She pointed at a series of framed album covers hanging on the wall behind her. Mostly shots of surfers and hot rods and women wearing bikinis. “Dale had a couple hit records way back when. Dale Dayton and the Daytonas. Surf music.”
“Like the Beach Boys?”
“Nope. Dale didn’t sing. Just played the guitar.”
“Hey, I’d probably know his stuff if I heard it. But I’m not a wizard when it comes to remembering the names of songs.”
“Well … it was a long time ago.” She held out a hand. “Sandy Kapalua-Dayton. Part Hawaiian, part Navajo, with enough Irish thrown in to make me surly in the morning. Women’s National Surfing Champion, 1965-67, and winner of the Pipeline Invitational five years running.”
“Jack Baddalach. I’m retired, too. At least, I think I am.”
“I know.” She winked at him. “I saw the fight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You look a lot bigger on television, Mr. Baddalach.”
“That’s what people tell me.” Jack took out his wallet, handed over his brand new corporate credit card. “Nothing fancy.”
“That’s about all we’ve got, so you’re in luck.” She grabbed a registration form from a little box on the counter and started filling it out.
“So, how’d you end up in Arizona?” Jack asked.
“Retirement plan. When the surf craze died out, me and Dale figured we’d pull up stakes in LA and buy ourselves a hunk of the desert. You know what they say,
“Of course, a couple of mobile home barons moved in about ten years ago and threw up instant retirement villages, changing everything. Now we’ve even got bus service to Tucson and our own public library. But Dale and me, we built this town. We named it, opened up the first motel, the first coffee shop, and the first gas station. We wanted to buy ourselves one of those wave machines, the kind they’ve got at that fake beach up in Phoenix, but we never came up with the cash to build ourselves a miniature Pacific.”
“Too bad.”
She smiled. “Don’t get out the violins just yet, Mr. Baddalach. We did all right. . and maybe we could have done a whole lot better. But my heart kind of went out of it when Dale died. I sold the coffee shop and the gas station and-”
The sound of a barking dog severed the woman’s words. She swore and poked her head through the window behind her. From his vantage point Jack caught sight of a chain-link fence and what looked like a junkyard beyond.
“Dale!” the woman yelled. “You want any dinner, you’d better shut up. . and I mean now!”
Jack spotted a black and tan pit bull in midleap. The animal slammed against the chain-link fence, then came back for more, launching itself from the battered hood of a junked Barracuda.
“Dale! You coconut brain! Knock it off!”
The pit bull yipped as Sandy turned away. The yipping turned into a growl but she ignored the sound, returning her attention to the registration form. Finally the dog settled on an anguished whimper that seemed both pitiful and practiced.
Jack couldn’t help himself. “You named your dog after your, uh. . ” He searched for the right words. “After your deceased husband?”
Sandy laughed. “Look, brudda, you want my life story or you want a room?”
“Just curious.”
She sighed, thinking it over, then gave in. “It’s like this. Two days after Dale died, a pregnant pit bull bitch got hit out on the highway. Gave birth to a litter in a ditch on the side of the road. This one was the only pup that lived.”
“So you think it’s some kind of reincarnation thing? That’s why you named the dog after you husband?”
“No. Not exactly.” She looked as if she were doing her best to hide a rather sizable smile. “It’s just that
“Gotcha,” Jack said, but he raised his eyebrows when he said it.
“You like upstairs?”
“Huh?”
“Your room. Is upstairs okay?”
“Sure, upstairs is fine. But I’ve got one more question.”
“Shit, brudda. I’ve slept with guys without talking this much.”
“Me too … I mean. I’ve slept with girls, not guys.”
It was an old joke, but Sandy laughed anyway. “Okay. Shoot. But make it fast, okay? Dale won’t wait forever.”
Jack hesitated. He wondered if he should ask the question at all. His gut told him that Sandy Kapalua-Dayton was okay. And his brain told him the same thing, because he sure couldn’t imagine this easygoing woman being great buds with a cop, especially a hardcase like Wyetta Earp.
So Jack threw caution to the wind and asked, “You ever heard of a guy named Vince Komoko?”
“Yeah,” Sandy replied, her voice matter-of-fact.
“You know him?”
“No.” She looked Jack dead in the eye. “How long will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure … I mean, it’s kind of up in the air. .”
Sandy smiled as if he’d said exactly what she wanted to hear.
“Well, I’ve got your credit card number. Maybe I’ll leave your account open, just in case you need to make any phone calls or anything. We can settle up when you check out.”
‘That sounds good. But about this guy Komoko-”
Sandy passed the registration form to Jack, along with a pen. “Fill in your home address and the make, model, and license of your car. You can leave the form on the counter when you’re done.” She handed over Jack’s corporate plastic along with a key that was attached to a plastic slab shaped like a surfboard. “Room 22. . top of the stairs and hang a left.”
Jack started writing. “So. This Komoko character-” Sandy grabbed a can opener from the counter. “Maybe you should ask that sweet young
Jack glanced over his shoulder. Through the office window, he saw the woman from the five-and-dime, the one who’d stood up for him. She was sitting on a chaise longue by the swimming pool. Only now she’d lost the black T-shirt and fatigue pants, and her combat boots were tucked under the lounge. She wore a black bikini and she was smearing sunscreen on her belly, her hand moving in slow, lazy circles-
“Down, boy,” Sandy said. “Don’t drool on my carpet.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Nothing. Except her name is Kate Benteen, and she’s from some shitsplat called Grizzly Gulch, Montana. And she makes me kind of sick, of course.”
“Why’s that?”
“Just look at her. I mean, how many women can pull off
“Yeah, but-”
“We’ll catch that wave another day, Mr. Baddalach.”
“Okay. You’ve got a date. When can we-”
“Don’t make any promises you can’t keep.” Sandy pointed at Kate Benteen. “See how you feel after your private incursion with Ms. Rambette out there. You end up getting down in the trenches, that’s fine. Don’t worry
