Saguaro Riptide, page 17
The gatita stuck with the grin.
“I came here to talk about you,” Wyetta continued. “I want to know if you’re still looking for the right fit, or if you’ve already found it.”
The grin wavered, just a millimeter.
Wyetta went for the jugular. “So the real question is: what gets it done for you anyway, little darlin’? Is it a peckerwood thief like Vincent Komoko?”
“Or maybe it isn’t Komoko at all,” Rorie said. “Maybe it’s his money that gets our little friend all slick and sassy.”
“Uh-huh.” Wyetta nodded, smiling. “Or maybe . . . just maybe what this little gash needs to ring her chimes is Vincent Komoko’s money . . . and the hardest part of the former light-heavyweight champion of the world.”
***
Staring down at the Playboy magazine, Baddalach swore under his breath.
It was her, all right. Kate Benteen. The woman in the black bikini. One and the same.
There were three columns of text on the first page of the interview. A photograph at the bottom of each column. Three portraits in black and white, each one featuring Kate Benteen and her familiar sunglasses. And beneath each photo, a quotation from the interview.
In the first photo, Benteen was smiling. “As a kid growing up on a horse ranch in Montana, it never seemed like I could fill myself up. I was an only child. Dad was off flying choppers in Vietnam; Mom was busy running the ranch. I grew up around people who got things done. That was how they were built. Fear wasn’t part of the equation. I don’t think I ever even heard the word failure until I was sixteen.”
She wore a pensive expression in the second photo. “Renaissance woman? Spare me. I’ve just got a low boredom threshold. I got tired of barrel racing when I was fifteen. Moved on. Got tired of diving into swimming pools when I was twenty. Dried off and chucked the Olympic medal in a drawer. My uniform . . . they took that from me, but I’m not going to cry over spilt milk. Now I’m here in Hollywood, but watch out for my dust. Been there, done that . . . those are words to live by.”
In the third picture, her lips were interstate-straight—no expression at all. “People want to make me into some kind of American hero. That’s not for me. I don’t think this country’s always right. But I was proud to do my part in the Saudi. I was a soldier. And being a soldier means you take it the way it comes, you live by the soldier’s code. I didn’t panic when our chopper went down. I never lost hope when the Republican Guard locked us in Saddam’s dungeon. But it wasn’t my country that got me through. It was the people who were with me in that hellhole—and what was important was their faith in me and my faith in them. My fellow Americans. God, that sounds corny. This sounds worse—One fellow American in particular. I’m not talking about love. I’m not talking about romance. In that kind of situation, there’s no room for any of that. That came later. What I’m talking about goes much deeper. It’s a special kind of intimacy you don’t get to any other way. A special kind of trust that you build on. I hope it lasts forever.”
***
Kate Benteen said, “That’s a good question. Sheriff. Much as I hate all that introspective shit, I gotta admit that I’ve been thinking about it myself. And the only answer I can come up with is Vincent Komoko. He’s what gets it done for me.” One corner of her mouth twitched, but she stuck with the grin. “But ol’ Vince doesn’t seem to be around. Not anywhere. I think maybe his days of getting things done for anyone are long gone.”
“We know that he phoned you,” Wyetta said.
Benteen nodded. “Vince got my answering machine, actually. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have anything important to say.”
Wyetta’s fingers brushed the butt of her pistol, lingering there long enough so that the little gash was sure to notice. “You sure about that?”
Benteen spit a short laugh. “I’m sure. All Vince wanted to talk about was some money. Two million bucks. He hid it somewhere. Wanted me to come and get it. Like giving it to me really made a difference.”
“Where is it?”
Another laugh. And then her words, deadpan: “It’s in a safe place. Like I told you: Vince told me exactly where to find it. Hell, I’ve been here a couple days. It wasn’t like I had to figure out a puzzle or anything.”
Wyetta glanced at Rorie. The deputy rolled her eyes. Benteen shrugged. A rumor of a blush glowed on her cheeks, and she shook her head as if she were terribly embarrassed. “I know it sounds crazy,” she said.
Rorie laughed out loud.
