Dress Her in Indigo (22 page)

"So now we know," I said, "why Rocko reacted the way he did to having somebody pry that little door open and take that tank of gas. He knew it had to be taken by somebody who knew what was hidden in it. The first guess would be Sessions. So he would go looking for him."

Meyer nodded. "Let's say he didn't find him. Sessions was found dead on the morning of the seventh. He could have stolen it, emptied it, hidden the stuff away, and died of an overdose."

"Or once he found him, maybe he was satisfied Carl knew nothing about it. And it would be fair to assume Rocko had enough left on hand to stick much too much into Sessions."

Meyer thought that over. Then he shook his head. "I can't buy that, Travis. I can't buy the idea that Rocko would kill anybody. Not then. Not at that time. Maybe now. Maybe he has been coming closer and closer. I think he gave it a lot of thought after he discovered a hiding place the border search had overlooked on the dry run. He knew that if he tried to cross with the whole group, five minutes of interrogation would crack any one of the other four, and the five of them would be busted. So they camped out, in wild areas. He knew that alone he could make it.

Maybe he had plans of marketing it at ten times his cost, hiding the cash in the same place, crossing back with it, and running another batch over again, for the big final score. I think he must have thought of the obvious way out. Chunk them on the head and bury them out in the wastelands. It's so completely efficient, he had to think about it. And if he didn't do it, it is because he couldn't bring himself to do it."

"Because he is such a nice guy."

"Because he decided they would destroy themselves if he nudged them in the right direction.

And check his track record so far. Carl and Bix are gone. We don't know about Minda McLeen.

We know he's batting five hundred. It could be seven fifty."

"So who stole the little gas tank, Meyer?"

"You force me to guess? I would say that Carl Sessions talked about the Americano with a fortune in junk in the bottled gas tank, and I would guess that his addiction would put him into contact with some very rough local types, and it would be natural for them to check it out. And easy enough. So then Rocko would be compelled to pick up another stake, so he could go make another buy, hide it in another tank, and take it across alone. So he went cruising, and he let Bruce Bundy pick him up, but it didn't work out the way he planned it. When he saw he wasn't going to con any cash out of Bundy, he went cruising again, and came up with Minda's father, Wally McLeen. So he would have heard by then that Bix and Minda were guests of Eva Vitrier."

We were both silent, trying to appraise the possibilities. I said, "Remember? The girls quarreled.

Minda left for Mexico Gity. So Rocko couldn't contact her. Assume that when he took the Bundy car, he went right to the Vitrier place in La Colonia. And the next thing we know, it's Sunday afternoon and he and Bix and the yellow car are way the hell up in those mountains."

"It would be nice to talk to Eva Vitrier," Meyer said.

"It would indeed. A total recluse, using a hell of a lot of money to buy total privacy, to build big walls. And she's gone. Try and find out where."

"Somebody could get into her place and look around."

"Like me?"

"Well, any large, curious, agile fellow, let's say."

"And I get slapped into a cell out in that Zimatlan jail."

Meyer shrugged. "I'll be there every visitors' day. Speaking of jail, what about our friend in there?"

"You're in the best position to decide."

"I just don't know. He seems docile. I might take the risk if I had to take the blame, too. But if I make a bad guess, then Enelio is in trouble. It's just a hunch, my friend. I sense a kind of animal wildness, a potential for unpredictability. Talking to him, even when he wept, was like sitting in a zoo. I didn't want to make any sudden motions. I would have felt better with bars between us."

"So, I go with your instinct, Meyer. Your average is too good. We can get in touch with Enelio and find out if he wants us to take the package back to the store."

We got up. Meyer went through the door first. The blanket was thrown back. The bathroom door was closed. I could hear water running. No reason at all why I shouldn't accept that obvious conclusion, that Nesta had gotten up, and gone into the bathroom. I did accept it, and in a sudden surge of adrenaline, rejected it a microsecond later, rejected it as I was in motion, going through the doorway. To reverse motion meant vulnerable stasis for too long an instant, so I dived forward, and just as my palms hit Meyer in the middle of the back, knocking him onto and over the nearest double bed, something chunked very solidly and painfully into the meat of my back, just under the right shoulder blade. I used the leverage of Meyer's solidity to thrust myself to the right, and the momentum took me across the tile floor, scrabbling on all fours for balance, and simultaneously trying to turn so I would be facing the doorway when I came back up. I made it and saw Nesta going by the windows. He was out on the porch and moving fast.

