Cold Desert Sky

by Rod Reynolds

  For my part, when the silence returned it allowed Siegel and Rosenberg to fill my thoughts. And Colt Tanner. At a gas station near Cheyenne, I slipped away to the telephone kiosk to call his office in Los Angeles. I hadn’t arrived at what I would say to him, but it didn’t matter; I dialled twice, but no one answered.

  In Nebraska, on the last day before we reached Iowa, we passed a sign for the town of Broken Bow and the name jarred. The significance came to me a short way down the road – the same name as the town in Oklahoma where I’d ditched Sheriff Bailey’s car the morning I fled Texarkana. I remembered how I felt that day, thinking if I could stay ahead of the law long enough to reach Los Angeles, I’d be safe. Never imagining that almost a year later, even that refuge would be lost. That I’d still be running, no end in sight.

  *

  Nancy Hill lived in a tall, grey clapboard house that sat on a wide clearing of grass on the edge of a bare cornfield. A stand of birch trees separated the two, the only things taller than a barn for miles around. The land was flat to the horizon in every direction.

  A short dirt track ran from the highway to the side of the house, barely visible under the snow. I turned onto it and stopped the car, glancing back at Nancy. She was fiddling with the collar of her blouse, refusing to look at me or at the property. A dog started barking inside the house.

  A minute after we arrived, a woman opened the front door and stepped out onto the small porch, not much wider than the doorway. The resemblance was unmistakable. She was wrapped in a large shawl, the hem of a grey skirt hanging to her ankles. She squinted, looking in our direction, shielding her eyes from the dazzling reflection coming off the snow. She came forward, standing on the top step of three that led off the deck.

  I got out of the car and went to open Nancy’s door, but she’d climbed out by the time I reached her. Her footfalls were muffled in the snow. A weathervane on the roof turned in the breeze, squeaking as it made each lazy rotation.

  Mrs Hill took her hand away, her face falling at seeing Nancy standing there. She glanced at me, her eyes moist, and then back at her daughter. She gathered her skirt up and took the last two steps down, then ran across the snow.

  Nancy hadn’t moved. Mrs Hill rushed to her daughter and threw her arms around her. She gripped her close, burying her face in her hair. One of them whispered, ‘I’m sorry’; I wasn’t sure which. All of it was conducted in a silence soft enough to hear the branches swaying behind the house.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  We stayed at the Hill place through Christmas. I’d intended for us to leave that same day, thinking to get us out of the way so the two women could start piecing their lives back together. But Luanne Hill was insistent, showing us to the small guest house a short way behind the main building. It was basic, little more than a bed and an old stove by way of comforts, but she was on the verge of pleading when she led us inside, and I didn’t have the heart to turn her down. A glance at Lizzie told me she was of the same mind.

  *

  Three days later, Lizzie woke me in the dark and bare room with a kiss on the cheek. The stove was lit, but I could see her shivering. She wished me Merry Christmas and handed me a candy bar wrapped in newspaper and tied with a green ribbon. I took it, faltering, feeling like an ass for having nothing to give her in return, not even realising the date. Then I looked down and read the message she’d written on it. ‘Our First Together.’ It was meant sincerely, but it served only to underline to me how badly I’d failed my wife.

  *

  Somehow, the longer we stayed, the harder it became to leave. The hole left by Mr Hill’s absence became more apparent with every day that passed, and I did my best to plug it – turning my hand to whatever needed doing around the farm. It was hard work, but liberating with it – leaving me cold and exhausted enough at the end of each day that thoughts of what waited for us in the world beyond were pushed out by the most basic demands my body placed on me: food, warmth and sleep.

  Over time, a bond grew between Nancy and Lizzie, one forged on the common ground of the traumas they’d survived. It happened slowly, Nancy lowering her guard inches at a time rather than yards, but Lizzie was patient and open with her. It was a month after we arrived that I first saw Nancy laugh – Lizzie whispering something to her as I trudged through the snow in front of the house and drawing a snigger.

