Double Wide

by Leo W. Banks

  Sweeping my hands forward, I said, “I’m the intern here.”

  With a last iron look, she walked to the front doors, and I followed.

  THIRTY-NINE

  The elaborately carved black double doors were set into a deep alcove lit by an orange bulb. The doorbell played a recording of Lou Gehrig at his final game as a New York Yankee in 1939: “Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

  Hearing that, Roxy flattened her palm to her chest and gasped. “That is such incredibly bad taste.”

  Just as she spoke, the door opened, and Mayflower was there. He wore a chestnut bathrobe with black velour striping along the edges and a black velour sash dangling at the waist. The robe looked expensive, probably lambskin.

  Six inches of hairy legs showed at the bottom, a horrible sight.

  He saw Roxy first, and his eyes stayed put. His expression started out hostile at the interruption and changed into a high-eyebrow ogle.

  He said, “Talking to yourself?”

  Roxy tilted her head in that way that causes men to lose their mud. “Your chime is so darn original.”

  “I grew up in Brooklyn. Sometimes I think I was at that game.”

  “You weren’t.”

  “Is that so? Are you sure?”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’m trying very hard.”

  “You can try harder, Mr. Mayflower.”

  His eyes roamed over her with oily intensity. After a while, he smiled, showing pampered teeth. He followed that with an approving nod, eyes still fixed on Roxy with an expression of wonder usually reserved for the Grand Canyon.

  When he noticed me, it seemed to come as a surprise. The smile vanished, and his eyes became small and black. He looked back at Roxy and said, “Can I ask what this is about?”

  Roxy impressed me. She’d pulled back on her anger. But the suddenness of her recovery was as troubling as the outburst. She flamed and cooled in a breath, and when you see that in a person one time, you never forget. It’s always there, and you wait for it to happen again.

  In spite of her forced calm, there was still an edge to her voice, a cannon ready to fire, and it wouldn’t take much.

  “I’m from Channel 7 News,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m doing a story on the disappearance of Rolando Molina.”

  Mayflower looked at me for a long time, then at Roxy, and then past her at the empty street. He was stalling to get his bearings.

  Smoothly, he said, “I believe I’ve seen you on television. Very flattered to have you at my door. I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t know anything.” He nodded in my direction. “I already explained this to Mr. Stark.”

  Roxy said, “How about the murders of Rosa Lopez and Carlos Alvarez?”

  “You think I know something about murders?” He chuckled at the foolishness of it. “You’re aware I work in baseball?”

  Firm, steady, confident, Roxy said, “We suspect a connection to the heroin smuggling in that area.”

  “I’m an agent. I represent talent.” He stared, bug eyed. A triangle of black hair showed in the V of his robe. His wrists were matted with a fine layering of hair as well. The diamond in his left ear twinkled in the orange light.

  “I’m not sure what else I can tell you,” Mayflower said. “We’re all hoping Rolando turns up and I’m happy to help any way I can. But I simply don’t know anything. May I suggest calling the police?”

  A female voice called to Mayflower from inside the house. It was a young voice, whiny, unhappy with the interruption, the kind of voice that goes with a lambskin robe.

  Mayflower said, “I’m getting ready to sit down to dinner, so if you’ll excuse me,” and started to close the door.

  Roxy stopped it with a firm hand. “Rolando’s not going to be turning up anymore. He was murdered.”

  Mayflower blinked. “Murder? What makes you think he was murdered?”

  “I’ve been out to Double Wide,” Roxy said. “I’ve seen the evidence myself.”

  It was my turn to change colors. I coughed and shuffled my feet. Mayflower noticed my unease and said, “What’re we talking about here? What evidence?”

  I coughed again to signal Roxy to quiet down, but she kept going.

  “Let’s just say it’s being properly preserved,” she said. “Can we come inside and talk?”

  Mayflower clamped his hand around the door again and used it to shield his body. He poked his head around it and said, “You need to speak with the authorities. It’s beyond my ability to help you this evening.”

  He shut the door and bolted it, and we walked out to the street.