I caught him on the road, about seventy yards up the hill. He was in no shape for uphill running.

He turned, gasping and gagging, and swung some kind of dark club at my head so off balance I had time to step back and let it go by. It carried him halfway around. So, in that tiny interval of time when he was almost motionless, trying to reverse direction, I hit him a very nice right hand shot right on the point of the shoulder. It is that ancient and effective torture of schoolyards and playgrounds. The nerves run over the bone of the arm socket right at that point. He dropped the weapon. Something inside a sock. It made a metallic thud. His arm hung slack, dead and useless and he cupped his shoulder in his big left hand and looked at me with the twisted face of a child fighting tears, chest heaving from the effort of running.

"Naughty, naughty!" I said and reached out quickly, caught the end of his nose between thumb and the bent knuckle of the forefinger, and gave a long hard pull downhill, stepping aside and releasing him. He ran a half dozen jolting steps and stopped, his back toward me. I picked up the improvised weapon and gave him a gentle push. It got him in motion and he walked the rest of the way to the cottage, up onto the porch, and into the room, not looking at Meyer as he passed him. Meyer stood outside the door, fingers laced across the nape of his neck, grimacing as he turned his big head from side to side.

"Whiplash, maybe," he said.

"Officer, he stopped dead right in front. of me." I spread the opening of the dark sock which belonged to Meyer and peered down into it and said, "Tsk tsk tsk! Little present for you."

He took it, reached down into it, and pulled out his sturdy little travel alarm. Sturdy no longer.

The case had burst open and there were a lot of little loose parts down in the toe of the sock.

He dumped them out on the metal top of the porch table, quite sadly. "McGee, I have to assume you reacted first. It will never cease to make me feel insecure, the way you do that. What alerted you, damn-it?"

"I haven't any idea. Something subliminal. Something smelled or heard or seen, on an unconscious level."

"And if I were a more primitive organism, I could perform such feats also?"

"Flattery won't help."

We went in. Nesta sat on the foot of Meyer's bed. His right arm was cradled in his lap and he was looking down at it, slowly flexing the fingers.

"They'll be interested in knowing you like to pop people on the skull," I said to him.

He did not raise his eyes. "The law likes to get cases off the books. It takes the heat off them. I thought I better get going before I got elected," he said.

"You're going back inside."

"So?" he said in a toneless voice.

"I can tell them about your little try here, or I can keep it between us."

It brought a quick and wary glance before the eyes dropped again. "What'll it take?" he asked.

"Something important that you maybe left out of your confession hour with Meyer. We think there's a good chance Rockland could have set Bix up to kill herself trying to drive down the mountain alone at dusk."

"I didn't even know about that until just the other day, when Mike and Della told me about it. I didn't even know she was dead."

"How did you feel when you heard it?"

"I didn't feel much of anything. A long time ago she was something else. That was one pretty girl and that was one hell of a body. I was willing to trade off Minda for the chance to start balling her. But it was like nothing. Like one of those plastic things in a store window. All you had to do was lead her into the bushes or take her into the camper and she'd lay down on her back. Then a long time later when she'd lost a lot of her looks, and nobody was hacking her any more, I sort of got to like taking care of her. I don't know why. Making her look a little better, making her eat, making her walk around. But she was gone anyway. She was dead before she was dead. Even pot took her too far out of her tree. When Carl turned her on with horse it was too late to make any difference one way or another. What did I feel? Nothing, I guess. Nothing at all."

"Would Rockland want her dead?"

"Why would he? She didn't know who the hell she was or where she was or who we were. Her memory was shot. The way she was just... around, like a lump, used to get on Rocko's nerves.

