Chapter 18
Darwin heard it first and let go with a shrill
squawk
.
Fletcher turned to see what it was and couldn’t believe his eyes when Frankie Desouza’s pearl-white Escalade rolled past the main house and pulled up directly in front of the pond.
What the hell was he doing here? And how did he get past the gate?
Then he remembered he’d never gotten around to putting a lock on it.
The doors of the Escalade winged open, and Frankie and his driver climbed out. They walked around the SUV and approached the pond, both of them looking slick and out-of-place in the open air setting.
Frankie, sweating in the afternoon heat, was dressed in a Hawaiian shirt with a bamboo motif, linen pants, and calfskin loafers. Frankie’s driver, an ex-Vegas bouncer, wore a shiny designer T-shirt, knife-creased slacks, and black patent loafers with little gold bars across the vamp for a touch of class.
Yeah, right
.
The driver’s neck and arms were laced with tattoos—
tats
, he probably called them—that presumably illustrated the story of his pathetic life. He could’ve saved a bundle if he’d just had DUMBASS stitched across his forehead. As if that weren’t enough, the guy’s name was actually
Vinny
. Vinny Carpito. He was a walking, talking, 250-pound cliché that stood six feet tall and looked desperately short on IQ.
“What happened, professor? You get drunk and fall in?” Frankie said, motioning to the bottle of scotch.
That caused Vinny to burst out laughing.
Fucking Frankie, what a ball-buster
.
Fletcher swam forward and gripped the side of the reservoir. “What the hell are you doing here, Desouza? This is private property.”
“Don’t you know it’s rude to answer a question with a question?” Frankie glanced at Vinny. “I think the professor
is
drunk.”
“What would
you
know about manners? You’re a two-bit crook.”
“Now, now. Let’s not get personal, professor.”
“Oh, sure… let’s not get personal,” Fletcher said, smoothing a hand across his scalp. “
Now get the fuck off my land. Nothing personal
.”
“Alright, okay professor, we’re going to leave—but there’s some business to take care of first.” Frankie went to the SUV and put a hand on the door. “Got the papers right here in the car.”
Chapter 19
Fletcher boosted himself up and out of the pond, stripped off his T-shirt, wrung it out, and looped it over a shoulder. “I’m not selling, Desouza. Never. You and your slippery partners will never
ever
get your hands on this piece of land.”
“This is a new offer,” Frankie said, holding up the contract. “We sweetened the pot. We’re going to guarantee you another million bucks on the back end.” Frankie smiled through a bank of unnaturally white teeth. “Be just like winning the lottery, professor.”
“You see the gate, Desouza? Huh? Or maybe it’s that your boy doesn’t read so good?” He hooked a thumb at Vinny. “What about it, Desouza? Can your ape here say his a-b-c’s?”
Rage swept across Vinny’s face. He took a step toward Fletcher.
Frankie reached out, stopping him with a hand. “Let it drop, Vinny.” He looked at Fletcher and said, “The gate? Yeah, sure, we saw it.” He gave Vinny a wink. “Didn’t we, Vin?”
“Sure did, boss,” said Vinny, working hard to regain his cool.
“Very unfriendly of you, professor. And you never return my calls. So what am I gonna do? I gotta come all the way out here and visit you in this…” Frankie cast his eyes about, finally letting them come to rest on the main house. “In this
shithole
.”
“That’s it, Desouza. I’ve had enough of your crap,” Fletcher said, and marched towards the house. “I’m calling the sheriff.”
“You mean,
Sheriff Templeton?
”
That stopped him in his tracks. He looked at Desouza. “Who else?”
“Bought him breakfast just this morning,” Frankie answered, enjoying the look of surprise on Fletcher’s face. “That old boy sure loves his biscuits and gravy. You know, I think the only thing Dale Templeton likes to do better than fill that hog belly of his is play high-stakes poker.”
Fletcher’s face fell, suddenly understanding. “
You
and Templeton?”
“Like this,” Frankie laughed, holding up a hand with crossed fingers. “In fact, I’m helping Sheriff Templeton out with a—how should I put it—
personal
problem.”
“You?
You’re
helping the sheriff?”
Frankie gripped the front of his shirt, pumping it in and out, trying to coax a little air across his chest. “Oh yeah… seems the sheriff’s into a couple of associates of mine for thirty grand. Like I said, old Dale loves his Texas hold ‘em. And professor, that’s a lot of doughnuts for a public servant to come up with.”
