"I am sorry," the fugitive said. "I am not allowed to pass?"
"This is a private road from here on up," the security officer said. "Is a resident expecting you?"
"No," he said to the security officer. "I am a tourist. No problem. Sorry. Thank you."
When he was driving back down from Southridge, he was dejected. He couldn't fathom how these people lived. Private streets with guards and dogs? Perhaps that's how they had to live in a country like this. He'd read a story that very day about a serial murderer in Rochester, New York, who'd been sentenced to 250 years in prison for the murder of eleven women. What made it even more horrible was that the man was on parole at the time of the murders from another pair of murders fifteen years earlier. He'd strangled two children. The fugitive kept asking himself: What kind of country paroles a man who has strangled two children?
While he waited at the foot of Southridge for an opening in the traffic on Highway 111, he saw in his mirror a gardener's truck coming down behind him. He got out of his car, rather certain that the gardener would be a Mexican, and he was.
The fugitive waved at the gardener and when the man pulled over, the fugitive said, in the macho slang of his country, "eQue pasa, 9manoWhat's happening, bro?
In Spanish, the fugitive also said, "I just arrived from Tecate, and I was trying to visit an old family friend who lives up there on that hill, but the guard won't let me through. My friend went away and forgot to leave my name."
The gardener also spoke the earthy slang of his country. He said, "Oh, no, 'mano, they won't let you in unless your friend says to let you pass. Fuck no. No chance."
"The problem is, he's gone for the entire day. Do you happen to work for him? John Lugo?"
"No," the gardener said. "My job is up the left side near the top. Do you know that Bob Hope lives up there?"
"Yes, I've heard that," the fugitive said. "There can't be more than one pocho up there. Are you sure you don't know him? Or perhaps one of his servants?" Then the fugitive smiled and said, "I imagine that a rich pocho gets his grass cut by real Mexicans, true, 'mano?"
The gardener laughed at that, and said, "Very fucking true." Then he said, "I think the man who has that big pink house with the tile roof might be your friend. I've seen an old man come and go with his driver. Yes, he's probably the one. There's a very big party going to happen there. Many people in vans have been coming all day." Then the gardener took a close look at the fugitive, and said, "Man, you have very rich family friends."
The fugitive laughed and said, "But I'm poor. Tell me, are the party arrangers still there now?"
"For certain," the gardener said. "I tell you, it's a big fucking party. You'll see them come down soon and then you'll see others go up."
"Well, I'll just have to wait until my family friend comes home," the fugitive said, waving goodbye. "Thanks."
Patience, they had a lot of that in his country. He could wait a long time, but he didn't have to. In twenty minutes a red van drove down the steep road. There was writing on the side that said henry's gourmet catering.
The fugitive followed the van to an address on East Palm Canyon Drive, near Smoke Tree Village. From there, the fugitive could look up and see not only Bob Hope's giant house, but the home of John Lugo as well. It was sprawling but undistinguished new construction, one of the tens of thousands of California homes that realtors lump together under the generic heading: Mediterranean. It had to be John Lugo's home, it was the only one painted orchid-pink.
The caterer was working late on Friday because of that big party up on Southridge. There were three young Mexicans running out the front door with folding chairs and cases of wine, and the fugitive saw a tall blond gringo with hair like a woman who seemed to be in charge of the Mexicans.
The young Mexican who had driven the van was talking to the gringo when the fugitive entered. He said, "Not enough wine. Henry say I tell you."
The tall blond gringo was wearing a purple T-shirt with the caterer's gold logo on the front. He said, "Goddamnit, why doesn't Henry make up his mind about how much wine I'm supposed to order? I can't make another trip to the store now!"
The young Mexican driver just showed him an embarrassed smile.
The tall blond tossed his writing pad on the counter and said, "Okay, I'll make another run, but I wish he'd make up his mind!"
The fugitive approached him, saying, "Good day, sir. I am thinking perhaps you could use some help? I have had seven years of experience at a catering company, both in Tijuana and San Diego. I need a job very much."
