Fugitive Nights(18)

Sliding the Wrangler into the parking lot he spotted a deputy he knew, a Latino named Morales who was arriving in his black-and-white patrol car.

"Half-Nelson!" Morales yelled, when Nelson jumped out of his Jeep with his tape deck blasting. "What're you doing here?"

"How about the bald guy, Morales?" Nelson asked, leaning in the window. "Any leads?"

"Yeah, he throws a Mike Tyson left hook and kicks like Uncle Bubba's ten-gauge. And he knows how to hot-wire a car."

"Got a better description yet?"

"Naw. The pilot never saw it coming and the mechanic in the hangar, he didn't pay no attention. Didn't even notice the guy's face. Just has the impression of a husky bald Mexican. We're guessing he's middle-aged, but he might be younger. His fringe hair was black. That's all the plumber saw, black sideburns, bald on top, a Zapata mustache and the nine-millimeter. From a muzzle point of view."

"Nothin else?"

"Yeah, an Indian kid from the reservation saw him take a can a grease from the plumber's truck and smear it in his mouth and nose. An old desert trick. There's a lotta desert down in Mexico so he might know about that kinda stuff. I figure he's halfway to L. A. by now. Or maybe heading back home after things went so bad at the airport. I bet he's stole another car by now. He's a savvy smuggler, that guy. Oh, and he left the deputy's gun in the abandoned truck."

"Why would he do that?"

"Maybe because he had his own gun in the bottom of his flight bag. A bigger 'n better one."

"Are the people at the house where he stole the Ford sure there wasn't a car key in the kitchen or somewhere?"

"Positive. He hot-wired it. The guy's resourceful. I bet that flight bag was packed with several keys a heroin. Be pretty neat to take that guy down, wouldn't it?"

"Yeah!" Nelson Hareem said, and it was a good thing his sergeant couldn't see the little cop's bulging blue lamps.

The deputy said, "He did another desert trick. The kid saw him take out some pocket change to stick in his mouth. An old Indian said it diminishes thirst. Called him a man of the desert."

There was a stand of old tamarisk trees twenty minutes by car from the parking lot where Nelson Hareem was speaking with the deputy before going home to his goldfish. The stolen Ford sedan was parked under the shaggy branches of the tamarisks by a bald man who frightened three migrant workers who'd been camping among the trees, sleeping on a bed of needles.

The campesinos spoke a few words to the man, who answered in their language, and as soon as they saw he was no threat they returned to their campfire. The bald man urinated in a grape vineyard, climbed into the back seat of the Ford, locked his car doors and went to sleep.

The only reason that detectives would learn about all of this was that one of the migrant workers was spending his last night on earth, and his friends would need to talk to the police.



Chapter 5

His two marriages were part of a rags-to-witches story, Lynn Cutter always said. His first wife, Claudia, had spent him into bankruptcy by finding "little frocks" to wear to Palm Springs restaurants frequented by movie stars, millionaires and swarthy guys with "dapper don" haircuts. But when it came to fancy duds his second wife, Teddi, could spend California out of a recession in a day and a half.

His marriage to Claudia had lasted eighteen months. She was a good-looking flight attendant based in L. A. who liked to visit the desert every chance she got. Claudia always stayed at a cozy hotel near the Tennis Club in the days when tennis was tops, when developers there wouldn't dream of doing a hotel, condo or country club without top-drawer tennis facilities. Even Cathedral City-at that time a community of blue-collar folks who serviced the resorts-was pouring a lot of concrete for the sport of strings.

Claudia's favorite hotel was one of the hideaways snuggled up against the mountains. The first time Lynn saw her she was wearing tennis whites, lounging by a pool that reflected a sparkle of sunbeams, framed by a backdrop of mocha desert hillside laced with purple verbena. Enchantment.

He'd decided he had to learn to play tennis for Claudia, so he'd signed up for five lessons a week. Those flat-bellied young pros used to run him down like process servers. He'd go out to the playground as soon as he got off duty and smack balls against a concrete wall until his elbow got so sore he couldn't lift his arm higher than his shoulder. He'd later admitted to his pals that Claudia had him busting more balls than the Gabors, who also lived in Palm Springs, where they got a fleet discount on face-lifts.

Lynn and Claudia had decided against having kids in that her paycheck was urgently needed if they were to live like deposed Iranians. In those days a relative of the shah had visited Palm Springs with her pet peacock and lost it. Lynn was one of the cops assigned to the peacock posse and he'd tracked the bird by listening to its Roseanne Barr screams. Peacock wrangling, that summarized Palm Springs for you, Lynn always said.