Guido Battagliano just didn’t like the desert. He was indifferent to it.
But it was different for Fiore Abbatini. The hostile, implacable landscape troubled him in ways he could not define. He was offended by the vast emptiness. It made him feel small and unimportant. And beyond feeling offended, he felt an unnerving unease. As if something ominous were concealed behind a distant ridgeline or crouched in some desiccated, stone-filled dry wash, waiting for an unwary traveler to leave the road.
As he drove, Fiore could see three dust devils spinning across the empty plain below the descending highway. They were all that moved in all the inverted, south-sloping bowl below them. There was not another vehicle anywhere.
After a long drive, a railroad crossing came into sight ahead of them. The crossing gates were down, and a long freight was going by. Beside the highway, just before the crossing, there was an old service station.
Fiore’s voice, when he spoke, seemed unnaturally loud to his ears, but he could stand the silence no longer.
“Jesus. Look at that place. Damn near fallin’ down.”
“No wonder. Been there forever. Check out the old gas pumps. Those are the old hand crank kind with the glass measures on top.”
“Yeah. Haven’t seen those since I was a kid back in Jersey.”
“Pull in.”
“What for? You think that Kiko woman is hidin’ in them junked out cars in the back?”
“No. But I want to be able to tell Eddie and Clemente we checked every place we saw.
You got a better idea?”
Fiore guided the big Chrysler under the overhang.
“Man, I can’t get over them pumps. Still got the flyin' red horse on them.”
They sat in the car for a moment, reluctant to get out of the air conditioning.
“Ah, nobody’s comin’ out. Let’s go inside.”
The instant they got out of the car, they started to sweat. They walked to the steps and climbed to the screened-in porch.
As they did, the caboose cleared the crossing and the crossing gates went up.
Fiore pushed open the screen and they went inside.
A very thin old man, wearing green canvas pants, a green T-shirt and a green, long-billed cap, stepped out of a door behind the counter to meet them.
“Sorry, gents. I didn’t hear your car pull up. Them freight trains makes a lot a noise.
Hep you with anything?”
“We just want to ask you a question,” said Guido as he reached in his jacket and pulled out his private investigator badge and the picture of Kiko.
“We’re private investigators from Las Vegas. We’re lookin’ for this woman.”
“Why?”
Fiore interrupted. “What’s it matter ‘why’. We’re lookin’ for her. Have you seen her?”
Guido gave him a hard look and put his hand on Fiore’s arm before he turned back to the old man.
“Sir, she’s gone missing. She came to Las Vegas a while back and never returned home.”
The man peered at the photo.
“She’s right purty, but shouldn’t you be lookin’ for her in Las Vegas?”
“Believe me, sir, we have. We’ve been to every hotel and motel. She stayed at the Flamingo, but she checked out and never got home.
So now we’re searching the outlying areas to find out if anyone has seen her.”
“Let me ask you men a question. My curiosity has just plumb got the best of me.”
“Go ahead, sir.”
“I never met no private eyes before, but I notice you men is heeled. I thought only private eyes in picture shows carried guns.”
Guido put on a false smile, trying not to be impatient.
“Well sir, you never know what you’re going to run into in this business.”
“That must be it.
Can I ask one more question?”
Guido sighed.
“Ask away.”
“What kind of money you boys make for a job like this?”
“Hey, old man, we’re in a hurry. Just tell us if you seen this bitch.”
The old man dropped his hands off the counter. Something changed in his eyes. They looked like black marbles.
“Don’t think I like your mouth, mister.”
He paused.
“Don’t think I like it at all.
If you was workin’ for this girl’s family, you never would use such a ugly word for her. No, I don’t think you’re workin’ for her family. So even if I’d seen this here girl, I surely wouldn’t tell you.”
Fiore lost it.
“That’s enough from you, pops. You need to learn some manners.”
He started to reach across the counter.
The old man took a step back. As he did, he pulled a short, double-barred shotgun out from beneath the counter. The gun was so old it had exterior hammers.
“This here’s a coach gun, sonny. Ten gauge. It’s old, but it works real good. Both barrels is filled with double aught buckshot. You take one more step toward me or reach for that gun, I’ll splatter your grits all over that screen behind you.”
Fiore laughed. “With that old piece of junk? How do you know it even works.”
The old man cocked both hammers.
“You willin’ to bet your life it don’t?”
“Old timer, I don’t think you’ve got the nerve for it. You might get one of us, but you won’t get us both”
The man smiled over the shotgun.
“Fought in World War One in Belgium and France. Was shelled, shot at, gassed and bored almost to death. Takes more than a low rent gangster such as yourself to scare me.
Now git!”
He motioned with the shotgun.
Fiore started to speak, but Guido held up his hand.
“We’re wastin’ time here. Let’s go.”
He turned and pulled the screen door open and walked outside.
Fiore reluctantly turned and went with him.
The old man followed them to the door. He paused, then pulled it open, keeping the shotgun pointed at them.
“One more thing, boys.”
Guido and Fiore stopped and looked back.
“Next time you lads comb your hair of a mornin’? Leave a little Brylcream in the tube for the next day.”
