While Drowning in the Desert (9 page)

Ms. Pamela A. Holmstrum

Claims Superintendent

Western States Insurance Co.

801 Flower Street

Los Angeles, CA

8 August 1983

Dear Pamela,

As the Muller household was built in a failing real-estate development, he had only one neighbor, a Mr. Nathan Silverstein. Mr. Silverstein is eighty-six years old and, when I contacted him in my initial investigation, claims to have seen “nothing—
bubkus.
” Nevertheless I have tried to recontact Mr. Silverstein but he does not seem to be in town. I shall keep trying.

But I must still recommend that you lower your testosterone level and settle this file.

Sincerely,

Craig

P.S.: Thank you for your characterization of me as your stereotypical “Jew lawyer.” Sorry to shatter your dearly held illusions, but I am six-three, blue-eyed with straight black hair. Yes, I am a Democrat, a
proud
member of the ACLU, and voted against Ronald Reagan numerous times. I liked Woody Allen before he decided that he was Ingmar Bergman.

By Fax

Dear Craig,

If I get rid of some excess testosterone as you suggest, shall I send it to you? Sounds like you could use some.

Pam

By Fax

Dear Pam,

I am the Palm Desert triathlete champion in the 35-43 age bracket.

Craig

By Fax

Dear Craig,

I could run, swim, and bike you into the ground.

Pam

By Fax

Pam,

Want to meet for lunch Monday and discuss it?

Craig

By Fax

Craig,

You bet.

Pam

Chapter 11

Of course I didn’t have the benefit of seeing this epistolary yuppie romance until it was too late. Ditto the tapes that the testosteronally challenged—by Pam Holmstrum—Craig Schaeffer went out and got from Heinz Muller’s telephone:

10 August.
From a tape made by Attorney Craig D. Schaeffer of a conversation between Heinz Muller (HM) and Amin Abdullah (AA).

AA: Hello, Heinz?

HM: This is my home telephone.

AA: I know, this is why I called you here, okay?

(Seventeen seconds of silence.)

AA: Hello? Hello?

HM: Did you take care of it?

AA: Take care of what?

HM: The old Jew.

AA: Sure, okay. I took care of it, okay?

HM:
Ja
, good. It’s about time you did some—

AA: Don’t worry, okay? I scared him off.

(Twenty-three seconds of silence.)

HM: You did
what?

AA: I scared him away, okay? I called him up, told him maybe fire could happen at
his
house, you never know, okay? I told him—

HM: You are an idiot.

AA: No, I didn’t call him an idiot, but I—

HM: No, I’m calling
you
—

AA: No, I’m calling you, remember, okay? Anyway, I don’t think the old Jew ever is coming back.

HM: Idiot! Moron!

AA: Heinz, what’s the matter, okay?

HM: You were not supposed to scare him off, you were supposed to
take care
of him.

AA: I thought we didn’t like him.

HM: No, idiot.
Take care
of him.

(Thirty seconds of silence.)

AA: You mean
kill
him?

HM: I suppose I was trying to not actually say it.

AA: Heinz, you think the phone is bugged?

HM: No, the stupid Jew lawyer belongs to the ACLU.

AA: Heinz, when do we get the money, okay? The insurance company stopped sending me my checks and I’m getting low on cash, okay? And I lose bundle in casino just now, okay? Damn Vegas, I—

HM: You get the cash when you finish the job.

AA: Heinz, the house is burned to the ground, okay?

(Twelve seconds of silence.)

HM: The old Jew.

AA: You want me to burn
his
house to the ground?

(Fifteen seconds of silence.)

AA: Hello? Hello?

HM: The old Jew saw you leave the house when you set the fire, ja?

AA: I saw him looking out his window, okay?

HM: So he is a witness,
ja?

AA: I guess so. It was dark, okay.

HM: If there is a witness to setting the fire, you won’t get any money.

AA: Okay, okay.

HM: So you must take care of him.

AA: But Heinz, I scared him off, okay? I don’t know where he is.

HM: I suppose this is my point, Sami.

AA: Ah.

