A Century of Noir

by Max Allan Collins

  “This is a chain fruit cholla. It’s a kind of cactus. I like to start with them to show people the enormous variety of the cactus family.”

  “The big ones with the arms. They look like they’re guarding the others. What are they?”

  “Those are Saguaro. The largest of all the cacti. It’s funny you should describe them like that. Saguaro means sentinel in Spanish.

  “I find cacti fascinating. This is a very harsh environment. Great heat and light, very little water. The parameters for survival are very narrow, not only do they survive, they thrive. And they do so in many, many ways. They remind me of how creative the will to live can be.”

  She looked out across the desert. “Here, let’s look at this one.” She walked off the path into the bush. I followed.

  She looked like the land itself. All variations of brown, from her beige hiking boots, white socks and tanned skin, to her khaki shorts and cream shirt. She’d be hard to see at a distance. I made a note of that.

  “This is a jumping cholla. Very, very nasty.”

  The cactus was covered with very fine spines so thick that they looked like a soft yellow fur. “Why?”

  “This plant reproduces asexually. These last segments of the stalks get carried off by animals that brush up against them. The spines are hooked and so fine that they’re almost impossible to get out. When the animal finally gets it off them it falls to the ground, roots and starts to grow.”

  “Why jumping cholla?”

  “When it breaks off, it looks like it jumped onto you. The slightest contact leaves you covered in these spines. Bend down and take a closer look.”

  She squatted down and I got down next to her and looked at the tiny barbs on the spines. Six inches away, they were invisible.

  I avoided looking at her but I could smell her; sweet and clean, flowers and spice.

  “You go out into the desert, you should always carry a comb. That way you can get the cholla off if you have to. You slide the teeth down into the spines and flip it off. You can’t use your other hand. They’ll both wind up full of spines.”

  “I’ll bet falling into one of these is a real mess.”

  “Oh yeah,” she said, nodding in sincere agreement.

  “Let’s head for those rocks over there. It’s a mile or so. We’ll climb them, check out the valley beyond, and then head back.” I followed her extended arm. She wore a large ring on her right hand, an oval, rose-colored stone in a heavy silver and gold setting.

  I followed her back to the path and we set off in silence. For twenty minutes I walked in her footsteps up a gradual incline on a narrow, winding path. Eyes down, I watched her legs move, each step a precise placement on a flat rock surface. The steeper the incline, the closer the attention I paid. We stopped on a plateau.

  “Look there,” she said. I saw a paddle-shaped cactus with several of its paddle half chewed off.

  “Javelinas.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Javelinas, peccaries, wild pigs. They eat prickly pears—spines and all. They travel in packs. Nasty customers if you’re hunting them.”

  “Are they interested in hunting us?” I asked.

  “No. I suppose if you got between a mother and her young they’d charge and drive you off.

  “They’ve got very sharp tusks, and they’d give you a bad bite. I had an old boyfriend who used to hunt them with a bow and arrow. When they were cornered, they’d charge. Then they were real dangerous. They were really fast and they’d be on you before you could get a shot off.”

  “You go hunting with him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ever get one?”

  “No. Too fast. One of them opened my leg up, though.”

  She pointed down to her thigh. I saw a long white scar on the inside. “Up near the artery. I left the javelinas alone after that. You ever hunt?”

  I waited too long to answer. It was a simple question. “No.”

  “Funny, I’d have thought you did. You have that look.”

  “And what look is that?”

  “Patient, watchful. A stalker. You don’t say much. Most people talk my ear off on these hikes. They tell me all about themselves, ask me all about myself. You take information in but you don’t offer any. That’s hunter behavior. Plus, you don’t look like a businessman.”

  “Really? Now why is that?”

  “Your muscles. Getting those is a full time job. You wouldn’t have time for an office.”

  “Maybe muscles are my business, like Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

  “Sorry. I’ve never seen you in any muscle magazines.”

  “You read that many of them?”

  She nodded her head. “For years. The boyfriend with the bow and arrows, he was a body builder. Mister Southwest 1990.”

