Shadows of Death Page 4

  Shafts of sunlight, swimming with bright specks of dust, angled through the cracks in the wall, reminding Frank of the way the light slanted through the stained glass windows at Sacred Heart when he attended mass with his mother, so long ago.

  The bleating of the goats filled the hot afternoon air. Tucker half knelt against the side of the stall, stroking the spiky coat along the burro’s neck with the back of his fingers. In here, in this shed filled with the acrid smells of life, Tucker’s riddle seemed less complicated. Frank tried to straighten up and bumped his head. The two of them made their way to the low door and emerged blinking into the bright sunlight.

  “When did you find it?” Frank gestured over his shoulder at the goat shed. They sat cross-legged on the porch boards. Jack lay on his side against the aluminum siding, panting in the heat.

  “Day after yesterday.”

  Frank thought about that, his smooth features drawn into a frown. “That’s today, Mr. Tucker.” He detected a disturbance in the facial hair that might signal a smile. Frank studied Tucker’s head. For all the world it looked like a bush with eyes. The bush nodded. “Today?”

  “Tried to catch him yesterday. This morning he was too worn out to run. He belonged to the one you killed.” The blue eye glittered. “It’s okay. She was shot up. I know.” He turned away and looked out across the valley.

  Frank wondered how Tucker knew he had to shoot the downed burro. Was he watching from somewhere? “I couldn’t catch it.” He smiled to himself. “Besides, I didn’t have a goat.”

  “It would have probably died.” Tucker spat into the dirt, creating another legless bug.

  Frank sighed. He was probably right. The wild horse and burro adoption program wasn’t perfect, but the BLM did its best.

  “So you didn’t see anyone, any vehicles?”

  “Nope. Already told you that.” He turned to look directly at Frank. “Damned abominations. They shall be struck down with fire and sword.” The blue eye flashed from under lowered lids. Killing burros was one of the things that angered Tucker. Frank was glad he wasn’t on the receiving end of the hermit’s rage.

  “There are people who agree with you, Mr. Tucker. A couple guys were killed up on the plateau, day before yesterday, that’s two days ago.” He smiled without mirth. “You know about that?”

  Tucker nodded. “Couldn’t miss it with all the cars and helicopters and planes.”

  “You don’t miss much, Mr. Tucker.”

  “Don’t miss much,” the bush replied.

  “Killing people is murder, Mr. Tucker, even if they’re assholes. I don’t need to tell you that.” The words sounded hollow in Frank’s head. “You know, some people think about you and your shotgun scaring folks, and it makes them nervous.”

  “You one of them?”

  A faint breeze brushed against Frank’s cheek. “No, it’s not me that’s nervous, Mr. Tucker.”

  Tucker’s face wore the thousand-yard stare. “Then maybe the rest of them ought to read my sign.” He looked at Frank. “Mind their own business and keep outta mine.” The blue eye glittered.

  “If you see anyone shooting up the countryside, I want to know about it—before we wind up with more killings.” There was something about the way Tucker turned away that made Frank uneasy.

  6

  •

  Eddie Laguna had acquired new teeth, and they were displayed in their bright white glory with the pride of ownership bestowed on pinky rings, pocket watches, and new automobiles. The new teeth were accompanied by a sexy girl, his client—Eddie had clients—a benefit of his friendship with Frank Flynn of the Bureau of Land Management, who was sitting at the end of the bar chatting with Linda Reyes.

  Eddie’s new teeth flashed in the smoky dimness of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club, the only watering hole in the not quite a ghost town of Red Mountain, in the middle of the Mojave Desert. It was Frank’s home away from home. The conviviality of the owners, Jack Collins, Bill Jerome, and Ben Shaw, never failed to lift him from the doldrums of gloomy self-reflection.

  “Hey, Eddie, looking good, my man.” Ben Shaw’s rough voice reverberated across the room. Shaw was one of the not-so-silent partners in the resurrection of the turn-of-the-century house of ill repute, bar, and hangout for miners and toughs. The three lifelong pals had pooled their money, purchased the ramshackle bar, and transformed it into a haven for locals and a passing curiosity for tourists making the trek across the Mojave Desert on Highway 395 in air-conditioned SUVs.

  “Howdy, Ben.” Eddie nodded, aware that Shaw’s greeting was only the opening salvo in an attempt to get under Eddie’s skin.

