She responded slowly, as if addressing a backward child. “If you’ll open the door, I’ll tell you.”
The pistol appeared in his hand. “You can tell me now.”
When dealing with a man who exhibited bad manners, Daisy had no need to call upon the virtue of Stubbornness—she had tons of the stuff close at hand. She stood her ground, shook her head. “Come to the door, we’ll talk,” she said. Then added: “Unless you’re scared of a little woman who’s old enough to be your great-grandmother.” She snickered. “But I guess that’s why you’re packing a gun. You’re afraid I might hurt you.”
That did it.
The face disappeared from the window, the door opened wide. The small revolver concealed in a hip pocket, DeSoto strutted out onto the board supported by cinder blocks. The ever-present cigarette dangled from his lips.
Charlie Moon had been watching his aunt from the cemetery. From what he could see, it appeared that her conversation with Mr. DeSoto was going along okay. The Ute heard footsteps, turned to see a smallish Hispanic man in coveralls and a battered cowboy hat. The fellow had a claw hammer in his hand, a Leatherman tool on his belt, a proprietary look on his face.
“Excuse me,” the hammer wielder said in a polite but firm manner, “but who are you?”
Moon introduced himself.
The old-fashioned gentleman tipped the brim of his hat. “I’m Henry Martinez.”
Moon noted that Henry’s surname was engraved on most of the mausoleums in the cemetery, probably eight out of ten tombstones. He smiled at the pleasant man. “They should call this place Martinez town.”
“I suppose they should.” Henry M. smiled back. “Nobody even remembers old Garcia’s first name. Or what it was he crossed.” His eyes narrowed. “If you don’t mind my asking—what are you doing here?”
Moon glanced toward the house behind the cemetery. “I brought my aunt.”
The member of the Martinez clan glanced at the Expedition, didn’t see anyone sitting up. It happened two or three times a year, people making unauthorized use of church property. This Indian’s probably got her in the back of the car, rolled up in a blanket. “Uh…if you plan to bury her here, you’ll need to get permission first.”
The Ute put on his best poker face. “You’re right about that.” He sighed. “If I buried Aunt Daisy without her say-so, she’d get mad as a scalded cat.”
It was clear that Mr. Martinez did not appreciate this sort of graveside humor.
“She’s come to visit Mr. DeSoto,” Moon explained. He nodded to indicate the residence across the cemetery fence.
“Oh, him.” Martinez frowned, started to say something, resisted the temptation to gossip.
Moon wondered what the man didn’t want to tell him about, decided to walk around it. “Looks like you’re a carpenter.”
“Jack-of-all-trades, master of none—that’s me.” Martinez gestured with the hammer. “With the church closed down, we have problems with vandals. Windows get broken, graffiti painted on the walls, that sort of thing.” He turned to gaze at the building. “I came by last week, found the lock on the back door broken. That’s what I’m here to fix.”
Daisy had to look at the repulsive man, but she tried not to dwell on his pockmarked face, the big hairy stomach bulging out from under the dirty orange T-shirt, the obscene remark printed on said garment. She could not help but notice that his belly button was half filled with something that looked like cotton fuzz, and wondered whether this odious person ever took a bath. I might as well get this over with. She cleared her throat, began the memorized speech. “Last time I was here, I said some things I shouldn’t.” This was extremely difficult. “I came back to…” It was, in fact, nearly impossible. Help me, God.
DeSoto was openly suspicious. “You came back to what?”
If I don’t say it now, I never will. “I came back to…to apologize.”
He stared dumbly at the wrinkled face.
Having gotten past the A-word, Daisy was relieved. She hurried on, eager to complete the ordeal. “I’m sorry about saying those unkind things.”
The object of her apology was not blessed with a fine memory for details. All he could recall about the encounter with the old woman was that it had been unpleasant. He craved to have his recollection refreshed. “What things?”
She shrugged. “Oh, about how you’re a pineapple head.”
He nodded. “Oh, yeah. I remember that.”
To be helpful, she added: “And potbellied.”
