In Dark Corners (7 page)

And that's when they appeared, like something from a David Copperfield magic show, you unnerstand. One second I was alone, then these two weird dudes were standing there inside the door looking at me.

"How'd you get in?" I finally asked, setting down the handbag with the silver holder inside.

They didn't answer, but one stepped forward. And I thought at the time it was probably the same guy we'd hit at Golden Gate Fields—not that there appeared to be much difference in the size or looks of the two. They both stared at me with those wide-open, curious eyes like little kids.

Then the closest one said, "
You have something in your possession that does not belong to you. It is our property
."

Automatically I began to shake my head, to deny everything. "I doan know what you mean, man," I answered, trying to look indignant.

"
Yes, you do and the item is irreplaceable
," he said, holding up his hand in the stop motion. "
Please do not waste our time
."

Only then did it occur to me that the dude wasn't really talking to me.

[washed]

Well, it was like he was just moving his mouth…lip-synching like one of them rock 'n roll singers, you unnerstand; and his words were only in my head. For a moment or two I was stunned, like I'd been mugged, you know.

Then he said, "
The item is invaluable to us and cannot be lost
."

Finally I recovered enough to speak. "What is it?" I blurted out.

"
It's a
..."

He hesitated momentarily, as if considering how much to reveal. Finally he said, "
It's a kit containing instruments necessary for our cultural research
."

Research? Whoa!

I took a good look at these two dudes. Now, I'd been out to San Francisco State, hustling students, and these two didn't look nothing like anybody out there. No way, man.

But before I could say anything more the one standing back came forward a step. "
We waste time
," he said, and he wasn't really speaking either, his words only in my head. But they seemed to ring with authority, like he was the head enchilada, you know.

Anyhow, he ordered, "
Use the probe
."

The first guy looked back, then nodded.

I felt a stabbing, almost unbearable pain in the sinus above my right eye; and my throat spasmed, stifling a retch. Jesus.

"
The probe
," the first voice said in my head, as the red-hot poker of pain continued, still lodged in my sinus. "
Answer truthfully, and it will terminate instantly. Clear
?"

"Yes, yes," I shouted through the pain.

"
Where is our property
?"

I pointed at the bed, at the handbag.

"
Get it
," the voice ordered.

Through teary eyes, I picked up the handbag and quickly emptied it out on the bed. The silvery holder fell out onto the pile of socks and underwear.

I picked it up and handed it to the first dude.

The incredible pain was gone!

He was looking through the kit, taking an inventory, when we heard a key at the lock, and Frankie stepped back into the room.

He just stared at the two dudes for a minute or so, and they stared back.

Then, the guy with the silvery holder turned to me and asked, "
This is your cohort
?"

I nodded, figuring he meant crime partner.

Frankie asked, "Wha's going on, Smooth? These dudes cops?" His voice was so slurred the words were barely understandable.

I shrugged. "They come for the timepiece and holder," I answered; and before I could say anything else, I saw the nearest dude hit the stop button under the timepiece face...

***

And when we came to, they was gone.

[washed]

Yeah, that's all of it, man.

What's going on? Who were these dudes?

[washed]

What do you mean [washed]—?

[washed]

Sure, sure, I unnerstand. I read you. You doan need to get all huffy, man

[washed]

Well, when we first woke up, I noticed Frankie's right eye was really fucked-up, the white completely red, you know…But when he spoke his voice was clear, not even the hint of a slur. Didn't have no shaking in his hands either.

[washed]

Nah, at the time I didn't figure it had anything to do with those guys. Why would I connect it? I was still kinda punchy myself, you understand. But now...Well, I don't know what they did while we was out.

[washed]

Yeah, that's right, I had a bloodshot eye, too.

[washed]

Yeah, you might be right, but there was nothing for them to fix on me after they did their scan or whatever. Nothing wrong with my head, man. Only Frankie had the Parkers. Me, I had no defects at all, you know.