But the tall blond was beside himself with the stresses of the moment. He said, "Look, come back Monday. I'll let you put in an application then, but I got a big party tomorrow and I don't have time right now."
Before he could dash out to the van, the fugitive said, "Sir, I would be glad to help you at the party. I would work for minimum salary just for the experience with your company. And to show to you that I am a good worker."
"Sorry, buddy," the blond gringo said. "We can't hire somebody we haven't trained. Not for a party like the one we got tomorrow. Come back Monday." Then he was off and running to the catering van.
The fugitive started out to his car, but as soon as the blond gringo had driven off, he went back in and approached the young Mexican who'd driven the van down from Southridge.
The fugitive said, in Spanish, "You're working at a big party tomorrow, your boss told me."
"Very big," the kid said. "Three hundred people, at least." Then he grinned proudly and said, "Famous golfers and perhaps even movie stars!"
The fugitive looked at the cartons being stacked for loading: tablecloths, napkins, flatware. Each box was marked by a felt pen: Lugo.
"I wish I could get a job here," the fugitive said. "I have to make some money quick in order to go back to San Felipe and see my sick mother."
"That's a pity," the kid said. "I heard you ask Phil. He's a bastard. If Henry was here he might hire you."
"Do they provide you with clothes to wear at parties?" the fugitive asked. "Or would I have to buy my own?"
"They buy one shirt and one pair of trousers for you," the kid said. "We must provide our own shoes. If we don't have black leather shoes, they'll buy them, but we must pay them back from our first paycheck."
"Where do you buy your clothes?"
"I found a good sale at May Company," the kid said.
"What would I need to buy?"
"A white dress shirt with long sleeves, a black vest, a black bow tie, and black trousers. That's all," the kid said.
"And black shoes."
"Yes," the kid chuckled, looking at the fugitive's white Palm Springs tasseled shoes. "Those won't do."
"I could go to a department store this evening and buy what I need," the fugitive said. "Or even tomorrow morning. If I did that do you think Henry might hire me?"
"Henry would never let you work at this party unless you were properly trained by him."
"How many of you will be working tomorrow?" the fugitive asked.
"At least twenty serving people, not counting bartenders. And not counting those in the kitchen doing food preparation. The boss wants a fresh drink in everyone's hands at all times, that's what Henry says."
"I wish I could have gotten to work at this party," the fugitive said. "But maybe I'm lucky not to start with such a hard one. You'll work long hours, no?"
"Oh, yes," the kid said. "The serving people must be there at two o'clock. They expect the first guests to arrive at about five or six. We'll stay till two o'clock in the morning, perhaps. Twelve hours work."
"Well, I guess I'll come back on Monday," the fugitive said. "Thanks."
"Talk to Henry, not Phil," the kid said. "He's a nice man. Phil's a bastard."
"Are most of your workers Mexican?" the fugitive asked.
"Of course!" the kid said, laughing. "If the immigration rounded up all the undocumented workers around here, Palm Springs would shut down completely."
&nb
sp; The moment she made a turn from Highway 111 into Windy Point, a gust of sand peppered the windshield.
"Just a balmy breeze, by Windy Point standards," Lynn said as the visibility from the headlight beams dropped to ten feet.
They followed Jack Graves' little street to the end, where it petered out onto the open desert. The wind now turned from gusting blasts to a steady blow, humming down through the mountain pass.
When they got out of Breda's Z they were actually blown backwards a step or two. Lynn thought he saw a silhouette floating along the desert floor beyond the cactus garden, a ragged specter propelled by the wind through the darkness.
"Jack!" he called, but only the banshee howl of wind answered him, forcing him to turn his back.
He and Breda stumbled toward the front door, and Lynn knocked, waited a few seconds, then opened it.
When they got inside, Breda said, "Good Lord!" Then she said, "What about my car? It'll be sandblasted!"
"It might settle down as fast as it started up," Lynn said, unconvincingly.
While Breda was shaking sand from her hair the front door opened and Jack Graves limped in from outside, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, his black hair blown across his long sorrowful face. He brushed some sand from his coat and said, "Around these parts, we call this a gentle zephyr."
