by Leo W. Banks
“Get up, munchkin,” I said. “We’re going to have a conversation.”
Bolt’s eyes looked like they wanted out of their sockets. Blood pooled over his acne scars and sweat leaked everywhere. His face was a landfill. He could barely speak loud enough to be heard, but he managed to throat out his most articulate objection: “Fuck you, meat!”
Roxy stuck the Colt against his neck. “Your language is atrocious.” She grabbed him by the shoulder. “Up you go, hard case. We’re going to go talk to the nice lady.”
At the ranch we found Aunt Izzy standing by the big oak tree at the back of her house. She had a revolver in one hand and a garden spade in the other. Mace Finch sat on the ground at her feet. A welt blossomed on his left hand and another bled on his cheek. We sat Bolt down next to Finch.
“They busted my kitchen door,” Bonheimer said. “Won’t do that again. Two warning shots and a swing of my trusty shovel, two burglars down.” She pointed beyond the house and said to Roxy, “I’ve got rope in my shed back there. Would you mind tying these two clowns to my tree?”
Roxy fetched the rope and got to work. Bonheimer stood over her, breathing rapidly and holding the pistol in her still-shaking hand. She pointed with it as she gave directions. “A little tighter in the chest. Good and tight now. There you go.”
The gun had Roxy’s attention. She said to Bonheimer, “It sure looks like you know how to take care of yourself. Would you mind showing me what you did?”
Bonheimer beamed at the idea of recounting her heroism. She walked us to the open kitchen door. The small windowpane nearest the doorknob had been shattered. Bonheimer stood up straight and paused to ensure that our attention was only on her as she regaled us with the details of her brave stand.
She gave her rendition all the theater she could muster, waving the pistol around like a stage prop. “I keep my gardening tools and handgun right by my door here. As you can see, it was bad news for those buzzards.”
“They’re lucky to be alive,” Roxy said, and carefully took the pistol from Bonheimer’s hand. She didn’t seem to notice. A holster and cartridge belt hung on a hook behind the door. Roxy returned the gun to the holster and asked for a glass of water.
That pulled Bonheimer farther from the gun. At the sink she drew a glass of water for Roxy, and another for herself and sat at the table.
“I presume those fellows were here about Dr. Melody’s work,” Bonheimer said. “My protégé seems to have generated quite a bit of interest, although I can’t understand why.”
She sipped her water. Blotches of red returned to her face and her hand had steadied. “That paper Arthur wrote about the Palmer agave is pure hooey. Not one thing in there makes sense chemically and Arthur had to know it. I taught him too well to make those mistakes.”
“What about the gum? Did you study the gum?”
Without a word, she got up and walked into an adjoining room and returned with a piece of the gum in a circular glass container. It looked about half the size of the piece I’d given her. She unscrewed the top and removed the gum with two fingers. “Chew this.”
I hesitated.
“Go on. Unless today’s my lucky day, it won’t kill you.”
I popped the gum into my mouth and chewed like it was a piece of Wrigley’s spearmint. Immediately, I felt the weight of the released liquid. Extremely thick, bitter, almost metallic.
Bonheimer said, “That taste you’re getting is from the agave—the leaf sap, to be precise. The dosage has to be tiny or you’d be retching. Lovely, isn’t it? Rather like ass after a day at the beach.”
I could’ve asked, but I’m not a fool. “Can you make a performance-enhancing drug out of this stuff?”
She twisted her mouth in thought. “In a gum? I wouldn’t think so.” She held out her palm for me to spit the gum into it. I hesitated again and she grew impatient. “I haven’t got forever.”
I spat.
Bonheimer held the gleaming wet blob in front of her face, examining it with one eye closed like a jeweler with a rare diamond. “I can’t rule anything out, steroid or otherwise. Whatever its purpose, finding the Palmer was Arthur’s first challenge. It requires specific conditions to thrive, the most prominent being elevation. We only find it at a set elevation.”
“I’m guessing right around forty-eight hundred feet?” That was the elevation atop Paradise Mountain. I told her about seeing men hauling agave leaves and hearts out of the mine drift.