He used to try to get some kind of rise out of her. One time... I don't know where it was, I think maybe someplace south of Puebla, outside one of those little towns, some Mexicans came around in the evening, mean-looking bastards in those white pajama suits and straw hats, one with a shiny new rifle, and the others with machetes, a dozen I guess. They had eyes for Bix. So Rocko started laughing and grabbed her by the wrist and grabbed a blanket and took her over into the cornfield and peddled her ass for two pesos a trick, and came back with her and told me the banker's daughter had earned herself thirty-two pesos. He gave me the money and told me to buy her some penicillin in the next town. Why would he kill her? She was less than nothing.

Good Christ, by then she looked forty years old."

"When you left you were giving up your share of the Los Angeles loot?"

"I didn't even think about it, man. I was hallucinating bad. I could shut my eyes and feel my hands melting and dripping off my wrists. Rats were running around under my clothes, eating me. Hairy red spiders as big as airdales kept jumping out and jumping back in any direction I tried to walk. And Rocko had sicked them on me and he was making my hands melt, and I just had to get the hell out of there. And I did. I wish I could help you with something. But I don't know anything I didn't already tell."

"What would you have done if you'd nailed me with that clock when I came in the door?"

"Hit him next. Take your money and your car keys and get onto one ninety and head southwest, because they'd expect me to head for Mexico City. My best bet would be to try to get to Vera Cruz and stow away aboard some crock heading across the Gulf."

"And if you hit us hard enough to kill?"

"I start running. It looks like I killed the others, so what difference would it make?"

"It might make a little difference to you," Meyer said softly.

"To me? Well... yes. A little difference, I guess. But not a hell of a lot."

I sat on the bed and phoned Enelio. I said, "We don't want to take any chances with this one. He got cute, and he'll get cute again."

Enelio said that Chief Alberto Tielma of the Zimatlan jail would give me a nice official receipt for him. He asked me if we got anything out of Nesta, and I said we got a history of the little Mexican hayride those five took that would gag a weasel, but nothing that helped with the primary problem of how come the girl drove off the mountain.

"So," he said, "when something pozzles me, I find out anything I can find out, and I still see no reason under God for anybody to drive a camper going like hell down into that lousy country down there, except somebody wants to get rid of a camper, which is a large object. If, God forbid, I wanted to get rid of a large object on wheels, I mean without selling it, which is always possible, no matter what kind of papers you have on it, maybe I would take it down that way."

"So you'd consider going on another expedition with Meyer and McGee?"

"My trouble is I am impulsive. Also I never make the same mistake once. I think.... Yes, if it's okay with you, I pick you up maybe at the Marques tomorrow afternoon?"

It was agreed. We toted Nesta back to jail. He had the contrived indifference of the born loser.

He had not a word to say all the way.

Fifteen

MEYER AND I had just finished a late Wednesday lunch on the veranda of the Marques del Valle when Enelio Fuentes arrived, by prearrangement, in the jeep. As we went out the Mitla road, Meyer and I, taking turns yelling against the wind, filled Enelio in on the little talk with Nesta, and the subsequent problem of talking him out of leaving.

I said that after due deliberation, and weighing of all factors, I had told the police chief, with gestures, about Nesta's antisocial behavior. I had finked on him.

"Hey, how can an animal like that one," Enelio roared, "carve that strong glorious wooden head? How is it possible?"

"All great artists lead placid, humble, gentle lives," Meyer hollered. "They are all celibates and never drunk or violent. You know. Like your own Diego Rivera was."

Grinning, Enelio took his right hand off the wheel and made that unique and expressive Mexican gesture of consternation, like trying to shake water from the fingertips.

The road he was looking for began about twenty miles beyond Mitla. It was a dirt road that, about four miles from the main road, went through a village, and then continued on, dropping perhaps a thousand feet before reaching dry stony flats. Sometimes he could get up to twenty miles an hour before braking, putting it in low, and lurching through rain gulleys and across a moonscape of potholes. Then the road became straighter and smoother, and he was able to make good time. A long high dust plume was kicked up behind us in the windless hot afternoon.