Lynn saw an angry blackening bruise on the gaunt cheekbone of Jack Graves. "What happened to your face?"
"Oh, nothing," Jack Graves said. "A stupid little accident, that's all."
"What kinda accident?" Lynn asked suspiciously.
"Stumbled and fell in the ravine when I was out walking this afternoon. Clumsy."
"Well then, why the hell were you back out there tonight? In a windstorm?"
"Listening for the coyotes," Jack Graves said, "but I guess they have more sense than to leave their dens when there's wind."
"More sense than some people," Lynn said. "Did you go to a doctor?"
"About this little bruise?" Jack Graves said, touching it gingerly.
"You're limping," Lynn said.
"Twisted my ankle when I fell, but I'm fine. No problem at all."
"I oughtta call Mister Goodwrench," Lynn said, with a glance at Breda. "Maybe get the nuts and bolts tightened up in your head." Then he massaged his aching knee and said, "And to put a little oil in my joints. I'm leaking."
Jack Graves said, "Anyway, shall we get down to business? First, tell me, what about the man Clive Devon picked up in Painted Canyon?"
"I'm convinced he doesn't know a thing about that guy," Breda said. "The smuggler sold him a bill of goods that his car had broken down, and Devon simply gave him a ride."
"Do you agree with Breda, Lynn?" Jack Graves asked.
"Yeah," Lynn said. "Clive Devon's about as sinister as a blueberry muffin. There's no connection."
"I had to be sure," Jack Graves said. "That was also my impression after meeting him."
"How'd you meet him?" Breda wanted to know.
"We had supper together in a joint up in Desert Hot Springs, the Snakeweed Bar and Grill. He doesn't hang around the same kinda places his wife does. But he's had money a lot longer, all his life in fact. Did you know he's never had a job? Never."
"Did he tell you that?" Breda asked.
Jack Graves shook his head and said, "None of this is a secret. I met a good friend of his, the man who took the semen sample, in fact."
"You even know his doctor?"
"First a little history," Jack Graves said. "Our Clive Devon's been in frail health since he was a kid. He's never been in the service, never went away from home, raised by a doting mother. He's a very insecure shy guy, but the kind you like immediately. Half the customers in the Snakeweed know the answer to your mystery. It's only a secret from Rhonda."
Breda was sitting with her legs crossed. Her left foot bounced impatiently, but she wasn't about to rush him. She realized you shouldn't force a methodical man like Jack Graves.
"Oh!" Jack Graves said suddenly, "Can I get you some coffee? Or a beer? Or . . ."
"Not for me," Lynn said.
"No, thanks," Breda said.
"Okay, where was I?"
"Everybody in the Snakeweed likes him," Lynn said.
"They sure do," Jack Graves said. "Anyway, Clive Devon never married till he met Rhonda. He was a middle-aged mother's boy. She was a real estate agent from Pasadena who sold his family home there when his mother died. That was when he decided to move out here to the desert. Clive and Rhonda started seeing each other. She was rebounding from a couple bad marriages. They finally got hitched."
"She didn't like the desert, I take it," Breda said.
"Hated it," Jack Graves said. "Eventually he also bought a house in Brentwood, close enough to Rodeo Drive for her to find fulfillment. And that's the way their marriage has gone. He goes to the Brentwood house for a short visit every blue moon. She comes here every other weekend for a couple days. They both manage investments from either end. She's a part-time real estate agent for a Beverly Hills broker, though she certainly doesn't need the money."
"That's a marriage?" Breda remarked.
"It suits them," Jack Graves said.
"What's he get out of it?" Lynn wanted to know. "Somebody to grow old with?" To Lynn, that wasn't something to sneeze at.
"He's growing old now," Jack Graves said. "According to his friend, Doc Morton, he loves Rhonda Devon in his own way. And Doc Morton thinks it's the same with her. He's probably the nicest guy she's ever met, and of course he'll give her anything she wants."
"Weird!" Breda said. "Rich people."
"Doc sees Clive Devon quite a lot, but only when Rhonda's in L. A."