HM: Sami.

AA: Yes, Heinz.

HM: Find the old Jew. Find Silverstein!

(Call terminated.)

Then there’s this one, made on the same day I was cruising I-15 looking for Nathan myself: 14 August.
From a tape made by Attorney Craig D. Schaeffer, of a conversation between Heinz Muller (HM) and Amin Abdullah (AA), and an unidentified voice (UV).

HM:
Ja
, hello.

AA: Heinz, hello.

HM:
Ja?

AA: I’m driving on my way back from Vegas.

HM: Ja, good.

AA: Allah is good, Heinz, okay?

HM: If you say so, Sami.

AA: I see a car off the side of the road. I see an old man standing beside the car. I picked him up.

HM: This is fascinating, Sami.

AA: An old man, Heinz, okay?
An old man.

(Ten seconds of silence.)

HM: An old man.

AA: An
old man,
okay?

HM: An old man.

AA: An old man. He’s sitting here now.

HM: What old man?

(An unidentified voice in background of calling party.)

UV: Ask me who’s on first?

AA: Not now, please. I’m talking on the phone.

UV: Ask me who’s on first?!

AA: Who’s on first, okay?

UV: Right.

AA: Right’s on first.

UV: No, who’s on first.

AA: That’s what I ask you, okay? Who’s on first?

HM: Hello? Hello? Sami?

AA: What?

UV: What’s on second.

HM: Second? What? Who?

UV: No, who’s on first.

AA: I don’t know!

UV: Third base.

HM: What?!

UV: What’s on second.

AA: It’s the old man talking!

HM: Who?!

UV: Who’s on first.

HM: What?

UV: What’s on second.

AA: I don’t know.

UV: Third base.

The tape goes on for quite some time but I think you get the idea. Judging by the timing of the tapes, it was about an hour later when Sami pulled off the road to let Nathan use the men’s room.
   Then:

HM: Ja,, hello?

AA: Heinz, it’s me.

HM: Where is the old man? Did you take care of him?

AA: Yes, he’s in the men’s room, okay?

HM: You left the body in the men’s room?!

AA: No, he went by himself. Listen, Heinz, good news! The old man didn’t recognize me so we don’t have to kill him!

(Fifteen seconds of silence.)

HM: He’s smarter than I thought. He is pretending not to recognize you.

AA: Why would he do that?

HM: So you don’t kill him. They’re clever, these old Jews.

AA: Not clever, Heinz—
crazy.
He keeps talking about sandwiches and naked ladies with birds and some guy named Mincemeat who knew Dali.

HM: Who?

AA: Please don’t start that again, okay?

HM: You know what you have to do, Sami.

AA: I don’t think it’s necessary, Heinz.

HM: When did you start thinking, Sami? Do what you’re told.

AA: Heinz, I have to hang up, okay? He’s talking to someone.

(Call terminated.)

Chapter 12

Guess who nathan was talking to.

Bingo.

Of course, I didn’t know about any of this when I rolled up and saw Nathan coming out of the men’s room. I stopped the car, jumped out, ran over and…

Okay, I hugged him. It wasn’t out of affection, mind you, it was from sheer relief.

After I finished hugging him, I held him at arm’s length and yelled, “Where have you been?! I’ve been worried sick about you! I called the police, the hospital, the mor—”

“Did I tell you…”

“No jokes now, Nathan,” I said. “Why did you take the car? Where have you been?”

Nathan started to answer when a voice behind me said, “He’s been with me, okay? He’s okay, okay?”

He was a little guy, late thirties, curly black hair and big brown eyes. I couldn’t quite place the accent, but it was Middle Eastern of some sort. He was wearing a ridiculous Hawaiian print shirt with a lot of flowers, white chinos and Gucci loafers with no socks.

“I picked him up,” the guy continued, “and I’m giving him a ride home.”

“I really appreciate that,” I answered. “But I can take him from here.”

The guy said, “I’m going his way, okay? No trouble. I live in Palm Desert.”

“I’m going his way, too.”

“Who are you?” the guy asked.

