Dead Body in a Small Room: A Mystery

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CHARLES DEEMER / DEAD BODY IN A SMALL ROOM

DEAD BODY IN A SMALL ROOM

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ALSO BY CHARLES DEEMER:

Practical Screenwriting Patriots Oregon Fever: An Anthology of Northwest Writing, 1965-1982 (Editor) Dress Rehearsals: The Education of a Marginal Writer The Seagull Hyperdrama Love At Ground Zero Three Oregon Plays Emmett’s Gift Midnight Cabaret: The Writings of Ger Moran (Editor) What Happens Next? An Introduction to Screenwriting The Deadly Doowop Selected Stories Five Screenplays Seven Plays Elderberry Wine (Editor) Seven Come Eleven: Stories and Plays, 1969-1999 Screenwright: the Craft of Screenwriting Ten Sonnets Christmas at the Juniper Tavern

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DEAD BODY IN A SMALL ROOM A Dallas Norgood Mystery

Charles Deemer

Sextant Books 2005

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Copyright © 2005 by Charles Deemer All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, except for brief quotations within a review, without permission in writing from the author. Contact Charles Deemer at [email protected].

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Summer, 1984 1

The first time I saw them, they were sitting at the counter in Mom’s Café. I had no reason to suspect they were other than the traveling salesmen they appeared to be. Each wore a suit and tie, which even the local banker considered too formal for a small desert town like Sogobia. Clearly they were passing through, perhaps on their way to pitching orders for work boots or hand tools in Vegas or Boise. What set them apart was that one had an uncanny resemblance to the old movie tough guy, the actor George Raft, his dark hair slicked back and shiny as if sweating in the warm morning. And actually they seemed too quiet for salesmen, unless they were resting up for the backslapping ahead. Maybe they weren’t salesmen after all. They could be Mormon missionaries on their way home to Salt Lake City after proselytizing their way across the holy lands of the great American desert. Even on an ordinary day, strangers like these passed through often enough to be taken for granted, but this was no ordinary day. A prostitute had been found dead in her small room at the legal brothel in town.

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There hadn’t been a dead body in the Black Cat Bar & Brothel in almost a decade, not since the Bicentennial when Frank Ford came in to celebrate his 80th birthday with a lady and suffered a stroke in the excitement. This was a story traditionally told to strangers in town, always in a humorous tone that put the old geezer in heroic light, a man riding in the saddle to the very end. Maybe the story was true and maybe it wasn’t. It didn’t really matter. But the body discovered yesterday morning, an apparent suicide by one of the working girls, mattered a lot, especially to her family and friends and maybe even to her clients. It wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to happen to anyone, especially in a small town that took pride in its “live and let live” way of life. I read the story in the Sogobia Free Weekly under the headline “Body Found In Brothel.” This was an unusual headline for the paper. Usually it was something like “Mayor Promises No Parking Meters.” I remembered her. She went by the nickname Butterfly but the article said her real name was Brooke Cadbury, and she originally was from Boise. She was the newest of the Black Cat’s dozen girls and at 22 younger than most of them. Her youth and girl-next-door innocence had made her very popular. I’d even considered making a date with her myself. She’d come to Sogobia in the spring, looking as fresh and radiant as a desert wildflower. Now she was dead. A suicide note had been found, the article said, but the police had not released it. I asked Sally, my sister the cop, if she knew what the note said. “If I did, I’d think twice about telling you,” she said. “What is it you like to say? All writers are spies. Everything’s material with you.” We were having morning coffee at Mom’s Café on Main Street. Sally was in uniform, wearing a western-style shirt in two shades of green with snap buttons, dark green pants and

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brown cowboy boots. I thought it made her look like something between a country singer and a forest ranger. Blonde and pudgy, she still looked like the Tomboy I remembered as a kid. “What’s wrong with that?” “Hollywood perverted you. Sometimes you don’t distinguish between the stories in your head and reality.” “Hey, if I’m getting perverted, it’s by living in Sogobia.” “No one said you have to live at the Cat.” That an establishment called Mom’s Café could be located only a few blocks from The Black Cat Bar & Brothel was one of the many surprises of living in Nevada, where legalized prostitution was a county option. Sogobia County, the state’s smallest, was located in the northern part of the state, between Winnemucca and Elko, on a stretch of dry desert the brothel industry had turned into extremely profitable real estate. I’d moved here from Hollywood after a serious bout with cancer in order to be close to Sally, my younger sister and only family. I was still here not quite a year later. The culture of professional brothels fascinated me, and when I’m fascinated, I tend to stick around. I countered Sally’s remark with, “Why did the man climb the mountain? Because it was there.” “I thought you came here to write a book.” This was what I’d told her instead of the truth. Since I’m a writer, the book excuse came naturally, even though I’d never written one. I’m a screenwriter. Or at least I had been in my pre-cancer life. “I’m filling the well,” I said, my pat answer when I wanted to avoid talking about my work. “I bet you are. If I wanted to get away to write a book, I’d go to Tahiti or some place. I’m glad you’re here, though. Even though I worry about you.” “Sometimes I worry about me, too.”

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Sally started to say something, then changed her mind and said, “Maybe you should start that book. Get your mind off your troubles.” “Can we change the subject?” There was a silence. I didn’t tell her why I was worried. My doctor told me I had to remove stress from my life, which meant I had to find a new career. Screenwriting was stressful by the very nature of its strange combination of collaboration and powerlessness. In Hollywood I was forever being asked to change a script for stupid reasons given by idiotic producers, power-hungry directors and egotistical actors, none of whom gave a shit about my story as much as their own careers. Screenwriters were at the bottom of the pile, the janitors of the film industry. Your average guy on the street couldn’t name a single screenwriter, except possibly someone like Woody Allen, who directed his own scripts. But ask who wrote a recent blockbuster like E.T. and you’d be met with stares of ignorance – until someone guessed, Steven Spielberg? Melissa Mathison, the screenwriter, remained unknown by the public. The compensation for all this artistic abuse was a fat paycheck, and the money could become addictive. I had a lot of it in the bank, but it wouldn’t last forever. What was I going to do if I didn’t write movies? I tried to return the conversation to the news. “So what makes a girl in the world’s oldest profession decide to do that? Did she give any clues?” “I actually haven’t read the suicide note.” “What if she didn’t write it?” said Gil Seebeck, taking the chair beside Sally. He brought a cup of black coffee with him. “That would suggest murder, right?” Gil was the editor-publisher of The Sogobia Free Weekly, the only local newspaper. It was one of those freebies you picked up at the market or gas station, which most folks read for the supermarket specials and used-car ads. Gil, who was Sally’s on-again, off-again boyfriend, took the paper more

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seriously than this and often acted as if he were an investigative reporter working for The Washington Post. I didn’t know him well enough to know if this were a charade or a delusion, but finally he had the real story he’d been waiting for. I said, “Your paper called it a suicide.” Gil smiled. He looked Italian but according to Sally was half-Basque. He had movie-star good looks but didn’t seem to know it or take advantage of it. His clothes, artsy bohemian, came from a thrift store. He dressed the way he thought writers were supposed to. “Don’t believe everything you read,” Gil said. “The plot thickens. I found something very interesting this morning.” Sally slid her chair back, looking like someone who’d heard this all before. Since this was a working day, she had a ready excuse to split whenever she got the urge, which was now. “Guys,” she said, “I’m out of here.” “Keep the streets safe, officer,” I said. “Excuse me, sergeant.” Last month Sally had been promoted from patrol officer. Once, when I asked her why she didn’t try to get a job in a larger city, she’d asked, What makes you think I won’t end up being chief here? Gil said, “Don’t you want to hear?” “You can tell me later.” And she was out of there. “She thinks I meddle.” “That’s your job,” I said. “I’m glad somebody understands this. Anyway, what I found is a hole big enough for a body to crawl through in the fence behind the Black Cat.” But this was not unusual. Holes in the fence that surrounded the brothel appeared every few months, most often the work of a disgruntled customer who’d been ejected for

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disorderly conduct, drunkenness, or other behavior against brothel protocol. “A hole that may or may not be related to the girl,” I said. “True enough. But it’s certainly something to check out. I thought Sally would be interested.” “I think she’s sold on the suicide note.” Gil nodded, suggesting that even he recognized the weight of such evidence. We drank our coffee in silence a moment. I liked Gil, though I didn’t understand what he was doing in a small town like Sogobia, barely two thousand strong, if he had real journalism aspirations. I sometimes wondered if he was really here because my sister was. Police Chief Three Moons entered the café. Half white and half Shoshone Indian, he was a short man whose trim moustache reminded me of leading men in 1930s Hollywood. He seemed to be looking for someone, and as soon as he glanced our way, he found him. Arriving at our table, he grabbed the weekly off the table in front of me and shook it at Gil. “What the hell is this about?” Gil shrugged. “How the hell did you get the story out so soon?” The chief had a point. The body had been discovered early on Monday morning. The weekly hit the stands forty-eight hours later with the story on the front page. “It’s my job,” said Gil. I thought I caught a suppressed grin. The chief nodded several times, as if thinking how to respond. “You ever hear of the Basque Festival?” he finally asked. “How come that’s on page three? It’s as big around here as last week was.” On the Fourth of July, the park on the river had been filled with people eating barbecue, dancing to a country band from

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Reno, and waiting for the fireworks to begin. A small town was never more cohesive than during a local celebration, and I’d wandered through the crowd feeling like a tourist until running into Sally and Gil, who took me under their wing. Gil said, “It got bumped by breaking news.” “Bullshit. This kind of news ain’t your job, son. People don’t pick up your rag for this shit. They look for a special on a six-pack. They want news, they get the Reno paper. This ain’t the first time I’ve had to remind you. What do you think tourists think, picking up the paper to find a story like this? Thank God it was only a suicide.” I studied Gil to see if he were going to suggest the alternative. “I was just doing my job,” he said again. The chief looked at me for the first time. “How you doing, Dallas?” “Fair to middling.” “I promoted your sister.” “A month ago, I know.” “I already told you?” “She told me.” “She deserved it.” “I assumed as much.” “She’ll have my job some day. If she can stick around that long. And if she doesn’t get hooked up with this idiot.” Gil started to speak but changed his mind. “You wanted to say something?” the chief asked. Gil shook his head, no. “What you should do for the Festival is more than a story,” the chief said. “A special insert, with history, pictures, the whole shot. The Basque Festival is a big fucking deal around here. You know that, it’s your people. How come you don’t support your own people? Folks like to read about the old days and how Sogobia got started and all that shit. You’re missing a real contribution to this community, ignoring the

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Festival and trying to come off as some kind of real newspaper or some goddamn thing. You need to get your head out of your ass, son.” With that the chief turned and headed for the counter, where he sat a few stools down from the two salesmen. Or missionaries. If someone had told me who they really were, I would have wondered what drugs he’d been taking. “Do you really think it wasn’t a suicide?” I asked. “Sure, it looks like a suicide. But the fact remains, there’s a hole in the fence. If someone was eighty-sixed and raising hell, Lavinia would have called it in.” Lavinia was the owner of the Black Cat Bar & Brothel and the smaller Annex which stood behind it, the only two brothels in Sogobia. She had taken me under her wing immediately after learning that I was a screenwriter. She liked to run her extraordinary movie ideas by me, most of which belonged in the Adult Entertainment industry, about which I knew little. “Have you talked to her about the hole in the fence?” “Not yet. I just noticed it this morning.” “Then it may have happened after the girl was found.” “I thought of that. I’m not saying it’s important, just that it’s worth checking out.” “Did Sally mention anything about the note to you?” “I don’t think she’s seen it.” “She told me that, too.” “You don’t believe it?” Gil asked. “I think if she’d read it, she wouldn’t tell you or me squat.” “That’s true enough.” “Anybody claiming the body?” “Her mother. Today, I think.” “She may be able to tell you something about her daughter’s state of mind.” “Already thought of that.” “Wasn’t insinuating otherwise.”

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“I know, Dallas.” After a pause, he went on. “I try to put myself in the mindset of a girl like that. You sell your body for good money but surely there’s a down side, a psychological down side, to doing that night after night. I can’t imagine some of the creeps she has to have sex with. Finally it gets to you so much that …” Gil stopped, as if waiting for a creative conclusion to drop out of the air like a gift from the gods. I filled in the rest. “You take the money and run. You get out of the business.” “What are you saying?” “She probably did what she did for personal reasons, not professional ones.” Gil thought about this a moment. “You may be right. If this were a movie, how would it go?” “Well, if I were writing it, of course it would be murder. Murder’s a hell of a lot more interesting than suicide.” “Okay, in this murder movie, who done it?” “It would depend on the back story. Where the girl came from, the enemies she’d made, the people who would benefit by her murder.” “Give me an example.” I already was warming up to the exercise and would have given him a scenario without being asked. Story-building was the most fun part of my profession. Screenwriting was more collaborative than any other form of narrative, and I enjoyed bouncing ideas around with other writers, putting together plot points to build a story, the way some people enjoy doing crossword puzzles or playing bridge. Until the bean pushers got involved in the process, it was great fun. “Let’s say she has a pimp. Misty tells me about half the girls at the Black Cat have pimps. She’s been skimming off the top, keeping more than her share of the money, and the pimp finds out. He makes an example of her.”

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“A little obvious maybe.” “I agree. So the pimp is an early suspect, not the real murderer.” “Who then?” “Butterfly was younger than most of the girls. A real girl-next-door type. So let’s say an older woman got jealous of her. Maybe Butterfly stole an especially generous client from her – you know, they really depend on their tips, almost as much as waitresses.” “A rival eliminates the competition,” said Gil. “Exactly.” “Better but …” “I know, I know. We’re just getting started. Actually, the girl is not a genuine prostitute. She’s an underground investigative reporter.” “Now you’re cooking!” “She’s been looking into the fact that the brothel actually is a front for something much more sinister.” “What would that be?” I was silent. Nothing immediately occurred to me. “Hold the thought,” I said. “We can figure out that part later. The point is, the brothel’s owner finds out she’s turned up the dirt and has no choice but to eliminate her.” “Drugs is too obvious.” “Agreed.” We were silent a moment. “This isn’t easy,” Gil said. “Tell me about it.” “But I love her being an undercover investigative reporter. That’s cool.” “But we still need the story she’s investigating.” “Is this the way you do it in Hollywood? Tossing ideas around like this?” “Pretty close. There’s a difference.” “What’s that?”

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“If you come up with the solution, and sometimes even if you don’t, you get a magnificent pay check.” “So it’s not really about having fun? It’s just another form of greed?” “No, no, it’s a hell of a lot of fun. Fun and greed are not mutually exclusive terms.” “God, Hollywood must be something. When are you going back?” “I really haven’t thought about it,” I lied. I got up to go on my way. My brain suddenly was preoccupied, the story game having triggered thoughts of a book idea, something based on the suicide. Sally was right. I should get off my ass and start something. I could become a screenwriter-turned-book author. A new writing life, a postcancer life without the stress of collaboration and lack of power. I could write a book any damn way I chose to, and no producer could say diddly about it. I decided to walk over to the Black Cat and see the hole in the fence for myself. When George Raft and his friend followed me to the cash register, I thought nothing of it. I assumed they’d pay their check and be on their way.

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2

It was a gorgeous day, the desert sun warm at midmorning, the sky as deep a blue as you could ask for. Many people hate the desert and find it monotonous. I love it. When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, my family often spent weekends camping in the Mojave desert, where I would spend the night looking at the stars through a reflecting telescope I’d built as a school project. For a brief time I nurtured vague notions of becoming an astronomer but learned by high school that the profession required mathematical skills beyond my comprehension. Since I’d never thought of becoming anything else except a professional baseball player, which also was out of the question, I joined the marines after high school. In Vietnam I took shrapnel in a leg and was sent home for rehabilitation and discharge. I tried UCLA for a year but felt out of place, surrounded by students screaming against the war who considered me and other vets on campus some kind of moral delinquents. Dad got me a shit job at Columbia Pictures, where I discovered a natural talent for screenwriting (mainly because it’s more about storytelling than actual “writing,” in the sense that novelists write) – and the rest, as they say, is history. “Hey, Texas, it’s a little early for this sort of thing, isn’t it?” I was walking along the side fence at the Black Cat when a voice I recognized called from the adjacent parking lot. It was

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Cheyenne, who was unloading her cleaning supplies from a teal-blue van on which was written, Mop Around the Clock, under a logo of a broom and mop doing the twist together. Cheyenne had the janitorial contract for the brothel. If there was one woman in Sogobia who interested me in a romantic way, it was Cheyenne. Not that I was on the lookout for a girlfriend. After three marriages and two live-in girlfriends, I’d finally gotten the message that relationships weren’t my strong suit. This was one of the reasons Sogobia, with its legal brothels, was such a fascinating place for me to hang out while I decided what to do with my life after cancer. The Black Cat was nothing like I imagined a brothel would be. First, the women were neither sleazy nor tramps. In the Annex, which was a trailer behind the main building, they were mostly housewives and single mothers working to make ends meet. In the main house, they were more career-oriented girls, some with considerable experience, and in appearance they were as diverse as any random sampling of women on a city street at noon hour. But they looked better. What especially fascinated me was how direct and natural the transaction for sex was. When you buzzed for admittance at the front gate, you were let into the compound, took the long walk across a cobblestone pathway to the front door, where you rang again before being let into the building. A floor manager met you and led you to the house living room, called the parlor, where all the available women were already standing and sitting around, usually dressed in lingerie or cocktail dresses, all hoping to be chosen. When you picked the woman you liked, she led you back into the foyer, past a small gift shop and down a hallway to her room, where you privately negotiated a price for whatever sexual favor you were in the market for. If the price was too high, you were free to return to the parlor and negotiate with someone else. Or to leave. Or to go into the adjacent bar and have a drink or play the slots while you thought about it.

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There was never a doubt what you were there for or who was available to provide it. It was the sex act turned into a biological commodity, sex no bigger a deal than getting a burger at a fast food joint, one hunger no different from the other, and to my surprise I had discovered in Sogobia an amiable logic to such an arrangement. Soon I got the habit of visiting a young Japanese woman who called herself Misty several times a week. By now I felt like I was visiting a friend, not a prostitute. But not a girlfriend. What was missing in the brothel environment was romance (including kissing, which was against house rules at the Black Cat). Romance, of course, was one of the things I specialized in while writing for Hollywood. If the brothel took sex to its logical biological extreme, Hollywood specialized in creating a fantasy world where men on white horses actually did rescue damsels in distress and sweep them off their feet. The culture, it seemed to me, was more rooted in Hollywood than Nevada, more in fantasy than biology, which explained my vague romantic interest in Cheyenne. As much as I enjoyed my time with Misty, I entertained no romantic notions about her at all. “Hey, Wyoming,” I said as I approached the Mop Around the Clock van. We found it curious that we’d both been named after cities. It suggested a vague bond between us. For all my time in the world of starlets and high fashion, I’m viscerally attracted to bohemian women who wear little makeup and get their clothes from second-hand stores. Cheyenne, in her janitorial duds, fit the bill nicely. She was tall and slender, with dark eyes and hair, dark enough, in fact, to suggest a gypsy in the bedroom somewhere down the genetic line. She was always quick with a quip, her greeting a perfect example, and was obviously bright enough to do something other than janitorial work if she had a mind to. I’d been contemplating asking her to dinner for months. Although Misty and I had great conversations, before sex and after, somehow it

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wasn’t the same thing as talk over dinner and wine, coffee and brandy. “I didn’t think Hollywood writers got up this early,” Cheyenne said. “I’ve been up for hours.” “Really? Long enough to get horny, it appears.” “Actually I’m here on another matter.” “Let me guess. Gil talked to you about the hole in the fence and got you curious and now you’re snooping around.” “You’re certainly well-informed.” “I did his office before I came here. I’m getting an early start today so I can take some time off. It’s my birthday.” “Well, happy birthday! I’d ask how old but I’ve been told it’s impolite.” “It is but I’ll tell you anyway. Thirty-two.” “A fine age. I remember it well.” Cheyenne’s helper, a plump teenager named Trixie, came to the truck for another load of supplies. Trixie smiled when she saw me but said nothing. She grabbed a vacuum cleaner and headed for the side entrance. Cheyenne said, “Let’s check out the hole. I haven’t seen it myself yet.” She started toward the back fence, and I followed along. The wire-link fence had been cut into half an oval and bent back. It was large enough for me or any average-sized man to stoop through. Cheyenne said, “Gil should follow you back to Hollywood. He has a great imagination.” “Meaning you accept it as a suicide.” “Come on. The plastic bag over her head. An empty bottle of pills was on the bedside table. She even left a note. What else could it be?” “Did you know her?” “Not very well. I thought she was really nice for a hooker.”

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“You don’t like hookers?” “I don’t trust them. You wouldn’t believe all the backstabbing that goes on here, or in any brothel for that matter. Which makes perfect sense when you think about it. All the ladies are in competition with one another.” “I never thought of it that way.” “Think of the pressure and the frustration when you’re the one not getting the gig, and you have bills to pay. A lot of these women have kids to support.” “Puts a whole different light on things.” “It’s a business, Dallas. Big business in Nevada. Don’t ever forget it. Well, I’d better get to work. You coming in?” There was something about her tone of voice and the way she looked at me now that made the question more than something casual, as in going my way? It was as if my answer mattered to her. “Well, I’m not in the mood for sex, as hard as you may find that to believe. But I think I’ll have coffee with Misty if she’s free.” “Is she your regular?” “I don’t have a regular,” I lied. “And I’m really not the sex fiend you make me out to be.” “I sure see you here a lot.” “No, you just think you do because you never see me anywhere else. You want some help?” “No thanks. Catch you around.” I walked around to the front gate as Cheyenne closed up the van. I buzzed twice, the signal that I wasn’t looking for a date, and was met at the front door by Hazel, the day floor manager. She was a big woman with hair bleached so blonde it looked white. “What are you doing here this early, Dallas?” “Just killing a little time, if that’s okay. The bar’s open, isn’t it?” “Deader than a doornail but it’s open.”

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The floor plan of the Black Cat was pretty typical of brothels, Misty had told me. I’d never been to another, not even to the Annex in back. What made the Black Cat different was that it was a converted house, not a double-wide trailer like most of the brothels in Nevada. It also was unusual to be located in the city limits, near the heart of downtown. I headed for the bar. Off the foyer was a small gift shop, often manned by a mentally deficient adult everyone called Sonny Boy, and beyond it a doorway into the large living room or parlor, which was filled with stuffed chairs and three sofas. A doorway with a swinging door led to the bar, and an open doorway led to a long hallway off of which spilled the dozen rooms occupied by the working women. If I had buzzed only once, signaling that I was a customer, by the time Hazel led me to the parlor it would have been filled with all the ladies who were free and looking for a date. This morning Hazel let me walk through the parlor and through the swinging door on my own. Sitting at the bar were three of the working girls, only one of whose names I could remember, a redhead called, believe it or not, Scarlet. Several others were playing the slots against the far wall. Everybody looked bored. The day bartender, Jeff, was a Shoshone Indian and brother of the chief of police. “Dallas, my friend,” he said, dropping a napkin onto the bar. “What will it be?” “Just coffee.” “Sure you don’t want me to sweeten it?” “Positive.” “Hey, Dallas,” said Scarlet. “You making up your mind or just slumming?” “Is Misty working?” “No one’s working working. It’s boring as hell around here. I can’t wait for the festival to start.”

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“I think she’s reading in her room,” said a dark-haired woman pushing forty. Not many working girls lasted as long as she had. “Want me to get her?” “If it’s not too much trouble,” I said. She shrugged and went to fetch Misty. When Misty arrived, wearing a red Japanese robe, I immediately said, “I need to talk to you about a date.” This wasn’t true but it gave us the excuse to go to her room together. Misty was a small woman, Japanese, beautiful by my tastes. I loved her dark eyes. She was thoroughly Americanized, the “east” in her accent suggesting New York more than Tokyo. At the end of the hallway we passed Rachael, the cashier, who sat on a stool reading a magazine. She looked up and back down without saying a word. Misty’s room, like all of them in the brothel, was very small and pared down to essentials: a bed, a wash basin, a closet. Misty had personalized it by putting posters on three walls, an assortment of Japanese water colors and calligraphy. She shared a full bathroom with another room on its opposite side, two rooms sharing a bathroom all the way down the long hallway. I took out my wallet and handed Misty two twenties. “You want a blow job?” “No, I want to talk to you without getting you in trouble. Give this to Rachael and tell her what you want.” In a few minutes, Misty was back. “What’s up?” “I was wondering if you knew who cut the fence in back.” “For forty bucks you need to know? Now you’re making me feel guilty.” “If you feel guilty, you can give me a special rate next time. So what do you know?” “Nothing specific but it got crazy as hell around here a few nights ago. Sonny Boy and the preacher they call Elmer

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Gantry both got themselves eighty-sixed and weren’t too happy about it. That’s usually when someone tears up the fence.” “Couple days as in Sunday night?” The body of Brooke had been discovered early Monday morning, I remembered, by one of the other prostitutes. “Right.” “Why’d they get eighty-sixed?” “I only know specifics about Sonny Boy. He’s one of these johns who’s always falling in love. He fell in love with me last year. He came in with a diamond engagement ring for Brooke, and when she didn’t accept it, he went bananas.” “The night she killed herself?” Misty shrugged. “I don’t let myself think about it. It’s all too weird for me.” “Did Lavinia call the cops?” I asked. “Nobody calls the cops on Sonny Boy. He’s got mental problems. He’s a kid in a man’s body. Lavinia treats him like a mascot around here.” “Do you think Brooke killed herself?” “I didn’t see it coming but I can see how it could happen. She was a troubled soul. I could see it in the way she carried herself. In the eyes. You get a sense of when someone is about to go over the edge.” “Maybe the engagement deal was the last straw. You think?” “No, I don’t think it had anything to do with it. That’s Sonny Boy’s deal, not hers. She would’ve done what she was going to do anyway. Why are you so interested in all this?” I had to laugh. “Good damn question.” “You ever have a date with her?” “No. Just you, sweetie pie.”

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I meant it. Misty was a knockout and knew more about oral sex than I knew about dramatic structure. Our arrangement suited me just fine. “So what are you asking so many questions for?” “I’m a writer. It’s my job to be curious.” She looked doubtful, so I went on. “Gil, the guy who has the weekly paper, got me thinking about a few things.” “It’s your job to make up stories,” said Misty, “and I get the idea you’re making up one here. You plan to write a book or something?” “Never wrote a book in my life.” In fact, the notion of writing something based on Brooke’s suicide was looking better all the time. But this wasn’t the sort of thing a writer shared with anyone. At root, writers were spies. “She left a note,” Misty said. “She left the empty pill bottle. She put a bag on her head to make sure.” The same evidence Cheyenne had noted. “Pretty convincing,” I said. “Since you’re here, you sure you don’t want to get off?” “One more question. Who did Brooke share a bathroom with?” “Jane. You know her?” “I don’t think so.” “Natural blonde, 30ish, tits as big as Jayne Mansfield.” “You’re too young to remember Jayne Mansfield.” “In Japan, she was considered one of the seven wonders of the world. A real freak show.” “Is Jane working today?” “I think she’s in her room. What do you have in mind?” “Maybe I’ll buy a conversation with her, too.” “You are very reckless with the bills today.” “Hey, I’m a big Hollywood writer, remember? Have to spend it on something.”

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Which was more or less true. I’d made a damn good living in Hollywood, but I’d acquired few of the habits of the rich. I’d driven here in a twenty-year-old VW Bug, I wore department store clothes mostly bought on sale. My only vice when working was renting a beach house in Malibu. In Sogobia I rented an apartment for less than two hundred dollars a month, which was less than my bar bill in my previous life. Throwing out a few twenties on a whim was not an act I considered reckless. At least not yet. I waited in Misty’s room while she went to see if Jane would talk to me for half an hour at her usual rates. Misty was back in no time. “Just down the hall. She left the door open.” “You’re a sweetheart. I may be back in earnest tonight or tomorrow.” Misty had not exaggerated about Jane’s endowment. I’m not a breast man, but if I were, I would think I’d died and gone to heaven. Even in her bathrobe, which she wore over pajamas, her extraordinary figure seemed to defy the gravitational laws of balance. Her platinum blonde hair completed the resurrection of Jayne Mansfield. “Misty said you’d pay me to talk. You want to talk about your wife, right?” I heard and saw immediately that Jane was a tad inebriated. I glanced around for the party juice and found a vodka bottle and carton of orange juice near the sink. She’d been having screwdrivers for breakfast. “You shared a bathroom with Brooke, I understand.” “Fuck you!” The outburst took me completely by surprise. “Were you two close?” “I don’t have a goddamn thing to say about her!” She was heading my way, those large breasts of hers coming at me like huge boxing gloves. I turned and hurried out the door. Jane slammed it behind me.

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I tapped on Misty’s door and opened it. “She got very upset when I mentioned Brooke,” I said. “What do you expect? She’s the one who discovered her.” “She’s already drinking.” “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen her sober.” Trixie was vacuuming the foyer as I passed on my way out. She blushed when she saw me, and I felt vaguely guilty about something. Then I saw Cheyenne looking at me from the hallway, shaking her head. The woman definitely was getting to me. I was through the gate and walking past the parking lot when I saw the black Chrysler parked at the curb across from the brothel. The two salesmen were in it, the George Raft lookalike sitting behind the wheel. Whoever they were. As soon as they saw me, the car pulled away and headed off down the street. It never occurred to me that they had followed me. A more logical explanation presented itself: they were checking out the brothel, missionaries rather than salesmen after all, either visiting Mormons or zealots from our local group, Christians Against Prostitution, although the latter usually wore white suits to show off their purity. Whoever they were, they may have been doing legwork before their next crusade against sin. It wasn’t something to trouble myself about, and when I didn’t see them again for a few days, it was easy enough to forget I’d seen them at all.

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3

I remember a period in the middle of chemo when I wanted to die. It wasn’t that the cure was worse than the disease; the cure was worse than any imaginable human experience. A bullet to the brain held the promise of ecstatic relief. But there was a problem. I didn’t own a gun, and I was in no shape to venture out into the world to find one. An overdose of pills was out of the question. I couldn’t even keep down cold cereal or chicken soup. To leap from a great height required the climb to get there, and I became exhausted just thinking about it. Even stepping up on a chair, from which to insert my neck into a noose, required energy beyond my capacity. I faced the frightening realization that I was powerless to do anything about my misery. I was a pawn at the mercy of my doctor. I did what he told me to do because what he told me was the only thing I could manage. But I got over it. I survived and my hair grew back and I put on weight until one day I felt as if little had changed in my life after all. The problem was, a great deal had to change – and sooner rather than later. My doctor said so. The next cancer would be worse, he assured me, and the one after that worse still, and if I wanted to reach forty I had to change the bad habits of my life in a major way. I knew in my gut that my doctor was right but I had little confidence I could change, even given the ultimate price for failing at least to try. I was a

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creature of habit. Moreover, I had come to like my habits, my routine, my life. Perhaps this was my fatal flaw. Change your environment, my sister told me on the phone. Come spend time up here with me. The air will do you good. The solitude will do you good. You’ve got money, you can afford to take a year off. Hollywood will survive without you. Come up here and who knows?, maybe you’ll find a way to reinvent yourself. Come to Sogobia, Nevada. And so I did. The nicest thing about my apartment is that it’s across the street from a small park that runs along what is called the Sogobia River but which, by all but the standards of the Chamber of Commerce, would be called a creek. It’s a one-bedroom on the second floor with a deck overlooking the park. It’s become the most comfortable home I’ve ever made for myself, no doubt another reason I was still in town. But mainly I was biding time. Sooner or later I had to make a decision about my life and my future. I had to figure out how to live my life after cancer – and how to live my life when the cancer came back, which the odds said it would do one day. I had to start living with my new roommate, mortality. My answering machine was blinking as I entered. The message was from Gil, who said to call him back as soon as possible. His tone of voice reinforced the urgency. I called but the line was busy. Since his office was a short walk away, I took it. Main Street was a four-block stretch of brick and stone buildings, each block lined with cottonwood trees, which in summer provided considerable shade, creating a tiny oasis in the desert. The usual small-town businesses were represented: a men’s clothing store and a women’s clothing store, a mercantile, an appliance store, a hardware store, a barber, a cigar store, several restaurants, cafes and bars. And, of course,

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in the middle of everything, a block off Main Street, was the Black Cat Bar & Brothel, a business as accepted as any other. Gil was off the line by the time I entered the small downtown office on Main Street. The Sogobia Free Weekly was mostly a one-man operation, with a part-time secretary who was not there at the moment and several salespeople who worked strictly on commission. “The mother’s in town,” Gil said, not hiding his excitement, “and she says no way the suicide note is her daughter’s handwriting. We’ve got a murder case, my friend. Right here in Sogobia.” You would have thought this was the biggest thing to happen on the desert since Butch Cassidy robbed the bank in Winnemucca. “How’d you find out?” “My source has to remain confidential.” “Sally?” Gil shrugged. “I’ll find out if it is, you know. She doesn’t keep much from me.” “She can’t keep much from anyone. Yes, it was her, but you can’t let her know I told you. She’s in a big argument with the chief about it. Apparently he still doesn’t buy it was murder.” “Murder looks worse to the tourists than suicide,” I noted. “That’s for damn sure. Anyway, since it’s murder, there’s a murderer – and that means we’ve got a genuine whodunit on our hands. Is this exciting or what?” Exciting wasn’t quite the right word, though I didn’t tell Gil so. But I knew where he was coming from. If you report week after week on drunken driving citations, barroom fights and a periodic crusade against legalized prostitution, a murder story must look pretty good. It also made my book idea

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more commercial. I might be on the ground floor of one hell of a story. Maybe this was exciting after all. “So are the police going to investigate?” I asked. “I’m sure the chief won’t touch it till after the festival. Maybe not even then. Sally, though, will definitely be looking into it.” “And you, too.” “Absolutely. Want to help?” “In what way?” “You probably know more about it than I do. I’ve never written about a murder case. You ever write a murder movie?” “Several.” “See there. I can use all the help I can get. I might be able to break a big story in the weekly if we get ahead of the curve. Once this becomes known, of course, Reno and Vegas will have writers here like flies on shit.” “It’s pretty small stuff by Vegas standards.” “Maybe so. Anyway, I’m hot to trot. Where should we begin?” “Will Sally keep you up to speed?” “I think so.” “I think she’s your best ally at the moment. You don’t want to interfere with the official investigation or the police will stop talking to you.” “I just feel like I should be doing something!” “Have you talked to the mother?” “Right, I have to do that. I mean, I know how important it is.” “Do you know where she’s staying?” “Sally said she got a room at the Sogobia Inn.” There were only a handful of motels in town, and this was the upscale one by local standards. “Is she there now?” “I don’t know.”

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“Let’s find out.” The Sogobia Inn was on Main Street at the west edge of town, the first motel you passed coming from Winnemucca or Reno. It had thirty rooms, a swimming pool and free donuts and coffee in the morning. It was within easy walking distance of the Black Cat. The woman’s name, Gil had learned, was Anita Cadbury, and she was staying on the top floor, in room 23. Gil was so excited he took the steps two at a time. He waited for me before knocking on the door. Anita Cadbury clearly had been crying. She was a woman who looked like she had money, probably pushing fifty and hating it, which led her to wear too much makeup and a tight pants suit that probably fit her a couple years ago. She had a cigarette holder in her hand but no cigarette. “Mrs. Cadbury?” Gil asked. “Yes?” “I’m from the weekly paper. This is my assistant. I wonder if we could talk to you.” She was eager enough to talk, which I took to mean she was relieved to have someone who listened and took her seriously. Gil impressed me by the way he led her into telling the story of her daughter and why she believed Brooke would never kill herself. They were estranged, Anita said from the start, because she did not approve of her daughter’s occupation as a prostitute, legal or not. How such an idea could even occur to a nice girl from Boise was beyond Anita’s comprehension. But then the teenager had started running with the wrong crowd after her father died when she was fourteen. Bad influences. Brooke’s first job had been outside Reno, at the Mustang Ranch, probably the best-known brothel in the country. She’d been there several years, mother and daughter not talking at all, when out of nowhere Anita received a letter from her daughter saying she was leaving the brothel. Brooke was joining the new

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ashram that followers of Swami Kree were building in Juniper County in central Oregon. For Anita, this was jumping from the frying pan into the fire. The Kree, as far as she was concerned, was a religious cult that brainwashed its followers into changing their names, abandoning their family ties, and giving all their income to the ashram. She’d never think she’d miss her daughter being a prostitute but as far as Anita was concerned, better a legal whore in Reno than a religious zealot on Swami Kree’s ashram. For this reason, she’d hired a deprogrammer in Portland, with the idea to kidnap Brooke from the ashram and get her into therapy to become herself again. By the time Anita and the deprogrammer arrived in Juniper to stake out the ashram, Brooke was already gone. No one knew where. All a representative at the ashram would say was that Brooke’s stay didn’t work out. That was about three months ago. Brooke, of course, had returned to the work she knew best, getting a job at the Black Cat. When Anita got the first call from the police, telling her that her daughter had killed herself, she could very well believe it. Whatever spiritual quest her daughter was on, apparently using religion to escape her life as a prostitute, the failure at the ashram and subsequent return to prostitution must have been devastating to her. Her self-esteem, which Anita never considered healthy, must have plummeted to depths too great to live with. As sad as it made her, Anita could understand her daughter taking her own life. Then the police showed her the suicide note. Anita knew her daughter’s handwriting, and this was not it, not even close. Whoever wrote this note, it was not her daughter – and if her daughter didn’t write it, then who did? Obviously the person who had killed her. “Your chief of police didn’t believe me,” Anita went on. During her story, she’d planted a cigarette into the holder and had smoked it to a stub, which she stabbed out now. “He said that a person’s handwriting can change dramatically under

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duress. That’s poppycock. I never heard that, have you? No one will ever convince me that the note was written by my daughter. There was a woman there, a police woman, and she understood the situation as clearly as I did, but this didn’t matter to the chief either. The way he condescended to her! Like a woman cop, what the hell can she know? I’m having an autopsy done. Her body was taken to the funeral home in Winnemucca, and somebody has to come in from Reno to do it. I don’t know what I’ll do if the autopsy doesn’t prove anything.” “We believe you,” Gil said the moment Anita stopped long enough to cue us that she was done. “Thank you,” she said softly. She managed to smile. I’d been quiet until now. I said, “Do you have any idea who might have done this? Even a wild guess?” Anita thought a moment. “Someone from the Kree.” “And why is that?” Gil asked. “There was something about the way they treated me, the way they said it hadn’t worked out for her. They’re all crazy anyway. And rich! They have doctors and lawyers from California in that cult. I don’t understand it. From what I hear, they want to buy up all of central Oregon and turn it into a religious state or something. It’s scary. I don’t understand why no one seems to be doing anything about it.” Before she got too far adrift on a tangent, I said, “And they made you suspicious about something? What exactly?” “I don’t know. Like they were hiding something. Like there was more to it than Brooke not working out at the ashram. I just got a bad feeling in my stomach about the whole experience of going there.” Gil said, “If they wanted to get rid of her, wouldn’t it have been easier to do at the ashram?” “Unless she fled before they could,” I put in.

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Anita’s eyes widened as she warmed up to the possibility. “They could have followed her here,” she said. “Wouldn’t that be hard to do?” Gil asked. I had an answer for him. “Not if they knew she’d worked at the Mustang Ranch. How many legal brothels are there in Nevada? Not all that many. It did take them a few months to find her.” I immediately regretted saying it. Anita was too quick to take the theory in. I caught myself using my storytelling instincts instead of my investigative instincts. “This is just a wild theory,” I reminded everyone. I turned to Gil. “What did the police take as evidence from Brooke’s room?” “I have no idea.” Some investigative reporter. I said, “One of us should ask Sally about that. Maybe she kept a diary.” “Brooke always kept a diary,” said Anita. “Ever since junior high.” “There we go,” I said. Anita said, “I thought she was going to become a writer. She loved interviewing people and writing about them. She was so good with people. She could open anyone up; they’d spill out their entire life story to her.” I didn’t say that she probably did very much the same thing with her customers. According to Misty, most of the men who visited brothels were married and spent a lot of time complaining about how their wives didn’t understand them. I asked Anita when the results from the autopsy would be done. “They’re going to try and get it done before the festival. I understand there’s a big festival this weekend and everything shuts down.” “The Basque Festival,” said Gil.

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“Really. I didn’t know there were Basques in this part of the country.” “A lot of the early miners were Basque. Before they herded sheep.” “Really.” I told Anita we’d be in touch tomorrow to see how the autopsy was coming, and we left her putting another cigarette in the holder. Walking to Gil’s car, I said, “I think the cult angle is too far-fetched.” “It sounded good when you said it.” “It’d make a great movie. Movies are more interesting than life. Our killer is probably someone more dull than a follower of Swami Kree.” “Shouldn’t we at least look into it?” “You mean go to Oregon?” “I don’t know what I mean,” Gil laughed. “I feel like I’m in the middle of a lake without a paddle. This is harder than I thought it would be.” I understood completely. I’d learned long ago that storytelling was a hell of a lot easier than life.

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4

If you didn’t zoom past Sogobia, Nevada, on the Interstate and instead took the off-ramp to hang around town for a few days, talking to locals in the bars and cafes, you likely would hear this story sooner rather than later. It was told even more often than the story of old Frank Ford’s Bicentennial last ride in the saddle. A retired couple from the Midwest had been celebrating their 50th wedding anniversary in Las Vegas and Reno. On I-80 East on their way home, they stopped late in the afternoon in Sogobia to find a motel. When they saw the large sign at the edge of town advertising The Black Cat B&B, they decided to check it out. They still felt like celebrating, and a bed-andbreakfast would be more festive than a motel. They were surprised to find that The Black Cat B&B was surrounded by a high chain-link fence with a security gate at the entrance. But it looked ideal: a large Victorian building on a sprawling lot within walking distance of the Sogobia River, surrounded by shade trees to temper the heat coming off the Nevada desert. They agreed to check it out further by going inside. There was a buzzer at the security gate, and as soon as Emil pressed it, the gate buzzed back to let them in. There was a fairly long cobblestone path to the front door, and Mabel took her husband’s arm to steady herself for the long walk. Along the way she remarked that the security reminded her of the new

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planned living communities, like the one in which her sister had bought a condo in Bend, Oregon, a neighborhood called Camelot that was completely surrounded by a security fence. You couldn’t be too careful in today’s world. The front door was open. Emil and Mabel entered to find themselves facing a large living room to their right – and this is when they stopped dead in their tracks. The room was filled with scantily clad ladies, almost a dozen of them, who sat and sprawled across the stuffed chairs and sofas in a variety of seductive poses. Another woman, older than the others, with platinum blonde hair stacked on her head like a thatched hut, rushed to them and asked if they needed help. “Is this The Black Cat B&B?” Emil stammered. “Yes, it is.” “I’ve never seen a B&B like this,” Mabel whispered to her husband, but loud enough to be heard. Suddenly the women in the living room started laughing. They got up and disappeared down a hallway. The older woman said, “We’re not a bed-and-breakfast, dear. B&B stands for Bar & Brothel.” “You’re a brothel?” Emil asked, his voice cracking. “The best in Nevada! We have senior rates if you want me to call the girls back.” When I got home and opened the refrigerator, I discovered there was nothing there I felt like eating for dinner. The only market in town was the Sogobia Family Grocer, a modest corner business that in L.A. would have been called a convenience market. If you wanted more than what they had to offer, such as a selection of fresh meat, you had to drive to Winnemucca and go to Albertson’s. I needed something for dinner and decided to take the drive, even though it was almost forty miles. Forty miles on the desert was a quick jump down the Interstate.