Finally Breda could no longer contain herself. "I'm dying to hear, Jack. What's it about? Is it about the maid's daughter, or what?"
"It's about the inability to let go," Jack Graves said.
"Let go of what?" Breda asked.
"Unconditional love," Jack Graves said. "It's a very simple case, so simple we made it complicated."
"The sperm," Lynn said. "What's it about?"
"Clive Devon can't let go," Jack Graves said. "See, Malcolm's got an enlarged heart, and Malcolm's the best friend he's got. The best friend he's ever had. He thinks he can clone his dog."
"Malcolm's his dog?" Breda exclaimed. "The sperm belongs to a dog?"
"Malcolm's been his dog since Clive found him starving out on the desert five years ago."
Lynn said, "Five years?"
Jack Graves smiled. "Five years. Yet Rhonda Devon doesn't even know Malcolm exists. Doc says Malcolm could die any time, but Clive simply cannot accommodate that idea. So he's determined to replicate Malcolm."
"Replicate a dog?"
"There's no such thing as a proper animal sperm bank," Jack Graves explained. "People don't store animal sperm for long periods of time, so at Clive's request, Doc took the sample, froze it, and sent it by special courier to a real sperm bank in Beverly Hills, marked as a human being's sperm, of course. It's stored there under the name of Malcolm Devonson, bearing Clive Devon's social security number. You see, this sperm sample's worth a million bucks or more. To Clive Devon."
"But how can his wife not know anything?"
"That's the way they live, according to Doc Morton. She's highly allergic, or thinks she is. And she starts fussing every time she gets within ten feet of an animal. So, before she arrives at the desert house, Malcolm goes to stay with Esther, the maid's daughter down in Indio. That's why Clive's always out hiking when his wife's here in residence. He's with Malcolm. And when she goes back to L. A. Malcolm lives with him and sleeps on his bed. Blanca Soltero does a major housecleaning the day before Rhonda arrives."
Breda couldn't get over it. "And they've been living like this for five years?"
"Yeah."
"Rich people!" was all she could say.
"How long do they think the dog's got?" Lynn asked.
"Not long, but Doc doesn't know for sure. He's been given
the job of contacting every vet in the desert to try to find a suitable bitch-a big brown dog that's maybe part shepherd, part mastiff, part retriever. A dog with the dozens of magnificent wonderful irreplaceable characteristics that Clive Devon sees in Malcolm. They haven't found her yet. Every time Doc finds one, Clive thinks she's not quite right. They'll keep at it even after Malcolm's gone. Clive's determined to clone that dog."
"A poor little rich guy," Breda said. "Scouring the desert for a mongrel bitch. Pathetic!"
"I been doing that for years," Lynn said, but Breda let it pass.
"It's sort of a sad joke around the Snakeweed," Jack Graves said. "People smile and shake their heads, especially about the sperm bank."
"You can't produce identical DNA," Breda said. "The guy's crazy. So's the vet."
"The vet's an old friend. Sometimes you do crazy things for a friend," Jack Graves said. "He knows Clive'll fall in love with whatever pup he eventually ends up with."
"No more domestic cases," Breda said. "I gotta find some nice clean insurance work involving a lotta filthy lawyers. These domestic cases're too complicated for me."
"Well, there it is," Jack Graves said. "What're you gonna do with it?"
"I guess I'll just sit Rhonda Devon down and tell her she's a distant second in her husband's life, and she oughtta buy a year's supply of antihistamine in order to live with dog dander."
Jack Graves looked very serious then. He said, "I wish you wouldn't."
"What? Not tell her? She's my client. She's paying me. Us."
"You don't owe me anything," Jack Graves said. "I wasn't gonna take your money no matter what. Look, Clive's a sixty-three-year-old man who finds it real hard to get close to people. He has a certain kind of relationship with her. They respect each other's private ways. Don't humiliate him."
Breda said, "Jack I've got a big fee coming in this case, if I get results! She'll be happy to learn she doesn't have a rival. At least not the kind she thinks she has."
Fugitive Nights (1992) Page 24