  At nights, Lizzie and I would lie in bed and talk, trying to thrash out a plan. We went through cycles of being upbeat and downcast; one day it would be me telling her that the heat would die down soon enough and we’d be able to go on with our lives – only for her to have to pick up the same mantle and try to reassure me a few days later. Neither of us stayed convinced for long, because at root we knew that holing up in that place was just another form of running away.

  That uncertainty was what wore us down. You could put the fear to the back of your mind for stretches because the country was so remote, it seemed impossible we’d run into anyone looking to collect on Siegel’s contract – and as time passed, the possibility someone had followed us from Las Vegas dwindled to nothing. But the void left by fear was filled instead by questions, the kind that had me awake at night long past the point where exhaustion should have seized me – and the kind I had no answers for. Where do we go next? How long can we run for? When will we be safe?

  *

  We waited out the winter in Enterprise. The house was the only one for miles around, and you could see two miles along the highway in either direction. Every day I watched the road, a kernel of fear sprouting each time a car I didn’t recognise came along it. Nancy still went cold at any mention of Ben Siegel, so I never could elicit from her if she’d told his men about her hometown; it was the glaring hole in my sense that we were safe there – the knowledge that I’d been able to trace her back to a speck of a town in Iowa, so others might too. I wondered how rich Siegel’s price on our heads was.

  I started writing as a way to calm myself and bring order to my thoughts. I called Buck Acheson once, to let him know we were alive but not where we were. He’d got wind of the contract and agreed it was best he didn’t know anyway. He agreed to keep our jobs open as long as he could, but I admitted to him I didn’t know when we’d be able to return; we left that part of the conversation unfinished. After that, I wrote a little every day. It started out as an exposé on the links between organised crime, Los Angeles and Las Vegas, but each time I picked up a pen it contorted into something different.

  I wrote down all the things that I’d been through – Texarkana, Hot Springs, even back to my army days and the jeep crash that spared me going to war. I’d tear the pages up, and a few days later write the same part again. I couldn’t settle on what to commit to ink, so it went on that way – writing some, destroying some, until, finally, I wrote it all. Everything that had passed, everything I’d seen and learned. I didn’t know what I’d do with it in the end, but just the act of writing fortified me.

  Spring was showing its hand by the time I’d got it all down, and it was no coincidence the decision to move on came with the convergence of those two things. We took our leave on a bright Friday morning, turning down Mrs Hill’s invitation to stay longer. Nancy took it hard – her eyes were wet saying her farewells to Lizzie and she made her swear to come visit again. But we all knew it couldn’t go on that way for ever. Before I left, I made Nancy a promise: I’ll make them pay for what they did. Her comeback line cut me even as it showed how far she’d come: ‘Go easy on Ben.’

  *

  Every time I’d studied the map, the country looked smaller. Two states south was Arkansas – Texarkana and Hot Springs looming. East was Chicago, with all its links to Siegel. Minnesota lay to the north, the Canadian border beyond it. The last of those held appeal for a time, and Lizzie and I talked through the notion as we drove. But our hearts were never in it, recognising another bolthole for what it was. So it was we turned west, into South Dakota, taking a scattergun route towards the Rockies while I tried
to get a grip on what waited for us beyond.

  We were in Sioux Falls when I made the first call to California. If Trip Newland was surprised to hear from me, he didn’t show it.

  ‘I’m glad you called, Yates – what’s this jive about posting me to Sacramento?’

  ‘That’s not important now, we’ll talk about it when I’m back.’

  ‘Back? It’s been months, don’t soap me. You think I don’t know about the deal with you and Siegel? I already talked to Buck A. about slotting into your spot. He’s listening, too, let me tell you—’

  ‘Shut your mouth a damn minute.’

  He went quiet and I took a breath to tamp down my temper.

  ‘Hey, look, I didn’t mean to come off a jerk,’ he said. ‘Talk is you went back to New York or Texas or someplace for keeps, that’s all.’

