Over the Edge (39 page)

'Name?'

'He called her Slit.'

'Sweet. I'll run a check with Juvie. Let's head back. I want to put a couple of calls through.'

We turned around and walked back toward the cafe. When we reached the Matador, Milo got in and began talking into the radio. While I waited, I peered inside the cafe. A small, shrivelled man in a plaid flannel shirt and overalls stood behind the counter, scouring the chrome-lipped top with a wet rag. The counter stools were chrome-legged mushrooms with red leather tops. An inert Black Forest cuckoo clock hung on the knotty pine wall, next to a third-rate oil painting of Lake Tahoe. Strains of country music - George Jones lamenting that his blood could start a still - floated forth from a cheap transistor radio.

The music was overtaken by engine sounds from the north. I turned and saw a jeep appear to float over the horizon. It sped on and slowed down at the cordon. The driver stared at the crime techs, then coasted to a halt in front of the cafe, turned off the motor, and got out. The jeep bore the emblem of the Parks Department, and the man wore a ranger uniform. He was in his forties, skinny, and sun-cured with generous features, round wire-rim eyeglasses, and an Abe Lincoln beard. Wisps of yellow hair sneaked out from under the brim of his Smokey the Bear hat. The back of his neck was the colour of steak tartare. 'Sergeant Sturgis?' he asked. 'That's him over there.'

'Bill Sarna.' He extended a hand as hard and dry as rawhide.

'Alex Delaware.'

'Sergeant?' 'Consultant.'

That puzzled him, but he smiled through it. I looked over at Milo.

'He should be off in a moment.'

He glanced at the cafe's open door.

'I'm going to go see how Asa's doing. Come on in when you're ready.'

He removed his hat and entered Sal's.

Several minutes later we joined him at the counter. Inside were more third-rate landscapes, more time warp ambience: a shelfful of Depression glass; a tool and die company calendar dating from 1967, a wall menu listing steak and eggs for $1.59 and nickel coffee. Cobwebs tapestried every corner. The place smelled stale and musty, like the mausoleum it was.

'Hello, gents,' croaked the old man. He was moving a lot without accomplishing much - darting, pacing, scrubbing nonexistent stains, patting, wiping. His face had a caved-in look, the legacy of several years of toothlessness; his hyperactivity seemed theatrical, a charade designed to coat the place with the veneer of vitality.

Sarna stood. He and Milo introduced themselves.

'Like to offer you fellows coffee or something,' said the old man, 'but I been a little lax about provisions.'

'That's okay, Asa,' said the ranger. 'Next time.'

'You betcha. Chicken-fried steak and buttermilk biscuits with snap beans and chicory coffee. Maybe next time?'

'Sure.' Sarna smiled. 'Looking forward to it.' He put a hand on Skagg's shoulder, told him to take care of himself, and led us out of the cafe.

'How's his mind?' asked Milo.

'Good enough for eighty-three.'

'What about as a witness?'

The ranger put on his hat and adjusted it.

'Sometimes he gets a little lost in wishful thinking.'

'Terrific. Has he been suicidal before?'

Sarna looked surprised.

'Before?'

As Milo told him about the hose around the exhaust pipe, his face grew grim. The moustacheless beard made him look like an Amish elder.

'That's news to me. I've always thought of him as a solid old guy with too many memories. As far as being a quality witness, I couldn't say.'

'He have any family?'

'Not that I know of.'

'Who can I talk to about looking in on him?'

'There's a senior citizens' group at the Baptist church, but as far as I know, Asa's a nonbeliever. If you want, I can ask around.'

'I'd appreciate that, Bill.'

Up the road the technicians had started to pack up.

'My captain said it was a nasty one,' said Sarna, watching. 'Biker cutting?'

Milo nodded.

'We get a few of those each year, mostly in Angeles Crest. Which club was involved?'

'We don't know. Skaggs couldn't identify any colours.'

'What about the victim?'

'The victim wasn't a biker.'

'Hmm. That's worrisome. Most of our calls are the result of those turkeys getting blasted on booze and crank and tearing away at each other. But for the most part, they've stayed away from the straights. Hope this isn't the start of something. Do you need help with your search?'

'No, thanks. The search is over. We sent guys out in all directions hours ago, but they didn't find a thing. Later the techs told us that the tyre tracks pointed back to the highway.'

'That means they could have headed into one of the northern canyons or back into the city. When did it happen?'

'About eight this morning.'

'Then it's too late to do anything about it. Asa give you any physical description?'