“The bum is a degenerate gambler,” Vinny added, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Spitting on his badge.”
“Now, now, Vinny. Take it easy on the sheriff. Besides, we don’t say ‘degenerate gambler’ anymore. We say—he’s got a
disease
. It’s just like the guy who drinks too much. He’s not a drunk, or an alcoholic—he’s got a
disease
. He can’t help it. It’s not his fault. No one’s to blame for anything anymore. Isn’t that right, professor?” Frankie laughed, adding, “
What a racket.
”
“Well, trespassing sure as hell isn’t a disease.”
“Ha! Very funny. You got me there, professor. But hey, just give the touchy-feely crowd time—and they’ll work some wiggle room into that, too. Wait, I know—I’m not trespassing—I’m boundary challenged.” Frankie laughed at his cleverness and pumped his shirt again. “Anyway, I decided to help the sheriff out with his problem—and wouldn’t you know it—he’s agreed to come on board with the casino project. You know, to help smooth things with the locals.”
“You mean, help coerce citizens off their land.”
“You’re on fire today, professor.” Frankie watched Fletcher as he crossed the porch and entered the house. Then he motioned for Vinny to go around back.
Chapter 20
Fletcher came out of the house with a 12-gage Remington pump, stepped off the porch, leveled the shotgun at Desouza, and racked the pump, jacking a shell into the chamber.
Frankie stared at the shotgun. He held his hands up, but you could tell he thought it was some joke.
“You a stone cold killer, professor?”
Fletcher sniffed, jerked the barrel a couple of inches to the right, and pulled the trigger. The sand next to Desouza’s feet exploded, showering his gleaming loafers with dirt and sand.
A new look bloomed on Frankie’s face.
A look of respect
.
Fletcher racked the pump. “Now get the hell off my property, Desouza. If I ever see you here again, I’m going to just start shooting and tell everyone it was self-defense.”
“Sure, sure, professor,” said Frankie, the amber draining back into his olive complexion. “We’ll just see what the
sheriff
has to say about that.”
By the time Fletcher saw him, it was too late. All of Vinny’s 250 pounds hammered into his right side, knocking the shotgun loose and sending both men tumbling to the ground.
Fletcher’s legs were pinned, but when Vinny loosened his grip to go for his arms, Fletcher twisted, thrusting one leg up like a piston and driving his knee into Vinny’s chin with a snapping
thud
. Fletcher grabbed for the shotgun, just as—
Darwin swooped down from above, raked Vinny’s skull with his claws, then shot straight up, disappearing into the sun with a loud
squawk
. That gave Fletcher just the opening he needed to sweep the shotgun around and point it at Vinny’s chest. He dropped his finger to the trigger, and—
A shot rang out
.
A nine millimeter slug slammed into Fletcher’s neck, tearing out a piece of his throat—and instantly killing him.
Still stunned from the blow to his chin, Vinny staggered to his feet, looked over, and saw Frankie pointing his Glock. Then he watched as a curl of smoke looped out of the barrel and vanished in the thin desert air.
“What the hell, boss? What the hell just happened?”
“I just saved your neck is what happened.”
“Jesus,” said Vinny, staring at the pool of blood around Fletcher’s head. “What are we gonna do now?”
“
We’re
not going to do anything,” said Frankie, walking over to Vinny. “Sheriff Templeton will take care of everything.”
“The sheriff?”
“That’s right, the sheriff. Now give me your hand.”
Vinny reluctantly held out his hand and watched as Frankie placed the Glock in his palm. “Okay, grip it like you just fired it.”
Vinny did what he was told, being sure to position his finger across the trigger.
“It was a simple case of self-defense. Fletcher came at you with the shotgun. He fired. He missed. The shot went wide. You had no choice but to protect yourself—and returned fire.”
“But, but…
it was you
,” Vinny protested.
“
But what?
” challenged Frankie.
Vinny stared at the Glock with a look of defeat. “Nothing,” he mumbled.
Frankie rolled Fletcher onto his back. “Hand me the shotgun.”
“What for?” Vinny said, a nervous edge to his voice. Maybe Frankie was about to kill him.
“Just fucking do it!”