[washed]

Well, I don't know. Frankie thinks we should get outta the life, you know, give up hustling. He's talking about getting a straight job or something like that.

And I been thinking we are getting a little old for the life, you unnerstand. Maybe it's time we got us a straight gig. Not a job though, kinda late for that, but maybe a business. Read in the
Chronicle
a while back that specialty cleaning or maintenance businesses were doing pretty well. And they don't take too many start-up scoots.

Hey, you know Frankie's got a real talent with a buffer. Ask Bilt if his floors ever looked better downstairs in the hall. And with my organizational skills, I don't know, maybe we could run one of them floor-stripping 'n waxing deals. Just an idea. Course I'd have to work it all out with Frankie, the partnership, you know. He's been different since he got rid of that Parkers, acting real independent-like. Which, is real good, man, don't get me wrong, you unnerstand. So, we'll see.

[End of washed transcript]

Once part of a row of elegant, brick, single-family residences, the converted old building now stood alone, with a gaudy pink neon sign hanging over its entryway announcing: Coney Island Bar.

Dressed in old boots, well-worn jeans, and a faded red-checked western shirt, Rowdy Williams stepped inside the old-time saloon doors, paused, and nodded, recognizing the music blasting from the jukebox over the crowd noise. Willie Nelson was halfway through "Georgia" in his cracked, country voice and Mickey Raphael was kicking in with his hip harmonica riff. Sucking in a deep breath, Rowdy grinned in anticipation as the rich, spicy smells assailed his nostrils. Then he ambled toward the bar, noticing the tiny dining room in the back was still pretty full for this late in the afternoon. He knew they weren't tourists, because the place was well off the beaten track—halfway to Sparks—and no one would ever guess the Coney Island Bar served the best Italian food in northern Nevada. He'd been turned on to the place by another bronc rider a few years back when he was still on the circuit.

Rowdy found an empty spot at the bar and slipped onto a stool, making sure to keep his back straight.

"Hey, Rowdy…Rowdy Williams!" The red-headed bartender had recognized him and hurried over.

"Hi, Ron," Rowdy said, shaking the man's hand, "how's it going?"

Ron nodded. "How 'bout you? You haven't been in…how long? Over a year?"

Rowdy nodded. It had been about eighteen months since that last Reno Rodeo…followed by the car accident back home in Salinas. "Yeah, it's been a while, Ron. Not riding anymore, you know."

The bartender nodded, his smile stiffening into kind of an embarrassed look. "Yeah, we saw the paper. Sorry about the wife, man." He made himself busy wiping the already shiny-clean bar with a towel. Finished, Ron looked up and asked, "What brings you back up this way, Rowdy?"

With an effort Rowdy pulled his thoughts away from Sadie, who had been seven months pregnant with their first child, sighed under his breath, then explained, "Well, I just recently finished my physical therapy program in San José—you probably read about my back and all. Anyhow they operated, fused some discs, and I've been going through some heavy-duty rehab." He nodded absently.

Actually, the numbing bout with booze after he realized Sadie and the baby were gone had delayed the whole rehabilitation process. "I'm headed north up to the Lazy R, Jack Ricciardi's ranch near Wild Horse, between Mountain City on the border and Mountain Home, Idaho on the Snake River. You might've seen Jack in here at rodeo time."

"Don't think so, but heard the boys talk about the Lazy R. Provides bulls and horses for rodeos all around here, right?"

"Hell, he provides stock for most of the western states on the circuit," Rowdy explained, glancing in the mirror for familiar faces. "Anyhow, he offered me some temporary fence-mending work if I came up. Help get me back on my feet, you know. Probably last a couple of months. Big spread…"

Rowdy grinned.
Big
alright—Jack owned 15,000 acres and leased grazing rights to another 65,000 from BLM. "But I thought since I was passing through I'd get me a big plate of Coney Island spaghetti…ain't much variety up there at Wild Horse, you know."

Ron laughed. "I'll put your order in. And a salad, too, with thousand island, right?"

"Hey, you shoulda been an elephant with a memory like that…and I'll drink iced tea."