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My car was twenty years old, a 1964 red VW Bug I called Ruby. I’d had it for half its age, spending more to resurrect it into mint condition than I would’ve paid for it new. I almost sold it when I decided to join my sister in Nevada, driving up in the BMW that was my day-to-day transportation. But I couldn’t part with Ruby, and it was too much of a hassle to move to Nevada with two cars, so I decided to sell the BMW and drive the vintage Bug. I thought this might also symbolize a new rhythm to my life, choosing economy over speed, something old over something flashy. Since I was in no hurry, I took the old highway instead of the Interstate. There wasn’t much traffic on either but the twolane highway meandered more and made me feel less conspicuous when cruising at fifty. It was a drive I’d taken often since I don’t buy food far in advance, and it was a drive I found relaxing. The desert could do that to you. Sagebrush stretched across the landscape as far as the eye could see, a mixture of more shades of brown and gray-green than I could name. I got a feeling that was almost religious when I spent time in the desert. Sometimes I’d buy lunch to go at Mom’s Café, usually a meatloaf sandwich and potato salad, grab a sixpack of Rainier from the Grocer (for some reason the Washington beer was very popular in Sogobia) and head on into the desert, finally pulling off the road to park and eat my lunch while staring out across the barren land. Sometimes I’d play a game with myself, structuring movie ideas into their beginning-middle-end story lines, more from habit than from any desire to write them down later, a habit of mind not easily broken. I’d spend an hour out there alone, and by the time I returned home I often was so relaxed that I took a nap. This afternoon my mind was ablaze with energy, thinking about the murder of Brooke Cadbury. I made a note to call Sally tonight and ask if there was a diary, though Gil probably would have asked her already. A diary, if it existed, obviously might be filled with clues of all kinds. If I were writing this as a

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movie, a diary certainly would exist – but the police would not have gathered it with other evidence in the room because it would be missing, not taken by the murderer necessarily but by someone who got to the crime scene before the police, perhaps by the person who discovered the body, because in the diary was incriminating information of some other kind. My mind raced with possibilities, and I wasn’t keeping straight what was real and what was imagined in my projected movie. Or book. Or whatever. I was just glad to be thinking about something besides my own mortality. I took my time at Albertson’s, pushing a cart up and down each aisle, even though I ended up with only a frozen Salisbury Steak dinner and a six-pack of Rainier, which I could have carried. Outside the exit, a man in a white suit was passing out leaflets. He was short, a bit pudgy, and balding, perhaps prematurely. I couldn’t guess his age. When he saw me, he seemed to light up. “A sinner if I ever saw one,” he said, stepping my way. I accepted a flier. “It’s never too late to give up a life of fornication. The heart of Jesus Christ is larger than the world, larger than space. On ye sinners, repent before ye die and go to hell!” What was remarkable about this marketplace sermon was his demeanor while delivering it. He looked positively joyous, as if he were telling me I’d just won the lottery. No Puritan sternness, no look of disapproval. He positively glowed in the surrounding purity of his whiteness. An Albertson’s employee rushed outside. “Now Stanley, the deal was you were going to keep your mouth shut, remember? You can pass out your material if you don’t hassle my customers in the bargain.” “I’m fine,” I said and moved off. Looking back, I saw the manager still lecturing Stanley.

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The flier announced a CAP rally in the riverside park at noon on Saturday, at a time and place to put it in competition with, and purposely in conflict with, the Basque Festival. I’d been aware of the Christians Against Prostitution group since moving to town. They were a curious bunch, only several dozen strong, and as near as I could tell taken with a grain of salt by most of the local population. In fact, prostitution was legal in Sogobia County because the county board of supervisors voted it so, and they followed the will of the people. In poll after poll, legal prostitution in Sogobia was supported by over three-fourths of the residents. CAP, according to my sister the cop, was actually centered in Reno, initially formed by a coalition of conservative churches there. Now the faithful brought their message to those counties beyond Reno where a misguided population supported no less than Sin with a capital-S. So CAP members sometimes picketed the Black Cat or marched down Main Street or passed out fliers door-to-door – and now they were going to hold a rally right in the middle of the Basque Festival. The good folks of Sogobia, who believed in free speech as much as commercial sex, would listen politely for a moment and then move on their way, amused and tolerant. I took the Interstate back. After taking the Sogobia exit, I flowed onto the country road that in town became Main Street. The Black Cat was ahead, announced by a billboard. It was illegal in Nevada to advertise the services of a brothel, but Lavinia had gotten around the law by renting out the spare bedroom in her adjacent home, creating a genuine “B&B,” although guests seldom stayed there. Lavinia was influential in the community and usually got what she wanted. As I approached I noticed a police car parked near the gate. Sogobia police cars were painted in the same two shades of green as the uniforms. When I recognized the license plate as belonging to Sally’s car, I pulled over. Apparently there had been a

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commotion of some kind. Sally had Sonny Boy in cuffs and was leading him out by the arm. Following along was an older woman in tears, who now and again screamed something incomprehensible at my sister the cop. Watching it all from the doorway of the Black Cat was Lavinia, the owner. When Sally brought Sonny Boy out the gate and saw me waiting there, she said, “Not now, Dallas.” I let her pass by. The woman, her face distorted in pain, rushed along behind them. She was old enough to be Sonny Boy’s mother. Sally opened the back door of the patrol car and, putting one hand on Sonny Boy’s head, dipped him down and pushed him into the back seat. She closed the door and walked around the car. Before getting in, she told me, “I get off at seven. Meet you for a drink later?” “Danny’s?” “See you there.” Danny’s Bar and Grill poured the stiffest drinks in town. They also served up the best steaks. “He’s only a child!” the woman screamed at Sally. Then she walked away with her misery. Sally’s patrol car pulled away. When I saw Lavinia still in the doorway, I approached her. We settled into her office, a small room off the front foyer. I’d never seen Lavinia in casual clothes. She habitually wore a dark pantsuit, conservative and businesslike, her makeup always fresh, her short hair always brushed. She looked like a corporate executive, which is what she considered herself. The quickest way to get on Lavinia’s shit list was to call her a madam. “Poor sonofabitch,” said Lavinia. “I’ve done everything I can think of to help him. I gave him a job in the gift shop. I give him discount coupons for the girls. I hated calling the cops on him but he’s been worse than usual. He came to get the sheets off Brooke’s bed. Can you believe that? Well, naturally

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the room had been cleaned as soon as the police were through with it. We got a new girl coming in next week from Vegas. Sonny Boy wanted to put Brooke’s sheets on his own bed or some damn thing. Sniff himself to sleep or whatever. The poor fucker is eight years old with a horny middle-aged body.” “Who was the woman?” “His mother. She worked for years at the dry cleaners. Finally ready to retire and get Social Security. She plans to take him to Seattle where they got special homes so he can get treatment. I hope she does.” “Can she afford that?” “Probably not. Maybe she can get public assistance or something. I don’t know what the hell she’s going to do with him. Poor sonofabitch.” “I hear he tore up your fence.” Lavinia just stared at me. I wondered if I’d said the wrong thing. Finally she said, “You writers are all alike. Too goddamn curious about shit that’s not your business.” “I guess that answers it.” “For the record, Sonny Boy didn’t tear up the fence. Let me tell you something else. This is just between us. Understood?” “Of course.” “I don’t give a damn if she offed herself or somebody killed her and set it up to look like suicide. All I care about is my business because I got a few dozen hard-working women, and a few men, too, who depend on this brothel staying open for their livelihood. Bad press doesn’t help business. Now what do you think is worse for business, suicide or murder?” “Murder.” “Exactly. So even if I saw somebody kill that poor young woman with my own eyes, I’d think twice, I’d think real hard, before I lifted the phone to call the police. You understand where I’m coming from?”

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“It doesn’t get any clearer than that.” “Now for the record, of course it was suicide. Any damn fool can see that. But as soon as I saw the hole in the fence, I knew some asshole would come up with a theory. Now get out of here, I got work to do.” Driving down Main Street, on my way home, I saw Sonny Boy’s mother enter Mom’s Café. I swung into a parking place out front to follow her inside. She was slipping into a corner booth. I approached the table. She was one of those working women with a face that revealed a life of long hours, much worry, and probably too much booze. Her hair had enough gray in it to make it look dirty. “Excuse me,” I said. “I’m Dallas. I couldn’t help but notice how upset you were back there. I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help.” It wasn’t totally insincere. I was fishing for information, of course, but sometimes a woman in distress can help herself by saying what’s on her mind, even to a total stranger. “I’ve seen you before,” she said. “Do I know you?” “We’ve never met. You’re Sonny Boy’s mother.” “You know my son?” “Not very well. We’re acquaintances.” I’d had two brief conversations with him in my life, both at the bar of the Black Cat. “They’re putting him in jail,” she said. “He’s only a child.” Sonny Boy was my age, I figured, a man who weighed something over two hundred pounds. One hell of a body for an eight-year-old. “I don’t think he’ll be there long. They just want to calm him down.” She studied me a moment before saying, “Do you want to sit down?”

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“Thank you.” A waitress came to the table, and we both ordered coffee. “They take advantage of him,” she said as soon as the waitress was gone. “Who does?” “That … place.” In the pause before naming it, I had expected her to say something more damaging, like whorehouse. “They take every cent he gets from the government,” she said. “They should be the ones in jail.” Then Sonny Boy was getting some kind of assistance, after all. But only financial, not the psychological help he surely needed. “He thought he was in love with that woman,” she continued. “She led him on. I’m glad she’s dead.” I waited for more and got it. “I hope she felt guilty and goes straight to hell. They should close that place down, every one of them, here, in Winnemucca, everywhere.” I could picture her at Saturday’s CAP rally in the park, yelling along with the best of them. I said, “Have you tried to get your son some psychological help?” She glared at me. “Of course I have. What kind of mother do you think I am?” I tried to explain that I didn’t mean to imply otherwise but I’d already said enough to lose her trust, and clearly the conversation wasn’t going to be pleasant from here on. I excused myself, paid for both coffees at the counter, and left. Waiting for Sally at Danny’s Bar and Grill, nursing my drinks because I had an hour to wait, I thought about what Lavinia had told me. She’d sounded defensive when talking about the hole in the fence. Why even bring up the possibility of murder if she was so convinced it was suicide? And if she knew Sonny Boy

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hadn’t cut the hole in the fence, did she also know who had? Lavinia provided more questions than answers. “A penny for your thoughts,” said Sally, sliding onto the barstool beside me. She was wearing jeans, a red western shirt and cowboy boots. My sister the cop looked like someone who’d have no trouble wrestling a steer to the ground. “Hardly worth a penny.” “You certainly seemed deep in thought. I hope it wasn’t about you know what.” “Maybe it was about a lady.” I was changing the subject without her knowing it. And maybe getting some input while I was at it. “I was wondering whether or not I should ask Cheyenne out to dinner.” “The janitor lady?” “The very one. You know how janitors turn me on.” “I had no idea you were interested in her.” “You know any other eligible females in town?” “I didn’t know you were looking. I thought you found everything you need at the Cat.” “Kissing is against the house rules. I can’t remember the last time I kissed a girl.” Sally immediately kissed me on the cheek, then offered hers. I kissed her and said, “Who wasn’t my sister.” “If you’re thinking about it, that’s reason enough to do it.” “I’ll give it some more thought. So did you get Sonny Boy calmed down?” “Finally. We’ll keep him overnight and let him go. He needs to go somewhere where they have services to help him.” “I heard the mother wants to take him to Seattle.” “I hope she does.” The bartender came over, and Sally ordered a greyhound. “You look tired,” I said.

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“I feel a lot of stress. No way the chief will investigate this as a murder. What if it is? It’s not right not to look into it.” “The autopsy report might change his mind.” “I’m not even sure that would be enough. He seems more worried about the reputation of our law-abiding community than about justice.” I thought about Lavinia being worried about her business interests. At root, most people were selfish. “Is there a problem with you looking into it anyway?” “Might be. Depends if he knew what I was doing.” “Is there other evidence?” Sally looked at me, letting the suggestion of a smile come slowly on her mouth. “I suppose I should be glad you’re interested in something other than your health,” she said. “I thought maybe you found a diary in her room or something.” “No diary. But some other things I’m not at liberty to say.” “Not even to your brother?” “Especially to my brother because he’s a writer.” “I could give you a co-byline.” “Are you serious? You’re going to write about this?” “I have no idea. I’m just trying to find out what you took out of her room.” Sally laughed. “Some folders full of papers. We haven’t catalogued them yet.” “Interesting.” “Not if they’re bills and old love letters.” “Old love letters could be interesting.” “You’re right.” “So when do you catalogue them?” “There’s no point if it’s a suicide. We send them home to mom.”

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“Speaking of which. She’s sure it was murder.” “I know.” “In your gut, what do you think?” “In my gut? I want to talk about something else. I want to think about something else. And if you think the pickings are lean in the eligible women department, look at me.” “You and Gil are in your off-again mode?” Sally moved her head one way, then the other, as if to say no comment. I said, “I think you’re the only reason he stays in town.” “That’s one of the problems. If he really wants a career in journalism, he should go to a city where he can do something about it.” It was my turn to make no comment. We finished our drinks. “Another?” I asked. Sally dropped off the stool. “I need a hot bath and a good movie. I rented Atlantic City.” “Fantastic movie. John Guare.” “Who’s he?” “You never heard of John Guare?” “He’s in it or something? I thought Burt Lancaster and Susan Sarandon were in it.” “It’s a movie-star world, isn’t it? I think I’m getting depressed.” “What’s the matter? Who is John Guare?” “He’s only the screenwriter, Sally. He’s only the guy who wrote the damn movie you’re going to see.”

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5

I’d brought my Remington portable typewriter with me from Hollywood. It was still in its case in the closet. On Thursday morning I made a gigantic gesture toward starting a new future and took it out, setting it up on one end of the small table off the kitchen. For a long time I sat in front of it, as if trying to get used to the idea that this was my new writing space instead of the office I’d rented at Columbia, that I could work at home and write books and be my own boss. But could I sell anything? I couldn’t live on my comfortable bank account forever, not with all outflows and no deposits. Maybe I had five years, more if I watched myself, before I became desperate, but it didn’t hurt to get a head start on what was going to be inevitable. I had to find a new way to write for money. That or find something else to do, a thought that scared the hell out of me. It took me almost an hour of staring into space before I embraced a typical writer’s rationalization: I couldn’t write without supplies – paper, extra ribbons, White-Out, red pens for rewriting, envelopes and stamps in case I actually got around to querying a publisher about something. This was the excuse I needed to get out of the house and go shopping. Since I wasn’t sure I could find everything in Sogobia, or even in Winnemucca, I caught the Interstate for the three-plus-hour drive to Reno. Driving, I’d learned, was good therapy.

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Reno is called the biggest little city in the world, a claim announced in lights at the entrance into town. There’s a certain justice to the claim, Reno sporting some of the same casino glitz of Las Vegas within an area with a small-town feel. If you didn’t gamble, Reno was one of the best bargain spots in the world, with cheap drinks and cheap meals everywhere, aimed at keeping gamblers at the tables and slot machines. I always played a few slots when I came to town but never more than this. I didn’t drink since I had to drive back, but I’d skipped breakfast in order to take advantage of the steak-and-eggs special advertised by almost all the casinos. In less than two hours after arriving, I was well fed and fully supplied and ready to head home. The drive back was more tiring than the drive there, despite buying the supplies that suggested I was ready to write again. Ideally I would have spent the drive back in my writer’s head, obsessed with story ideas, time losing its meaning. Instead I had to stop several times to stretch and keep myself awake. Twice I stopped at a gas station for stale coffee in a Styrofoam cup. It was early evening by the time I pulled into the apartment parking lot, and I was ready for dinner. I unloaded the writing supplies, shoving everything under the typewriter end of the table. Before I was out the door to grab something to eat, the telephone rang. It was Gil. “Bad news,” he said. “The autopsy says she died by suffocation.” “What about the pills?” “I don’t know. The coroner called it suicide by suffocation. Apparently it was the bag, not the pills.” I felt like saying I’m sorry. Gil said, “So there goes our murder theory. I thought you’d like to know.” “Thanks.”

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I had meatloaf at Mom’s Café, and an idea came to me while I was eating apple pie for desert. While murder was more exciting than suicide to a budding investigative reporter like Gil, to me, stumbling around for a book idea, I didn’t see that it made any difference. The book, whatever it was, seemed to be focusing on brothel culture itself, on the truth about an industry filled with clichés, moral platitudes and wrong information. In this context, how Brooke died was irrelevant. What was important was her personal story, the back story before her death. My idea required talking to Anita Cadbury one more time before she left town. I dropped a twenty on the table, leaving what may have been the largest tip in the history of the café, and drove Ruby to the Sogobia Inn. I was lucky. She wasn’t checking out until morning. She offered me a drink as soon as I stepped into the room, and I accepted. Bourbon, neat. “Gil told me about the autopsy,” I said. “It doesn’t prove a thing. If she died from suffocation, so what? It doesn’t prove she took the pills or put the bag over her head.” “Someone did those things to her?” “Anything could have happened. Something was slipped in her drink. There’s lots of ways.” She had a point. But I wasn’t interested in pursuing this possibility any more. I had another idea. “This may sound a bit strange,” I said, “since I really didn’t know your daughter very well. But I’d like to attend her funeral. I assume it’ll be in Boise?” “Yes.” Anita sipped her drink. I felt ill at ease that she wasn’t responding one way or the other to my request. “Unless you think it’s inappropriate,” I said to break the silence.

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“Of course you can come. I don’t know the details yet. Do you have a card?” My business card had my Hollywood information. I scribbled my current phone number on the back and gave it to her. “I really appreciate this,” I said. “I have to ask you something.” “Of course.” “I want an honest answer. It won’t make any difference regarding the funeral. I’m just curious.” “What do you want to know?” “Were you one of Brooke’s customers, johns, whatever you call them?” “No, I wasn’t.” “You’re so interested in her, I thought you might be.” For a moment, I thought about letting her know I was writing a book. This was research. But I really didn’t know yet if this was true or not. I said, “She seemed like a genuine young woman. Obviously she had problems but without really knowing her, I liked her. I imagined she’d be a person easy to like. She had a very warm personality.” “Yes, she did. She could make anyone talk about anything. People would tell her their deepest secrets. There was something about her manner that made people trust her.” “Yes, I think I sensed that.” I didn’t stay long after that. Anita was emotionally exhausted and had a long drive ahead of her in the morning. I left her to her private grief. On the way home I stopped for a nightcap at Danny’s but stayed for several. I probably shouldn’t have driven home but I had a short drive and Sogobia had no traffic after six in the evening. I made it all the way to the turn into my apartment before the flashing lights came on behind me.

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I was sure I was going to get a ticket for driving under the influence, right here on the edge of my apartment parking lot. I took out my driver’s license and waited for the bad news. Finally I heard footsteps approaching. I glanced up to find Sally looking down at me. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “I know, officer. I screwed up.” “I saw you stagger out of Danny’s. I thought you were going to stagger home, and I thought I’d follow behind to make sure you made it. I couldn’t believe it when you got into your Bug.” “Ruby.” “Ruby doesn’t fly on automatic pilot.” “I know. I did something stupid.” “You know what a fine for drunk driving is in Sogobia County?” “A lot.” “Not as much as you spend at the Black Cat. I’d give you a ticket if the fine was large enough to get your attention. You have a drunken driving record in California?” “I’ve never had a drunk driving ticket in my life. I usually take cabs when I drink.” “Good idea. Why didn’t you take one tonight?” “We’re a one-cab town. I figured it might be an hour before he got to Danny’s. I could walk home in ten minutes.” “But you didn’t, you drove.” “Stupid, stupid.” “Sit tight,” said Sally. “I’m going to write you a warning.” “Yes, officer.” “Are you getting cute? I still can write you a ticket.” “I thought I was being respectful, officer. Sergeant.” “I don’t know, Dallas. Sometimes I can’t tell when you’re putting me on. I’ll be right back.”

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Before she got back, I felt the urge to pee. It made waiting all the harder. “Here we go,” she said. I took the warning ticket from her. “The autopsy’s done,” Sally said. “She died of suffocation from the bag.” “Gil told me. So much for murder in Sogobia. I feel safe again. Know what I mean? I guess I’m babbling. I’m drunk.” “Okay, Dallas. Get your ass in bed. And no more drinking and driving.” People would tell her their deepest secrets. I couldn’t get the words out of my mind. It kept me awake, repeating itself over and over again, as stubborn as a musical refrain you can’t get out of your head. But if she had put those deepest secrets in a diary, which now was missing, then maybe the song was about murder, no matter what the autopsy report said. Despite myself, I didn’t want to think about this possibility any more. It was too much of a long shot. It was a waste of time. I had to move on with my life. Sometime before midnight, I finally slipped off. I woke up with a title in my head. Ten Months In A Brothel. I hated it. It sounded like a melodrama or a musical comedy. Sunshine was pouring in through my eastern window. A new day. But it still felt like the same life. I still felt in limbo. I made instant coffee and took it out onto the deck. Workers were in the park, putting up tents and tables for the Basque Festival. It would run from Friday night to Sunday evening and bring tens of thousands of people into town. The police chief had called it second only to the Fourth of July for a local celebration but according to Sally, the festival had the biggest crowds and required the most attention from police. Units from Winnemucca and Elko came in to reinforce the local effort.

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I was still out on the deck when the telephone rang. I don’t get a lot of phone calls, which limited my expectations of the party on the other end. Sally or Gil most likely. Maybe Lavinia if some amazing movie idea had occurred to her overnight. But the voice that greeted me was an echo from my past. “You old son of a gun!” said Jason Monk. “I can’t believe I actually found you home. I’ve been calling for weeks.” Monk was the director of development at Columbia. I hadn’t heard his voice since I’d left Hollywood. “I have an answering machine.” “I hate those fucking things. So, Dallas, talk to me. What are you doing up there when you’re not in the cat house?” He guffawed, and I waited for the coughing that usually followed. I didn’t wait long. “Talk to me, Dallas,” he said after recovering. “How’s your health?” “My health is good.” “So when are you coming back? I can’t hold your office forever.” “Why are you holding my office?” “Hey, how many pictures have we made together? Give me a break. Of course I’d hold your office.” “And if I’m not coming back?” “That’s what you said when you left but you were talking under duress. Dallas, I can tell you now, but you looked like total shit after you went through radiation and the rest. I felt like weeping every time I saw you. You got your weight and color back, right? I mean, everything’s better in the health department?” “I’m fine.” “Well, then! Your office is waiting for you.” “I’m not coming back, Jason.” Jason broke into a coughing fit. I pictured him stopping it with a drag on his cigar. “Dallas,” he said. Nothing more.

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“I can’t handle the stress down there any more.” “What stress? I never saw you stressed a day in your life. You got ice in your veins. That’s why you’re so valuable down here. Dallas, listen to me, I got this script, the concept is terrific but the screenplay puts you to sleep. I need somebody to punch it up. I mailed you the script.” “I’m a retired screenwriter, Jason.” “Retired. And I’m the King of Siam. Wait till you hear the story. These aliens have planted these cocoons in a swimming pool next to a rest home. It’s a transition deal, they get the cocoons out of the ocean, keep them warm in the swimming pool. They’ll eventually hatch into new aliens, right?” “Jason, you’re wasting your time. I mean it.” “I mailed you the script, just look it over. See what you think. You can rewrite it there and mail it, for God’s sake. How stressful is that? You get your mail yet today?” “No, not yet. I mean, my doctor told me to retire.” I waited for the coughing to begin. There was only silence. I said, “I’m no longer a screenwriter. I’m writing a book.” “Oh yeah?” I didn’t reply. “What’s it about? You talk to anyone about the film rights?” “I’m still outlining it.” “What’s it about? What genre?” “About a murder,” I said, just to satisfy him. “Hey, murder’s always a winner. You’re a pro, Dallas, you know where the action is. Is there a cathouse in it? I know writers like to write about their surroundings.” “As a matter of fact, it happens in a brothel.” “Fucking Christ, I can see it! I can picture it in my head right now. Only we’d have to go light on the sex, in the film version I mean. With an actor in the White House, you’d think the climate would be more loose, not tighter. Everybody thinks

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they’re a moralist today. Orville was pretty damn close, wasn’t he?” “I don’t know Orville.” “A writer like you never heard of 1984 by Orville?” “It’s Orwell.” “Hey, what do I know? I’m just a producer. When can I see something?” “Jason, I’m still working on my outline.” “When can I see it?” “I’ll get back to you.” “Perfect. You sound strong as a bull. So how do you like the cat houses up there? I had a chance to go to Mustang Ranch once but it wasn’t my deal, to be honest. Something about paying for pussy ruined it for me.” “I’ve got to run, Jason.” “Hey, I’m glad I caught you! I miss you. We need help down here.” “I’ll be in touch.” As soon as I hung up, I realized my heart was racing. I felt lightheaded. All the old stress seemed to be washing over me, kicked up by nothing more than a phone conversation with my old boss. I headed for the bedroom to lie down and rest. The telephone jarred me awake. The room was devoid of sunlight, the bedroom cast in the gray of evening. “Hello?” “Mr. Norgood?” “Yeah.” I coughed to settle my voice. “This is Mrs. Cadbury. You said you wanted to know when the funeral would be.” Monday in Boise. I planned to be there.

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6

The Sogobia Basque Festival ran from 4 p.m. Friday to 8 p.m. Sunday. The most popular events – the running of the sheep, the poetry bash, the lamb barbecue, the Basque music and outdoor dance – happened on Saturday when the crowd would reach several thousand. I spent much of Friday afternoon sitting on my deck, reading the new screenplay Jason had sent me, which had come in the morning mail. How much stress would it be to rewrite it from here, spend a week on it, mail it to Hollywood, take the good money and run? If it didn’t take too much work, and if it was understood there’d be no discussion afterwards, this was a rewrite they could accept or pass on to another writer – well, the money was good, and I had no other income in sight. It wouldn’t hurt to fatten the pot and buy myself more time for deciding on a new career. Or maybe this, rewriting from afar, would be it. The Sogobia Script Doctor. In the park below, the workers were finishing up their preparations for the festival. For fifty yards or more, booths stretched down the parkway along the river, where Basque artists and craftsmen, and quite a few who weren’t Basque at all, would sell their jewelry and paintings, wool blankets and carvings. The booths led to the food area, where a gigantic pit would roast lambs throughout the festival, embraced by a semicircle of food booths selling lamb stew and paella, leek soup and ox-tail stew, white beans and chorizo.

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I was still on the deck, trying to decide whether or not to make dinner or go down and break in one of the food booths when I saw Cheyenne crossing the street into the park. Although the official opening was almost an hour away, the curious and the impatient already were arriving in numbers. “Hey, Wyoming!” It took her a moment to find me up on the deck. “Hey, Texas!” “Wait a minute, I’m coming down!” Joining her at the edge of the park, I almost did a double-take. She was wearing a denim dress with blue work shirt and matching denim vest. I’d never seen her in a dress before. Her black hair, usually worn up and often under a scarf, fell past her shoulders. Her dark eyes seemed darker than usual. She looked pretty damn good. “Hey,” I said. “Getting an early start, I see.” “I like to get the first cut of lamb. I have this theory it’s the best.” “You mind company?” “Not at all.” We exchanged smiles, and I wondered if she were feeling as awkward as I was. We started walking slowly through the festival. “Did you know we’re practically neighbors?” Cheyenne asked. “Really?” “I live on Fifth.” Two blocks away. “How come I never see you except when you’re working?” She shrugged and smiled again. It would have been a perfect time to take her hand, but I didn’t. We were silent, and Cheyenne seemed to be less comfortable with this than I was. At least she was the one who broke it.

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“So what have you been up to today?” “The studio sent me a screenplay. They want me to rewrite it.” “And will you?” “I haven’t decided. The money’s good, so maybe I will.” “Must be nice. Being able to work at home and all.” I was tempted to tell her the truth about screenwriting but caught myself before I began. Why ruin a moment filled with pleasant possibilities? “I’m thinking of writing a book,” I said. I stopped, a little surprised at saying it. “What about?” “Maybe about Brooke.” “That’s interesting. Did you know her?” “No. She’d be an example, a metaphor, of the larger brothel culture.” I hated myself for going on like this. I was afraid I would bore the hell out of her. But I was used to kicking my ideas around, and Cheyenne felt like a person with whom I could share what was on my mind. “It is fascinating, isn’t it? Brooke …” She stopped. “Brooke…?” “I’m going to embarrass myself.” “Not with me.” “I think Brooke was a writer herself.” “What makes you think that?” “What I found in her trash. Now I am embarrassing myself.” “It’s your job to get her trash.” “Not to look through it, for God’s sake.” I waited for more. “It’s this hobby I have,” said Cheyenne. “I make these collages. I collect the most interesting trash I find, and cut them

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into interesting shapes, and arrange them in interesting designs.” “You’re an artist.” “I don’t know about that.” “I’d like to see your work.” “Right.” “I mean it.” “Anyway, Brooke has, I mean had, the most beautiful handwriting. Very old-fashioned, you know? Very swirly and stylized. She wrote on yellow paper, like from a legal pad, and she wrote a lot, too. What made it even more interesting, is that her writing was filled with corrections, like she couldn’t make up her mind what the best way to express herself was. I’d throw away pages and pages of her work every time I cleaned her room. I saved a few for a collage.” I was afraid to tell Cheyenne how badly I wanted to see Brooke’s writings for fear I’d scare her off. “Fascinating,” I said. “I’d still like to see what you do.” “Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” “Maybe you can show me sooner rather than later. How about after we eat?” “I’m not claiming it’s great art or anything. It’s only a hobby.” “We’re two blocks away.” “My apartment is a mess.” “You can come to mine, and we can compare messes.” Cheyenne laughed, from nerves I thought. I said, “Think about it, and I’ll ask you again after we eat.” By the time Cheyenne unlocked her apartment door, the sun had gone down, and we’d spent over an hour in the beer garden. The beer helped her agree to show me her work. I entered behind her and as soon as the light came on, I had to smile at her earlier description of a mess. As near as I

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could see, the place was immaculate. No newspapers and books were scattered about, no dust anywhere, no unwashed dishes in the sink. The standards of cleanliness for women and men came from different universes. Several of her collages were on the wall, and I moved immediately to one of them. I don’t know all that much about art, only what I like and don’t like, and I didn’t like these much. Of course, this was the last thing in the world I’d tell her. But I felt compelled to say something. “Very interesting.” “That usually means you don’t like it.” “No, I do. I’m not sure I understand it.” “I’m not sure there’s anything to understand,” Cheyenne laughed. “Where’s Brooke’s handwriting?” “I haven’t used it yet.” She went to a desk, opened a drawer, and took out a stack of folders. She selected one and opened it. She brought out several sheets of yellow paper. “Here.” Cheyenne was right. Brooke had a very flamboyant handwriting style, the kind you usually see only in the writing of the aged any more. But what fascinated me more was what was written. Each of the sheets was part of a narrative about the Kree, and each was filled with the crossouts, additions and marginal notes that only could come from a professional writer, or an amateur with professional ambitions. It was my guess that Brooke had been working on an article or a book about the religious cult. And this, of course, had intriguing implications. “Really different,” I said. Cheyenne reached for the sheets but I didn’t release them. “You know, something like this is just what my book needs. If I end up writing it. I wonder if you’d let me make copies of them sometime?” “Sure, why not?”

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I handed her the sheets. “That would be really great.” Cheyenne returned the sheets to the folder, and the folders to the drawer. We faced one another across the room. Cheyenne seemed to be weighing something in her mind, perhaps trying to decide whether or not to offer me a drink. “Well,” she said when the silence became unbearable. “Shall we go back to the festival?” She started to say something and stopped. Then she said, “It’s getting late.” It wasn’t, but this was as good an excuse as any, and I didn’t want to push my luck. “Then I’ll see you later.” I smiled and headed for the door. “Texas?” I turned to her. “Wyoming?” “I had a good time.” “Me, too.” “I can make those copies for you at the copy machine in Lavinia’s office. She lets me use it.” “That would work.” “Are you going to see the running of the sheep tomorrow?” “It’s the one thing I wouldn’t miss.” “Maybe I’ll see you there.” “I’ll look for you. Or I could come by and pick you up.” She fidgeted, again looking like she couldn’t make up her mind. I regretted putting her on the spot. “On second thought,” I said, “I have some business to take care of first. I’ll look for you on the street.” As if we’d find one another in the thousands of people lining Main Street to watch the herds of sheep race by. “I’ll look for you, too.”

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“Goodnight, Cheyenne.” “Goodnight, Dallas.” I didn’t return to the park, which was filled with twice as many people as earlier. Accordion music floated above the constant din of talk and laughter, and somewhere in the mix was singing in the strange Basque language, which was called Euskara. I didn’t go home either. I walked to the Black Cat. My notion, of course, was to rid myself of the pent-up sexual energy aroused by spending so much time with Cheyenne in the quick and easy release of a moment with Misty. But I’d forgotten what the brothel was like on a busy night. With so many tourists in town for the festival, Friday night at the Cat was a zoo, and there was even a short line at the gate, Lavinia having decided that the bar, where customers usually waited, had reached its capacity. I was halfway home when a horn beeped. Gil’s station wagon pulled to the curb. I walked to the driver’s window. “Going to the festival?” he asked. “Been there. I was going home.” “Want a ride?” “How about a drink at Danny’s?” As I told Gil about Brooke’s story-in-progress on the Kree, I found myself doubting more and more that she’d killed herself. Her mother didn’t think so. Even in their estrangement, a mother probably knew her daughter well enough to be taken seriously. Moreover, Gil painted the Kree as a paranoid cult which probably wouldn’t appreciate someone taking notes about their rituals and activities. They had come to Oregon only a few years ago, buying up property and inviting the followers of guru Swami Kree to populate the new ashram in Oregon. Hundreds had heeded the call from all around the world. Locals feared they were trying to take over the entire region. The Kree had become controversial.

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“She might have found out something they don’t want anybody to know,” Gil said. “So they had to shut her up.” “It’s possible. But we don’t want to jump the gun. The ashram isn’t all that far from Boise. I’m going to her funeral. I think I may check the ashram out afterwards.” “God, I wish I was going with you.” He seemed to be waiting for an invitation. “You have a paper to get out.” “I know. Will you call me if you find out something? I don’t want to have to wait till you get back.” “I don’t expect to find anything earth-shattering. But I’d like to see a few things for myself.” I didn’t finish my drink. I turned down a ride home so I could clear my head walking. At home I tried to get back into the screenplay but gave up after a few pages. Noise from the music and crowd drifted into the apartment. For a while it kept me awake. When I stopped struggling to shut it out, it was gone, and the next thing I knew was I staring at myself in the mirror, looking at a man who needed a shave.

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7

The running of the sheep was too recent an addition to the Sogobia Basque Festival to be called a tradition. Mayor Emil Jackson had conceived of the idea, arguing to the City Council that there were two reasons to give the unusual idea a try: first, it was different, bizarre enough and flashy enough to attract tourists to the festival. Spain had its running of the bulls, and Sogobia would have its running of the sheep. Moreover – the second benefit – this would give Basque sheepherders a spotlight more natural to their way of life than anything else in the festival, including the lamb barbecue. While speaking, a third benefit occurred to the mayor. This could serve as a peace token between the cattlemen and the sheepherders, who over the years had been at odds since their animals sometimes competed for the same grazing land. Granted, most of the cattlemen had moved their stock elsewhere, the rugged land around Sogobia being too desolate and severe for the larger animals. But a tradition of hostility was still a part of local history. Sogobia, the mayor argued, should embrace the sheepherders, all of whom were Basque, acknowledge their valuable contributions to the community, and honor them.. A running of the sheep would symbolize this very thing. The first running in 1980 was disastrous. Local Democrats, a small but active minority in Republican Sogobia County, infiltrated the march of animals along Main Street, carrying placards that read “Republicans for Reagan: Running of the Sheep!” The great majority of several thousand folks

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lined up along Main Street did not find this humorous at all. They were Republicans. A scuffle resulted as police tried to pull the Democrats away from the march of animals, several arrests were made, and the press had a field day for weeks thereafter, none of which put Sogobia in a particularly flattering light. The next year the City Council voted to remove the running of the sheep from the festivities. In 1982, the mayor again managed to vote it back in by a single vote. This time the running of the sheep went without incident and even got a small segment on national television. Good publicity for the festival, everyone agreed. This year, although the mayor was incapacitated after a stroke and therefore could not argue for the running, and his wife, who replaced him, was too shy to say much of anything to the City Council, there was no argument for dropping it again, and the running of the sheep was scheduled for 10 a.m. on the Saturday of the festival. But controversy occurred once more, and I almost missed it. I spent the early morning finishing the script Jason had mailed me. I liked the concept, but the focus was wrong. As written, the main character was a young man who rented his boat to fishermen. Aliens, who look like humans, rent it in order to retrieve the pods of their brethren, which lie deep on the ocean bottom. These are then stored in the warm water of a swimming pool in a mansion they’ve rented. Much more interesting was a subplot that put the mansion next to a retirement community. A group of old geezers break in to use the swimming pool in the abandoned mansion. The pods in the water somehow have revitalized it with magical properties, so by swimming in the pool the testosterone levels of the old guys skyrocket and they become youthful and energetic again. This was the more interesting story, I thought, and if I rewrote the script, one of these old guys would become the main character.

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By the time I got to Main Street, the running of the sheep had started. Hundreds of sheep trotted down Main Street, which was lined by thousands of spectators. Dozens of sheepherders, each in the distinctive black or red beret of the Basque, moved along the edge of the animals, controlling the march. The line to watch was three-deep, and I had to stretch and maneuver to see much. Cheyenne was nowhere to be found, of course, and watching sheep run by got old quick. I was about to leave when the turmoil started across the street. Four men in white suits scrambled over a street barrier, lifting their signs high as they moved along the edge of the march. “Christians Against Prostitution” read one in black lettering, the C, P and A additionally lined in red. “No Sin in Sogobia!” read another. I recognized that one of the white-suited men was short and pudgy Stanley, the guy who’d passed me a leaflet at Albertson’s. I glanced around the crowd for the reaction. I saw a lot of smiles. Police, stationed along Main Street in great numbers, were on the scene in no time, and the predictable scuffle resulted before the white-suited gents were led away to two patrol cars that had pulled up beyond the barrier. I wondered if Sally was among the arresting officers. It was all over very quickly, and the bleating animals hurried along as if nothing had happened. I decided I’d seen enough and started to walk home. Before I was far, a young man in a red beret hurried beside me. “Want to buy a poem, Mr. Norgood?” He was all angles, with a strong nose and chin, the long arms of a basketball player, long skinny legs. I guessed his age at 19 or 20, but his dark bushy eyebrows belonged to a much older man. “Do I know you?” “No, sir. But I’m a great fan of Cowboy Jungle.”

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I was stunned. It had been almost twenty years since anyone had mentioned my first movie to me. Cowboy Jungle was the story of a male prostitute from Texas who tries to break into the big time hustle in New York and crashes in the attempt. It was dark and artsy. A few critics loved it, it won a few prizes at festivals, and it lost money. A few years later it was ripped off by Midnight Cowboy, which became a hit. I was so shocked I didn’t know what to say. “Want to buy a poem?” the kid repeated. “What’s your name?” “Yuli.” A Basque name, I assumed. “What kind of poems are you selling?” “I wrote them. I have one-dollar poems, five-dollar poems and ten-dollar poems. If you want a poem on the spot, it’s twenty dollars. You have to give me the topic.” “You don’t have any poems with you.” Yuli grinned and tapped his head. “All in here. It’s called the oral tradition.” I had to smile. “Give me a five-dollar poem, Yuli.” His dark eyes widened, as if he were surprised to get the gig. He stepped back and began, his voice suddenly deep and earnest. “My father’s house Cannot be moved. Wind won’t sway it. The sun won’t bleach it. The rain won’t wash it away, Not even the strong flood of Noah. Fire cannot burn My father’s house. Later, after I am gone A long time

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I will return to My father’s house And the door will open And I will walk in And the door will close And a mountain Will be born.” He stopped. “I like it a lot,” I said. I reached for my wallet. “You said you’d write a poem for twenty dollars on any subject I choose?” “That’s right.” I handed him a ten-dollar bill. “I don’t need change, Yuli. I like what you do.” “Fantastic! Thanks a lot, Mr. Norgood. You want a special poem?” What I was thinking of was a poem for Cheyenne. Then fate intervened. Yuli said, “I wrote a special poem for Cheyenne last week. You know Cheyenne, right? I’ve seen you two talking. She’s my aunt.” So the gypsy in the woodpile was Basque. “What kind of poem do you want?” Yuli asked. “I need to think on that and get back to you. How do I reach you?” “I don’t have my business cards yet. Cheyenne said she’d design one for me.” “You and your aunt must be pretty close.” “She’s my greatest fan. And she’s a great artist herself. She does amazing collages from trash she finds.” I nodded, silent. “Cheyenne can get a hold of me,” said Yuli. “Just leave a message with her.”

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By afternoon, I’d had enough of the noise and crowds, which couldn’t be escaped in my apartment or anywhere in town. In my pre-cancerous life I would have been partying with the best of them, but my doctor had told me I couldn’t live with such wonderful abandon any more. I was doing my damnest to pay attention to his advice. I was leaving for Boise in the morning. I could get an early start. I packed for a week in case I decided to check out the ashram in central Oregon. It was pushing dinner time by the time I was ready to go, but I wanted to get out of town before I stopped to eat. Elko had the best steak house in the region. It wasn’t even out of my way if I took the back way to Boise, east and up the state highways, rather than grabbing the Interstate west to 95 north. I decided to choose my route after dinner. Most of Elko was at the festival in Sogobia. At least it seemed that way. The restaurant was empty. I wandered into the bar, looking for a waitress. “Dallas!” It was Danny, who owned the Bar & Grill in Sogobia. He was sitting with his wife, a pretty redhead a generation younger than he. I slipped onto the barstool next to Danny. “You’ve met my wife, Jennifer, haven’t you?” “Sure have. Nice to see you again.” “You, too, Dallas.” Danny said, “You finally asked yourself what the hell happened to our nice little town, right? Had to escape to quieter pastures.” “That’s about it.” Danny leaned close to me and whispered. “Check out the corner booth to your left. Don’t be too obvious when you look.” Then he leaned back and said, “You had dinner yet? We were thinking of getting a steak.” “I’m famished,” said Jennifer.

