf.
The year was 1991 and George Bush senior was stopping a five cent a gallon rise in the gas prices by throwing the despotic Iraqis out of Kuwait and returning the despotic Kuwait Royal family to power.
I did 13 months in the Gulf and came back a different person.
-12-
I arrived in Kingman around 4 in the afternoon. The city of Kingman is situated at the junction of old Highway 66 and Interstate 40. I-40 pretty much closed down old Highway 66. There are actually 4 off ramps from Interstate 40 into Kingman. Coming from the west, the 1st off ramp is onto a frontage road where the prominent and only landmark is an off-brand gas and service station named 'Bingo'. I presumed that the Bingo gas station catered to truckers because there were so many of them parked off to the side of the station.
The 2nd off ramp is Andy Devine Blvd. Andy Devine was an old time cowboy sidekick movie star and the most famous of Kingman's sons and daughters. Andy Devine was most noted for starring with actors like Roy Rogers and Gene Autry. He was popular prior to 1960. He died in 1965 and left the City of Kingman his show saddles and a ton of other memorabilia which they used to create the Andy Devine Museum.
The off ramp bearing Andy Divine's name exits into the old part of town. That's the area where, as I discovered later, redevelopment failed. The downtown area of Kingman began falling into disrepair when Interstate 40 was built and cheap land became accessible to the east of the town. As people moved out of the center of the town the business owners followed.
The 3rd off ramp off of I-40 was Stockton Hill Road. There was a golf course with long narrow greens, a lot of sand and cactus. It was home to many of the local coyotes and was visible to the south of the Interstate. Between Andy Devine Boulevard and Stockton Hill Road the Interstate cuts through the middle of a hill. The surface of the roadway is at least 50 feet below the crest of the hill. Instead of building a tunnel through the hill like the Highway department would have in California, Arizona cut a slash or a groove in the hill. The interesting thing was that you could see the strata that had been built up over millions of years on the sides of the cut and as I found out later, the resident geologist at the local junior college would often bring his class to view the strata.
The last of the off-ramps into Kingman was 6th St., the new center of town. The area around the off ramp was surrounded by motels, new car dealers, fast food restaurants, and a K-Mart. It was my off-ramp. I rolled off the Interstate and turned north on 6th St. and passed under the Interstate.
On the left was the Best Western Inn and Motel. I pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of the office. I turned the truck off and opened the door. I like air-conditioning and I normally run it even when the weather turns cold or rainy because it takes the moisture out of the air. I like the crisp dry feeling and I try to keep the temperature in my car or truck as close to 70 or lower if I can. When I stepped out of the cab of the truck the heat hit me like a hammer. The six steps between the truck cab and the Motel office were like running through hell. "But it's a dry heat," I was sure someone would tell me later. I opened the glass door to the office and stepped into an icebox. The temperature was somewhere below 70 degrees. Jumping from my truck into a furnace then into this environment almost caused my heart to go into cardiac arrest.
A tall man, thinly built with straight black hair cut short, gleaming white teeth and very dark skin smiled at me as I closed the door. I returned the smile and stepped up to the counter. He was wearing dark dress slacks, pleated in the front and held up with a tasteful black belt with a small silver buckle and belt end, stylishly western. He wore a white linen shirt, starched, pressed and open at the neck with a thin gold necklace exposed beneath. The Motel office was small with the distance from the doorway to the registration counter two steps at most. The counter spanned the distance from one side of the office to the other.
"Good afternoon Sir," he said.
His voice was soft, almost misty, and rich in low tones. The accent was unmistakable British and at first he sounded faintly like Cary Grant. The meter of his words made me think that he probably was better educated than I and probably owned this establishment and several others.
"Good afternoon," I said returning the smile and slightly nodding.
I briskly rubbed both of my arms trying to knock down the goose bumps that had popped up because of the rapid changes in temperature I had just gone through.
"How may I be of service," he inquired.
This time a hint of accent from the Indian sub continent came through. I could not tell if the accent was from India or Pakistan.
"I would like a room please," I said.
I stopped rubbing my arms and retrieved my wallet.
"Certainly sir, and how long will you be staying with us?"