“Yeah, sure boss.” Vinny retrieved the shotgun and handed it to Frankie, who gripped it with his handkerchief, wiped Vinny’s fingerprints off the barrel, and placed it on Fletcher’s chest, like he’d just fired it.
Suddenly there was a strange sound in the air.
Like a high-pitched whistle
, thought Vinny.
The kind birddogs obey
. He looked up, searching the sky.
But it wasn’t a dog whistle. It was wings stressed to the limit of their aerodynamic capabilities.
A macaw’s wings.
Darwin streaked down from above like a bullet shot at hell.
A moment later—feathers exploded in Vinny’s face, lava-red and fireball-orange. Claws tore at his skull, then Darwin flapped his wings to regain altitude and banked away, disappearing behind the lath house.
“Son of a bitch!” Vinny grabbed the top of his head. “I’m gonna
kill
that fucking bird!” Then he took off in the direction of the lath house.
Chapter 21
Frankie studied his handiwork and decided it was good enough. Then he realized his hands were covered with blood. Fletcher’s blood.
Shit
.
He tried to clean them with his handkerchief—but there was too much blood, and his fingers were starting to stick together.
After a couple more wipes, he walked over to the reservoir. He was about to climb up and wash his hands, but stopped when he saw the tickle of water flowing from the drainpipe at the base of the pond.
Frankie crouched, studied the pipe, and then spun the wheel atop the valve. Seconds later, he had a steady stream of water to wash in.
After his hands were free from all traces of blood, he stood and called out to Vinny. “Vinny! Let’s roll.” Frankie bent to turn off the water, then thought to himself,
Fuck it
, and walked back to the SUV.
* * *
Vinny stood in the nursery doorway staring at the funny-looking plant that almost seemed to be moving. No, vibrating.
Weird
. He’d never seen anything like it.
He entered for a closer look, then froze when he heard Frankie calling him.
“Vinny!” Frankie’s impatient voice echoed across the compound.
“
Shit
,” mouthed Vinny. As he turned to go, he saw a flat of ten little pots, each with a clipping of the funny-looking plant.
He had to have one
.
Vinny grabbed a pot and held it up to his eyes, studying the creeper’s leaves and razor-sharp thorns.
Snakeskin
, is what Vinny thought when he looked at the leaves.
Cool
.
Outside, Frankie dusted sand off one of his loafers, his foot propped on the Escalade’s bumper.
Fucking desert, he thought to himself
.
“Jesus!” Vinny said, approaching Frankie. “That’s a huge fucking bug!”
“What?” said Frankie, pulling his foot off the bumper, a confused look on his face.
“Look.” Vinny pointed to one of Frankie’s sleeves.
Frankie glanced down at his arm and almost jumped out of his skin when he saw the four-inch-long grasshopper that was sizing up one of the faux bamboo shoots printed on his sleeve.
“Fuck me!” Frankie yelled, knocking the grasshopper off his shirt with a downward karate chop. “That’s the biggest fucking grasshopper I’ve ever seen!”
He raised a foot—and just as he was about to squash the grasshopper, it buzzed away, disappearing over the top of the reservoir. “Did you see the size of that thing?” said Frankie, still a little rattled.
“You should’ve seen your face, boss…” Vinny shook his head and laughed.
Frankie was about to tell him to go fuck himself when he noticed the small pot in Vinny’s hand. “What the hell is that?” he said, pointing at the creeper vine, erasing the smirk off Vinny’s face.
“It’s a souvenir,” Vinny said, raising the creeper. “I’m going to plant it—see if it grows. They look really cool when they’re big.”
“What the fuck do you know from plants?”
“I don’t know…” he mumbled. “They just look cool.”
“
Jesus
.” Frankie shook his head, stepped around the Escalade, and yanked open the door. “Come on, Martha Stewart, let’s go see the sheriff.”
Chapter 22
Sam was at the counter drinking coffee in Nguyen’s Place—a combination dry goods store and grill. It was the place you came to get your mail, or buy a box of nails, or have a cup of coffee and wedge of apple pie—or maybe catch up on the latest Furnace Valley gossip over a couple of beers.
It was early morning at Nguyen’s, and the whole place smelled of freshly brewed coffee, sizzling bacon, and crispy waffles.