  A new straw hat sat low over Eddie’s forehead. A tiny silver bell, tied with rawhide, decorated the end knot of his jet black ponytail and tinkled faintly when he moved his head. It invited trouble, but Eddie’s life had been filled with trouble.

  “What’ll it be, Eddie?” Linda Reyes was tending bar, her part-time employment when she wasn’t working for the local newspaper, the InyoKern Courier. She gave Eddie a radiant smile, her amused hazel eyes taking in his getup. A small frown creased her forehead as she sized up Eddie’s companion; trouble—trouble, trouble, right here in Red Mountain.

  “Oh, uh, the usual,” Eddie said, trying to sound casual. He turned to the waiflike creature perched next to him, legs dangling down into strapless sandals. “How about you, Miss Flowers? Would you like something to drink?”

  “Tequila and grapefruit juice. That’d be just fine.” She smiled up at Eddie from under a fall of thick blond hair that seemed to require frequent tossing of the head. “Lots of ice, please, sweetie,” she said to Linda, her gaze fixed on her companion.

  “I could use another beer too, sweetie,” Frank said with a straight face.

  Eddie’s companion had a surprisingly husky voice for such a small person. She was tiny, maybe five feet, maybe not, and tricked out as the belle of Le Court Trailer. Loose-fitting lavender shorts exposed flashes of white thigh. A braless halter top of the same hue, tied up at the small of her back and the nape of her neck with bits of cloth, invited an exploratory tug.

  Linda splashed Jose Cuervo into a sparkling glass and topped it off with grapefruit juice. “Here you are, sweetie.” Linda slopped a little as she put the drink in front of the blond tart—definitely a tart—hoping the wet might find its way onto the purple handkerchief masquerading as a top. She turned to Eddie. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Ah, yeah—sure. Linda, this here is Cecilia Flowers. I’m doing some guide work for her.”

  “I’m Linda Reyes, Eddie’s pal.” Linda’s smile was predatory.

  “Hi, Linda. Call me Cece, all my friends do.” She met Linda’s gaze, her china blue eyes intelligent and a trifle hard.

  “Okay, Cece.” Linda drew a breath. “Good to meet a friend of Eddie’s. Where’s he taking you, up in the mountains or out in the desert?”

  “I have some mining property, but I’ve never really been in the desert before, so I thought I’d hire a guide so I could find my way around.”

  “Well, you picked the right guy. Eddie’s the best.” Linda felt herself relenting a bit. Eddie had pressed the collar and button line of his denim shirt, a first, and there was the new straw hat and the new teeth. She tried not to look at the teeth.

  Eddie had come into a bit of cash a few months back and spent some of it on much needed dental work, but he’d cheaped out on the teeth. He’d been getting by on discolored stumps, which weren’t a social asset, since his breath could kill flies at three feet. His new teeth were too white and too big, which caused his upper lip to hang up, giving him a periodic snarl. Linda smiled, wondering how Frank had reacted to the teeth. It would’ve been a test of character, candor versus tact.

  “It was Frank who set me up with Cece.” Eddie lacked tact.

  “Oh, and how’s that?” The sharpness of Linda’s reply took Eddie off guard.

  “Well, that is, he, uh, recommended me.” Eddie glance
d at Frank for confirmation.

  “Oh, is that right? I didn’t know the BLM was in the guide business.” Linda’s voice was icy.

  Cece cut in. “Mr. Flynn said he couldn’t officially recommend anyone for guide service, but that Mr. Laguna here knew the desert well, and sometimes took on clients. So I called Mr. Laguna—Eddie. We’ve made an arrangement.” She rested a tiny white hand on Eddie’s brown one.

  “That’s about it,” Frank said. He grinned at Linda, shaking his head.

  “Well, as I said, Eddie’s the best.” Linda turned to pick up a couple of mugs waiting for refills on the polished mahogany bar. Mr. Laguna. Eddie must be eating that up.

  Eddie lowered his voice. “Miss Flowers is trying to locate a mine, used to be in the family. I’m helping her out.” He winked his left eye, revealing a white scar across his eyelid, a momentary flash of lightning in a brown sky.