  I said, “Jesus Christ, you just drew a roadmap to Rolando’s hand. The police don’t know I have it—I told you that.”

  “Mayflower’s not going to the police.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He won’t call attention to himself that way.”

  “You better be right.”

  “I’m always right.” Roxy pointed back at the house. “Everything about that guy is sour apples.”

  FORTY

  Roxy tore down the gravel access road to Campbell Avenue. She flipped open the console between the seats and pulled out a half-pint bottle of Chivas Regal scotch and offered me a sip.

  “You’re not supposed to drink and drive,” I said. “They have commercials.”

  “Everybody needs a hobby.” She sipped and stood the bottle between her legs. “Are you just being difficult or is something on your mind?”

  “The tan briefcase at Bunny’s house. Those papers on top. Did you see it?”

  “I was busy checking out the Nordstrom collection.”

  “I think it’s the same one I saw at Melody’s the night of his getaway.”

  “You want to go back for it?”

  “There might be something in it that answers some questions.”

  Roxy sipped some scotch. It sent her voice down to the basement and put gravel in it. “Okay, let’s go steal a briefcase. How do we do that?”

  “Distract her somehow. Get her to go out to the kitchen. Hide her cigarettes, and when she goes to look for them, I’ll grab it.”

  “I’ll ask about her hair. Seriously, did you see that monster do? What was that?”

  The turns on Campbell Avenue are tight, and Roxy didn’t slow down for any of them. She peeled through the night traffic and pulled up outside Bunny’s house in no time. The Cadillac was gone from the carport. The front door was ajar and lights shone inside.

  Roxy and I saw the door at the same time and gave each other worried looks.

  Without a word, we jumped from the Audi and trotted across the street and onto the porch. I rapped on the door and pressed the bell and got no answer. The curtains at the front window had been shorn nearly off the rod.

  Roxy cupped her hands at her eyes and peered through the window into the living room. “Oh, man. It looks like Bolt tore the place to hell.”

  “Any sign of Bunny?”

  “Don’t see her. I got a bad feeling about this.”

  I pushed the door all the way open. “Bunny! Bunny Slippers! Are you all right?” No answer. “Bunny! We’re coming in!”

  The living room smelled of baby powder and cigarette smoke, and looked like it’d been dynamited. Nothing was where it should’ve been. Wall hangings had been ripped down and chairs lay on their sides. The briefcase sat open and empty on the floor, papers of various kinds scattered around it.

  “Bunny! It’s Roxanne Santa Cruz! From Channel 7!”

  Roxy went to search the remainder of the house. I got on my knees and looked under the couch, and through the debris pile on the floor. I thought back to that night at Melody’s house when he took a gun from his safe, along with a white brick in cellophane wrapping, and put both into a black cloth bag.

  That’s what Bolt was looking for, the white brick.

  Mixed with the papers, there was unopened mail, bills of various kinds, and what looked to
be random pages from one of Melody’s research papers. I counted six pages in all. They consisted mostly of charts, graphs, and equations.

  Taking up one whole page was an abstract illustration of an agave plant, identified as the Palmer agave. Arrows pointed to parts of the plant with identifying information and brief paragraphs explaining its life span, growth patterns, location, water and climate needs, and other scientific information.

  Roxy returned to the living room. “Bunny’s not here. No blood and no body, thank heavens. What do you got?”

  I was picking through the stack. “Stuff. Mail. Melody’s papers.”

  “Bolt wrecked the whole house. Everything’s tipped over.”

  “I hope he didn’t hurt her.”

  Roxy peered around the room, making thinking sounds with her tongue. “He didn’t. I’m sure he didn’t.”

  “How do you figure?”

  Roxy picked up the Nordstrom bags and turned them upside down to show me they were empty. She kicked some couch cushions out of the way and motioned with her hands to prove there was nothing underneath them.

  “Look around. No Nordstrom clothes anywhere in here, and we know Bolt didn’t take them.”

  “Good point.”

