“How’s Lionel?” asked Emma, looking around Ed’s pockets for signs of the Chihuahua.
“He’s my best friend. You remember everything, don’t you? Except your shoes, maybe.”
“I was just …”
“Oh, Lionel’s fine.” Ed laughed. “He’s fine. Only the crazy customs people down here wouldn’t let me bring him. Like he’s gonna contaminate the local breedin’ stock or something. Can you imagine? I got him holed up with my sister back in Phoenix. Lionel’s the only one in the whole family who likes her cooking. But then, of course, he likes dog biscuits, too; there ain’t no accounting for taste. Hey, ain’t this crazy, our running into each other like this? The odds must be a million to one.”
“Yes. It’s pretty unbelievable.”
“Must be fate, that’s what I say. Must be destiny. I hope you’re gonna let me buy you a drink or something?”
“Sure,” said Emma. “Just let me go upstairs and freshen up. I’ll meet you in the bar, okay?”
“Great! See you soon.”
Emma smiled and escaped into the waiting elevator. The instant the doors closed, her expression changed from frozen politeness to the dismay she had been feeling. She lifted her glasses onto the top of her head, cupped her hands over her long, pointed nose, and took a deep breath. What was going on? What was Big Ed Garalachek doing in San Marcos?
The elevator doors opened on the third floor. Emma got out and darted down the hall, almost breaking into a run. Once inside her room she bolted the door and put on the chain, then dropped into the armchair, and found herself shaking.
It was ridiculous, Emma told herself. Big Ed was just a giant overstuffed teddy bear. How could she be afraid of him? Maybe it was the residual effects of Bernal Zuberan’s story that had made her paranoid, the thought of treasure maps and name-changing and murder.
The irony of it was that Zuberan had just been speaking about fate, and what he had said had made sense. Could it really be fate that had brought Ed Garalachek to San Marcos? It was fate that had put Big Ed at the Phoenix Grand Marquis so she could use his dog in her act, wasn’t it? Surely the Chevy salesman couldn’t be connected to the murders of Jacques Passant and Henri-Pierre Caraignac. Or could he?
Emma had been staring at the room without seeing. Suddenly everything came into focus. She had unpacked only one of her two suitcases when she checked in, but had gotten a belt out of the other suitcase that morning and had left it open when she went out. Now it was closed. Emma rushed over, opened the suitcase, rummaged through the packed clothing, feeling invaded and frightened and helpless. Even though nothing seemed to be missing, someone had been here. Someone had closed the suitcase. Who?
“The same person who made the bed,” Emma finally said aloud, feeling like a fool: the maid had already come and gone today.
Emma collapsed onto the bed and forced her mind back to the weekend she had been in Phoenix and had met Big Ed. Henri-Pierre had been killed the Saturday night she had performed. Big Ed had been with her that night, had watched the show from the light booth, so he couldn’t possibly have killed the Frenchman in San Francisco, eight hundred miles away. If Emma was right about the same man having killed Jacques Passant, then Big Ed was in the clear.
So what did he want? Was he stalking her? Was he some obsessed crazy? Or could he really just be here to buy a Chevrolet, as he claimed? Could it be that incredible of a coincidence?
There was only one way to find out.
“Dr. José Jacinto Gautreau-Godoy,” said Big Ed. “I got the picture here somewhere.”
Ed patted down his pockets, eventually producing a color snapshot, which he passed to Emma. She had changed from her shorts to white slacks, put on some shoes and some lipstick, and was sitting across from the Chevy King in a back booth of the downstairs bar.
Emma glanced at the photograph of a man in dark glasses sitting in the driver’s seat of a red-and-white sports car, while Ed continued searching his pockets. He had taken off his cowboy hat. The wave in his light-brown hair made him look like a little boy. A very big little boy.
“Here it is,” said Big Ed triumphantly, holding up a crumpled blue aerogram with four canceled San Marcan stamps, which he passed to Emma. The letter was addressed to him at Buena Vista Motors on Alameda Boulevard in Phoenix and postmarked October 25—more than a month ago. Before Pépé had been murdered. Before she had ever heard of Henri-Pierre Caraignac.
“‘Dear Señor Big Ed,’” read Emma aloud. “‘I have seen your classified advertisement in the International Herald Tribune and wish to know if you are interested in buying a 1957 Chevrolet Corvette, which has been in my family for many years and which is in perfect condition. You may telephone me at the above number for further information. Truly yours, Dr. José Jacinto Gautreau-Godoy.’”
“He’s a psychiatrist, can you believe it?” chortled Ed. “Never occurred to me they had psychiatrists down here, but it makes sense when you think about it. You can go nuts anywhere, I guess. Jose and me been dickering all this time about the car there in the letter, and I finally had to come down and see this baby for myself. Apparently it originally belonged to the son of Peguero—he was the dictator here for a while, until they shot him. You know that big modern highway that goes from the airport into town?”
“Yes?”
“Well, it’s supposed to be this great public works/public relations project, but the way I hear the story, Peguero really built the road so his spoiled kid could have a place to race his cars. Finally killed himself in one.”
