"Hey, sure. Why not? When you check into a hospital, you get quizzed about meds. Nobody thinks to ask about your personal firearms."
"Who knows you're there?"
"I'm not sure. It's a small town. I asked the deputy to keep it quiet, but word gets around. Actually, I was feeling secure until I talked to you."
"Good. Stay nervous. I'll get there when I can."
"How will you find me? They're not going to let you roam around up here in the dead of night."
"Don't worry about it. I got ways," he said.
"How will I know it's you and not another one of Tyrone Patty's little friends?"
"Pick a code word."
"Dill pickle."
He laughed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing. That just popped into my head."
"Dill pickle. Around midnight. Be careful with yourself."
After I hung up, I eased out of bed and crept out to the nurses' station, clutching my hospital gown shut with one hand behind my back. Three nurses, a ward clerk, and an aide sat behind the counter. All five looked up at me, eyes straying then to a spot just behind me. I turned. The rookie deputy was sitting on a bench against the wall. Sheepishly, he lifted a hand, a blush creeping up his face.
"You caught me. I'm burnt," he said. "I thought maybe somebody oughta keep an eye on you in case this dude comes back. I hope you don't mind."
"Are you kidding? Not at all. I appreciate your concern."
"This's my girlfriend, Joy..."
The nurse's aide flashed a smile at me and I was introduced to the other four women in turn. "We've alerted security," one of the nurses said. "If you want, you can get some sleep now."
"Thanks. I could use some. There's a private eye named Robert Dietz, who said he'd be here later on. Let me know when he gets here and make sure he's alone." I told them the code word and his estimated time of arrival.
"What's he look like?"
"I don't know. I never met the man."
"Don't worry about it. We'll take care of it," Richie said.
I slept until dinnertime, sat up long enough to eat a plate of hospital food concealed under an aluminum hubcap. My vital signs were checked and I slept again until 11:15 that night. At intervals, I was aware of someone taking my pulse, fingers cool as an angel's pressed against my wrist. By the time I woke, someone had retrieved some of my belongings from the car. The portable typewriter and my duffel were tucked against the wall. I clenched my teeth and slid out of bed. When I bent over to unzip the duffel, my head pounded like a hangover. I pulled out fresh jeans and a turtleneck and laid them on the bed. The drawer in my bedtable held soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, and a small plastic bottle of Lubriderm. I went into the bathroom and brushed my teeth, grateful that all of them were present and accounted for. I took a long, hot bath in a tub with handholds affixed to the wall at every conceivable point. I needed them. Getting in and out of the bathtub only made me aware of multi-hurt places distributed randomly all up and down my body.
While I dried myself off, I checked myself in the mirror, disheartened by the sight. In addition to the bruise on my forehead, my eyes were now dark along the orbital ridge and streaked with red underneath, perfect for Halloween only six months away. My left knee was purple, my torso sooty-looking with bruises. Combing my hair made me wince, sucking air through my teeth. I moved into the other room and took my time getting dressed, resting between articles of clothing. The process was exhausting, but I plugged on doggedly. Whatever damage I'd sustained in the accident was taking its toll.
I stretched out on the bed again with a glance at the clock. Midnight straight up. I figured Dietz would arrive any minute now. Somehow I assumed he'd want to hit the road right away, which suited me fine. If I'd suffered a concussion, it must have been mild. I wasn't even sure I'd lost consciousness and I wasn't aware of any post-trauma amnesia – though, of course, if I'd forgotten something that thoroughly, how would I really know? My head still hurt, but so what? That might go on for weeks and in the meantime, I wanted out. I wanted someone in charge – preferably someone with a big gun and no hesitation about using it. I noticed I was skipping right past the notion of Judge Jarvison.
The next thing I was aware of was the soft pinging of the hospital paging system and the rattle of the breakfast carts out in the corridor. It was morning and some female was addressing me. It took me a minute to remember where I was.