He was watching my face as he slid a registration form across the shallow counter top. The surface of the counter top was split into three pieces with the center two foot section hinged allowing it to be raised. The center section provided a way for him to enter the small lobby area without ducking under the counter top. The registration counter was probably made of thin plywood and covered with a wonder wood veneer because it flexed when I leaned on it, filling out the form.
"Will you just be staying the night?" he asked.
"No," I said, finishing the form with my newly rented Newport Beach address. I removed my VISA credit card, placed it on the registration form and slid both of them across the plastic top to him.
"I'll probably be here several days. I’ll be looking for an apartment to rent."
He took the VISA card, swiped it through a credit terminal and punched a few buttons then returned the card to me.
"Will you be looking for something furnished?"
H
e ripped the form in half and placed one portion in a drawer under the registration counter to his right.
"I would prefer furnished if I can get it," I said. "I don't need maid service but I would consider it a plus if it's available."
I could see something at work here. I suspected his casual questions were more than they appeared. The credit terminal came alive and beeped then started printing a 3 inch narrow strip of paper. Once the credit terminal printer stopped trying to jump off of the wall he tore the slip of paper off in what we used to call a deft motion. He slid the receipt and a pen to me.
"I may know of several places in town available for rent. If you like I will be happy to make some calls for you."
After listening to him for the past minute I decided he actually sounded like Captain Peacock. Peacock is a character on a popular old British sit-com shown on the local PBS station in Orange County and called 'Are You Being Served'. I signed the slip and slid it back to him and looked up.
"Thank you, I appreciate the offer."
He separated my copy of the receipt and folded it into my half of the registration form, along with a credit card sized plastic key card for the room.
"Room 225." he said. "Upstairs on the side facing away from the Highway. I think you will find it is very quiet," he smiled as he handed me the thin bundle of paper and plastic.
"One last thing," I said.
"Whatever I can do," he replied.
This guy was too polite. I could see that I could get spoiled staying here.
"Is there a bank close by?" I asked. I did not want to be walking around with $10,000 dollars in cash on me or in a Motel room while I was not there.
"Yes, indeed there is, drive about three quarters of a mile south on 6th St. and you will see 'Universal Bank on the right side. They close at 6:30, you have plenty of time."
I thanked him and left the office. The sun had been baking the asphalt parking lot all day and I could see that the tires of my truck had settled some measurable fraction of an inch into the surface. I unlocked the cab of the truck, climbed in, and started the engine. I rolled the driver's window down and turned the air conditioning off. I figured I might as well start acclimating to the area sooner, rather than later. I turned right out of the parking lot onto 6th Street and drove south to the bank.
The bank turned out to be a savings and loan and was on the other side of 6th Street between a locker rental yard and the Best Western Motel. It was 5:30 by then but the gods were smiling on me because the bank closed after 6:00 PM.
I wanted to open a checking account with a $1,000 dollars in cash but the good people at the bank informed me that until I had a local address I could not open a checking account with ATM access, 'sorry, bank policy'. That did not however stop them from renting me a safety deposit box. I paid for a one year rental and stashed the $10,000 in cash inside; keeping the $1,000 I started with in my pocket.
-13-
After indulging myself with a red meat dinner at one of Kingman's many famous restaurants I was back at the motel by 9:30. The motel was doing a brisk business and I parked the Ford next to the office because the bulk of the parking spaces were already in use. A lot of the license plates were from Arizona and I concluded that a good deal of them were probably from Kingman and this Motel was also probably the local ‘no tell motel’.
As I locked the driver's side door the owner who had been gracious to me earlier in the day came out from the glass fronted office and caught my attention.
"Good evening Sir," he said in his best British accent.
"Good evening," I replied.
"Are you finding everything satisfactorily in town?"
"So far, but I can’t open a checking account because I don’t have a local address. Other than that, everything else is moving along smoothly"
He smiled and slightly shook his head in sympathy of my plight.
"I made some calls on your behalf and have located a small cottage with a large bedroom and sitting room with an attached bath. It is located about ten miles east of town on old Highway 66 next to Roadhouse 66. Ray and Connie Richmond own it. They are friends of mine. You may view the room in the morning if you like."