Guido touched his hand to his head in a limp salute.
“So long, old timer.”
When they were back on the road, Fiore vented his frustration.
“Goddamnit, Guido. We should go back and ice that old fart.”
“What for? It wouldn’t help us find the girl. Forget about it!”
“Well, I don’t like it.”
“No?
Listen, Fiore, if you think about it, it’s pretty funny. An old man with a piece a junk shotgun gettin' the drop on two button men from Chicago.”
Fiore slammed his fist against the dashboard.
“I don’t think it’s right, and I ain’t forgettin’ about it.”
“Well, if you wanna come back, do it on your on time.”
Guido’s voice got hard.
“And from now on, you let me take the lead. Stand around a look tough or somethin’, but don’t talk!
Every time you open your mouth, you say somethin’ stupid and queer the deal.”
By the time they reached Smoke Tree, Fiore’s mood had worsened. Guido knew he was going to have to keep him on a short leash for the rest of the trip.
Goddamn Sicilianos! Couldn’t reason with them.
The first place they checked in Smoke Tree was the 66 Truck Stop Cafe. Guido had Fiore pull around behind the cafe and back the black Chrysler 300 into the deepest corner of the parking lot.
When they got out, Guido said, “Pop the trunk.”
“What for?”
“We’re gonna put our guns in there. In case you hadn’t noticed, guns make people nervous.”
“So what? We want em nervous.”
“Nervous people sometimes call the heat. I don’t want th
at.
And another thing. We’re gonna go with the P.I. thing in this town. We’re just tryin’ to help a worried family find their daughter.
No rough stuff!
In fact, just watch. You might learn somethin’.”
Fiore was defensive. “From you?”
“Listen, chump, was doin’ my first hit when you was still droolin’ your mama’s titty. I been at this a long time. Sometimes, you need muscle, and sometimes, you need somethin’ else.
This is a ‘somethin’ else’ time.
Now, open that trunk. Put your gun in there, and let’s get to it.”
They worked Smoke Tree from one end to the other. The motels, the gas stations, the grocery store, both drug stores, restaurants, the works.
And came up with nothing.
At the south end of town, they came to the place where Highway 95 split off and headed southwest. Fiore pulled to the side of the road while Guido checked the map.
“That road goes to Parker. We’ll hit it later.
We want to stay on 66 and check out Kingman.”
When Fiore pulled back onto 66, they could see the narrow green strip that paralleled both banks of the Colorado River as it flowed east of the highway. The green swath looked out of place against the sere, desert backdrop.
Fifteen miles later, they crossed the bridge over the river and came to a bump in the road called Topock.
They stopped at the tiny diner just beyond the bridge for a late lunch.
Their waitress was a pretty young girl. She looked Italian. Guido gave her the spiel and showed her Kiko’s picture. The girl hadn’t seen Kiko.
Fiore tried to flirt with her. She was obviously repulsed.
After the girl took their order, Guido pointed across the highway and asked, “Where’s that road go?”
“Down to Shorty’s Camp and then on to Catfisherman’s Paradise.”
When they were finished with lunch, Fiore paid the bill and put a ten dollar tip on the counter. The girl left it there and walked away. Fiore picked up the money before he went outside.
They got in the car, waited for a break in traffic, and drove across the highway and down the hill.
Shorty’s Camp was little more than a dock with a couple of boats to rent and a marine gas pump jutting out into a backwater of the river. There was a snack bar next to the dock.
No one there had seen Kiko.
They got back in the car, and Fiore started to drive back up the hill toward the highway.
“Where you goin’?”
“Kingman.”
“The girl at the diner said there’s another place down the road.”
“Come on, Guido, they ain’t seen the Kiko broad here. She ain’t gonna pop up down the road in the bushes next to this swamp.”
“Lemme ask you again: you wanna tell Eddie we skipped a place?”
Fiore grumbled, but he turned the car back down the hill.
Catfisherman’s Paradise turned out to be some picnic tables and a combination bait shop and grocery store inside a stand of massive, ancient aethel trees.
A bell on the screen door tinkled when they went inside
It was very damp and dark. The room was heavy with moist air pumped out by an ancient swamp cooler. There were cats everywhere. The warped wooden floors smelled of cat pee, wood rot and something Guido couldn’t identify. Flies and mosquitoes hovered in the damp breeze. He slapped at one on his neck. His hand came away bloody.
There were two parallel rows of shelves. They walked down the aisle between them. The top shelves were the only ones with any goods. The one on their right held jars of mayonnaise and mustard and bottles of catsup. Because of the moisture put out by the swamp cooler, most of the labels were sagging off the containers. Haphazardly jumbled next to the jars were piles of various kinds of sardines and potted meat that looked like they had been there for years. Some of the tins were rusty.
The top shelf on their left held a few loaves of white bread. One of the loaves had a transparent cover, and Guido saw a thick coating of mold inside.
On a stool behind the counter at the back of the store sat an immense woman wearing a dirty T-shirt too small to cover her belly. Rolls of fat spread out from under the shirt and overtopped a grimy pair of faded, red pedal pushers that threatened to burst their side seams.