  “After he left, I’ll bet Bunny wanted to get out of here fast and grabbed her new clothes. I’d do the same thing. I’m thinking she kept her cool and went to be with her man.”

  Figuring to inspect the pages more closely later, I swept up the whole lot and dumped them into the briefcase and snapped it shut. We turned off all the lights and walked out to the street. I tossed the briefcase into the passenger seat of the Bronco and started the engine.

  It was nearing midnight. A hot wind blew down the street carrying the scent of water from the nearby Rillito River.

  Roxy leaned in the driver’s window. “I’m going to Skin to poke around. Bunny might’ve wanted to be with friends.”

  “Be careful in that place.”

  “Are you kidding? It’s like going home.” She gripped my arm and squeezed as a way of saying good night, and walked toward the Audi. I watched her go. Aware of the attention, she put her saloon legs to work, and that reminded me of something.

  I leaned out the window. “Was it alliteration?”

  Roxy gave me a puzzled look. “Huh?”

  “Your stage name? I’m a fan of alliteration. Was it Mindy Moonlight?”

  She made a sour face.

  “Come on, alliteration’s good. How about Barbie Biscuit?”

  Roxy pondered that seriously for a moment. “Barbie Biscuit. That’s not bad. I’ll call you in the morning.”

  FORTY-ONE

  I got onto Speedway Boulevard heading west toward the Tucson Mountains. I was hungry. Fast food signs turn Speedway into a neon fireball after dark. They run one after another until the city gives up and runs out of pavement.

  Mexican sounded good. I swung into the next available place, the drive-thru at Tom’s Tacos. The name screamed caution. How good could it be if the guy didn’t even have the initiative to come up with a decent name?

  If I’m a gringo opening a taco joint, I’m styling it up. Tacos by Tomás.

  My phone rang when I got back on the road. I grunted hello around a bite of supper. Annie Patterson, Dr. Arthur Melody’s former assistant, apologized for not calling back sooner, said she didn’t do phones very well, and no, she didn’t know where Melody was, although a man had visited her asking questions about him.

  When I described Ed Bolt, she said that was him. I told her as little as I could to get her talking, and then said: “It’s crucial that I find Arthur.”

  “Well, there’s a woman who knows him as well as anyone. I hesitate to give you her name because she’s such a private person and, if you’ll pardon me, a little off.”

  “In my world, a little off makes her a stellar citizen.” I stopped at a red light. “Hold on, Ms. Patterson.”

  I leaned out the window and spat out a mouthful of Tom’s so-called food. It took three hocks and a yack to get the awful taste out of my mouth. The guy in the next car saw me and pretended to fiddle with his radio.

  Pulling my head back inside, I said, “Have you ever had a taco that tasted like a slipper filled with grass?”

  Annie Patterson wisely let that go.

  “Anyway, you were saying, Ms. Patterson?”

  “Elizabeth Bonheimer is the name. Arthur studied under her in Germany.”

  “You mean at A. A. Bildenson?”

  “Correct. She’s got to be in her eighties now, and she’s a chemist, not a botanist. They call her Aunt Izzy, and she’s a peculiar one. Brilliant, eccentric, has a reputation for being attracted to risky projects.”

  “Like what?”

  “When she came to this country, she worked with our special forces on chemical enhancements, interrogation drugs, things of that sort. Very hush-hush. You can find her outside Oracle on the north side of the Catalinas, a ranch called Blue Lonesome. Nobody goes out there, and just so you know, she might take a shot at you.”

  That sounded like the perfect hideout. Before hanging up, I asked Patterson if Melody had been researching the Palmer agave.

  “Yes, he’d taken great interest in the Palmer. In scientific circles they call it the Palmeri, for the legendary botanist Edward Palmer.”

  “Of course, old Ed Palmer.” Never heard of him. “What was Melody’s angle?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know. Ask Aunt Izzy. Bildenson sent her to this country specifically to study the Palmer. It’s quite an exciting plant.”

  An exciting plant. I stayed calm.

  Patterson went on: “We’re learning that agaves have interesting chemical properties with multiple real-world uses.”

