“We wanted to ask if you or Kenny happened to see or hear anything last night.” I already knew the answer to at least half of my question. Kenny Trujillo had blown most of his brain cells on one chemical or another during his twenty-two years. He worked on and off at Coley Florek’s wrecking yard a mile south of the interstate on Butler Avenue. Coley was bright enough to make sure that Kenny never drove the wrecker, but I guess the kid was of some value around the junkyard, stripping door handles and other useful parts off of the battered hulks that were dragged in. He didn’t make enough money to threaten Miriam’s welfare, even if she declared him as official family.
“I just now got home,” Miriam Sloan said. “I spent two days with my sister in Albuquerque.” She frowned. “But I certainly wouldn’t have heard anything from way over here-even if she cried out.”
“I’m sure not,” I said and started to say something else when Mrs. Sloan interrupted.
“I’ve tried to check on Mrs. Hocking once or twice a week recently. She’s been terribly frail. I was always afraid she’d fall and break a hip or something like that and end up lying there on the floor, all helpless.”
I nodded. “I don’t think she suffered long.”
Mrs. Sloan grimaced again. “What happened? I mean, what did she do?”
“Tripped and fell down the stairs leading to the basement. That’s where I found her yesterday.”
“And she broke-”
“Her neck.”
“Oh, my,” Miriam Sloan said. “Well, Thursday night my sister called. Her husband’s been so sick.” She held up her hands. “She needed company so I drove on up.” She looked over at her car. “I had visions of being stranded in this old wreck. I could just picture me in a ditch somewhere, half way between Quemado and who knows where else. But I made it.”
“Long drive,” I said. “I hope everything is going to be all right.” She gave a little noncommittal shrug as if to say that she was used to handling each curve ball as it came. “What about Kenny? Do you think that he-”
“I just now walked in the door,” Miriam said, trying hard not to sound testy. “I won’t see Kenny until tonight.” She didn’t offer to ask him for me. We both knew it would be a waste of breath.
“Was Todd home, or did he go up with you?”
“Todd went to live with his father. He hasn’t been staying with me.”
I knew that Wilson Sloan had split the sheets half a dozen years before and the trace of venom in the way Miriam had said the word father told me the rift hadn’t mended.
“I didn’t know that,” I said. I immediately wondered which one of Todd’s worthless friends owned the tennis shoe that Deputy Torrez had printed, if not Todd himself. “When did he move?” I tried to sound as if I wasn’t altogether overjoyed.
Miriam Sloan waved a hand and started back through the door of her trailer. “A couple of weeks ago.” She smiled as if she knew a secret. “It won’t work, either. He’ll be back.” She glanced heavenward. “Like the flu.”
“You never know,” I said. “Where are they at?”
“Orlando…and more power to ’em. They deserve each other.”
I didn’t want into the middle of that one, so I just tipped a finger to the brim of my Stetson. “Well, the Hocking place is standing empty now until her son in California finds time to straighten out her affairs. I’d appreciate it if you’d kinda look over that way once in a while. If you see anyone nosing around where they shouldn’t be, I’d appreciate a call.” I started to fumble out one of my cards.
“I know the number,” she said acidly. “By heart.”
I left the Paradise View Trailer Park nagged by one of those little groundless fears that nevertheless wouldn’t go away. I wondered if, in fifteen years, Estelle Reyes-Guzman and her son would have to suffer the same kind of rift that separated Miriam and Todd Sloan.
10
By late Saturday night, I’d avoided even a catnap for the better part of thirty-six hours, and even for an old insomniac like me, that was pushing the limit. I parked 310 in the driveway of my house and went inside, welcomed by the dark, friendly silence of the old place.
With the holiday season, I had considered running a string of small Christmas lights around the recessed portal and maybe looping a strand or two over the vigas that faced the lane. A line of luminarias along each side of the driveway would have looked inviting and cheery as well, but I wasn’t in the mood. Make the place look too inviting and I’d end up having company.
I closed the heavily carved front door behind me, knowing that I’d end up not doing any decorating until after Christmas… and then it’d be too late anyway. What the hell.
What I really wanted was twelve hours of uninterrupted sleep. That was wishful thinking. I knew exactly what would happen if I stretched out on the bed. The initial bliss as the bones and muscles melted into jelly and the soft aroma of the bedding and the faint mustiness of the house as they blended into a cozy potpourri would be narcotic…for about ten minutes. Then I’d start tossing and turning like an old washing machine out of balance on the agitation cycle.
I walked to the kitchen and put on a fresh pot of coffee. While the brew oozed through the calcium-choked mechanism, I considered telephoning Estelle Reyes-Guzman in Tres Santos.
Her mother didn’t have a phone in her modest little adobe house, but the Diaz family just down the lane from Mrs. Reyes did. If my call managed to be patched through on the vague Mexican system, one of the myriad Diaz kids would sprint a message the hundred yards to the Casa Reyes.
There was no point in bothering them with a call at this hour of the night. Estelle couldn’t do anything about her great-uncle’s dogs anyway. The old man would survive. He’d have the distraction of a visit to Tres Santos in a week, see all his relatives, then dive back into the privacy of his shack, maybe with a truckload of new Mexican puppies to raise.
I poured myself a cup of coffee and settled into the big leather chair in the living room. I wanted a cigarette more than sleep. There were none stashed in the house and I was too tired to go after a pack. I could almost hear my eldest daughter chastising me for even thinking about smoking. I loved my children, but sometimes they ganged up on their old man.
The Christmas before, one of my sons had decided I needed a VCR and a library of videos. He’d started by sending me a copy of The Shootist with John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart, figuring that a movie with my two favorite stars would start me off. I sensed the fine hand of my eldest daughter, Camille, in the title choice.
My video library hadn’t grown. That one video, lonely and forlorn, sat on the shelf.
Knowing that the results were guaranteed, I got up, switched on the set, and popped the tape in the machine. I’d watched the first part of the movie dozens of times-my record was reaching the point where Jimmy Stewart tells the Duke that the old gunfighter had himself “a cancer.” This time, I was asleep long before that.
I awoke with a start. The television screen was a nice blank blue. The VCR had cycled into patient “wait” mode, the old gunman in the movie blown to hell and gone long before. My coffee was stone cold and I had no idea how many times the telephone had jangled. With a grunt I reached the phone and jerked it off the cradle so hard the base slid off the kitchen counter and crashed to the floor.
“Yep,” I said.
“Sir, this is Gayle Sedillos.” My dispatcher’s voice was about as nice as any can be on a wake-up call.
“Yep. What the hell time is it?”
“Ten thirty-three, sir.” I squinted at my watch and took her word for it.
“What’s up, Gayle?” I was fully awake. Gayle possessed uncommonly good sense. She was worth five times what we paid her, and if she called me at home the message couldn’t wait.