“I’d say they had a harvesting operation going on,” Bonheimer said. “To create what, I can’t say. All I can tell you is don’t confine your thinking. The chemicals we’re extracting from the agave can have a range of impacts, some quite profound.”
“Profound how? Psychedelic?”
She threw me a surprised glance. “I see you’re familiar with my work. Yes, psychedelic is one possibility. You also have industrialists looking for a next-generation superlubricant using this very same Palmer sap. Some of the world’s biggest corporations are chasing that particular Bigfoot and the winner promises to reap a fortune.
“My point is, Whip Stark, the Palmer is a powerhouse, a true force of nature. But I’ll need more time to understand exactly what Arthur was up to.”
FIFTY-SEVEN
I didn’t want to leave Bolt and Finch alone for long and started back outside. At the kitchen door, I heard Finch speaking to Bolt and stopped to listen.
Finch said, “You say the Mexicans are gonna handle this on their end, right, Eddie?”
Bolt said, “The job might already be done. Keep your voice down.”
Finch said, “Okay, then, what’re we doing breaking windows in Timbuktu for?”
Bolt said, “We do what Maxy tells us. Keep your mouth shut anyways, you want a job.”
But Mace Finch wasn’t done: “I’m tired of doing Max Mayflower’s dirty work. I got shot, stabbed, and hit with a garden tool! I’m tired of it, Eddie!”
“You’re not tired of nothing. Shut up!”
“I’m done with you and Max Mayflower. I quit. Jesus has other plans for me.”
“Jesus? Jesus don’t care one shit for you!” Bolt’s voice was a growling whisper.
“I quit drinking,” Finch said. “You didn’t know that, did you, Eddie? I’m taking a Bible class. I’m studying the Bible.”
“An old lady hit you with a tiny shovel. How about you start drinking again?”
“Two nights a week. We say our prayers, have donuts.”
“Shut the fuck up!”
I grabbed Roxy. We left Bonheimer in the kitchen and Roxy untied Finch except for his wrists. She handed me the Colt, and I held the gun against his spine and walked him away from the house and down the road a short way.
With his hands tied and his back against the tree, Bolt screamed: “Shut up, Macey! Don’t say nothing! Don’t you dare!”
I had half of the white brick in my pocket. As soon as we got out of sight, I stepped close to Finch and held it to his face. “You’re here because of this, right, Mace? I need to know what it is. You help me out and I’ll talk to the old lady about easing up on the burglary charges.”
“I ain’t supposed to talk. Eddie Bolt said so and he’s my master, my wonderful counselor.” His face twisted in revulsion. “Screw Eddie Bolt.”
I stand six foot two and had to look up at Finch. He had a wide flat face and small eyes without much in them.
“Does the name Rolando Molina mean anything to you, Mace? He’s dead, killed because of Dr. Melody’s invention. He was my friend.”
Finch looked away. Blood ran down his cheek from where Bonheimer had thumped it.
“I knew his family and his parents, and his body’s missing,” I said. “I need to find him and see that he gets a decent burial. You can understand that, can’t you, Mace?”
Finch shrugged his enormous shoulders. He couldn’t look at me.
I moved so close to him that the brim of my Arizona Feeds hat practically touched his chin. “You’ve fallen of
f the path of righteousness, Mace. I know what that’s like. There’s only one way to get back on and that’s to tell the truth.”
He stared as if seeing me for the first time, a softness entering his voice: “You read the good book?”
“Every night.”
“I like Corinthians best of all.”
“It shows me the path, brother.” Truth was, I was reading James M. Cain. His path led to an entirely different place.
Finch studied the mountains, a large, confused, bleeding man with breath like a Teamster. He sniffed hard. “Cartel business is cartel business, and they don’t tell me nothing.”
“But like you say, you hear things.”
“What I hear is there’s nothing to find. Okay? That Mexican, the one honchos the trade down there, he chops up his enemies and burns up what’s left. That’s what he done to your friend, made little pieces of him. Sorry, man, but the wind’s got him.”
Made little pieces out of him.