  “I like the way your mind works, but I’m not a hunter. I’m just out here to relax and enjoy the scenery. So tell me, are there any animals to be worried about out here?”

  She smiled, chuckled softly and shook her head. “Okay. Let’s see. Everyone will tell you about the rattlesnakes, the Gila Monsters, the scorpions, and the tarantulas. They’re all here, they’re all dangerous, but you need to be stupid and unlucky to get bit. Simple rules for the biters: Look where you put your hands and feet; shake out your shoes before you put them on; don’t reach into dark places, and watch where you step. That’s about it, for them.

  “Then there’s cougars and bears. Bears aren’t a big problem in the desert. Much more so up in the mountains. We do get cougars down here. They like javelina. They’re pretty shy of humans, and attacks are rare but not unheard of. If you meet one, stop, then back away slowly. Don’t turn your back to them. Don’t run. If they attack, protect your neck. Cats kill by asphyxiation. They’ll try to bite your throat and cut off your air. Keep your hands up, protect your eyes and throat, and try to stay on your feet. If you can find something to hit them with, a thick stick or a heavy rock, so much the better. Keep backing away. We’re not on their regular diet, so unless they’re starving to death or protecting their young they’re not likely to keep up the attack in the face of resistance.”

  She turned and headed up the path. As the grade steepened, we slowed as the footing got worse. I gave her more of a lead. No reason if she fell to take us both down the hill. We went into a cave made of fallen boulders and climbed up through an opening between the stones to the top of a giant boulder. Two rocks were on top of it in the center like the crown of a hat.

  She walked over near the edge, squatted down, took the water bottle off her belt, and squeezed out a long drink. I walked over next to her and did the same.

  “Beautiful out here,” I said.

  “Sure is. I just love it. I don’t ever want to leave.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  She turned and looked at me. I saw my sunglasses in hers.

  “An ’85 Chevy with a black interior, a busted tape player and no A/C.”

  I laughed. She smiled. She sipped her water, then leaned back onto her butt and crossed her legs Indian-style. I stayed squatting. One time the warden wanted to talk to me about an accident in the laundry. He wanted to talk to me so badly that I was listed as escaped for two days. Turned out to be a mistake of course. I had fallen into a box in the power plant. It was only thirty inches deep but I couldn’t get out. Not until the warden and I had that talk. Every day after that, I practiced being folded up like a shirt in case I ever escaped again. I can squat a good long while.

  “What do you like about it?” I said.

  “It’s empty out here. I like empty. You don’t have to work to keep your distance. It’s big and it’s old out here. Not human time or human efforts. It helps me keep a good perspective on things, not take them too seriously. How about you? Do you like it out here?”

  “Yeah, I like it out here. Like you said, it’s empty. Empty is good. I don’t ever want to be crowded again.”

  I looked around. You could see for miles in any direction.
Dark clouds were forming to the south, and the wind said they were headed this way.

  I closed my eyes and tilted my face against the breeze.

  “There’s a storm coming. Summer storms are filled with lightning. We don’t want to be up on the heights. Let’s start down.”

  “I think I’ll tempt fate a little longer. I haven’t felt rain in a long time.”

  “Not smart. The storm isn’t that far away. You’ll get all the rain you want if we don’t start back now. Monsoons can fill up these arroyos in a minute.”

  When I didn’t move right away, she stood up and headed back down.

  I sat on the hill and waited for the rain to come. The breeze picked up and caressed my face. A bolt of lightning flashed a jagged path to the ground. A thunderclap boomed almost immediately afterward. Time to go.

  I caught up with her at the base of the rocks. “Uh, Mister Southwest 1990 . . . you still with him?”

  She shook her head. “No, he left me for Mister Southwest 1993.”

  I hadn’t said this much to a woman in years. I decided to press my luck. Prison, like the desert, helps you with perspective. “Could I buy you dinner tonight?”

  She thought about that for a minute. “Okay.”

  “What time should I come by?”

  “Oh,” she tilted her head, “you wanted to eat it with me, too.”

