Fugitive Nights (34 page)

The fugitive looked at the cartons being stacked for loading: tablecloths, napkins, flatware. Each box was marked by a felt pen:
Lugo.

“I wish I could get a job here,” the fugitive said. “I have to make some money quick in order to go back to San Felipe and see my sick mother.”

“That's a pity,” the kid said. “I heard you ask Phil. He's a bastard. If Henry was here he might hire you.”

“Do they provide you with clothes to wear at parties?” the fugitive asked. “Or would I have to buy my own?”

“They buy one shirt and one pair of trousers for you,” the kid said. “We must provide our own shoes. If we don't have black leather shoes, they'll buy them, but we must pay them back from our first paycheck.”

“Where do you buy your clothes?”

“I found a good sale at May Company,” the kid said.

“What would I need to buy?”

“A white dress shirt with long sleeves, a black vest, a black bow tie, and black trousers. That's all,” the kid said.

“And black shoes.”

“Yes,” the kid chuckled, looking at the fugitive's white Palm Springs tasseled shoes. “Those won't do.”

“I could go to a department store this evening and buy what I need,” the fugitive said. “Or even tomorrow morning. If I did that do you think Henry might hire me?”

“Henry would never let you work at this party unless you were properly trained by him.”

“How many of you will be working tomorrow?” the fugitive asked.

“At least twenty serving people, not counting bartenders. And not counting those in the kitchen doing food preparation. The boss wants a fresh drink in everyone's hands at all times, that's what Henry says.”

“I wish I could have gotten to work at this party,” the fugitive said. “But maybe I'm lucky not to start with such a hard one. You'll work long hours, no?”

“Oh, yes,” the kid said. “The serving people must be there at two o'clock. They expect the first guests to arrive at about five or six. We'll stay till two o'clock in the morning, perhaps. Twelve hours' work.”

“Well, I guess I'll come back on Monday,” the fugitive said. “Thanks.”

“Talk to Henry, not Phil,” the kid said. “He's a nice man. Phil's a bastard.”

“Are most of your workers Mexican?” the fugitive asked.

“Of course!” the kid said, laughing. “If the immigration rounded up all the undocumented workers around here, Palm Springs would shut down completely.”

The moment she made a turn from Highway 111 into Windy Point, a gust of sand peppered the windshield.

“Just a balmy breeze, by Windy Point standards,” Lynn said as the visibility from the headlight beams dropped to ten feet.

They followed Jack Graves' little street to the end, where it petered out onto the open desert. The wind now turned from gusting blasts to a steady blow, humming down through the mountain pass.

When they got out of Breda's Z they were actually blown backwards a step or two. Lynn thought he saw a silhouette floating along the desert floor beyond the cactus garden, a ragged specter propelled by the wind through the darkness.

“Jack!” he called, but only the banshee howl of wind answered him, forcing him to turn his back.

He and Breda stumbled toward the front door, and Lynn knocked, waited a few seconds, then opened it.

When they got inside, Breda said, “Good Lord!” Then she said, “What about my
car
? It'll be sandblasted!”

“It might settle down as fast as it started up,” Lynn said, unconvincingly.

While Breda was shaking sand from her hair the front door opened and Jack Graves limped in from outside, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket, his black hair blown across his long sorrowful face. He brushed some sand from his coat and said, “Around these parts, we call this a gentle zephyr.”

Lynn saw an angry blackening bruise on the gaunt cheekbone of Jack Graves. “What happened to your face?”

“Oh, nothing,” Jack Graves said. “A stupid little accident, that's all.”

“What kinda accident?” Lynn asked suspiciously.

“Stumbled and fell in the ravine when I was out walking this afternoon. Clumsy.”

“Well then, why the hell were you back out there tonight? In a windstorm?”

“Listening for the coyotes,” Jack Graves said, “but I guess they have more sense than to leave their dens when there's wind.”

“More sense than some people,” Lynn said. “Did you go to a doctor?”

“About this little bruise?” Jack Graves said, touching it gingerly.

“You're limping,” Lynn said.

“Twisted my ankle when I fell, but I'm fine. No problem at all.”