"Miss Millhone? Time to take your temperature..." I automatically opened my mouth and she slipped a cold, wet thermometer under my tongue. I could taste lab alcohol that hadn't been rinsed off properly. She took my blood pressure, holding my right arm against her body while she secured the Velcro cuff. She placed the silver dollar of the stethoscope against the crook of my arm and began to pump the cuff. I opened my eyes. She was not one I'd seen before: a slender Chicana with bright red lipstick on a plump mouth, her long brown hair pulled up in a ponytail. Her eyes were pinned to the gauge as the needle descended counterclockwise. I assumed my blood pressure was normal, as she didn't gasp aloud. It would help if they'd tell you things about yourself now and then.
I turned my head toward the window and saw a man leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest. Dietz. Late forties. Five ten, maybe 170, in jeans, cowboy boots, and a tweed sport coat with a blue toothbrush protruding from the breast pocket like a ballpoint pen. He was clean-shaven, his hair medium length and showing gray around the ears. He was watching me with expressionless gray eyes. "I'm Dietz." Husky voice in the middle range.
With a ripping sound, the aide removed the blood-pressure cuff and made a note in my chart. With my free hand, I took the thermometer out of my mouth. "What time'd you get in?"
"One fifteen. You were out like a light so I let you sleep."
The aide took the thermometer and studied it with a frown. "You didn't keep this in long enough."
"I don't have a fever. I was in an accident," I said.
"The charge nurse is gonna fuss at me if I don't get a temp."
I tucked the thermometer in the corner of my mouth like a cigarette, talking to Dietz while it bobbled between my lips. "Did you get any sleep?"
"In this place?"
"As soon as the doctor comes, we can get the hell out of here," I said. "The guy with the kid was in the same motel. I think we ought to go back and see what we can find out from the desk clerk. Maybe we can pick up the license number of his truck."
"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to wait in the hall."
"They found the truck. I called the county sheriff from a pay phone when I got in. The vehicle was abandoned outside San Bernardino. They'll go over it for prints, but he's probably too smart for that."
"What about the local car lots?"
"We can try it, but I think you're going to find out the truck's a dead end."
The aide was getting restless. "Sir..." He flicked a look at her. I started to object, but Dietz pushed away from the wall at that point. "I'll go down to the lounge and grab a cigarette," he said.
Chapter 9
* * *
By 10:35, he was helping me ease my battered bones into the passenger seat of a bright red Porsche. I watched him move around the front of the car and slide in on the driver's side.
"You rented this?"
"It's mine. I drove down. I didn't want to wait for my buddy with the plane. He couldn't leave soon enough."
I snapped on the seat belt and settled into the low, black leather seat. He fired the engine up with a rumble and pulled out of the parking lot, adjusting the air conditioner. The compact interior of the car smelted of leather and cigarette smoke. With the tinted windows rolled up against the desert heat, I felt insulated from the harsh realities of the spare countryside.
"Where we headed?"
"The body shop where your car was towed."
"Will it be open on Sunday?"
"Now it its."
"How'd you manage that?"
"I called the emergency number
. The guy's meeting us there."
We headed into Brawley to an auto body shop that was housed in a converted gas station just off the main street. My VW was parked in a side lot, surrounded by chain-link fence. As we pulled into the service area, the owner emerged from the office with a set of keys in hand. He unlocked the padlock on the chain-link fence and rolled the gate back. Dietz pulled into the lot and parked the car, placing a restraining hand on my arm as I moved to open the door.
"Wait till I come around," he said. From his tone, I didn't think good manners were at stake. I did as I was told, watching the way he positioned himself as he opened the car door for me, shielding my exit. The owner of the station didn't seem to notice anything unusual in the interaction between us. Dietz handed him a folded bill, but I couldn't see what denomination it was. Large enough, apparently, that the man had agreed to meet us here on a day when the place was ordinarily closed.
We circled my car, surveying the damage. There was scarcely a spot on it that wasn't affected in some way.