After Ron returned with his iced tea and salad, he leaned close across the bar and asked, "Say, Rowdy, that Wild Horse sounds real isolated? Off in the boonies? Not many people?"

"Hey, you know it, pal," Rowdy replied. "I think on good days they get one TV channel out of Mountain Home. You got to drive about forty miles of oiled gravel road after Mountain City across the edge of the Western Shoshone Indian Reservation. Oh, there's a big gypsum mine, but other than miners there's only a few hunters staying there during elk season."

"Well, we got a waitress here with a little problem," Ron interrupted, waving to someone back toward the kitchen, "and maybe you can help her, Rowdy. I didn't volunteer nothing, just thought you might listen—" He quickly slipped away to serve another customer down the bar.

Rowdy frowned as the woman came up and around the bar, taking the stool next to him. She said, "Hi."

He nodded, indicated he was listening, and forked up some salad.

"Ron said you're leaving after dinner for someplace up north? And you have a car—"

"Pickup, lady," Rowdy said, correcting her. "I'm driving an old white Ford pickup. Now, what's your problem?"

She just looked at him quietly for a moment, obviously noticing the cold edge of annoyance in his tone. Then she started to slip off the stool. "Sorry to bother you, cowboy."

"Hey, hey, okay," Rowdy said, softening his voice, his tone almost apologetic, something about the odd expression in her eyes stimulating his curiosity—kind of a mix of sad resignation and cold defiance. "Sit, please. Now, what's the problem?"

She stared for a moment or two, then explained in her sexy, husky voice. "I need to get away from here, today."

"Where do you need to go?"

"That part doesn't matter, as long as it's off the beaten track," she answered.

"Sounds like the law is after you," Rowdy offered, half jokingly.

The icy defiance glittered in her eyes. "Just need a ride, cowboy. Me and my little brother. That's all
you
need to know."

There was something vaguely familiar about this woman. She wore no makeup except for a little lipstick, but there was no denying she'd been fine-looking—hell, she was still quite attractive, except for the way she carried herself. It was her shoulders—kinda hunched forward slightly, like she was packing an invisible weight. And though she couldn't have been more than thirty or so, the crow's feet at the corners of her eyes were etched deeply. But those eyes—kinda violet and snapping full of life…
That
tickled his memory again. Rowdy was certain he'd met her before. Of course he'd met a lot of women when he was rodeoing, many of them waitresses or cocktail servers. But even with her kind of harried look, she'd never been any rodeo groupie,
not
with that expression of defiance in those beautiful eyes. No Way.

Then he had it!

The Calgary Stampede, back in '84 or maybe '85. The
White Horse Saloon.
She'd been singing then. Her name was on the tip of his tongue. They'd introduced her as the gal with violet fire in her eyes…But he couldn't quite pull out the name. So, all he said was, "I've seen you before. In Calgary, back in '84 when I was riding the rodeo circuit…"

"It was '85," she said, smiling broadly for the first time, her eyes sparkling like a pair of amethysts. "Ellie McFarron."

"Ellie, you were great, a terrific voice," he said sincerely, introducing himself as an afterthought. "Rowdy Williams."

"Well, the voice was okay back then, but it was the body that you cowboys came to see," she admitted frankly in her hoarse whisper. "Voice is pretty rough now, and the old body isn't what it used to be either." She shrugged, easily dismissing the past. "Anyway, how about that ride."

"No problem," he agreed simply. "When will you be ready?"

"I'm done work now," she said, slipping off the stool. "Got to get my check. I'm in room seven in the Halfway Motel across the street. We'll be ready when you're finished eating."

***

Rowdy rapped once and the door to room seven jerked open. Two suitcases stood to the right, and Ellie was holding her brother by the hand, looking a little nervous.

His appearance surprised Rowdy, because he really wasn't a young boy, though he was smallish—must've been twenty, maybe twenty-one. And the vacant expression and empty smile clearly spelled-out his mental condition.