“I oughtta call Mister Goodwrench,” Lynn said, with a glance at Breda. “Maybe get the nuts and bolts tightened up in your head.” Then he massaged his aching knee and said, “And to put a little oil in my joints. I'm leaking.”

Jack Graves said, “Anyway, shall we get down to business? First, tell me, what about the man Clive Devon picked up in Painted Canyon?”

“I'm convinced he doesn't know a thing about that guy,” Breda said. “The smuggler sold him a bill of goods that his car had broken down, and Devon simply gave him a ride.”

“Do you agree with Breda, Lynn?” Jack Graves asked.

“Yeah,” Lynn said. “Clive Devon's about as sinister as a blueberry muffin. There's no connection.”

“I had to be sure,” Jack Graves said. “That was also my impression after meeting him.”

“How'd
you
meet him?” Breda wanted to know.

“We had supper together in a joint up in Desert Hot Springs, the Snakeweed Bar and Grill. He doesn't hang around the same kinda places his wife does. But he's had money a lot longer, all his life in fact. Did you know he's never had a job? Never.”

“Did
he
tell you that?” Breda asked.

Jack Graves shook his head and said, “None of this is a secret. I met a good friend of his, the man who took the semen sample, in fact.”

“You even know his doctor?”

“First a little history,” Jack Graves said. “Our Clive Devon's been in frail health since he was a kid. He's never been in the service, never went away from home, raised by a doting mother. He's a very insecure shy guy, but the kind you like immediately. Half the customers in the Snakeweed know the answer to your mystery. It's
only
a secret from Rhonda.”

Breda was sitting with her legs crossed. Her left foot bounced impatiently, but she wasn't about to rush him. She realized you shouldn't force a methodical man like Jack Graves.

“Oh!” Jack Graves said suddenly, “Can I get you some coffee? Or a beer? Or …”

“Not for me,” Lynn said.

“No, thanks,” Breda said.

“Okay, where was I?”

“Everybody in the Snakeweed likes him,” Lynn said.

“They sure do,” Jack Graves said. “Anyway, Clive Devon never married till he met Rhonda. He was a middle-aged mother's boy. She was a real estate agent from Pasadena who sold his family home there when his mother died. That was when he decided to move out here to the desert. Clive and Rhonda started seeing each other. She was rebounding from a couple bad marriages. They finally got hitched.”

“She didn't like the desert, I take it,” Breda said.

“Hated it,” Jack Graves said. “Eventually he also bought a house in Brentwood, close enough to Rodeo Drive for her to find fulfillment. And that's the way their marriage has gone. He goes to the Brentwood house for a short visit every blue moon. She comes here every other weekend for a couple days. They both manage investments from either end. She's a part-time real estate agent for a Beverly Hills broker, though she certainly doesn't need the money.”

“That's a marriage?” Breda remarked.

“It suits them,” Jack Graves said.

“What's
he
get out of it?” Lynn wanted to know. “Somebody to grow old with?” To Lynn, that wasn't something to sneeze at.

“He's growing old now,” Jack Graves said. “According to his friend, Doc Morton, he loves Rhonda Devon in his own way. And Doc Morton thinks it's the same with her. He's probably the nicest guy she's ever met, and of course he'll give her anything she wants.”

“Weird!” Breda said. “
Rich
people.”

“Doc sees Clive Devon quite a lot, but only when Rhonda's in L.A.”

Finally Breda could no longer contain herself. “I'm dying to hear, Jack. What's it about? Is it about the maid's daughter, or what?”

“It's about the inability to let go,” Jack Graves said.

“Let go of what?” Breda asked.

“Unconditional love,” Jack Graves said. “It's a very simple case, so simple we made it complicated.”

“The sperm,” Lynn said. “What's it about?”

“Clive Devon can't let go,” Jack Graves said. “See, Malcolm's got an enlarged heart, and Malcolm's the best friend he's got. The best friend he's ever had. He thinks he can clone his dog.”

“Malcolm's
his
dog?” Breda exclaimed. “The sperm belongs to a
dog
?

“Malcolm's been his dog since Clive found him starving out on the desert five years ago.”

Lynn said, “Five years?”