"Looks like she got banged up pretty good," the owner said to Dietz. I didn't know if he was referring to me or the vehicle. I wrenched open the buckled door on the passenger side and emptied the glove compartment, tucking the registration in my purse, tossing out the collection of ancient gasoline receipts. I still had some personal belongings in the backseat: law books, a few hand tools, my camera equipment, odds and ends of clothing, a pair of shoes. Many items had tumbled onto the floor in the course of the attack and were now sodden with the muddy water from the ditch. I checked the much-abused box of old china and was gratified to find that nothing had been broken. I loaded what I could into the trunk of Dietz's Porsche. What I didn't immediately toss, I packaged in a large cardboard box that the shop owner obligingly rustled up out of the shop. I tucked the box of dishes into the larger box. I wrote a check for the towing, arranging at the same time to have everything shipped to me in Santa Teresa. I'd file a claim with my insurance company as soon as I got back, though I couldn't believe the car would net me much. Ten minutes later, we were heading north on 86. As soon as we were under way, Dietz put a cigarette between his lips and flicked open a Zippo. He hesitated, glancing over at me. "My smoking going to bother you?"
I thought about being polite, but it didn't make much sense. What's communication for if it isn't to convey the truth? "Probably," I said.
He lowered the window on his side and tossed the lighter out, flipped the cigarette out after it, and followed both with the pack of Winstons from his shirt pocket.
I stared at him, laughing uncomfortably. "What are you doing?"
"I quit smoking."
"Just like that?"
He said, "I can do anything."
It sounded like bragging, but I could tell he was serious. We drove ten miles before either of us said another word. As we approached Salton City, I asked him to slow down. I wanted him to see the place where the guy in the Dodge had caught up with me. We didn't stop – there wasn't any point – but I didn't feel I could pass the spot without some reference to the event.
At Indio, we pulled into the parking lot of a small strip shopping mall where a Mexican restaurant was tucked between a VCR repair shop and a veterinarian. "I hope you're hungry," Dietz said. "I don't want to stop once we hit the outskirts of Los Angeles. Sunday traffic is the pits."
"This is fine," I said. The truth was I felt tense and needed the break. Dietz handled the car well, but he drove aggressively, impatient – every time he found himself behind another vehicle. The highway was only two lanes wide and his passing style had me clinging to the chicken stick. His attention was constantly focused on the road ahead and behind, watching (I surmised) for suspicious vehicles. He kept the radio off and the dead quiet in the car was broken only by the thump of his fingers tapping out a beat on the steering wheel. He had the kind of energy that set me on edge. It might not have been objectionable in the open air, but in the confines of the car, I felt crowded to the point of claustrophobia. The idea of having him at my side twenty-four hours a day for any length of time at all was worrisome. We pushed through glass doors into a long, blank rectangular space that had evidently been designed for retail sales. A clumsy partition separated the kitchen from the dining area where a few tables had been arranged. Through the doorway, I could see a stove and battered refrigerator that might have come from a garage sale. Dietz told me to wait while he strolled through to the rear, where he checked the back door.
The place was chilly and echoed when we scraped back our chairs to sit down. Dietz angled himself so he could keep an eye on the car through the plate-glass windows in the front.
Someone peered out of the kitchen at us with uncertainty. Maybe they thought we were from the health department inspecting for rat turds. There was some sort of whispered consultation and then a waitress appeared. She was short and heavyset, a middle-aged Mexican in a white wraparound apron decorated with stains. Shyly, she tried out her language skills. My Spanish is limited to (approximately) three words, but I could swear she offered to serve us squirrel soup. Dietz kept squinting and shaking his head. Finally, the two of them rattled at each other in Spanish for a while. He didn't seem fluent, but he managed to make himself understood.
I studied him casually while he fumbled with his vocabulary. He had a battered look, his nose slightly flattened, with a knot at the bridge. Mouth wide and straight, turning lopsided when he smiled. His teeth were good, but my guess was that some of them weren't his. Looked too even to me and the color was too white. He turned back to me.
"The place just opened yesterday. She recommends the menudo or the combination plate."
I leaned toward him, avoiding her bright gaze. "I don't eat menudo. It's made with tripe. Have you ever seen that stuff? It's white and spongy-looking... all these perforations and bumps. It's probably some internal organ human beings don't even have."
"She'll have the combination plate," he said to her blandly. He held up two fingers, ordering one for himself.
She shuffled away in huaraches that she wore with white socks. She returned moments later with a tray that held glasses, two beers, a small dish of salsa, and a basket of tortilla chips still sizzling with lard.