  I must have made a face.

  “I’m kidding. I’m kidding,” she said.

  “Staff isn’t supposed to fraternize with the guests. Why don’t we meet off the ship. There’s a little place in town called the Aztec Café. How about I meet you there, say, eight o’clock?”

  “Great.”

  She checked the sky. The clouds were rolling on while we stood still. “We really ought to head back.”

  “Sure.” I followed her back into the desert. All the way back I wondered what color her eyes were.

  At the ship’s store I purchased a water bottle, some sunscreen and a soft, wide-brimmed hat.

  I found Derek by the pool, reading a book about moneyless investing.

  He had a drink on the table next to him. His soft white body was starting to get a little pink: medium-rare. His legs were crossed at the ankles, and the upper foot tapped the lower one incessantly.

  I walked around the pool and into the spa area. The weight room was beyond a pair of doors in the far wall. The blonde stood in line behind an enormously fat man. I brought up the rear.

  The whale wanted a massage. He looked like he’d have to be stirred. I checked the blonde out head to toe, looking for any distinguishing marks. She had on a pair of clogs. They looked like hooves back in the ’70s and they still did today. She adjusted her cover-up, and I saw a nice bruise on her right thigh. I glanced down into her bag, but it was fastened. She had a tennis bracelet on. It could have been diamonds, could have been rock candy for all I knew. No rings, but long hot pink nails.

  “The couples massage, how long does that last?”

  “It’s about an hour,” the attendant said.

  “Okay. We’d like to schedule one this afternoon. Cabin 116. How late do you do them?”

  “We schedule the last ones of the day at five p.m.”

  “Okay, let’s do it then. We’d also like room service at seven thirty.”

  “Do you want to order now?”

  “No. We’ll call it in later.”

  “Very good. Your masseurs will be Carl and Rita.”

  “Where is the Jacuzzi?”

  “Through the doors and into the ladies’ locker room.”

  She picked up a towel from a woven basket next to the counter and glided off towards the locker room.

  I took a quick glance at the schedule book to see what was entered. Just cabin numbers, no names. That made sense. Everything was automatically billed to the cabin to be settled up at departure.

  “May I help you, sir?” asked a stocky girl with short dark hair wearing a green and beige uniform that made her look like a park ranger.

  “Weights?”

  “Through those doors.”

  “Anybody inside to spot?”

  “No sir, we don’t have free weights, just machines.”

  I nodded. I picked up a towel and walked into the weight room. It was empty and silent. I walked around the circuit of machines, looking at their maximum settings. No work here. I sat on a bench, pulled out my gloves and belt, and tossed my bag into the corner.

  I saw Marshall through the glass. He was having a nice vacation. I was having a nice vacation. He didn’t have the jumpy, worried look of a man on the run. No furtive glances of the frightened schemer trying to lose a shadow. Maybe he’s up here having a nice time with some bimbo. They go back to San Francisco, I go to San Francisco. This is a good gig. I’m paid to live the good life watching someone else live the good life. Don’t fuck this up, Derek, I thought to myself. I could get used to this. A life sentence of pointless luxury. Guilty, your honor. Show me no mercy.

  I did the circuit slowly, drawing out the negatives on each rep, squeezing the most work out of the machines. The weights slid smoothly, silently, up and down their spines like a steel bellows I inflated with each effort.

  In the yard, you set your load by hand, hoisting each plate onto the bar, slamming it against the others, metal on metal, clanging like a cell door. When I finished my workout, I rubbed my face and scalp with my towel and draped it around my neck.

  I looked around the empty room. Here the weight meant nothing. There, you were watched by everyone. Sheer physical strength was important.

  Early on I met all the animals. The spiders who run the joint; the great apes who did their bidding; the zombies; and the bunk bunnies. The great apes don’t do the same time as everyone else, so I became a great ape and things got better.

  The fact that I was in for killing a cop didn’t hurt my status any. I didn’t correct anyone who thought it was murder, but I also didn’t claim it. Inside, you don’t say anything you can’t back up.