  ‘Forget it. But you can scotch that talk right now.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Where are you?’

  The question was a natural one, but still managed to put me on edge. ‘Never mind. I want you to do something for me.’

  ‘You still owe me a make-good for Henry Booker. I guess you didn’t hear about him?’

  ‘Hear what?’

  ‘The slug they pulled out of his face matched a .38 Special they recovered from that ranch house you shot up.’

  ‘I didn’t shoot—’ I grunted, frustrated – a night in hell turned into a quip. Let it pass. ‘Whose gun was it?’

  ‘Character name of Gilardino – he died there. They pegged him as an associate of our friend Siegel. You wanna give me the dope on that night and we’ll call it even?’

  No surprise – Siegel’s outfit behind Booker’s murder. In the old days, finking to the press might earn you a beating; since the war, it seemed as if every life was cheap. ‘So you’re still talking to people in Las Vegas.’

  ‘Sure, what else am I gonna do? There’s not many here will talk to me – yet. I’m getting a handle on it, but—’

  ‘I want to know where Siegel is.’

  For the second time, he was silenced.

  ‘Last report I had on him he was in Mexico,’ I said.

  ‘He was back in Las Vegas for the big opening.’ He offered it fast.

  ‘The Flamingo?’ I said.

  ‘Mmm. The whole thing was a disaster. Almost none of the Hollywood set showed their faces and the house took a hit on the tables to the tune of fifty grand. The place was still covered in drop cloths.’

  The memory of being dragged out of the casino lit bright in my mind. Gilardino and Rosenberg beating me on the ground. But the part that burned was the one I hadn’t seen: Rosenberg raising his hand to Lizzie. Even with one of them dead and the other in Federal custody, it felt nothing at all like justice had been served. ‘How did he get his licence?’

  ‘His pal McCarran came through. A fat campaign contribution, I guess.’

  ‘Is he still there? Siegel?’

  He coughed. ‘Nope. Joint shut its doors a month later. It opened again a few weeks back, but it’s no secret the place is running bankrupt. He cropped up in LA a while ago – figure to raise some more dough. But then he dropped out of sight.’

  I glanced away from the receiver, thinking. ‘What about Moe Rosenberg?

  ‘Unknown. Someone who knows things in Las Vegas told me Siegel must’ve offed him because he’s been a ghost. Guess they had a falling out.’

  That surprised me – Rosenberg still on ice and out of sight. I wondered what Tanner’s plans were for him, amazed that the Bureau had the discipline to pass up the chance of making a splash in the press. It occurred to me that if he could get his hands on Siegel, Rosenberg’s value dropped to nothing. ‘Talk to whoever you need to, LA, Las Vegas, anyplace you can think of; get me a line on Siegel’s whereabouts.’

  He exhaled, drawing it out. ‘I mean … what for? You know there’s a contract, right? That’s what I was talking about earlier when—’

  ‘I know. I want to talk some sense into him.’

  He made a guttural sound as if he couldn’t get his words out. ‘But the man can’t be reasoned with. You’ll get yourself killed – and god knows who else.’

  ‘Can you do it or can’t you?’

  The connection fritzed. When it cleared again, I could hear him muttering. ‘They told me you were a crazy.’ He sighed. ‘All right, leave me a number to reach you at.’

  That same antenna perked again. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  I hung up and hesitated a beat in the kiosk, hovering over the telephone. Then I went back to the room.

  *

  I let two days pass before calling again. When he answered this time, Newland was subdued.

  ‘I couldn’t get a good answer outta anyone. Consensus of opinion is Bugsy oughta be headed for Venus after what happened.’

  I turned around in frustration, the cord wrapping around my body. ‘Trip, I want you to go back to Las Vegas. I need to know where he’s—’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘I’m giving you an assignment.’

  ‘I’m already putting myself in harm’s way for you. Word gets out we’re talking, the wrong people are gonna come sniffing around, and I can’t spare the pound of flesh and more it’ll take to convince them I don’t know where you are.’

