running in the San Pedro, they could float on rafts from Palominas north all the way to Winkelman, where the San Pedro River met up with the Gila. For years Joanna had privately scoffed at what she regarded as nothing more than tall tales on the order of Paul Bunyan's blue ox, Babe. Now, though, the raging river made those claims seem much more plausible.
Pomerene, a few miles on the other side of the bridge, seemed to have little justification for its continued existence. A few people-several hundred at most-seemed to live in the near vicinity, but for what reason, Joanna couldn't fathom. Some of the houses were fine, but the good ones were interspersed with tumbledown shacks and moldering mobile homes surrounded by rusted-steel shells of wrecked vehicles. The cheerfully sparkling and still brand-new street signs, assigned with ironic artistry by some bureaucrat locked up in the county addressing department, were wildly at odds with the sad reality of their surroundings.
It seemed to Joanna that Pomerene should have been a ghost town-that it should have been allowed to die the natural death of fading back into the sandy river bottom. Instead, it stubbornly persisted, hanging on like some punch-drunk fighter-hurt badly enough to be beyond help, but too far gone to have sense enough to lie down and die.
The down-at-heels hovels on Bella Vista Drive and Rimrock Circle in particular made places in Bisbee's Tin Town neighborhood seem prosperous by comparison. And Clyde Philips' tin-roofed shack at the far end of Rimrock could easily have been thrown together by the same turn-of-the-century carpenters who had built the mining-camp cabins that still clung like empty, dry locust husks to the red-rocked sides of Bisbee's B-Hill.
Climbing up onto the rickety front porch, Joanna knocked firmly on the grime-covered door. Even though she knocked several times, no one answered. Leaving the front door, she went to the side of the house past a dusty, faded blue Ford quarter-ton pickup. At the back door she knocked again-with similar results. No answer.
Trying to decide what to do next, Joanna glanced around. At the end of the driveway, in place of an ordinary garage, was a slump-block building that looked like an armed fortress. Or a jail. Rolls of razor wire lined the tops of the walls. The only windows were narrow slits on either side of a steel door, barred in front by a heavy-duty wrought-iron grille. Approaching the door, Joanna could tell that the slits were covered by one-way glass that allowed whoever was inside the building to see out without offering even a glimpse of what was on the other side of the wall.
Fastened to the grille was a hand-lettered sign that announced, NO TRESPASSING. THESE PREMISES GUARDED BY A LOADED AK-47. GO AHEAD. MAKE MY DAY.
Pressing the button, she strained to hear whether or not the bell actually worked. Up on the roof, an air- conditioning unit of some kind rumbled away. Over the din of that, it was difficult to tell if the bell did indeed function, but between the grille and the concrete-block construction, knocking on either the door or the wall wasn't an option.
While waiting for someone to answer, Joanna studied her surroundings, expecting to find some kind of electronic monitoring equipment focused on the door. As far as she could see, however, Clyde Philips counted on old-fashioned armory kinds of protection rather than newfangled gadgets. She rang the bell a second time and waited once more. Still no one came to the door. She was about to give up and Walk away when a woman's gravelly voice startled her.
' Clyde 's pro'ly over to Belle's. His truck's here, so he musta walked.'
Joanna turned to see a sun-baked old woman standing on the sagging back porch of the house next door. 'Where's that?' she asked.
'Belle's?' the old woman asked, and Joanna nodded. “It’s his ex-wife's place. Uptown.' The woman pointed vaguely to the left with a gnarled cane. 'Over on Old Pomerene Road.'
'Will I have any trouble finding it?'
'Hell’s bells,' the woman said. 'Hardly. It's the only restaurant in town. But you'd better hurry if you want to catch lunch or Clyde, either one. Belle closes her doors at three sharp. After that, people have to go all the way into Benson if they want a bite to eat.'