Jack Graves smiled. “Five years. Yet Rhonda Devon doesn't even know Malcolm exists. Doc says Malcolm could die any time, but Clive simply
cannot
accommodate that idea. So he's determined to replicate Malcolm.”

“Replicate a dog?”

“There's no such thing as a proper animal sperm bank,” Jack Graves explained. “People don't store animal sperm for long periods of time, so at Clive's request, Doc took the sample, froze it, and sent it by special courier to a real sperm bank in Beverly Hills, marked as a human being's sperm, of course. It's stored there under the name of Malcolm Devonson, bearing Clive Devon's social security number. You see, this sperm sample's worth a million bucks or more. To Clive Devon.”

“But how can his wife not know anything?”

“That's the way they live, according to Doc Morton. She's highly allergic, or
thinks
she is. And she starts fussing every time she gets within ten feet of an animal. So, before she arrives at the desert house, Malcolm goes to stay with Esther, the maid's daughter down in Indio. That's why Clive's always out hiking when his wife's here in residence. He's with Malcolm. And when she goes back to L.A. Malcolm lives with him and sleeps on his bed. Blanca Soltero does a major housecleaning the day before Rhonda arrives.”

Breda couldn't get over it. “And they've been living like this for five years?”

“Yeah.”

“
Rich
people!” was all she could say.

“How long do they think the dog's got?” Lynn asked.

“Not long, but Doc doesn't know for sure. He's been given the job of contacting every vet in the desert to try to find a suitable bitch—a big brown dog that's maybe part shepherd, part mastiff, part retriever. A dog with the dozens of magnificent wonderful irreplaceable characteristics that Clive Devon sees in Malcolm. They haven't found her yet. Every time Doc finds one, Clive thinks she's not quite right. They'll keep at it even after Malcolm's gone. Clive's determined to clone that dog.”

“A poor little rich guy,” Breda said. “Scouring the desert for a mongrel bitch. Pathetic!”

“I been doing that for years,” Lynn said, but Breda let it pass.

“It's sort of a sad joke around the Snakeweed,” Jack Graves said. “People smile and shake their heads, especially about the sperm bank.”

“You can't produce identical DNA,” Breda said. “The guy's crazy. So's the vet.”

“The vet's an old friend. Sometimes you do crazy things for a friend,” Jack Graves said. “He knows Clive'll fall in love with whatever pup he eventually ends up with.”

“
No
more domestic cases,” Breda said. “I gotta find some nice clean insurance work involving a lotta filthy lawyers. These domestic cases're too complicated for me.”

“Well, there it is,” Jack Graves said. “What're you gonna do with it?”

“I guess I'll just sit Rhonda Devon down and tell her she's a distant second in her husband's life, and she oughtta buy a year's supply of antihistamine in order to live with dog dander.”

Jack Graves looked very serious then. He said, “I wish you wouldn't.”

“What? Not tell her? She's my client. She's paying me. Us.”

“You don't owe me anything,” Jack Graves said. “I wasn't gonna take your money no matter what. Look, Clive's a sixty-three-year-old man who finds it real hard to get close to people. He has a certain kind of relationship with her. They respect each other's private ways. Don't humiliate him.”

Breda said, “Jack, I've got a big fee coming in this case, if I get results! She'll be happy to learn she doesn't have a rival. At least not the kind she
thinks
she has.”

“From what Doc told me about her, it wouldn't work,” Jack Graves said. “If she even thought there'd been a dog in her house she'd have an asthma attack. Don't expect her to understand all this.”

“Her understand all this? I don't understand all this!” Breda said.

“Please don't humiliate him, Breda,” was all Jack Graves could say.

Breda looked at Lynn for support. He looked from her to Jack Graves.

Then she said, “Am I the crazy one here? What am I supposed to say to Rhonda Devon?”

“I've been thinking about that,” Jack Graves said. “You could tell her you got to someone at his urologist's office who admitted that they botched up the handling of specimens. That his routine biopsy went to the fertility clinic and sperm samples went to the lab to be biopsied. And that the billing went to the wrong parties for a few months until it got all straightened out. You and Rhonda Devon could have a good laugh about your little secret. I promise you, she'll be so relieved, she won't question it very closely. She'll
want
to believe it so she can stop worrying about it.”