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I nodded and turned the gesture into a body turn that let me see what Danny was talking about. In the corner booth were two men in white suits. One of them was Stanley, who was showing up everywhere today. I leaned toward Danny. “CAPers?” He smiled and nodded. “They give me the creeps,” Jennifer said softly. “Oh, they’re nuts but they’re pretty harmless. Did you notice the dude with no hair?” “What about him?” “He’s the one who cracks me up. He’s one of the biggest whore mongers between Reno and Elko. Then he sobers up, gets religion, and all he can talk about is Sin with a capital S. He likes to preach in the park in Winnemucca.” “I saw him passing out leaflets at Albertson’s,” I said. “Everybody calls him Elmer Gantry,” said Jennifer. Great movie. I looked at him again. There was no resemblance between Stanley and Burt Lancaster. “He comes into my place now and again,” said Danny. “Gets drunker than a skunk and starts preaching right there in the bar. I finally cut him off and send him on his way. I think he goes straight to the Cat and gets laid.” I turned again, and Elmer Gantry was coming to the bar. “Here he comes,” I said. “Oh, boy.” Danny covered one hand over a grin. He looked like he was fighting the urge to crack up. “Excuse me,” said Jennifer. She hurried toward the ladies room in the opposite direction. Elmer Gantry reached the end of the bar, stopping only two stools from me. He leaned forward on his small fat hands. Our eyes met. “You don’t have the eyes of a man who’s been saved,” he said.

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Stanley didn’t seem to recognize me. I didn’t know what the hell to say. “Am I right, sir? You have no personal relationship with Jesus our Savior. Am I correct in my assessment?” “I’m a Buddhist,” I said. It wasn’t true. It was something to say. It’s what I’d have a character say if this were a scene in a movie. “A Buddhist,” He smiled and repeated, “A Buddhist.” Suddenly he stepped back, cocked his head to the ceiling and shouted, “Forgive them, God, for they know not what they do!” The bartender rushed over in a flash. “Stanley, you’re going to have to behave yourself if you want me to serve you.” “I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” He flashed the bartender a sheepish grin. “I mean it.” “I’ll behave.” “This is my one and only warning.” “Understood. Might we have another round?” “I’ll have the waitress bring them over. Now go back to your table and leave these people alone.” “Of course.” Stanley’s gaze met mine. “My sincere apologies if I’ve upset you.” “No problem,” I said. “No problem? No problem?” “Stanley,” said the bartender. “I’ll sit down. No problem.” Stanley, alias Elmer Gantry, grinned as if he’d just made a joke. Then he turned and went on his way. Danny let out his laughter in as subdued a manner as he could manage. We chuckled among ourselves until Jennifer returned. “I’m starving,” she said.

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After dinner, they went back to the bar for brandy but I stuck with coffee. One for the road, I told them, and I was out of there. I’d decided to get a motel room in Elko so I wouldn’t have to fight the noise. The white suits were gone. “Old Stanley was in rare form,” Danny said when the bartender brought our beverages. “Elmer Gantry,” said Jennifer. “He’s getting weird even for him,” said the bartender. “I almost eighty-sixed him last week,” Danny said. “I can believe it.” “He was a mess when he came in, been in a fight or some damn thing.” “Did he say what happened?” Danny grinned, remembering. “He said he’d been wrestling with the devil. I told him next time maybe he’d better wear some damn boxing gloves.” We all laughed. They exchanged more stories about Elmer Gantry and other CAPers, but my attention was drifting away to thoughts of my long drive in the morning. I excused myself before the coffee cup was empty. I got a motel room and showered so I wouldn’t be slowed down in the morning. Boise was beginning to feel like an adventure, and I was eager to hit the road in the morning.

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8

On Sunday morning I decided to take the superhighways to Boise, which made for easier driving. I was bringing my tape recorder with me and planned to get some prewriting done on the script during the trip. With my future uncertain, I couldn’t afford to turn down an easy, paying gig. Instead of continuing through Elko to hit the two-lane state highway, I doubled back to connect to the Interstate at Reno. I stopped by the Black Cat on my way through Sogobia and got a quickie. At seven in the morning, there was no waiting in line. As I was pulling up my pants, I said, “I’m going to be out of town for a few days. Just in case you miss me.” Misty was at the sink, gargling and rinsing out her mouth. She always did this after giving me head, which had a way of bringing me back to reality. “Where are you going?” “To Butterfly’s funeral in Boise.” She turned and stared at me. “I didn’t think you knew her.” “I didn’t.” “You like to go to funerals for strangers?” I remembered the wonderful ending of Saul Bellow’s Seize the Day when the main character wanders into a strange funeral and breaks into tears. “I’m calling it research.”

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“For what?” “I may write a book about her. Not about her exactly. In which she plays a part. Her death does. As a backdrop to life in a brothel. To the whole environment of brothels. Am I making any sense?” “Not really.” Misty went from the sink to the small closet. She slipped off her robe, standing nude with her back to me as she selected a dress to wear for the day. She had the tightest, cutest ass. “Brothel culture, if that’s the right way to describe it,” I went on, “is very different from what most people think. From what I thought until I moved here. I want to get something of that in a book. Putting Brooke in it, her suicide or whatever, would personalize it and make it more dramatic. I’m floundering around obviously, but going to the funeral seems like the right thing to do. I might learn some new angles and get inspired.” “Research.” “Exactly.” “Are you putting me in this book?” “I hadn’t thought about it. Why, do you want to be in it?” “I most definitely do not want to be in it.” “Done deal. You have my word.” Misty selected a dress and dropped it over her slim body. She didn’t put on underwear first. “Have a safe trip,” she said. “I’ll see you when I get back.” It was an awkward parting and reminded me how little we really had together. Which is to say, ours was a business relationship, no matter how much fun we could have together. When push came to shove, I was just another john and when I stepped out of her life, many more were around to replace me. Walking toward the exit, I glanced around to see if Cheyenne was around. She didn’t appear to be. I was glad.

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The “wide open spaces” of the west has become a cliché but it’s really an understatement. The stretches of barren, isolated landscape in northern Nevada, like similar scenes throughout the west, were awe-inspiring in their incredible reach from horizon to horizon, the geological equivalent of the sprawling blanket of stars in the night sky. Both reminded me of the smallness of mankind on his own planet, of how easily the planet could do without us. If we ended up blowing ourselves up or in some other way terminated our existence as a species, the vast desert would not miss us, the constellations would not miss us. We were like ants crawling around in the basement of a castle. I kept Ruby at 55, settling into an easy cruising speed on the Interstate. Virtually everyone passed me but traffic was light, so I wasn’t slowing anyone down and pissing them off. I reached to the tape recorder on the seat beside me and turned it on to record. My plan had been to record thoughts about how to rewrite the screenplay for Jason. First I would make the leader of the old geezers at the retirement center the protagonist and reduce the kid who owned the boat to a supporting role. I’d also develop several full stories in the retirement center, making it an ensemble piece, but still tightly structured by the action of the protagonist. And I’d change the godawful title, which was “The Cocoons At The Bottom Of The Sea.” It sounded like a travel documentary. But when I started talking, it wasn’t about the screenplay. “Thoughts about Brooke Cadbury,” I began. After a pause, I went on. “Notes for a possible book. Part one, her death. Did she commit suicide or was she murdered? Evidence for suicide. “The bag, the pills, the note. Classic evidence. The autopsy supports this. Misty saw it coming, or at least is not surprised by it. She saw something in Brooke’s eyes, thought she was troubled.”

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I paused again. “Evidence for murder. Her mother feels strongly she was murdered. She’s sure the suicide note was not written by Brooke.” This time I paused long enough to turn off the machine. I drove for a while in silence. I turned the machine back on. “Possible scenarios. Sticking to the facts as much as possible. “Brooke was a writer, or wannabe writer. No one else rewrites as carefully as she did on the paper Cheyenne got out of the trash. She was writing about the Kree. Suggests a possible motive if the cult didn’t like what she had to say. What in fact did she have to say? Where is the manuscript she was working on? Is it part of the uncatalogued folders the police took? Do they still have them – even after the official verdict is suicide? And where is the diary, and what might Brooke have written about the Kree in it? “What about the Kree? Do they care what people think or write about them? Would they have reason to resent what Brooke was doing? “Did she join the cult in search of some kind of spiritual growth – or did she go into the ashram under false pretenses? In other words, going in undercover, as a writer, a spy. Going in to find out things first hand in order to write about them. I need to find out more details about her leaving the ashram. Did she leave on her own? Was she forced out? Her mother was a little vague about this.” After a silence, I turned off the machine. Something was bugging me. At a rest stop I used a pay phone and called Sally. I caught her home. “Where are you? You sound far away.” “I’m going to Brooke’s funeral. Research.” “Really?”

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“Listen, did you ever catalogue those folders you got from her room?” “The case is officially closed, Dallas. There’d be no point.” “So what happens to the stuff?” “Usually it would be returned to her next of kin. Her mother.” “Usually?” “Well, it would be. I just don’t know if it’s been done yet.” “If it hasn’t, any chance I could look at it?” “I couldn’t do that, Dallas.” Actually Anita would probably let me see it. “Make sure it’s sent to her mother, will you? Sooner rather than later.” “It may already have been done. You sound like you’re up to more than just going to a funeral.” “I’m trying to put together this book. Going in lots of different directions at the moment. What about you? Do you think it was suicide?” There was a silence. “Sally?” “The case is closed, Dallas. I try not to think about it.” “Right. See you when I get back.” “When will that be?” “I’m not sure. I may check out the ashram in Oregon.” “Dallas!” “Just trying to cover all the bases.” “At least you sound excited. That’s nice to hear for a change.” “Keep the streets safe. I’ll call you.” Boise is called the City of Trees for a reason. It comes out of the dry brown desert like a breath of fresh air, all greenery and

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manicured lawns, parks and green riverfront. I chose the first motel with a swimming pool I found on the main drag. I phoned Anita before finding dinner. She gave me the address of the church where a memorial service would begin at ten in the morning. I thought of asking her about Brooke’s belongings that were confiscated by the police but decided it could wait. Apparently Brooke had been a popular girl. The Methodist Church was almost full by the time I arrived late and slipped in the back. I’d spent the morning on the screenplay, getting so involved that I lost track of time. Funerals are like weddings. If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. What struck me about the kind words and memories recited by friends and families was how no mention was made of Brooke’s chosen profession. The words “troubled,” “searching,” “unsettled,” and “complicated” served as symbols for the truth, that she was a professional prostitute working in an environment that legalized her activity. After the memorial service, I waited outside the church to see if I could get a word with Anita, but quickly realized this would be a bad idea. It was a time for family grief, not interrogation from someone like myself who actually wasn’t quite sure what I was looking for. I got in Ruby and waited for the procession to the graveyard to begin. Graveyards belong to the living. I never realized this until Sally, Dad and I scattered my mother’s ashes in the central California stream that was her favorite fishing hole. Visiting the fishing hole later was not the same thing as standing at a gravesite in a cemetery. Then the Feds built a dam, and Mom’s fishing hole was lost under a new lake almost immediately filled with screeching motorboats.

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Brooke, at least, was getting her tombstone. Her mother and friends could visit her and find her memory there. My mother was lost in that lake forever. I stood in the back and kept to myself. Only a fraction of those at the memorial service had come to the cemetery. I was walking back to my car when I noticed a parked van with the words “The Advocate – Boise’s Alternative Weekly” on the side. I stood around, pretending to be admiring the view, waiting for its driver to appear. When he didn’t, I continued a few cars down the road to where Ruby was parked. I sat behind the wheel, looking at the van in the rear-view mirror. Finally a bearded man unlocked the van door to get in. I got out of Ruby and hurried to him before he started up. “Excuse me!” I called. He rolled down his window so we could talk. “I’m here from Nevada,” I began. “I knew Brooke there.” “She was back in Reno?” “Sogobia. It’s near Winnemucca. Can we go somewhere and talk?” “What do we have to talk about?” “I know she was writing about the Kree.” The news stunned him, though he did a pretty good job of covering his reaction. “Name your poison,” he said. “Coffee.” “You want to follow me?” His name was Phil Wendell, and he was the editor of The Advocate. He had a thin, trim beard, the kind worn by the bad King in a Robin Hood movie. Brooke had been on assignment, he explained, going underground to do a behind-the-scenes look at the Kree cult. Rumors about them had catapulted Swami Kree and his followers to hot news. Was the ashram trying to take over Juniper County in order to change Oregon’s land-use laws to

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meet their goals of expansion? Were they performing satanic rites and sexual orgies on the ashram? They were a mystery, one that had come to frighten local citizens. No one knew why they were there. No one knew why Kree members from around the world were coming to an ashram in Oregon. Brooke had come up with the idea of infiltrating the Kree to learn what really happened in the ashram, and Phil had given her an advance and sent her on her way. She’d done a few stories for him before becoming a prostitute and was a good writer. He didn’t ask why she’d come back to writing and was back in town, but he figured an inside look at prostitution was something else she could do for him down the road. But six months later, he hadn’t heard a thing from her and had no way to reach her. Then he read in the Boise daily that she was dead. I told him about seeing several pages of a draft manuscript about the Kree, which meant she’d been working on his story after all. When he asked how I got the pages, I told him I’d found them in a trash bin outside the brothel. No use getting Cheyenne involved in any of this. No use telling him Brooke had made a contribution to collage art. “What did she write?” Phil asked. “What little I saw was mostly descriptive. I didn’t get a sense of where she was going with it. It was heavily reworked.” “That was Brooke. A consummate craftsman. How long was she back into prostitution before she killed herself?” “If she killed herself.” He gave me the puzzling look of a reporter who wanted to know more. I told him about the mother’s opinion of the suicide note. I exaggerated and told him there were several people in Sogobia who thought she’d been murdered. I didn’t mention any names. “What do you think, Dallas?” “I’m trying to keep an open mind. If she was murdered, the question I have is if someone from the Kree could have

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done it. Could she have found out something they didn’t want the world to know? Are they that concerned, or do they just stay on the ashram, minding their own business? I don’t know that much about them.” “What they’re up to is the question everybody wants answered. One rumor has them trying to take over the county. They’ve been bringing in homeless people from Portland, for instance. Why would they do that? Some say to dramatically increase their voting rolls before November’s election. There’s a local ordinance on the ballot to allow exceptions to land-use rules that thus far have restricted their expansion. To carry this logic to the extreme, there are some who say the Kree are trying to build a religious city-state in the middle of Oregon. If that’s true, sure, they might go to any lengths to protect their interests.” “If they discovered she was an impostor, an undercover reporter, they may have kicked her out,” I said. “Or worse. She may have had to escape.” I had to smile. This was the more dramatic option, the direction I’d have gone if this were a movie. They discover her, lock her up, she manages to escape. Always good stuff in a movie. I said, “True enough. Have you ever been to the ashram?” “No.” “I’m going to check it out.” “Are you a writer?” I didn’t want to get into my career and its interruption. “Wannabe,” I said. “You have any stories on you? Writing samples?” “Sorry, no.” “If you find out anything on the ashram, maybe we can talk about a story.” “That’s generous of you, Phil. This might be the break I’ve been waiting for.”

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I had an early dinner at the restaurant attached to the motel. It was one of those places with fake leather booths and place mats showing an illustrated map of Idaho, featuring jumping fish, herds of elk and motor homes speeding down the highway. But it also was old-fashioned enough to have liver and onions on the menu, which I ordered. Back in the motel I phoned Anita. A stranger answered, and I heard the hum of many conversations in the background as Anita was being fetched. I guessed the burial service had moved to her house for a wake. “Hello?” “This is Dallas. Is this a bad time?” “No, we’re just keeping one another’s spirits up. Do you want to come over?” “I don’t want to intrude.” “You’d be welcome. It would give us a chance to talk later. I have some new information for you.” “I’m on my way.” Anita Cadbury lived in an upscale residential area that was old enough to offer a wide variety of home styles. This wasn’t a neighborhood like others I’d driven through, houses thrown up in a hurry to support growth, all of them looking alike. I guessed her house before I found the address by all the cars in the driveway and out along the street. It was a two-story brick home that ended up being larger inside than its outside appearance suggested. Anita rushed forward to greet me as soon as I was let in. Whatever sadness had been apparent in the memorial and burial services had been washed away in food and alcohol. There was still enough food on the dining room table to feed the large gathering several times over. A generous serveyourself bar was set up in the kitchen. I’d smiled through too many introductions to remember names, meeting Brooke’s sister and brother and more cousins

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than I could keep track of. I was mixing myself a very weak gin-and-tonic when a woman stepped beside me. “Will you be staying in the area long?” My expression must have told her I’d already forgotten who she was. “Brooke’s Aunt Zelda. We were very close.” “Right,” I said. “Could we talk privately for a moment?” She led me through the kitchen into a back utility room. There was a washer, dryer, sink. Unfolded laundry was everywhere but I couldn’t tell if it was coming or going. “Anita said I should talk to you,” said Zelda. She seemed young to be an aunt. Like many women in their thirties, she couldn’t decide to dress young or dress mature, and so did a little of both. She wore sensible shoes, sensible hair and makeup, and a dress that showed a little too much cleavage. “Before Brooke left Oregon, she wrote me a letter from the ashram. She said she was sending me something she was working on, that I should keep it for her until she came by to get it. She was going to send it in installments.” I felt my blood rush. “Did she?” “Oh, yes. I have several of them. Something even arrived today, only it was postmarked Nevada.” “She was a writer,” I said. “I know. Have you read her work?” “Not much.” “She was very talented. I was dying to read what she’d sent but her instructions were to hold the packages for her, not to open them. She trusted me, so of course I followed to the letter.” I wanted to open and read those packages, of course. I just wasn’t sure what the best approach would be to arrange that. Zelda helped me out.

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“Anita thought you might be interested in reading what she had to say.” “Very much.” “I’m not sure I want to loan them out, however. You’d have to read them at my house. Would this be satisfactory?” “Of course.” It was better than nothing. “I’m home tomorrow if that’s convenient.” I’d planned to drive to the ashram tomorrow, but one day wouldn’t make a difference. “When and where?” I asked. I was making a pit stop before leaving when I passed the open doorway into a bedroom. It clearly belonged to a teenage girl, with stuffed animals everywhere and the walls filled with posters of bands like Paul McCartney and Wings, Abba, the Bee Gees. There was even a movie poster for Saturday Night Fever. If I actually put Brooke in a book, this was the place to begin. Somewhere in there was probably a high-school yearbook as well. I wanted to see it. “I’ve never had the heart to clean it out,” said Anita. I turned and found her standing behind me. “All this time. She hasn’t lived at home since she graduated from high school.” “I talked to Zelda. I appreciate you letting me see your daughter’s manuscript.” “I’m depending on you, Mr. Norgood. You’re going to find out who murdered my daughter.”

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9

Zelda lived in a condo in a development of condos, one row house after another marching down the street like an army. What varied between them was color, and hers was beige. Inside the condo was more spectacular than outside, with high ceilings and a skylight, open areas between rooms, even an island for the stove and sink in the middle of the kitchen. A home that looked like dullsville from the outside had considerable charm inside. She was ready for me. She’d set me up at a table in the den. All the manuscripts, still in their large envelopes, were stacked at a place next to an empty coffee cup and a thermos. She gestured for me to sit down and started pouring. “I think you’ll find this adequate,” she said. “It’s perfect.” “Will several hours be long enough for you? I have to show a house at noon. I’m in real estate.” “Less than that perhaps.” She finished filling my coffee cup. “Anita told me you took it black. But I have cream and sugar if you change your mind.” “Black is fine.” “Have fun.” When she was gone, I looked through the envelopes, checking the postmarks. She’d already put them in order, the

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first one on top. I opened the envelope with anticipation and pulled out about twenty pages secured by a paper clip. I didn’t have to read much to know this was material I’d want to digest. I’d want copies. The pages did not seem to be part of a book so much as notes for one. In the first batch, she described how she’d gone to Portland and posed as a homeless person in order to catch the Kree bus to the ashram, where she would get free room and board in exchange for labor – and especially for her vote, according to those who believed the cult was conspiring to take control of their part of Oregon. I opened the rest of the envelopes and browsed the material. The largest batch was the most recent, almost fifty pages. All were notes on Brooke’s experiences at the ashram. At first glance, I found nothing shocking or controversial, the sort of thing the Kree wouldn’t want known by the general public. I slid back my chair and stood up. I was at the doorway when Zelda came bounding toward me. Either she’d heard me or she was psychic. “Is everything all right?” she asked. “I was wondering if it would be possible to make a copy of all this.” “I figured you might want to.” “Great. Is there a copy center in the neighborhood?” “I have one right in my office.” In half an hour, I had all the material copied. I was ready to get out of there, but Zelda apparently had other ideas. “Are you ready for a break?” she asked. “I’d like your opinion on something.” She led me onto the deck at the rear of the house. She was thinking of adding a porch swing, something old-fashioned from which to admire the community garden behind the stretch of row houses. “Or would it be too corny?” she wondered.

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I didn’t think she took me as a design consultant. I think she was lonely for male company. “I love swings,” I said. “Do you? Somehow I thought you would.” You couldn’t mistake the smile she offered. It was full of invitation and possibility. It also was the cue for my exit. “I really appreciate getting copies. If a book ever comes from this, you’ll be in the acknowledgments.” Without waiting for her to lead, I turned and went back inside. I started walking under the high ceiling toward the front door. Zelda caught up and said, “I was hoping you might stay for lunch.” “I’m sorry. I was supposed to get out of town first thing in the morning. I couldn’t pass by a chance to look at this. It’s incredibly helpful to have my own copies.” “I’m glad I could help.” She stood in the doorway, watching me get into Ruby and back out the driveway. She waved, and I waved back. I’d already checked out of the motel. I found Highway 20, which offered a long straight shot west across Oregon toward the ashram. The tape recorder was on the seat beside me. I turned it on to record. I began by summarizing what a quick read of Brooke's notes had told me. After entering the ashram on a bus of homeless people, several dozen in all, only a handful of whom were women, she was given bedding and a blue jumpsuit and assigned to a dormitory, which was a long Quonset hut. All the Kree wore blue. Brooke had written that the color had special religious significance, being that of the endless sky and the immortal ocean. “Men and women were assigned to the same dorm,” I continued recording. “Several women objected to having to

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sleep in the same room with men. A Kree explained that everything on the ashram was based on sexual equality, there was no segregation of the sexes anywhere. Brooke writes how one woman really flipped out about this, refused to cooperate, and had to be physically removed from the premises. Brooke never saw her again. She also reflects on how she herself was very nervous sleeping with so many men who appeared to be alcoholics and addicts. It was hard to sleep for all the hacking and moaning going on through the night.” I paused but let the tape run. After a moment, I stabbed off the machine. I turned on the car radio. Country music got me across eastern Oregon’s desert country, which gradually changed from brush-filled stretches of bare land to areas of rim-rock and other protrusions of spectacular rock formations. Then I settled into a high desert, with striking juniper trees marching in every direction, the same way cactus takes over the landscape in parts of the southwest. A sign said Juniper was the next town. I was ready to stop and stretch, maybe grab a late lunch, and find out how to get to the ashram. I found the Juniper Tavern at a crossroads and wondered if the paved highway going north was my turnoff. I pulled into the lot and parked with the half-dozen pickup trucks. Ruby looked very much out of place. But Ruby didn’t look as out of place as I did once I entered. I was dressed casually, in gray slacks and a blue shortsleeved sports shirt with the tail out. In the tavern, I looked overdressed in a room full of bib overalls and dirty jeans, light blue work shirts and faded western shirts, scuffed work and cowboy boots. Without exception, every man in the place, not quite a dozen, wore a baseball cap stained with grease and perspiration. I was in a blue-collar working man’s tavern, looking like the company accountant.

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The bar was full so I took a table near the door. There was a long awkward silence as most of the men looked at me, and I waited for service. The bartender was a woman, and there were two other female customers, each sitting next to a guy. Finally the bartender came around the bar and walked slowly to my table. She was about fifty, her hair falling out from under an arrangement on her head. She wore little makeup and looked at me like she took no guff from anyone. “Help you?” “Yes. I’d like a beer and some help.” “What kind of beer?” “Whatever you have on tap.” “We got three beers on tap.” “Rainier?” “We only got Rainier in bottles. You want one?” “That’ll be fine.” I was about to ask directions to the ashram when she turned and made her slow way behind the bar. She clearly was a woman who moved fast for no one. I felt conspicuous and unwanted, waiting for my beer. When she brought it, I quickly said, before she had a chance to get away, “If I go north on the highway outside, will it lead me to the ashram?” She stared at me a moment. I was afraid I’d asked the wrong question. Finally she said, “Not quite six miles. You can’t miss it.” She returned to the bar. She hadn’t brought a glass, so I sipped my beer from the bottle, still feeling like some kind of oddity in a zoo. Before I finished the beer, one of the gents at the bar slipped off his barstool and ambled on over to my table. He was short and dark with several day’s growth of beard. His shirt was stained in front with something that looked like sauce, spaghetti maybe. His ball cap, which had seen better days, had the initials I.C.U. on it.

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“You joining the ashram?” he asked, more belligerence than curiosity in his tone. “Oh, no.” I said it with enough conviction that he relaxed. He sat down at the table without asking. “Stella, bring me another! And one for …?” “I have to leave after this one, thanks.” “You won’t let me buy you a beer?” “I really shouldn’t. I’m driving.” “Hey, Frank,” the man called to someone at the bar. A heavyset man in a red cap turned toward us. “He can’t accept a beer cause he’s driving.” Frank laughed. Several others at the bar laughed. I had the queasy feeling that I was being set up for something. “I’d take a cup of coffee,” I said. “Coffee.” “Black.” “Stella, bring the man with no name a black coffee!” “I’m sorry. The name’s Dallas.” “You from Texas?” “My dad was born there.” “If you’re not joining the ashram, then you must be a reporter. Am I right?” I was astounded how close he was. He read by my reaction that he was right. “Ha, I knew it! Frank, Dallas here’s another reporter. What’d I tell you?” Stella, the bartender, brought over a mug of coffee and set it down next to my bottle of beer. It was one of those heavy ivory-colored mugs you sometimes got in the cafeteria at a hospital. “Not a reporter exactly. I’m working on a book.” “About the Kree?”

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“Not exactly. They may fit into it. I’m just starting my research, to be honest.” I tried to make a joke. “I don’t know what the hell I’m going to write about.” “I’m Rex,” he said, suddenly thrusting forward his hand. I shook it. He had a strong grip, and his skin felt like chapped leather. “So you’re just checking out the ashram for research?” “Something like that.” “What do you know about the Kree?” “Precious little at this stage.” He studied me. “They’re a cult, you know that, don’t you? They brainwash people. They turn them into fanatics, everybody wearing blue, everybody getting a new name, everybody disowning their families. The lot of them ought to be locked up, as far as I’m concerned.” “Hear, hear,” said someone at the bar. “I’m interested in a young woman who spent some time in the ashram.” “When was that?” “I’m not sure exactly, but I think she would’ve gone in about six months ago. She only stayed a few months.” “What’d she look like?” “Very pretty, girl-next-door pretty, cheerleader pretty. Blonde, medium height, looked younger than she was actually.” “I’ll be damned. Frank, you think it’s the same one?” “You know her?” “What was her name?” Rex asked. “Brooke Cadbury.” “It’s a small damn world, my friend. I don’t know about the Cadbury part, but last … when was it, Frank?” From the bar, Frank said, “January or February, wasn’t it? Snow was on the ground. She damn near froze to death.” Rex went on.

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“I was driving back into Juniper from the tavern here, I rent a room at the hotel, and just before the turnoff, I see this young woman out there by herself, nothing but a light jacket, carrying a tote bag and freezing her damn ass off. I almost didn’t stop because she was wearing blue pants like the Kree, and a Kree freezing to death is no concern of mine, but she was waving at the truck so desperately, I didn’t have to heart to drive on. So I pulled over and opened the door and cranked up the heater, and she crawled in. That’s when I saw that her hands were cut and her face was bruised. She was so damn cold her teeth were clattering. I mean, they was loud, like this.” He demonstrated. “To make a long story short, she’d climbed over the fence and escaped the ashram. I didn’t know they kept you prisoner in there, though it makes sense when you look at everything else they do. She wanted out of that ashram so damn bad she almost frozen to death trying to make her escape. She said her name was Brooke.” “What happened then?” I asked. “I brought her back here, and Stella warmed her up and put her up upstairs. How long she stay here, Stella?” From behind the bar, Stella said, “Two days. She left the third day. Caught the bus to Bend coming through. I don’t know where she went from there.” Rex said, “You think it’s the same Brooke you’re interested in?” “I feel certain it is.” “What’s her story anyway? I never could figure her out. She didn’t seem all that interested in the Kree, I mean she didn’t talk mumbo jumbo like the rest of them, I never could figure out what the hell she was doing in that ashram in the first place.” “She was an underground reporter.” “Are you shitting me?” I shook my head. “You hear that, Frank?”

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Frank said, “Makes sense when you think about it.” “An undercover reporter,” said Rex. “She was in there getting the dirt on the Kree first hand, am I right? I knew there was something about that woman that I liked. I mean, other than the fact that she was so goddamn good looking. Damn, she was a honey!” “What’d she do while she was here?” I asked. “Stella?” “Slept mostly,” Stella said. “And took hot baths. I was afraid she was going to use up all the hot water. I wasn’t in grief to see her go, to be honest. She wasn’t very sociable.” “You said she had bruises on her face.” “A black eye, mostly,” said Rex. “I figured somebody beat her up before she got away.” I stayed for another beer, after all, but I didn’t get any new information. But what I had, all of it very suggestive of my growing thesis, was good to know before I talked to the Kree. Which now would have to wait till tomorrow. I asked Rex if there was a motel in town. “The Juniper Tree,” he said. “You follow the road into town and you can’t miss it. If you eat in town, stay away from Jerry’s Hideaway. A dozen folks came down with food poisoning the other day. Everybody suspects the Kree had something to do with it.” “You think they poisoned the food in the restaurant?” “Those fanatics are capable of anything.” According to the parking lot, there were only two other tenants at the Juniper Tree Motel. Downtown Juniper, all two blocks of it, had a café, and as soon as I got my room, I had dinner. I was surprised to find breakfast served all day, and Hangtown Fry on the menu, which was delicious even though the oysters obviously had to be frozen. I crashed early, eager to get up in the morning, drive out to the ashram and learn what the Kree had to say for themselves.

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10

The Kree apparently preferred action to talk. Fifteen minutes after I arrived at the front security gate, I appeared to be under house arrest. Earlier I’d had breakfast where I had dinner – and the same thing, my second Hangtown Fry in twelve hours. Then I took a ride to find the ashram and check it out. I was shocked by what I saw. I don’t know how many hundred acres were surrounded by the security fence, but the ashram grounds stretched across the high desert for as far as the eye could see. I drove along the fence for several miles before seeing a sign of life inside, first from the construction equipment, dozens of vehicles scattered hither and yon, suggesting a building project of considerable ambition; and later, as I approached the front security gate, the inhabitable area of the ashram, distinguished mainly by Quonset huts and double-wide trailers, mixed with a few permanent buildings. At the gate I turned and stopped at the guard compound. A young woman dressed in a blue jumpsuit came to my window. She had a cute smile and didn’t look to me like a fanatic at all. I saw that two young men, also in blue, had waited in the shack. “Is this the ashram?” I asked, deciding to play dumb. “It is.”

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“I’d like to talk to someone about a woman who used to live here.” “What was her name?” “Brooke Cadbury.” “Just a minute.” She returned to the guard shack. I saw her say something to one of the men. Suddenly both approached. One had a hand on his pistol. “Out of the car, sir,” said the taller one. Neither looked over thirty. “Is there a problem?” The other one opened the door. “Please get out, sir.” I obeyed. I saw that the woman in the shack was on the phone. “What’s going on?” I asked. My question was ignored. “Where are you from?” Since I still had my California driver’s license, I decided to go with my former life. “Malibu, California.” “Your wallet, please.” They had the forced smiles of Gestapo thugs. I handed my wallet to the taller one, who seemed to be in charge. He looked through it while his partner kept his eye on me. “The Writers Guild of America,” he said, finding my union card. “You’re a writer?” “Screenwriter.” “Really? Write anything I’ve seen?” I’m sure I’d been a script doctor on many movies he’d seen. But I decided to keep a low profile. “B-movies, mainly. And a few art films. I wrote Cowboy Jungle.” “Never heard of it.” “I saw that,” said the shorter one. “It was great.” “Thank you.”

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The honcho said, “Why are you looking for Brooke Cadbury?” “We’re cousins. I’m here for the family. She died last week.” “She’s dead?” I nodded. A jeep pulled up on the other side of the entrance. The shorter guard raced over to pull open the gate as the jeep’s passenger dropped out. He was older than the guards, late thirties perhaps, with a red goatee and a shaved head. He, too, wore blue, in his case jeans and a matching jacket. “What’s the problem here?” he said as he approached. He spoke with a slight German accent. “Pa Tristin. He says Brooke Cadbury is dead.” “That’s terrible.” He came so close to me I thought he might push me over. Our noses were only an inch apart, his narrow eyes staring through me. As threatening as the gesture was, there also was something comic about it. He didn’t have the body to match his brazen manner. Finally he said, “And you are?” “Dallas Norgood.” “He’s a screenwriter,” volunteered the shorter one. “A screenwriter? That’s a switch. Not an investigative reporter? Not a worm sent here to manufacture dirt for the masses?” I cleared my throat. “My mission here is to represent the family. Some of Brooke’s personal items are missing and we wondered if she might have left anything here before she left.” I was thinking on my feet. So far, so good. He offered his hand. “I’m Pa Tristin, Dallas. Have you had breakfast?” I shook his hand. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

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“How about coffee? We can talk about Brooke.” “Sounds good.” The guard returned my wallet. I followed Pa Tristin to the jeep and climbed in the back. Driving through the ashram in a jeep, I felt as if I were on an army base. The Quonset huts, the blue uniforms, the hustle and bustle everywhere. We parked in front of a huge log Aframe building that in ski country would have been an impressive lodge. Pa Tristin and I got out, and as soon as I did, the driver backed up and sped away. “This is our Community Center,” Pa Tristin explained as he led me up the stone steps to the entrance. Inside the high ceiling was several stories above us, a grand open space under skylights through which the morning sun already entered in bright beams. Activity was everywhere: in numerous nooks for coffee and snack bars, in a bakery, in a bookstore, in a room filled with pinball machines. We walked across the broad open area in the direction of the Zorba Café. Once we were seated with our coffee at a small round table next to a window, which overlooked a spectacular garden of colorful flowers, Pa Tristin got right to the point. “Let’s move past the bullshit to what you really want. Brooke is dead, you said, so you must be here because you think we had something to do with it. Am I right?” I admired his forthrightness. But I wasn’t sure how to respond. He waited, and I squirmed. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it this way. I’ll tell you what happened. Brooke came here under false pretenses. She wasn’t a homeless person at all. She was a reporter. She was a spy. She was here to dig up dirt on us to feed to the prejudiced masses who for all their lip service to freedom of religion are bigots to their core. Fortunately, we discovered what she was up to. We told her she had to leave. And she did.” Now it was my turn.

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“Yesterday,” I began, “I was talking to a guy at the Juniper Tavern down the road. He picked Brooke up at midnight in the middle of winter. He said she was a mess, physically and mentally, because she’d had to climb over your fence and barbed wire to get out of here. She also looked like she’d been roughed up. She looked like she’d had to escape. So our versions don’t quite mesh, do they?” “I’m aware that she left in the middle of the night. This was completely unnecessary. She was free to walk out the gate.” “Why didn’t she?” “You’d have to ask her. Obviously that’s now impossible.” “She looked like she’d been beat up, the guy said.” “Not by us. We’re a spiritual community. We don’t approve of violence as a tactic for anything. When we found out what she was up to, we put her under house arrest, you might say, while we checked her out and discussed our options. Then—” “Who’s we?” “Our city council. Myself, Ma Prama Rama Kree, a few others.” “What about the swami?” “Swami Kree is on a vow of silence.” “I’m not sure I understand.” “He does not speak. He hasn’t spoken for almost a year.” “What’s the point?” “I see your spiritual education isn’t very evolved.” “He’s been meditating for a year?” “I don’t have time to teach you Spirituality 101. The point is, after discussing our options, we decided to do nothing more than ask Brooke to leave. This was decided at our weekly Friday night meeting. Unfortunately, she took off herself before we had a chance to communicate our decision.” “Why do you suppose she did that?”

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“I know precisely why she did it. She was paranoid. She believed all the garbage that gets written about us. She no doubt planned to add to it.” “Do you know how Brooke died?” “Why should I know?” “She was found in her room at a brothel with a bag over her head, an empty bottle of pills on the bedside table, and a suicide note.” “You may not believe this, but I find that very tragic. Especially that she returned to being a prostitute. Was it in Nevada again?” “In Sogobia. It’s between Winnemucca and Elko.” “Legal prostitution, am I correct?” I nodded. “There’s so much irony here. Legal prostitution has the advantage of understanding that human sexuality deserves open expression. Its mistake is turning natural pleasure into an exclusively commercial commodity. We have a more advanced view here. We engage the expression without the price tag.” “Free love?” Pa Tristin laughed. “Nothing is free in this world, nothing. It’s a contradiction of the laws of physics. We believe in letting consenting adults do together whatever they desire to do.” A woman arrived at our table. She was Indian, wearing a blue robe. She had a blue dot on her forehead. “Is there a problem?” she asked Pa Tristin. Her accent was Indian. The ashram community was strikingly international. “Our guest is concerned about Brooke Cadbury. She committed suicide at a brothel.” “I’m not surprised,” said the woman. She sat down and turned to me. She had dark brown eyes, under which was the suggestion of too little sleep. Except for the blue dot on her forehead, she wore no makeup. “I’m Ma Prama Rama Kree,” she said. “And you are?”

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“Dallas Norgood.” “I’m sorry,” said Pa Tristin. “I should have introduced you.” “What I don’t understand,” said Ma, “is why the suicide of a prostitute brings you to the ashram.” “He thinks we murdered her,” said Pa Tristin. Ma laughed. Pa joined her. I felt my stomach tighten. Ma said, “Mr. Norgood, we have better things to do than to kill off those who disagree with us. If we did that, we’d have time for nothing else! Unlike the American bigots who appear to be the majority in this state, we believe in freedom of expression. We didn’t care what Brooke planned to write. We just weren’t going to give her free room and board while she did her research.” Ma slid back her chair and stood up. “Why don’t you give Mr. Norgood a ride back to his car? I assume it’s outside the gate.” “Shall we?” Pa said to me. It was only mid-morning by the time I returned to the motel. Even though I’d paid for an extra night, I didn’t plan to stay. After loading up Ruby, I decided not to try and get my money back. They looked like they could use all the business they could get. Back on Highway 20, heading east toward Boise, I turned on the tape recorder. “Notes on meeting with the Kree. Oh, boy. These people are nothing if not slick. It was like being in a production meeting, the way they explained the way things were and are going to be, except that the Kree are bright and articulate, as few producers are. They said Brooke could have left any time she wanted to. That she jumped the gun because she was paranoid, because she was afraid of them. So. Do I believe them?” I let the machine record silence for a while.

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“I don’t know. What bothers me is the condition she was in when the guy at the tavern picked her up. The bruises, the evidence of being beat up. The question of the Kree’s possible involvement remains open.” I shut off the recorder. It was about a 400-mile drive back. When I was younger, there was no question of doing it in a day despite the late start, but I tire of driving now more quickly than I used to. I stopped at a truck stop for dinner, expecting to get a motel afterwards, but food gave me a second wind. I only had a few more hours to go. I decided to keep driving. By the time I pulled into my parking place at the apartment, it was dark. I was tired and had a sore back. I didn’t even have the strength to unpack. I’d take care of it in the morning. I climbed the stairs and fumbled for my key. Inside, I flipped on the light. I hurried to the bathroom to pee but before I got to the toilet a heavy object crashed down on my head, and I fell to the floor, unconscious.

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11

I was out for almost an hour. I awoke with a killer headache and momentary confusion about what I was doing on the bathroom floor. Then I remembered. I reached up and grabbed the sink, hoisting myself to my feet. That’s when I felt the dampness in my crotch. Christ, I’d wet my pants. I entered the living room and looked around. It took me a moment to realize whether anything had been touched. The writing supplies had been slid out from under the table. The typewriter had been moved. In the kitchen, several of the drawers were not closed all the way. Okay. Someone had broken into my apartment, looking for something. But nothing seemed to be missing. Whatever they were looking for, they hadn’t found it. I called Sally. While she was on her way, I changed into dry pants. She was there in little time. Sogobia is a small town. I explained what had happened and showed her around. “Maybe you can get some prints,” I said. I hadn’t touched a thing. “Are you serious?” “Isn’t that what you do?” “Not exactly. This isn’t like in the movies, Dallas. What happens is you fill this out.” She handed me a form. “You can do it in the morning and give it to me later.” “You’re not going to do anything about this?”

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“We’re going to take note of it, of course. We’ll have it on record, and if someone else gets broken into, then we know we may have a localized problem.” “You don’t think it’s personal?” “How do you mean?” “Because I’m looking into the Brooke case.” “Did you find out something at the ashram?” “They protest too much. I don’t think I believe anything they told me.” “By the way, I checked and Brooke’s belongings were returned to her mother. They were shipped out the other day.” “You don’t look too happy about it.” “I screwed up, Dallas.” “How do you mean?” “I was looking more carefully at the autopsy report. It doesn’t really make sense. The pills she took contained benzodiazepine, which should have been swimming in her system. There wasn’t a trace.” “No chemical evidence she took them at all?” “None.” “So maybe somebody suffocated her, then set it up to look like suicide. That’s it, Sally. That explains everything.” “Except the case is officially closed.” “Doesn’t this reopen it?” “Not for the chief. You’re on your own, Dallas.” We let the reality of this sink in. “What’s the chief’s problem?” I asked. “I’m not sure. Either he still believes it’s suicide, or he thinks it’s unsolvable, which would make us look bad. Or he’s just too damn lazy to make waves. Probably the latter.” “I’ll talk to him.” Sally laughed. “Be my guest, but don’t expect to change his mind. You don’t know the chief.” I exhaled in exasperation.

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Sally said, “The chief does have one point. This looks like a tough one to crack.” “Maybe you’re right, and this was a common burglar,” I said. “Someone from the Kree couldn’t have gotten here ahead of me.” “You’re stuck on the Kree. If you’re going to pursue this, Dallas, let me give you some professional advice. In this business, we learn not to jump to conclusions. Keep all possibilities open.” “Can you think of other suspects?” “It’s not my case.” She moved toward the door, then turned back. “However, if it was my case, the first thing I would do is get the accounts book that tells who her customers were that night. I’m not sure how you’d get it without a warrant but each of her dates is a suspect until cleared.” “Maybe Misty can help me get it.” “That’s the place to begin,” said Sally. “You need anything else from me? A shoulder to cry on?” “I’ll survive.” “How’s the head?” “I’ve been through worse.” The understatement of the year. “That you have, Dallas. You regret coming up here?” “Not at all. Why did you ask that?” “Sometimes you get a far-away look in your eye. You gave up a lot, coming here.” “I think I gained something, too.” “I hope so.” “I gained my life.” It seemed like I just had gotten to sleep when the doorbell rang. I squinted at a new day. The sun had come up while I wasn’t looking. I threw on a robe and staggered sleepily to the door. I opened it and faced Yuli.