  ‘I need a man with the contacts to get the job done.’

  ‘No, nix, nein. I’ll do my utmost from here, but that’s you in my pocket for the rest of time, okay?’

  I took a deep breath, knowing what he was saying was right. We were at a lodge overlooking Lake Whitewood, the waterway still frozen in places. I gazed out across the patchwork of blues and whites and greys. In the far distance, bare trees lined the opposite shore, as small as toy soldiers; in front of me, a tumbledown wooden pier jutted out from the bank, on the verge of collapse. ‘Just do what you can, don’t put yourself in danger. Okay?’

  I cut the call but held onto the receiver. I dialled again, another Los Angeles number. It rang twice before I changed my mind and hung up. I lingered there in the booth, thinking about the one person with the means to help me, a bridge I’d burned twice already. Wondering what the price of Tanner’s help would be now, even knowing I didn’t trust him. Hot on its heels, the damning estimation that it’d be the same as before: Nancy Hill’s testimony, bent to suit his needs. My needs.

  Unless I could give him Siegel myself.

  *

  I called Newland every day after that, at the same time angling us back towards Nevada. I reasoned Siegel wouldn’t let the Flamingo go down without a fight, so chances were he’d show up there again at some point. Nancy Hill and Colt Tanner were a constant presence on the edge of my thoughts; a crack had formed in my certainty that I’d do anything to avoid involving her again, and it only hardened my resolve to locate Siegel.

  I was honest with Lizzie about my conversations with Newland – the time for any misplaced idea of protecting her by keeping her in the dark long passed. But I kept one name out of what I reported back to her, and it became apparent she’d seen through me when she asked, ‘What will you do if you find him?’

  When I didn’t answer right away, she said, ‘Please do not say Colt Tanner.’

  I looked out of the window. We’d crossed back into northern Utah, caustic white salt deposits gleaming in the flats and basins around us. ‘He has the means to end this.’

  She laid her hand on the dash. ‘I thought we agreed he couldn’t be trusted?’

  ‘He can’t. But we can keep ourselves at a remove this time. All we need do is find Siegel and give him up.’

  ‘As simple as that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘He could have had him before and he didn’t want him, what’s different now?’

  ‘He’s had Rosenberg for months. He’ll have the means to put him away now.’

  ‘Charlie, he has the resources of the FBI at his disposal – if he wanted to find him, he would have, and without your help.’

  ‘Maybe Rosenberg’s not talking.’ I opened my hand on the wheel
, looking over. ‘If he’s smart, he’s saying enough to negotiate a deal for himself but keeping the meaty parts back. If I put Siegel on a plate for Tanner, it’ll get his attention – he can play them off against each other. And it means Rosenberg’s leverage with the Bureau goes up in smoke – so he takes the fall he deserves.’

  She ran the flat of her hand across the bench seat, thinking. ‘What if that means Siegel getting a favourable deal instead?’

  My eyes flicked to her cheek, the laceration healed but not forgotten. ‘They both deserve to fall. Right now one of them is walking free and the other is on easy street. My way means they both lose everything.’

  She turned her head, closing her eyes. ‘Do you really think it could work?’

  ‘It’s the best shot I’ve got.’

  ‘What if you can’t find Siegel?’

  The two-lane in front of us was razor-straight all the way to its vanishing point in the far distance. ‘I’ll find him.’

  *

  We sat tight in western Utah, close to the Nevada line, changing motels every few days. I called Trip Newland each morning, but sightings of Siegel were sporadic, and always came well after the fact.

  Days turned into weeks. Frustration tore me up. Newland fed me reports of Siegel sightings in Cleveland, in Chicago and in New York. ‘And those are just the credible ones.’ But he must have been thinking the same as me because all the places he did mention had links to organised crime, and a picture began to emerge – Siegel making the rounds, pleading to raise enough money to keep the Flamingo going. The reports kept coming – Miami, Kansas City. Always too late.