'No,' she said. 'I'll be there. The City of Scottsdale's sending someone over. It'll be enough of a crowd without having you there as well. Just keep me posted as to where I can reach you if I need to.'
'I thought I'd check into the swap meets around here. I understand the one at Greyhound Race Track is pretty good.'
Delcia laughed. 'That's what they say.'
'And then Rhonda and I may take a ride down to Sierra Vista.'
The laughter stopped. 'Why?'
'Rhonda wants to talk to Guy Owens. She's hoping to get him to change his mind about Michelle having an abortion.'
There was a pause. 'Well,' she said at last, 'as long as you're there to keep an eye on her, I suppose it'll be all right.'
'Any word on Michelle?'
'No. Nothing so far. When will you get back?'
I glanced at Rhonda. She had picked up the sketch pad and was standing next to the window, adding a few deft lines here and there with her pencil. Her blonde hair caught the sunlight from outside and glinted like a burnished golden halo. Rhonda Attwood was a beautiful, desirable woman.
'I don't know,' I said to Delcia. 'Probably sometime late this afternoon or evening. We'll leave a telephone trail with Ralph Ames.'
When I hung up, Rhonda was looking at me. 'How soon do we leave?' she asked.
'Look, are you sure you want to do this? The funeral is tomorrow. Shouldn't you stay here? Aren't there people who'll want to see you?'
'Just because Joey's dead doesn't mean I have to make a public spectacle out of myself. The only person I want to see is Michelle.'
'She knew you were staying at La Posada?' I asked.
'Yes.'
'Did anyone else?'
'Not really. I didn't take out an ad in the Arizona Republic, if that's what you mean. What are you getting at?'
'I'm trying to figure out who else besides Michelle, Detective Reyes-Gonzales, Ralph Ames, and me knew where you were staying.'
'That's all,' she said. 'I didn't even tell Vincent, and not the people at Renthrow Gallery either. I didn't want people being able to find me, people and reporters.'
I was gratified to hear that she differentiated between the two. It gave us something in common.
'But somebody else must have known.'
She shook her head. 'I can't think of anybody.'
At that juncture, Ralph Ames, who had obviously never heard of cholesterol counting, summoned us to breakfast-an Eggs Benedict extravaganza served poolside. He wasn't terribly enthusiastic about our proposed drive to Sierra Vista, but he nonetheless offered us the use of his Lincoln, saying that for safety's sake the Fiat should probably remain parked where it was for the time being.
'I agree about the Fiat, Ralph,' I said, 'and thank for the offer, but I think I hear Alamo calling me. After all, the insurance will cover the damage. Besides, none of it was my fault. They owe me a car.'
Ralph Ames grinned. 'You are one stubborn man, Beau. They may not agree with you, but I'll see what I can do.'
In the end, Ralph prevailed. Rhonda and I left the Alamo office driving a low-slung Chevrolet Beretta, having taken the extra collision insurance at an additional ten dollars a day and with the rental agent's final prohibition once more ringing in our ears that we were not, under any circumstances, to take the car to Mexico.
Bye ten-fifteen we were in the parking lot at Phoenix Greyhound Race Track. The people who frequent the swap meet, vendors and customers alike, struck me as a new lost generation, one that had started out in the late sixties making love not war. Almost twenty years later, these folks still hadn't gotten their act together.
There were plenty of wear-dated peace symbols in evidence, and the people displaying them were middle- aged earth-mother types with ample bosoms and long-haired men whose ponytails and beards were flecked with gray. It struck me as ironic that Zeke, Delcia's illegal-arms merchant, should be hiding out in the open, peddling his lethal wares among all the militant peacenik anti-nukers, I would have expected them to run him off as well since, statistically speaking, the attendees are far more likely to be shot than they are to be nuked.
For a while Rhonda and I wandered through the milling aisles. Finally, though, impatient to get out of there, I asked one of the vendors in he knew where I could find Zeke.
'Sure,' he said, eying me suspiciously. I didn't fit the typical customer profile. 'Next aisle over. Far end on the right.'
We found Zeke's stall without any trouble, but the first thing I saw when we got there wasn't Zeke or his guns-it was the rattlesnake.
The snake, so similar to Ringo that they might have been full brothers, sat waist-high on a wobbly card table. Unlike Ringo, however, this one was dead, thoroughly dead, forever frozen by some taxidermist's art into a ferocious striking position. The curved fangs were bared, and the charcoal-colored body coiled back on itself, while the glassy eyes stared straight ahead-directly at me. Just looking at it was enough to prickle the hairs on the back of my neck. Instinctively, I dodged back.
'Purty, ain't he,' growled a yellow-toothed man with a fat chew of tobacco stuffed in one cheek. His weighty peace symbol, three inches tall and made from hand-pounded silver, dangled on a frayed leather thong in front of a worn red flannel shirt that was stretched taut over a bulging midsection. 'Bagged him myself last year up near Bumble Bee. I'll sell him to you cheap-a hun'red fifty. You won't do no better 'an that.'
'No thanks,' I said, still maintaining a wary distance.
Rhonda stepped closer and examined the snake curiously. 'It does look like Ringo,' she said before turning to the vendor. 'Are you Zeke?' I had told her who we were looking for and why.
Zeke nodded slowly, giving her a lecherous up-and-down appraisal as he did so. 'Sure am, ma'am. What can I do for you today? If'n you don't like snakes, how 'bout a Gila monster then?'
He paused long enough to spit an arc of brown tobacco juice over his shoulder where it landed unerringly in a two-pound Folgers coffee can several feet behind him. 'Got me one of them, too. That'll run you 'bout tow hun'red even. Or somethin' a little smaller maybe-scorpions and centipedes. These here are s'posed to be plastic paperweights. Real classy if'n you work in an office.'
The guy took off his hat and wiped a shiny bald pate with his red bandanna. When he put the Stetson back on, I noticed it was decorated with a rattlesnake skin hatband and several multicolored feathers. Considering his alligator boots and hand-tooled leather belt, this dusty overweight specimen was someone the Earth First folks should have picketed right along with all those fur-wearing, opera-going society matrons.
'We're more interested in guns,' I said casually. He blinked. 'I've got me some of them, too,' he said tentatively. 'What kind you lookin' for?'
He pointed me toward a second rickety table, this one covered with guns. The weapons, mostly aged specimens, were a collection of ten or so rifles and shotguns of various makes and models. Some were undoubtedly antique quality with ornate handmade inlay work on the stocks. Others were just plain old.
'Not any of these,' I said, dismissing the entire table with a wave. 'These are all too big. I was thinking of something smaller.'
He looked at me closely.
'A friend told me about you,' I added as a further reference, 'a nameless, mutual friend. She said you had quite a collection, but if this is all you've got…'
Zeke, watching me closely, made up his mind. 'I can't afford to put 'em all out,' he said quickly. 'Somebody might rip 'em off. Exactly what kind of gun might you be lookin' for, mister?'
'A handgun,' I said. 'Thirty-eight caliber.'
'A. 38,' he repeated thoughtfully. 'I just might have one of them. It's small, though. Only a two-inch barrel.'
'Small's fine,' I said.
He nodded then called over his shoulder, 'Hey, Carl. Would you keep an eye on my stuff for a while? I gotta