The woman was right. Belle Philips' place on Old Pomerene Road wasn't at all hard to find. Of the dozen or so storefronts on what passed for Main Street, only three still functioned as businesses. One of the three with lights on was the ground floor of a decrepit two-story building that looked as though a strong wind would blow it to smithereens.
At some time in the distant past, someone had gone to the trouble of covering the exterior with cedar shingles. Sun and heat had leached all the natural oils out of the wood, leaving it gray and brittle and almost charred around the edges. On the north and east sides of the building, the shingles, sagged in crooked, weary rows. On the west side of the building-the one that took the brunt of the sun-most of the shakes were missing completely, revealing in their stead a ghostly layer of faded red tarpaper painted to look like bricks.
The rest of the building didn't look much better. In both grimy front windows, chipped gold letters announced 'Belle's Donuts and Eatery.' Under one sign was a three-by-five card. On the card along with a hand-drawn ballpoint arrow that pointed to the word 'Donuts,' was the added notation 'One hundred thousand two hundred served.'
When Joanna pushed open the wood-framed glass door, a bell tinkled overheard. A heavyset woman, wearing a faded bandanna babushka-style on frizzy gray hair, stood leaning against what looked like a soda fountain counter. Under a massive apron she wore a sleeveless tank top. Folds of loose flesh dangled from upper arms a good eighteen inches around. Stubbing out a cigarette in a brimful ashtray, she quickly stowed it under the counter.
'Howdy,' the woman said. 'Saw you lookin' at my sign. I make 'em all myself-the doughnuts, I mean-and keep track of every dozen, although I only change the card once't a month or so.'
'That's still a lot of doughnuts,' Joanna said.
The woman grinned, showing several missing teeth, both lowers and uppers. She nodded sagely. 'Yup, you bet it is. Don't just sell 'em here, of course. Take 'em to places like the county fair and Rex Allen Days and Heldorado over to Tombstone. That's always a good gig, Tombstone is. Most likely 'cause it's in October and colder'n a witch's tit by then. I hire me a couple of young kids, good-lookin' girls if I can find 'em, to do the actual sellin'. What can I get for you?'
Joanna was still more than pleasantly full from downing Daisy Maxwell's Cornish pasty, but she knew that ordering something from Belle would help smooth things along. 'How about a cup of coffee?' she asked.
When the coffee came, it smelled acrid and old-as though it had been sitting in an almost empty pot on the burner for the better part of the day or maybe even longer. Usually Joanna drank her coffee black, but this strong stuff definitely called for making an exception.
'Cream?' Joanna asked hopefully.
Belle nodded. 'Sure. What kind of moo-juice you want? We got regular cream, half-and-half, canned, and cow- powder. Take your choice.'
In that dingy, fly-speckled place, Joanna worried about the age and possible contamination of anything requiring refrigeration. She opted for Coffee-mate. When Belle delivered the jar, the crust of dry powder lining the bottom was so old and hard that Joanna had to chip it loose with her spoon before she could ladle the resulting lump into her cup Further examination of the almost empty jar showed no sign of any expiration date and no sign of a scanner barcode, either. Not good.
“You must be Belle Philips,' Joanna said, stirring the brackish brew to dissolve the lump.
''That's right,' Belle said. 'And who might you be?'
Joanna reached into her blazer pocket and pulled out her ID. 'Whoee,' Belle exclaimed, holding the card up to the light and squinting at it. 'Don't guess I've ever met a sheriff before, leastways not in person. You're not here on account of somethin' I've done, are you?'
'I was actually looking for your former husband.'
Belle grimaced. 'It figures,' she said. ' Clyde 's always up to some fool off-the-wall thing. Me an' him split the sheets about six years ago now, and I say good riddance. Best thing I ever done. If I'da known how things would work out, I would of done it a lot sooner. Still see him most every day, though. Comes in here and has me cook hint his breakfast, but, by God, he pays me for it. Cash. Every day. None of this running-a-tab crap. If I'da had a brain in my head, I woulda done that the whole time we was married, too-charged him, that is. And not just for cooking his