He belched a garlicky odor, scratched indolently at that prominent portion of his anatomy. Which reminded Daisy of another observation she had made.
“And I called you a blivit.”
He chuckled. “Oh, yeah. I remember that, too.” He gave her an admiring look. “You sure are a dirty-mouthed old woman. You remind me of my aunt Hilda.”
Daisy had to bite her tongue. I have to remember, I am dealing with the head philistine.
“So,” he said. “Is that it?”
The visitor nodded. “That’s it.”
Feeling quite at ease now, DeSoto took a draw on the cigarette, looked around for some sign of an automobile. “You come out here by yourself?”
“Sure. I hitchhiked all the way from Ignacio.”
He blew smoke in the old woman’s face. “Must be hard for a crazy person to thumb a ride.”
Daisy closed her eyes, tried to imagine what Father Raes would do in a situation like this.
“When they find out you’re gone, I bet they won’t even come looking for you.” He snickered. “I mean the people who run the asylum for feebleminded old Indian broads.”
The church handyman had gone off to hammer at something, and Charlie Moon was about to resume the surveillance of his aunt. The tribal investigator would have witnessed something quite memorable—the sort of once-in-a-lifetime event that is not to be missed. But, alas—it was not to be; Sidewinder had sidled up by his knee. The hound was whining. Moon squatted to scratch the dog behind the ear. “What’s the matter, old fella—you ready to go home?” No, that wasn’t it. This was the old dog’s “come with me” whine. Ignoring the drama across the cemetery fence, Moon followed along behind. I bet he’s got something treed. But after a few steps, he smelled something unpleasant, and recalled the animal’s scholarly interest in the subject of week-old roadkill and other unsavory left-behinds. Sidewinder’s found himself something ripe. I sure hope it ain’t a skunk. Moon slowed his pace. I’d better go back and see how Aunt Daisy is getting along….
Daisy Perika tried to count to ten, made it all the way to two before she spoke to the obnoxious man. “I came back here to apologize, and that’s what I did. You’ve got no reason to say nasty things to me.”
Removing the cigarette from his mouth, DeSoto reached out, tapped ash on the woman’s head.
She clenched her fists, grimaced. I’ve had just about enough.
He laughed in her face.
This was enough.
Daisy snatched the cigarette from his fingers. Well aware of the hazards of such objects—which range from cancer and cardiovascular disease to starting wildfires—she thought it best to put the thing out. Immediately. This, she would later claim, was why she stuffed the burning end of the cylinder into DeSoto’s disgusting belly button.
Where the fuzz was.
This tinder in the tender orifice burst into a torchlike flame.
Having had his attention diverted by the smelly thing the Columbine hound had found, Moon was startled to hear the shrill scream. What now—
The scene across the fence was one that boggled the mind.
Mr. DeSoto was leaping around, patting his belly hard—like it was a drum. The slap-slap provided a comical rhythm to accompany his energetic dance.
Aunt Daisy was laughing so hard it looked like she might fall on her face.
Though perplexed by this bizarre piece of theater, he came to an instant decision. I’d better get her outta here.
During
the long drive back to the Columbine, a westerly breeze rippled the grass, a dusky twilight swept across the prairie. It was that unsettling few minutes of half-blindness that heralds night—not dark enough for headlights, not quite enough light to see what might be scurrying across the blacktop.
Having waited in vain for Charlie Moon to show some curiosity about her small adventure, Daisy volunteered a brief account of her meeting with DeSoto.
As he strained to see the road ahead, Moon would merely nod or grunt.
Her nephew’s apparent lack of interest annoyed Daisy Perika no end.
Despite appearances, the driver had heard every word.
Daisy leaned her head back on the seat, closed her eyes. As the miles slipped away with the minutes, she spent them reliving the day’s delightful experience.
On the far horizon, Charlie Moon watched the arrival of a furry herd of buffalo clouds. He was a man who knew too much—and yet not quite enough.
