Potshot (3 page)

‘I’m sure I’ve left people out,’ she said. ‘But these are the ones I can think of.’

The list wasn’t very long. It was limited to Potshot. There was no one on it from L.A.

‘It’s a start,’ I said.

‘You won’t be… ? No. I hired you to investigate. You should just go ahead and do it.’

I smiled.

‘I won’t be mean to them,’ I said.

Lou looked at me for a time without speaking, patting Jesse’s head absently, her coffee sitting in its pretty china cup undrunk. The insistent desert light, cooled, but not dimmed, by technology, came in through the kitchen windows and made everything gleam impossibly. The counters and cabinets were bleached oak. The floor and countertops were Mexican tile. The hood over the cookstove was also tiled in the same stuff. The dog’s tail moved steadily as Lou stroked her head.

‘It took a long time after Steve died for Jesse to realize he wasn’t coming home. Every night before supper she’d go and sit at the door and wait.’

I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t sure she was talking to me.

‘It was hard to get her to eat for awhile, because Steve was always the one who fed her, and for whatever dog reason, she wanted to wait for him.’

I finished my coffee. Lou stopped talking and stared off through the kitchen window at the desert. We looked at each other. She was wearing a light perfume. Her legs were evenly tanned, as well as her arms and face, and probably parts of her I couldn’t see. She looked athletic and outdoorsy and clean, and very beautiful. The moment took a long time to pass.

‘Not too much is known about dogs,’ I said.

I started with the first name on Mary Lou’s list. J. George Taylor. I was wearing my casual desert detective outfit. Ornate sneakers, jeans, a gray T-shirt hanging out to cover the gun, a blue Brooklyn Dodgers baseball hat and shades. I paused to admire my reflection in the tinted glass door, then went into a real estate office on the main drag, next to the Foot Hills Bank & Trust. The office was a small, round-edged, flat-roofed adobe stand-alone, with a low porch across the front and the overhang of the roof rafters exposed, giving it that authentic Mexican look. There were four small gray metal desks in the room with phones and name plates and swivel chairs, and chairs handily arranged so that customers could rest their checkbooks on the desk as they wrote. In the back of the room was a big oak desk. There were a number of desert-themed prints on the wall: bleached cow skulls, a big cactus, and Native Americans wrapped in colorful blankets, one of whom wore a derby hat with a feather in it. Three of the small inauthentic desks were empty. A woman with a lot of rigid blond hair was sitting at the fourth, talking to a fat guy at the big oak desk. Her makeup was expert and extensive. She was wearing a green top and white pants. Her legs were crossed. Where the fabric pulled tight I noticed that she had a comely, if mature, thigh. Nothing wrong with mature. He had a red face and a lot of male pattern baldness. He reminded me of Friar Tuck. The room felt like a meat locker, but the red-faced guy was sweating lightly. Her nameplate said Bea Taylor. His nameplate said J. George Taylor. Being a trained investigator, I made the connection.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Come in and sit down.’

‘You want to buy some property,’ he said with a big smile, ‘this is the place.’

I took out two business cards and handed one to each, and sat down in a convenient customer chair.

‘Actually I’m in the market for information,’ I said.

They looked at my card.

He said, ‘A private detective?’

She said, ‘I said to myself when you walked in that door, there’s something unusual about that man.’

‘You’re both on the money,’ I said. ‘I’m looking into the murder of a man named Steve Buckman.’

‘Somebody hired you?’ J. George said.

‘Fortunately, yes,’ I said. ‘Can either of you help me at all?’

‘Do you have a gun?’ the blonde asked.

Somehow she made it sound as if she were asking something intimate.

I smiled at her. The big smile, the kind that would make her mature thighs ripple.

‘Are you Mrs Taylor?’ I said.

‘Yes, I’m sorry, and this is my husband, George.’

J. George nodded like a guy accepting an award. Either he had more stamina than he showed, or she fooled around. I glanced at her again. She had her lips open slightly. She touched the bottom one with the tip of her tongue. Probably both.

‘I can’t think of anything we could tell you about Steve,’ Taylor said.

‘You knew him,’ I said.

‘Oh sure thing,’ J. George said. ‘My business you get to know pretty much everybody in town.’

‘
Our
business, dear.’

J. George laughed. Jolly.

‘Bebe doesn’t let you get away with anything,’ he said.

‘I can see that,’ I said.

Flattering Bebe held promise.

‘What kind of a guy was Buckman?’

‘Steve was a peach,’ Bebe said. ‘Wasn’t he, George?’

‘A peach of a guy,’ J. George said. ‘Organized the kids around here into a Pop Warner league.’

‘I didn’t know the town had enough kids for that,’ I said.

‘Six-man football,’ J. George said.

‘Did you ever play football, Mr Spenser?’ Bebe asked.

‘Long time ago, Mrs Taylor – you know, leather helmets and high-tops.’

‘What position did you play?’

‘Strong safety,’ I said.

‘I’m not surprised,’ she said, and ran the tip of her tongue along her lower lip.

My guess was she didn’t know strong safety from traffic safety, but she recognized the word strong. I was glad I hadn’t played weak side linebacker.

‘So Buckman was active in the community,’ I said, just to be saying something.

Bebe smiled, as if she knew a joke she wasn’t sharing.

‘Great guy,’ J. George said. ‘It’s a real tragedy what happened.’

‘What did happen?’ I said.

‘Well,’ J. George said, ‘you know he got shot.’

‘Yes.’

‘Well that’s all we know.’

‘No idea who shot him?’

‘No,’ J. George said quickly, ‘of course not.’