  Linda gave Cece a knowing smile. “See those guys sitting back there against the wall? They collect lost mine stories, know ’em all.” She pointed her chin toward three time-weathered characters sitting against the wall in tall, rickety, observer chairs watching a game of pool. “The one with beer in his mustache is my dad, the tall stringy one is Bill Jerome, and the one with the pipe, wearing the hat, is Ben Shaw.” She moved down the bar, giving an extra swish to her hips. Damn! Why in the hell am I swinging my ass at Eddie to impress a twit? she wondered.

  “Those are the guys I was telling you about.” Eddie nodded at the far wall. “They’re always out in the hills looking around at old mines and stuff.”

  Cece leaned into Eddie, an unfettered breast resting against his forearm. “You think they might be interested in investing?”

  Eddie tried to concentrate on Cece’s words. “We got to begin somewhere.” He slid off the bar stool. “These guys, they like to talk, especially to a pretty woman—like you are.” He grinned, pleased with his compliment. “I’ll be right back.” She watched as he rolled across the room on bandy legs, bent from rickets, not mustangs.

  The grizzled faces turned in Eddie’s direction.

  “Nice-looking lady you’re with.” Shaw’s remark was loaded with undisguised curiosity.

  “Un, yeah, real nice person, too.”

  Shaw was a professional thorn, ever ready to probe and poke for soft spots. “Nothing the matter with squiring around a pretty woman, Eddie.” He winked and laid a finger beside his nose. Bill Jerome let a thin smile break across his craggy face.

  Eddie glared at Shaw. “I’m not squiring her around. She’s a client.” He wasn’t sure what “squiring” meant.

  “A client, oh yeah that’s right, I forget you’re in bidness. Doing a little taxidermy work for her?” Eddie was a first-class taxidermist. His shop was his garage. No boss, no taxes, no interference. Eddie Laguna was pretty close to self-sufficient. “Some serious mounting?” Shaw added.

  The silver bell tinkled as Eddie’s head snapped around. “Guide work! Guess you don’t hear so good with all that hair in your ears.”

  Jack Collins frowned at Shaw, who was fairly bursting with gleeful malice. “Let the man talk, Ben.”

  Collins turned to Eddie. “Never mind this horse’s ass. He’s never happy unless he’s under someone’s skin. Just happens to be you today.” Collins waited, nodding encouragement.

  Eddie shifted his eyes from side to side. “Well, Miss Flowers owns an old mine, but she’s never seen it. So I’m helping her to find it.”

  Shaw rolled his eyes, making audible sucking sounds. Jerome’s mouth turned down at the corners, and he gave the piece of granite he wore for a head a nearly imperceptible shake.

  “Does this mine have a name?” Collins inquired.

  “The New Hope Mine, I think she said.”

  Eddie glanced back to where Cece sat with elbows on the bar, chatting with Frank Flynn, while Linda glowered from behind the bar. “I’ll ask her.” He paused in distraction. “Wait, you talk to her, okay?”

  “Old Jack gets the nod, huh?” Shaw grinned. “I’d keep my eye on him if I were you.”

  “Well, you ain’t me, are you?” Eddie shot Shaw a hard look.

  Eddie brightened as he and Jack Collins approached where Cece sat in fragile splendor. “Jack, this here is Cecilia Flowers.”

  Linda moved down the bar and rested her elbows in front of Frank.

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss Flowers.” Collins wasn’t immune to female charms, but he’d been around the track a few more times than Eddie Laguna, who’d never been to Los Angeles, a couple hundred miles to the south. He pulled absently at his mustache. The woman’s a force of nature, he thought. He cocked his head to one side; their eyes met, taking each other’s measure. Cece glanced downward and carefully replaced a dangling sandal on a shapely foot.

  Collins sniffed at the telltale signs of trouble that wafted into the air like pheromones. A blarney smile creased his broad face. “Eddie thinks I may be able to help you locate some misplaced property or at least start you out in the right direction.”

  “Eddie says you know all about mining, Mr. Collins—”

  “Jack.”

  Linda forcibly cleared her throat. Frank made an unsuccessful effort to cover his smirk.

  “Okay, Jack. I just don’t know where to begin.” She reached into her large canvas purse and took out a soiled brown envelope. “I have a letter from my great-granduncle—and a map.”

  “Did he file a claim?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m not sure.”

  Jack tried another tack. “You have any clue as to where it is?” He struggled to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

  “Oh, I don’t know. That’s why I hired Mr. Laguna.” Her small face clouded with frustration. “I’m afraid I don’t have the answers to these questions, Jack. Eddie asked me some of the same things.”