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“Ouch,” he said. “You must have been partying last night.” “Yuli.” “I didn’t mean to wake you, man. Want me to come back later?” “What’s up?” “You’re still half-asleep.” “Come on in. I’ll put on coffee.” I sat him down at the small table off the kitchen while I fumbled around to get coffee brewing. He was wearing the red beret, which he kept on while he watched me and talked. “I wouldn’t have come so early except that I thought writers were up at the crack of dawn to work. I woke you up, didn’t I? Sorry about that.” “I’m usually up by now.” It was past nine. “Don’t worry about it.” “I hope you mean it, man.” “So what’s up? Or is this just a visit of random kindness?” “The FBI’s in town. I thought I’d better warn you in case they want to talk to you.” This woke me up in a hurry. “And how do you know this?” “They already talked to Cheyenne.” “Why would the FBI talk to Cheyenne?” “You don’t know? I guess you wouldn’t. She probably wouldn’t tell you.” “Tell me what?” “My uncle, who I can’t even remember, is big in ETA. You know what that is?” “Estimated time of arrival?” “Euskadi Ta Askatasuna. Euskadi and Liberty. Gotzon is Cheyenne’s brother. That’s why they wanted to talk to her.” “What’s Euskadi?” “Basque country. We’re talking Basque history here. I could clue you in all morning. It a nutshell, it’s like this.

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Gotzon, her brother, he’s a hero in Basqueland, in Euskadi history. Spanish henchmen have been after his ass for a long time. They even killed my real dad. His name was Jesus. He was Gotzon’s brother. I don’t remember him actually. I was raised by my step dad. Anyway, Gotzon came to the States to hide out for a while, is what the FBI said. I think our government cut a deal with Spain or something to help find him.” “Is he in Sogobia?” “I have no idea where he is. Information like that can put you in jail.” “What does this have to do with me?” “If they know you’re a friend of Cheyenne’s, they’ll want to talk to you, believe me.” “Have they talked to you?” “Not yet but they will. I just didn’t want you to see an FBI agent on your doorstep and freak out, thinking Cheyenne is a criminal or something. She really likes you, man.” I studied him. “She told you that?” “I’m not supposed to tell you.” I smiled. “You really know how to wake up a guy. How about some coffee?” We made small talk after that. I asked Yuli about his poetry, whether he was working on a book. “I perform my poetry. I sing it. I can’t see how reading it would be the same thing.” “You have a point.” After finishing coffee, Yuli stood and said he had more people to warn. He was the self-appointed Paul Revere of Sogobia, warning the Basques, and even the friends of Basques, the FBI is coming, the FBI is coming! At the door he reminded me, “Don’t tell Aunt Cheyenne I told you she likes you.”

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“A secret among men.” He grinned and said, “Cool.” As soon as he was gone, I dialed Cheyenne’s number. There was no answer, and I didn’t leave a message. Then I dialed Lavinia at the Black Cat. “Black Cat B&B. This is Lavinia.” “Dallas.” “What’s this I hear about you going to Brooke’s funeral?” “Felt like paying my respects.” “Don’t bullshit me. What are you up to? You’re not going to dig up dirt and ruin my business, are you?” Somehow that possibility had skipped my mind. I didn’t like thinking about it. “It’s officially a closed case, suicide.” “You keep it that way, Mr. Hollywood Screenwriter.” “I was calling to see if Cheyenne’s working this morning.” “She’s been here and gone.” “Okay, thanks.” “What are you, in love?” I was too taken aback to reply. Lavinia said, “Why the hell else you asking about a janitor at ten in the morning?” “Thanks, Lavinia. I’ll see you soon.” My guess was right. I walked over to Mom’s Café and saw Cheyenne sitting in a window booth. She saw me as I passed, smiled and waved. “Haven’t seen you around for a while,” said Cheyenne as I slipped into the booth across from her. She was finishing a waffle soaked with strawberry syrup. “I have those copies you wanted. Come by for them any time.” “Been out of town for a few days.” “Business or pleasure?” “A little of both.” “Rumor I heard is that you attended Brooke’s funeral.”

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“Paid my respects.” Something in my tone must have told her how much I didn’t want to talk about this. She laughed and said, “Hard to keep a secret in this town, Texas.” “That’s what they tell me. I hear the FBI paid you a visit.” Now it was her turn to look uncomfortable. “Who told you that?” “Hard to keep a secret in this town, Wyoming.” “Touché. They’re looking for my brother. Half-brother, to be accurate. Same mother.” “He do something wrong?” “Depends who you ask.” “Euskadi and Liberty.” “You talked to Yuli, didn’t you?” “I have to keep my sources confidential.” “What else did he tell you?” “Actually he just wanted to warn me in case I found an agent on my doorstep. I thought it was a gentlemanly thing to do.” “They probably will talk to you. I’m sorry, Dallas. My brother and I aren’t all that close. Try to explain that to the damn FBI They acted like I’m harboring Basque radicals in my van in the cleaning supplies cabinet. They broke into my apartment while I was at work and made a goddamn mess.” A light went off. Had I been visited by an FBI agent last night? Cheyenne interpreted my silence as something it wasn’t. “I really blew it with you now, didn’t I?” “Cheyenne,” I began. “Wyoming. How would you like to go out with me Saturday night? Dinner. Find someplace to dance afterwards. Have a little night on the town.” “You mean, like a date?” “I mean exactly like a date.” She was thinking about it.

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I said, “Radical women really turn me on.” She laughed. “What time?” “What’s your pleasure?” “I get off late afternoon. I need to shower, see if I have any dresses I still fit into. See if I can do something about this hair. Pick me up at seven?” “Seven it is.” I left her mopping up what was left of the syrup with a piece of toast. Walking home, I saw them before they saw me. I immediately recognized them as the George Raft look-alike and his partner from Mom’s café who later had parked across from the brothel, the traveling salesmen who became Mormon missionaries who now became FBI agents. Once I realized who they were, I wondered how I could have missed identifying them before. In their suits and out-of-place formality, they looked like they had come straight from Central Casting.

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12

“Excuse me, sir. Are you Dallas Norgood?” They already were flashing their badges, as if I’d know the difference between a fake and the real McCoy. George Raft looked to be senior to the younger one in a crew cut “I’m agent Frank Wallace,” he said. His slick black hair looked as wet as it had at the cafe, still sweating in the rising heat of the day. “This is my partner, Benny Day. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” I brought them in. I saw that my answering machine was blinking but ignored it. In the living room I told them to make themselves at home and offered to make coffee. They declined. “Do you know Gotzon Aguirre?” Wallace asked. “Never heard of him.” The agents exchanged glances. Apparently this was a signal for the younger agent to ask a question. “Do you know Cheyenne Souchet?” I’d never known her last name before. “I know the Cheyenne who’s the custodian at the brothel in town.” I congratulated myself for not calling her a janitor. “Gotzon Aguirre is her brother. Were you aware of that?” “No.”

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“How well do you know Miss Souchet?” Wallace asked. “We speak. We’re friends.” “Have you dated?” Not yet, I thought. But not long now. “No.” Again they exchanged glances. Day took over again. “What about Brooke Cadbury?” This was the last name I expected to be asked about. “Mr. Norgood?” said Wallace when I didn’t quickly respond. “She used to work at the Black Cat. She killed herself.” “How well did you know her?” asked Day. “Were you one of her customers?” “No, I wasn’t. I don’t recall ever talking to her.” “You went to her funeral,” said Wallace. Jesus Christ, had these guys been tailing me? I began to squirm, feeling as if I was being accused of something. I cleared my throat. “I’m working on a book,” I said. “It was research.” “A book about what?” “My ideas are still perking. Maybe about brothel culture.” The exchange of glances. Day asked, “You spend a lot of time in the brothel, do you?” “I’m not sure what you mean by a lot. I go there a few times a week.” “You have a regular date?” Wallace asked. I didn’t want to get Misty in trouble. “No.” “But you never had sex with Brooke Cadbury?” “Never.”

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“Did you know Gotzon Aguirre used to have sex with her on a regular basis when she worked at the Mustang Ranch?” I felt my heart pounding. I hadn’t had an adrenalin rush like this since my early script meetings as a young screenwriter. “I told you, I don’t know anything about him. Or much about her, for that matter.” “That suggests you do know something,” said Wallace. “What is it you know about her?” I cleared my throat. It felt like time to say more than I’d been saying. “I know she was working on an article about the Kree ashram in central Oregon. She was on assignment from the Boise Advocate when she went in, posing as a homeless person. Apparently they discovered what she was up to and kicked her out. That’s when she ended up here. A few months later she’s dead. Her mother doesn’t think the suicide note is in her daughter’s handwriting.” Wallace said, “Let’s get back to your book. Anything about Basque independence going to be in there?” “I don’t know a thing about that.” “You know Yuli Arriada?” “I just met him.” “What do you think about him?” “I think he’s a nice kid and a talented poet.” “You read his poems?” “I heard one. I liked it.” “Was it a radical poem?” “Not at all. It was a poem about his father.” “Do you know about his father?” “Not really.” “Does the name Jesus Aguirre mean anything to you?” “No.”

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Day, after getting a glance form Wallace, said, “He’s Gotzon’s brother. They’ve been wanted as terrorists in Spain for some time. Jesus was killed when he resisted arrest, but Gotzon escaped the country. He’s been hiding out in the United States since 1983. We have reason to believe he’s still here in northern Nevada. Perhaps even in Sogobia.” There was a long silence. I didn’t know what they expected me to say. Suddenly Wallace stood. Day got to his feet so quickly behind him that I almost laughed. But this wasn’t a laughing matter. Wallace said, “If you were to find out anything about Aguirre, you’d contact us, right?” “Of course,” I said. I didn’t know if I would or not. I didn’t like their manner, and what they had to say raised more questions than ever. Especially about Brooke Cadbury. “We’ll be in touch,” said Wallace. After they were gone, I realized they hadn’t given me a card. I had no way of contacting them even if I wanted to. Which I didn’t. I decided to make myself a cup of tea. While the water was boiling, I saw the blinking red light of my answering machine and remembered I had a message. “Dallas, Jason. Did you get a chance to read the script? What do you think? I’m desperate here, buddy. Give me a call.” I dialed his number from memory. His secretary told me he wasn’t in. “Tell him I’ll have a rewrite to him before the end of the week.” “He’ll be delighted to hear that. We miss you around here, Dallas. When are you coming home?” “I’m not thinking very far ahead these days.” “We all miss you.”

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“I appreciate it. I have to run, Diane. Give Jason my message.” “Like I said, you’re going to make his day.” After tea, I walked to Cheyenne’s apartment. She opened the door in her robe, looking like she’d just stepped out of the shower. “I bet you’re here for your copies,” she said. “I just had a visit from the FBI.” She let me in and gave me a beer, then opened a can of pop for herself. We sat at the coffee bar while I told her what had come down, ending with the information that, according to the FBI, her brother and Brooke were regular sex partners at the Mustang Ranch. “Shit,” Cheyenne said. “I think I need a beer, too.” I watched her go to the refrigerator. She was naked under the robe, I assumed. I couldn’t help but wonder what her body looked like under there. Coming back, she saw something in my eyes. The lust, maybe. Whatever it was, she relaxed again and let it pass. “I’m sorry to get you involved in this,” she said. “You already told me that. I said you turn me on anyway. Or maybe because of it.” She sighed but didn’t look any better for it. “I saw him,” she said softly. I leaned closer, waiting for her to go on. It took a moment for her to find the words. “I didn’t know he knew Brooke. I didn’t even know where he was. Well, I knew he was in the States. He sent me a postcard last year from California. We’re not all that close, it’s not like I expected a visit or anything. He usually only sees me when he needs something. That’s the way it was this time.” “When did you see him?” “The night she died.”

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Tears began to well in her eyes. I reached for her hand but she drew it back to pick up the beer bottle. “What are you saying?” I asked. “Dallas, I truly don’t know if he did it or not. He’s killed people, I know that. Set off bombs, killed innocent women and children. But that’s all about politics.” “Did he say anything about her?” “More than I wished I knew.” I waited for more. Cheyenne closed her eyes. With thumb and index finger, she began to rub the top of her nose. I said, “What did he tell you?” “He said he was in love with her. For a while, when she worked at Mustang Ranch, he thought she was in love with him, too. She was going to write a book about the Basque struggle for independence or something. He was always looking for a writer, and I guess he finally found one. Then they fell in love. She was going to quit the business. But she already was working on something, she told him. She had a story to finish, which would require that she go away for a while. She wouldn’t tell him where. When she didn’t write, and didn’t contact him, he got worried. He went looking for her.” “Did he go to the ashram?” “He didn’t mention it if he did. He figured she’d eventually go back to work. There are a finite number of brothels in Nevada, after all. Despite the danger, he apparently went looking for her, brothel to brothel. And found her here.” “And looked you up.” “I don’t think he would have if something hadn’t gone wrong.” “You mean, Brooke dying?” “I’m not sure what I mean. He was very upset when he came by. It was past midnight, I didn’t know who the hell was ringing me at that hour. I’d never seen him look so afraid.” “Did he say why?”

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“He said it had been stupid of him to come here. Spanish loyalists were on his tail. He needed a hot shower, a meal, some sleep – and some money.” “You didn’t ask what was going on?” “I didn’t want to know. I assumed he was upset about politics, about the men being on his tail. I didn’t learn Brooke was dead until I went to work in the morning.” “From my perspective, it doesn’t look good for him, Cheyenne. The timing, the fact that he was in love with her. Most murders happen between lovers or former lovers.” “Is that really true? I thought that was just in movies.” “Used to be that movies reflected life. Today life reflects movies.” We were silent, sipping beer from bottles. “I’m dead inside,” Cheyenne said. “Would you be too upset if I ask you to go?” “Not at all.” I stood up. Cheyenne stood up. I took the first step toward the door. “Don’t forget your copies,” she said. She fetched them. “Much appreciated.” At the doorway, standing so close to her, just a terrycloth robe between us, I felt like holding her close, pulling loose her robe and letting it drop to the floor, letting the stress and anxieties of the moment wash away in a flood of passion. I’d written the scene a dozen times. “I’ll see you Friday,” said Cheyenne. I read the subtext as, But not before. “Friday.” Cheyenne managed to smile. Then without warning, so suddenly I almost ducked in reflex action, she thrust forward and kissed me goodnight on the cheek.

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13

For the second day in a row, I was stirred from sleep by someone at the door. This time it was Gil. “I thought you were going to call me,” he said, letting himself in. “Sally says somebody broke into your apartment. What the hell is going on, Dallas?” “Good morning.” “What did you find? Why are you getting robbed? I think I should put something in the paper about it.” “Can we wait till coffee’s on before we do this?” I gave him no choice. I got the coffee brewing and then brought him up to speed. But I was selective in what I told him. I focused on the ashram and left out everything relating to the FBI. “It’s the Kree. It’s got to be,” Gil concluded when I was done. “That was my first thought.” “I should publish some of her writing in the paper.” “It’s too soon for that.” His face expressed disappointment. “So what are you going to do now?” Gil asked. “This week, actually, I’m going to rewrite a script. I took on a job.” Gil shot me a puzzling look, as if his notion of my independent wealth had been shattered.

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“And I’m not sure where to go from here,” I added. “As you know, the case is officially closed.” “Sally thinks it’s murder. She just can’t do anything about it. That leaves it up to us, Dallas.” “Knowing and proving are two different things. I say we sit on it for a few days. I’m going to call Brooke’s mother. All the stuff the police collected was sent to her. Maybe we’ll find something the police missed.” “Did Sally tell you about the autopsy report?” “Yes, she did. More evidence for murder.” “The Kree. Who else could it be?” I had a few ideas but I kept them to myself. Gil was too gung-ho for me, too eager to break the story in his tabloid and gain the respect he craved. This was my take on it. “Proof, Gil. Proof. You could start by asking around if any strangers were at the brothel or in the area around the time she got killed.” “Good idea. I can do that.” I felt better now that he had something to occupy his time. I poured his coffee in a paper cup and sent him on his way, giving the excuse that I had work to do. In fact, I did. I told Jason’s secretary the script was almost on its way, which meant I had a hell of a lot of rewriting to do. I managed to get a start over the next couple hours. Then I got restless, the kind of break in a writing session where you feel you have to get up and move, partly because you’ve been sitting too long and partly because you need to shut off your mind. I walked over to the Black Cat and jabbed twice on the buzzer. “Morning, Dallas,” said Hazel, opening the door to let me in. “Here for a late breakfast or an early drink?” “Maybe a Bloody Mary.” “You know where it is.” I pushed through the swinging door and took a stool at the end of the bar. At the other end sat Jane, two Bloody Marys in

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front of her. Either she was very thirsty this morning or her companion was in the can. Jeff came over and slapped a bar napkin in front of me. “What’ll it be, Dallas?” “Coffee. Black.” Not a Bloody Mary, after all. Old habits die hard, but at least I was catching myself and trying to change them. I looked at Jayne Mansfield down the bar, wondering if she thought any better of me than last time and not sure I wanted to find out. She was staring down into her glass. She was a good double for a Hollywood starlet, I thought, and with the thought came an idea that put a smile on my face. A brothel with this very theme! All the women impersonating Hollywood movie stars, all the rooms set to suggest the locales of famous movie love scenes. You could get a date with Jane Russell in a barn or Ingrid Bergman in a Paris hotel room or Kathleen Turner on the floor or Debra Winger in a seaside motel room. The more I thought about it, the brothel as theme park, as Disneyland, the more I liked it. I scribbled down a note on a bar napkin and stuck it in my pocket. Not that I planned to do anything about it. I just didn’t want to forget it. Jeff said, “You must get your movie ideas wherever you are. Just scratch them on a bar napkin, huh? Write it out later. Not a bad life.” I smiled and let it drop. If he only knew. Sonny Boy came from the direction of the rest room and plopped on the stool next to Jane. What a couple they made. They snuggled close and whispered to one another. I was about to go home and get back to the script when Jane said, “Dallas, want to join us at a table?” It was an unusual request. I had no choice but to accept. No sooner had we sat down then Jane said to Sonny Boy, “Refresh my drink, would you, honey?”

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As soon Sonny Boy took her glass to the bar, Jane said, “I want to apologize for the other day. Brooke and I grew up in Boise together. We were as close as sisters. I was really upset.” “I understand,” I said. “It was a terrible thing that happened.” Jane leaned close enough that her huge breasts threatened to jump out of her pink cocktail dress and plop onto the table. “I think she was murdered,” she whispered. “Sonny Boy would go to pieces if he knew.” She tapped an index finger on her temple. I didn’t let on that I’d reached the same conclusion. “Really? Any idea who did it?” She started to reply but caught herself. I waited but whatever she had to say, whoever it was, she’d apparently changed her mind about sharing it. I said, “I hear Sonny Boy got real upset that night.” “He proposed, and Brooke rejected him. Lavinia sent him home.” “Do you know the preacher everyone calls Elmer Gantry?” “Oh yes, I know Stanley.” “He also was eighty-sixed?” Jane nodded. “It got real crazy that night.” She glanced to the bar, where Jeff was giving Sonny Boy a drink. “I don’t believe Brooke was in a mental state to do that to herself. Things were beginning to turn around for her. She was involved in her writing. Anyway, my feeling is, it probably was someone who visited her that night.” “Anybody in mind?” She looked away, looking upset about something. “Jane, tell me.” “Her old boyfriend from Reno was here. He’s Basque.” “Gotzon.” “You know him?”

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“Only through Cheyenne. He’s her brother.” “I know.” “What happened that night?” “They had a fight, loud enough for me to hear them. It was pretty early in the evening, though.” I waited for more. Jane said, “It was a busy night. It could’ve been anyone. That’s where Sonny Boy may be able to help.” Sonny Boy returned to the table and put a fresh drink in front of Jane. She turned to him “Show Dallas what you got in your pocket.” “I gave her an engagement ring,” he said. “Not that part, Sonny. About the pictures.” Jane turned back to me. “You won’t believe what he has in his pocket.” Sonny Boy brought out a cigarette lighter and set it on the table. “Isn’t that incredible?” Jane said. “You’ll never guess what it is.” I looked more carefully at the lighter. Then I saw the lens and understood. “A camera.” “He has pictures of everyone who dated her,” Jane said, speaking in a whisper again. She could barely contain her excitement. “When he worked in the gift shop, he took a picture of every john who got a date with Brooke. He was working most of the night she was killed.” Sonny Boy was grinning like he’d just won first prize in a spelling bee. “Put your camera away, honey,” Jane said. Then to me, “Wouldn’t you think her killer might be in one of those photographs?” “Where are they?” “He keeps them at home.” “I’d like to see them.” She turned to Sonny Boy again.

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“You hear that, Sonny? He’d like to see your pictures. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, honey?” “We were going to get married,” he said. Apparently the poor guy had forgotten she’d turned him down. Jane said, “Do you have the pictures at home?” “I have a scrapbook.” “Would you let Dallas see it?” Sonny Boy stared at me. For a moment, I wondered if he was trying to remember who I was. “That’s a great camera,” I said. “I bet you do great work with it, too, don’t you?” Jane shot me a glance as if to say this approach wasn’t going to do it. “Sonny,” she said, “I want you to write down your address and I’ll give it to Dallas and he can meet you there later this afternoon. How’s that? First you and me are going to my room and have a date. I know everything you like. You didn’t know that, did you? Brooke told me everything. I can be just as sweet as she was. Can you remember your address? You just write it down for Dallas.” She’d fetched a pen from her small beaded purse and held it to Sonny Boy. When he took it, she arranged a bar napkin in front of him to write on. “The address where you live,” she said. He got the message and began writing. Jane flashed me a smile that said, See how good I am with him? When he was done, she slid the napkin my way. “Thanks,” I said. “Sonny, how’s four this afternoon sound?” “He’ll be there,” said Jane. I thought of asking her about the register but decided to wait till I saw Misty. Somehow I needed to get a look at it. I pushed through the swinging door into the parlor. I saw who was there and did a double-take. Lavinia was standing

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with Brooke Cadbury’s double, the same blonde cheerleader innocence, the same sweet smile and demure manner, never looking you directly in the eyes. With them was a tall, gangling man who must have been sent over by Central Casting to play the pimp. The leather jacket and pants, the blue turtleneck graced with the world’s most gaudy golden chain, the white cap perched back on his head. There was only one variation from the cliché: the guy was white. “Dallas,” Lavinia said in greeting. When she didn’t introduce me, I knew it was time to move on. I passed through, heading for the door. Just as I was about to step into the foyer, I heard a woman’s gasp, an involuntary yelp of surprise. It was Jane, leading Sonny Boy through the parlor to her room. She recovered and hurried him away, our eyes meeting briefly. There seemed to be pleading in them. I quickly followed them down the hallway. Jane didn’t stop until she was at her door. She seemed relieved to find me there. “I thought I saw a ghost,” she said. “I know what you mean.” Sonny Boy, however, didn’t seem to be bothered. Jane said, “He used to be Brooke’s pimp, too. She told me all about him. She got rid of him in Vegas, and he never forgave her. He was here, you know, just a few nights before it happened. They had a big fight in her room. I could hear them. I was going to go in and make sure she was all right, and then I heard him leave. When I went in, she was crying. That’s when she told me about him.” “Are you going to be okay?” “What’s the matter?” Sonny Boy asked. “Didn’t you think that woman looked like Brooke?” Jane asked. “Brooke is prettier,” he said. “I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

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Jane shot me a “what can you do?” look and opened her door. “Let’s go in, honey. I have a real nice surprise for you.” I had walked halfway home before I changed my mind. I knew I should get back to work. But I also wanted to talk to Brooke’s former pimp. I was naïve enough, inexperienced enough, to have no qualms about doing this. Pimps were dangerous characters in the movies but perhaps not in real life. I had to loiter outside for an hour before he came out. About halfway through, Sally drove by in her patrol car, making the rounds. She pulled over, parked and got out. “Loitering at a whorehouse. Now I’ve seen everything.” “Officer.” “I’m really curious what you’re up to.” “Don’t ask. You’re not on the case.” “I see. Well, be careful, Dallas.” She swung back in and sped away. I continued waiting. I guessed his car was the long white Cadillac convertible that stood out like a limo at a demolition derby. Sooner or later, he’d be out to check on it or to drive away. And then he appeared. Walking in long strides, he seemed even taller. He came through the gate and headed for the convertible. I beat him there. “Excuse me.” He put one hand to the bill of his white cap, and for a moment I expected a tip in greeting. He just fingered it, waiting for me to say more. “I was a friend of Brooke’s,” I said. He laughed and shook his head. “What does that mean to me?” “It depends what you two were arguing about a few days before she died.”

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I could hardly believe I’d said it. Then I was glad I did. It took him aback, and in some immediate subtle way shifted the power balance my way. “You work here or something?” he asked. “Does it matter?” “You sure think you know a damn lot.” “Let’s just say I have my connections.” “And what is it you want from me?” “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Brooke. I know she worked for you at one time. I know you went your separate ways. You were here and had a fight in her room loud enough for the neighbors to hear. And then she ended up dead. Don’t you find that sequence of events a little troubling?” He laughed again. “You think I killed that bitch’s ass?” “I’m just exploring the situation. I’d like to hear your version of what happened.” “Tell me why I should waste my time talking to you.” “Because it the long run it will save you time. Better talking to me than to the police, don’t you think?” “You a P.I. or something?” “Or something.” This time just a grin. And he shook his head. “I like your style, man. Maybe you should come work for me.” “Sorry, conflict of interest.” He looked around, as if checking whether anyone was watching. “Is there a place around here we can talk?” “Mom’s Café on Main Street.” “I been there. How can you not check out a place called Mom’s Café? You got a car?” “Been a long time since I rode in luxury.” “You said the right thing for a change. Hop in.”

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At Mom’s Café he finally told me his name. Edison Franklin Bradshaw. Everybody called him Eff. The regal name matched his demeanor. If Central Casting had done a good job in his appearance, except for the cliché of race, his manner and tone of voice revealed education and a certain sophistication. “You think I’m a pimp, don’t you?” he said as soon as the waitress was gone. We both had steaming coffee mugs in front of us. Before I had a chance to respond, he went on. “But I’m a businessman. I’m an entrepreneur. I’m not a sadist. I don’t beat my girls, I don’t get them hooked on drugs, I don’t even sleep with most of them. I make a difficult life on the streets easier for them by putting them in a legal brothel.” “The story I heard is that Brooke decided to operate on her own.” “That she did. And I’ll be honest with you. When something like that happens, it pisses me off. I offer a lot of advantages to a hooker in a brothel. One, they’re practically held captive in there. I don’t mean the damn Annex, where it’s housewives and amateurs, I mean a professional house like the Black Cat. Three weeks on, one week off. That’s a hard shift. Try to imagine it. Three weeks without getting out of the house other than to walk around in the yard for a bit. You run out of hair spray, you run out of tampons, you need new garter belts, you got a client wants you to piss on a glass table while he watches underneath and jacks off, and the house done run out of glass tables. That’s where I come in. I’m the customer representative for the needs of my girls. I make life one hell of a lot easier and more comfortable for them while they’re in confinement. And I don’t charge what your average pimp charges his girls on the streets. I got girls lining up for my services. I can’t handle them all, so I’m real choosy. If I take you on, you know you’re the best of the best. You know you got a long successful career ahead of you. I don’t put girls on the streets. Ever. The streets is shit. I am strictly class and

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strictly legal. Damn right, it pisses me off when somebody like Brooke decides to throw away all my hard work as if I’m taking advantage of her bitch ass or some damn thing.” It was quite a speech. I had nothing to say in response. “I’ll tell you what happened with Brooke,” said Eff “That fucking revolutionary she got involved with started putting ideas in her head. She started seeing him out of the house, which anybody can tell you is the first step to disaster. You start doing that, you might as well start baking cakes and having babies because your career is down the toilet. Brooke was headed that way, too. First, she took off without telling me and got herself set up in another house as an indie. Then she goes out and gets herself pregnant. I never should have taken her on.” “She got pregnant?” “Damn right. She and that Basque dude were going to run off into the sunset or some damn thing and play at bringing up baby. I kissed her off. Then I heard she went to Mexico and had an abortion. That must have really pissed off the boyfriend. All them Basques are Catholic, they don’t believe in shit like that. Then Brooke ran off and joined some religious cult, that’s how fucked up her mind was. It was good riddance after all. All that shit she did would have messed up my mind.” “What about the argument at the Black Cat?” “Shit. There was nothing to it. She was the last person I expected to see there. I was in town to talk to Lavinia, to set up some new girls I was getting ready. Then I see her ass. I made a date just to mess with her mind. I didn’t see her but fifteen minutes. It wasn’t worth it. She was as fucked up as ever.” We were silent a moment. Eff said, “This answer your questions?” “I appreciate your frankness.” “Shit. I got nothing to hide. I’m class and legal all the way.”

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“I can see you are. One more thing, if I might. I’m curious about something.” “Shoot.” “Do you think she killed herself?” “Normally, I would’ve said fuck no. She was too bright for that shit. The thing that throws me, though, is when she went into that religious cult. It’s like she was having some kind of mental crisis or something.” “Actually she was working on a story. She went in undercover to see what the ashram was really like.” “No shit? I knew she wanted to be a writer. I figured she’d eventually write a book about life in a brothel. Undercover in the ashram. Far out. That’s the Brooke I remember.” “Would that Brooke kill herself?” “No fucking way. You’d never convince me otherwise, I don’t care what kind of evidence you got. Evidence can always be fixed.” “Do you have an idea who did it?” He didn’t hesitate. “That fucking Basque revolutionary. I can’t remember his name.” “Gotzon?” “That’s it. You sure you’re not a detective or some damn thing?” I smiled. Eff said, “From what I hear, he was really pissed when she ran out on him. Apparently she didn’t even tell him she was pregnant, decided on the abortion her own self. Women think men don’t have anything to do with them getting pregnant, men don’t give a shit about the baby she’s carrying. Never occurs to them it’s his goddamn genes in there as much as hers. Men get no fucking rights with kids.” He sounded like someone who had lost a custody battle. I said, “You make a good case for Gotzon being the guy.”

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“Who else did she piss off enough to do something like that? He blows up women and children in Spain, what’s something like this to him? He’s a monster.” Who else did she piss off? The question repeated itself in my mind as I walked home. She’d pissed off the Kree, and she’d pissed off Cheyenne’s brother. Who else had Brooke upset enough to kill her? I remembered how upset Cheyenne got, talking about her brother. I wondered if she knew more than she was telling me.

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14

I got into the rhythm of writing again and almost missed my appointment with Sonny Boy. My idea of bringing forward the leader of the old geezers in the nursing home as protagonist – I imagined Winfred Bromley playing the part – was working out just fine. He was going to be one of the elderly couples that zoomed off with the aliens in the end. In one of the script notes, Jason wrote that I should set up a sequel. Senior citizens in Aliensville would work. Sonny Boy lived only a few blocks away – almost everything in Sogobia was a few blocks away – so I walked. I found the address and was surprised at what I saw: a small house standing behind a small dead lawn that had been taken over by weeds. It looked like a shack on a vacant lot. Inside was worse. Sonny Boy’s mother answered the door, looking puzzled to see me. I explained I had an appointment, but in letting me in she seemed torn between complying and sending me away. The inside of the house was a disaster. Old newspapers were stacked everywhere, creating a kind of canal system for moving around the rooms. I followed her between the canyon walls of newspapers into a hallway and to a closed doorway. A sign on the door read, Class In Session. Knock! She did. Sonny Boy, too, seemed surprised to see me when he opened the door. Behind him I saw something I hadn’t seen in the house yet: order. His room looked immaculate.

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“Hey, Sonny, I’m here at four, just like I said. Remember?” “I remember.” I was relieved. But he remained in the doorway. “May I come in?” He moved aside and closed the door behind me. I was surprised his mother hadn’t asked what was going on. The bed was made, a small desk was tidy, the room standing in stark contrast to the chaos in the rest of the house. I knew where he got his mental problems from. “You were going to show me the pictures you took,” I reminded him. He nodded and went to a closet. He came back with a large 3-ring binder. He held it out for me. I accepted it and looked around. “Do you mind if I sit down?” He didn’t seem to mind one way or the other, so I took the binder to the desk and sat down. I opened it. On the first page were photographs of a woman I didn’t know but I recognized the small room décor of the Black Cat. Most of the photos were of her in various erotic poses, sometimes naked, sometimes not. I turned the page. Now it got more interesting. There were several dozen shots, many of poor quality, of various men at various places in the brothel, standing in the parlor or sitting at the bar, some blurred from movement as they followed a woman off to negotiate a deal. The woman’s clients, I assumed. Sonny Boy, in his obsession, had a photographic record of who was making dates with whom. I flipped through the pages, looking for Brooke. I found Misty first. I stopped. There were photographs of her nude, which reminded me that I was overdue for a visit. The camera loved her, and I remembered how much I loved her lithe body. Turning the page to her clients, I looked for myself. I found a bad photo,

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barely recognizable, of me at the bar, staring down into my drink. It felt funny to see myself like that, as if I were put in a lineup for some crime. Brooke was at the back of the book, the last woman in the gallery. God, she was cute. In Hollywood, the cutest upand-coming actress was a blonde who had a role on the daytime soap Days Of Our Lives, Meg Ryan. Everyone said she’d be a star if she concentrated on movies, but for some reason she was slow in making the transition. Meg Ryan had nothing over Brooke Cadbury, both blessed with the same girlnext-door good looks that drove so many men crazy, as if innocence itself were an aphrodisiac. Brooke’s clients took up both sides of a single sheet, some two dozen photographs. There were no dates attached to the pictures, but I assumed the most recent were placed last. On the back page I found several surprises. There was a photograph of Elmer Gantry in his white suit. There was a photograph of our beloved mayor, who apparently was less incapacitated than he let on. There was a photograph of a man in a red goatee who had a resemblance to Pa Tristin of the Kree, though the photo quality was too poor to be sure. But there was no photograph of Gotzon, and several photographs were of men I had never seen before. As I looked through the binder, Sonny Boy sat on the edge of his single bed, munching from a bag of potato chips. I lingered at the last page, biding time, trying to think of the best way to walk home with the page of Brooke’s clients. I didn’t come up with an alternative to theft. “Sonny, do you think I could get a glass of water?” It worked. He nodded and left the room. I moved quickly, opening the binder and lifting out the page I wanted. Where to hide it? I unbuttoned my shirt from the top enough to open it and slip in the page of photos. Then I buttoned up to hide it. I closed the binder and hurried to the closet. Looking inside, I was stopped in my tracks. There were

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stacks of them, over a dozen binders documenting his strange obsession with the women of the Black Cat and their many clients. I put the binder on top of the nearest stack. Hurrying down the hallway, I met Sonny Boy coming back with my glass of water. “I forgot I have another appointment,” I told him. “You really have a gift for photography. Thanks so much for sharing it with me.” I was out of there. At the door Sonny Boy’s mother said something from behind me. I ignored her and let myself out. I walked home so quickly I was out of breath by the time I stepped inside. My answering machine was blinking. There were two messages. The first was from Anita Cadbury. A package of Brooke’s belongings had arrived. I should call her. The second was from Cheyenne. There was a silence before she spoke and then I barely recognized her. She sounded more vulnerable than was her habit, upset and confused about something, reaching out to me. I liked the feeling that she could do this but at the same time became worried about her. When she didn’t pick up the phone, I became more worried still. I called Anita Cadbury. It was short and sweet, and she agreed to put everything the police had sent her back in the box and mail it to me overnight delivery. I’d pay the postage. I tried Cheyenne a second time. Again no answer. This time I left a message. “It’s Dallas. Call me. I’d like to talk to you about something. It’s not urgent but it’s also not … well, just call me as soon as you can. I appreciate it.” It took me a long while to get back into the rhythm of writing. I wrote until about nine, then called it a night. I was making good enough progress to meet my self-imposed deadline. I was confident I was improving the script.

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I walked to the Black Cat. Sogobia evenings were just warm enough to permit shirt sleeves but not as stifling as the days could be. At the gate, I buzzed once. As soon as Hazel saw it was me, she yelled into the parlor, “It’s Dallas!” so that everyone but Misty would know there was no date forthcoming. It seemed longer than it was since I’d seen her. She was wearing a black Japanese robe, flirtatiously open down its length, revealing bikini underwear. She had a big grin on her face, as if she were happy to see me, too. “Hello, stranger. What’s your pleasure this beautiful night?” I paid for two hours, which gave us time to explore a variety of positions and for me not to be in a rush until I got to the second item of business on my agenda. Our sex was slow and passionate. It was easy to imagine we were lovers. When we were done, she rested her head on my shoulder. Her eyes were closed. I wondered if she might be falling asleep. “Misty?” “Hmm.” “Can I ask you something?” “Um-hmm.” “About business.” Her eyes opened. She remained still. “What do you mean?” I moved my position, forcing her to lift her head off my shoulder. I scooted up to lean against the headboard. “I’d like to see the register for the night before Brooke was found. I want to know who her customers were.” “Even I can’t get my hands on that, Dallas.” “But it’s all kept in a book, right? Rachael writes it all down.” “Or whoever is working cashier, right. But Lavinia locks that stuff up in the safe, I think.”

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I thought a moment. “What period of time is covered in one book?” “I don’t know. Months, I would think. There’s a lot of pages in there.” “Exactly. So the book Rachael is using now would be the one I wanted to see. Right?” “I guess so. What do you want me to do, go snatch it out of her hands?” “What’s the deadest time of day here? Between three and five in the morning? Something like that?” “Usually. Sometimes we get a lot of truckers in, no matter what time it is. They’re why Lavinia stays open around the clock.” I reached into my wallet. “How much would it cost to spend the night with you?” “Dallas, I don’t like the sound of this.” “I just need to look it over for a moment. I can find what I need in a few minutes.” Misty thought about it. “I hope you have a plan,” she finally said. “Rachael has to use the can now and again, right? Somebody covers for her. That somebody can be you. And when she’s gone, I can find what I need to see.” Misty let out a long, slow breath. I said, “Of course, I consider that an extra service on your part. You should charge me for it.” “The way you throw around money…” “It’s a deal?” “You sure know a girl’s weakness.” “Money makes the world go ‘round.” In general, I bought only half an hour of Misty’s time, no more than was necessary for me to get what I had come for, which usually was a blow job. Now and again I bought an hour. The

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first two hours tonight were special, and the night promised to be more special still, but strangely it wasn’t. At first I thought Misty was nervous about what I was planning to do. If I got caught, she’d lose her job. But that wasn’t it, as I learned later when I began fondling her as a signal for sex again. Suddenly she scooted out of bed. “Dallas, you’re getting too interested in me. I think it’s time you start dating someone else.” I watched her go into the bathroom. When she came back, I was getting dressed. I wasn’t planning to leave; I still had something to do. But the sex for the night was over. She walked nude to the closet and selected a silk robe. “I’m not in love with you, if that’s what you think,” I said. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel right with you. When we have too much time together, like now.” “Maybe this is your deal, not mine.” She laughed. “Is that what you think?” “I know what our arrangement is.” “Do you?” She started to continue but stopped herself. I said, “We’ve got time on our hands. Might as well put it all on the table, Mariko.” “That’s exactly what I mean,” she said. “You found out my real name. What’s the point in that, Dallas? The real me, Mariko, has no relationship with you in any way. Don’t you get it? We have a business arrangement. You’re no different from any other john I deal with. As far as I’m concerned. You act like we have something special. Even if it’s still business, you act like I’m different with you than with all the others. Well, I’m not.” She was right. I thought we’d shared some special moments together, moments that couldn’t be shared with just

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anyone, her and a random john off the streets. I thought we’d built a friendship, despite the business part of it. “I don’t want to see you for a while,” she said. “It sounds to me like you’re the one getting involved.” “Oh, fuck you! What an egotistical, arrogant thing to say. To assume about me.” “Misty,” I said, emphasizing her professional name, “all I’m trying to suggest is that I thought we were friends, that we enjoyed the time we spend together.” “You get what you pay for.” “That’s all it’s been to you?” This time her laughter was chilling, coming from some cold, far away place. “Fucking men are all alike.” She entered to the bathroom and closed the door behind her. When she returned, I suggested a new plan. “Maybe we don’t have to wait till three. It’s pretty dead tonight. Whenever you want to relieve Rachael, I can do my thing and leave you alone.” “You paid for the night. You can have it. I just have to get my head on straight again. I don’t like it when johns take me for granted or think they’re special in my life.” She’d never called me a john before. The realization of this basic truth hurt. “I know I shouldn’t ask this,” I said, “but when I go down on you and—” “Stop it!” I did. The moment was tense with subtext. For the first time, I understood that she was, at heart, an actress, playing out a love scene no less manufactured than on the silver screen. I didn’t please her at all. She squirmed and moaned because that was her job. I felt like nominating her for an Oscar. “I need a drink,” I said. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

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The bar was empty of johns. A few bored women sat along the bar, playing with the straws in their drinks. I sat as far away from anyone as I could get and told Jeff to make it Jamison’s, neat. I slugged it down, put down a big bill and let Jeff keep the change. “Hey, man, thanks,” he said, but I already was leaving. At the door I told Hazel I’d be back around two. I’d buzz twice. I already had time reserved with Misty, I told her, paid for in advance. “You’re quite the planner,” she said, smiling. I walked for about an hour before I found myself in front of Cheyenne’s apartment. The lights were out, so I decided to let her sleep. I went back to my apartment. It was only midnight. The few hours I had to kill would seem like eternity if I didn’t fill them. My mind was too active for a nap. I worked for two hours on the script, getting about fifteen minutes work done. This was absurd. I returned to the Cat, driving Ruby this time. “Right on time,” Hazel said as she let me in. I walked into Misty’s room without knocking. She was reading in bed. “Don’t ever do that again,” she said. “Sorry. Let’s get it over with. It won’t be any more dead at three than it is now.” I gave her five minutes. The plan was, she would volunteer to relieve Rachael, knowing she’d grab the chance to get away and stretch and maybe have a drink and use the rest room. Then I’d come out and look at the books. I stepped into the hallway. Misty was at the end of it, alone on a stool behind a podium-like high desk. “Easy as pie,” I said, moving beside Misty. She’d already found the night I wanted to look at. I took out my small notebook and pen and started copying down names. First names only were written down in the register.

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The familiar faces in Sonny Boy’s gallery were matched with familiar names. There was a Tristan, who probably was Pa Tristin. There were eight names in all. Brooke had had a busy night. In order the names were: Frankie, Emil, Roger, Tristan, Elmer (Stanley?), Big John, The Dude, Wyatt. Something hit me right off: there were more names in the register than photographs in Sonny Boy’s album. Then I remembered that he’d gotten eighty-sixed that night. He wouldn’t have been around to get all Brooke’s johns on the night she died. I noticed something else peculiar: the last three names in the register were written in a different handwriting from the others, noted by an exaggerated back slant. Apparently Rachael hadn’t entered Brooke’s last customers. Someone had taken her place. I slipped my notebook into my pocket just as Rachael approached. “See you when I see you,” I told Misty. Rachael had overheard. “You paid for all night, Dallas. You know I can’t give you a refund.” “No problem.” I was exhausted. I had names and pictures to match and planned to get Gil to help me with the grunt work. But that was for tomorrow. It had been a busy day, and I felt I was getting somewhere.