52
The Bag Man
When the Mercedes sedan pulled into his yard, Mr. DeSoto was in his cellar, tending to business. He did not hear the marvelously engineered German engine purr—only the soft crunch of tires on the gravel. Pausing in his work, he took a look through the narrow ground-level window, grunted with displeasure at the sight of an unfamiliar automobile.
DeSoto stuffed his pistol into a hip pocket that was concealed under the tail of his purple shirt. He grunted his way up the cellar stairs, arrived in time to hear the rhythmic knock. Shave-and-a-Haircut…Six-Bits.
Easing the door open, DeSoto frowned at the man in the gray hat, gray suit, gray gloves, gray boots. He shot a wary glance at the expensive gray sedan, where a driver sat behind the wheel. Unable to make out the features of the man concealed by the smoke-tinted windshield, he took another suspicious look at his visitor. “Who’re you?”
The gray man’s thin mouth smiled. Hard eyes glittered behind the pink-lensed spectacles. “A potential benefactor.” He pitched the repulsive man a leather pouch.
DeSoto caught it, was surprised at the weight of the thing.
The potential benefactor spoke in a disinterested monotone: “Inside, you will find a dozen Krugerrands. According to the most recent quote on the Jo-burg exchange, that amounts to just over five thousand dollars.” He waited for a moment, watched the stupid man’s stupid face. “If you sincerely believe you can help me, you may keep them as a down payment for future services rendered. If you are not able to provide the necessary assistance, it will be in your best interests to return the Krugerrands to me immediately.”
The greedy man weighed the gold in his hand. “Whatta you want me to do?” DeSoto managed a nervous grin. “Punch somebody’s ticket?”
The visitor lost the humorless smile. “Don’t ask questions. I’ll tell you whatever you need to know.”
“Uh—awright.” He jingled the bag, heard the reassuring clink of precious metals.
“As we attempt to communicate, there’s no need for you to strain your minuscule mental powers.” The gray man’s lips curled in a sneer. “Just nod for ‘yes,’ shake your head for ‘no.’” A pause. “Think you can manage that?”
DeSoto almost spoke, then remembered to nod. He wanted ever so much to open the pouch, examine the contents, but something about the arrogant visitor prevented him.
The gray man looked past DeSoto, addressed his remarks to the ugly stucco house. “On top of the advance, I am authorized by my employer to offer one hundred Krugerrands for certain information. I don’t care where you get this information, or how. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
A nod from the pockmarked man.
“The information I require is in the possession of a Mrs. Pansy Blinkoe.” He shifted his gaze, watched DeSoto’s face intently. “If you know nothing about this woman or where she might be contacted, now is the time to return the dozen Krugerrands. But if you believe you can help me, nod.”
A hesitation, then a nod.
“Good. Now listen carefully, because I’m going to tell you exactly where she keeps this information. And I’ll only tell you once.” His rapt audience listened. He told him.
DeSoto gulped, started to speak—thought better of it.
The gray man glanced at the cellar window. “Do you wish to tell me something now?”
DeSoto licked his lips, squeezed the leather pouch. Shook his head.
“That is acceptable. I suppose you’ll need some time to do whatever you need to do. But as soon as you have something useful to tell me about Mrs. Blinkoe—or the information I’m after—hang that hideous shirt you’re wearing on the clothesline.” He pointed a gloved finger at the cotton rope strung between two rusty poles. “And hang it upside down. Can you remember that?”
The man with the bag of gold coins nodded.
Amused, the visitor smiled. “One last thing. Do not mess with me. If you do…” He told him exactly what he would do. And how long he’d take doing it.
The lurid description had the intended impact on DeSoto, who broke into a cold sweat. But he did not give up the pouch of Krugerrands.
As they motored away from Garcia’s Crossing, the gray man spoke to his chauffeur. “Mr. DeSoto is a putrid pimple on the face of our fair civilization. Way I see it, he’ll hold on to the gold and give us nothing in return—aside from measured doses of misinformation.” He removed the rose-tinted glasses, waved at a pretty girl on a blue bicycle. “If there’s anything I cannot stand, it is a dishonest man.”