  Collins glanced over at Eddie and shrugged.

  “Show him the ore.”

  “Eddie!” Cece crossed her arms and glowered.

  “Jack’s been to college. He used to be a teacher. And Bill over there knows all about mines and minerals.”

  Cece sighed and rummaged around in her purse and brought out a chunk of pink quartz. She laid it carefully on the bar as if it might have been an egg instead of a rock.

  Jack reached out a thick hand, then hesitated and raised his graying eyebrows.

  Cece nodded. “Sure, go ahead.”

  Jack picked up the quartz and squinted in the dim light. “’Scuse me a minute.” He climbed off the bar stool and pushed through the padded leather door into the sunshine.

  Frank leaned over to Linda, speaking in a hushed voice. “Your dad’s gonna explode if that’s the read McCoy—a dream come true.”

  Linda rolled her eyes.

  Jack came shooting back into the interior of the Joshua Tree Athletic Club. “Well, I’m no expert, but this rock would’ve made Shorty Harris whoop it up and head for town. You can see the gold shining in the sunlight.”

  “Here we go.” Frank laughed.

  7

  •

  Linda sat on the rear platform of Frank’s caboose, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. Wisps of steam lifted into the morning stillness.

  Frank ruffled a newspaper. “Yeah, gold and greed and holes all over the land. Little ones, big ones, and great big ones full of cyanide.” He shivered in the chill. Linda was tucked into one of Frank’s sweatshirts, her feet and legs wrapped in a blanket. The first breeze of the morning brushed strands of dark hair from her forehead.

  The caboose was Frank’s patrimony. It rested on bare ground where his dad and his boozy buddies had run it off the end of the siding before the Southern Pacific had torn up the high line. He had the caboose, his dad’s railroad watch, and his brass Southern Pacific keys. The long key fit the caboose. The short stubby one opened the locks on the sidings and derails. His dad’s Savage .250-3000 was one of the few things that didn’t get hocked during Francis Flynn’s slide into oblivion. It stood in the stora
ge locker under the cupola. A popgun by modern standards (nowadays, everything was a Magnum) but a beautiful piece of craftsmanship.

  His dad’s sun-wrinkled face lit up with filial pride when he discovered that his twelve-year-old son could outshoot him, outshoot most anyone. It was Frank’s ironic gift. His maker had seen fit to make him a crack shot, and he hated killing things. He hated himself when the wounded creatures struggled to get away or fixed him with fear-filled eyes as he came to bring the finality of death. After the army, he never hunted again. His dad had already made that final drop between the boxcars, so there was no one to disappoint.

  Frank looked out over the valley. When the air was clear, he could see Dirty Socks Springs at the south end of Owens Lake, which used to be a real lake before Los Angeles decided to water lawns and fill swimming pools. Once upon a time, steamers carried charcoal over to the smelter at Keeler and returned laden with bars of silver. There were even rumors of sunken treasure. All that was gone now. The city of Los Angeles got the water and the valley dried up. The caboose was a leftover from another time.

  “Whatcha’ thinking, Flynnman?”

  “Need an Alka-Seltzer or a hair of the dog.”

  “Pretty big dog, huh?”

  “Yup.” Closed subject.

  After Frank’s mother died, the elder Flynn took to drink in a serious way. Before her death, it had just been a serious hobby. Right! Frank shook his head in silent protest. The elder Flynn’s wake had lasted three years. Then, coming up out of the town of Mojave on a mile-long freight, he had fallen between the cars. When they found him, he was in three pieces. The funeral service was closed coffin. As Francis Flynn had explained to his son, “When one of those wheels passes over a man, it passes through him. If they could put him back together, he’d be a couple inches shorter.” It was an image still sharp in Frank’s mind.

  His caboose was too close to the mountains to see the whole of the back wall of the eastern Sierra. The mountains thrust up from the floor of the desert, forming a jagged barrier between the rich farmland of the San Joaquin Valley and the arid land of the Owens Valley, the catch basin for the eastern slope. From his platform porch, he could see across the valley to the Inyo Mountains, brown and gray at midday, washed in gold, orange, and deep red before the sun disappeared behind the Sierra and the chill of evening touched the land. It was stark country, dry and sharp, all points and angles.