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15

I was awake for the early morning doorbell for a change. It was UPS, needing a signature and a check. I took the box to my desk and sat across from the typewriter, where I’d been working on the script. I needed my pocket knife to open it. I brought out several plastic bags and a stack of folders. In the bag were the empty bottle of pills, the glass, the suicide note, and various personal things that didn’t appear related to the crime scene. One item, however, got my attention: a key. It was a small key, perhaps to a box of valuables, perhaps to a locker somewhere. I read the note right off: “I’ve lost the will to go on. May God have mercy on my soul.” I read it several times, trying to put a voice to the words. Something about it didn’t sound right. It was too pat, too perfect. It sounded contrived, what someone might think a suicide note should sound like. I studied the handwriting, trying to find desperation in the carefully-printed letters. Maybe too careful. They suggested someone trying hard to avoid writing in a normal hand. There were a dozen Polaroids of Brooke’s small room, the crime scene, several with the dead body on the bed, all taken from different angles and perspectives. The photographs showing the body were haunting not in what they revealed but in what they didn’t show. They were grotesquely impersonal. Brooke was on her back under a single sheet, thin bare arms crossed over her chest, bare shoulders showing the straps of a

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negligee, a white plastic sack tied over her head. She reminded me of the victim at an execution. There were half a dozen folders, each filled with pages of writing. When I browsed through them, I found more notes about the Kree. At the ashram, she’d mailed her notes to her aunt. In the brothel, she retained them. She’d felt safer here, which had been her mistake. I looked at the empty bottle of pills. They’d been prescribed by a Dr. Farnsworth. Even though the autopsy had revealed no trace of the pills, I wanted to find out if Brooke had been his patient. I grabbed the local phone book, which was no larger than a wine list in a good L.A. restaurant, and found him. His office was in Winnemucca. I phoned the number. The doctor was busy but I made an afternoon appointment with his secretary. At first glance, I didn’t see that “the evidence” told me much I didn’t already know. It did reinforce my notion of murder instead of suicide, especially the pat note. But I saw no clues leading toward the murderer. Maybe I wasn’t trained to see what was really there. I’d have Sally come over and give me some on-the-job training. I’d been waiting for it to get late enough in the morning to call Cheyenne without waking her if, in fact, she were home and asleep. I didn’t know her work schedule. I was dialing when the doorbell rang again. I hung up and walked across the room. It was Yuli. “Are you busy?” It was a good time for a break, so I said no. I let him in and poured him coffee. The evidence on the table, where he’d taken a seat, attracted his attention. I put his coffee in front of him and without explanation gathered it all up, put it back in the box, and set the box under the table. Then I joined him, sitting in front of the typewriter with my own cup of coffee.

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“What’s up?” I asked. He wasn’t wearing a beret today, exposing a full head of black curly hair. If I had hair like that, I’d never wear a hat. “I’ve been thinking of this project,” he said. “Only I don’t know quite how to do it. Maybe you can give me some advice.” “What’s the project?” “A documentary film. I’d write the script.” “What’s the subject matter?” “Basques in northern Nevada. Who were are, what we believe. Our connection to Basqueland, the culture and language and all that, why it’s all so important, even though we are thousands of miles from our homeland. No one in America understands us. If they think of us at all, they call us terrorists because we want our freedom from Spain. They send the FBI after Gotzon like he’s a common criminal, not a freedom fighter, a hero of the people. They did the same thing to my real dad. He left when I was just a kid, I barely remember him. I can’t really remember Uncle Gotzon at all either. But I want to make a film that tells the truth. So I have to write a script first, right? I’m not sure how to do that.” He was an amazing kid. “Yuli, I think you’re on to something, I really do. This is just the kind of thing that makes a compelling documentary.” “Maybe you can help me, then?” “I can help you most when it’s done. I can get it in the hands of the right people.” “But I don’t know how to write a script.” “I’ve never done a documentary. My understanding is that the process is very different from developing a feature, which does begin with a script. The only documentary filmmaker I know works from an outline, who he needs to interview and so on, and the scripting of narration to hold it all together comes later. Most of it is put together in the editing room.” Yuli paid close attention.

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I said, “Do you have all the equipment you need to do this?” “I have a cousin in Reno. He has it. He’s trying to get rich making dirty movies. He said I could borrow a camera during one of his down times.” “Then begin with an outline. Write down the people you want to interview, and the historic events or context you want to talk about. Try to find its natural dramatic flow.” “And you’d look at what I write?” “Of course. I think this is a great project, Yuli.” He grinned. I’d made his day. “I wish I could interview Gotzon,” he said. “Do you know him?” “Just by reputation.” “Cheyenne doesn’t seem to be close to him.” “Cheyenne’s not really Euskaldunak. I’m not either yet, but at least I’m interested in my history. My dad, my real dad, was Euskaldunak. They killed him for it. Not the FBI. It was in Spain, before Uncle Gotzon came over here.” I wondered what he would say if I told him there were people who thought Gotzon had murdered Brooke. I said, “Speaking of the FBI, they came by just like you said.” “Me, too. I didn’t know nothing to tell them.” “Two of us. Do you think they’ll be back?” He shrugged. “Have you seen Cheyenne lately?” I asked. “She invited me over for breakfast.” I felt relieved. She must be over whatever was bothering her. “Tell her I’ll try to call her later.” The grin again. “She told me you asked her out on a date.” I nodded, smiling.

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“That’s so cool,” said Yuli. “I can really picture you two together.” “Thanks for the endorsement. You got time for more coffee?” “Not really. Hey, I really appreciate the encouragement and the help. I’ve actually been thinking about this for a while but didn’t know how to start. You’ll really read my outline?” “Yuli, trust me, this is a damn good project. Hollywood loves documentaries like this.” “Hollywood, wow! I was thinking of how to get the university in Reno to show it. You think Hollywood would look at it?” “You do it right, and I think this would have a bigger audience than you think.” “Man…” He was too excited to finish. As soon as I let him out the door, I went back to the telephone. I didn’t dial Cheyenne. I phoned Gil. “Free Weekly.” “It’s Dallas.” “Hey!” “Are you busy?” “Yes and no. For you, no. What’s up?” “I’ve got some stuff to show you. I’ll be right over.” I took the box of evidence, the page of photos and the names I’d scribbled down from the register. An hour later, everything was spread across Gil’s desk so he could itemize it. He was a man who liked to make lists. I picked up the glass, handling it carefully even though it was in a plastic bag. “They didn’t even dust it for prints,” said Gil. “There was no reason to. It was never a murder case.” With my free hand, I sorted through the Polaroids on the table, finding the one I wanted.

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“Look at this.” I handed the photo to Gil. “What about it?” “See where the glass is?” “On the dresser.” His eyes lit up. “On the goddamn dresser!” “Not on the bedside table. So she takes the pills, leaves the empty bottle on the table but walks over to the dresser to set down the glass.” “Then climbs into bed and ties the sack on her head. It doesn’t make sense. She’d leave the glass on the bedside table.” “Exactly.” “How can the police ignore evidence like this?” “Sally’s coming over later. I’ll ask her.” “She’ll say it’s the chief.” I set down the glass and slid Sonny Boy’s sheet of photos in front of Gil. “How many of these can you I.D.? There are five names I can’t place – Frankie, Roger, Big John, The Dude and Wyatt.” He inspected the sheet. “The mayor! I’ll be damned. Don’t know the guy with the goatee.” “I think it’s Pa Tristin from the ashram.” “Really? Crazy Stanley, alias Elmer Gantry.” He looked again at the photo of Pa Tristin, who the register called Tristan. “You talked to this guy at the ashram?” “He denied everything, of course.” “But what the hell is he doing at the Black Cat? Especially since they have free love on that ashram from what I hear. He doesn’t have to drive to Nevada to get laid.” “He was here to see Brooke.” “Exactly. I think you’re right, it’s the Kree. It’s this guy right here.”

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“Strong possibility,” I agreed. “But not much proof beyond circumstantial. What about the others?” “Don’t know them.” “Can you ask around for me?” “I’ll need copies.” “Be my guest.” After Gil came back from the copy machine, he said, “Too bad she didn’t keep a diary.” “Her mother thinks she did.” “He took it?” “If he did, why didn’t he take her writing on the Kree as well? That’s what he must have been interested in. The fact he didn’t take it weakens our case.” “Is it that damaging?” “I’m not sure.” “Maybe there was no point, once he had the diary.” “You’re right,” I said, suddenly understanding what might have happened. “It even gives him an alibi. If I was upset because she was writing about us, wouldn’t I have walked away with her notes?” “He could have taken the diary and left the notes. All the damaging stuff was only in the diary.” “Making a perfect cover since I left the other. Nice work, Gil.” He grinned and said, “I’m getting the hang of this.” “Washington Post, here you come.” “Never. I’m a west coast guy. I visited the east once. It was enough for me. Everybody’s too hyper out there. They’ve got these three thousand foot hills they call mountains.” I had to smile because I had the same impression. I picked up the small, gray key. “What does this look like it’s for?” “A locker.” “A safety deposit box?” “Sure, maybe.”

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“How the hell does one go about matching a key to its lock?” “That’s your department.” My first thought was to call Research at the studio. They had full-time employees whose job it was to answer questions like this from writers. I still had their phone number. I said, “I’ll find out. Obviously this may be damn important.”

When I finally reached Sally, she said the soonest she could come over was Friday. I told her I’d fix her a quick lunch. She only had thirty minutes. I phoned Cheyenne. I left a message on her machine. “Hey, Wyoming, it’s Texas. Just a note to remind you of our date tomorrow. I’ll be by at seven. I’m really looking forward to it.” I got back to work on the script. I got so involved with it I almost forgot my appointment with Dr. Farnsworth. His office was small and unpretentious. He could have been selling life insurance. He was a shrink, so maybe in a way he was. I told him I was looking into the death of Brooke Cadbury and reminded him about the pills he’d prescribed for her. “Mr. Norgood,” he said, “I’m afraid any information about Brooke Cadbury is confidential.” “Were you surprised to learn about her death?” “Yes and no.” “Did her suicide make sense to you?” He thought a moment. “I was surprised because I thought we were making progress. But no, I can’t say it shocked me. She was capable of doing that.” “By taking too many of the pills you gave her?”

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“Is that how she died? That surprises me a great deal. Benzodiazepines are much safer than barbiturates. That’s why we prescribe them.” “She also had a bag over her head.” “I think that did it more than the pills.” “These pills are traceable in the system, am I right?” “Of course. Why do you ask?” “Just curious. In other words, her suicide surprised you but it also is something you can believe.” “It’s a tragedy,” he said. I left the office with a moment of doubt, wondering if I were on a wild goose chase, trying to prove that Brooke was murdered. At home, I again picked up the script. Although it took a while to get back into the flow, I ended up working past midnight.

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16

Friday morning I awoke facing the first deadline I’d had to meet in quite some time. I needed to get the script in the mail to Jason today, and I had other obligations as well. Sally was coming to lunch, and I had a date with Cheyenne for dinner. But I’d forgotten how well I work under pressure. By ten I was ready to go to the post office. The script wasn’t perfect – I already saw things I wanted to polish – but it was a substantial reworking of the story and a major improvement, I thought. Jason could hire another screenwriter to take it from there. By eleven I was thinking about what to make for lunch. I decided on grilled cheese sandwiches and a spinach salad, which required a quick trip to the Sogobia Family Grocer. By the time Sally arrived, I was ready for her. We hadn’t been all that close growing up, primarily because of our six-year age difference. Mostly I ignored her, and mostly she worshipped me. We became closer as adults, especially during a three-month stretch when I let her live with me in Malibu while she recuperated from the death of her husband, who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when a drunk driver spun out of control. I was between wives and live-in girlfriends, the only thing that made it work, and over morning coffee and dinners together we came to know one another as adults for the first time and experienced at last the strange, special bonding of family. When I was at wit’s end

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after getting cancer, there was no question that I would contact Sally first. With our parents gone, she was my only family. Since Sally had only thirty minutes for lunch, I bombarded her with questions from the start. I’d picked out several key items of evidence, the stuff it seemed to me best made the case for murder, the photo of the glass on the dresser, Brooke’s serene if grotesque posture in bed, the mystery key, and of course the bottle of pills that were not in Brooke’s system. While eating, Sally looked over each item carefully and across the table I waited anxiously for her professional verdict. “You’re pretty good at this,” she finally said. “You said you need a new career.” “Writing books, I think.” “If that doesn’t work out …” She let the future hang in the air. “I talked to the doctor who prescribed the pills. He can believe it was suicide.” Sally was silent. “What do you think?” I asked her once again. “I think what I thought before. I’m pissed off I didn’t pick out the glass on the dresser. I messed up on the autopsy report, too. I’m not old enough to start losing my faculties.” “Everybody messes up sometime. What about the key?” She picked it up again. She took a bite of her sandwich, chewing, studying the key. “From keys I’ve seen in the past, I’d say it’s a locker in a bus station.” “Fantastic, Sally. That really narrows it down.” “No special powers. I had one just like this once.” “Where would the closest lockers be?” “In a bus station? Reno. Or maybe Winnemucca.” “I’m going to check it out.”

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She set down the key. She wiped her lips with a paper napkin. “I’ll do something else for you, Dallas. I’ll talk to the chief again. Suicide just doesn’t add up. I don’t think he’ll budge – it’s just a damn hooker, after all – but I’ll give it another try.” “I really appreciate it.” “It’s my conscience.” She slid her chair back. “You didn’t cook this well when I lived with you in Malibu. You could barely boil an egg.” “I had girlfriends who cooked for me.” Sally smiled. “So did you ask out the janitor yet?” “Custodial engineer. As a matter of fact, I did.” “She calls herself a custodial engineer? That doesn’t suggest airs to you?” “No, I call her that when someone calls her a janitor.” “Touché. So when’s the big date?” “Tonight.” “Wow. What do you have it mind?” “Dinner. Maybe dancing afterwards.” “You’re letting her put on a dress. Very nice. I hope it works out for you.” “I’m taking it very slow.” “Wise choice.” She started to say more and stopped. “What?” “Oh, it’s none of my business.” “Come on.” “I was just wondering. Since she works at the Cat, and you practically live there, or used to, I was just wondering if you run into her there.” “I’ve run into her many times.” Sally just nodded. “What?”

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“I was wondering what I’d do if I made a call there and found Gil seeing one of the ladies. I don’t think I’d like it much.” “It hasn’t come up.” “If I were you, if this gets serious, I’d be prepared for it coming up.” With the afternoon to kill, I decided to drive to Winnemucca with the mystery key and check out the bus station. I took the Interstate because I was impatient to begin. On my way into town, I passed a park. Across the grass, as green in this desert oasis as grass anywhere, a man in a white suit had gathered a crowd. He was standing on a park bench, waving his arms, a Bible clutched in one hand. I slowed down and finally pulled to the curb to get a better look. Curiosity got the best of me. I shut off the engine, got out and walked closer. Just as I suspected, it was Stanley. He was in great form, delivering an energetic sermon to the crowd of almost a dozen. “Flee fornication! Every sin that a man doeth is without the body; but he that committeth fornication sinneth against his own body! From Corinthians, my friends. He sinneth against his own body! From Holy Scripture, in Corinthians.” I smiled and turned to go. Apparently Stanley had seen me. “Oh, sinner, do you dare to leave? Do you think you can hide from God’s own truth? Do you think you are safe within the walls of a brothel? God sees through the brothel walls, my friend! God sees what you are doing in there!” As soon as I settled into Ruby, I turned up the country music on the radio, where a man was lamenting that tonight the barroom had let him down. As different as Greyhound bus stations may look on the outside, as different as their locations may be, on the inside

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they all look alike, all counters and benches and tired and impatient travelers. It didn’t take me long to find the locker in Winnemucca. There were only a dozen, stacked top and bottom, and I got lucky and opened the door on my second try. In the locker was a three-ring binder filled with several hundred pages of manuscript. I took it out, closed the door, and went on my way. Outside the bus station I stopped on the sidewalk and opened the binder. There was a title page, which read, “Confessions of a Brothel Girl,” a novel by Brooke Cadbury. I smiled. This was going to make very interesting reading indeed. When the door opened, my jaw must have dropped. Cheyenne was wearing a black cocktail dress and pearls. Her hair was down, dropping past her shoulders, and her dark, wonderful eyes were smiling at me. “You’re a knockout,” I said. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” I’d put on a tan summer suit, knowing full well this would make me over-dressed nearly everywhere we might go. I wore a blue shirt with a plain darker blue tie. I topped off the evening of dress-up by putting on my porkpie straw hat with a band to match the tie. I said, “All this for country western music.” Cheyenne laughed. “Let me get my purse.” For all our excitement in greeting, as soon as we climbed into Ruby and left, a tense silence filled the car. I wondered if whatever had been bothering her was still bothering her, or if we were both just so rusty at dating that neither knew how to begin small talk. Finally Cheyenne asked, “Where are we going for dinner?”

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I’d left town on the old highway toward Elko. I had to laugh. “I didn’t know I’d made a joke,” said Cheyenne. “I’m laughing because I haven’t the slightest idea where I’m going. I was just driving.” “Well, they have a couple good restaurants in Elko.” “What do you feel like?” “They have a Chinese restaurant.” “Chinese it is.” We slipped into an uncomfortable silence again. After a few miles, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner when you called. Then I saw Yuli and figured everyone was okay.” “I got your message.” “I tried several times before leaving a message. I was worried about you.” Our eyes met. Her lips suggested a smile of thanks. She said, “I was having one of those nights.” “Lonely?” “Not that so much. Feeling, I don’t know, trapped. Stuck.” I waited for more. “It’s different with you,” she went on. “You already had a glamorous life. Hollywood, movie stars, opening nights. I can’t imagine it. This must seem very peaceful after all that. But if you don’t have anything to compare it to, if you’ve been here all your life, it’s not peaceful. It’s just boring.” “Why don’t you move?” “It sounds so easy, doesn’t it? Every time I feel sorry for myself like this, I take stock and end up counting my blessings. I have my own business. I have enough money. I have my independence. What do I have to complain about, really?” “Sounds to me like you need a vacation.” Suddenly she smiled broadly and said, “And a night of dancing!” She laughed. “I’m trying to remember the last time I went dancing.”

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“I haven’t been on a date in about two years.” “I have you beat.” She figured silently in her head. “God. Five. A little over. Five years!” “That surprises me.” “I know, what’s a nice looking girl like you doing single et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” “Have you ever been married?” I wanted to swallow the question back. It invited the same question immediately asked back to me. “Once, when I was very young. It didn’t work out.” “I have one of those.” “Any others?” I hesitated. “That bad?” “Three.” “That’s not so bad for Hollywood, is it? Did you ever marry a movie star.” “Depends who you ask. Ask my wives, and they were all movie stars.” Cheyenne laughed. “Is that true?” “Mostly,” I said. We both were grinning, finally relaxed and ready to enjoy one another’s company. After dinner, before moving to the cocktail lounge in the next room where a country-western band was playing loud enough to provide background music for diners like us, we sipped brandy and coffee and, for the first time, Cheyenne opened up to tell me what had been troubling her the night of the phone call. “I don’t know what to do about Gotzon. We hardly know each other. But he’s my brother, you know? Half-brother, which feels like the same thing. I feel this irrational bond to

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him when I barely know him. There must be magic in blood relations.” “I feel the same way about my sister. That’s why I moved here.” She nodded and waited to see if I were going to tell my story or listen to hers. When I said no more, she continued. “We have the same mother. She was wild and a dreamer. I take after my father. Solid, practical. Probably too much for my own good. Mother finally ran off with a shepherd, and he took her to his home in Spain. In Basqueland. Who ever ran off with a guy who tends sheep? A cowboy, a sports hero, even a bank robber, something glamorous, sure. But a shepherd. She ran off with a Basque sheep herder.” There was sadness in her smile. “And you stayed with your father?” “I’m my father’s daughter, bless his soul.” “You’re older than Gotzon?” “A couple years. It was over there, of course, that she got involved in the politics. She had Gotzon and he grew up in politics from day one. You can’t blame him for becoming who he became.” “And who is that?” “A leader, some would say a revolutionary. Many Basques would call him a hero. Have you heard of the ETA?” “I know it’s not estimated time of arrival. Yuli explained a little about it.” “Did he? The way he talks, one day I think he’ll move there and join the fight for independence.” “He wants to make a movie. A documentary about Basques and the cause.” “I can see him doing that. Smart of him to pick your brain.” “I like the kid.” “Yes, he’s very likable.” “And your brother? Is he likable?”

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“Young, handsome, virile, a revolutionary, a freedom fighter. I imagine there are many women who fall in love with him. And he falls in love with many women.” I leaned forward and lowered my tone. “With Brooke, for instance.” “Yes, with Brooke.” “She was pregnant.” Cheyenne looked away, biting her lip. “She had an abortion. How would your brother feel about that?” “He would hate it. He would think it was murder.” “Hate it enough to…?” When she looked at me, there were tears in her eyes. “I try not to wonder if he is capable of something like that. When he’s been violent in the past, it was politically motivated.” “They say most murders are caused by ex-lovers.” “So you think my brother murdered her.” “No, I don’t. I have reason to think it was someone else.” She took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “I thought you were taking me dancing,” she said. “All I can offer is country music.” “I love country music. Don’t you?” “I think I’d better before the night is over.” We danced until the lights came on for last call. We weren’t drinking, we were dancing. I’m an average dancer, competent enough not to be embarrassed on the floor but not someone people would take notice of. I learned immediately that Cheyenne was much better than I, knew by the way she led me into giving her swirls and dips, saw by the way she danced when moving apart from me, her body moving so naturally, so sensually, that I wanted to stop dancing so I could concentrate on watching her. On the slow tunes we started politely, air

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between us, talking, but by the end of the night her head was on my shoulder, our bodies pressed against one another, and I wondered if she could feel how aroused I was. I took my time driving back on the old highway. The radio continued the country theme. I found myself appreciating the music, which was really just another kind of storytelling, the same old hopes and heartaches that drove the culture. In Hollywood the endings were always happy, but as often as not in country music, the endings were not, and the songs were dirges and laments. It was three in the morning. If there was a place open to get a cup of coffee, I didn’t know about it. I wondered if Cheyenne was going to invite me in. I pulled into the parking lot at her apartment and parked. I shut off the engine. “I had a really great time,” she said. She was leaning back against the door, almost as if she were trying to get away from me. I wondered if she thought I might attack her. “I did as well. I hope we can do it again.” “I’d like that.” If there was the right moment to make a move, this was probably it. I knew this but did nothing. She seemed on edge, and I wanted to make a good impression. “Dallas, I have to ask you something.” “Shoot.” “I asked you before. But I didn’t believe you. You have a regular girl at the Cat, don’t you?” “Yes, I do. Misty.” “I thought it might be. She’s beautiful. And exotic.” So here it was, just as Sally had predicted. My history at the Black Cat was rising between us like the barbed wire fence that kept the tourists away. “It doesn’t mean anything,” I said. “How can you say that?” “I don’t want it to … you know.”

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“To what?” “Mess us up, what we might be moving toward here.” “And what is that? I thought this was just a date.” “I like being with you, Cheyenne. I want to see you again.” “If we continue with this, and down the road it gets intimate—” “You don’t have to say it. I know where you’re coming from.” “I guess that makes me old-fashioned.” “You and most other people.” “It really doesn’t mean anything to you?” “Not in any romantic way. It’s not close to what I’m feeling now with you.” “If I were a man and did something like that, I think I’d want it to mean something. Otherwise why not just take care of yourself?” “It’s not that it means nothing, it’s that it’s not at all like this. It’s a business arrangement. After that, you make the best of it you can.” Cheyenne shook her head. “God, men and women are so different, aren’t they?” She opened the door and let herself out. She was halfway across the parking lot before I caught up with her. “Can I call you?” I said. “Of course.” “You sound mad.” “I’m not mad.” “Disappointed.” “You said it, I didn’t.” I took her arm and stopped her. She jerked it away. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t want us to end a great night like this.” “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I have no right to criticize who you see.”

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“I want to see you.” “Maybe we should sit on it a while.” “We’ve only had one date, Cheyenne. Is it too much to ask for a second?” “I don’t get all that much time off.” “Now you’re making excuses.” “What do you expect me to say?” She looked angry now, close to moving us into territory I wanted no part of. I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Peace.” I started stepping backwards, arms still up. “I had a great time. A really great time. I hope you did, too.” “I had fun, Dallas,” she said, almost too softly to hear. “Goodnight, Wyoming.” “Goodnight, Texas.” My answering machine was blinking when I walked in the door. I hit the playback button. “Dallas, it’s Phil Wendell at the Advocate. I had a very strange experience today. Some FBI agents stopped by. Somehow they knew that Brooke had been working on a story about the Kree. I assumed they’ve been doing their own investigation of them. At any rate, they’re very interested in seeing what she had written about them. I think if they tracked me down, they can track you down as well. I thought I should warn you. Give me a call when you get a chance.” So they were interested in the Kree as well as in Gotzon. Busy folks. I paced around the apartment, not tired enough to hit the sack, frustrated about the night’s ending with Cheyenne. I finally gave in to impulse and instinct and drove Ruby to the Black Cat. But Misty wasn’t free and instead of waiting for her at the bar, I made a date with Starlight, the new girl Eff the pimp had brought in, the Brooke look-alike. She seemed to be a sweet girl and under different circumstances I might have enjoyed myself more. As it turned out, I had a hard time

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coming and ended up doing it myself while Starlight licked my balls, and when it was over I was so depressed I got the hell out of there as quickly as I could.

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17

For all my excitement about starting it, Brooke’s novel was a slow, hard read. She had no sense of dramatic action and story focus. Consequently she made one of the most common of all mistakes by beginning writers: she rambled around in the back story, telling the reader background information and details that may or may not prove to be important later, spending a dozen pages and then thirty and then fifty working to set up whatever the hell it was that actually was going to happen. If ever there was an example illustrating the disastrous effects of telling much and showing little, this was it. The only reason I kept on reading was that I assumed it was mostly autobiographical. But even with this assumption, it was tough going and I found little to help me solve the case of her murder. Reading on the divan, I’d fallen asleep and the manuscript pages had dropped to the floor when the doorbell jerked me awake. I let the manuscript lay and answered the door. It was Chief Three Moons. He barreled into the room and glared at me. “They come by yet?” “Who?” “Who, my ass. They’re here because of you. Who.” “Can we start over at the beginning?” “The FBI. They phoned this morning and told me all about what you’ve been up to. They want to know everything

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you found out at that ashram. You writers are all alike. You just can’t let it rest, can you?” “Did Sally talk to you?” “I know all about the autopsy and the glass on the dresser. It don’t prove shit.” I started to speak but he kept on. “Let me tell you why. Let me give you a scenario. The girl is beside herself, suicidal after all. She comes into the bedroom and gets in bed. She has the sleeping pills and a glass of water on the bedside table. The pills aren’t to kill her, the bag should do that, but she doesn’t want to lie around awake, waiting for the end. The pills are to put her to sleep. Then she decides she’d better go to the bathroom first. She takes the pills. She picks up the glass and drinks the water on her way to the bathroom, leaving it on the dresser. She goes in and does her business. She comes back, gets into bed, puts the bag over her head. End of story.” He was beaming, very pleased with himself. “Very clever,” I said. “Tell me it’s not possible?” “Possible but highly improbable.” “Reasonable doubt! See there? Even you admit reasonable doubt. You have to prove your case in court, son. You can’t just jump at a conclusion because you believe it’s true. This has nothing to do with what is true. This is about what you can prove.” I had to admit the chief had a point. Thus far, I couldn’t prove squat about anything. “Did you call the FBI?” the chief asked. “No. They were here last week, asking about a Basque patriot they’re looking for.” “The FBI talked to you last week and you didn’t tell me?” “I assumed they’d talk to you themselves.” “First call I got was this morning. All they wanted to talk about was that religious cult in Oregon. Sally says you went there looking for the hooker’s killer. Ever occur to you your ass

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is grass if your hunch is right? If they killed her, they can kill you. Dumb shit.” “They say they’re innocent.” “Of course they’d say that. Can you prove they’re not?” “Unfortunately, at this stage, I don’t think I can prove much of anything.” “So why’re you doing this?” I didn’t know what to tell him. “Sally says you’re writing a book.” “She said that?” “No, I just made it up.” “I’m doing preliminary research.” “Spare me the details. I want you to level with the FBI when they come by. You try to hide anything, they’ll find out eventually, and then they’ll be all over this town like bees on honey because they’ll think we’re hiding something. We got nothing to hide in this town, and I don’t expect you to hide anything from the FBI. Do I make myself clear?” “Abundantly.” “Abundantly. Only an asshole writer would use a word like that.” “I’ll tell them what they want to know.” “Make sure you do.” The chief looked around, taking in the apartment for the first time. “You don’t mind living here?” “I like it very much.” “Hollywood guy like yourself, I’d expect a place with more class.” Ex-Hollywood guy, I told myself. I said, “I’m simplifying my life.” The chief laughed. “You’ve got a hell of a way of doing it, going by yourself to the ashram.” He moved toward the door, which was still open.

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“Why don’t you call me afterwards, let me know how it went?” “I can do that.” “I’m telling you to do it. What you’ve been up to, I could call it interfering in an investigation.” “I didn’t know you were investigating anything.” “I was, and I concluded there’s no evidence to prove murder, therefore it’s suicide. Case closed. You try to open it again, I call that interference. You understand me, son?” “Understood.” “Yeah, I bet. The minute my back is turned, you’re up to your old tricks.” He waited for a response but I didn’t give him the satisfaction of one. He stepped outside, and I closed the door behind him. The FBI agents waited until late afternoon before coming by. I was shocked to see them – they were a different pair of agents. One was tall and lanky, the other about my size. They wore slacks and sport shirts, more casual than the others. They already had their badges out when I opened the door. “Mr. Norgood?” asked the lanky one. “That’s right.” “I’m Agent Weiss. This is Agent Youngston. We’d like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind.” “Not at all.” I led them to the living room, making small talk on the way but also doing a little fishing. “How are your colleagues doing? Making any headway?” “Pardon me,” said Weiss. I gestured for them to sit on the sofa, and they did. I took the stuffed chair. “The agents looking for the Basque.” Weiss and Youngston exchanged a quick glance “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

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“Agents Wallace and – well, I forget the other’s name. They came by last week. They're trying to track down Gotzon Aguirre.” Youngston said, “You were visited by FBI agents last week?” “They looked like they came from Central Casting. I guess one team doesn't always know what the other is doing.” “If someone identified himself as an FBI agent,” said Weiss, “then he committed a federal crime. We damn well know everything going on in this sector, and we're it.” “You're not trying to find any Basques?” “Not unless they have information about the Kree.” My stomach tightened. I didn't like the idea of phony federal agents snooping around, especially when they were talking to me. Or to Cheyenne. Or to Yuli, for that matter. Youngston had taken a form out of his briefcase. “I'd like you to fill this out on the matter,” he said. “So we can follow up on it.” I took the form. “You don't have to do it now. We'll come by again tomorrow.” I nodded. Weiss said, “Now to the business at hand. I don't know if you're aware that the FBI has been investigating the Kree for some time. We’re especially concerned about reports that they may be trying to manipulate this year’s election in order to take control of their local county board. We're aware that Brooke Cadbury was working on a story about them for the Boise Advocate. We're aware that you visited the ashram early in the week. What was the nature of that visit?” It was decision time. Should I come clean and tell them everything I knew, or try and dodge and weave my way through their questions? “One thing makes me nervous,” I said. “I've already been visited by two agents who you say were phonies. How do I know you aren't phonies as well? You both had the same badges as far as I can tell.”

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“That's a fair question,” said Weiss. “What would it take for you to trust us?” “I'm no longer sure.” Weiss reached into his wallet. “Mac, give him your card,” he said. He brought out his own card, took the other, and handed both to me. “You can call Washington and verify our identities. You also can find out for yourself that there is no investigation of Basques going on. You do this before mid-morning tomorrow. We'll come back then and take care of business.” “Does that sound fair enough?” asked Youngston. “Very fair.” They stood up. “What we're interested in,” said Weiss, “is whatever you can tell us about the Kree. Whatever you learned that Miss Cadbury found out. I'm still not sure what you were looking for.” In my gut I trusted them. I stood and decided to share what I thought. “I don't think she committed suicide. I think she was murdered, and someone from the Kree did it.” “Obviously this would interest us a good deal – if you can prove it.” “I can't. Not yet.” They moved toward the door. “You can tell us what you know tomorrow. I get the feeling we're on the same page on this. You want to nail the Kree as badly as we do.” At the door Youngston said, “We appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Norgood.” “How's ten tomorrow sound?” Weiss asked. I told them ten was fine. As soon as they were gone, I phoned Cheyenne. The answering machine came on, and I hung up.

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I couldn't keep still. Finally I went to the Black Cat to see if she was working. I buzzed twice, and Hazel let me in. I was in no mood for small talk. I finally found Cheyenne in the hallway near Misty's door, vacuuming. When she saw me, her expression flashed a suggestion of shock, then disappointment, at seeing me. Then she quickly went back to work. I turned off the vacuum cleaner. “I have to talk to you,” I said. “You don't have to explain your behavior to me.” I realized she thought I was there for sex with Misty. “I came here looking for you. We have to talk.” I took her arm but she resisted. I said, “This is about your brother.” She started to say something but changed her mind. She let me lead her into the foyer. Sonny Boy was holding down the gift shop, and I noticed the small camera that looked like a cigarette lighter sitting on the counter. So he was taking our picture. “Hi, Dallas,” said Sonny Boy. He grinned, maybe thinking he was pulling one on me, Got your picture! He gave no sign of missing the page I’d taken from his photo album. “Hey, Sonny. Outside,” I told Cheyenne and pulled her along. “What about my brother?” she asked as soon as we were alone. “The federal agents who are looking for him aren't really agents. Have they questioned you any more?” “Just the once. I think they've questioned just about everybody who’s Basque or has a connection to one.” “This afternoon I was visited by real FBI agents. They're investigating the religious cult in Oregon, and the time Brooke spent there. Anyway, these guys proved to me they're legit. And that the others are phonies.” Cheyenne studied me.

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“What do you think it means?” “Are there people who would like to see your brother dead?” “Of course. Fanatics who oppose Basque independence.” She came to the same conclusion I‘d reached and when she did, a short involuntary gasp escaped her lungs. “I'm afraid it's the only thing that makes sense,” I said. “The good news is that the FBI now knows about them. They want to catch these guys before they find him.” She closed her eyes, getting herself together. “I feel so helpless,” she said. “I know the feeling. I want to alert Yuli. Do you know where I can find him?” “Let's go inside, I'll give you his address.” I got the address and left Cheyenne vacuuming the hallway. As I was leaving, a group of guys were heading for the parlor where all the available girls were gathering for the “choose me! choose me!” ritual. They were truckers, I learned when I left the house again. All their rigs were in the parking lot, turning the Cat into a truck stop. Music was blaring inside Yuli's apartment, loud enough that I feared he couldn't hear the doorbell. I rang anyway but also knocked, and in a moment knocked harder. I waited. I couldn't make out the music except to realize it wasn't the American pop rock a young man typically listened to. I banged on the door again. Yuli grinned as soon as he saw me. He said something I couldn't make out over the music. I pointed to my ear and made a face. He bounded across the room, hit a button, and silence filled the apartment. “I was just going to see if you were home,” he said. “I've got bad news.” “Me, too.” “You first.”

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“It's complicated. Is yours complicated?” “Not really. Those agents asking around about Gotzon are not agents. They're phony FBI. I think they're looking for him because they want to kill him.” Yuli didn't look as upset by this as I thought he'd be. “I can believe it,” he said. “Gotzon is always looking over his shoulder, if you know what I mean.” “You sound like you found out something about him.” “I did. He's in the hills with the herders. One of them brought a message down. It came to me because I know you. He wants to meet you. He says he has a proposition for you.” “What kind of proposition?” “That's all I know. I'm supposed to bring you to him. You know how to ride a horse, don't you?” I'd written one on a movie set once, just for kicks. That had been about fifteen years ago. “Sure,” I said. “We can ride in tomorrow if you like.” “I’ve got something I have to do. How about the next day?” “That works.” “How long does it take to ride in?” “I don't know. My uncle will let us use his horses. We can ride into the foothills in less than an hour, but the message is, we don’t go to him, he'll find us. I'm not staying overnight, though. Sleeping on the ground is too old school for me. We'd better leave early in the morning.” “Day after tomorrow. You're on.” “They're assassins then, aren't they?” “I guess that's as good a name as any.” “We can't let them follow us.” “I haven't seen them around lately. Have you?” “I heard they were asking around in Reno.” “Good. Maybe they'll stay there. They've got a ton of territory to cover.”

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“I wish I had a movie camera. Maybe Gotzon would give me an interview.” “You have tomorrow to get it.” “I shouldn't go to Reno, though. They might start following me. I wasn't planning on shooting anything until Butch Cassidy days.” That wasn't until September, when Winnemucca had a parade and festival to celebrate the day Butch and his gang robbed the local bank. They’d mailed a thank you card to the banker, accompanied by a photograph of themselves grinning at the camera, which became one of the most famous portraits of the gang. “I have a tape recorder we could take.” “That’s an idea. I could get an interview and cover the visuals later.” “Sounds like a plan. I just have one question. How did Gotzon find out about me?” “I don’t know. From Cheyenne, maybe.” “She hasn’t seen him recently.” “Word gets around. This is a small town.” “Yeah, I’m learning that.” “Did they seem like assassins to you? I thought they acted the way FBI agents would be.” “That should’ve been our clue. And the suits.” “Central casting?” “Exactly.” At home I filled out the report for the FBI. I tried to get back into Brooke’s novel but gave up on it again after fifteen minutes. I spent a restless evening, falling in and out of sleep in front of the television.

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18

The next morning I took everything I had on the Kree to Gil’s office to make copies. I’d decided to give the originals to the FBI but keep copies for myself in case I needed them for my book. The proposed book, the future book – which might or might not ever get written. It still felt good to remind myself that I was working on it, that there was a goal behind all my recent activity. Meanwhile, Gil had had mixed luck identifying Sonny Boy’s photographs. “No names,” he said, “but these two came to the brothel and left together.” He pointed out Pa Tristin and one of the unknowns, a young man wearing some kind of medallion. Perhaps two Kree had come to see Brooke together. I brought him up to speed on my end. “This is so hot,” Gil said. “I know I can’t print anything yet, but I don’t want to get scooped on any of this. A Basque activist hiding in the hills, assassins posing as federal agents, real agents behind them – man, it’s like a Hollywood movie.” It wasn’t. Life, this, was considerably more disorganized than a story on the screen. But I didn’t see the point of nitpicking about it. “When do you think I can run something?” Gil asked. “Depends what you want to run. If you say anything about Brooke’s death being murder, you’ll have the chief on your ass.

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If you write about the phony agents, you may put your life in danger. If I were you, I’d hang loose, keep good notes, and wait till everything runs its course. You have the inside track on this.” The meeting with agents Weiss and Youngston was short and sweet. They beamed when I handed them Brooke’s notes on the Kree. They told me they’d done a little research of their own about the men posing as agents. Although there was no active case involving Gotzon Aguirre, he was on a list of potentially dangerous characters who had entered the country, assumed dangerous because of his affiliation with ETA in Spain. Spanish authorities would be delighted to be rid of him, and Weiss guessed that the pair had a contract from the government. “Governments hire assassins?” I asked. I saw in their expressions that the question was naïve. “I thought that only happened in the movies.” “You’d be surprised what happens in the world that the movies haven’t even thought of yet,” said Youngston. Our meeting was over in half an hour. I considered calling the chief and letting him know how well it had gone but decided against inviting more attention than he already was giving me. I spent the rest of the day forcing myself to get through Brooke’s novel. She knew nothing about dramatic storytelling, all tell and no show, but from an autobiographical perspective the story got interesting midway through when the main character, a young prostitute like herself, working legally in Nevada, falls in love with a Basque revolutionary (her word) unfortunately named Jesus. Their love affair is immediate and passionate – and results in pregnancy. I wondered if what happened next in the novel was a mirror of what happened in Brooke’s own life. The main character decides to have an abortion, to which end she flies to

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Mexico. She doesn’t tell Jesus. By the time she returns and goes back to work, he has learned she’s pregnant – and is overjoyed by it. Now she has to tell him the truth. He is infuriated. He hits her for the first time. He is in a rage. She becomes scared of him and flees the brothel once again, helped by a newspaper editor who is in love with her, who convinces her to go underground on an ashram in Oregon in order to get a story about the secret plans of the cult. It was fascinating stuff, however over-written and melodramatic. Did Gotzon and Brooke have a similar confrontation over her pregnancy and abortion? Soon enough I could ask him myself. Yuli’s uncle lived on a ranch east of town. When we arrived before eight in the morning, the horses were saddled and waiting for us. Yuli’s Uncle Edur was a short, squat man who looked as immovable as a fire hydrant. He wore a dirty red baseball cap and a clean red bandana around his neck. My incompetence at horsemanship was demonstrated immediately when I had a hard time hoisting myself up into the saddle. Edur grunted a laugh and offered a hand, which stopped just short of goosing me, and I swung my right leg over the horse’s ample butt and somehow plopped in place. Yuli made a clicking sound, his horse stepped off in a slow gallop and mine followed, bouncing me so much I clutched the saddle horn for fear of falling off. Our ride into the desert had begun. Eventually I got into the rhythm of the huge animal beneath me and stopped bouncing around so much. Riding a horse is like riding a motorcycle: The secret is to let go and give in to the momentum of the vehicle. If you fight it, if you try to force your own will of movement, you fail and, at best, get an uncomfortable ride. Less than a mile from the ranch, we picked up a trail to follow into the foothills. Yuli led, and I followed. Around us, bunch grass and scrub brush stretched in every direction, but

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from this close angle, unlike racing through the landscape in a speeding car, I was struck not by monotony but by variety, a dozen subtle shades of brown, gray and green blanketing the land. The vastness was overwhelming. A slight wind blew, and the hooves of the horses tapped a steady rhythm across the dry earth. Ahead, as the hills lifted out of the grass and brush, dark rock jutted up like emerging mountains. Farther ahead, scraggly pines threatened to define a forest. We rode out, silent, as if to speak would be to violate a decree of silence from a source greater than ourselves. In time Yuli stopped and dismounted. I did the same. “Do you know where we’re going?” I asked. “They’ll find us.” We each had a canteen. We drank, mounted, and moved on. A stronger dry wind had come up, and dust rose from the earth as if it had been hiding there all along in the thick bunch grass. Ahead I saw what looked to be a pond, shimmering invitingly in the heat; a bit farther and it disappeared. A mirage. I imagined the miners who trekked over this same land, gold on their minds in the hysteria following the Comstock Lode. They were underfed and thirsty, hot and sweating, forcing themselves ever forward in the unrelenting heat of the afternoon. After all, their claims might be waiting just over the next ridge. Instead they saw the brief promise of a mirage before it dissolved back into the unforgiving land. Too many mirages like that could drive a man insane. We climbed a hill and descended into a wash where a river may have run centuries ago. We were looking for sheepherders, I understood. This is where the Basques brought their animals for summer pasture, high in the foothills where there was no competition from cattle. We moved along the wash, silent, steadfast, waiting to be discovered. Suddenly I heard a human whistle in the distance. Yuli stopped and waited. I brought my mount beside him.