'One was fat; the other was skinny. Which clubs ride around here?'

'The major ones - Angels, Mongols, Satan's Disciples -as well as a bunch of smaller packs that come and go. They tend to headquarter in Foothill Division - Tujunga, Sunland - and use parkland for partying.'

'Is this parkland?'

'No. Originally it was owned by the army. Then it was transferred to private ownership. But once in a while we patrol here anyway. The surrounding canyons have been earmarked for recreational development, and unless you've got a map, the boundaries are tricky. If you're asking whether this is a hub of biker activity, it isn't.'

'What kind of criminal stuff goes on here?'

'In Bitter Canyon specifically? Not much. Once in a great while we come across a body that was killed elsewhere and dumped. Then there's the usual petty stuff- teenagers drinking, poachers bagging tortoises. Nothing heavy.'

'What I'm getting at is this,' said Milo. 'Our victim may have been engaged in a blackmail scheme. The homicide could have resulted from a payoff gone bad. Can you think of any reason someone would come all the way out here to transact business?'

Sarna removed his glasses and grew contemplative.

'Just that it'd be far from prying eyes. It's a darned quiet place, Milo. No tourism to speak of, because it's not as pretty as some of the other spots. The lake's impressive, but it's inaccessible for fishing or water sports. Lately there's been a little more traffic because of the power plant - surveyors, architects, construction people - but even they're few and far between.'

'What kind of power plant?' I asked.

'Hydroelectric.'

'From a lake?'

Milo looked at me curiously, but he didn't cut me off.

'It's more than the lake,' said Sarna. 'Bitter Canyon's not really a canyon at all. It's a water-filled volcanic crater surrounded by sloping mountain walls and fed by underground streams. It's the streams that make the difference, because you get constant replenishment. The estimates run into the billions of gallons. Untapped.' He'd segued into a

lecture and was enjoying it. 'There's a ten-year plan with two long-range goals: to harness the water for enough energy to meet the needs of the northern Valley and to establish an emergency drought control reservoir that interfaces with the aqueduct.'

'Sounds like the quiet days will be over.'

'Once the construction gets going. It's a huge undertaking - forty-five million dollars for the plant alone and another twenty-five million for the town that's supposed to grow around it. They've been talking about it for years. It got a kick in the pants a few years back when we had that drought and all the fancy restaurants stopped serving water with dinner. Then the rains finally came, and things quieted down. They revived it about two years ago, but it took quite a bit of backroom politics to push through a bond issue to finance it.'

'Environmentalists?' I asked.

'No. Like I said, except for the lake itself, which few people ever see, it's not particularly pretty around here, and the locals are more interested in jobs than preserving creosote. But there was a conflict-of-interest matter that took a while to resolve; the company that owned the land was the prime bidder to build the plant.'

'Cadmus Construction?'

'That's right,' he said, surprised. Then he looked at us with sudden insight. 'Homicide cops from West L.A. That case, huh?'

'Bill,' said Milo, leaning forward conspiratorially, 'we don't know yet. And we'd appreciate it if this conversation were kept under wraps.'

The ranger drew a line across his lips.

'Sealed.'

'Muchas gracias.' My friend smiled. 'The construction types who've been passing through, where do they go?'

'To the northeast rim of the crater. It's the only place you can get a look at the entire lake. They stand there and draw plans.'

'Do they ever get down to the lake itself?'

'Nope. It's a two-day descent for an experienced climber. With pitons and rope.'

'How about giving us directions so we can take a look ourselves?'

'What are you driving?'

Milo pointed to the Matador.

The ranger shook his head.

'Forget it unless you feel like hiking. The road ends four miles before the viewpoint. It's four-wheeler terrain. I'll take you in the jeep.'

We hurtled south over a progressively deteriorating road, the ride bone-jarring, the view through the window flaps of the jeep a horizontal slash of ghost-pale rock, infinite and inert. But Sarna made it come alive, giving names to the scrub - greasewood, honey mesquite, rabbit brush -directing our eyes toward rare oases of activity - a flock of birds feasting upon a bitter cherry bush, an alligator lizard scurrying across the spines of a fan palm - extolling the beauty of a single, time-ravaged digger pine, describing the savagery of a hard winter in the high desert and the resilience of those creatures that survive.

Throughout it all Milo slumped in his seat, nodding at the appropriate time, his mind fixed upon a different kind of savagery.