"Is this like a small house alongside the road?" I asked him.
"Oh, no, no. I see the confusion. The Roadhouse is a dinner house and gas station with six small cottages attached to the main building. They rent by the day, week, and month and they have maid service. I think you’ll find the rate will be very competitive," he said.
"I have one additional small question," I said.
"Anything, you can ask anything," he said.
"What is your name?"
He smiled. I was not going to let him go without getting his name. My habit, when doing an investigation, is to try and get to know as many people as possible. Someone like this man could prove to be invaluable later on this case or on another. You never know!
"Everyone calls me John," he said, offering his hand.
"I am pleased to meet you John," I said, taking his hand. “I would like to see the cottage in the morning. I will tell them you sent me."
-14-
The next morning I drove out to Roadhouse 66 on Old Highway 66. The actual distance was a little over ten miles. Old Highway 66 paralleled the Santa Fe railroad tracks most of the way and I passed the Kingman Airport to my right, on the East Side of the road.
The airport itself is interesting because, as I discovered later, was originally built during World War II and was used primarily for training Bomber Pilots. I also learned that every now and then some rancher discovers a 500 pound bomb that becomes uncovered after the rainy season. When this happens, the County Sheriff normally notifies Nellis Air Force Base in Las Vegas and they send a bomb disposal crew down to disarm the bomb and transport it back to the base. I would probably crap a brick, if I stumbled across an old bomb, and probably not have the presence of mind to call anyone.
Arizona scenery is amazing. Kingman and the immediate area surrounding the town are typical high desert, no grass, mostly tumble weed and scrub bushes. Eight miles north of the town the lay of the land changes and scrub oak and pine trees are everywhere. The Roadhouse is at the end of a half-mile straight away before the road takes a sweeper to the east and down a slight hill. The parking lot is gravel and sand with, as I discovered later, two non-functioning gas pumps. The main building is in the form of a giant A-frame with about two thousand square feet of floor space inside. The outside of the building is covered with painted shake shingles that look to be two or maybe three thousand years old, about the same age as the owner. The cottages are separated from the main building by a breezeway so I supposed that technically, they were attached. They did however look newer by several thousand years. I would have guessed that the rental units were probably 20 to 30 years old.
I parked in front of what looked like the office and main entrance. My quick mind told me that because of the weathered sign on the door that said "Main Entrance". The door was a wooden frame holding beveled glass. The glass was covered with a fine layer of road oil and dust. It made looking through the door almost impossible during the day. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. I had entered a small room that was about 8 to 10 feet across. The floor was smooth bare concrete with a glass top display case to the left of the door. The display case ran from the front wall to within 3 feet of the back wall. There was space behind the case for a walkway and a chair that looked like it had seen better days. The display case itself contained a jumble of cheap souvenirs, some of which had thermometers embellished with scenes of the Arizona high desert.
Directly across from the main door was a 2nd threshold that was about 6 feet wide and provided an entrance into the main room. I stepped through the 2nd doorway and was greeted by the low fuzzy sounds of a jukebox playing a Willie Nelson song about broken promises and lost loves. The room was rectangular in shape and about 30 by 40 feet in size. A bar ran across the far side of the room starting from the right hand
side of the end wall and was about 20 feet long. An older man sat on a stool behind the bar reading a newspaper. He was dressed in faded jeans and a well worn blue plaid shirt. A white bar rag was hung over his right shoulder.
An even older man was sitting on a stool in front of the bar looking like a character in a Norman Rockwell painting. He was dressed in the requisite faded jeans frayed out around the cuffs and had more patches than not. A white circle about three inches in diameter was evident on his back left pocket and was probably made from a snuff can. His shirt was blue denim bleached mostly white and patched about like his jeans. He wore boots that once had color that had long since been scuffed off. Several wraps of silver duct tape held the left sole onto the upper part of the boot. A faded red handkerchief hung partly out of his right back pocket. A straw cowboy hat that looked like it had been run over by a truck was pushed back on his head with a thin mixture of gray and white hair peeking out from under the hat band. His face was deeply wrinkled, tanned, and burned from a life in the harsh Arizona sun. He was working on a Bud Light in a long neck glass bottle.