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“Is this it?” I asked. “I think so.” A rider appeared ahead, galloping toward us. We waited for him. He was young, a teenager. Inexplicably, he was wearing a New York Yankees baseball cap. “Are you Yuli?” the boy asked. “Yes.” “Follow me.” We rode on, higher, for half an hour before a rise dropped down into a ravine where sheep filled the hillside and tents defined a camp. Half a dozen Basques emerged to wait for us. As we entered camp and dismounted, I wondered which one was Gotzon. During the running of the sheep, the sheepherders had worn red berets, but here there was more variety in their work dress and not a beret to be found, replaced by ball caps and cowboy hats. In jeans, boots, work shirts and vests, they didn’t look much different from anyone else who worked outdoors. There was an awkward silence as we faced the Basques, as if no one understood the protocol of who should speak first. Then the one in a black cowboy hat stepped forward and, looking me in the eye, said, “I am Gotzon.” He offered his hand, and I stepped forward and shook it. “Dallas Norgood.” He was striking, almost a cowboy from Central Casting, with his bold chin and strong features. He reminded me a little of Randolph Scott. “Thank you for coming. Let’s sit down and talk.” He led us to a card table surrounded by folding chairs. All the comforts of home, I thought. We all sat down, and without asking someone brought tin cups of coffee. Gotzon was not a man to make small talk.

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“I need a favor,” he said, “and I can do you a favor in return. I understand you think Brooke was murdered. You are looking into the matter.” He stopped, waiting for verification. I nodded. I had no idea how he knew this. “I have a good idea who did this. I think I can get a confession for you. There is one problem. I’m a fugitive and now, I understand, in some danger. Spanish henchmen have followed me here. The point is, it would be too dangerous for me to come out of the mountains – unless I am in disguise. You work in Hollywood. Is this right?” Whatever it was, his spy system was excellent. I nodded again. “Hollywood is always changing someone’s appearance, am I right? I was thinking maybe you know how to do this, and you could do it for me.” He stopped. It was my turn. “It’s quite an art,” I said. “You can do it?” “I’m afraid not.” “But you know people who can?” “Yes, in Hollywood.” “You can bring somebody here?” I thought a moment. Why not? In fact, one makeup artist was an ex-girlfriend with whom I still was friendly. If the money was right, I could imagine her flying up to do a job for me. “I think I could,” I said. “Excellent. So the question is – will you?” “May I clarify something?” “Of course.” “You want to do this to help me catch Brooke’s killer. You think you know who it is.” “Yes.” “Who?”

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He smiled. “If I tell you now, what leverage do I have for you to help me? You see, it’s important to me that I get this confession myself.” “A personal matter.” “Yes.” I thought of asking him about his visit to Brooke on the night of her murder but decided this wasn’t the time. It might not even be safe. I was still sizing him up, as he was me. When I didn’t reply right away, he asked, “What have you to lose?” I couldn’t think of a thing. I said, “I’ll do it.” He grinned and reached across the table to slap me on the arm. “Good, good. Now we change the subject. You’ve been seeing my sister.” He was still grinning. He was teasing me – or testing me. “I know her, yes.” “You dated her.” “Once.” “What are your intentions? I’m her brother. I have a right to ask.” “Intentions?” “Do you want to marry her?” “I dated her once!” He laughed and said something in Basque to the others. Everyone laughed. “Have you slept with her?” Now he was going too far. I hadn’t, of course, but it was none of his business. “Is this part of the deal?” I asked. Another remark in Basque and more laughter.

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Gotzon said, “I’m sorry, you are right, this is none of my business. You seem like a good man. I just want my sister to find a good man. So. We are finished, no?” Yuli quickly said, “Can I have an interview?” Gotzon looked puzzled. “I’m making a movie. A documentary about the Basque people and our fight for freedom and independence.” “You’re making a movie on this?” Gotzon asked. “I’m still planning it. But since we’re here, and brought a tape recorder, I was thinking maybe I could interview you. I could dub it in later.” “This movie is a wonderful idea! Let the world know who we are. It’s exciting to see someone so young come up with such a good idea. So what do you want to do?” I fetched the tape recorder and put it on the table in front of Gotzon, so he would be speaking over the small built-in microphone. Like so many novice interviewers, Yuli froze as soon as I turned it on. The machine recorded silence. I said, “Perhaps you can begin by telling us about yourself. Where you were born, how you got interested in politics.” Yuli shot me a glance of relief. “My home is Bilbao,” said Gotzon, “a coastal city in the northeast of Spain. My father, grandfather, worked on the docks, and I began there, too. I wanted to go to college – here, in America, but this is out of the question. But I learned English. I am very proud of that. This area of Spain we call Eskal Herria, Basqueland, or more accurately, the land of the Basque language. We have a unique language. No one knows where it came from. This is the most important thing that unites us. This is how I became a poet because poets are guardians of the language. This is why I wonder about what you are doing, Yuli, reciting your poems in English. But this is something to talk about some other time. You ask how I became interested in politics. You have no choice when the Spanish government

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wants to take away your freedom. Assimilation, they call it. In school I was forbidden to speak my own language, Euskara, and must speak Spanish. I know Spanish. I know English. I know many languages. But most of the time, and in school when I was young, I chose to speak my native language. When they forbid this, it is a declaration of war. It is a declaration of war on Euskaldunak, the Basque people who speak their own language. When I go to work on the docks, I meet many people who feel the same way I do. We do not roll over and play dead and let ourselves become transformed into Spanish people as if we had no culture of our own, no language of our own. Why must we commit national suicide for the sake of Spanish politicians? I decide to fight. I decide to resist. This is why I join the ETA and why I am wanted today by Spanish henchmen who call it a crime to defend your own homeland.” I was moved. Gotzon had spoken simply but with increasing passion, and by the time he was done I was a believer in his cause, though of course I knew damn little about Spanish politics. But I believed in his sincerity, and if the Basque people had their own language and culture, then why shouldn’t they be permitted to express it? It wasn’t difficult to make the leap that had Gotzon a spiritual companion of our own Founding Fathers, fighting for independence and liberty from England. There was a silence. “Is this what you want?” Gotzon asked. “That was great. When I get my camera, I hope we can do some more.” “I will help you in any way I can.” He stood up from the table. “You’ll want to get back.” “How do I get in contact with you?” I asked. “For the disguise, right?” “Of course.” “Tell Yuli, who will tell Edur. I will get the message. How soon, do you think?”

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“I’ll call Hollywood as soon as I get back.” “Then you must be on your way. I am eager to begin.” The ride down the foothills was more difficult, which surprised me, though perhaps this was because of my inexperience. I clutched the saddle horn again, fearful of falling as the horse bounced me down the sloping terrain. I didn’t relax until we were level again, with only a long stretch through the scrub brush to return to the ranch. I called Cheyenne before calling Jason. She wasn’t home, and I left a message. “I saw your brother. Call me.” As soon as I hung up, I wondered if this was the right thing to do. Real federal agents might have the lines tapped. I assumed the phony ones didn’t have this ability but maybe I was wrong. If the assassins learned I’d seen Gotzon, we were all in trouble. I made my second call. “Jason here.” “It’s Dallas. I mailed the script.” “Wonderful! Can’t wait to see it. What do you think? Do we have a movie?” “I think I made considerable improvement.” “That goes without saying.” “Listen, the reason I called is, I want to get a hold of Cathy Rowland. You remember her?” “Of course. I see her in the studio cafeteria now and again. She shouldn’t be hard to reach.” “I just wanted to check and see if she was still there.” “Getting horny out there in the desert, are you?” “They have legal prostitution here.” “Damn, I forgot. I hope you’re not regretting old flames and all that. It never leads to good.” “I have a job for her up here.”

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“What are you, involved with a local theater group or something?” “I’m not at liberty to say, but I can make it very worth her while.” Jason wanted to know more but I got rid of him and called studio information, which transferred me to makeup. I left a message for Cathy to call me. She returned my call an hour later. “Dallas Norgood. The last person on earth I expected to hear from. What is this area code? Where the hell are you anyway? You had quite a time of it last year. It’s so nice to hear your voice.” I briefly explained the move to Sogobia. Then I got to the point. I needed a disguise for a friend, stretching the truth to say it was for a local film I’d gotten involved in. The trip up, the job, and the trip back the same night could earn her a week’s salary. After looking at her calendar, she agreed to fly up at the beginning of the following week. Gotzon Aguirre was going to get his disguise and reenter the world, and together we were going to find out who killed Brooke Cadbury. The assumption, of course, was that he hadn’t done the deed himself.

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19

That evening, Cheyenne and I walked through the park along the river. When I finally reached her, she suggested meeting in the park after she had a chance to shower. She sounded as if it had been a rough day. I’d had a rough day myself, with aching butt muscles that I never knew I had. I got to the park first and after twenty minutes wondered if she had changed her mind. Then I saw her coming across the street, dressed comfortably for the warm evening in shorts, a white blouse and sandals. I’d never seen her thighs before and liked what I saw. I also was wearing shorts, and Cheyenne hadn’t seen my legs before either. I caught her staring at the long shrapnel scar that runs down the inside of my right calf. “My screenwriting scar,” I said. “I didn’t mean to stare.” “If I hadn’t been wounded in ‘Nam, I may have made the marines a career. Instead I became a screenwriter.” “It must have been awful over there.” “As strange as it sounds, I liked a lot about it. Don’t ask me to explain why.” We walked a while in silence, and then I told her what was on my mind. I don’t know what response I expected after filling her in about the meeting with Gotzon. Not what she gave me, which was an “are you crazy?” stare.

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“You can’t get involved with him, Dallas. Don’t you realize he’s a criminal?” “Wait a minute. I missed something here. Two thugs are looking for him so they can kill him.” “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” she said. “I’m not sure how that applies here.” “He’s wanted in Spain. That’s why he fled the country. He’s wanted for good reason, as near as I can see. He set off a bomb in a public square that killed women and children.” Her eyes glistened. “How do you think I feel, knowing my own brother could do that?” “I think he would say he’s in a war for Basque independence.” “I don’t understand how that makes anything different.” “Shit happens.” “Oh, for God’s sake, Dallas, I get enough of romantic freedom fighter crap from the rest of my family, I don’t need it from you, too.” “You don’t approve of Basque independence?” “Of course I do. I don’t approve of the way some of them are going about it. They’re no better than the IRA in Belfast.” “Your brother’s a terrorist – is that what you’re saying?” “Bombing innocent women and children – what else would you call it?” We walked a moment. “Are you limping?” Cheyenne asked. “Just sore. I’m not used to riding.” I took a deep breath. “Look, I already made arrangements to do it. He wants to help me find Brooke’s murderer. He has an idea who it is.” “I should have known.” She shook her head. “Gotzon was born in the wrong century. He belongs in the time of Robin Hood and knights in shining armor.” “I didn’t realize there was so much hostility between you.” “We have different values.”

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“He thinks highly of you. He wanted to make sure I was going to do right by you.” “See? That’s just what I mean. He doesn’t trust me to take care of myself. After all, I’m only a woman.” She hissed the last two words like the serpent itself. After another silence, Cheyenne said, “You like him, don’t you? I can tell by the way you’re reacting.” “When he talked about his passion for Basqueland, yes, I admired him. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” “Fuck off, Texas.” “Fuck you, too, Wyoming.” Although she’d started the exchange, I regretted finishing it. “Cheyenne, let’s not let this cause a problem between us.” “He’s going to get you in trouble. I can see it coming.” “I can take care of myself, too.” “What does it matter to you who killed Brooke? What if you’re wrong, and she actually did commit suicide? She didn’t have much of a life.” “What are you, joining Christians Against Prostitution?” “I’m sorry, I forgot how much time you spend at the brothel. I’m surprised you’re not there right now.” “Well, the night isn’t over yet, is it?” “It certainly isn’t. Maybe you should go early and beat the rush.” I forced myself to slow down. I asked, “Why are you doing this?” “You’re the one who’s decided to help a criminal.” “Why do you keep coming back to the brothel? You don’t like me going there, do you?” “It’s none of my business what you do.” “If we were in a relationship, I wouldn’t be going there. You know that, don’t you?” “A relationship? Now I’ve heard everything.” “You don’t think it’s possible?”

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“How many relationships have you been in down there in Hollywood? A lot, is my guess. Marriages, live-in girlfriends in that big beach house in Malibu. Doesn’t sound much different from here.” “It’s very different from here, believe me.” “Why the hell do you want to date me anyway? I’m not in your Hollywood class.” “Maybe that’s why.” “Right. Quit trying to make me feel better.” “Because I think you’re an attractive, sexy lady, Wyoming. If you can’t handle it, that’s your problem.” She stopped and looked at me. In the fading evening light, her dark eyes looked like caves filled with mysterious secrets. “Texas, what are we doing?” “Getting to know one another. Maybe it’s too slow for you.” She smiled. “I knew I could get one eventually,” I said. She stepped closer. I brought my lips down to meet hers. We kissed softly, briefly. “You have to promise me something,” she said. “Tell me.” “Be careful. Gotzon thinks he’ll die as a martyr. I think that’s what he wants deep down. Don’t let him take you down with him.” “I’m a coward at heart. He won’t change that.” “I’m glad you’re a coward.” “I’m glad you’re glad.” We kissed again, holding it a little longer, pressing our lips together more firmly. “Let’s not hurt each other,” she said. “Let’s not.” This time she moved to the side before I could kiss her. “Let’s go slow and make sure we’re doing the right thing.”

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I nodded. “I need to go home now,” she said. I was on the can when the telephone rang and didn’t get to it in time. But it wasn’t Cheyenne. It was Lavinia, asking me to stop by her office the next time I was at the Cat. Since I wasn’t doing anything, no time like the present. I suspected what she wanted to talk to me about. In the small town of Sogobia, apparently everyone knew I was investigating Brooke’s death. I knew how unhappy Lavinia would be if I proved she’d been murdered. I guessed she wanted to know if the rumors were true, and I was right. “And here I regarded you as a friend,” she said. She wore her usual pant suit, this one a dark brown, like good chocolate, which somehow made the small office more dreary than usual. For all the exotic colors favored by the working girls, in Lavinia’s office the Black Cat reminded me more of a bank than a brothel. “I consider us friends.” “Then why does it feel like you’re stabbing me in the back?” “I’m sorry you feel this way.” “Why?” “Several reasons.” I cleared my throat. “I told you I’m working on a book. I also don’t like the idea of a murderer being out there on the loose.” “I talked to the chief. He told me about some of your socalled evidence. He still thinks it’s suicide, and so do I.” “Then you should have nothing to worry about.” “I just can’t believe you’d do this after what I told you. Apparently ruining my business never crossed your mind.” “I don’t think it would ruin it. In the public’s eye, it’s already suicide. In the best of worlds, anything I turn up would take a year or more to come to trial. People have short memories.”

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“And very long memories, Dallas. There are people in this town that hold grudges longer than you’ve been living.” I shrugged. “You damn writers are all alike.” I stood up. “You keep saying that.” “Before you go running out, maybe you can give me one benefit of the doubt. If you find what you are looking for, which I doubt is going to happen, but if you do, before you take it to the police or your friend’s newspaper or whatever you have in mind, you come see Lavinia so I have time to make a strategy to save my ass. Or is this too much to ask?” “Lavinia, I’ll help you with the strategy myself. The truth doesn’t have to be bad for your business.” “You’re too old to be that optimistic. I guess the word is, naïve.” “I’ll keep you informed.” “Let me ask you something. What’s really in this for you? I can’t believe this is just about writing a book. You want your name in the paper? You starting a new career as a detective?” “I promised her mother I’d find out the truth.” This wasn’t entirely true but it sounded good. “Right. Let me give you a hypothetical. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you’re right. You find your killer. But at the last minute, the killer takes out a pistol and shoots himself. You have your killer but he’s dead. Do you still call the police? Do you still splash the story in the paper?” “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.” “What I’m trying to figure out, Dallas, is what’s in this for you? What are you really after? If it’s justice, if it’s not fame and fortune, then in our hypothetical you’ve got what you wanted. The killer is dead. So what’s the point of going farther with it? What’s the point of publicity after that? Unless it’s to stroke your ego. Understand what I’m saying?” I measured my words.

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“In your hypothetical, if I found the killer and the killer ended up dead … I guess there wouldn’t be any reason to make a big deal of it after that. Justice would have been served. The killer paid for the crime.” “I’m surprised to hear you say that,” said Lavinia. “But pleased. I’ll tell you what. I’ll make you a deal. Let’s again say you’re right. You’re not, but for the sake of argument. You find the killer. You can prove it. You come to me, and I guarantee you that justice will be served. In return, you keep it out of the papers. You get your killer, and I keep my business.” “What are you saying?” “Come to me, and I’ll guarantee that justice will be served.” “You’d have the murderer killed?” “That’s not your concern. You want justice, I want the reputation of my business. We make a trade. We both get what we want.” “Now you surprise me. What do you do, just call someone and it gets done?” “Snoopy writers, my God.” There was a silence. I said, “I’d have to think about it.” “Well, you do that, Dallas. You do that.” “Still friends?” I offered my hand. “Time will tell, won’t it?” But she reached up and shook my hand anyway. I crashed with Brooke’s novel, figuring it might help me get to sleep. Before it did, the phone rang. “Hello?” “It’s me.” Cheyenne. “Hey. I was just thinking of you.” “Liar. What were you really doing?”

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“Reading Brooke’s novel.” “I didn’t know she wrote a novel.” “A very bad novel.” “How did it get published?” “It didn’t. I’m reading it in manuscript.” “What’s it about?” I didn’t want to tell her what Brooke had written about her brother. “Her life,” I said. “That should be interesting. It isn’t?” “Her life is interesting. Her writing sucks.” “Well, maybe your standards are too high.” “If you came here and looked at my bathroom, I’d give odds you’d say it’s filthy, even though it looks pretty good to me. That’s because you’re a professional, and I’m not. Your standards aren’t too high, they’re professional.” She didn’t reply. “Did I say something wrong?” “Oh, no. I called to apologize actually.” “No need to.” “I acted like such a bitch.” “Stop it.” “The thing is, I’m going to worry about you now.” “I’m a very careful guy, Cheyenne. Truly. I’m practically a coward.” “Only practically? This evening it was a coward all the way.” “Well, now I’m trying to impress you, so maybe you’ll …” “Maybe what?” “I’m not going to say.” “What? Tell me?” “If you think real hard, I’m sure you can figure it out.” “Give me a hint.” “It relates to a part of my anatomy.”

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After a moment I heard a gasp of surprise. “You have a filthy mind,” she said. “I confess.” “Sleep well.” “You, too.” “Maybe we can have dinner again soon.” “I’d like that.” “Goodnight.” “Goodnight.” Later, lying awake, having finally given up on the novel for the night, I considered going to the Cat, especially to see Misty, but I couldn’t muster the energy to get out of bed.

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Near the end of Brooke’s novel, there’s a fight between the pregnant main character and her Basque lover, the father of her baby. What upset me is that it’s a violent fight, Jesus, the lover, hitting her several times, choking her, throwing her across the rooms, and I couldn’t help but wonder how much of what was happening to Dottie, the character, had happened to Brooke. Indeed, the anger felt by Jesus after learning that Dottie had aborted his child, which in his imagination already had become a boy and heir to the cause, was great enough that if in the story murder had resulted, it would have been convincing. The writing still wasn’t very good but the action had the ring of truth behind it. Had I agreed to help Brooke’s killer? I decided to run the idea past Sally before I got too involved in my promise to Gotzon. On one of her days off, she often came over for breakfast. It gave me a chance to practice my unexplored skills in the kitchen. All my wives and live-in girlfriends did the cooking, and never before had I lived alone for as long as I’d been in my apartment in Sogobia, which was for an entire year now. The thought of going this long without reliable sexual companionship was unthinkable in Hollywood, which meant I usually had girlfriends even when I was between roommates, however legally defined. Here, of course, a short walk got me any sexual favor I desired.

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I’d made scrambled eggs and homestyle potatoes. We ate on the small table off the kitchen, and after answering her curiosity about my budding romance with Cheyenne, summarized by the promise of a second date, I let her know what was on my mind. I told her about the scene in Brooke’s novel where Jesus beat up Dottie. Sally looked amused. “It’s not a comic scene,” I said. “I was just thinking how upset you’d get if someone tried to turn something you wrote into autobiography.” I had to admit she had a point. I said, “Brooke wasn’t a professional writer, not by a long shot. Amateurs get more literal.” “It does suggest a motive.” “When Brooke worked at the Mustang Ranch, where she met Gotzon, she had a pimp. He’s certain it was Gotzon who killed her. Brooke’s mother is certain it’s someone from the Kree. Her shrink can accept that it’s suicide. These are the opinions of those who don’t have a personal stake in the outcome. The case is a mess.” “Par for the course. Then you get lucky. Most of the time. Well, a lot anyway.” “There’s more. Gotzon is convinced it was someone else. He won’t tell me who yet.” “How do you know what Gotzon thinks?” “I saw him.” “You talked to him?” “I rode into the mountains and had a little visit. He arranged it, actually. He wanted a favor from me.” “Wait a minute. There are assassins out there looking for this guy, and you met him in the mountains?” “We made sure we weren’t followed.” “We?” “Yuli was with me. He got the horses.”

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“You rode a horse?” She looked in shock. I could have told her I was arranging for a sex-change operation. “I know, me on a horse is quite a sight. I still feel sore, believe me. He wants to help me find the killer. But what I’m thinking is, I need to go back to the ashram and it wouldn’t hurt to have company. Especially someone with his experience.” “As…?” “Someone more used to violence than I am.” “Dallas, are you sure you aren’t in over your head?” “I think I am. But there’s a real rush to it. Part of it may be my lost youth as a marine. It’s also sort of like the rush in writing when you’re really cooking – but more amplified, more edgy somehow.” “I thought you moved here to relax and slow down.” “So did I.” “What does your doctor think?” “My doctor here doesn’t know shit. I haven’t talked to my doctor in L.A. for a while.” “I’m worried about you.” “I can’t just sit around and twiddle my thumbs all day. It’s not my nature. I’ll tell you how this is different from before. I’m my own boss. I know that what I decide will happen, it won’t be vetoed by some idiot who doesn’t know half of what I know about the story, or what’s going on, whatever. I’m researching a story knowing I’m my own boss for the entire journey, and this is the biggest rush of all.” “How do you feel?” “Nervous.” “Health-wise.” “I feel good. Really good. The move has been good for me.” “What are you nervous about?” “Gotzon. I don’t know him at all. I like him on first meeting. He’s that kind of a guy. Lots of charisma.”

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“What’s the worst thing that can happen?” “He killed Brooke.” “But even then, you should be safe. Because then his motive is pinning the crime on someone else in order to save his own ass. You’re a vehicle for him, an ally, his ultimate alibi.” “But what if I find out he did it?” “You don’t let him know. That’s the main thing. And you come to me with that information as quickly as you can. What does your gut tell you?” “It was the Kree.” “That’s a good sign, too.” I went to the stove for the coffee pot and filled our cups. “We haven’t talked about the real danger here,” Sally said. “What’s that?” “Him showing his face. If those guys find him, you could be caught in the crossfire.” “I’m giving him a disguise. It’s all arranged. One of Hollywood’s best is coming up here, and we’re giving him a new appearance. A Sogobia makeover. She’s damn good. They’ll never recognize him.” A few days before my guests from L.A. arrived, I ran into Cheyenne at the local grocer’s. We both seemed to be shopping for dinner. “I was going to call you tonight,” said Cheyenne. “Why don’t you come over for dinner? I have something very interesting to show you.” “Our second date.” “Impromptu. Why not?” What she wanted to show me were several Polaroid photographs of Brooke in her room. Brooke had bought a new camera and fetched Cheyenne, who was vacuuming in the hallway, to help her test it. They took photos of one another,

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and Cheyenne had kept two of Brooke, forgetting she had them until cleaning up her desk last night. “This is the one I thought you’d want to see,” said Cheyenne. Brooke, in shorts and a halter top, was stretched out on her bed. It wasn’t a particularly sexy photo. “What am I missing?” I asked. “On the bedside table.” Bingo! A small book, on the cover of which was written, just large enough to make out, the single word, Diary. “Then she did keep a diary,” I said. “But the police didn’t find it, which means her killer must’ve taken it.” “That would be my guess. You can take it if you need it.” “I would, thanks.” We were finishing up dinner. I helped Cheyenne clear the table and offered to help with the dishes, but she insisted on doing them later. We moved to the living room with coffee. On the walls were her art work, collages of trash she’d collected and a few prints of local landscapes. The harsh, dry land could be beautiful if photographed in the right light. We sat on opposite ends of the divan, sipping our coffee. “You seem so calm,” said Cheyenne. “I’d be a nervous wreck in your shoes.” “I try to focus on the objective.” “I’d need more than that.” “A trick I learned in the army. It’s very Zen. One moment at a time.” “I worry about you. I can’t help it.” “I’m glad you’re concerned. I mean, well…, I’m just glad. I’ll be fine.” It wasn’t that I believed this but that I successfully had avoided thinking about it. I’d meant it when I said one moment at a time, keeping one’s focus on the objective. Otherwise you could think yourself right into danger. “The police should be doing this,” said Cheyenne.

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“In a perfect world. I guess from their point of view, the chief’s, she was just another hooker. She was actually a pretty complicated lady.” “I liked her. That made it harder.” “Yes, it would.” “When do you help Gotzon?” “In a few days.” “He’ll want to see me. I don’t know if I’m up to it.” “I can keep him away.” “Is this such a bad thing to do? I’m not sure what we have in common. Blood, genes. Family. Sometimes it seems like so little.” “And sometimes so much. I was never all that close to Sally until I thought I was dying.” “Maybe that’s what he’s feeling now.” “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe you’re right.” “Do you want more coffee?” “Are you having any?” It was a hint. I didn’t want to outstay my welcome. She seemed to be thinking about whether or not I was. “I feel like a walk,” she said. We walked through the park along the river. About twenty minutes into it, our hands brushed and she took mine. I gave her a slight squeeze as we walked on. “I have a daughter,” Cheyenne said. “How old is she?” “You don’t seem surprised.” “A nice-looking woman like you usually has a history.” “She’s six. She stays with my parents in Las Vegas. It’s only temporary until I get back on my feet.” I wondered what she meant by this. After a silence, she told me. “I have a gambling addiction.” “I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who admitted it.”

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“I’ve lost everything more than once. The thing is, I don’t even drink when I gamble, so I don’t have that excuse. I’ve always had this fantasy of being a pro, supporting myself this way, and all I end up doing is losing everything. I was in treatment this last time for six months.” “How long since you gambled?” “Over a year now. Not even a slot machine.” “Congratulations.” “The court would let me have my daughter but I’m still nervous about it. I feel guilty not having the money to get her something she wants, so I talk myself into going into a casino, et cetera, et cetera. It’s easier to keep straight when I’m alone.” “Does your daughter see her father?” “He’s dead.” “I’m sorry.” “I wasn’t married or in love with him. He was a dealer I hooked up with for a long weekend in Vegas. My daughter is the only thing I ever really won.” We walked on in silence. “What you see is not everything you get,” said Cheyenne, and I heard a touch of bitterness in her laugh. I stopped and turned her toward me. “I like what I see,” I said. “Do you?” I drew her toward me. Slowly our faces moved together, and we kissed, long and softly. “A gambling addict with a kid,” said Cheyenne. “What a catch.” “I think so. Would it be too forward to ask if you’d like to come to my place? It’s a tad closer than yours.” “That’s very forward.” “I was afraid it might be.” “You’re sure you want to?” “The question is whether you do.” “I thought you’d never ask.”

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She was gone in the morning. I rolled over and reached for her and felt empty sheets, still warm from her body. I found a note in the kitchen. Texas – You know how to make a lady feel better than she’s felt in a while. Last night you mentioned you might be going to the ashram in Oregon with Gotzon. Please be in touch before you leave. I’m wrapped up in a warm glow that’s going to last for a while. Thank you for that. Wyoming. It was the kind of note that made me grin. And then, to my surprise, I let out a yelp to raise the dead.

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21

By L.A. standards, the Reno/Tahoe International Airport suggests the corporate headquarters and landing strips of an airline. I arrived early after an uneventful trip on the Interstate, having left Sogobia early enough to cope with the unexpected. I was met with endless scrub brush, a hot wind, light traffic and no surprises, which gave me an hour to kill at the airport bar. Jason Monk stepped off the small jet looking like an eccentric movie star arriving for a press conference. I was surprised to see him, then depressed. White suit, red silk shirt not buttoned till halfway down his hairy chest, white shoes and red socks, a straw hat tilted just right – he came down the steps glancing around as if for his autograph-seeking fans. He’d tagged along, I guessed, because he wanted to talk about the script with me. It wasn’t going to be as easy as I figured to take the money and run. Behind Jason came Cathy Rowland, and I figured Jason had insisted on debarking first in order to remind me who was boss. Cathy wore a pink leisure suit, and I could tell in a glance that she’d lost weight and was looking better than I remembered her. The flight schedule was such that she needed to stay overnight, working on Gotzon in the morning. I’d told Yuli to make sure he was at my apartment by eight, so we could give

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Cathy all the time she needed. My problem now was what to do with Jason during that time. Who was all grins and his old back-slapping self. “Dallas Norgood, you son of a gun, you look ten years younger. Life in the boonies must be good for your health. Damn, it’s hot for so early in the morning, isn’t it?” “Jason, if you’d called and said you were coming I would’ve made you a reservation at the Sogobia Inn. I got a room for Cathy.” “Hello, Dallas.” She’d tinted her hair, which was naturally brown, so it had a reddish hue in the hard Nevada sunlight. Closer, I saw she was wearing too much makeup, her habit, and the trim figure suggesting youth was compromised by the lines in her neck that revealed middle-age. Like many women in Hollywood, she was trying too hard to keep looking young. “Nice to see you, Cathy. I have my car waiting. Did you check luggage?” Cathy said, “I wasn’t sure what I’d need, so I brought everything.” After getting their luggage, I led the way to Ruby in the parking lot. Between the small trunk and half the back seat, I barely had room for their bags. Jason took one look at the Bug, laughed and said, “Three of us in this piece of shit? No fucking way.” He started heading back to the terminal. “Where are you going?” “They rent cars here, don’t they?” He continued on his way. “I’ll ride with Dallas,” Cathy called behind him. While Jason rented a car, I loaded up Ruby. All the while, Cathy nervously talked on and on, telling me about the movies she’d worked on lately. In fact, we both were nervous, as ex-lovers sometimes can be when checking one another out after many years, each hoping to find the evidence that

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breaking up was the right thing to do. In my case, there was no question but that it was, and I assumed she felt the same way. A horn sounded, and Jason approached in a new white Ford sedan. I waved and told Cathy to get into Ruby. I walked over to Jason. “I’ll probably drive too slow for you,” I said. “Once we get on the Interstate, go on ahead if you want. On the east end of Winnemucca is a truck stop. You can’t miss it. Stop there, and we’ll catch up with you.” “Winne-whata?” “Winnemucca.” “They actually named a town that?” “It’s an Indian word.” “What’s it mean?” “I forget.” “Jesus Christ, Dallas. Why didn’t you just build a cabin in Death Valley? Be closer to your work.” “I have new work now.” Jason looked at me and shook his head. “Lead the way,” he said. I’ve had enough ex’s to put them into categories. Some are quick to find a new mate so she can show him off. Others enjoy being a victim and stay out of circulation for a while. A few disappear into thin air. Ex-wives are special because the bonding is more formal, a mutual declaration of “till death do us part,” which must be the most frequent lie told in the country. In my experience, ex-spouses hold more grudges, many of them rooted in disputes about material things, including bank accounts and special possessions. I don’t call any of my exwives friends the way I regard several ex-girlfriends. A decade ago, Cathy and I split up after a year of living together. She got pregnant, and I helped her get an abortion – and then the shit hit the fan. Deep down, she’d wanted the

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child, even though she still wanted her career as well, and I had disappointed her by encouraging the practical, common-sense solution to our problem. The abortion was her idea in the beginning but only I paid the price for having made the decision. As it turned out, this was the closest I ever came to being a father. But we got over it and stayed in touch. When I was in the hospital, she’d sent me a card and flowers. When she had talked herself out and began feeling more comfortable, she said, “So tell me about this movie you’re making.” I remembered my little lie. “Nothing to shake a stick at. I’m helping a young filmmaker mainly. It’s a documentary about Basques.” “Really? Sounds interesting.” Her tone told me she really didn’t think so. “I should have you done in a few hours. Just have to change his appearance.” “Then why do you need a professional?” “Because we want the close-ups to work. And you’re the best.” “That’s a nice thing to say.” There was a pause. “I thought maybe it was because you missed me,” Cathy said. I shot her a glance, and in it she read my surprise. “How’s your love life?” she asked. “You have a girlfriend?” It had never occurred to me that she would misread my motives into something personal. I wanted to set the record straight immediately. “I’m seeing someone.” “What’s she like?” “She a janitor at a whorehouse.”

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I’d chosen the words purposely for their effect. Cathy did a double-take, then managed to laugh. “That’s a joke, right? I don’t think I get it.” “I’m serious. Prostitution is legal in most of Nevada. Not the population centers, Las Vegas and Reno, but everywhere else.” “It’s legal? I think I knew that but, well, it is kind of surprising when you think about it. Do you know any? Legal prostitutes, I mean.” “I visit one every Tuesday and Saturday.” I said it to have some fun with her, and it worked. I had shocked her speechless. She stared out the window at the acres of scrub brush and desert grass. Jason was waiting for us in the parking lot at the truck stop, sitting behind the wheel. He started right up when he saw us and followed me the rest of the way into Sogobia. At the Sogobia Inn, I helped carry their luggage inside. Jason regarded the place with a haughty expression that read, Is this all there is? Cathy was more successful in hiding her distain for Sogobia’s best motel, if indeed she felt any. Jason got a room and after they were checked in, I made an appointment to pick them up for dinner. “What about this afternoon?” Jason said. “I thought we could go over the script.” “Actually I’m kind of busy.” “Dallas, what the hell did I come all this way for? You think I love the desert this much?” “Maybe I can fit in an hour but not much more. I’ll come by at three. How’s that?” “Great. Can we work at your place?” “Sure. See you at three.” As soon as I climbed into Ruby, I let out a long slow breath, relieving the stress I’d built up just being in Jason’s presence. So this is what I was escaping from in L.A.. I’d

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almost forgotten how a producer could get to me. But I wasn’t a Hollywood screenwriter any longer. I didn’t have to play this game with him. I had to keep reminding myself of this. I pulled into the apartment parking lot. When I got out, I saw Yuli trotting my way. “Have you seen Cheyenne?” he asked right off. “Why?” “She invited me to brunch. When I got there, she was gone. The thing is, those guys are back in town. I saw them driving around this morning.” “Let’s go in. I’ll call the brothel.” Lavinia said Cheyenne wasn’t due in until later tonight. She hadn’t heard from her and had no idea where she might be. Now I was getting worried. “You’re sure it was the same guys you saw?” “Totally,” said Yuli. “How soon after that did you go over to Cheyenne’s?” “It was over an hour. She invited me to brunch at eleven.” “Maybe we should go over there.” Her door was locked, of course, and I had no appropriate criminal skills. Yuli, however, noticed that the bathroom window was cracked, and he thought he might be able to get it open if I could give him a lift so he could climb up to it. I entwined my hands, he stepped onto the platform they provided, and I boosted him up to the high window. “I got it,” he said. In no time at all, he was wiggling into the bathroom. In a moment he opened the front door for me. I stepped inside, half expecting to see chaos, with overturned chairs and broken lamps, the scene of a great struggle. This is the way I’d write a kidnapping scene for Hollywood. Yuli followed me from room to room. The apartment looked just the way it had the last time I was here. “Looks normal to me,” said Yuli.

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“I know.” “Maybe she had an emergency and had to go somewhere. Maybe her mom called and her kid’s sick.” “Do you know the phone number in Las Vegas?” “No.” I returned to the living room, looking around as if I’d missed something, some clue to a struggle if she’d resisted kidnapping. But I hadn’t missed a thing. I said, “Well, I guess all we can do is wait.” As soon as I got home, I called the police department for Sally. The dispatcher put me through. “How long does a person have to be unaccounted for before you should file a missing person report?” “Who’s missing?” I told her the story. “Did you two have a fight or something?” “Quite the opposite.” “Really?” “No fight. Yuli says it’s not like her to invite him to brunch and not be there.” “Any possible explanation?” I told her about Yuli’s theory of the sick kid in Las Vegas. “When’s she due at the brothel?” “Tonight.” “So wait till tonight. Either she shows or she calls in and covers her ass. If neither of those things happen, then maybe you can start to worry. But not before.” “Makes sense.” But it didn’t stop my worrying about her. Later in the afternoon I couldn’t stand it any more. First, I cancelled my appointment with Jason by leaving a message at the desk. I brooded some more. Finally, late in the afternoon, I walked over to Cheyenne’s apartment to see if she’d returned. I found Yuli sitting on the steps. Great minds think alike.

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I said, “If she doesn’t show up at the Cat or call in, then I’m really going to be worried.” “I’m already worried. Maybe we missed something.” That’s all it took to repeat the routine to get into her apartment. Once again Yuli let me in, and once again I couldn’t find anything in the apartment that looked vaguely suspicious. “Maybe they just grabbed her at the door,” Yuli said. “Maybe.” It would explain the lack of clues in the apartment itself. She opened the door, and George Raft grabbed her on the spot. “I’m going to get Sally over here,” I said. “We still may be missing something, and she’s the pro.” It took some convincing to get Sally to stop by. She said I was jumping the gun. She said I sounded like a guy who was in love. When she finally stepped into the apartment, I led her through the grand tour, telling her how everything looked normal to me but maybe I was missing something. When we came back into the living room, Cheyenne was entering. She stopped in her tracks when she saw us. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?” Sally said, “They reported you as missing.” “What did you do, break in?” “The manager let us in,” Sally said. I shot her a quick thank-you glance for saving my ass. “Obviously I’m not missing. And I’m in a hurry. I have to get ready for work.” “Glad you’re safe and sound,” said Sally. “I’m out of here.” Yuli said, “I started it because you weren’t here for brunch.” “Damn it. I forgot all about it.” “Where have you been?” I asked. “I don’t have time to get into that now. Do you mind leaving now so I can get ready for work?”

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There was something in her tone that depressed me for the rest of my waking hours. I called the motel and cancelled dinner. I thought of going to the brothel to talk to Cheyenne during one of her breaks. I thought of calling her late, after she got off. Maybe we could have a drink and close down Danny’s Bar & Grill, and she could tell me where the hell she’d been. I ended up going to Danny’s myself, just to get out of the apartment, and by the time I’d had a few drinks it was all I could do to navigate myself home, on foot this time, and crash into wonderful mindless oblivion.

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22

Early the next morning, rising before the sun with a hangover, I showered until I felt human. On my way to make coffee, I noticed my answering machine was blinking. There was a long message from Jason, filled with more story notes. What if the aliens wore their human bodies, their disguises, rather like body suits – and when they were removed, the aliens were pure energy, pure light? This energy is what affects the water in the pool to rejuvenate the old geezers who swim in it. There also could be a flirtatious scene in the pool between the young owner of the boat, the former protagonist, and the beautiful “human” woman in the group of aliens. In her pure energy form, the woman could dart through the water and give the guy a sensual experience unlike any he’d ever had before. Listening to Jason’s ideas, a great line popped into my head: “If this is foreplay, I’m a dead man.” Jesus, I was getting excited about screenwriting again. A part of me resisted, recognizing the old trap. I didn’t call Jason back. I’d see him soon enough. I wanted to call Cheyenne but it was too early. Gotzon, Yuli, Jason and Cathy would be here before Cheyenne rose to face the day after a long night cleaning the brothel. In fact, what the hell was I doing up? I went back to bed. The next time I got up it was to answer the door. Gotzon and Yuli were on my doorstep. I let them in and went into the kitchen to make more coffee.

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“Where’s the makeup artist?” Gotzon asked. “They’ll be here at eight.” “They?” “She came with her producer. They’re cool. Don’t worry about it.” Yuli said, “I’m getting my camera later this morning. Is that cool or what?” “We will put it to use,” said Gotzon. Jason and Cathy were right on time, as I expected them to be. Jason lived his life close to the clock. “Get my notes?” he asked as he entered ahead of Cathy. “I like them.” “I thought you would.” Cathy carried two briefcases full of her assorted tools and materials, which she set on the table. After I made the introductions, Cathy opened the cases and started getting ready to begin, making herself right at home. “I’ve been giving some thought to this,” she said. She turned to Gotzon. “The challenge is in giving you something easy to manage. It’s not like I get you for a couple hours each morning, like on a shoot. You need something you can do yourself. So here’s my idea. How’d you like to be an aging punk-rock star?” Jason laughed, shook his head and moved across the room, checking out my books on the shelf. Apparently this kind of madness was beyond his understanding. I looked at Gotzon, who shrugged. “That’s an amazingly great idea,” said Yuli, grinning. Cathy said, “I’m going to cut your hair, dye it blue, and spike it. I’ll give you some body jewelry that’s removable – nose ring, lip ring, lots of earrings, of course. Some different clothing would help the effect. Any used clothing stores around here?” “Winnemucca, Reno,” I said. “What are you thinking?”

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“Leather, preferably with spikes, chains. Or anything black. All black would work. What you have on now is too blue-collar.” Gotzon said, “This is not what I was expecting.” “I was told to make you unrecognizable.” “This is fine,” I put in. To Gotzon I added, “They’ll never be looking for a punk rocker, right?” Gotzon shrugged again, looking none too happy about his fate. Jason came forward. “Now that that’s settled, Dallas, I have a couple more ideas to run by you before you start the rewrite. Is there somewhere in town where we can sit down over coffee?” I left Cathy to her work and gave Jason directions to Mom’s Café. I’d suggested walking, then going in Ruby, both of which were beyond his tolerance. Jason had been thinking hard enough about the script to have written several pages of additional notes, which he let me keep. I didn’t like any of the changes as much as I’d liked his ideas on the phone about the bodies of energy and light, but I knew from long experience that when a producer had an idea fixed in his brain, you either went with it or got fired. I would have preferred to get fired except for the fact that I knew Jason would spend considerable energy trying to get me to change my mind. I went with the flow because it seemed like the quickest and least stressful option. Our script meeting concluded, Jason leaned forward to speak confidentially. “Is it too early to get a grand tour?” “A grand tour of what?” “Of what? All I read about is how prostitution is legal here. Do you have a cat house or not?” “The Black Cat Bar & Brothel. We call it the B&B.” “Fantastic. How far away is it?” “A few blocks.”