“If you’ve got the money, what the hell are you doing hanging around here?” Wyetta asked, nearly exasperated.
“I don’t quite have that one figured out. Sheriff.” Benteen glanced down at the Cosmopolitan magazine. “Maybe I’m just looking for closure.”
“Bullshit.”
“C’mon now . . . Helen Gurley Brown would understand.”
“Fuck Helen Gurley Brown and the horse she rode in on.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Don’t fuck with me,” Wyetta said. “If you so much as try, you’re going to be one sorry little—”
An insistent ringing interrupted her.
“Is that your pocket?” Kate asked.
“It’s my phone, idiot.”
Wyetta flipped open her cellular.
“Kirk to Enterprise,” Kate said. “Two to beam up.”
***
Baddalach sat in the barber chair, an electric razor buzzing around his ears. He didn’t squirm—didn’t move his head at all. Only his eyes moved as he scanned the pages.
He’d figured out that Kate Benteen talked the talk about two minutes after meeting her. But reading her interview in Playboy convinced Jack that she walked the walk, as well.
Because it was all right there, between the celebrity layout and the centerfold spread. All the stuff she’d talked about. The rodeo titles, and the Olympic silver medal, even the stuff about being in the movies.
And the stuff about the Saudi, too. Kate Benteen had been in the Gulf War as a flight surgeon attached to a chopper battalion. Jack had always thought of Operation Desert Storm as one of those pleasant little wars, a lopsided exercise that could be measured in hours rather than days. To him, the whole thing had seemed like putting a featherweight in with the heavyweight champion of the world. Didn’t matter how good the featherweight was; he was going to get crushed.
But Desert Storm hadn’t been easy for Kate Benteen. She’d been on a rescue mission, looking for a downed pilot. Her Black Hawk helicopter was shot down, and she’d broken both arms and a collarbone in the crash. That was bad enough. Worse was getting captured by Saddam’s troops.
Not just grunts. The Republican Guard got her—Saddam’s true believers. They tossed her in the back of a truck along with the chopper’s other survivor—the pilot. Drove them through the desert and locked them up in a dungeon God knows where.
It was just the two of them for days. With the broken bones, Benteen could barely move. The pilot fed her, took care of her. After it was over, Benteen said she’d never felt so close to another human being. She said you couldn’t buy that kind of closeness. It was something you’d never give up because you’d gone through hell to get it.
Jack wondered if the pilot agreed with that, but he knew he’d never find an answer to that question.
Because the pilot’s name was Vincent Komoko.
***
Kate watched as the cops drove off.
Judging from the sheriff’s tone and the things she’d said, Kate figured the phone call that had interrupted their little chat wasn’t official business. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t urgent. The sheriff and the deputy had taken off faster than a speeding Bullitt (if you knew your Steve McQueen).
They said they’d be back, of course.
That was fine with Kate.
Because she’d decided exactly what she wanted. Not that it was a conscious decision—it was just that all of a sudden she knew what she had to have before she could leave Pipeline Beach.
Could be a handful of people might give her what she was after.
The sheriff and the deputy were definitely on the list.
***
“All done,” the barber said, spinning the big chair with such unrestrained enthusiasm that Jack figured the guy had missed his true calling as a Tilt-a-Whirl operator.
Jack came face-to-face with a large mirror.
Decided his Tilt-a-Whirl assessment had been dead on.
Because the guy sitting in the barber chair was a complete stranger.
Jack said, “Shit.”
The stranger in the chair said the same thing.
RORIE HATED COMING OUT TO HER SISTER’S PLACE. Not that she hated her sister. She loved Priscilla. In truly sisterly fashion, too. The person Rorie hated was Priscilla’s husband. Ellis Aaron Perkins. One look from him and she felt like some little cutie out at the Spahn Movie Ranch being sized up by Charlie Manson himself.
Which was another way of saying that as a brother-in-law the guy really bit it. And it wasn’t that he’d been an Elvis impersonator—Rorie could have lived with that. Nor was it the fact that he’d lost his voice to cancer and spoke through a machine that made him sound like some big oI’ talking Elvis doll that had had its cord yanked once too often.