The man at the wheel nodded his agreement.
The gray man leaned toward the front seat. “If this punk tries to jerk us around, I say we teach him a lesson.”
53
The Excellent Benefits of True Contrition
Late in the afternoon, Father Raes dropped by the Columbine headquarters. He was disappointed to learn from Daisy Perika that her nephew was not at home. She had seen Charlie Moon leave with the county agent again, probably to go check on some sick cows.
“All day and half the night—it’s nothing but work-work-work for Charlie.” She glowered out a kitchen window. “He don’t own this ranch—it owns him!” While spewing off for another minute or two, she made a pot of extraordinarily strong coffee, and invited the priest to join her in the parlor.
Seated before the massive fireplace, they watched magical flames transform ordinary pine into glowing embers and crumbling cinders.
Unable to take more than a sip or two of the brackish brew, the priest cupped the cup in his hands. “So. How have you been getting along?”
Daisy shrugged. “Okay.”
The kind man smiled, firelight danced in his dark eyes. “Did you consider my advice?”
She gave him a wary look. “You mean about making nicey-nice to Pineapple—to Mr. DeSoto?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes.” Just as I expected, she has not done it. “And did you attempt to make amends?”
Daisy nodded the old gray head. “Charlie took me out there. And I apologized up one side and down the other.”
The coffee cup almost slipped from the priest’s grip. This is truly astounding. He tried not to sound surprised. “And having done so, I’m sure you felt better.”
“Yes I did.” She allowed herself the merest hint of a smile. “Lots better.”
Being a teacher at heart, the Jesuit was determined to make certain the tribal elder understood the significance of what she had done. “Though the gentleman was undoubtedly blessed by your act of humility and contrition, I have no doubt that you received the greater blessing.”
The shameless woman put on a saintly expression. “I expect you’re right about that.”
Garcia’s crossing
One Minute before Midnight
In certain inner circles, where old men converse with those in other worlds and sacred pipe-smoke twists and twirls, the one who came calling is called by a secret name.
Makes No Tracks also makes no sound. Except when he intends to.
Having counte
d the gold Krugerrands at least twenty times, DeSoto had the pouch suspended from his pockmarked neck, concealed under his hideous shirt. Ever since the big Mercedes had pulled away, he had tried to decide how he should respond to the gray man’s proposition. Having worn himself out in this futile effort, he had finally fallen into a restless sleep. DeSoto was dozing in front of the television when he was awakened by the heavy thunk of a stone hitting the metal roof. He groaned. It’s those damn stupid kids, chunking rocks at my house again. The disgruntled tenant got up from his reclining chair. With the pistol in his hand, he stomped to the door, opened it a crack.
A sinister broom swept away the sounds of night.
Cricket forewings ceased to stridulate.
A bloated owl paused in mid-regurgitation.
DeSoto’s heart began to palpitate. He opened the door—just far enough to poke the revolver out. Then his head—just far enough to catch the big fist on his jaw.
He would remember nothing after the smashing right hook—until almost an hour later. As he began to drift up toward something resembling consciousness, the dazed man thought he heard the toilet flush. And flush again. And again. The sounds reminded him of his worst hangovers. Or that bad case of the flu, when I threw up my socks. Maybe somebody’s sick— He suddenly had a terrible sense that something was missing. His hand leaped to his neck, trembling fingers scurried around in a frantic search. The heavy pouch was gone. Now, somebody was definitely sick. When he eventually discovered what else was missing, sickness would be replaced by utter terror.
In DeSoto’s chosen line of work, failure was punishable by death.
54
A Compelling Proposition
When the office door opened, Spencer Trottman was searching his desk for a client’s business card. A tall, slender man entered—carrying a small black suitcase. He was decked out in an expensive ash-gray suit, suede gloves and Tony Lama boots of the same sooty shade, topped off with a matching Golden Gate cowboy hat. He observed the attorney through the proverbial rose-colored glasses. Literally. “You’re Mr. Trottman, am I right?”
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