“Somehow that makes sense,” said Emma, leaning back and making room for the bartender, who deposited their drinks on the table.
Ed, who had ordered a margarita, stared at the glass of mango juice Emma had ordered.
“I thought you were a margarita gal,” he said finally, his nose crinkled up in distaste. “I hate it when a fun gal reforms.”
“I hate it when I wake up and my head explodes,” said Emma. She was damned if she was going to let her guard down this time.
Emma had been racking her brain trying to remember exactly what she had told Ed the night they had spent drinking together in Phoenix. She knew she had talked about Pépé and about growing up in San Francisco. Beyond that, all she could remember was Lionel’s wet tongue on her cheek and the taste of salt in her mouth. And her exploding head the next day.
“So, when did you get in?” she asked.
“Just this morning,” said Ed. “I already took the bus tour of the city—that’s where I was coming back from when I ran into you. How about you? You been here long?”
“A few days.”
“Then you must be an expert by now. What’s there to do down here, now that I’ve seen the botanical garden and all the monuments?”
“There are casinos, I understand.”
“No, ma’am. Never gamble. ‘Eddie,’ my mamma used to say—that’s what she called me, Eddie—‘Eddie,’ she’d say, ‘don’t be a sucker. Put your money on a sure thing. Put your money on a Chevrolet.’ She worked with Daddy at the lot, you know. Big Muriel, they call her.”
“What do they call him?”
“Nick.”
“Just plain Nick?”
“Sometimes they call him Shorty. He’s not big like the rest of us.”
“I didn’t realize it was a family business.”
“Yes, ma’am. Two generations of Garalacheks. I’d like to make a go for three, but it kinda depends on my finding that little lady of my dreams. I’m still looking, though. I’m still looking.”
“I’m sure you’ll find her.”
“So what else is there to do down here? What you been doing?”
“Just sight-seeing.”
“What? You rent a car or something and drive around?”
Emma stared at Big Ed, searching for some sign of cunning in his broad, ingenuous, dopey face. If he had ulterior motives, they didn’t show.
“How did you know I rented a car?” she said finally.
&nb
sp; “How else you gonna sightsee?” he asked, looking genuinely confused.
“I did rent a car.”
“So where’d you go?”
“Around the city. Up to Las Calvos.”
“Las Calvos? What’s that?”
“Big resort to the north.”
“That where you were today?”
“Yes,” lied Emma. “You’d probably like it up there if you play golf.”
“No, ma’am. I can’t see myself whacking little balls around. I may look like an idiot in this getup, but I’d look even stupider dressed the way them folks do. Besides, I’m about as coordinated as a back seat full of monkeys. I’d probably kill someone.”
“They’ve got some nice restaurants at Las Calvos, too.”
“Now that sounds interesting. Up north, you say? Anything to the south?”
“I haven’t been down that way yet.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So you meet any interesting people while you been down here?”
“Why are you so interested in where I’ve been going and who I’ve been meeting, Ed?”
“What do you mean?”
“Why are you really down here?”
“I told you, Emma honey. I’m gonna buy me that ’Vette from the shrink, provided it’s all it’s cracked up to be. You seen the letter. Hey, what’s the matter with you? Don’t you believe me? What do you think I’m doing? Following you around or something?”
“The thought has occurred to me.”
“You mean … You think that I … Jesus, Emma. I thought we was friends. You think I’m some kind of kook? Is that what you think?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, Ed. But you must admit that this is pretty strange, our both being here on San Marcos in the same hotel like this.”
“Synchronicity,” declared Big Ed, leaning forward and fixing her with his big earnest puppy-dog eyes.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Synchronicity. It’s like fate, see? Only more scientific. You know how sometimes you’re thinking about somebody and the phone rings and it’s that very person? Or you hear some funny word in a conversation and for the rest of the day you keep running into it?”
“Yes?”
“Well, that’s synchronicity. Happens all the time. Happens to everybody. And that’s what we got here, our running into each other like this again so soon. At least that’s what I think. But if you think I’m some kind of masher, hell, I’m out of here.”
The big salesman rose to his feet and reached for his hat. He looked like an abandoned cocker spaniel. An abandoned cocker spaniel the size of a refrigerator. Emma couldn’t stand it. She leaned across the table and grabbed his sleeve.
“Sit down, Ed,” she said.
“I’m not staying if you think I’m some kind of wacko.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re not a wacko. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”
Ed settled back into his chair.
“It’s okay, I guess. You still upset about your grandfather, aren’t you?”
Emma nodded. She had mentioned Pépé’s recent death to Ed the night they had spent drinking together in Phoenix, but not the circumstances.
“Sorry,” she mumbled.
“It’s okay, honey,” said Ed. “You’re right to be careful. Pretty girl like you. Big ole ugly Chevy salesman you barely know. And this is a little weird, our meeting down here like this. Tell you what …”
Ed reached into his back pocket a took out a fat wallet. He extracted a business card and passed it to Emma.
“ … if you’re feeling nervous, you call Mamma at the lot. Now she might not be the most impartial person in the world, but she’s honest as an apple. Honest Big Muriel, they call her. She might try to sell you a Chevy, but she ain’t gonna lie to you about me.”