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“You mean it’s right in town?” “Just another local business.” “Incredible. And they’re open this early?” “They never close. 24 hours, 365 days a year.” “Astounding. Are the ladies, you know…” “Are they what?” “Presentable? Or are they obviously sluts?” I looked around the café. At a booth in back sat three young women in their twenties, strangers, probably travelers passing through. “See the three women in the booth?” “No. You’re telling me those babes are hookers?” “I don’t think so. But I’m telling you they could be. Most of the women at the Black Cat are a little older, but none of them look like sluts, if that’s what you’re asking.” “And it’s safe?” “Absolutely. The girls have health cards and weekly exams.” “I assume you’ve been there before.” “Yes, I have.” “Then you’d recommend it?” “Jason, why don’t we just go over there, and you can check it out. They have a bar. They have slot machines. We can have coffee, or a drink if you prefer, the bartender makes a mean Bloody Mary, and if you want some action, then go for it. It’s not a big deal around here.” “This is almost beyond comprehension.” “I’m ready when you are.” I buzzed at the gate twice, so Jason would have the opportunity to look around before making a decision. He was all eyes as we walked to the front door, which opened as we arrived. Hazel said, “Good morning, Dallas.” “Hi. This is my friend, Ja—“ Jason quickly said, “Sam Masterson. Nice to meet you.”

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I smiled and led “Sam” inside, past the empty table at the souvenir shop, through the empty parlor, and through the swinging doors into the bar. “Hey, Dallas,” Jeff greeted, putting out two napkins on the bar. “Hi, Dallas,” said Jane. She was at her usual spot at the far end of the bar, a Bloody Mary in front of her. “Who’s your handsome friend?” “Sam Masterson,” said Jason. I whispered, “We generally only use first names here.” We swung onto our bar stools. “Bloody Mary,” said Jason. “Why not?” “Two Bloody Marys.” Jason looked at Jane, who smiled back. She was wearing a red furry robe over a pink negligee, both open in front and barely hiding her ample boson. Leaning close, Jason said, “My God, she’s built like Jayne Mansfield.” “That’s what everybody calls her actually.” It took one Bloody Mary for Jason to get the nerve to invite Jane to join us, and another before they walked away together to cut a deal. When he was gone half an hour, Jeff came over to give me company. “Your friend must be enjoying himself.” “Apparently so.” “You haven’t been around much lately. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have yourself a girlfriend.” I didn’t respond. “The rumor is, you’re seeing Cheyenne.” “She’s a friend.” “Okay, mind my own business, right?” Jeff moved away to tidy up the bar. When he’d worked his way back to me, he said, “I assume you heard the FBI’s in town, snooping around about something.”

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I wondered how much he knew. “About what?” “Brooke and her connection with that ashram in Oregon. Lavinia’s nervous as hell about it.” “Why should she be nervous?” “In this business, any representative of the law that isn’t on the home team is reason for concern. Apparently Brooke spent some time in that ashram before she came here.” Jeff stared at me as if he were waiting for me to reveal everything I knew about it. When I didn’t, he moved away again. Jason came through the swinging doors with a huge grin on his face. He pounded me on the back. “Damn good idea, damn good idea. Let’s get the hell out of here.” I had to wait until we were in the rented car before getting a full report. Jason shared more sexual detail than I wanted to know, the bottom line being that Jane was the best piece of ass he’d had in a very long time. “There should be an airport in this town so it’s easier to get to,” he said. “This is definitely a woman I plan to see again.” “I’m glad it worked out.” “Worked out? I feel like I’ve been resurrected. What’s that story by the English writer? What the hell’s his name?” “I’m not sure who you mean.” “He wrote a story about Jesus having a sex life.” “D.H. Lawrence?” “That’s the one!” “The Man Who Died.” “Exactly. Remember the great line in there? I have risen! I have risen! Miss Jayne Mansfield got me harder than an elephant’s tusk. Why didn’t you tell me this hell hole was actually paradise in disguise?”

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If I didn’t know Gotzon was in my apartment, I wouldn’t have recognized him. His hair, blue and almost florescent in the brilliance of its color, jutted from his head in an assortment of spikes like the thistles on some exotic desert plant. A large silver ring hung from one nostril, another from the end of his lower lip, and smaller silver rings ran up and down the edge of each ear. Behind this exotic transformation, Gotzon’s eyes stared out in something between fright and bewilderment. “What do you think?” Cathy asked. “I’d never recognize him,” I said. Jason said, “I’m going back to the motel,” and hurried away as if he might get sick. “I don’t think a soul will recognize you now,” she said to Gotzon. He managed to smile. “But you’re right about the clothes,” I said. “I sent Yuli to find something.” What Yuli found in Sogobia’s second-hand store was better than the work clothes Gotzon was wearing: black pants, a black T-shirt, and a long, light-weight black raincoat, which gave the effect of a trench coat. We all waited anxiously while Gotzon changed clothes in the bedroom. Then he made his appearance. We all grinned, and Gotzon said, “Do I look stupid?” “You look great if I say so myself,” said Cathy. Yuli added, “Amazing. No one can possibly recognize you. Maybe you need a black beret.” “Too Basque,” I said. “A black baseball cap with NY on it. Or whatever we can find.” “Then I guess I’m done here,” said Cathy. “Let me write you a check.” I gave her a lift back to the motel. When I returned, Yuli and Gotzon had come up with an idea. “We need to test it,” said Yuli. “Let’s see if Cheyenne recognizes him.”

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I thought it was a great idea. When we didn’t find her home, I drove to the Black Cat. I remembered that sometimes Cheyenne followed a short evening shift with an early morning shift to finish up. We all piled out of Ruby. At the gate I buzzed twice. “I bring guests,” I told Hazel, “but we won’t be long.” I saw Trixie vacuuming in the hallway. “Wait here,” I told the others. Trixie told me that Cheyenne was working in the kitchen, which was located off the far end of the hallway. I gestured to the others, and we carefully approached the doorway. I signaled for Gotzon to go in alone. Yuli and I peered around the corner to see what happened. “May I help you?” Cheyenne asked when she realized she had company. She had been scrubbing the sink. If she was startled by his appearance, she hid it well. Gotzon just stood there, perhaps afraid she’d recognize his voice. Cheyenne said, “This area is off limits. You have to leave.” Gotzon turned, as if eager to get away, and quickly came back into the hallway. “Surprise!” I said, stepping into the kitchen. Gotzon and Yuli followed me. Cheyenne stammered before managing to get out, “Dallas, what is this?” “Don’t you recognize your brother?” She stared wide-eyed at Gotzon. “Oh, my God!” “I feel like a freak,” Gotzon said. They were the first words to come out of his mouth since the transformation. “If the goal is to be beyond recognition,” said Cheyenne, “you managed it. I never would have imagined it was you.” Lavinia stepped into the kitchen. “What’s going on in here?”

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“Nothing,” I said. “I had a message for Cheyenne.” “If you two are an item now, do your flirting on your own time.” “Sorry,” Cheyenne muttered. She shot me a quick glare before going back to scrubbing the sink. Lavinia looked over Yuli. “Are you eighteen?” “Nineteen.” “I need proof if you expect to stay here.” I said, “We were on our way out.” As Gotzon passed by, Lavinia’s expression changed from horror to disgust. Catching my eye, she shook her head as if to say, The people you hang around with. “Now we find Elmer Gantry,” Gotzon said when we were back at my apartment. “What for?” “He killed Brooke.” “I don’t think so.” I explained my theory about Brooke and the Kree. “It’s the preacher,” said Gotzon. “His infatuation with her started at the Mustang Ranch.” “These aren’t mutually exclusive suspects,” I said. “We can check out the ashram and then talk to Elmer Gantry.” “Fair enough. First the preacher.” “We’ll flip a coin.” “I’ll flip,” said Yuli, taking out a quarter. “Who calls?” I called heads. It was heads. “We go to the ashram first,” I said. “Tomorrow,” said Gotzon. “Why not? I suppose you should stay with me tonight.” “He can stay with me,” said Yuli. “My friend’s bringing over the camera later. I could continue my interview.” “I guess you’re as safe with Yuli as with me, especially looking like you do.”

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“I am perfectly safe.” After they were gone, I phoned Jason at the motel, more a courtesy call than anything, but also to find out what their plans were now. To my surprise, they already had checked out. I called Cheyenne and left a message. “Hey, it’s me. If you feel like talking, give me a call when you get in. Otherwise I’m going to be out of town for a few days. I’ll call you when I get back.” I waited a moment without hanging up. “I’m going to miss you,” I finally added. I wondered if she was going to miss me, too.

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23

“Yuli wants to know so much about Jesus, his real dad,” said Gotzon. “I was shocked how little he knows. His dad is a hero in Euskadi. It’s important for him to know these things.” We were on the Interstate, heading west, between Sogobia and Reno, where we turned north. Behind us, the sun was just creeping up to cast long shadows over the land. It was the most comfortable time of day in the desert. Gotzon wore his black clothes but his snap-on facial jewelry was off. With the blue spiked hair, he still gave me the creeps just to look at him. “Did he interview you for his film?” “We started, yes. This is a great thing he is doing. He has his father’s blood.” “Do you know his stepfather?” Gotzon made a spitting sound. “This is what I think of him. He was an American working for Franco. A fascist.” “Yuli’s mother must not have thought so.” “She knew as much about politics as I know about basket weaving. Jesus Aguirre is one of the most honored names among Euskaldunak. Yuli has the blood of heroes in his veins. At least he is beginning to realize it.” “You fell in love with an American girl yourself,” I said. The way Gotzon glared at me, for a moment I thought he might make me regret the remark. He quickly turned away to stare out the window. “A man can be weak,” he finally said.

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“I would think you can have any woman you want.” He turned to me. His very appearance belied the suggestion. “Why do you think that?” “You’re something of a heroic figure, fighting for the freedom of your homeland and all. You look the part – well, when you’re not passing for a punk rocker. You remind me a little of Randolph Scott.” “Who is this?” “A famous American cowboy. From the old school.” “You think I am a cowboy? You think what I do is like cowboys and Indians on the movie screen?” He clearly did not appreciate the comparison. “Gotzon, all I’m trying to say is, since I suspect you are very attractive to women, to certain kinds of women, I’m surprised that you singled out an American prostitute to fall in love with.” “She was not a whore. She was a writer.” “I’m sorry I brought it up.” “No, you have a right to ask this. We are finding her killer together. This is like being partners.” “If we’re partners, tell me about what happened when you found out she was pregnant.” “How do you know this?” I drove on in silence. Gotzon said, “I found out too late. She already had murdered her baby.” This summed up his attitude nicely. I said, “Some would say this gives you motivation for getting back at her.” “You think I killed her?” “No. But someone looking at the situation might think so. What would you say to them?” “I was angry when I learned what she did. How could I not be? I went looking for her. Not to harm her, to hear from

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herself why she would do this. How could she murder her own baby? And my baby. She had no right to take away what was mine as well as hers. This is a sin against nature.” “That almost sounds like something Elmer Gantry would say.” “How ironic, yes? It also occurred to me that the preacher and I must agree on this point. But this will not save him.” “Save him?” “When I find him, I will give him what he deserves. He is a murderer.” “Wait a minute. Are you saying you’d … well, kill him?” Gotzon laughed. “You Americans are so hypocritical. You fly so high above the clouds when you drop your bombs and murder thousands of innocent civilians, you don’t even think it’s killing. But let a man kill another with his bare hands, no matter how just the cause, you get on your soapbox about morality and how killing is wrong.” “And if Elmer Gantry didn’t kill Brooke?” Gotzon thought a moment. “I am trying to keep an open mind. You think it was someone at the ashram. We’ll see what we find. But if we find nothing, then I know I am right.” We drove in silence for a while. Gotzon broke it. “When she disappeared, I was sure he’d taken her. I found him but couldn’t beat it out of him where he’d hidden her. Then I heard from a friend of Brooke’s that she was pregnant, she was going to Mexico to take care of it. I waited for her to come back to Reno. When she didn’t, I went looking for her. I knew she’d need money, in time she’d be back at work somewhere in Nevada. I knew I would find her.” “Did you know the Loyalists were looking for you?” “You mean the fascists. No, they didn’t track me to Nevada until later, after she was murdered.” We drove a while in silence.

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“Gotzon, I have to ask you this. Jane, who shared a bathroom with Brooke, says she heard a fight between you two on the night she died.” “This is true. I wanted her to leave with me. She wouldn’t. She was still upset that I wanted the baby. She said I was being too possessive. A man is not supposed to possess the woman he loves? I didn’t understand this. Americans and Basques – we are too different. Later…” He stopped. A memory seemed to haunt him, something that wouldn’t be easy to share. “Later I came back to apologize. I was a little drunk, I’d been at the bar. The cashier had stepped away, so I was able to go to Brooke’s door and let myself in. She was in bed with the bag on her head. She was dead. I panicked, I thought I would be blamed. I’d seen the preacher when I was at the bar, I was sure he’d done this. But I’d also seen him leave. I climbed out a back window. There was a hole in the fence. I slipped through it and ran into the night. I tried to find the preacher. I was going to kill him with my bare hands. I ended up at Cheyenne’s but saw how much I was upsetting her, so I left. I went into the hills and found the herders and stayed there until I realized you could help me. A Hollywood screenwriter, he would have connections, someone who could give me a disguise. Sometimes you get what you wish for.” “How did you know I was a screenwriter?” “This is a small town. Just about everybody knows about you.” This wasn’t exactly literary respect but it wasn’t invisibility either. I’d take it. “So you see,” said Gotzon, “the circumstantial evidence against the preacher is considerable. He was there. He left. And then I found her dead.” “Somebody from the Kree was there, too.” “How do you know this?”

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“Trust me, I know. So we have two suspects. We’ll just have to see which one has the best alibi.” His story might also be considered an alibi but I believed him. I dismissed the possibility that Gotzon was the killer. We’d agreed to make the drive in one long day, trading off behind the wheel. We’d get a motel in Juniper and go to the ashram in the morning. I had no game plan but thought I should have one. I had the photograph of Pa Tristin in the Black Cat with me, the only leverage that might make this visit more productive than the last one. Well, maybe having Gotzon along would help as well. Even though he looked like a freak, his size and muscularity were menacing. Maybe he even looked more dangerous with the makeover. If a guy would do this to his own body, what might he do to yours? The next morning I made coffee in our room. As we drank it, I laid out my game plan. “We confront Pa Tristin with the photograph. I’m also going to suggest we have fingerprints from her room. After that, we wing it.” “Do you have a gun?” “No.” “You expect him to see the photograph and say, Take me to jail?” “I plan on calling the local police as soon as I’m sure I’m right.” Gotzon shook his head. “You are not so good at playing cowboy. Fortunately I have a gun.” He reached down into his boot and brought out the smallest pistol I’d ever seen. “Sometimes it comes in handy.” There was a look of relief when I dropped off the key at the front desk. When I checked us in, the woman at the counter kept straining to get a gander at Gotzon in the car, and I was

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afraid she was going to refuse us a room. I had to admit we looked like unusual traveling companions. We headed out for the ashram. When we reached the fence, I said, “Better put on your jewelry.” At the gate, the guard stopped us, heard our business and made a phone call, the same routine as the first time. We waited for about ten minutes before a Rolls Royce pulled up. Pa Tristin got out of the back seat. “Open the gate,” he said. He smiled at me. “Hello, again. Who’s your friend?” I felt a moment of panic. We hadn’t chosen a phony name for Gotzon. “I am the Great Manifesto,” said Gotzon without missing a beat. It was all I could do to keep a straight face. I didn’t know if he was presenting himself as a rock star or a politician. Whichever it was, Pa Tristin took it in stride. “Leave your car there and get in,” he said. Once again we drove to the great A-frame of a community center. We followed Pa Tristin inside, Gotzon not looking impressed with the busy groups of blue-clad Kree who came in and out of the building. We entered the same office, where Ma Prama Rama Kree was waiting for us. “Sit down,” she said. “Thank you, Pa Tristin.” “Can he stay?” I said as he started away. “Our business is really with him.” Ma glared at me, as if in reprimand for suggesting something she hadn’t thought of first. “Join us,” she finally told him. Suddenly a warm smile filled her face. I turned to Pa Tristin. “When we talked earlier, you didn’t tell me you’d visited Brooke at the Black Cat Bar & Brothel. You gave the impression she’d left the ashram on her own, and that was the

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end of it, as far as the Kree was concerned. But we have a photograph showing you were there.” I took it out and dropped it on the end of the desk in front of Pa Tristin. He picked it up and glanced at it. “Let me see that,” said Ma. Pa passed her the photograph of Pa Tristin. Then the other, of the man with the medallion who was with him. “It makes a person wonder what else you are lying about,” I said. “Wonder a lot,” Gotzon put in. I glanced at him beside me. He looked like a wild man. Ma put down the photograph and said, “Pa, get the tape.” He started to say something but changed his mind. He went to a bookshelf and began looking through a long line of labeled boxes. Ma said, “Brooke was pretending to be one of us while she looked for whatever dirt she could find to ruin our reputation. You already know that. Yes, Pa Tristin and Pa Yolanda went looking for her. They did so at my instruction. We had reason to believe she had taken photographs of restricted areas while she was here. We could not stop her from writing about us; we do believe in freedom of the press. But we could not allow her to publish photographs of restricted areas.” “Here it is,” said Pa. “Put it on.” He went to a tape recorder to set up the tape. “We have every right to protect what is ours,” said Ma. “Including our reputation. Including correcting lies that are told about us.” “It’s ready,” said Pa. “Play it. Listen carefully. I think this will answer all your questions.” The tape began to play. I recognized Pa Tristin’s voice, followed by the voice of a young woman. Brooke, I presumed.

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PA: Surprise, surprise. BROOKE: What are you doing here? I don’t do threesomes. PA: We’re not here for sex, honey. Just for the film. BROOKE: What film? MAN’S VOICE: No games, okay? Give us the film, and we can make this short and sweet. BROOKE: I don’t know what you’re talking about. PA: If you want to make this difficult, we can do that, too. While you were at the ashram, you were seen taking photographs. BROOKE: You mean, that? They’re just pictures of buildings and stuff. PA: Check the drawers. MAN’S VOICE: You got it. BROOKE: I’ll show you the pictures. On the tape was the sound of movement in the room. BROOKE: Here. PA: Where are the negatives? BROOKE: People were always taking pictures. PA: Where’s the rest? BROOKE: These are the only pictures of the ashram I have. PA: Brooke, I’m not interested in tourist pictures. What we heard is, you went into restricted areas with your camera. Did you do that? BROOKE: No! PA: I’d like to believe you. MAN’S VOICE: But how can we be sure? BROOKE: These are the only pictures I took. I’m telling you the truth. PA: I hope so. I truly do. Because we know where your family is, Brooke. Your mother in Boise. Your sister in San Francisco, a brother in Salt Lake City. If photographs of restricted areas

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ever appeared anywhere, and we couldn’t find you, we know we can find them. We’d hold them responsible. Am I making myself clear? MAN’S VOICE: The same goes for going to the police. This is our little agreement. You don’t do anything with the photographs, if you have them, and we don’t do anything to you or your family. We’ll take these with us. Tell me again there aren’t any others. BROOKE: This is all I have. It’s the truth. PA: Fair enough. I appreciate your cooperation. BROOKE: As if I have a choice. What are you, the Mafia? Someone laughed. PA: We’re considerably more intelligent than the Mafia. Brooke, we believe in live and let live. What happens from now on is completely up to you. Pa shut off the tape. “You threatened to kill her family,” I said. “I didn’t hear that. We said we knew where they were.” “You told her you’d hold them responsible.” “We were playing poker with her. It took very little effort actually. She wasn’t too bright. But I don’t think she had any more photographs at all. I think we were mistaken. We just had to be sure.” Ma flashed me her arrogant smile. I felt like smacking her in the teeth. So did Gotzon. He stood up. “This is bullshit,” he said. “A woman is dead. You had reason to kill her.” Almost imperceptively, Ma pushed a button on her desk. She said, “This woman was an irritation, like a mosquito. We sprayed to get rid of her, not to murder her. We don’t have murders on the ashram. That’s an indulgence more favored by your American cities.”

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I touched Gotzon’s arm, and he sat down. I looked at Ma. Her dark eyes regarded me as one might regard a child. She had all the answers, and I knew nothing. “This still doesn’t make sense to me,” I said. “I would say that’s your failing, not ours.” Three blue-clad men stepped into the office. They wore something resembling police uniforms. A security force, I guessed. “You called, Ma?” asked one. “These gentlemen are ready to go.” She stood and become the house mother again. “Thank you so much for coming by. When you have time to compute all this, I’m sure you’ll reach the correct understanding.” “What goes on in the restricted areas?” I asked. “You silly man. If I told you that, then they wouldn’t be restricted, now would they? Now I must ask you to leave.” Gotzon said, “And if we refuse?” I took his arm, a gesture to let it go, to follow the flow and get the hell out of there. We didn’t speak until I was pulling away from the gate in Ruby. “They didn’t do it,” said Gotzon. “Really? I think they showed a lot of guilt.” “They’re too intellectual for a crime of passion. If they wanted to kill her, they would have poisoned her on the ashram. Brooke was killed because someone went into a rage. It wasn’t a Kree, it was the preacher.” Suddenly, out of nowhere, a blue-clad figure raced into the middle of the highway. I slammed on the brakes, barely missing a young woman who now rushed to my window. She carried a back pack. “I have to get away from here,” she said. “Please give me a ride.” Her name was Tracy, and she’d climbed over the fence to escape the ashram, just as Brooke had done before her. I didn’t

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know how far I could take her because I didn’t know our plans yet. A part of me wanted to go to the local police rather than go along with Gotzon’s theory. Tracy helped make up my mind. “I need to talk to a policeman,” she said. “Is there a problem?” “They plan to poison the town before the election. They’re crazy in there, man. They have to be stopped.” I shot Gotzon a glance. He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll find the police station,” I said. We ended up at the office of the county sheriff, the closest law enforcement in the area. The girl was taken into a room to tell her story. As we were heading for the door to leave, the two FBI agents, Weiss and Youngston, the legitimate ones, stepped through the front door. “Mr. Norgood,” said Weiss. “We’ve been looking for you.” Weiss and Youngston split us up, Weiss taking me into a room, Youngston taking Gotzon into an adjacent one. “Sit down,” Weiss said. “This shouldn’t take long.” “Did you follow us here?” “I’ll explain everything. Sit down.” I did as I was told, taking a chair at a conference table. Weiss sat across from me. “No, we didn’t follow you here. We’ve been staking out the ashram and were surprised to see you back again. Did you find out anything?” “Pa Tristin was at the Black Cat the night Brooke died. I have a photograph to prove it.” “So you think he killed her.” “They played me a tape. He was wired, trying to get Brooke to hand over photographs of restricted areas she’d taken while at the ashram. They threatened her family.”

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“You’re suggesting they killed her over photographs. But if they wanted her dead, wouldn’t they have killed her at the ashram?” “She escaped first.” Somehow this explanation wasn’t as convincing as it had been earlier. “We think Brooke was not a serious concern to them,” said Weiss. “They can handle bad publicity. What they want to do is take over the county, which means winning the election in November. They have plans, we think, of introducing salmonella into restaurant salad bars around the area, poisoning the electorate.” “Are you serious?” “Very. We think they already did a trial run at a local restaurant. We have an undercover agent in the ashram right now. We’re trying to make the case before they get it done.” “The girl we picked up mentioned the same thing.” “Good. Another witness will help.” “Why would they follow Brooke all the way to Sogobia?” “They might have been worried about what she knew. In particular, if she knew anything about the salmonella. They’ve been manufacturing it in a lab. If she knew this, if she had photographs of the lab, she’d be dangerous. But we don’t think she did. Our source says it’s almost impossible to get near the lab without credentials.” “If she knew about a lab, she didn’t write about it. At least not in anything I saw.” “That’s what I mean. I really think you have to look elsewhere. Do you have any other suspects?” “Yes.” “So there you are. Your sister is a police officer, am I right? I assume you’re in touch with her on this. You’re not taking the law into your own hands or anything like that.” “No, whatever I find out, I go straight to the police.”

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“Generally, the law doesn’t seek help from freelancers. It can get too dangerous and conflict with our own efforts.” “Brooke’s case is still officially a suicide.” “But you don’t believe it.” “Neither does my sister. Neither does her mother. Neither does …” I paused, wondering how to describe Gotzon. “Neither does her ex-boyfriend.” “Maybe you’ll get farther with your other suspects.” He stood up. “Well, that’s all I have. If you have something else I should know…” “No.” I stood up. He offered his hand, and I shook it. “You’re the only one who thinks the Kree did it,” said Gotzon when we were back on our way. “Maybe I was wrong.” Gotzon grinned. The more I looked at him, the more I could see the real Gotzon behind the layer of disguise and the more comical his whole presence became. What a concept, a freedom fighter with spiked hair and lip rings. Gotzon said, “Now we find the preacher, right?” “Elmer Gantry,” I said.

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24

It was late by the time we got through Boise, and I was ready to find a motel. If Gotzon hadn’t been with me, I would have checked in with Mrs. Cadbury, but I wasn’t sure how much she knew about her daughter’s lover, the father of her aborted baby, and I was certain she wouldn’t be thrilled to meet him. It went both ways. Gotzon, who earlier had offered to drive all the way to Reno, was dozing against the passenger window by the time I pulled off the Interstate. At breakfast the next morning I suggested a game plan. We knew his real name was Stanley Smith. There were bound to be many Smiths in the Reno phone book, so we’d have to weed them out on the phone one by one. When we got the right one, we’d pay a visit. “He likes to preach in the park,” said Gotzon. “Reno, Winnemucca, sometimes even in Sogobia.” “Right. We’ll check the parks.” The drive to Reno was uneventful. Gotzon seemed moody in his silence, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. I was emotionally exhausted, having focused so long on the Kree that it was not easy to release them from the list of suspects. Detectiving took more out of you than I had anticipated. In Reno, I pulled into a motel parking lot. Gotzon snapped out of it. “What are you doing?” “Getting a room.”

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“Why?” “One, to use the phone. Two, so we don’t have to get one later.” “We’re so close to Sogobia.” “Not close enough. We have no idea how long this is going to take.” “It won’t take long.” “I don’t like the sound of that. We need to talk. I’m getting a room.” Gotzon was still sitting in the car when I came out of the office with a key. I waved to him to follow. He took his time coming across the parking lot. I got the impression he was sulking. “I’ll make coffee,” I said. While it was perking, I joined Gotzon at the round table next to the window. “The object here,” I said, “is to get evidence so we can call in the police. Agreed?” He just looked at me. I said, “I don’t want you taking the law into your own hands. You are not the judge and jury here.” “If he is guilty, then he deserves what he gets.” “Gotzon, you are not the judge and jury. If you think you are, I’m not going along with you.” “Fine, I don’t need you.” “What do you expect to do?” He looked like he knew but wasn’t about to tell me. I could guess. “You can’t,” I said. “You’d be in more trouble than you’re already in.” “What trouble am I in?” “Let me rephrase that. You’d have more people after you. The police, for example.” “So what? In Spain I am always wanted by the police. They are fascists.”

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“In this country, the police aren’t fascists. If we let Sally know what we find out, she can take it from there. She’s a damn good cop, Gotzon. She can convict him if we can find the evidence that he’s guilty.” “Why do you think this is the best way?” “Because it puts him in jail and keeps you out.” “You believe your police believe in justice?” “Yes, I do.” He looked skeptical. “Look at what happened yesterday with the FBI,” I said. “I believed the Kree were guilty. They, the federal police, convinced me that they weren’t. For all the other things they may be doing against the law, they didn’t murder Brooke. My accusation didn’t hold water, and it took the police to show me why not. If the police didn’t believe in justice, why would they bother?” “This is an interesting country.” “Let me call Sally. Let’s do this the right way.” “So our job is what?” “We find him. We talk to him. We decide whether or not it’s worth bringing Sally into the case.” “He’s guilty.” “I think we’ll find out one way or the other.” “So first we find him.” “Right.” There were fewer Smiths in the phone book than I expected. I began phoning them one by one, asking for Stanley, and my sixth call hit pay dirt. A woman said, “He’s not in.” “When are you expecting him?” “He’s in the hospital.” “I’m sorry.” “Oh, it’s nothing serious. They’re keeping him for a few days.” “Is this Mrs. Smith?”

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“Oh, no. I’m his sister.” After hanging up, I decided we should talk to her. We might learn something. Then we could visit Elmer Gantry in the hospital. The preacher and his sister lived in an old two-story house in a wooded area outside of the city limits. The home’s better days, when it didn’t need a paint job and its porch didn’t sag and its roof didn’t look ready to peel off, were several decades gone. With no homes near it, I wondered how much land went with the building. The land may have been worth something, especially with a new housing development starting several miles on the Reno side. Emily Smith was what Central Casting might send over for a spinster on the prairie in a western movie. Tall and bony, without makeup, and with her graying hair in an unstable bun, she had the weathered look of a woman who had worked hard and aged quickly, a woman whose dreams of a better life were not even memories anymore. She made it clear from the start that she shared her brother’s religious zeal. “Have you found Jesus?” she asked after opening the door. I cleared my throat. “I talked to you on the phone. About your brother. I was wondering if we might ask you a few questions before we visit him in the hospital.” “Praise the Lord,” she said. I wasn’t sure what she meant by it but she had cleared the doorway. I glanced at Gotzon, nodded, and led the way in. The house was a mess inside as well. No one appeared to have time for chores in this household. Emily took a chair. Gotzon and I took the nearby loveseat. For a moment we stared at one another across a filthy, frayed carpet. “Why is your brother in the hospital?” I asked. “He was gored by a bull.”

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“Ouch.” This had come involuntarily. “You raise cattle, do you?” “Not here. At the gathering of sinners.” “Pardon me?” “At the Gay Rodeo. Stanley went into the arena to preach, and the sinners turned the bulls loose on him.” My first thought was, what an incredible movie scene. My second brought sympathy for poor Stanley, chased out of the arena by several angry bulls and not quite getting to the fence in time. I’d never heard of a gay rodeo but later would learn that for years it had been a huge event in Reno, bringing ten thousand homosexuals and lesbians into town for the annual western festival. But despite its popularity, the gay rodeo had been financially mismanaged and this year’s had been the last. After nine years in Reno, the gay rodeo would move to Texas. With all her talk of sinners and salvation, we learned precious little from the preacher’s sister. When she started reading the Bible to us, it was time to leave. She didn’t seem to notice we were going. When we were back in Ruby, Gotzon said, “I never heard of a homosexual cowboy.” Hollywood, of course, had so many gays working in so many capacities, you accepted their presence as a matter of course. You couldn’t make a movie without working with gays. “A gay rodeo,” said Gotzon, and his tone communicated a difficulty with the concept. “No stranger than a punk-rocker Basque patriot. Variety is the spice of life is my motto. Live and let live.” St. Mary’s Hospital was only a few blocks south of I-80, a turn-of-the-century facility with twin towers and an incongruous patchwork of additions over the years. We parked in the sprawling lot and went inside to find Stanley Smith.

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Since I was asked, I lied to a nurse that I was his brother. She led us down one hallway to another and then pointed out the rest of the way. Stanley was in a large shared room, his little curtained cubicle at the far end of a string of beds, each contained in its own curtained cubicle. His eyes were closed and there was an open magazine on his chest. After we stared at him for a moment, as if our very presence might stir him, I gestured to Gotzon. We stepped away to talk privately. “I think we should wait till he’s discharged,” I said. “There’s no privacy here.” “Once he sees my eyes, he’ll know why we’re here even if he doesn’t recognize me. My eyes will tell him everything he needs to know. And then he’ll give himself away.” “I’m not comfortable doing it this way.” I started to leave but when I turned back, Gotzon was not following me. He’d gone back to the bed. I saw him touch Stanley’s leg. “Gotzon,” I called, hurrying back. I got there in time to see Stanley open his eyes. It took him a moment to realize that a strange man with blue hair was standing at his bedside. Then his eyes widened in shock. He could have been looking at the Grim Reaper. “I’ve got you where I want you, preacher man,” said Gotzon. I said, “Let’s get out of here.” Stanley lifted an arm off the bed and pointed a trembling finger at Gotzon. “Get away from me, Satan!” he hissed. A nurse rushed up. “Gentlemen, what’s the problem here?” “No problem at all,” I said. “We were just leaving.” “I’ve got you in my sights,” Gotzon told Stanley. “You’re a dead man.”

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“Sir!” The nurse shoved Gotzon back so she quickly could pull the curtain around the bed. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’ll have to call security.” I grabbed Gotzon’s arm and started away. “You can’t hide from me now, preacher man!” Gotzon shouted. From behind the curtain, Stanley said, “Mine eyes have seen the glory!” I could feel all eyes staring at us as I hustled Gotzon out of the room. I didn’t let loose of him or slow down until we were out of the building. I stopped on the porch to calm myself down. “What the hell did you accomplish by that? He thought you were Satan or some damn thing! How does this help us prove his guilt?” “It puts him on notice,” said Gotzon. “When a man’s on notice, he gets nervous. He makes mistakes. As soon as he’s released from the hospital, he’ll give himself away.” “He and his sister are both nut cases. I’m not sure if we can prove a damn thing more than that.” The more I thought about it, the more depressing the realization became that I was no closer to finding Brooke’s murderer than when I began. At least with the Kree, there was a connection, motive, a series of events that provided a rationale for what followed. Brooke had gone into the ashram undercover, snooped around, found something she shouldn’t have, and was eliminated. It made sense. On the contrary, Stanley was so much a basket case, it was hard to understand why he would kill Brooke or anyone else when what he really seemed interested in was preaching at those he thought needed to see the light, which was just about everyone. For all his bombast and extreme behavior, he had done nothing violent and had put no one in danger except himself. I thought Gotzon was dead wrong but I didn’t have the energy to argue about it.

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We got back on the Interstate and headed east, home to Sogobia. We drove silently, each lost in our private thoughts, and it wasn’t until I took the off-ramp that Gotzon said that I should drop him off at Yuli’s, where he planned to spend the night.

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25

There were two messages on my answering machine. The first was from Yuli. I could barely understand him, he sounded so upset about something. He wanted me to call him immediately. The other was from Sally, who sounded in the dumps. She wanted me to call her immediately. I called Sally first. She wasn’t in, so I left a message that I was home. I called Yuli. While the phone was ringing, the doorbell also rang. I hung up and answered the door. Yuli and Gotzon rushed in. Yuli was sporting a black eye. “Did you get my message?” “What happened to you?” “Have they called you yet?” “Yuli, calm down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “You didn’t get my message?” “I couldn’t understand most of what you said.” “They took Cheyenne!” “What?” Gotzon said, “Obviously they want to trade her for me.” “Tell me what happened.” “She fixed me dinner to make up for brunch,” Yuli said. “The doorbell rang, and it was the two guys. They barged in with guns, one grabbed Cheyenne and the other beat the shit out of me. By the time I got it together, they were speeding out of the parking lot. But I remembered a few things they yelled at

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me – no cops, for one. They said they’d be in touch with you on Thursday.” “With me?” “Tell the screenwriter we’ll be in touch on Thursday.” Gotzon said, “With the terms. They want to trade me for her.” The phone rang. “I can’t believe this,” I said on the way to the phone. It was Sally, who wanted to get together for drinks. “Just a minute.” I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “It’s Sally. I think we should tell her.” “They said no cops,” said Yuli. Gotzon said. “Tell her.” “They won’t know if she comes over now,” I said. “I don’t think they’re hanging around Sogobia with Cheyenne.” Yuli shrugged. “Sally, can you come right over? It’s important.” While we were waiting for her, I opened three beers, even handing one to Yuli, a minor. So arrest me, officer. We all sat at the table off the kitchen. Gotzon said, “I should have stayed in the mountains.” “Could you have done that?” I asked. “What about Brooke?” “You’re right. But I could’ve stayed in Elko, Reno, anywhere but here.” “That wouldn’t have stopped them. She’s your sister, is what matters.” “I hate this happening to her. I will do what they say. I will give my life for hers.” “There’s got to be a better way,” I said. “It will make me a martyr. This is not a bad thing.” At first I was taken aback by the remark but on second look it made sense. He’d spent his teenage and adult life fighting for the cause of Basque independence. It was the only

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life he really knew. Why not die as he had lived? Martyrdom was the fuel that kept the generations going, that created true believers from the children of those who fought for the cause. I could easily see Gotzon becoming a martyr. Yuli said, “They might end up killing both of you. How can you trust what they would do?” “A good point,” I said. “It’s a risk I will take.” Gotzon slung back his head and took a long slip of beer from the bottle. The doorbell rang. I let Sally in. She was wearing jeans and a western shirt with snap-down buttons and embroidery down they front that looked a little like barbed wire. Before she had a chance to tell me what was on her mind, I said, “They took Cheyenne.” “When?” “While I was in Oregon.” She followed me to the table. I gave her my chair and pulled up another. Gotzon said, “It’s obvious they want to exchange her for me. I will do this.” “They told me no cops,” said Yuli. I said, “So this is all between us, okay?” “No problem. Have they contacted anyone yet?” “They’re supposed to call me Thursday.” Sally turned to Gotzon. “If you do that, it’s tantamount to suicide.” Gotzon said, “Tantamount, what is this?” “The same thing as.” “I understand.” I almost put in, He wants to be a martyr. Gotzon said it for me. Sally shot me a look that said, Is he serious?

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“I think there must be a way to handle this so we don’t go through with the exchange,” I said. “There is,” said Sally, “but it’s risky.” “Understood.” “When the exchange spot is identified, depending where it is, you try to get numbers in there so you can take them out. The trick is not to take the hostage out in the bargain.” “So for now we wait and see what they have in mind?” “Exactly.” “We will wait,” said Gotzon. Yuli nodded. They left after finishing the beers. Sally stayed, and I opened two more. “You had news,” I reminded her. “Small potatoes compared to this.” “What is it?” “Gil and I broke up.” I nodded, not sure what to say. “It’s been a long time coming. It was my decision. He’s not taking it very well.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. This is for the best, believe me.” After a silence, Sally said, “Is Gotzon serious about being a martyr?” “I think he wants it to go that way.” “I don’t understand thinking like that.” “He’s spent his entire youth and adult life fighting for Basque independence. It’s all he knows.” “All the same…” “I know. We’re not fanatics. It’s hard for us to imagine doing something like that.” Sally said, “It would make our job easier if they wanted to make the exchange in a crowd. We could get backup people in better than if it’s out in the middle of the desert somewhere.” “So wouldn’t they do it in the desert then?”

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“Not necessarily. They may think a crowd makes them safer. All those innocent people around. If they’re in the desert, you almost have to come in with a plane. Well, it depends on the terrain. If it’s flat-ass desert, they could see a car coming for miles. You want to appear and strike quickly, surprise them. It can be hard in the middle of nowhere.” “So hope for a crowd.” “Right. Hope for a crowd.” After Sally left, I got restless again. Since Cheyenne’s kidnapers weren’t getting in touch until Thursday, I didn’t have to hang around the phone. Finally I left the apartment, telling myself I’d take a drive, maybe stop at Danny’s for a nightcap. The night was quiet, silent. I got in Ruby and as if on automatic pilot, I found myself pulling into the parking lot at the Black Cat. There didn’t seem to be much business but it was a weekday, not their busy time. As Hazel let me in, she said, “Did you hear what happened to Sonny Boy?” “What happened?” “He’s in the hospital in Winnemucca. They think it’s kidney failure. Lavinia said it doesn’t look good.” I stopped by her office on the off chance she was working late. The door was closed. I tapped but no one answered. There was a bulletin board next to the door. On it I noticed a handwritten note that said, “REMINDER: No days off over Labor Day Weekend because of Butch Cassidy Days.” What struck me was the handwriting, which had the same oldfashioned loops of the entries in the register for the last three persons who visited Brooke on the night she died. Then Lavinia, and I assumed it was her note, had taken over for Rachael. I wondered why. Misty was sitting at the bar with Jane and several other women. When she saw me come through the swinging doors, she smiled and met me halfway across the floor.

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“Where the hell have you been lately?” she said. “I thought you told me to take a powder.” “You caught me on a bad day. You want to go to my room?” I paid for the whole night. I wasn’t in the mood for sex particularly but I definitely was in the mood for female company. Misty was always easy to talk to. After she got back from settling with Rachael, I said, “You were working the night Brooke died, right?” “You’ve asked me that more than once. Of course I was.” “Why did Lavinia sit in for Rachael?” “I don’t know. Maybe Rachael wasn’t feeling well. Why?” “No reason, just curious.” “So how’s it going with Cheyenne?” “Wrong question.” “I think maybe you should take off your pants. What do you say?” I thought too long about my answer. Misty said, “Maybe I should take them off for you.” I didn’t object. I feel asleep on her bed after she got me off, which took all of a minute and a half. When I awoke, I was alone in the room. I put on my pants and wandered into the hallway. Dead as a graveyard except for Rachael on her stool down the way. “How is Rachael tonight?” “Hi, Dallas. Pretty bored, to be honest.” “Better than sick, right?” “I guess so.” “I heard you got sick the night Brooke died.” “I did?” I waited for more. I got the cover-up. “Oh, right, I had to have Lavinia fill in for me. It wasn’t nothing serious.” “Stomach flu?”

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“It was going around. If you’re looking for Misty, she said to tell you she’ll be right back.” “Thanks.” I went back to the small room. I was dozing off again when Misty came through the door. “Where you been?” “You were sleeping so soundly, I decided to grab dinner. I missed it earlier. Some truckers were in.” “I think I’m emotionally exhausted.” “There’s a cure for that.” “I know.” “You ready for seconds? You paid for the night.” “I think I just want to vegetate. You still have the portable TV in the closet?” “It gets lousy reception.” “Perfect. Then I don’t have to pay attention.” I fell asleep again in no time. I remember waking off and on, finding Misty beside me reading, later finding her asleep and stumbling into the shared bathroom, which was empty, and coming back to bed. The next time I awoke, the small room was filled with morning light and empty again. I dressed and headed out. I didn’t make it to the door before Lavinia stepped out of her office and said, “We have to talk, Dallas.” She sounded angry about something. I walked into her office to find her holding up the weekly paper. It was Wednesday morning, and the latest edition was out. “Did you have anything to do with this?” she asked. I took the paper. The front page headline read: The Black Cat Butterfly: Suicide – or Murder? I couldn’t believe it. Gil had spilt the beans. I remembered that Sally told me they’d split up and wondered if this were some kind of getting even for him.