Roscoe Rincon. An icy hand crept through my body.
“You got a name?”
“I don’t know no names. But Rojo’s what they call him. For his eyes.”
“I promised Rolando’s father I’d find his body, Mace. His family’s heartbroken.”
“Man,” Finch said, dragging out the word. “I don’t know where all he’s at. That’s their business and I stay out.” He rolled his head, the neck bones crunching like a bag of chips. His face told me he wanted to say more.
“It’s just me, you, and the sky, Mace. You know something.”
“There’s more killing coming and I can’t be part of it. You need to do something, Stark. It’s gonna happen. Down in Mexico, they’re gonna kill somebody, and you don’t have a lot of time. I swear on the Holy Bible, Stark, that’s all I know.”
A sheriff’s cruiser arrived. Bonheimer wanted to press charges, and the deputy cuffed Bolt and Finch and took our statements.
The Mexican had to be Fausto Molina. I broke away and called him, but the call didn’t go through. Roxy and I ran back to the Audi. The whole way I kept punching redial, desperate to get a signal.
FIFTY-EIGHT
As Roxy rolled down the mountain on that terrible road, the Audi made noises normally associated with tank warfare. The call finally connected and Fausto’s cell jumped to voice mail. I called the office of the Monterrey Sultans and got their recorded message. The team was playing at home against the Mexico City Reds and was on the field. Walk-up tickets still available.
The Mexicans are going to handle this on their end.
Roscoe Rincon’s crew was getting rid of any evidence that could hang them. They killed Rolando. They stole the hand. They killed Carlos Alvarez and Rosa Lopez. Anyone who got out of line was dead.
Mayflower’s job was to retrieve Dr. Melody’s gum, whatever it was. That’s what brought Bolt to Bunny’s house, and it brought Bolt and Finch to Double Wide and the Blue Lonesome.
The job might already be done.
For Mayflower and Rincon, Fausto was a key tentacle.
I called the team office again and someone picked up. I said I needed to talk to Fausto Molina. The man said he was in the dugout and couldn’t be reached until after the game. He was about to hang up when I said, “I’m Max Mayflower, and this is urgent.”
“Mr. Mayflower, I didn’t know it was you, sir. I’m so sorry. How can I help, sir?”
I told him to give me the number of the clubhouse and bring Fausto in from the dugout and that I’d call back in five minutes. Roxy retrieved her bottle of Chivas out of the console and sipped it as we drove through the sleeping town of Oracle.
“They kill baseball players, don’t they?” she said. “Wasn’t that a song?”
“I think it was piano players.”
“Piano players, ballplayers, they kill ’em all.”
I called the Monterrey clubhouse and Fausto picked up. He spoke rapidly: “Mr. Mayflower, I didn’t tell anybody, I swear.”
“Tell anybody what, Fausto?”
Slowly, his voice full of suspicion: “Who…who is this?”
“You’ll talk to Max Mayflower but not me?” I said. “I’ve called you five times and you haven’t called back. What’s going on?”
“I can’t talk now, Prop. I should be out in the dugout.”
“What haven’t you told anybody?”
“All I know is El Bailador’s dead and I can’t get anybody out.” Ever since Rolando left, Fausto’s performance had tanked. He’d lost the strike zone and was constantly pitching from behind, giving up home runs in bunches.
“There are things you don’t understand, Prop.”
“What don’t I understand? Tell me what I don’t understand.”
“I need Rolando. What he brought. The help he gave me.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” I said. “It looks like Rolando was involved in a smuggling operation up here involving this gum Dr. Arthur Melody made. What do you know about that?”
He didn’t answer.
“Fausto?”
“I’m not even supposed to talk to you.”
My voice shot out fast and angry. “You listen to me. Your big brother’s dead and Mayflower’s part of the conspiracy that killed him. Do you understand that? Who the hell are you loyal to anyway?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know!”
“Look, some men are coming to see you and not to talk. They’re Sinaloa people. You know the name Roscoe Rincon? They call him Rojo.”
Fausto gasped.
