by Neil Russell
I found the young lady’s purse and took a final look around. Even if management ignored the broken door and toilet, the blood would bring cops. And in a small town, that meant answering questions until the cows came home. Pass.
I roused Sleeping Beauty and tucked her into the pickup, wrapping her in a blanket I keep in the backseat. She made no protest. After one more walk-through of both rooms to be sure I had everything, I started the Ram and headed toward Victorville.
I considered dropping my passenger at the fire station, but if they’d changed shifts, that meant too many explanations. Besides, she wasn’t going to sleep any more soundly there than right where she was. So I watched the city lights go by and headed for Chuck and Lucille’s. I glanced at the clock on the dash. Ten minutes to six in Washington. Too late to get back to Roxy.
* * * *
13
Snakes and Arabians
The sun awakened me. I was parked alongside Chuck and Lucille’s gate, facing southeast. My passenger was still out, her seat in the same three-quarter recline I’d put it in when we’d left the Purple Dog. I’d hit an AM/PM minimart on the way, and there were a couple of Italian subs and a picnic-sized bag of Doritos tucked behind my seat.
The Rhodes scholar ahead of me had bought five lottery scratchers, two Red Bulls, a pack of Kools and four Tuxedo condoms. When it was my turn, I asked the clerk in what sequence she figured the guy would be using those, and it broke her up enough that she agreed to sell me her personal thermos for fifty bucks. Now, I grabbed it and poured myself a cup of blazing coffee that, for all its hoopla, Starbucks, still can’t beat.
I opened my door and stepped outside. The high-desert morning chill was bracing, and I ambled around loosening up. I actually felt pretty good though I was looking forward to brushing my teeth.
Several miles away, I caught the sun’s reflection off a white shape coming in our direction. After a minute or so, the unmistakable colors of FedEx came into focus, and I walked back to the Ram, leaned against the hood and waited.
The driver was really hauling ass, but when he threw out the anchor to turn into the Brando drive, he came to a stop and slid open his door. “Car trouble?”
“Nope, just getting ready to go up to the house when I saw you.”
“You staying with the Brandos?”
“Just checking on the place. They’re out of town.”
He thought about that for a second, and I wasn’t sure what was coming. He surprised me by saying, “Shit.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“Drove all the way out here for nothing. Standing order for a pickup the fifteenth of the month. Somebody usually calls when they’re gonna be away. They didn’t happen to leave anything with you, did they?” He held his fingers an inch apart. “FedEx envelope? About that thick?”
I shook my head. “Family emergency. They took off in such hurry they probably forgot. Chuck didn’t say anything about it.”
“Not Mr. Brando. Mrs. Brando.”
My curiosity went up a notch. “Standing order. That usually means something’s going to the same place.”
He nodded. “Perth, Australia. Parkinson-Lowe Imports.”
“Ever see what was inside?”
His eyes narrowed. “No, why?”
“I could look around.”
He relaxed. “No, it was always ready when I got here.”
“And Lucille gave it to you?”
“Every time but once. I rang the bell, and nobody answered. I could hear a baby crying, so I knocked, and this incredible-looking chick opened the door. Maybe twenty-four. Super hair. Blonde. Little small upstairs for my taste, but still okay. When I got my eyes back in my head, I saw the envelope on a table and pointed. The girl handed it to me, and just then Mrs. Brando came running down the hall. In a robe, hair all wet. I figure she was in the shower. And boy, was she upset.”
“At you?”
“No, at the girl. She told her to go back to her room and not to open the door again. But it wasn’t like she was pissed. More like afraid.”
What was going on? Chuck and Lucille didn’t have children, grown or otherwise, and Yale had been clear that their only family wasn’t even in the country. “That was the only time you ever saw her? The blonde?”
“Her, yes. But one other time, Mrs. Brando was giving me the envelope, and two different ones walked across the room behind her in nothing but bra and panties. A FedEx guy’s dream. Well, half of it, anyway.”
“But not the blonde?”
“I was excited, mister, not comatose. One looked like she mighta been Hispanic. The other was almost six feet tall with a serious pair of airbags.”
“And no babies.”
“Not that I saw. There was a guy, though.”
“A guy?”
“Well, I didn’t actually see him, but I heard him. And saw his equipment. Some kinda artist. You know, easel and shit.”
“What was he painting?”
“No idea. It was facing the other way. But I know Mr. Brando’s a famous writer, so I figured it was maybe for one of his books. I don’t read much, but if he was painting them girls, that mighta got me motivated.”
“If I hear from Chuck or Lucille, I’ll ask about the envelope. In the meantime, you don’t need to make the run out here again. Somebody’ll let you know when they get home. I apologize for the mix-up.”
“Forget it, man. Shit happens.” He got back in his truck. Before he closed the door, I said, “They ever receive anything?”
“Every now and then. But nothing international. I’da remembered. Overseas waybills are green, and I gotta log them separate. Don’t get many.”