  One thousand eight hundred and twenty-five days later they opened a door and returned me to the world. Bigger. Stronger. Harder.

  You go to the property room before you leave in your shiny black state suit. They hand you a bus ticket and then give you your belongings in a brown manila envelope. They open it up and dump it out; your wallet, watch, some coins, a ring, keys, and a pen. Then they slide a form over for you to sign. I remember reading: “CHECK YOUR BELONGINGS. YOUR SIGNATURE CONFIRMS THAT EVERYTHING TAKEN FROM YOU HAS BEEN RETURNED IN ITS ORIGINAL CONDITION.”

  I looked into the bag. I turned it over and shook it. I tapped it with my hand. The guard asked me what I was looking for.

  “Somehow, I don’t think this is quite everything you took when I came in here.”

  “We didn’t take anything you didn’t deserve to lose,” was his reply.

  I stopped in front of the mirror and looked at myself. A bullet head, a mask for a face, empty eyes, and a miser’s mouth. My shirt was soaked in sweat and hugged my wedge-shaped torso, armor-plated in muscle. Kiki was right. Everything that survives adapts to its environment. Well, I’ve changed environments again. Can I change myself again?

  The blonde must have come out of the sauna by another door because I never saw her pass me but there she was sitting next to Derek. Derek’s hand stroked lazy figure eights on her thigh with the tip of his index finger like a tiny figure skater.

  I went back to my room, showered and lay down for a nap. At six, I got up and dressed for dinner. I knew where Derek and his friend would be for the evening.

  I sat by the pool and ordered a Salty Dog. I sat sipping it in the fading daylight and stared at the jagged peaks of the distant mountains. It looked like someone had torn off the edge of the sky.

  I finished my drink and waved the waitress over for a second. She was dark skinned with thick, black hair, held in place by a bright multicolored ribbon. Her hair was stiff and wiry like a cord of very fine kindling. Her eyes were as dark as her hai
r, without discernible pupils. I imagined her hair ablaze with gold and crimson flames.

  “Another one, please.”

  She nodded, took the glass and left.

  I drank steadily until the sun flattened itself on the horizon like the yolk of a dropped egg. My day now had a wavy, shimmery edge to it, like the air on a hot, still day.

  I got directions to the cafe from the excursion desk and arrived a little before eight. Inside, the big room was divided into three separate areas. To the left was a small dance floor. Something Spanish with pedal steel was playing on the sound system—Country-Mexican, I guess. A long bar ran across the back wall of the middle area. A couple of the men at the bar spotted me in the mirror and watched me walk across the room. I stared into their broad, flat Indian faces. They didn’t like what they saw and returned to their conversation. A waitress in a white shirt with a string tie showed me to one of the tables in the dining section and handed me a menu. I glanced at it. Mostly Mexican, with some steaks, chili, and barbeque.

  Kiki showed up a little after eight. She wore tooled mid-calf boots, the leather a brown and white patchwork and a short, clingy white sleeveless dress, cut low in the back. Her white Stetson had a turquoise ornament on the crown.

  I stood up and pulled out a chair for her. She scooped her dress underneath herself and sat down.

  “May I get you something to drink?” the waitress asked.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I got an early start.”

  “Iced tea will be fine,” she said.

  “You look great.” I nodded in agreement with myself.

  Easy boy, you’re just passing through. What would a good-looking young woman want with a beat-up old man like you? Nothing. Don’t go thinking about it or wishing for it. Just do what you said you would. Enjoy some pleasant company, for a change. If you wanted to get laid, you should have lined up a pro.

  “Thank you,” she said and smiled. Her eyes were green.

  “So what’s good here?” I asked.

  “Everything. I usually get the Carne Asada.”

  I sipped my water and just looked at her. Her face was a narrow oval with a thin straight nose and mouth. With her thick red hair, I thought of a fox. I could do this for hours, I thought. Not say a word. Just look. Prisons are the tower of Babel. Everyone scrambling over each other to be heard, to make their point, to tell it like it ain’t. Silence reminds you what a sloth time is.