No. What bothered Rorie was that Ellis was a real creep. He was mucho possessive about Priscilla, and Rorie suspected that he’d hit her sister on a couple of occasions. Not that Priscilla would admit to anything. But Rorie had seen her share of battered women during her years with the sheriff’s department, and she knew that her sister showed some of the classic signs.
Of course, Priscilla was cattin’ around on Ellis with Vince Komoko. Had been, anyway. And while Rorie hated to admit it, that little fact made her think that maybe her sister kind of got what she deserved when it came to Ellis’s conjugal behavior.
No, damnit. Thinking like that was medieval. Damn near insane—
Rorie bit her lip. Hell, Wyetta had slapped her a couple of times. So maybe she was projecting. She’d read an article in Cosmo where a psychiatrist discussed that kind of thing— projecting your own problems onto someone else’s situation.
But Rorie didn’t know what to think of Cosmo anymore. Not since Kate Benteen had spouted all that crazy feminist shit at the Saguaro Riptide.
Rorie had to admit that all that shit was pretty exciting, though. That Benteen chick. She really had some strange ideas. And she looked pretty damn outstanding in a black bikini.
Rorie’s lower lip was getting sore. She realized she’d been chewing it. Maybe she should drive across the highway and check on Priscilla. See how her sister was holding up under the strain. Make sure that everything was okay—
No. Wyetta wouldn’t like that. Not now. Not when they were handling business.
And this was business. Rorie recognized that. At first she hadn’t thought much of it—Ellis’s phone call interrupting Wyetta’s interrogation of Kate Benteen. Ellis had been known to fly off the handle for no reason at all. But when Wyetta told her that Ellis claimed he’d had a run-in with the former light-heavyweight champion of the world, that naturally got Rorie’s attention.
It damn sure got Wyetta’s attention, too. She was bulldogging the problem, talking to Ellis on the sand-covered porch of his own personal Graceland.
Rorie almost laughed at the two of them. Ellis in Presley-esque leathers circa 1968 and Wyetta in her best Annie Oakley-wear—fringed Cavalry gloves, snakeskin Nocona boots, and a cedar-handled .44 that was a twin to the pistol Wyatt Earp had worn in Tombstone. Together they looked like the stars of some weird Elvis time-travel movie. Viva Rio Bravo! or something.
Rorie listened to Ellis’s busted Hasbro voice as he answered one question after another. But it didn’t matter how many questions he answered—just the fact that Jack Baddalach had come to Graceland meant that the boxer was cutting way too close to the bone.
And the way he’d come here—now that told her something else.
He hadn’t arrived in that Range Rover he’d rented up in Tucson. He’d come in another car, and he’d left it here—a shot-up Saturn that blocked the middle of the road.
Blown front tire. Windshield riddled with buckshot. The damage didn’t matter, though. Not to Rorie. What mattered was the license plate number.
She didn’t need to run that baby, either. She remembered it. She’d written it down just this morning. The Saturn belonged to that weird black guy who’d been busted up in the parking lot at the Saguaro Riptide.
The guy said the Saturn had been stolen.
Baddalach had driven it here.
But why would Baddalach steal a car when he had one of his own?
The whole thing was enough to make her head spin. She wanted someone to set it all straight for her.
Only one person came to mind.
Rorie glanced at Wyetta.
The sheriff was headed her way.
***
'What’s up?” Rorie asked.
Wyetta shook her head sharply. “Not here.”
She got an evidence bag from the Cherokee. Opened the passenger door of the Saturn. Took a pencil out of her pocket and fished a pistol off the front seat of the car. A Colt .45 Double Eagle Combat Commander. She bagged the gun and returned to the patrol car.
Rorie took the passenger seat. Wyetta slipped behind the wheel and handed Rorie the bagged pistol.
“What’s the deal with this?” Rorie asked.
Wyetta said, “Insurance. I figure that’s Baddalach’s piece. Ellis said he didn’t touch it. Maybe it’s got the boxer’s prints. If it does, it could come in handy.”