I watched him accelerate back the way he’d come. While I was pondering what he’d said, my passenger got out of the Ram. She was holding the blanket around her shoulders, and even though she was a little unsteady, her eyes were clear.
“Where the hell are we?”
“A few miles outside Victorville. I’ve got some business to attend to, then I’ll run you into town. Where do you live?”
“Arcadia.”
“Santa Anita country.”
She nodded. “You’re looking at the best damn trainer-in-waiting in all of racing.”
“Why the in-waiting?”
“How many women trainers you know? In the meantime, I hot walk, shovel shit and eat a lot of it. But it beats a cubicle at Google.”
I liked her already. “Best bet is probably Amtrak. I think Victorville’s got a station.”
“Where’s Byron?”
“Last time I saw him, headed toward Calabasas.”
She looked me up and down. “I thought he was big, but Jesus, you’re a whole different category. NFL?”
“Usually they guess NBA.”
She shook her head. “Big fan. I know all the players.”
“Then I better not lie. Nope, not an athlete. Not one who gets paid anyway.”
She pulled one of her arms out from under the blanket and stared at her bandages. “Thanks for this. . . and for saving my life.”
“Put me on your Christmas card list. You and Byron an item?”
“That son of a bitch,” she sneered. “Just met him last night. My daddy used to say if a story starts, ‘I was in this bar ...’ it’s not gonna have a happy ending.”
“Wise man.”
“Byron plays a doctor on one of my soaps. So when he put on the moves and asked if I wanted to see his Harley, I was like what are we waiting for. Next thing I know we’re in the middle of nowhere, and he’s huffing a meth pipe with ten hillbillies in a broken-down Airstream.”
“Not your scene?”
“Notice how long I slept? Two beers. But I convinced my cranked-up ride home we’d both be dead if we tried to get back to LA. I figured it was better to sleep with him than end up being hosed off the freeway. I’d known the jerk was gonna Ben-Hur me, I’d have taken my chances with the big rigs.”
I took a look at her. Not many women can hold up to morning
sunlight, even fewer after a hard night. This one ... it was difficult to imagine she could look any better. I extended my hand. “Rail Black.”
She smiled and took it. “Birdsong Nash.”
“Professional name?”
“Worse. New Age mother. Friends call me Birdy ... with a Y, please. And no offense, but Rail isn’t exactly missionary position either.”
We both laughed.
“Anybody you want to call?” I asked.
“Nope, it’s just me an’ my horsies. Besides, Dr. Asshole took my phone at the meth house. Your guess is as good as mine what happened to it.”
Actually, my guess was probably better, but I kept that to myself. “Okay, Birdy with a Y, sing out if you change your mind. Let’s head up to the house. I’ve got food if you can stand high cholesterol and no redeeming social value.”
“Whatever it is, put me down for a double with extra cheese. In the meantime, I’d kill for a cup of that coffee. Smells like heaven.”
A beautiful woman who’ll eat comfort food with you— especially when she doesn’t think she looks her best—is -somebody you want to hang on to. It means a low bullshit quotient. I’ve never met an eater who was a drama queen. Check it out. Next time you’re at Ruth’s Chris and see a Vogue-type picking at a dry piece of lettuce, notice how many times her date looks at his watch. Been there, taken the aspirin. But a power eater named Birdy Nash I wanted to get to know better.
* * * *
There was a law enforcement padlock on the front door but no crime scene signs or tape. If the police were intending to come back, it wasn’t evident. While I dug out a tire iron to pry the hasp off the door, Birdy wandered down to the corral, and a pair of good-looking mares trotted over to nuzzle her. I noticed a horse trailer with the ramp down sitting along the fence. Evidently somebody planned to take them. I hoped not this morning.
Inside, the mess was gone, along with most of the furniture, making the holes in the walls even more glaring. On my way to the master bedroom, the odor of peppermint disinfectant met me halfway and turned cloying the closer I got. This room had been professionally stripped as well. Even the wall-to-wall carpeting had been pulled. Empty, it seemed larger than it had the other night, but the vision of Chuck was still there.
I pulled the door closed and went back to the living room. Birdy was just coming inside. “Nice place, but maybe they could add a chair or two and maybe lighten up on the air freshener. What’s with the padlock?”
“The people who own it are away. I’m supposed to keep an eye on things, but I lost the key.”
“That’s the first thing that came to mind when I saw you . . . house sitter.”
I changed the subject. “How are the horses?”
“Your friends know their animals. All Arabians are beautiful, but those two are special. Something’s bothering them, though.”
“How do you mean?”
“Horses are sensitive to their surroundings. Way more than dogs. You’re pissed at somebody or have a hangover, they know it and don’t like it. But they don’t have long memories, so whatever it is with those two, it’s current. Hey, any chance I can get a shower.”
