“What’s more than a coincidence mean?” Otto asked, looking sorry that he’d had the piña colada.
And then Sidney Blackpool thought of the tortured face of Victor Watson, an old man’s hollow face under those track lights. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe an omen.”
Instead of playing nine holes they were off to Mineral Springs to talk to Officer O. A. Jones about his musical revelation.
“Jesus, how we gonna find out if every radio station in two hundred miles didn’t play ‘I Believe’ on that day last year?” Otto asked. “We gotta get in some golf. All I’m doing is eating and drinking!”
“ ‘I Believe’ with a banjo? I think someone was there that day. Maybe Jones heard a live voice.”
“All we gotta find is a banjo man with a taste for old songs. Let’s see, Steve Martin plays one, I think. Maybe Roy Clark or Glen Campbell? Jesus.”
“Shaggy clouds and shaggy trees,” Sidney Blackpool said. “It’s got a threatening look sometimes, this desert.”
“Know what I noticed, Sidney? It changes. I mean, it never looks the same one minute to the next.”
“The cloud shadow,” Sidney Blackpool said, looking up from under his sunglasses as he drove. “It throws shadow and light and color everywhere. And the colors change. This is a strange place. I don’t know if I like it or not.”
“I’m gonna love it,” Otto said. “If we ever get on the freaking golf links. I ain’t hit a ball in over a month.”
“Three weeks,” his partner reminded. “At Griffith Park. I bet these courses won’t look like Griffith Park.”
“You mean no tank tops? No beer cans or tattooed arms? No sound of thongs slapping the feet when your playing partner steps outta his Ford pickup? Hey, what’s that?” Otto pointed three miles off in the distance toward the base of the mountains.
“That’s where six thousand souls survive in this desert because a the golf and tennis and piña colada we just left,” said Sidney Blackpool. “That’s Mineral Springs.”
“Kinda windy around here,” Otto said, watching a dozen whirlwinds dancing across the desert in the shimmering rising heat. “Bad place to die out in those lonely canyons.”
“Doesn’t much matter where,” Sidney Blackpool said, lighting a cigarette, looking at the shacks that dotted the trails high in the hills. “Have to be real important to drive up there at night.”
“I’d have to he forced to make the drive.”
“Possibly,” Sidney Blackpool said.
When they arrived, Chief Paco Pedroza had a case of heartburn from yelling at Wingnut Bates and Prankster Frank. He had forbidden any more threats to shoot Prankster Frank on sight, explaining that he needed every cop he had. And he prohibited snakes-real, rubber or photographic-from being brought into the station. In that spirit, Paco even removed the picture of the sidewinder on the sign that said “We don’t give a shit how they do it in L.A.”
After sending his cops back to work he was dozing with his feet up when the Hollywood detectives announced themselves to Anemic Annie, the pale, birdlike civilian at the front desk.
“In here, fellas,” Paco said. “Siddown. Want some coffee?”
“No, thanks, Chief,” Sidney Blackpool said, as the three men shook hands. “He’s Stringer. I’m Blackpool.”
“Call me Paco. I used to work Hollywood. You mightta heard?”
“We did,” Otto said. “We were both at Newton Street at that time.”
“Pinkford was captain then,” Paco said. “He still on the department?”
“Yep,” Otto nodded, “and will be till Ronald Reagan goes gray.”
“Pinkford never wanted much outta life,” Paco said. “Just enough glue to stick his face on Mount Rushmore. I woulda walked a beat in Sri Lanka to get away from him. Anyways, I’m glad to see you boys’re wearing your golf rags. Most L.A. cops come out this way in suits and neckties even if it’s a hundred and twenty degrees.”
“Actually, Chief, this is sort of a vacation,” Sidney Blackpool said.
“Paco.”
“Paco. We’re just here for some golf. Our boss said we might do a little follow-up since Victor Watson recently learned that his kid visited Hollywood on the day he disappeared from Palm Springs. Apparently the kid made a quick trip into town and back to the desert.”
“Mean anything?” Paco asked.
“Not yet,” Otto said. “Reason we came to your department is to talk to Officer O. A. Jones. He called Palm Springs P.D. today with some new information about the song he heard the suspect singing.”
“O. A. Jones,” Paco grunted. “That little fucker’s gonna get me indicted some day. Does a job all right, but everything he does looks like it mighta happened a little different than he says. In fact, no desert’s seen so much single-handed swashbuckling since Lawrence of Arabia. I don’t know if you can rely on everything that surfer says.”
“Surfer?” Sidney Blackpool said. “Where would he surf out here?”
“Ex-surfer,” Paco said. “Used to be with Laguna Beach P.D. and then Palm Springs P.D. I took a chance on him and so far he ain’t got in any traffic accidents where there might be one body too many. But that’s another story. He’s on duty today. Want Annie to call him for ya?”
“If you would,” Otto said.
The three men walked from the chief’s office into the main room of the police station. “Want a tour?” Paco asked.
“Sure,” Otto said.
“Okay, turn around,” said Paco. “There, that’s it. You got the tour. Except there’s a John down the hall and ten wall lockers upstairs and a holding tank for two prisoners, long as they’re little or awful friendly. The adjoining door goes to another room which is City Hall so we gotta keep our arrestees quiet till we get them down to the county jail.”
“How do you keep them quiet?” Otto asked.
“Shoot the fuckers with a tranquilizer dart,” Paco said. “What would you do with the animals we got around here?”
Anemic Annie tried without success to get O. A. Jones on the radio.
“He’s probly got his ghetto blaster going full on,” Paco said. “Why dontcha go on over to the Eleven Ninety-nine across the street. Get a cold one. Ill send O. A. Jones to ya in exactly forty-five minutes.”
“Exactly forty-five minutes?”
“That’s when his shift ends and he’ll suddenly be all through with whatever sleuthing he’s doing. He likes to get to the Eleven Ninety-nine before the first wave a secretaries and manicurists arrive from their jobs in Palm Springs. Among his many other faults he’s got a permanent erection.”
“So much for hitting the links,” Otto sighed.
“By the way,” Paco said, “when I got word where you boys’re staying I figured things’ve changed at L.A.P.D. since I worked there. When we’d go out a town on a case they’d put us up at the Nighty Nite Motel with enough expense money for two hamburgers and a soda pop.”
The detectives were saved from Paco’s curiosity when the door swung open and Sergeant Coy Brickman entered. He was a tall man, taller than Sidney Blackpool, with furrowed cheeks and a mean-looking build. He was slightly older than Sidney Blackpool but looked lots older. His auburn hair was parted on the side and was receding. He stared at the two detectives without blinking and without speaking.
“Coy, this’s Blackpool and Stringer,” Paco said. “My sergeant, Coy Brickman.”
They shook hands, and still without having blinked his eyes, Coy Brickman said, “Welcome to Mineral Springs. Hear you’re gonna crack the Watson murder case.”
“Not in my lifetime,” Otto said. “We’re just doing a semi-official follow-up to keep our boss happy.”
“New leads?” Coy Brickman asked.
“Just bullshit,” Otto said. “Some crap about the Watson kid visiting Hollywood the day he disappeared from the Palm Springs house. It’s nothing.”
“Well, anything we can do,” Coy Brickman said.
“You the only field supervisor?” Sidney Blackpool asked.