“Who am I?” I asked. “Who are
you?
”

You can take the boy out of New York … et cetera.

“Who are you?” the guy asked. “Mr. Silverstein, do you know this guy?”

“He knows me,” I said. “I sort of work for him. Come on, Nathan, let’s go.”

“Neal, you—”

“He doesn’t have to go with you, okay?” the guy said. “He’s going with me.”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I do,” he said.

Now this was a little guy. I figured even
I
could take him if I had to, and I’m no fighter. I have virtually none of the attributes of a good fighter: size, strength, speed, coordination, or courage. And even I could have handled this guy.

Except for the gun.

A sleek little automatic that suddenly poked out of the ridiculous Hawaiian shirt and pressed into my stomach.

Did I mention I’m not especially courageous?

Now if you’ve seen a lot of private-eye movies or television shows, you’ll know that this is the point where the hero gets a glinty cold look in his eye, then brings a lightning-quick karate chop down on the villain’s wrist, knocking the gun to the ground. Then they struggle until the hero aims a punch to the villain’s jaw and knocks him cold.

None of that happened. None of that happened because a) I am not especially courageous; and b) while it is true that there are no Nobel Prize committees waiting outside my door, neither am I a complete moron, popular opinion notwithstanding.

And while it is true that the hand is quicker than the eye, a bullet is quicker than either of them. So when someone shoves a gun into your tummy, you do several things: tremble, have an instant religious revelation, and sweat profusely. I guess that my whole life would also have passed before my eyes, but I was depressed enough already.

There’s something else you do when someone shoves a gun into your tummy: You do what he says, which in this case was, “Get into the car, okay?”

As we were walking back to the car Nathan whispered to me, “I was trying to tell you.”

“I know that now.”

“You are the dumbest Irishman I have ever met.”

“Shut up,” the little guy hissed.

He put Nathan in the passenger seat then climbed into the back while he held the gun on Nathan and told me to drive.

I slid behind the wheel.

“Okay, drive,” said the little guy.

“This is a standard shift,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I don’t know how to drive a standard shift.”

“I shoot you.”

“It’s true.”

“I shoot you,” he said. “Drive.”

“Believe him,” Nathan said. “He really is that stupid.”

“I really am.”

You could hear the little guy thinking about what to do. It seemed like he thought for a long time.

Then he said, “Drive or I shoot you.”

I turned the key in the ignition. There was a horrible, metallic screeching noise. It was either the engine or the little guy’s voice as he screamed, “This is a 1965 Mustang! It’s very valuable!”

“Not for long,” I said.

I cranked the engine again and stepped on a pedal or something.

“Nooooo!!!!” he screamed. “Okay, okay, okay, okay, okay, okay.
I
drive.”

It took awhile for Nathan to climb into the backseat and me to slide into the passenger seat and Sami—as I later learned and you already know was his preferred alias—to climb into the driver’s seat. Especially as Sami was trying to hold the gun on both of us while we were all doing what I would later come to refer to as the Lebanese Fire Drill.

But I began to feel a little better as I realized that Sami was not exactly Clyde Barrow when it came to being a gunslinger.

When we were all settled in, Sami said, “No funny business, okay?”

I think career criminals should be banned from watching old movies, don’t you?

“No funny business,” I said. “No monkey business either.”

Then Sami seemed to be having difficulty figuring out how to shift, steer, and hold the gun in order to pull out of the rest stop. He simply didn’t have enough hands.

“I’ll hold the gun,” I offered. “And if I try any funny business I promise I’ll shoot myself.”

But Sami apparently decided that the better option would be to stick the gun between his legs and expose himself to both the chance of emasculation and comments of a Freudian nature. So this is what he did, and pretty soon we were roaring west on Interstate 15.

For about a minute. Then he turned south onto a two-lane blacktop. The sign read,
Cima
—
East Mojave National Scenic Area.

And even I had figured out by that point that Nathan had a definite reason for running away from Palm Desert and not wanting to go back, and that this reason was connected to the small but well-armed man now driving us somewhere for some reason I did not know.