“Yeah, that’s right,” I said. “It looks like he killed Rolando and he’s coming your way. You need to get out of there right now. Is there any place you can hide out?”
I waited. The silence persisted until I realized there was nothing connecting us but dead air. Fausto had hung up. I punched in the clubhouse number again, and it rang and rang.
It was just after 8:40 p.m. Roxy drove along Highway 77. We were quiet. Only the rumble of the Audi’s engine broke the night silence.
The darkness was complete until we came even with Biosphere II, set off in the desert to the south—and how perfect was that. A bazillion-dollar monument to getting out of town for a few days. Way out.
The Biosphere was built by a moon-bat with a portfolio who thought the planet was washed up and it was time to put on spacesuits and go populate a new one. That was what I wanted right then, a long trip in a crash-proof helmet. To a destination untraceable, and far, far away.
The unconscious mind works in strange ways, entirely independent of the conscious mind. It grinds away and delivers its conclusions at unpredictable times.
Into my mind popped something Aunt Izzy had said.
A next-generation superlubricant.
Made from the Palmer agave.
Her words skipped past me at the time, but as I stared out the window at the lights of the Biosphere, I knew.
“Shit, Rox! Goddamn, that’s it! Son of a bitch!”
She gave me an amused look. “You explain things with such precision.”
“Hold on,” I said and grabbed my phone and called Oscar Molina in Obregon. He answered on the first ring. I told him to drop whatever he was doing, drive to Monterrey, get Fausto, and bring him to Tucson. And I told him why, leaving nothing out.
Roxy overheard and pounded the steering wheel. “Are you kidding me? That’s the holy grail! Are you kidding me?”
I said to Oscar, “If you have to hit him on the head and toss him into your truck, he has to get out of Monterrey tonight.”
Oscar didn’t hesitate or ask any questions. He said he was on his way, but the drive was more than six hundred miles and would take time. He promised to keep in contact, and we broke off.
“Change in plans, Rox. We’re going to Hi Corbett Field. Step on it.”
“I’m going as fast as I can. What a story!”
“I can’t believe I didn’t see this earlier. Every pitcher in history has tried this.”
I checked my watch—8:57 p.m. “
If we hurry, Danny Wilson should still be there.”
The Audi’s high beams sliced through the darkness as Roxy sped around the end of the Catalina Mountains and down into the valley.
FIFTY-NINE
The game was over by the time we got to the ballpark. The parking lot was nearly empty, but Wilson was still in his office. He sat behind his desk looking over the night’s gate receipts. He didn’t look happy. Then again, if you see an ex-ballplayer looking happy behind a desk, he was never any good in the first place.
He glanced up without expression as Roxy and I walked in and motioned with a tired hand to his chewing-out chairs.
“I hear Fausto’s gone in the tank,” I said.
“His ball has completely flattened out. Looks like the dancer has quit dancing.”
“Any idea why?”
“The kid was riding a hot streak.” Wilson rocked his head. “Hot streaks end.”
On the wall behind the desk was a picture of a young Danny Wilson in a mound conference with Hall of Fame pitcher Greg Maddox. Another showed him in civilian clothes, sitting in an empty stadium next to Hank Aaron.
“How about handing over your scouting video of Fausto. I’m going down to Mexico to help him out.”
If my request produced any shock or panic, Wilson didn’t show it. He leaned back and parked his boat shoes on the corner of his desk. “You’re too late, Whip. Mayflower came and took it. Yeah, he bailed on Fausto. He’s walking away from his hot prospect.”
“Let me see the video, Danny. Maybe I can spot something.”
“I told you, Mayflower took it.”
“You didn’t keep a copy?”
“Mayflower came here six days ago demanding I delete it from my computer. And any copies. He was waiting for me first thing in the morning. He’s freaking out over Fausto’s collapse. All that money he planned on making, forget it.”
Six days ago. That made it the day after Roxy and I confronted Max Mayflower at his front door. It looked like we’d sent him into a panic, after which he squealed to Roscoe Rincon about the hand and threatened Fausto to keep his mouth shut.
Wilson said, “He stood over me and watched as I deleted it. Can you believe that jerk?”