  “Narcotic properties?”

  “Very much so. It has several pharmacological applications. The leaves contain a steroid-like compound that can be squeezed out and modified to make birth control pills. That’s one example.”

  “Did you say steroid-like?”

  “They’re called saponins.” She paused. “Wait, you’re a baseball player. I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Let’s say a kid wanted to juice up, get stronger. Could these…saponins do that?”

  “I’ve never heard of it, but I suppose so. They’re certainly available. Saponins are phytochemicals that occur naturally in lots of plants, soybeans, herbs, yucca. But the Palmer is loaded with them.”

  Back at Double Wide, I hurried behind the Airstream to check the freezer. Roxy had basically told Mayflower that we had evidence of Rolando’s death, and that could only mean one thing. If Mayflower was involved, retrieving that evidence would be crucial.

  I threw open the lid, and the hand was there. Seeing it again sent my stomach leaping into my mouth.

  Charlie was asleep on my foldout. Trying to be quiet, I poured a glass of milk and carried Melody’s briefcase back to my bedroom. Chico limped after me to give the situation a thorough sniffing. When he saw that the briefcase held papers and not T-bone steaks, he looked heartbroken and flopped onto his side for a recovery nap.

  I sat on the edge of the bed and read Melody’s work. I was more confused than when I started. Much of it was chemistry with Latin phrases tossed in. It might as well have been Sanskrit.

  In high school, I took a chemistry test and got 26 out of 100. The teacher allowed a retake and I scored 19.

  Maybe Bonheimer could tell me what it meant.

  Bunny’s phone bill looked interesting. She’d made eighteen local calls and another fourteen to the same number in Las Vegas, Nevada. I sat at my laptop and signed on. Google told me that nine of the local calls went to Skin, and the remainder to everyday locales, a beauty salon, a credit union, and other such places.

  I typed in the Vegas number and it came up as a private cell. With that many calls, it had to be somebody she knew well, someone who might know where she was. I dialed the number, got a zombie message, and hung up.

  Then I flipped open my laptop a
nd read about steroidal saponins. They’re not an anabolic steroid but a precursor that helps the body increase testosterone and build muscle on its own.

  When I was playing, the guys who juiced kept it quiet, even in late-night conversation. But when a player showed up at spring training with a head the size of a dumpster, you knew it wasn’t spinach and yoga.

  Would I have used saponins to gain an edge on the field?

  Did Babe Ruth enjoy happy hour?

  FORTY-TWO

  The next day was like all the others, the monotony of harsh sunlight broken only by a few impertinent white clouds and a blowtorch breeze.

  I followed my routine. I showered and made a breakfast of oatmeal and eggs with english muffins and grape jelly for Charlie and myself. In keeping with our deal, he folded up his bed and stacked the linens neatly on the bench.

  We finished eating and were still sitting at the table when Cash came in, and then Opal. She poured herself orange juice and sat. CNN was running a story about a woman’s 105th birthday. They asked the secret to a long life, and she said, “Stay away from men!”

  “Got that right,” Cash said, and let out his squeaky-gate laugh.

  After breakfast, I tried the Vegas number again, got the same message, and went outside to smoke a cigar. Chico hobbled down the steps after me and sat at my feet. Every cigar I smoked made me think of my grandfather.

  He was a big, fat incorruptible man, a railroad brakeman who, on Sundays, dressed in a vest and watch fob. Barely literate himself, he demanded to the point of physical threat that his children finish school.

  He could light a stick match with one long, elegant swipe along his pant leg. Watching him as a kid, I thought that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen.

  I was still smoking when Roxy called. I told her about the call from Patterson and the tip about Elizabeth Bonheimer. “As soon as I can, I’m heading up to Oracle.”

  “Where have you gone, Arthur Melody?”

  “He’s either dead or in hiding.”

  “Yeah, and either one makes him hard to quote.”

  My goal was getting Charlie off my couch and back to his own trailer. He kept saying, “I can’t sleep at an angle. It upsets my molecules.”