Guido took two bottles of Coke from an ancient, red refrigerator with the Coca Cola label painted in white on the door. He carried them to the counter. It was covered with Styrofoam containers sealed with clear plastic lids. Through the lids he could see various kinds of worms.
Next to the counter was a large tank made of galvanized metal. There were dead minnows floating belly up on top of the water. Guido’s nose told him they had been dead for some time.
He peered into the tank to see if there were any live ones. Crawling around on the bottom of the tank were strange creatures that looked like miniature dragons.
“What the hell are those things walkin’ around down there?”
“Them’s water dogs. Guarandamnteed to catch you a bass. Better’n them minnows, even.
You and your friend gonna do some fishin’?”
“Not today. Just the Cokes will be fine.”
The woman rang up the sale, took his money and gave him his change.
Guido got out the private investigator badge and the photograph of Kiko. He put the photo on the counter.
“My partner and I are private investigators from Las Vegas.”
“The hell you say!
Jeez, I wish’t my Vern was here. He run into Smoke Tree on a errand. He reads them True Detective magazines and them Mike Hammer books all the time. He’s gonna be real disappointed when he finds out he missed you boys.”
“Well, I’m sorry he’s not here. But, can you tell me if you’ve seen this woman?”
The woman picked up the photo. She held it with her immense arms extended, arms so fat she seemed to lack both elbows and wrists. She squinted at it for a moment. Then she reached under the counter and pulled out a pair of glasses. They had greasy, finger-marked lenses.
She turned the picture this way and that, trying to get a better look at it in the dim light. There was black grime under her stubby fingernails.
“Looks like some kinda chink.”
“Yes ma’am. She’s Japanese.”
The woman wiped the picture on her T-shirt before handing it back.
“Mighta smudged it a mite there. Allus fergit to hold them photographs by the edges.”
“Have you seen her?”
“Not hide nor hair.”
“Well, thanks for your time.
Can you tell me what’s farther down this road?”
Guido pointed off to the east.
“Well sir, this here’s the old Gold Road. Was Highway 66 in the olden days. Man, cars come up and down this road back then! Just a steady stream of ’em.
Then they brung the highway down from Kingman t’other way, over there to Yucca. And built a new bridge at Topock.
The traffic through here stopped overnight. One day it was a comin’ through here; the next it warn’t. Killed the bidness here. Just killed it!
Anyways, on up that road is Oatman.”
“What’s Oatman?”
“Ghost town. Used to mine gold there, way, way long time ago. But it run out, and so did the people. Now it’s just old, deserted shacks up in them hills and burros all over the place.”
She leaned toward him and lowered her voice.
“And there’s some strange types squattin’ in some a them shacks.”
She leaned back.
“But the hotel is still open, and the saloon downstairs.”
“There’s a hotel in a ghost town?”
“You never heard of the Oatman Hotel? Why, that place was famous. Clark Gable and Carole Lombard stayed there on their honeymoon. Yessir. That’s God’s truth.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“Y’all gonna drive up there?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“Be careful. Road’s not in good shape. Gum’mint don’t take care of it no more.”
The sun was setting over Topock Slough by the time Guido and Fiore headed up the hill. Stillness had settled over the water. Bats chased bugs above the cattails and the snags of dead trees beside the road. Fish flopped, making concentric rings in the still, dark water. The setting sun cast longer and longer shadows as it dropped. It could have been a scene from prehistoric times. It reminded Guido of the movie, “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”
He resisted the urge to drive faster because the road really was in terrible shape. There were sections where they had to slow to a crawl to keep from damaging the car. It was well after dark when they entered what remained of the main street of Oatman.
They had no trouble finding the hotel, but they had to drive well past it to find a place to park because there were cars and pickup trucks all around the building. As they drove by, country and western music blared into the street.
Before they got out, Guido turned to Fiore.
“We may need the guns here.”
They got out, opened the trunk, took off their blazers and slipped on their shoulder holsters. They put the blazers back on and buttoned them to cover the guns.
They stepped up onto the ancient, raised sidewalk and headed for the hotel. There were hitching posts embedded in the walkway, and some of the sections were made of wood instead of cement. The hillside behind the stores on the opposite side of the street was mostly dark, but here and there weak, yellow light shone through windows.
As they approached the hotel, the music was louder.
“Goddamn shit-kicker, hillbilly ass music. Hate that crap!”
“Hold that thought, Fiore. We need to walk in pissed off to deal with this crowd.”
“I was born pissed off.”
They went inside.
Directly in front of them was a staircase. To the right was a deserted lobby. To the left were swinging doors that led into a bar.
They pushed through the doors.
The band inside was blasting through a rendition of “Alabam.”
A tall, statuesque woman came down the bar to take their order. She was wearing tight, black Levi’s cinched to her waist by a wide, leather belt fastened with a silver buckle the size of a dinner plate. A white, western shirt with mother-of-pearl snap buttons and embroidered flowers was tucked into the pants, and the pants were tucked into tooled leather, high heeled cowboy boots. Around her neck was an ornate, squash-blossom necklace.
Mojave Desert Sanctuary Page 6