The Collection

creeped out myself as I ventured farther into the desert and away from civilization. He wouldn't say over the phone why he wanted to hire me, had said only that he had a case he wanted handled, but the few details he'd given me were enough to pique my interest.

His house was on a small rise, surrounded by saguaros, and was one of those Frank Lloyd Wrightish structures that had bloomed out here in the late fifties/early sixties when the Master himself had set up his architectural school north of Scottsdale. It was, I had to admit, damned impressive. Low, geometric, all rock and windows, it blended perfectly with the environment and bespoke an optimism for the fu­ture that had died long before they'd built the square shoe-box that was my dingy Phoenix apartment complex.

One of the Big Man's men was out front to greet me, and he ushered me inside after allowing me to park my dirty shitmobile next to a veritable fleet of gleaming Mercedes Benzes. The interior of the house was just as impressive as the outside. Lots of light. Potted palms. Hardwood floors and matching furniture. I was led to an extra-wide doorway and ushered into a sunken living room approximately five times the size of my entire apartment. 'He's here,' the flunky said by way of an introduction.

And I finally got to meet the Big Man.

I'd heard of him, of course. Who in Phoenix hadn't? But I'd never met him, seen him, or even spoken to him. I looked at the man before me, underwhelmed. I'd been ex­pecting someone more impressive. Sydney Greenstreet, maybe. Orson Welles. Instead, this Richard Dreyfuss look-alike stood up from the couch, shook my hand, and intro­duced himself as Vincent Pressman.

Time was when I wouldn't have even returned the man's phone call. I worked strictly for the good guys, followed all of the guidelines necessary to maintain my investigator's li­cense, dealt only with the law-abiding who had been screwed or were in some type of jam. I still try to keep it that way whenever possible, but there are gray areas now, and while I try to rationalize my behavior, I sometimes sit alone at night and think about what I do and realize that perhaps I'm not as pure and honest as I like to think I am.

Which is a long way of saying that I now take cases that interest me. There are only so many lost dogs and missing teenagers and two-timing spouses that a man can handle.

And the Big Man's case interested me.

As I said, he didn't tell me much, but the hints had been tantalizing. Water turned to blood. A shadow that followed him from room to room, building to building. Obscene calls received on a disconnected phone. He claimed he didn't know who was behind all this, but I had the feeling he did, and I figured I could act as an intermediary between the two, bring them together and settle things out of court, as it were, without any bloodshed.

At least that was my plan.

I sat down as directed on a white love seat, facing the Big Man across a glass coffee table. He cleared his throat. 'I've heard you're into this stuff, this supernatural shit.'

I shrugged.

'I've had this place bugged and debugged, scanned by every electronic device known to man, and no one's been able to come up with an explanation for what's happening here.'

'But you don't think your house is haunted.'

He glared at me with cold steely eyes and, Richard Dreyfuss lookalike or not, I saw for the first time a hint of what made Vincent Pressman the most feared underworld figure in the Southwest. 'I told you, someone's after me.'

I nodded, acting calmer than I felt. 'And I asked you who it was.'

He sighed, then motioned for everyone else to leave the room. He stared at me, his eyes never leaving my own, and I held the gaze though it was beginning to make me feel un­comfortable. He did not speak until we heard the door click shut. Then he leaned back on the couch, glanced once to­ward the door, and started talking.

'I had this maid working for me. Guatemalan bitch. She looked like a goddamn man, but her daughter was one fine piece of poon. Maya, her name was. Skinny little thing. Big tits. Always coming on to me. I don't usually like 'em young—I'm not a pedophile, you understand—but this babe got to me. She was sixteen or so, and she was always loung­ing around in her bikini, going to the fridge for midnight snacks in panties and a T-shirt. You know the drill.

'Anyway, bitch mama gives me this warning, dares to tell me that I'd better stay away from her little girl. I see the daughter later, and she's got this bruise on her cheek, like she's been hit, beaten. I call mama in, give her a warning, tell her if she ever touches one hair on that girl's head I'll have her cut up and fed to the coyotes.' He smiled. 'Just try­ing to put a scare into her, you understand.'

I nodded.

'So the girl comes back later, thanks me. One thing leads to another, I take her into my room and ... I fucked her.' The Big Man's voice dropped. 'The thing is, after I came, after I finished, I opened my eyes, and she was . . . she wasn't there. She was a rag doll. A full-sized rag doll.' He shook his head. 'I don't know how it happened, how they did it, but it happened instantly.' He snapped his fingers. 'Like that! One second I was holding her ass, rubbing my face in her hair, the next I felt her ass turn to cloth, was rub­bing my face in yarn. Scared the fuck out of me. I jumped out of bed, and that doll was smiling at me, a big old dumb-ass grin stitched onto her head.'

He licked his lips nervously. 'It didn't even look like Maya. Not really. I called on the intercom, ordered my men to make sure the girl and her mom didn't leave the house, told them to hunt them down and find them, especially the mom. When I turned back around, the bed was empty. Even the doll was gone.'

He was silent for a moment.

'They were gone, too,' I prodded. 'Weren't they?'

He nodded. 'Both of them, and it was after that that the weird shit started happening. I put the word out, told my men to find the maid, have her picked up, but, as you know, she seems to have disappeared off the face of the fucking earth.'

'So you want me to find the woman.'

He leaned forward. 'I want you to stop this shit. I don't care how you do it, just do it. Find her if you have to, leave her out of it, I don't care. I just want this curse gone.' He sat back. 'Afterward, after it's over, then I'll decide how to deal with her.'

I nodded. We both knew how he was going to deal with her, but that was one of those things he didn't want spelled out and I didn't want confirmed.

I thought of Bumblebee, and while the memory of that situation remained sharp, the emotions had faded, and it seemed somehow more fun in retrospect.

Well, maybe not fun.

Interesting.

Kind of the way this seemed interesting.

'How did you find me?' I asked. 'Phone book?'

'I told you: I heard you handle this stuff.'

'From who?'

He smiled. 'I have my sources.'

I didn't like that. I hadn't told anyone about Bumblebee, and the only people who knew were either dead or had fled.

'Word is that you're in tight with the wetbacks, too. I fig­ured that can't hurt.'

'You hear a lot of words.'

'I wouldn't be where I am if I didn't.'

I looked at him for what seemed an appropriate length of time. 'All right,' I said. 'I'll do it. But it'll be twenty- five hundred plus expenses.' That was far more than I usually charged, but I knew the Big Man could afford it.

He agreed to my terms without question, and I knew that I could have and should have asked for more. But I'd always been bad at this part of the game, and once again my stu­pidity had screwed me out of a big payday.

'You have a picture of this maid?' I asked. 'And a name?'

He shook his head.

'Not even her name?'

'I never used her name. Didn't matter to me.' He mo­tioned toward the foyer. 'Maybe Johnny or Tony knows.'

The arrogance of the powerful. I'd forgotten to take that into consideration.