Wyetta started the engine and made a U-turn. Ellis watched from the porch of his unfinished palace. He didn’t wave at Wyetta. She didn’t wave at him.
She drove down the dirt road that led to the highway.
"Talk to me, Wyetta.”
The sheriff shrugged. “He says Baddalach showed up looking for your sister. Says he scared off the pug with his shotgun. Says he wants us to pick up the boxer for trespassing. Says he’s leaving to make his flea-market rounds tonight, that he’s gonna be gone for a couple days and he doesn’t want anyone messing around with Priscilla.”
“Jesus. Do you think he’s serious?"
“He’s your brother-in-law, darlin’. You tell me.”
Rorie shook her head. “So . . . was Baddalach alone? Or, did he come out here with that other guy . . . Woodrow what’s-his-face?"
“Ellis says the pug was solo. No sign of Ali Baba.”
“So what do you think?”
“Damned if I know. Maybe Baddalach did bust up Ali Baba and steal his car. Or maybe our buddy Woodrow is Baddalach’s boy Friday. Maybe they figured they could turn the pug’s run-in with Ellis into a plus. Figured they could report the car stolen, get us to nail Ellis for car theft and assault. Get Ellis’s gyratin’ blue suede ass away from the property so they could hunt for Komoko’s money without fear of getting their asses full of buckshot.” Wyetta shook her head, getting comfortable with the idea. “Maybe the two of them are in cahoots. Hell, maybe they’re back at the motel, takin’ turns bangin’ Kate Benteen. Maybe they’re all three of ’em in cahoots.”
“You really think so?”
“I don’t have a clue, cowgirl. But I aim to learn the truth before I let any one of ’em leave this town.”
***
A pale cloud mushroomed behind the sheriff’s Jeep Cherokee as it headed for the highway.
Women cops. Now there was one slice of nineties reality that got Ellis Aaron Perkins all shook up.
Elvis Presley had been a law-and-order man. Ellis Perkins knew that. The King had compiled a collection of law enforcement badges and credentials from all over the country. Even got a DEA agent’s badge from President Richard Nixon himself. Elvis hung out with cops, too. Went on drug busts with them down in Memphis. Illegal drugs. The King only used prescription medications. That was a different ball game.
Ellis knew that. Himself, he liked those diet pills. That’s what the King had used in the early sixties, mostly. If the King would have stuck to that stuff, he would have been fine. They gave a man the energy he needed. Elvis had had a whole lotta energy goin’ on back in the sixties.
They hadn’t had women cops in those days. Ellis Perkins knew that, too. Back then, women had known their place.
Ellis knew a woman’s place. Priscilla was there, right now. Home in the trailer. And she wasn’t going goddamn anywhere without his say-so. He’d fixed that for sure, and his fix was as solid as solitary confinement at San Quentin.
Uh huh-huh. Priscilla wasn’t going to say a word about it, either. He’d slapped six inches of duct tape over her mouth himself, and he didn’t figure it was coming off until he was good and ready.
He’d show her what it was like, not being able to talk. It was horrible. He knew that. When he lost his voice to cancer, he thought he’d never talk again. The doctor’s had shown him the little throat-buzzer things that patients used as artificial vocal cords. The devices set up a vibration against your throat, gave you a little robot voice. But Ellis didn’t like the ones the doctors had. Every one had a whiny tremolo that drove him nuts... Besides, lots of cancer survivors used those things, and they all sounded the same as a result. Ellis didn’t want to sound like everyone else. He wanted to have a distinctive sound, even if it was robotic.
So he made his own throat-buzzer. Went looking for something with a deeper buzz, a slower vibrato. And it was a stroke of genius, finding the right thing. Because one day he was in a sex shop, and he noticed the vibrators . . . and the wheels started turning up there in his brain . . .
Like they say, necessity is the mother of invention. He customized the sucker, of course. Painted it silver. Covered the head with a hunk of black foam rubber that looked like a microphone cap, so no one could tell that the thing had been a vibrator. And then he had his own voice. A distinctive voice. Even if it was the voice of a robot.