“It’s all right, Ed,” said Emma, uncomfortable. “I’m sure you’re telling the truth.”
“No, no, no,” said Ed. “If you have any doubts, you call Big Muriel. She knows all about the psychiatrist, she’ll set you straight. Now you put that card in your pocket, you hear?”
Emma slid his business card in the pocket of her blouse.
“Look,” said Ed, making as serious a face as Emma had ever seen him manage. “This obviously isn’t a good time for us to get caught up. How ’bout you having dinner with me tonight?”
“Thanks, but I’m kind of tired.”
“I’m really not trying to press my attentions on you, Emma honey, I swear to God. I’m just a long way from home, and it’s nice to find a friend.”
“Look, Ed …”
“You’re a long from home, too, you know. Maybe you could use a friend, too. So how ‘bout lunch tomorrow? I’m not seeing Dr. Jose until three o’clock. What do you say?”
“I don’t know,” said Emma.
“Dinner tomorrow, then. Please, Emma honey? You don’t want to ruin my self-confidence, do you? How am I ever going to find that little lady of my dreams if I have to go through life knowing that you think I’m some kind of nut?”
“All right.” Emma laughed, shaking her head. “I’ll have dinner with you.”
“Great,” said Ed. “Why don’t you meet me in the hotel restaurant at seven? The food’s pretty good here, they tell me.”
“Fine,” said Emma. “Maybe I’ll go upstairs now, if you don’t mind. I am a little tired.”
“Sure. Tomorrow night, remember.”
“I’ll remember.”
Big Ed was on his feet before Emma was, holding her chair, waving away the pesos she offered to pay for her drink.
Back in her room Emma sat down on the bed and reached into her pocket. Ed’s business card was baby-blue with the Chevy logo in black superimposed over the image of a car in white. The address and phone number for Buena Vista Motors was in Phoenix. Ed had given her a card just like it when they had met the first time. She had left that one back at the house in San Francisco. The house she would never see again.
Emma picked up the telephone, glanced at the instruction card for phoning the United States, and began dialing the number for Buena Vista Motors. Then she hung up.
If Ed had given her a card with a phone number and encouraged her to call, there surely would be someone who would answer, someone who would say that she had reached Buena Vista Motors. Calling would tell Emma nothing: certainly Big Ed’s mother—or someone claiming to be—would give him a good reference.
Emma picked up the phone again and dialed international information for Phoenix.
“Do you have a listing for Buena Vista Motors in Phoenix?” she asked.
After a moment, a electronic voice responded with the phone number, which matched the number printed on Big Ed’s business card.
Emma hung up the phone, walked to the window and looked out at the ocean. All her life she had looked out over an ocean, but the Pacific off San Francisco was usually cold and choppy and austere. Here the part of the Atlantic that cradled the Caribbean islands seemed warm, calm, benevolent. Her grandfather’s ashes rested in the ocean back home. A golden dragon had emerged from the placid waters here, waters that could also rear up in a hurricane and destroy everything in their path.
There really was such a thing as coincidence, Emma knew. There were such things as synchronicity and fate as well. If Big Ed wasn’t who and what he said he was, then he had gone to a great deal of trouble. The letter. The photograph. The directory listing for Buena Vista Motors. And who could make up a name like Dr. Jose Jacinto Gautreau-Godoy? Ed’s explanation was all very reasonable.
Only Emma didn’t believe it.
Emma dialed international information again and got phone numbers for five other Chevrolet dealers in Phoenix. No one at the first four numbers was familiar with Buena Vista Motors or any Garalacheks, big or otherwise. At the fifth number she reached Marv Hopperman.
“I’m not one of those car dealers who needs all kinds of gimmicks, Miss Passant,” he said in a smooth
drawl. “I don’t have to tell folks I’m Mighty Marv or Honest Marvin or Marv-who’s-going-to-come-to-your-house-and-barbecue-a-steer. No, ma’am. I’ve just been in the business of selling good cars to good people since 1969, and I will tell you for a fact that this Garalachek fella is pulling your leg. I’m the biggest Chevy dealer in Phoenix and I know all the others, I promise you. I never heard of this Buena Vista Motors. Where is it supposed to be located?”
“At 15983 Alameda Boulevard,” said Emma weakly, looking at Big Ed’s business card.
“Well, there you have it. The fifteen-thousand block of Alameda is right around the corner from here. Vince Capaletti is the only car dealer anywhere near there—sells Ford Lincoln Mercury—and he’s half a mile up the road. Now what kind of vehicle are you interested in, Miss Passant? Maybe I can help you out.”
Emma freed herself from the sales pitch and hung up the phone. The next instant she was digging through drawers, frantically throwing clothes into her suitcase. Maybe there was some good explanation for there being no Buena Vista Motors in Phoenix, for Ed Garalachek turning up in San Marcos. Emma had no intention of sticking around to find out what it was, however. She had to get out of there. Now.
It was only after Emma had packed that she stopped, sat on her knees, forced herself to breathe slowly and listen to her head, not her racing heart.
The Girl Who Remembered the Snow Page 20