The transition from blacktop to dirt caused the jeep's chassis to vibrate like a bowstring. The dirt turned to sand, and our wheels kicked up a dust storm. Sarna seemed to view it as a challenge, maintaining his speed and playing with the gears in lieu of braking. Milo and I held on to our seats.

We climbed and dipped through the scrub, then climbed again. Remembering what Milo had said about roller coasters, I looked over and saw him: shut-eyed, tight-lipped, and honeydew green.

The jeep continued to rise. Sarna gave one final feed of gas, and we lurched to the top before reaching a shadowed plateau. He came to a halt, set the parking brake, and bounded out.

'We've got to take the last bit on foot.'

We got out and stood facing a stand of pines. Most of the trees were dead - hollow grey hulls with jagged, dry spikes for branches, some felled, others tilting improbably out of the parched earth. The live ones didn't look significantly better. The space between their trunks was filled by eye-searing flashes of grey-white light, and we were forced to look down.

Sarna found a pathway through the trees. We followed him, ankle-deep in leaf dust, stepping gingerly over brittle spindles of dead branches. Once Milo snagged his trouser leg and had to stop to free himself. He still looked ill, but his colour had returned to normal.

Beyond the trees was a clearing, and as we neared it, the grey-white light grew unbearably intense. We walked haltingly toward open ground, shading our eyes with our hands. Sarna stopped along a sloping, sandy rim blemished by random mounds of rock. And beyond the rim, the white-hot light.

'It's hard to see at this time of day,' said the ranger. 'But if we stand over there, we can probably get enough shade. Be careful, the ground tilts sharply.'

He led us to the shelter of one of the rock formations, a pile of boulders topped by an overhanging sandstone shelf. We stood under the shelf and looked out.

The lake was an opal set into the sun-gilded earth. Its surface was as brilliant as a crystal mirror, so static that it seemed artificial. A single step out of the shade turned it into a blinding disc of luminescence, as Milo quickly learned.

'Jesus,' he said, shielding his face and returning to shelter.

Sarna lowered the brim of his hat and nodded.

'The setting sun hits the rocks at an angle that sets off one heck of a refraction. It's another reason few people come up here.'

'It's like a goddamn sheet of plate glass,' said Milo, rubbing his eyes.

'That's what the Spanish thought, too. They named it El

Canon Vidrio, which later became vulgarised to Bitter Canyon. Which is a shame, don't you think? Because on top of being a heck of a lot prettier, the Spanish is accurate.

'Vidrio,' said Milo.

'Sure,' said the ranger. 'The glass canyon.'

SARNA DROPPED us off back at the cafe, and Milo spent another half hour talking to Asa Skaggs, making small talk and trying to find out if he remembered seeing anyone matching Jamey's, Chancellor's, or Gary's description in the recent past. The old man stopped scouring a cold griddle and thought, scratching his head and sucking on his toothless gums.

'Yamagooch - that's a Jap name, ain't it?'

'That's right.'

'We used to have Japs around, in the relocation camp up near Mojave.'

'During World War Two?'

'You bet. Later they let 'em out and put 'em in the army, and I hear they done pretty well - tough little monkeys.'

'I was thinking a bit more recently, Mr. Skaggs.'

'Hmm. No, haven't seen any Japs since then. Plenty of 'em in the city, though. Near San Pedro Street, They call it Little Tokyo now. Got a lady in town, Alma Bachman,

who likes to drive over there and eat raw fish. Says it makes her feel younger, which don't make much sense, does it?'

'Not much,' said Milo.

'You remember those days pretty well, don't you, Mr. Skaggs?' I said. 'During the war and right after?'

'You bet.'

'Do you remember the man who bought the army base?'

'Mr. Black Jack Cadmus? Hard to forget him. Now, that was a gentleman, the kind you don't see no more. Carried himself like a king. Beautiful clothes, down to the spats. Sometimes he'd drive up to look at the lake and stop in for a fill-up and a window wash. I remember the car. Twenty-seven Bugatti. Forty-one Royale, the one with the big monobloc straight eight and the twin-choke carburettor. Jet black and big as a bus. He'd had it restored in Italy and shipped over. The way the thing was put together you had to strip the whole engine down if you needed to work on the valves. Maintenance alone cost enough to support half a dozen families for a year, but that's what the man was like. High style, only the best for him. Once in a while, if I was changin' oil or checkin' the tyres, he'd come in here, sit right where you're sittin'. Have a cup of coffee and a chocolate roll - the man loved chocolate. Sal used to say he coulda been a movie star with that black hair and them white teeth.'