I rose slowly, too long on the cold floor, creaked to the cell door, only able to say 'Yes' very quietly.
'Let's get your stuff and get out of here,' the sleepy man said.
'Who the hell are you?'
'Me? Me, I'm the unfortunate son of a bitch who went to law school with that fucking Thursby,' the young man said as he handed me a card. 'Byron Fels,' he added, 'but don't shake my hand. Please. I don't want to catch whatever you caught from Chief Willow.'
'He's not a pleasant fellow, I take it.'
'He's a mean son of a bitch,' Fels said. 'And such a degenerate gambler that if he wasn't a cop, not a single casino in the state of Nevada would let him in the door.'
'So I guess I don't get to file a complaint or anything, huh?' I said without any real hope of getting even. Legally or otherwise.
'Charges are dropped. Paperwork has disappeared. Just get out of town as soon as you can. And don't come back until Willow is retired or, preferably, dead.'
'Thanks,' I said. 'Can I get a ride back to the hotel?'
'What do I look like? Taxi service?' he grumbled, but gave me a ride anyway.
'Send me a bill,' I said as Fels dropped me at the hotel.
'Forget it,' he said. 'I owe that fucking Thursby.'
Thanks to the wonderful twenty-four-hour ambience of Las Vegas, I found a quiet lounge where I had three slow drinks until Fresno's office was open, when I called to make an appointment with the boss as soon as possible that morning. Then I climbed into the Jacuzzi. Half an hour later, after some stretches Cathy had shown me, and a light breakfast, I was almost human again. I called Red. He came over, filled me in, and we agreed to meet that afternoon.
On the way to Fresno's office I took a quick detour by the safe locker to pick up the Glock and call Carver D. He did a bit of Internet sleuthing for me, then I stopped at a bank before I went to the courthouse, where I discovered that George Donald Willow was married to one Patricia Kay Fresno. Interesting but not unexpected. Fresno's offices were in a glass cube set among a landscaped greensward. Inside they looked more like law offices than the lair of a tough, intrepid investigator. Obviously, there was more PI work in Vegas and it paid better, much better than Meriwether, Montana, or any other place I had ever worked. J. Michael dressed like a successful lawyer, but the diplomas framed on his wall suggested a more violent education: Navy SEAL, State Department Security Service, Clark County Sheriff's Department. J. Michael was somewhat larger than his brother-in-law and looked considerably more fit and he seemed to have a smaller greedy gleam in his eye and no smug little smile.
'What can I do for you, Mr. Milodragovitch?'
I tossed a certified check face down on the desk.
'You know who I am. Let's cut the shit,' I said.
'I understand that you're looking for somebody. And that you've done some investigative work yourself,' J. Michael said smoothly, carefully ignoring the check. 'So I'm certain that you understand the high risk of failure and the cost of such an investigation -'
'How much would you want for a retainer?' I interrupted.
'Five thousand,' J. Michael answered immediately. 'Surely your client can afford that.'
'I'm the client in this matter,' I said.
'That's unusual,' he said. 'In that case, I suspect my retainer should be more substantial.'
'At least I don't have to worry about my client lying to me,' I said. 'I'll give you two grand.'
'It's my understanding that you've already spent one night in jail over this,' J. Michael said. 'I wouldn't think you would want to bargain over something as unpleasant as that?'
'You know,' I said, 'I've been a PI off and on for years. And I did some shit I didn't particularly like. For the money. Protected people and things I didn't particularly approve of or care for. Committed the occasional misdemeanor, but lately I've had cause to suspect that as bad as I've been, some of my fellow PIs are truly pieces of shit.'
'I'm sorry to hear that -' he started to say, and for a moment he sounded sincere.
'For five thousand dollars, asshole,' I interrupted, 'I can make you and your loser of a brother-in-law disappear into the desert.' I signed the back of the check. 'This is a cashier's check for two grand made out to cash. Pick it up, call Willow, and let's say 'so long.''
'I don't -' he started to say.
'Whatever you're going to say, don't,' I said. 'You're not the only asshole in the world with a computer. Don't let your bulldog mouth overload your bullfrog ass. Like you did in Reno last year. How old was that guy who kicked your ass with his cane? Seventy-two?'
'Goddammit, he was a kendo master.'
'Whatever,' I said.
J. Michael put the check into his desk drawer, called Willow to tell him that we had a deal, then turned to me, saying, 'I hope you realize that this isn't my idea. But I've got to keep my sister out of the poorhouse. Maybe I can actually help you find this person?'
I almost believed him, but I was already mad. 'Buddy, I wouldn't trust you to find the fucking men's room.'
After lunch I followed Red's directions out into the desert a few miles off the Interstate up Highway 93, where I turned on a dirt road that led behind a stony, brush-smudged ridge, then to the edge of a deep wash. When I got out of the Mustang, Red climbed out of the station wagon dressed in a rumpled camouflage suit covered with faded paint ball spots, a floppy bush hat covering his hair, large dark goggles protecting his eyes, and his facial skin slathered with sunblock. His mother sat in the front seat, cool and elegant in floral gauze over silk and a floppy straw hat, a painted fan in her hand.
'Where in the world did you get this tank?' I asked as I admired the classic station wagon.
'Out of a junkyard, man, brought it back from total death,' he said proudly.
'Beautiful,' I agreed.
'And clean, too. Dude it's registered to don't know he owns it. And in the right clothes, man, I just look like another fancy redneck.'
'Perfect,' I said. 'You get the ammo?'
'Right here,' Red said, holding up a small duffel bag. 'Targets already pinned up down the wash. Brought my piece, too, man. Hope you don't mind?'
'No problem,' I said.
'Craig, you take the gear on down,' Mrs. McCravey said quietly, then stepped over to me and placed her hand gently on my arm. 'Mr. Milodragovitch, can I speak to you for a moment?'
'Certainly, ma'am,' I said.
'I am in your debt,' she said, 'that is for sure. Your infusion of cash has turned the cards around for me. You must know how it is. Sometimes one hits a slump and, for no valid reason, loses one's confidence. That no longer seems to be a problem. But no matter how deeply I feel my obligation to you, I must ask a favor.'
'Anything, Mrs. McCravey.'
'I suggest two things are going to happen – one, that Craig has already found this woman for you and won't tell me; two, that she will not return willingly to Texas with you.' I nodded. 'Because of his height and his… condition, Craig has always felt he had to prove himself, to be tougher than normal men, so if at all possible and whatever the circumstances, please encourage restraint.'
'I'll treat him like he's my own flesh and blood,' I said.
'And I'll pray that will be sufficient to keep him safe.'
'I don't pray, ma'am,' I admitted, 'but I'll do my best.'
Mrs. McCravey leaned over to brush my cheek, her lips soft on my skin, her scent fragrant on the desert air. I realized that she was much older than she looked. Older than me even. And I felt even older than a dinosaur turd. Because I already knew what Red and I faced.
Thirty yards down in the arroyo, Red had propped two silhouette targets against the dry wall where the wash
