Saguaro Riptide

Because the guy sitting in the barber chair was a complete stranger.

Jack said, “Shit.”

The stranger in the chair said the same thing.

PART FIVE

Deep in the Barrel

ONE

Rorie hated coming out to her sister’s place. Not that she hated her sister. She loved Priscilla. In truly sisterly fashion, too. The person Rorie hated was Priscilla’s husband. Ellis Aaron Perkins. One look from him and she felt like some little cutie out at the Spahn Movie Ranch being sized up by Charlie Manson himself.

Which was another way of saying that as a brother-in-law the guy really bit it. And it wasn’t that he’d been an Elvis impersonator-Rorie could have lived with that. Nor was it the fact that he’d lost his voice to cancer and spoke through a machine that made him sound like some big oI’ talking Elvis doll that had had its cord yanked once too often.

No. What bothered Rorie was that Ellis was a real creep. He was mucho possessive about Priscilla, and Rorie suspected that he’d hit her sister on a couple of occasions. Not that Priscilla would admit to anything. But Rorie had seen her share of battered women during her years with the sheriff’s department, and she knew that her sister showed some of the classic signs.

Of course, Priscilla was cattin’ around on Ellis with Vince Komoko. Had been, anyway. And while Rorie hated to admit it, that little fact made her think that maybe her sister kind of got what she deserved when it came to Ellis’s conjugal behavior.

No, damnit. Thinking like that was medieval. Damn near insane-

Rorie bit her lip. Hell, Wyetta had slapped her a couple of times. So maybe she was projecting. She’d read an article in Cosmo where a psychiatrist discussed that kind of thing- projecting your own problems onto someone else’s situation.

But Rorie didn’t know what to think of Cosmo anymore. Not since Kate Benteen had spouted all that crazy feminist shit at the Saguaro Riptide.

Rorie had to admit that all that shit was pretty exciting, though. That Benteen chick. She really had some strange ideas. And she looked pretty damn outstanding in a black bikini.

Rorie’s lower lip was getting sore. She realized she’d been chewing it. Maybe she should drive across the highway and check on Priscilla. See how her sister was holding up under the strain. Make sure that everything was okay-

No. Wyetta wouldn’t like that. Not now. Not when they were handling business.

And this was business. Rorie recognized that. At first she hadn’t thought much of it-Ellis’s phone call interrupting Wyetta’s interrogation of Kate Benteen. Ellis had been known to fly off the handle for no reason at all. But when Wyetta told her that Ellis claimed he’d had a run-in with the former light-heavyweight champion of the world, that naturally got Rorie’s attention.

It damn sure got Wyetta’s attention, too. She was bulldogging the problem, talking to Ellis on the sand- covered porch of his own personal Graceland.

Rorie almost laughed at the two of them. Ellis in Presley-esque leathers circa 1968 and Wyetta in her best Annie Oakley-wear-fringed Cavalry gloves, snakeskin Nocona boots, and a cedar-handled.44 that was a twin to the pistol Wyatt Earp had worn in Tombstone. Together they looked like the stars of some weird Elvis time-travel movie. Viva Rio Bravo! or something.

Rorie listened to Ellis’s busted Hasbro voice as he answered one question after another. But it didn’t matter how many questions he answered-just the fact that Jack Baddalach had come to Graceland meant that the boxer was cutting way too close to the bone.

And the way he’d come here-now that told her something else.

He hadn’t arrived in that Range Rover he’d rented up in Tucson. He’d come in another car, and he’d left it here-a shot-up Saturn that blocked the middle of the road.

Blown front tire. Windshield riddled with buckshot. The damage didn’t matter, though. Not to Rorie. What mattered was the license plate number.

She didn’t need to run that baby, either. She remembered it. She’d written it down just this morning. The Saturn belonged to that weird black guy who’d been busted up in the parking lot at the Saguaro Riptide.

The guy said the Saturn had been stolen.

Baddalach had driven it here.

But why would Baddalach steal a car when he had one of his own?

The whole thing was enough to make her head spin. She wanted someone to set it all straight for her.

Only one person came to mind.

Rorie glanced at Wyetta.

The sheriff was headed her way.

'What’s up?” Rorie asked.

Wyetta shook her head sharply. “Not here.”

She got an evidence bag from the Cherokee. Opened the passenger door of the Saturn. Took a pencil out of her pocket and fished a pistol off the front seat of the car. A Colt.45 Double Eagle Combat Commander. She bagged the gun and returned to the patrol car.

Rorie took the passenger seat. Wyetta slipped behind the wheel and handed Rorie the bagged pistol.

“What’s the deal with this?” Rorie asked.

Wyetta said, “Insurance. I figure that’s Baddalach’s piece. Ellis said he didn’t touch it. Maybe it’s got the boxer’s prints. If it does, it could come in handy.”

Wyetta started the engine and made a U-turn. Ellis watched from the porch of his unfinished palace. He didn’t wave at Wyetta. She didn’t wave at him.

She drove down the dirt road that led to the highway.

'Talk to me, Wyetta.”

The sheriff shrugged. “He says Baddalach showed up looking for your sister. Says he scared off the pug with his shotgun. Says he wants us to pick up the boxer for trespassing. Says he’s leaving to make his flea-market rounds tonight, that he’s gonna be gone for a couple days and he doesn’t want anyone messing around with Priscilla.”

“Jesus. Do you think he’s serious?'

“He’s your brother-in-law, darlin’. You tell me.”

Rorie shook her head. “So. . was Baddalach alone? Or, did he come out here with that other guy. . Woodrow what’s-his-face?'

“Ellis says the pug was solo. No sign of Ali Baba.”

“So what do you think?”

“Damned if I know. Maybe Baddalach did bust up Ali Baba and steal his car. Or maybe our buddy Woodrow is Baddalach’s boy Friday. Maybe they figured they could turn the pug’s run-in with Ellis into a plus. Figured they could report the car stolen, get us to nail Ellis for car theft and assault. Get Ellis’s gyratin’ blue suede ass away from the property so they could hunt for Komoko’s money without fear of getting their asses full of buckshot.” Wyetta shook her head, getting comfortable with the idea. “Maybe the two of them are in cahoots. Hell, maybe they’re back at the motel, takin’ turns bangin’ Kate Benteen. Maybe they’re all three of ’em in cahoots.”