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“I’m as shocked as you are,” I said. “Damn right, I’m shocked. And with Butch Cassidy Days so close, too. This isn’t the kind of bullshit I need for business. You are mentioned in here, you know.” “You’re kidding me.” “Not by name. ‘An anonymous source.’ It’s about the Kree, so I assume it’s you. Who else has been snooping around about them?” “The Feds. I need a copy of this.” “There’s a stack in the parlor. Grab one on your way out. Give me a call after you read it.” “I will.” I started out but stopped. I turned back to her. “You worked as cashier the night Brooke died. What happened to Rachael?” “You have been snooping around. She got a call from her babysitter, her kid was sick. I let her go home to take care of business.” “Her kid was sick.” “Happens more often than you realize. If you’d get married and settle down, you’d know about things like that.” “One of these days.” “You still hitting it off with Cheyenne?” “I like to keep my personal life personal.” “You haven’t been here as often as usual. Now all of a sudden you spend the night. I was just curious.” “You know what they say about curiosity.” “You’re a fine one to talk.” In the parlor I grabbed a paper. I took it into the bar. “Buy you a drink, Dallas?” Jane asked. I joined her at her usual end of the bar. “Thanks, but I’m in a hurry. I just looked in to see if Misty was around.” “Did you see the paper?” “Got my copy right here.”

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“Maybe now they’ll find out who did it.” “Maybe so.” “You sure you don’t want a drink? I got the blues today.” “What’s the problem?” “What isn’t? Maybe it’s seeing the article about Brooke. I’d almost gotten her out of my system. It was so crazy that night. Sonny Boy going nuts, and then Stanley cutting up his hand.” “I’m not sure what you mean.” “After he was eighty-sixed, he cut a hole in the fence and came back in. He was too drunk to be careful about it. He got blood on his white suit.” “I heard some people think Stanley might have been the one.” “To do that to Brooke? No way. Stanley is all bark and no bite. No fucking way.” I left the bar thinking, But what if she was wrong and Gotzon was right? My mind was alive again, distracted for the moment from worrying about Cheyenne. I knew Lavinia was hiding something. Rachael said she had the flu, maybe because it was the easiest thing to say when she felt cornered, but Lavinia said she had a sick child. What really had happened at the cashier’s table the night Brooke had died? And the old question had life again: Who killed Brooke Cadbury? The question once again resonated with possibilities, and now the most intriguing ones were attached to Lavinia.

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26

I read the story sitting in Ruby in the parking lot. Then I drove straight to Gil’s office. Gil was at his desk, and he looked up as soon as he heard the door. He drew first. “I know, I know. But you guys didn’t leave me much choice. I felt like I was getting squeezed out of my scoop.” “You guys?” “You, Sally.” “Is this about Sally? Your idea of getting even or something?” “You heard.” “Tell me why, Gil.” “Are you going to sit down?” I took the wooden chair across the desk. “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said. “You go to the ashram, don’t tell me squat really. Then the FBI comes to town, asking around about Brooke and the Kree. You don’t think the dailies will snuff this out? How the hell do I protect myself without breaking the story first? Did I say anything that was wrong?” I had to admit he’d done a fair job, avoiding the kind of reckless speculation a less professional journalist might have entertained. The story followed Brooke from the Mustang Ranch to the ashram, but leaving out her pregnancy; revealed that she was there as an undercover reporter, on assignment

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from the Boise weekly; told of her being discovered and escaping; and going back to work in Sogobia. I was an “anonymous source” on one important aspect, the appearance of two members of the Kree on the night of Brooke’s murder. He also revealed that Brooke’s mother said the handwriting was not her daughter’s and that “sources on the Sogobia police force” were surprised by the autopsy report, which showed the cause of death to be asphyxiation and that there was no trace of sleeping pills in Brooke’s system. It was a fair communication of the facts and a strong argument that murder was at least as probable as suicide. However, striking in its absence was any mention of Gotzon. And, of course, he didn’t know about Cheyenne. Given his state of mind, and the possibility he might put something in the paper next week, I wasn’t going to be the one to bring him up to speed. “You did a good job,” I said. “I’m surprised you didn’t bring Gotzon into it.” “I don’t see a case there. Do you?” “No.” “I wanted to stay focused on the Kree.” “The FBI assured me the Kree didn’t do it.” “That surprises me.” “They’re worried about them poisoning the town to keep people away from the polls.” “I’ve heard the rumor. An extraordinary thing if it’s true.” “You get any feedback on this yet?” “The phone isn’t ringing off the hook, as you may have noticed. I expect the chief to barge in as soon as he sees it.” “Lavinia’s pissed.” “Bad for business?” “That’s the idea.” “I don’t buy it. I think it can be good for business. Go where the action is. Look how tourists flock to Deely Plaza. There’s a strong morbid streak in the American character.”

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Chief Three Moons didn’t think so. Right on cue, he barged into the office just as I was getting ready to leave. “What is with you?” the chief shouted at the editor. “Every time you should be dedicating an issue for the tourists, you find crap like this to report. Do I read about Butch Cassidy Days on the front page? Hell, no! I have to go to page five.” Gil said, “Butch Cassidy Days is a Winnemucca festival.” “I know where the hell it is! You don’t think they come from Winnemucca to our Basque Days? You don’t think most of Sogobia will be in Winnemucca? There is no event here, no news item that justifies publishing this now rather than after the festival.” “I had to break the story before the dailies beat me to it. It’s my professional duty.” “Professional duty, my ass. Your professional duty is to serve your readers and the tourists. You keep acting as if you actually have a newspaper here. You have an advertising brochure. If this were worth reading, you’d charge money for it.” I could see that this had hurt Gil, suggesting he believed some of it was true. He looked away. The chief went on. “And I don’t like this anonymous source crap when you get information from one of my officers. It was Sally, wasn’t it? How you doing, Dallas?” “Fair to middling,” I said. Gil said, “I have to protect my sources.” “Bullshit. It was Sally. Dallas, you think it was your sister? She bought this murder conspiracy bullshit from the start.” “I have no idea,” I lied. The chief said, “You and Sally work like a team, don’t you? She slips you privileged information from time to time?” “Sally and I are no longer an item,” Gil said. “If you want the truth, I don’t think she’d even talk to me.”

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“You guys broke up?” Gil nodded, looking none too pleased about it. “About time I heard some good news today,” the chief said. “Is there anything else? I have work to do.” “The damage is done. That’s the hell of it. You go off on a limb and publish this crap and the damage is done. There’s not a damn thing to do about it.” “Chief, I think it’s a pretty balanced article,” I said. “There’s no theory or conclusion that’s presented. It just goes over some of the inconsistencies in the evidence so far.” “She killed herself. Can’t you two knuckle-heads understand that?” He started out but stopped at the doorway. “Dallas, I almost put your sister on report and leave without pay until I get to the bottom of the leak in the department. I may do it yet. You have any opinion on the matter?” “I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job, chief.” “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” I waited for the chief to get some distance on me before heading for the door myself. “Do you think he’ll put Sally on report?” Gil asked. “No idea. I’m sorry about you two.” “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, I should have seen it coming. It still…” He couldn’t finish. “Hang in there,” I said and was out the door. A personal note was in my mailbox with the mail. It was from Sonny Boy’s mother, Evelyn, short and sweet. She wanted me to contact her as soon as possible and left a phone number. I called immediately. I suggested coming to her home but she said she was on her way to the hospital to see Sonny Boy.

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Could I meet her in the coffee shop at the Winnemucca hospital at four this afternoon? I was walking back home when Sally pulled her patrol car to the curb. I went to the passenger window and stooped down. “I assume you saw the paper,” I said. “Oh, yes.” “At first I thought he might be trying to get back at you. I think he’s just protecting his ass. He’s afraid the dailies will beat him to it.” “It’s not a bad article.” “I agree. The guy’s a good journalist.” “Have you talked to him?” “This morning.” “How’s he doing?” “He got a lot of flak from the chief.” “That’s to be expected. He say anything about me?” “I think he misses you.” “I was afraid of that.” “You don’t miss him?” “I’m taking the fifth.” “You sure you’re doing the right thing?” “No. I’m not sure the status quo is the right thing either. I guess I just felt like I needed a change.” “Well, you got it.” “Sometimes you get what you wish for and regret it. I know.” “But not always.” “Not always. How you hanging in about Cheyenne?” “Better. I have a distraction.” “What’s that?” “I’ve been doing some new thinking about what happened to Brooke. I’m exploring a new idea.” “You really get into this, don’t you?” “I haven’t thought about cancer in weeks.”

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“If you want to run your new theory by me, give me a call.” “I’ll take you up on that.” “I assume you’ll be hanging by the phone tomorrow.” “Oh, yes.” “Hopefully they’ll give us enough time to put something together.” “How much time do you need?” “At least a day would be nice. Or most of one.” “Have to wait and see.” “Ain’t it the truth? Later.” I got to Winnemucca early. I drove to the hospital, which by L.A. standards was the size of a clinic. I entered, got my bearings and found Sonny Boy’s room. He seemed to be dozing. I went to the coffee shop and ordered a donut with the coffee and took the most private table available, which was in the back corner. Sonny Boy’s mother was right on time. When she sat down, I said, “Are you going to get coffee?” “This won’t take long. Have you seen the weekly newspaper?” I nodded. “Sonny Boy got very upset by it this morning. He kept saying it wasn’t murder, it was an accident. He said it over and over. They had to give him a shot to get him to relax.” “An accident? Nothing about suicide.” “I think he knows something about what happened.” “Why are you telling me this?” “Sonny Boy, before he got carried away, said you knew the man who runs the paper, that you had to tell him it was an accident. It wasn’t murder, it wasn’t suicide, it was an accident. He wanted the newspaper to know and print a retraction.” “I can talk to the editor if that’s what you want.” She was on the verge of tears and looked away.

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“What is it?” “He’s scheduled for surgery. They don’t give him much of a chance.” “When?” “Right away. I don’t know why I’m here talking to you,” she said. She stood up. “It’s too late now. Please forgive me. I don’t know why I’m here.” “No, I’m glad you are. You’ve been more helpful than you realize.” She started to say something and stopped. She started off. I hurried after her and caught her as she left the coffee shop. “How long does the surgery take?” “Several hours.” I considered waiting with her. But there was something more pressing I wanted to do. I walked her to an elevator and waited until she stepped on. As the door closed, I nodded, my jaw tight, feeling helpless and awkward as she headed up to wait through surgery for the probable bad news. Lavinia was in her office. I knocked on the door frame and let myself in. “Sonny Boy’s in surgery,” I said. “The doctors don’t give him much of a chance.” “Poor bastard.” “I talked to his mother. She had a message from him for me.” Lavinia’s expression didn’t tell me much. I went on. “He got upset by the article in the weekly. He said Brooke’s death was an accident. Not murder, not suicide. An accident. He wanted me to make sure Gil understood this and printed it in the paper.” “Poor dumb son of a bitch.” “Maybe not so dumb.” Lavinia just looked at me. She would have made a great poker player.

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“Maybe he has a reason to say it was an accident.” “What are you saying?” “I’m not sure yet. But it’s a strange thing for a guy to obsess about on his deathbed.” “He has a strange child’s mind. I’ve learned not to be surprised by anything that comes out of it.” I wondered if now was the right time to bring up the contradiction between her story and Rachael’s about why she was relieved at the cashier’s table the night Brooke died. Before I reached a decision, Lavinia made one for me. “Dallas, this is a bad time. I appreciate the update on Sonny Boy. When you find out how the surgery went, let me know.” She was waiting for me to go. I said, “Do you think it was an accident?” “I have no idea what the hell it was. The police say it was suicide, and that’s the best of the bad options for my business, so I don’t make waves and I don’t appreciate anyone who does.” “Is that meant for me?” “If the shoe fits… Goddamn it, Dallas, I have work to do.”

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27

Thursday was hell. Knowing the phone call was coming, I lived each minute as if it were an hour. Nothing I did to distract myself worked. I couldn’t concentrate to read or write, I couldn’t get interested in television, I didn’t even manage to clean the apartment without catching myself vacuuming the same area of the floor over and over. I was a mess. And finally the phone rang. It was a wrong number. The phone didn’t ring again for an hour, and this time it was what I’d been waiting for. “Is this the screenwriter?” “Where is Cheyenne?” “Ah, you’ve been expecting me. Good.” “Where is she?” “Listen carefully. I will only say this once. Come to Butch Cassidy Days on Saturday. The parade will be over about eleven. At noon bring Gotzon to the Butch Cassidy statue in front of the bank. We will meet you with your woman friend. We exchange them and go on our separate ways. Do you understand?” “Yes. Can I speak to—“ “Noon. We won’t wait. If we see police, if we see anything that makes us suspicious, we’re out of there. You’ll find your woman’s body in the desert. Do I make myself clear?” “Very much so.”

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“Good. Have a nice day.” He hung up. I called Sally immediately, and she said she was close by, she’d be right over. It took about ten minutes. I explained the call to her, short and sweet as it was. “Anything suspicious, and it’s over,” I said. “I don’t know how we can turn this in our favor.” Sally said, “That’s my department.” “But the slightest thing that looks suspicious—“ “I’m not going to get her killed, Dallas. You have to trust me on this.” I didn’t know what to say. I trusted her for knowing her business, police business, but you read about situations going wrong all the time in the paper. The police were far from perfect. “I’ve got a day to put something together,” Sally said. “That’s not much time.” “Time enough. I’ve already been thinking about it. And we’re getting some help from the FBI” “The FBI? Won’t they just make it worse?” “I don’t think so. They’re back in town, talking to Gil. They’re not thrilled with his story. They worry it blows their cover inside the ashram.” “So how do they help us if they’re pissed?” “They’re interested in how your George Raft fellow got involved with this. Whether he’s a U.S. citizen or not. What the Spanish connection is. We’re talking federal jurisdiction now. I’ll be meeting with them later this afternoon. Don’t worry, I’m going to make sure they realize how delicate the situation is. Dallas, don’t look that way. They have more experience in this than I do. They’re your greatest ally right now.” “I hope so.” “Have you talked to Gotzon?”

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“Not today. I haven’t been out of the apartment, and I was afraid to make a call and tie up the line. I’ll go over there and bring him up to date.” “Good. I worry about him wanting to be a martyr. That he may do something stupid.” “If he’s acting weird, I’ll give you a call.” “Okay. I’m out of here. This can work, Dallas. I’ll be in touch and tomorrow we’ll go over the plan so everybody involved knows it backward and forward. Keep the faith.” Gotzon was missing. Yuli said he’d gone out, saying he was making a quick trip to the market, but that had been over an hour ago. Yuli was just about to contact me and express his worry. I was standing in the middle of the room of his apartment for the simple reason that old newspapers covered the few seating possibilities. The rest of the room was filled with dirty dishes, empty beer and pop cans, and fast-food wrappers. I said, “Did he seem upset about anything?” “Not really. But he was on the phone this morning.” “Who with?” “I don’t know. I came in after my shower and found him on the phone. He said thank you and hung up, and a little bit later he said he had to go to the store.” I went to the phone. There was a pad and paper on the table. Written on the top sheet of the pad was the name and number of the hospital in Reno. “Shit,” I said. “What?” I dialed the number. “Yes, I want to check the status of a patient….Thank you.” While I was being transferred, I said to Yuli, “I think he called the hospital.” “What for?”

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“Yes, I’m trying to check the status of a patient….Stanley Smith….Thank you.” I hung up. “Elmer Gantry checked out first thing in the morning.” “What does that mean?” “I think it means that Gotzon is out looking for him.” “How will he get to Reno?” “I think he’d get there any way he can. Hitch a ride. Maybe even steal a car.” “Steal a car!” “I think he really wants to find him.” “What do we do?” “See if we can find him before he finds Stanley.” “It’s a long way to Reno.” “Tell me about it.” The place to start was with Stanley’s sister. I drove Ruby at 65 on the Interstate, faster than her habit, and she groaned as if she didn’t appreciate the workout. The long drive still took three hours. After getting off the Interstate, I drove straight to the sister’s house. Emily, I recalled. One glance at her after she opened the door, and I knew she was worried about him. After I assured her we were here to help him and that our need to find him was urgent, she let us in. I got the impression she would have welcomed company, all of us sitting in the living room while she took her time telling us about the tribulations of being Stanley’s sister, and about how much worry and stress he caused her, but we had no time for this. I said, “The thing is, Miss Smith, we have to find him before someone else does. He could be in danger.” “What kind of danger?” “I don’t have time to explain right now. You said he came here from the hospital and left. Do you know where he was going?”

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“He didn’t say. But I assume to the park. He likes to preach in the park late in the afternoon so he can get the afterwork crowd on their way home.” This was enough information to get me out of there, and if Emily hadn’t said something, I might not have stayed long enough to learn a fact that made all the difference in the world. She said, “I rue the day he met that woman.” I stopped at the doorway and stepped back. “What woman is that?” “The one at Mustang Ranch. At that other place now, in Sogobia. He hasn’t been the same since he became obsessed with her. Of course, she plays it for all she is worth. She knows how much power she has over him.” “But Brooke Cadbury is dead,” I said. “Her name’s Jane.” “Jane.” I felt like crying, Eureka! “Are you sure?” “That’s the only name I know. It’s probably not even her real name.” “Have you ever seen her? Even a picture?” “He had a photograph of her. I destroyed it and convinced him he’d lost it himself.” “Blonde, very well endowed? Something of a Jayne Mansfield look-alike?” “Obviously she tries to look like her,” said Emily. “I think it just makes her look cheap.” “And Stanley became interested in her at Mustang Ranch?” “He says he was attracted to her the first time he saw her. Oh, he knows it’s sinful, what he thinks, and worse, what he does. But he did try to get her to leave prostitution, too. If he could just focus on that and not the other, not visiting her…” She stopped, gaining her composure. “He’s in hand-to-hand combat with Satan himself! It’s a struggle to the death, and I worry that Stanley doesn’t have the resolve to find the right path to save himself.”

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I grabbed Yuli and rushed out the door. This was the proof I needed to convince Gotzon he had the wrong man – or rather the right man but the wrong object of affection, object of obsession. Stanley lusted after Jane, not Brooke, and had from the beginning. He wanted to make an honest woman out of Jane, not Brooke. I drove straight to the park. Sure enough, Stanley was standing on a picnic table, sermonizing the trees. Those who passed by on the footpath gave him a glance and continued on. Gotzon was nowhere to be found. “If Gotzon hitchhiked here, it may take him a while,” I said. “At least we know Stanley is safe.” “What do we do now?” “Get comfortable. We should’ve brought something to read.” I looked across the street from the park. Up the way was a mini-mall. Surely they’d have something to read, a paper, magazines, maybe even some paperbacks. “What do you like to read?” I asked. “I’ll find a store and get us something.” “Maybe get the Reno paper if they have it.” “You stay put. I won’t be long.” I walked up the street to the light, crossed, and continued on to the small mall. Sure enough, there was a convenience market. Inside I found both a magazine rack and three racks of paperbacks. I grabbed the Reno paper, a Sports Illustrated, and a Newsweek. Yuli had moved to a table, some thirty yards from Stanley. I wondered how long he had been talking to the trees, and how long he planned to keep at it. We settled in with our reading material. There was no telling when Gotzon would show if he showed at all. Sooner rather than later, I hoped. We still had the long drive back.

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I got my wish. We weren’t half an hour into reading when Yuli said, “Dallas.” I looked up from the magazine. Yuli gestured with his head. Gotzon was moving quickly across the grass toward Stanley. “Here we go,” I said. We trotted toward Gotzon. When he saw us, he stopped. We got closer, and I realized that he had a knife clutched in one hand. “Don’t stop me from what I have to do,” Gotzon said. “There’s no reason to do it. Stanley wasn’t interested in Brooke. He was interested in her friend Jane.” Gotzon stared at me. A good sign, I thought. He was giving me room to say more, maybe even to convince him. “He was obsessed with Jane from the beginning. She also worked at Mustang Ranch. When he visited Brooke, it was only because she was Jane’s friend. He tried to get Brooke to help him get to Jane.” I was winging it on this last part but it made sense. It might have been true. I went on, figuring the more I talked, the less urgent Gotzon’s plan would become. “Stanley has photographs of Jane at home, not of Brooke. He was never interested in Brooke. You saw Jane, you remember her, she’s a Jayne Mansfield look-alike. She’s his type. He would never get obsessive with a skinny woman like Brooke. He likes big breasted women. Brooke wasn’t his type.” “How do you know this?” Gotzon asked. “We talked to his sister.” But this wasn’t enough. I had to pad the truth again. “We talked to Jane. She can tell you how obsessive he was, still is, in fact. He had nothing to do with Brooke’s death. He wasn’t interested in her.” Gotzon looked at Yuli. “You believe this, too?” “Absolutely.”

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I said, “It’s the God’s truth. You have nothing to be angry at Stanley about. Nothing at all.” “Then who killed Brooke?” The million dollar question. “We still have to work on that,” I said. “But I have some new leads.” “What leads?” “Things to take care of later. We have to do first things first now, Gotzon. We have to get Cheyenne.” “After I killed Stanley, I was going to turn myself in to them in exchange for Cheyenne.” “There’s no need to do either. My sister is working out a plan. The FBI is going to help us.” “The FBI is here?” “They’ve always been here.” “I don’t trust them.” “They’re investigating the Kree. They don’t care about you.” He was silent, as if deciding whether or not to accept this. “We need you Saturday,” I said. “Tomorrow we meet about the plan. There’s a lot to do. We’re just wasting time here. It’s time to go home. We have a long drive.” Gotzon looked across the way at Stanley. His sermon was a monologue of religious clichés, so predictable in its content, so automatic to hear and digest, that it became as harmless, as disengaging, as music in an elevator. “It’s time to go,” I repeated. “If you are wrong about Stanley, I’ll come back.” “Fair enough. We’ll talk to Jane. You’ll see I’m right.” Gotzon nodded. I put a hand on his shoulder and smiled. Gotzon nodded again. I squeezed his shoulder and let go. Then I led the way across the street, and on to Ruby, and finally on to Sogobia.

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28

On Friday, Sally, Gotzon, Yuli and I gathered in my apartment to meet about “the plan.” The FBI, although participating, were staying away on purpose in order to retain anonymity from those, like Gotzon and Yuli, with whom they’d had no direct contact. Sally assured us they’d be there when it counted. In the meantime, the less we knew, the less chance we might give them away by a nervous and inappropriate glance. The plan itself had been put together by Sally and the agents, and the time for discussion was over. Sally told the three of us what we were supposed to do, which wasn’t complicated. In preparation for the unexpected, Sally herself would be with us, but in disguise, wearing a wig. However (and she looked straight at me when she said this), she was in charge, no matter what came down. The rule was, we followed her lead. It was early afternoon when the meeting broke up. The hardest part now would be waiting. The exchange was scheduled to take place at noon. I thought we’d be going to Winnemucca earlier to see the morning parade but, no, said Sally, the longer we were hanging around, the more time something could go wrong. We’d leave a tad earlier than normal for a drive to Winnemucca in order to compensate for traffic and not to be late but we weren’t going early enough to see the parade.

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After Sally left, I was a nervous wreck. Privately Sally suggested I might want to keep Gotzon close, perhaps even sleep in the same apartment with him, but I trusted him more than this, especially after convincing him about Stanley. I wasn’t nervous about Gotzon but about Cheyenne and about the entire mysterious plan, mysterious because somewhere in the mix was the FBI. This was going to be dangerous, and people could get hurt. Consciously, I wasn’t worried about myself, but was very worried about Cheyenne. I hoped all these law-enforcement officers knew what they were doing. If they didn’t, we all were in trouble. Gotzon and Yuli left to go to Yuli’s apartment, where they planned to continue a chess game they had started. I’d always wanted to learn the game but declined an invitation to watch. Instead I took a long walk through the park, covering its length several times, after which I took a drive and walked some more in the park in Elko. I came home before dinner time. Gamely I tried now to do some of the script changes Jason wanted but my concentration was interrupted by my fear for tomorrow. I considered getting plastered but didn’t trust myself to come out of a drunk with the alertness I’d need in less than 24 hours. Finally I found a movie on television that interested me, the Kirk Douglas “modern western” called Lonely Are the Brave. I got interested enough in it to relax and then to snooze. When I woke up, the apartment was dark. I didn’t turn on a light for fear of breaking the mood. I felt like time was standing still, that I was in some kind of suspended animation, which was a damn sight better than the weight of fear in my gut. Eventually I dozed off again. At some unknown hour I dragged myself to bed. I slept in fits and starts, getting up twice to use the toilet, restless between moments of dozing off, and by the time I opened my eyes to gray light and the promise of morning, I had a splitting headache.

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I took four aspirins and went back to bed. The next time I awoke, it was to a ringing telephone. “Hello.” “Dallas! I found you home. You’re a hard man to catch.” “Hey, Jason.” “What are the chances of getting the script in the mail this weekend so I can see it next week?” I coughed and hoped I hadn’t heard right. “Dallas?” “Listen, Jason, something’s come up. I haven’t been able to spend much time on it yet.” “Oh?” “I need another week.” “A whole goddamn week?” I didn’t respond. “Have you been on a bender?” “No, Jason, I’m sober as a judge. It’s a … a legal matter.” “A legal matter. You in some kind of trouble?” “Not exactly.” “What then?” “I really don’t have the energy to get into it. I really like the changes you suggested, I really do, and I know I can address them in a few days once I find the time to sit down at the typewriter. But today is out and probably tomorrow as well. That’s all I can tell you at this point.” There was a pause. Jason said, “How about this? If you can get to it Monday, well, you could drop it in the mail Wednesday, even Thursday, send it overnight and I could get it Friday or Saturday. Would that work?” “It might.” “There’s a bonus if it does.” “I’ll do my best.” “I know you will, lad. I’m depending on you.”

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“I’ve got to run, Jason. I’ll call you in a couple days and let you know how it’s going.” “Good man.” I hung up and glanced at the clock. It was only a couple hours till show time. We all met at my apartment, though we’d drive to Winnemucca in two cars. Sally was driving in her own car so she could return with Cheyenne and deliver her to the station to make a report. I liked her optimism. Sally’s outfit was outrageous. She’d decided to dress as Gotzon’s girlfriend, I suppose, and she certainly looked the part. Her wig was platinum blonde, her miniskirt red over black mesh stockings, her blouse a lighter shade of red on the orange side. She looked like the vocalist in a punk rock band. I couldn’t imagine anyone taking her as a cop. Yuli arrived with his video camera. Sally didn’t like that. She said it would spook them. She also talked Gotzon into driving alone with her, in case they were seen arriving. Boyfriend and girlfriend and all that. I stopped by Yuli’s apartment so he could run up with his camera, and we were on our way on the Interstate, Sally leading the way. With a few thousand tourists expected for Butch Cassidy Days, parking attendants surrounded the town to guide arrivals to the designated lots. After we’d climbed out of the cars, Sally gathered us around for last-minute instructions. She glanced at her watch. “We have a little time to kill,” she said, “so we’ll wander like normal tourists. When it’s time to head out, I’ll lead the way. We’ll stop once the bank is in sight. Dallas, you’ll continue to the bank with Gotzon. They should be meeting you with Cheyenne at the statues in front of the bank. You carry on as if everything is normal.” “What if something goes wrong?”

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“If they leave without making an exchange, retreat and we’ll take care of the rest. If something happens so that shots are fired, hit the ground and stay put. Both of you.” I said, “You expect gunfire?” “I prepare for the worst. The answer to your question is, no. I expect the exchange to go smoothly, and we’ll head them off at the pass.” “How can I help?” Gotzon asked. “Just stay calm. The FBI has marksmen ready. Once you hear gunfire, get out of the way. If you get a chance, run like hell.” Gotzon nodded. “I feel useless,” said Yuli. “Consider yourself lucky to be a part of this,” Sally said. “I seriously thought of leaving you home.” “I wish I could’ve brought the camera, though.” “Everybody ready to play tourist? Oh, don’t look around for the FBI, okay? Just act like regular tourists.” “My heart is pounding like crazy,” I said. “You ought to be used to moments like this. You write them all the time, don’t you?” “I know you want me to say this, so I will. This is very different, Sally.” “Thank you, big brother. Shall we check out the festival?” The entire town was involved in the festival, with sidewalk tables set up in front of stores on Main Street to feature the Butch Cassidy sales, side streets blocked to accommodate food vendors and local craftspeople, and all signs pointing to the park where there was more of the same, plus two stages with entertainment. But it was impossible to get interested in the festival. So many strangers around me were potential FBI agents, placing themselves for our protection, and if I wasn’t wondering about them, I was scanning the crowd for glimpses of Cheyenne and George Raft and wondering how many sidekicks he had with

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him. Sally, ever cool, had taken Gotzon’s hand to present the image of a couple, if an unusual one, punk rockers attending the festival. Yuli and I tagged along behind them, and I could see that Yuli was as nervous about the whole affair as I was. Apparently time passed because suddenly the bank was ahead, the figures of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid surrounded by admiring tourists, and it was time to get to work. “Dallas,” said Sally, “just keep cool. Walk to the statues and wait. It’s up to them to contact you.” I did exactly what she told me to do. Gotzon was beside me, the others now disappearing into the crowd, and we walked steadily forward. My eyes moved constantly, trying to find someone I recognized in the crowd, hundreds of people packed on the streets near the bank to catch a glimpse of the famous outlaw and his partner, Butch and Sundance the centers of attraction here, and no one but us, and whatever FBI agents were hidden in the crowd, aware that much more was about to happen. We reached the statues in front of the bank. I gestured to Gotzon to move with me to the side, so as not to be in the way of tourists, and we took a position and waited. Of course, it seemed like we waited forever, at least long enough for me to flirt with the conclusion that something had gone wrong, George Raft wasn’t keeping the appointment. Then a voice behind me said, “Gotzon, step this way.” I turned to face George Raft and a stranger. Huddled behind them, looking tired and scared out of her wits, was Cheyenne. Gotzon looked at me as if for instructions. “Give me Cheyenne,” I said. “One step at a time. Gotzon?” I nodded. Gotzon moved slowly toward George Raft. Suddenly, without warning, Raft’s partner grabbed Gotzon by the arm

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while at the same time Raft grabbed Cheyenne’s arm, and they turned to drag their captors back into the crowd. “Hey!” I yelled. I took a quick step toward them and at the same moment Gotzon grabbed his assailant, and the two of them fell to the ground. Raft quickly had a pistol in his hand and fired, hitting Gotzon in the leg. I ducked as gunfire erupted from behind me, Raft darted to hide behind the figure of Butch Cassidy, and I dropped to the ground, rolling under a nearby trough that had been erected for festival atmosphere. Shots continued to ring out. Gotzon crawled to join me, and it was then I noticed that Raft’s partner was still on the ground, perhaps dead. “Are you all right?” I asked. Gotzon grunted. His lower leg was bleeding but it could have been worse. The gunfire died down long enough to reveal the screams and commotion of the crowd, which was fleeing the area in loud panic. Straining to look around, I looked for Cheyenne but couldn’t find her. Looking in a different direction, I saw Sally crouched behind a trough up the way, gun drawn, right in the thick of the action. I saw two men behind the trough up from hers, agents I presumed, good guys. The good guys outnumbered the bad guys at least three to one. It looked like a done deal, the only question being how many got hurt before it was over. And that depended, I supposed, on whether or not George Raft wanted to be a martyr. He didn’t. After a few more volleys, an agent shouted, “There’s no way out. You might as well surrender.” After a silence that felt interminable, Raft shouted back, “I’m coming out!” “Toss out your weapon!” yelled an agent. George Raft followed instructions, the gun landing on the pavement with a thud. He stepped into view, his hands raised so high one would have thought he was reaching for the stars. The two agents rushed forward to take care of him.

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I stood up and called to Sally, “Gotzon’s been shot!” “An ambulance is already on its way.” I looked around and the sense of relief tightened into dread. “Where’s Cheyenne?” Sally said, “I saw her take off into the crowd.” Apparently Cheyenne didn’t stop running until she was a mile away from the festival, when she took aside the first policeman she could find. We were reunited with her at the Winnemucca police station. Gotzon was on his way to the hospital, and Yuli and I were tagging along with Sally, looking for Cheyenne. When we found her, I had imagined her leaping into my arms. Instead she gave me a look that suggested she never wanted to see me again. Did she blame me for her frightening ordeal? Before I had a chance to talk to Cheyenne, other than to say it was great to see her, a comment not acknowledged with a reply, Sally had taken her by the arm and followed an FBI agent into a private room. There was nothing for Yuli and me to do, so we left. We fetched the car and stopped by the hospital to visit Gotzon. He was going to be fine, though they wanted to keep him at least overnight and maybe longer. On the drive back to Sogobia, I said, “I think Cheyenne blames me for what happened.” “She’s just scared shitless, man. Her head will get screwed on right when she calms down.” “I hope you’re right.” But I worried that he wasn’t.

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29

While we were maneuvering to get Cheyenne back, Sonny Boy had died in the hospital. His funeral would be Tuesday in the local Baptist church, followed by a burial at the cemetery outside of town. Lavinia had left the information on my answering machine. I left a message of my own – on Cheyenne’s machine. I asked her to call me as soon as she got in. I figured there was a pretty good chance she wouldn’t and resolved to try her later and keep trying until I could get her to talk to me. I did exactly this but gave up at 11p.m. and called it a night. The next morning I woke her up at ten. She didn’t sound pleased to be hearing from me, especially out of a deep sleep. I said, “I feel like we need to sit down and have a long talk.” “Dallas, maybe you’re right, but it’s not something I have the energy for right now. It’s going to take me a while to recover from all this.” “Do you blame me for what happened?” She made a noise that sounded like a small guffaw. “Why on earth would I blame you? This has to do with Gotzon.” “You seemed to be mad at me or something.” There was a short pause, and then she said, “Let’s just say I’m confused, okay? Dallas, I really do need some time to myself. Let me get back to you in a few days.” She had the last word on the matter. I spent the rest of the morning wondering what to do with myself. I had no energy to

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work on the script for Jason. I had no desire to go to the Black Cat and lose myself in sex with Misty. The only practical thing I accomplished after talking to Cheyenne was calling the hospital to check on Gotzon. They probably would be releasing him the next day. I had forgotten about Brooke Cadbury, but she wasn’t ready to let go of me. I found myself thinking about her again that night as I stared at a television show that didn’t interest me but that still managed to fill the dark silence in the room. A few months ago I’d set out to prove that someone from the Kree had killed Brooke, had been convinced that my theory was wrong and had found no other to replace it. But something new had risen in some dark corner of my mind, a theory that brought Lavinia and Sonny Boy together, and the theory took shape late at night when I was half-drunk after a bottle of wine and part of another, and it took shape in the strangest way. A movie of Brooke’s murder began playing in my head, and I sat down at my Remington to script it out before I forgot it.

FADE IN: INT. BLACK CAT B&B – BROOKE’S ROOM – NIGHT Brooke and Sonny Boy. Sonny Boy holds out a small ring box. BROOKE I can’t accept it. I’m sorry. SONNY BOY It’s only a friendship ring.

BROOKE I think you intend it as more.

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SONNY BOY Try it on. Sonny takes the ring out of the box. BROOKE Sonny, it’s time for you to go. SONNY BOY Just see how it looks on you. He takes her hand, but she pulls it away. He grabs her arm more forcefully. BROOKE You have to leave, Sonny. I mean it. Sonny gets more physical with her, determined to get the ring on her finger. BROOKE Stop it! Her loud voice panics him. He becomes more physical still, knocking her onto the bed, falling on top of her. He stops her shouting by pressing a hand over her mouth. Brooke bites him. Sonny yells out in pain, then slaps Brooke across the face. She starts to scream but now he throws a pillow over her face. Brooke struggles under the pillow. The more she struggles, the harder Sonny presses.

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Brooke’s struggles become weaker. She is suffocating under there. And still Sonny presses hard with the pillow. Until Brooke goes limp. Sonny slowly changes his manner, as if realizing that a terrible thing has happened. He releases pressure on the pillow. He sits up. He stares down at Brooke. He removes the pillow. SONNY Brooke? Don’t act this way. The door opens. Lavinia steps inside. LAVINIA What’s going on? I heard a— She sees Brooke on the bed. LAVINIA Oh my God … She rushes to Brooke’s side. It’s obvious Brooke is dead. SONNY It was an accident.

LAVINIA You really did it this time, Sonny.

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SONNY I wanted her to try on her ring. Sonny, still sitting on the bed, starts to cry. LAVINIA Jesus Christ, Sonny … SONNY I didn’t mean it. I love her. LAVINIA Sonny … it’s okay … everything’s going to be okay …

Had it been a vision? In Hollywood I’d become used to the occasional gift from the gods, a difficult story problem often seeming to solve itself when the solution suddenly appeared in my head, often upon waking, as if the unconscious had been laboring on the problem through the night. Similarly the scenario of Brooke’s death appeared in my consciousness of whole cloth, and as I typed it out I felt more like a secretary than a writer. Reading it over, I saw it made perfect sense. Sonny Boy smothered Brooke by accidental brute force when she rejected him, panicking when she got loud about it. Lavinia discovered the deed and, feeling sorry for Sonny, set it up to look like suicide and took over the cashier’s station for the rest of the night so she could control traffic to Brooke’s room. It all made perfect sense. Unfortunately I had no idea if this version was true or not.

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I was in the bathroom when the phone rang. I got to it before it stopped. “Hello.” “Dallas?” I recognized the voice of Phil Windell in Boise. “Hey, Phil.” “I haven’t heard from you in a while, thought I’d check in. Did those FBI guys ever talk to you?” “Oh, yes.” “How’d it go?” “I gave them what I had, and they left happy.” “Have you thought about that article for me?” “I’ve been busy on a screenplay, frankly.” “A screenplay! Going to try and market it?” “Actually it’s an assignment.” “Really? For anybody I ever heard of?” “Ever hear of Columbia?” It was a cheap shot, setting him up this way, and I let him off the hook quickly after that, saying goodbye with the promise that I’d be in touch if I had something about the Kree to write for him. Hearing from him brought to mind Anita Cadbury. I phoned her and told her I thought I knew who killed her daughter. When she asked who, I told her I was going to his funeral. “I think it was an accident,” I said. “He had a child’s mind and over-reacted under duress. I think he got in an argument with Brooke and ended up suffocating her with a pillow.” “And he’s dead?” “Just the other day. Natural causes.” “Well. Will there be something in the paper about it?” “No. I can’t really prove it. But I think I’m right. I wanted you to be the first to know.” “I appreciate it. I wish there could be something in the paper so people don’t think she killed herself.”

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“Maybe I can get Phil to put something in the Weekly.” “Could you?” “I’ll give him a call.” “I’d really appreciate it.” I called Phil back and gave him my theory about what happened. When he asked if I’d write it up, I said, “How about you do it as an editorial?” “You’re confident that’s the way it happened?” “It’s really the only thing that makes any sense.” He said he’d give it some thought. For Anita’s sake, I hoped he went ahead with it. The next day the Reno paper ran a wire story about Ma Prama Rama Kree, Pa Tristin and others being arrested by the FBI on charges of conspiracy to commit widespread bioterrorism. Tracy, the young woman we’d picked up outside the ashram, had the evidence that Brooke didn’t get, not only photographs but a vial of salmonella she smuggled out, along with detailed written plans about using it on salad bars throughout Juniper County, poisoning the local electorate before the election. The earlier episode of food poisoning at Jerry’s Hideaway had been a trial run. The woman had been a lab worker and loyal Kree for years but this time they had gone too far. The evidence finally was strong enough for the FBI to break the case. So Gil hadn’t been wrong in his gut feeling that he had to print something to beat the others to the punch. He’d just taken the wrong focus. I waited until after the funeral before giving the script to Lavinia. I thought her reaction would be interesting. The funeral had been short and proper, the caravan to the cemetery long, and the burial ritual also short and by the book. As the witnesses returned to their cars, I caught up with Lavinia and handed her a large envelope that contained the script.

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“I’d like you to read this,” I said. “What is it, a movie?” “It could be. Just want to know what you think of it.” She must have read it in her car. A message was waiting for me by the time I got home, asking me to come by the Cat at my earliest convenience. “You must think you’re really hot shit,” Lavinia had said. She was waiting for me, her office door open, the script on the desk. “Why did you show me this?” she wanted to know. “Isn’t it obvious?” “You expect a confession?” “That would be nice.” “What’s the point? The poor son-of-a-bitch is growing daisies.” “You aren’t.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re an accessory, I believe they call it.” “Is that a threat?” “Actually, no. Even if what I wrote is true, which I believe it is, you’re safe as far as I’m concerned. I just have one more question.” “I can hardly wait.” “I think you took her diary. What was in it?” “Enough material for several movies. But you probably already know all that.” “Anything about the Kree threatening her?” “No.” “The Kree planning to poison people?” “No. Most of it was the usual lovelorn crap a young woman writes. No real evidence, if that’s what you’re getting at.” “May I see it?” “I destroyed it.” I just looked at her.

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“You don’t believe me.” “Actually I think I do.” “Now I have a question,” said Lavinia. “What’s that?” “What’s in this for you?” I thought about my answer. “Satisfaction. I started out to find out who killed Brooke. I’d like to be able to say I did that.” “What about Brooke’s mother? What would you tell her?” “I already talked to her. I said Sonny Boy did it, and I didn’t mention you. He could have made it look like suicide himself.” “He was too dumb to take care of it himself.” “You and I know that but Brooke’s mother doesn’t.” Now it was Lavinia’s turn to think a moment. “Then you told her the right thing,” she said. “Is that a confession?” “Call it whatever you like.” “So I got lucky,” I said. “Mostly. I’d deny it all in a public forum, of course. And don’t you dare send Gil over here.” “I think Gil is still explaining himself to the FBI” There was a silence. “What would you have done in my shoes?” Lavinia asked. “I don’t know. Probably what you did, more or less.” “You mean it?” “Absolutely.” “Thanks, Dallas. That’s nice to hear. I should give you a coupon.” “Yeah, right.” “Seriously. You’re not around as often as you used to be. Cheyenne get under your skin?” “I plead the Fifth.”

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“Done the same thing myself a few times. Love gets a hell of a lot more complicated when you’re not paying for it.” I stood up. Lavinia said, “The coupon offer is still on the table.” “No thanks. I have to take care of something.” “Are you in love, Dallas?” I shrugged and let her draw her own conclusion.

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30

When Cheyenne opened the door, neither of us said a word for an unbearable length of time. She looked better than when I’d seen her last. The puffiness around her eyes was gone, and her skin sparkled after a recent shower. “What are we doing, Texas?” she finally asked. “Wyoming, you tell me.” “You don’t have a theory?” “Sure I do.” “Care to share it?” “Are you going to invite me in?” “I don’t know yet.” “Fair enough. The way I see it is, life is short. It’s a cliché but it’s also true. Maybe when you shake hands with the Grim Reaper, you take clichés more seriously. At any rate, if your father were here and asking my intentions, I’d tell him I have no long range plans about you or anybody else. I only have short range plans. This week, for example, I have to finish a script I’m overdue rewriting. With regard to you, I want to see you again. In fact, I want to go to bed with you again. But I have no preconceptions about the time table for any of that. I’m standing here, Wyoming, because I want to be here.” She smiled. “You an actor as well as a writer?” “Not really. But there’s one thing you have to understand about actors.”

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“What’s that?” “They tell the truth. They may change the facts but they always tell the truth.” “That’s a contradiction in terms.” “No, it isn’t.” “What am I missing here?” “If you let me in, and maybe gave me a beer, I think I could explain it to you.” “Oh, you do, do you?” “I’d give it my best shot.” The ensuing silence was shorter than the previous one. As soon as Cheyenne shook her head, smiling all the while, I knew what she was going to do. She moved back out of the doorway so I could step inside. And I did.

END

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