We snacked on chips and salsa while we waited for our lunch.
"How do you know Lee Galishoff?" I asked. The beer bottle had a little piece of lime resting on the top and I squeezed some in. Both of us ignored the glasses, which were still hot from a recent washing.
Dietz reached for his cigarettes before he remembered that he'd thrown them out. He caught himself and smiled, shaking his head. "I did some work for him, hunting down a witness on one of his first trials. After that, we started playing racquetball and became good friends. What about you?"
I told him briefly the circumstances through which I'd ended up tracking Tyrone Patty for him. "I take it you've done security work before."
He nodded. "It's a lucrative sideline, especially in this day and age. Tends to limit your personal life, but at least it's relief from straight private-eye work, which is a yawn, as you know. Last week I sat for six hours looking at microfiche in the tax assessor's office. I can't stand that stuff."
"Lee told me you were feeling burned out."
"Not burned out. I'm bored. I've been doing it for ten years and it's time to move on."
"To what?" I asked. The beer was very cold and made a nice contrast to the fiery salsa, which was making my nose run. I kept dabbing surreptitiously with a paper napkin, looking like a junkie in need of a fix.
"Don't know yet," he said. "I got into the business in the first place by default. Started out doing repos, serving papers, stuff like that for a guy who eventually took me into his agency. Ray hated doing fieldwork – too rough for his taste – so he did all the paperwork and I dealt with the deadbeats. He was the cerebral type, really had it up here." He tapped his temple.
"You're using past tense. What happened to him?"
"He dropped dead of a heart at
tack ten months ago. The guy jogged, worked out lifting weights. He married this gal, gave up alcohol and cigarettes, gave up dope, gave up staying out all night. Bought a house, had a baby, happy as a pig eating shit, and then he died. Forty-six. A month ago, his widow started talking like she expected me to step in and fill the gap. It's bullshit. No thanks. I had her cash me out."
"You've lived in California?"
He gestured dismissively. "I've lived everywhere. I was born in a van on the outskirts of Detroit. My mother was in labor and the old man didn't want to stop. I got hauled all over hell and gone as a kid. Pop worked the oil rigs so we spent a lot of tune in L. A.... this was in the late forties, early fifties when the big boom was on. Texas, Oklahoma. It was dangerous damn work, but the money was good. Pop was a brawler and a bully, very protective of me as long as I was tough myself. He was the kind of guy who'd get in a bar fight and tear the place apart... just for the hell of it. If he had a clash with the boss or decided he didn't like what was going on, we'd pack up and hit the road."
"How'd you manage to go to school?"
"I didn't if I could help it. I hated school. I couldn't see the point. To me, it all looked like preparation for something I didn't want to do anyway. I was never going to work in a feed store so why did I have to know how many bushels in a peck? Is that an issue that comes up for you? Two trains leaving different cities at sixty miles an hour? I couldn't sit still for junk like that. Nowadays they call kids like me hyperactive. All those rules and regulations, just for the sake of it. I couldn't stand it. I never did graduate. I ended up with an equivalency degree. Took some kind of written test that I aced without ever cracking a book. The system's not designed for transients. I liked phys ed and shop, woodworking, auto mechanics... stuff like that. But nothing academic. Doesn't make any sense unless you start at the beginning and work straight through. I always showed up in the middle and had to leave before the end. Story of my life."
Lunch arrived and we paused to study our food, trying to figure out what it was. Rice and a puddle of refrieds, something folded with cheese leaking out, something fiat. I recognized a tamale because it was wrapped in a corn husk. This was real basic fare – no parsley, no orange slice twisted open and resting on the top. My plate was so hot, I could have used it to iron a shirt. The cook appeared from the kitchen shyly bearing a stack of steaming flour tortillas wrapped in a cloth. The two hospital meals had left my taste buds craving astonishment. I wolfed the food, slowing only long enough to suck down another cold beer. Everything was excellent, the sort of flavors that make you whimper. I reached the finish line slightly in advance of Dietz and wiped my mouth on a paper napkin. "What about your mother? Where was she all this time?"