Pizza Huts - disappeared, and expanses of increasingly raw terrain slid into view: low sandstone hills parched white under a stubble of creosote and sagebrush, squat and pitiful against the distant black backdrop of the San Gabriel Mountains; long sashes of ravaged gravel pit; chaparral still scorched from last summer's brush fires; sudden flashes of brilliant canary yellow wildflowers.
As Milo had predicted, the highway was nearly empty, five barren lanes herringboned by exits leading to the canyons that ran the county line to its demise: Placerita, Soledad, Bouquet - whose rusty blue rock graced the patios and spas of many an L.A. dream house - Vasquez, Agua Duke.
The Bitter Canyon turnoff was abrupt, a sharp downgrade that deposited the Seville on a narrow, squirming
asphalt road, bordered by boulders and an occasional wind-savaged tree. Here, in the lowlands the hillsides were water-etched and craggy, a quilt of tans and reds washed with coy overtones of lavender and blue. The sky was overcast with heavy grey stratus clouds, and every so often a ray of sun escaped through a threadbare patch in the mist, casting a startling pinkish spotlight upon a favoured section of rock. Incredible beauty, cruelly fleeting.
The Texaco station was fifteen miles down the road, rising from nothingness, straight out of a time warp. A pair of prewar pumps sat in the middle of a treacherously furrowed dirt and gravel yard, fronting a one-bay white frame garage of equivalent vintage. Occupying the bay was a green bubble-backed '39 Plymouth.
Attached to the garage was a shack that served as an office, its dirty windows obscured by piles of paper. A few yards down the road was a frame cafe sporting twin antique Coca-Cola discs on either end of a faded sign that said SAL'S and a crowing-cock weather vane atop a tar paper roof. The cock postured arrogantly, unmoving in the still desert air.
The cafe looked as if it hadn't done business in a while, but a fleet of official vehicles had encamped around it. I pulled the Seville between a familiar bronze Matador and a mobile crime lab van and got out.
The northern corner of the yard was cordoned off by string attached to makeshift posts. Taped to the string were LAPD tags. Within the cordoned area technicians stooped and squatted, wielding scrapers, hypodermics, brushes, and plaster-casting material. Some worked on a pearl grey RX-7; others, on the area around the car. On the ground nearby was a sausage-shaped lump, encased in a body bag. A few feet from the bag a roan-coloured stain spread its tentacles across the dirt. A Chinese man in a dark suit hovered over the body, talking into a hand- held cassette recorder.
A county ambulance was parked just outside the tape, its engines still running. A uniformed attendant stepped out of the ambulance's passenger door and looked around. His eyes finally settled on Milo, who was leaning against one of the gas pumps, writing in his notepad.
'Okay?'
My friend said something to the Chinese man, who looked up and nodded.
'Okay.'
The attendant gave a hand signal, and a second attendant got out from the driver's side and flung the rear doors open. A stretcher materialised. Within seconds the body had been lifted nonchalantly and deposited with a dull thud in the rear of the vehicle. The ambulance departed, leaving behind a small dust storm.
Milo saw me and put the pad away. He flicked dust off his lapel and laid a heavy hand on my shoulder.
'What happened?' I asked.
'About eight this morning Radovic powwowed with two bikers right over there and got sliced up.' He pointed to the bloodstain. 'From what our witness saw, sounds like it was a prearranged meeting to pull off some kind of dirty deal. But the deal went bad.'
I looked at the stain, then at the empty grizzled hills.
'Why all the way out here?'
'That's what we're trying to find out. Park ranger's due any minute. Maybe he can shed some light on it.'
He pulled a package of mints out of his pocket and offered me one. I took it, and both of us sweetened our breaths.
'Way I figure it,' he said, 'one of the parties knew the area, the other didn't, and the station was used as a landmark. Which, under normal circumstances, would have been an excellent idea because the place is usually deserted. The station, the greasy spoon over there, and fifty acres on either side of the road are owned by an old man named Skaggs who lives in Lancaster and rarely opens up anymore. I just finished interviewing him, and he told me forty years ago there used to be an army base a few miles down the road and the cafe was a 'jumpin' joint' -outdoor bandstand, great steaks, illegal hooch. But today we're talking ghost town.'
Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked into the sunlight and scanned the terrain, as if seeking confirmation of his assessment.
'From what I can gather, he considers the cafe a symbol of his wife; she was Sal. When they were in business, he pumped gas while she did the cooking. She died in 'sixty-seven, and he never got over it. So when he starts thinking about her and gets really low, he drives down, sits at the counter, and reminisces. Which is what happened last night. It was the twentieth anniversary of her death. He'd pulled out their wedding album and got all weepy. When he couldn't take it anymore, he threw on some clothes, grabbed the album and a quart of Jack Daniel's, drove over, locked himself in, and got shitfaced. He's a little hazy about time but figures he got here around eleven and dozed off around one. At eight he was awakened by shouts. At first he thought it was an evil booze dream, but then his head cleared, and he realised someone was out there. He peeked out through the window, saw what was happening, and crouched behind the counter. Poor old guy was so scared he stayed there for three hours before calling anyone.'
He glanced at the old Plymouth.
'That's his car. No one saw it because he'd parked it in the garage and locked the door.'
'Lucky for him.'
He shook his head.
'It was no accident. We found a piece of rubber hose attached to the exhaust pipe. Needless to say, we're going to be looking after his health. He's far from the perfect eyewitness but good enough to renew my faith in God.'
'What did he see?'
'By the time he woke up things had already got nasty. Radovic and the bikers were shouting at each other. Skaggs isn't sure, but he thinks the leather boys said something about Radovic's not keeping his end of a bargain, and Erno responded in his usual endearing manner: laughed, cussed them out and put up his fists. At that point things moved pretty fast. The fat biker must have blinked wrong because Radovic hit him, floored him with a fist in the gut and a fast
chop under the bridge of the nose. Skaggs says he went down easy, like a 'soft sack of shit'. But the skinny one was another story. When he saw his buddy laid out like that, he pulled out a chain and a buck knife and went into a street fighter's crouch. Radovic reached into his pocket -we found another Beretta on the body - but Skinny was too fast. He got the chain around Radovic's neck, jerked him close, and stepped straight in with the knife. The ME looked at the wounds and said permanent damage was intended: There was a forward thrust that pierced the liver and several up-and-down saw cuts. Also a throat slash, which appears to have been done after he was dead - your basic street fighter's coup de grace. Afterward Skinny revived Fatso, and the two of them split. Skaggs heard an engine starting, but he was hiding so he didn't see the vehicle.'
'One vehicle? You'd expect two bikes.'
'The old man claims he heard only one, and the techs found only one set of unaccounted tyre marks, so it looks like they doubled up on one chopper. Romantic, huh?'
He ran his hand over his face and stared at his shoes.
'I looked at the body myself, Alex. He was thoroughly eviscerated. You know how I felt about the guy, but that's still no way to go.'
We began walking away from the crime scene, drifting toward the roadside and keeping parallel to it. There was a large bolt in the dirt, and Milo kicked it. A flock of crows rose, squawking over a distant hilltop.
'Tell me more about that sculpture he brought,' he said.
'A heavy lump of clear Lucite, with all kinds of toys moulded inside to create a tableau.'
'A Ken doll hanging, you said?'
'From a noose, with a knife in his belly. What really grabbed my attention was the title. The Wretched Act.
