Chapter 22

I pulled through the gate at Cinda's place about two in the morning. I'd had the radio playing, surfing through the stations and wishing Albuquerque had just one good jazz or country station, but I turned it off as I passed through the gate. I didn't expect anything to be going on, but I wanted to be able to hear it if there was. I rolled down my window, too – though vehicles don't have insulation against heat and cold that's any good, they've gotten better at keeping out external noise. And just to complete my probably unnecessary precautions, I turned off my lights. I crept around the parking lot with no illumination but the sodium vapor lights on their poles, and no sound but the Blazer's engine, which was quieter than you'd expect for something as powerful as I'd put in it after I bought the vehicle.

I parked in front of a building that sat a few yards from Cinda's, and paused before closing the door. Normally I would leave my gun in the Blazer without thinking, but tonight I did think about it. And because I've learned that sometimes my hunches are right, I reached under the seat and pulled the gun out. I clipped the holster to my belt, drew the weapon, and worked the slide to bring a round up into the chamber. I uncocked the weapon, checked to be sure the safety was on, and holstered the gun, making sure the little strap was secure across the hammer. That strap serves two purposes – it keeps a gun from falling out of the holster, and it keeps the hammer from moving and thus creating an accidental discharge, not that an automatic pistol with the safety on is likely to fire no matter how rough the country is that your traveling.

After all those precautions, I didn't make any effort to be quiet as I approached on foot. Straight would recognize my heels as they knocked against the sidewalk – for he knows my steps. I've known a lot of people, but very few are so good at remembering and recognizing individual patterns of walking that they can hear someone approach and be as sure of who it is as if they'd seen the person. Straight's one of 'em.

As I came up to Cinda's building I saw Straight lounging against a dark-colored SUV a few spots further on past Cinda's door. Without looking my way he lifted a hand and waved. In an urban setting he's as good a concealment and discernment as I am in the desert. He knew it was me, and he knew where I was – and I saw him because he wanted me to. If he'd decided I was someone to beware of, I'd never have known he was around.

Cinda's place was dark, and I prowled around checking her windows and door before I went to stand near Straight, leaning my own behind against a fairly decrepit old Nissan. I could remember – barely – when the company's trade name in the United States was Datsun. My brother Memphis tells me that in the Far East the cars always sold under the Nissan brand, but for some reason they'd been Datsuns at first here in the United States. Leaning on the Nissan, I said, "How goes it?"

"Like, pretty mellow, man."

"It seems Bestwick ain't showed up around here since the cops ran him off Saturday."

"Looks like. Think maybe he's mellowed out?"

"Not him. I went to see him Monday, and he's obsessed. Maybe he's a psychopath, I don't know. But he ducks and dodges everything you say to him to try to convince him to leave her alone."

"I could convince him."

"I don't doubt it, Straight. But we're not at that stage, and I hope we never get there."

He shook his head, his hair loose around his shoulders. "You give more breaks to people who don't deserve a break than anyone I ever knew, man. You let me, I settle this thing in five minutes."

"Yeah, but we don't want a corpse."

"I could convince him without killing him."

"Straight, listen to me." As far as I know, I'm the only one who talks to him like that, and the only reason I do is I started before I knew enough about him to know better. I've kept on because it seems to work – and I don't want to give away an advantage, not though he is my friend. "We're gonna do this my way. I'm paying the bills and I'm giving the orders, and you'll do it my way or we'll find someone else to do the night shift."

"Sure, whatever, Darvin. You're the boss." He shrugged. "Just you're wastin' your money doin' it this way. At the rate you're payin' me I could save you large money by talking to him myself."

"Yeah – but it's my money to waste."

"I'm mellow."

"I wonder how mellow."

He grinned – I could see his teeth in the light of the moon, which hadn't yet waned to darkness. "Maybe I toked a bit earlier, maybe I did. Don't worry about my mellowness."

"Just don't get too mellow. If something happens I don't want your reactions to slow down to crippled snail speed."

"You ever know me to be slow when it counted?"

"No, I guess I haven't."

"If this Bestwick guy shows up ready to go, I'll give him what he needs, and he'll never know what hit him."

"Just don't do more to him than you have to – if it comes to it, and I hope it doesn't. If it does, I hope it's when someone else is on."

"Yeah, I know you." He chuckled. "You got the bleeding heart for the bad guys. Anyone else in your job woulda shot me already, and here you are paying me to work for you."

"I hope you don't want me to shoot you." As I said it I thought that given our lines of work, the day might come when I did have to shoot him.

"Naw. Bleeding too much is bad for the digestion. Besides, you're not a shooter. If it comes to you an' me, you'll be in trouble."

"If it comes to you and me, Straight, I'll look you right in the eye and shoot you right in the other one. Don't ever doubt that." I hoped he wouldn't doubt it – but I had my doubts, for he was right. I'm not a shooter, and shooting a friend, even in self-defense, would be hard. I never want to know if I can do it. But I couldn't let Straight know that. Being friends with him is like being friends with a mountain lion – you love the cat, but you don't turn your back either.

Straight didn't reply. Perhaps he believed me, perhaps not. I was certain that I hadn't scared him, not so's you'd notice anyway. He just didn't have anything to say, so he didn't say anything. In that he's like the Lahtkwa Indians that I'm connected to through my father. My raising was white, and so my customs are white, but one custom that I admire is that if the Lahtkwa don't have anything to say, they just keep their mouths shut. I don't live on the reservation and I'm not an elder, so I've never been at any important councils, but once Memphis took me to a meeting where some local elders were trying to decide how to handle a man who'd beat up his wife, and though the meeting was a couple of hours long the actual talking was probably only an hour or so.

I remembered, leaning on the Nissan, that the first option the elders had rejected had been reporting the man to the law. Both state law and tribal law made what the man had done a crime, but they viewed it from a more traditional point of view. I don't know much at all about traditional Lahtkwa beliefs and customs, but I gathered that they believed that only someone who was out of harmony with the tribe's protective spirits could hit his wife, and the way to solve the problem was to find a way to bring him back into harmony with those spirits. It was all foreign to me, and contrary to my convictions – but I was a guest, so I kept my mouth shut. I probably ought to do that more often, but I seem to have a reflex – my foot automatically inserts itself in my mouth.

After a bit Straight said, "I understand Rudy's looking for that boy disappeared from Martineztown last month."

"I hadn't heard that he'd caught the case, but if you've heard it I suppose it's true."

"Tell him he might want to talk to a guy name of Boca Verdugo, runs around up there, thinks he's bad."

"Why don't you tell him?"

"He's a cop, Darvin."

I laughed. "Oh yeah, I forgot. You don't talk to cops."

He didn't laugh. "No, I don't. I don't even like working with one. Cops are cops, Darvin – they're all pigs."

I gritted my teeth, but managed to speak calmly. "Rudy's not a pig – and he's my friend, which counts for something. And in case you forgot, I used to be a cop too, and I'm still a PI."

He waved a hand. "Hey, sorry, man, didn't mean to make you mad. You know me – I shoot off my mouth sometimes."

And I did know him. He did shoot off his mouth sometimes. And I knew the feeling, for I've said stupid, hurtful things myself, not thinking of the harm they'd cause. Rather than pursue it, I said, "Well, shoot, I guess I'll boogie. Tell Beth I said hey." And I walked off. I know me, and I know Straight, and there was nothing else to do, given who and what we are. But as I got into the Blazer I wished we both were better than we are.