Rutledge scratched at his brushy mustache with a knuckle but didn't say a word. They entered a fragrant- smelling orchard of peach trees, the horses slowing to a walk. The earth had become a rich, sandy loam. Workers carried totes, plastic boxes slung around their necks, just like peanut vendors at Dodger Stadium. Rutledge greeted a crew chief by name, then allowed as how it was time for lunch.
They started back, the horses picking up their pace. Like human folk, they enjoyed going home.
Rutledge guided his black stallion alongside Payne's horse. 'Been thinking about your legal strategy. I could use someone with your brains and balls.'
'You're joking.'
'You want to make some real money?'
He's not joking, Payne thought. Rutledge's strong suit was not his sense of humor.
'I want you to cocounsel with Whitehurst and Booth,' Rutledge continued.
'They hire the brightest lawyers around. I doubt they need my help.'
'They do if I say so. Charlie Whitehurst has gone soft.'
'And you think I'm a better lawyer?'
'I think you're a tougher lawyer. You got a hard bark. You'll go to jail for your clients.'
'Went to jail for some migrants. Doubt I would for you.'
'You're proving my point.' Rutledge allowed himself a crooked grin. 'I don't scare you. You got bigger balls than Whitehurst.'
Rutledge slowed the stallion and said, 'How about a retainer of two hundred thousand. When you need more, you let me know.'
Payne's mouth opened but nothing came out. If the devil had been perched on his shoulder, the offer could not have been more tempting.
'That's a lot of money,' Payne said, finally.
'There's just one condition.'
Of course there is, Payne thought.
'You gotta stop poking your nose into places where you got no business.'
Payne didn't need to be a tough, hard-barked, big-balled lawyer to figure that one out. He'd been offered a bribe. Rutledge wanted his disappearing skills, not his lawyering skills.
'I'm not going to stop looking for Marisol Perez,' Payne said.
'Nothing but trouble down that road. A real patch of quicksand.'
Rutledge glared at him, waiting for a response.
After a moment, Payne said, 'That trouble down the road. That patch of quicksand. Would that be a problem for me? Or for you, Rutledge?'
SIXTY-FIVE
Sitting ramrod straight astride his stallion, Rutledge felt like knocking the wiseass shyster off the Appaloosa and straight onto his skinny ass. 'Goddammit, Payne. I offer you two hundred grand and you give me guff?'
Payne leaned on the saddle horn, taking pressure off his bad leg. 'That's the thing. The money's way too rich. So I'm asking myself, what are you afraid of? What's the harm to you if I find Marisol Perez?'
'For once in your life, Payne, be smart.'
'By dancing with the devil?'
'This devil don't dance. This devil calls the tunes.'
'Just so we're clear, Rutledge. If I stop looking for Marisol, you make my life comfortable. What happens if I don't?'
'No need to go there.'
'Bullshit. You're threatening me.'
'I know your life's crap,' Rutledge barked. 'You lost your son. You lost your wife to that asshole on TV. You'll probably lose your law license. Maybe you don't believe it, but I feel for you.'
'You're right. I don't believe it.'
Rutledge's glare turned cold as a frozen lake. 'I've taken enough of your shit. What'll it be, yea or nay?'
'Keep your money. I promised a boy I'd find his mother.'
Rutledge hadn't expected this. In his experience, most men buckled at sweet pussy or fast money. But this two-bit shyster, prickly as a bale of straw, was saying no, and saying it loud. 'You know what you are, Payne? You're a dishonest man with principles. That makes you dangerous. Believe me, I know.'
'I'm just trying to do what's right.'
Rutledge shook his head, as if saddened to put down a crippled horse. He would make one last offer. If Payne took it, fine. If not, there were a hundred miles of levee where he could bury the son-of-a-bitch.
'I can give you something you want more than a potful of gold,' Rutledge said. 'Something you want more than anything in the world.'
'I seriously doubt it.'
'I can give you Manuel Garcia,' Rutledge said. 'I can give you the drunken bastard who killed your son. And I can do it tonight.'
SIXTY-SIX
The mention of Garcia's name sent a bolt of lightning up Payne's spine. 'You're fucking with me, right? Mind games.'
'If that's what you want to believe.' Rutledge kept riding toward the barn, forcing Payne to catch up.
'Where is he?' Payne demanded.
No answer. Just the clop of hooves and the distant putter of a tractor. Payne brought the Appaloosa so close the two men's legs nearly touched. 'How the hell did you find Garcia?'
'Not hard to do. Not with my connections.'
'Is he here? In the valley?'
Rutledge patted the stallion's neck. 'Took a new name, got a job working for a friend of mine down by Corcoran.'
'How do I know you're telling the truth?'
'You can pay Garcia a visit after dinner, do what you gotta do. You'll be back in time to catch Leno. But once I tell you where he is, we got a deal. No more of your fussing about that Mexican woman.'
Payne had more questions, but Rutledge dug his heels into the stallion, which took off at a gallop. The best Payne's horse could manage was a school-zone canter. By the time Payne reached the corral, Rutledge had hopped off the stallion and turned it over to a stable hand. Payne dismounted and painfully stretched, his bad leg throbbing. He hurried to catch up with Rutledge, who strode up a path lined with orange-andwhite impatiens. The path wound up a ridge and curled behind his sprawling country home.
When Payne came abreast of Rutledge, he said, 'What makes you think I want to kill Garcia?'
'A year ago, you opened your big mouth to half the homicide detectives in L.A.'
Javier Cardenas, Payne thought. The police chief had made some calls. 'I didn't mean it. It was all talk.'
'Bullcrap. You got yourself a primal urge. It's what I would do if someone murdered my son.'
'How do you know? You don't have any children.'
The older man shrugged. 'Hell, if someone killed Javie, I'd gut the bastard like a hog.'
'And you think I'm like you?'
Rutledge's smile was as thin as the brim of his Stet-son. 'More than you know.'
They stopped on a rise behind the farmhouse, a three-story structure with wide porches, green shutters, and Southern plantation white pillars. From this elevation, they looked over thousands of acres, blooming with fruits and vegetables.
