"Uh huh."
"You're famous!" Lynn said. "I heard about you from some cops in San Berdoo. I didn't know you were working out here in the desert."
"One more famous episode and I'll be workin a beat in a different desert, that's what they told me."
"Sahara?"
"Uh huh. Everybody jist wants me to handle NRC calls and go home at shift change."
"What're NRC calls?"
"Nobody really cares."
"Try Somalia. They kill their whole police force every Friday or so. Lots a openings for an ambitious lad."
After shaking hands with the police celebrity, Lynn said, "My favorite Dirty Hareem story was when you accidentally turned your Holstein into a convertible with your gauge. I never actually met anyone that cranked one off through his own roof."
"Can I talk to you for a minute?" Nelson asked.
"Sure," Lynn said, noticing that the kid's beer glass was empty. "Wilfred, a flagon on my tab."
When Nelson got his fresh beer they weaved through the crowded barroom to the same corner table where Lynn and Breda had sat. There was an old woman from the Seniors Center sitting there who hadn't left since happy hour. She was bombed, and had returned to 1944, singing "We'll Meet Again," like Vera Lynn.
Ignoring the old doll, who didn't even know they'd joined her private party, Lynn said, "What's up, Nelson? How'd you find me?"
"I called Palm Springs P. D. after I couldn't find you at your DMV address in Cathedral City."
"Yeah, I had to move from Cathedral City after my second divorce. Everybody thinks a single guy in Cat City has to be gay, and I can never remember which ear to wear my gold stud in. Is it left for gay and right for straight, or vice versa?"
Nelson Hareem actually squinted through the smoke to see if Lynn had a pierced ear, making Lynn realize that all the things they said about this goofy kid were probably true.
"Anyways," Nelson said, "the new owner at your old house is the one told me you're a Palm Springs police detective."
"So you went to the P. D.?"
"Yeah, and a detective told me you're on medical leave and nobody knows where you live cause you house-sit for rich people, but everyone knows where to find you after nine o'clock."
"Morning or night?"
"Huh?"
"Never mind. So you found me, Nelson. Why're you running my license plate. Did I get a parking ticket, or what?"
"Well, sir, I'm sorta workin on somethin . . . unofficially."
"Call me Lynn. I'm younger'n I look. Everybody around here is."
"Well, Lynn, I wouldn't like you to tell nobody about this, but I' m workin on a deal on my own time, you might say. It's about the ADW where the smuggler beat up the deputy down at the airport and stole two vehicles?"
"Haven't heard about any smuggler," Lynn said, wondering how the hell his own glass got so empty so fast. He looked suspiciously at the nearly comatose old babe.
"You ain't heard? It was all over the local TV news last night."
"Tell you the truth, I only watch TV when George Bush is giving a speech. I stood real close to the guy once at Palm Springs Airport, and I came to love the suspense of whether he can utter two sentences with the grammar and syntax right."
"It was in the paper this mornin. Even the L. A. Times."
"Got up too early to read the paper. So tell me why you ran me to ground."
"Cause you were down in Painted Canyon today. Unless you sold or loaned somebody your Nash Rambler."
"You're right, I was down there. How'd you know?"
"I was there too. See, the guy I'm . . . the guy the sheriff's department's lookin for was hangin around there, so I was cruisin the canyons most a the day. I wrote down every license number of every parked car I saw, includin yours. Then I had to go back to my beat to handle a couple calls. When I went to Painted Canyon again your car was gone. A bunch a people in a Winnebago said they saw a guy park the Rambler and go for a hike. Musta been you, right? I ran your license number and got your old address in Cathedral City."
"You sure went to a lotta trouble, Nelson," Lynn said.
"Cause the people in the Winnebago told me they also saw a man and woman in a Range Rover go into Painted Canyon and drive back out with a second man! When they told me that, I drove all around the canyon but there's no abandoned car in there. So to me it meant the Range Rover picked somebody up. Unless it was you he picked up?"
Lynn Cutter gawked at the carrot-top cop like he'd just found Jimmy Hoffa's pinkie ring in Ivana Trump's hair, while the old babe at their table segued into "Embraceable You," like Helen O'Connell.
"Nah, couldn't be," Lynn said, shaking his head. "Couldn't be." "What?"