Other than Nguyen’s Place, downtown Furnace Valley consisted of a garage and two dozen weather-beaten buildings sprinkled along a dirt road, most of them only occupied in the wintertime. Since summer was almost here, the town was mostly empty now. Someone with a real sense of humor had lined the boardwalk with a series of hitching posts—as if a posse of cowboys might ride up any minute and stop for a shot of whiskey.
Out here, in the middle of the desert—a caravan of camels would be more likely.
Tommy Nguyen grabbed the coffeepot, leaned across the counter, topped off Sam’s cup and asked, “Hey Sam, how about some breakfast? Carla’s making her famous blueberry waffles this morning.”
“Blueberry waffles?” Sam took a sip of coffee. “Can’t say no to that.”
Tommy flashed a big smile. Everyone liked Tommy’s smile. Then he called back to the grill. “You hear that, Carla?”
“Yeah baby, I heard,” said Carla, coming out of the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron. Carla was short and round, the polar opposite of Tommy’s willowy hundred and forty-five pounds. “You want bacon and eggs with that, Sam?”
“Tell you what, if Tommy helps load my irrigation line, I’ll take the whole caboodle, plus a glass of orange juice.”
“What do you think, baby?” said Carla, looking at Tommy. “You want to help him?” Carla adored Tommy. They met thirty years ago in Los Angeles, and they’d barely spent a day apart since.
“Of course I’ll help Sam!” answered Tommy in a clipped, excited voice. “I always help the customer.”
“Well then, bring it on, Carla,” Sam said with an exaggerated wave of his hand.
Tran “Tommy” Nguyen had fled Vietnam in the late seventies and had come to America as one of the boat people. After arriving, he made his way to California and quickly melted into Los Angeles’s Little Saigon.
Tommy Nguyen’s people were farmers. He’d been raised on the edge of a rice paddy. The need to be a part of the land was in his DNA. It was etched in his soul. Living in Los Angeles, he’d longed for the lush hills and exotic mist-filled valleys of his homeland.
So, whenever Tommy had a free weekend, he wandered inland, soaking up California’s wide-open spaces, and in particular its deserts. He was fascinated by them.
So much of nothing
. And yet they brought him a profound sense of peace, like a good dream. To Tommy, the desert was a place where a troubled past could be buried by the sand and wind and finally be forgotten.
Sam and Tommy were placing the last of the irrigation line in the back of Sam’s 4x4 pickup when a loud backfire caused both men to start and jerk their heads toward the street. A moment later they watched as Rufus Smoot’s battered Dodge Dart rolled up in front of Nguyen’s place and parked next to a shiny new Jeep Cherokee. There was another loud
bang
, then the engine stopped.
Rufus climbed out and looked at the steam billowing from the sedan’s hood. There was a sudden hissing sound, then a geyser exploded out of the Dart’s grill, spraying a sheet of scalding water across the right side of the Cherokee.
“Aww, come on! No! Rufus—you’re getting water all over my Jeep!” yelled Tommy, as he ran over to inspect the damage.
Rufus Smoot—self-proclaimed water witch and erstwhile prospector—scratched his rump, looped his thumbs through the straps of his Carhartt coveralls, and then shrugged apologetically at Nguyen.
After the thermal eruption had ceased, Tommy double-timed it to the back of the store, and—moments later emerged pushing a gas-powered washer, rolling it up next to his Jeep. “Shoot, Rufus, when you gonna fix that radiator?”
Rufus thought about that. He rubbed his neck, pursed his lips, then pointed to a redwood tub mounted on slanting stilts. “Same day you fix that water tower, Nguyen.”
“Sam!” Carla yelled, stepping onto the porch. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
Sam waved, then motioned he was coming. “Be right there, Carla.”
Carla turned to go inside, then saw Rufus scratching his rump and looking at the hood of his car. “Hey, Rufus… I got your bowl of chili and a chocolate sundae all ready to go.”
Breakfast!
He’d almost forgotten, distracted by the car’s exploding radiator. Rufus was suddenly all business as he hitched up his coveralls and came trotting towards the grill.
“I’m going to have a go at them facilities first, ma’am,” said Rufus, as he slipped past Carla and entered the store.
“I swear Rufus, I think you come here more for the indoor plumbing than my home cooking.”
“I’m not one to ignore nature’s call,” Rufus said as he yanked open the restroom door.
“Or a soft roll of toilet paper,” laughed Tommy, stepping up to Carla.