“Talk to you later,” Jeri said. “Learn from her, Mort. She’s a hell of an investigator. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“What was that about old home week?” Ma asked. “If it’s what I think it was, you’re in big trouble, boyo.”
“No comment.”
Ma turned to Roup and pointed a finger at his plate. “What’ve you got there, Mike?”
“Hunter’s Special.”
“Looks good. I’ll have me one of those.” She turned and called halfway across the room. “Hunter’s Special with that beer, hon.”
“Want to make it to go?” I said, ears ringing.
Ma stared at me. “Why would I want to do that?”
“’Cause we’re headed to Bend in about five minutes.”
She continued her stare. “Not without my Special, we’re not.” She called out again, “Put a rush on that food, hon. And make it to go.” Then she turned to Roup. “So, doll, what’s the story? You don’t call, you don’t write—”
“Got myself hitched, Ma. Two years ago.”
“Well, shit. That puts a damper on things. Guess that means you an’ me aren’t gettin’ together till you get divorced again, that about right?”
“Lookin’ like it, yeah.”
Ma turned to me. “So, boyo, what’s this nonsense about you and me goin’ all the way to Bend, huh?”
The brown Caddy Eldorado floated over the highway as if on a cushion of air, which was a combination of good shocks and soft springs, circa 1963. It also made travel iffy at more than fifty miles an hour so the scenery wasn’t exactly whipping by.
I drove. Ma ate.
“Goddamn Mike,” she said. “Gettin’ himself hitched like that. He sure knows how to take the fun out of things.”
“Yep. Goddamn Mike.”
She stared at me, then laughed, took another bite of ham. “Think that SUV might’ve been painted white, huh?”
“I think we better try to find out.”
“Good instincts. And it’s good you made contacts in Gerlach, got eyes on the street like that.”
“I appreciate that, Ma. Thanks.”
We drove in silence for a while. Ma finished her breakfast, stuffed the remains in a plastic bag, put it on the floor behind her seat. She looked out the window at the desert. The day was overcast with a hint of fall in the air. That wouldn’t last. It was late September. We had a month or so of Indian Summer coming up, but the weather was starting to bounce around.
A car passed us doing seventy-five or eighty. Made us look like we were parked in the middle of the road. Nice.
“I’m glad Jeri finally found someone,” Ma said. “Been a while. Too long. She needed someone. She told you what happened when she was twenty-one, didn’t she?”
“You mean Beau?” Beau was a guy who’d gotten Jeri pregnant, took off as soon as she told him, which had soured her worldview for the next six or seven years. She’d miscarried at two months, which had been a mixed blessing.
“Yeah, Beau. That little shitbird—may he roast in Hades.”
“She told me.”
“Now there’s a guy who needed cutting off at the knees, except it turns out he did her a favor, splitting like that. No telling what her life would be like if she’d married him. He was good-looking and charming and turned out to be a sleazebag anyway. There are times when a person is better off alone. A lot better.” She looked at me. “But you. You’re just what she needs.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, mostly because I didn’t know where Holiday fit into what Jeri wanted or needed.
Ma said, “Jeri saved my butt two years ago. She tell you?”
“No details. Just that whatever it was, you wouldn’t charge her for your time on this thing with Reinhart and Allie.”
“Damn straight I won’t.” She leaned the passenger seat back a few notches. “Been a long time since I rode over here in this seat. It’s more comfortable than I remembered. If I fall asleep, wake me up when we get to Bend.”
“I’ll do that. I saw an air horn in the trunk.”
“Touch it and you’re a dead duck.” She closed her eyes and leaned her head back. “Guy came into the office eighteen years ago. Name was Isaac Biggs. He wanted me to find his ex-wife, said he wanted to reconcile with her. Ex-wives, ex-husbands, those are always red-flag deals. You get a lot of lies, people saying they want one thing when they really want another. Biggs was a red flag as soon as he walked in the door. A walking, talking red flag, twenty-eight, scruffy, trouble on the hoof. I listened to him, didn’t take him on as a client so confidentiality wasn’t an issue. But I had his ex-wife’s name and some other stuff, so I found her myself after he left, told the police in Salt Lake they better keep an eye on her for a while. Which they did, farmed it out. Biggs went and hired another PI who found the ex-wife. Biggs showed up one day later, actually got off a shot with a gun from outside the house, missed the girl by six feet. He was drunk, dumb as a post, got hit with a bean-bag round by a pretty good rent-a-cop and was sent up for attempted murder.”
“Sounds like a fun guy.”
“A real sweetheart. He had sixteen years to figure out how he got caught, why some guy was right there at the ex-wife’s place waiting for him, finally figured it was me that ratted him out, and he showed up at my office when he got out of prison. Jeri and I were there trying to locate some lady’s son who’d taken off with a bunch of her jewelry and her car. Biggs came storming through the building, which was his big mistake, but that scumbag was and always will be as dumb as a pound and a half of chickenshit. Jeri isn’t one to wait around and see what’s what before she acts. She got beside the door—Lord, that girl is quick on her