“Give me a minute.” I walked into the other wing of the house, the one I’d been too one-track to notice previously. Two bedrooms. Identically furnished with a queen bed, baby crib, changing table, and a bookshelf of toddler toys. Nothing had been touched in the first, but in the second, the bed was turned down and the sheets wrinkled. The crib had also been used, and an open box of Huggies sat on the changing table.
The connecting bathroom was large and newly remodeled. Polished nickel fixtures and black marble walls accenting a curved, walk-in glass block shower. A couple of towels lay on the floor, and when I picked them up, they were just slightly damp in the folds. I tossed them in a hamper and found a fresh set under the sink which I put on the counter next to a basket of toiletries. On my way back through, I opened windows in both bedrooms, then gave Birdy the go-ahead.
Anybody searching a house with no time pressure wouldn’t have missed a room, let alone two. So the trashing had been staged.
While Birdy showered, I got my Dopp Kit out of the pickup, stripped off my shirt and brushed my teeth twice in the half bath off the living room. I had just lathered up to shave when I heard the scream. As I came out, a naked Birdsong Nash and all that curly hair came sprinting toward me. I braced myself and plucked her up in midstride. She was running so fast, I had to take a step back to keep from going down.
I hadn’t noticed before how wide her shoulders were. Hilary-Swank-wide. Something I find extremely attractive.
“Jesus Christ, it was ten feet long!” she yelled.
“What?”
“A snake! In the goddamn shower!”
If you spend time in the desert, you’re going to see snakes—sometimes in the house. And considering how much the place had been open recently, it wasn’t surprising one had dropped in for a look around. It probably also wasn’t anywhere near ten feet, and after Birdy’s exhibition, the poor creature was probably more frightened than she was.
But I was enjoying holding almost six feet of warm, wide-shouldered girl, so I put on my gravest face, got her calmed down then led her back to the bathroom. She faltered at the door. “I can’t go in there.”
The water was still running in the shower. I walked around the glass block wall and looked inside, but rolling steam from the two pounding showerheads cut visibility to almost nothing. Wishing I’d left my shoes on, I kept my eyes on the floor until I could reach the handles and turn everything off. A few seconds later, the steam dissipated, but there was no sign of anything except a bar of soap and a shampoo bottle.
“Where was it?” I called out.
“Under the bench,” Birdy yelled from what sounded like the middle of the bedroom. “You mean it got away! Holy shit!” I heard the mattress give as she climbed onto the bed.
A solid, three-inch-thick slab of stainless steel jutted out of the marble wall at sitting height, but there didn’t seem to be enough cover for a snake, regardless of size. I got down on my knees and looked under the bench. Nothing. Then suddenly, I felt a slight breeze across my face.
“Birdy, come in here and turn out the light.”
“Do I have to?”
“Please.”
After a moment, the bathroom plunged into darkness, and I bent again. Now I could see a tiny sliver of daylight where the slab met marble. I felt along the gap, half-expecting a pair of fangs to sink themselves into my hand. Nothing happened, so I ran my fingers over the underside of the bench. I actually had to do it a second time before I found the lever. I pulled it, and the entire section of wall beneath the bench dropped silently away, leaving a man-sized hole into the outside shrubbery.
Three-quarters of the homes in Beverly Hills have an escape portal, including mine. However, it’s not something you expect to find in the wilds of the Mojave. I’d also never seen one in a shower. Very creative. I went back to the living room, slipped on my shoes and went outside.
In the side yard, Birdy’s snake, a juvenile diamondback a quarter the advertised size, was making its way along the foundation in no particular hurry. More importantly, the redwood bark ground cover around the shrubbery showed signs of human disturbance. Somebody had come out this way in the not-too-distant past. Reading track in a desert climate is inexact, especially after high winds, but I guessed a few days, tops.
I walked to the edge of the ravine where the trees bracketing Chuck’s trout stream began. The water below was so thickly hidden by the foliage that I could only hear it. I stopped and let my eyes sweep slowly down the steep slope.
Law enforcement and outdoorsmen are taught to look for certain signs—moss on a tree, footprints, broken branches, predator scat. Those are certainly useful, but special operators—especially those who hunt men—are also interested in what’s not there. Missing birds. A hive with no bees. An absence of fish where there should be many. In this case, it was
the lack of uniform decay and erosion.
Everywhere I looked, the ground was, as it should have been, awash in the cycle of life and uneven from sliding rock. Rotting logs, molding leaves, tangled vines, loose shale. However, like a serpentine path of stepping-stones, there were also irregular patches of smooth space that were glaring in their emptiness. Raked almost completely bare and each marked by a small, whitewashed rock, the casual observer wouldn’t have paid any attention to. But if you knew what you were looking for, you couldn’t miss them, and in the dark, someone with a flashlight would have been able to follow them as easily as reflectors along a highway. And since Chuck had gone to this much trouble, he’d probably used luminescent paint as well.