‘He have any enemies?’ I said.

‘No,’ J. George said. ‘None. Not that I know of.’

‘How’d he get along with the Dell?’ I said.

‘Dell? I’m sure I don’t know,’ J. George said.

‘I heard they extort money from town businesses and Steve wouldn’t pay.’

‘I don’t know anything about that,’ J. George said.

He was getting less jolly with every question.

‘They ask you to donate?’ I said.

‘No,’ J. George said. ‘Absolutely not.’

I looked at Bebe. She was watching the two of us, her mouth ajar, her lower lip tucked slightly under, the tip of her tongue resting on it.

‘You know anything about that?’ I said to her.

She seemed startled.

‘About… ?’

‘The Dell,’ I said.

‘No. The Dell? No, I don’t know anything about that.’

‘I’m telling you,’ J. George said. ‘Steve Buckman didn’t have an enemy in the world.’

‘He had one,’ I said.

‘He did?’

‘George,’ Bebe said. ‘Somebody shot him.’

‘Oh, yes, sure thing. I’m starting to slow down, I guess.’

Again I saw Bebe smiled at her private joke.

‘How was the marriage?’ I said.

‘Far’s I know solid as a rock,’ J. George said.

He was getting jolly again. Old J. George, fat and jolly. Probably light on his feet. Probably a ton of laughs at rotary club. Probably steal your children in a real estate deal.

‘You know about his marriage, Bebe. You’re friendly with Lou.’

‘Lou?’ I said.

‘Lou Buckman,’ J. George said. ‘His wife. Didn’t she hire you?’

I smiled. Enigmatic.

‘They get along?’ I said to Bebe.

‘Like George and I,’ she said.

‘That well,’ I said.

‘Oh sure,’ J. George said. ‘Been together for, well never mind.’ He laughed. ‘Don’t want to give our age away. We got married when she was nineteen.’

‘Wow,’ I said. ‘Twenty years.’

Bebe smiled almost genuinely.

‘How gallant,’ she said. ‘Why are you asking about Lou?’

‘Just doing the drill,’ I said. ‘A spouse dies, the surviving spouse is automatically suspect.’

‘Cherchez la femme,’
Bebe said, and looked pleased with herself.

‘
Oui,
’ I said.

‘You going to be in town long, Mr Spenser?’ J. George said.

‘Awhile,’ I said. ‘Could you tell me any people that Buckman was close to in town? People I might talk with?’

‘Bebe could do that for you. She really knew him better than I did.’

I’ll bet she did.

‘Want to give him a list, Beeb?’ J. George said.

‘Just so you are, you know, circumspect and… I wouldn’t want people we know to be pestered.’

‘I’ll try not to pester,’ I said.

‘I don’t know why you need this stuff,’ J. George said. ‘It was some thug from the Dell, anyway.’

‘No doubt,’ I said. ‘But which one? I’m just looking for information.’

Bebe got out a sheet of paper and thought and wrote and thought and wrote. J. George and I sat silently while she wrote, both of us watching her as if it were interesting. When she was through she handed it to me.

‘I’m sure it’s not everybody,’ she said. ‘But it’s who I could think of.’

‘Thank you,’ I said.

‘Anything I can do,’ she said.

I nodded. The words had an ulterior ring to them, as if they meant more than they seemed to.

‘Well anything you need. Bebe and I know pretty much everything goes on around here.’

‘Except who shot Steve Buckman,’ I said.

‘Except that,’ J. George said.

He stood. He was taller than I’d thought. Maybe because he was wearing tan snakeskin cowboy boots. Authentic. I stood and shook hands with him. Bebe stood when I did.

‘Sit still, George,’ she said. ‘I’ll walk him to the door.’

She did. When I stepped out onto the covered porch, the heat rammed into me like a physical thing. Bebe stepped out with me.

‘Do you get used to the heat?’ I said.

‘I like heat,’ she said.

She moistened her lower lip. I could feel one of those comely mature thighs against my own.

‘Besides,’ I said, ‘it’s a dry heat.’

‘Everyone says that, don’t they?’

‘Everyone,’ I said.

‘Where are you staying?’ she said.

‘Jack Rabbit Inn.’

She put her hand out. I took it.

‘Nice to have met you, Mr Spenser,’ she said.

‘You too,’ I said.

‘If I think of anything, perhaps I’ll call you,’ she said.

‘Anything at all,’ I said.

She smiled and stared into my eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said.

I compared the list from Lou Buckman with the list from Bebe Taylor. Bebe’s list started with a guy named Mark Ratliff. Mary Lou’s list didn’t name him. Since I assumed he was first on Bebe’s list because he was the first one she thought of, he seemed a good choice to visit next.

Ratliff had his office in a corner building with a rounded false front that made it look like a nineteenth-century saloon. There was a glass window to the right of the entry door, in which hung a stained-glass sign that read Tumbleweed Productions. I went in. The reception area was lined with movie posters. The furniture was blond modern and looked very uncomfortable. At the reception desk was a tanned young woman in a lavender pantsuit. Her dark hair was long and straight. There was a dandy silver streak in the front. She wore large, round glasses with gold frames. Her long manicured nails were painted to match her pantsuit, and she wore an ornate sapphire-and-gold ring on the index finger of her right hand. The nameplate on the desk said VICKI.

‘May I help you?’ she said.

I gave her my card. It was a nice, subdued card. Susan had persuaded me not to use one with the picture of me holding a knife in my teeth.

‘I’d like to see Mark Ratliff, please.’

Vicki studied my card for a moment.

‘Do you have an appointment with Mr Ratliff?’ she said.

‘I’m ashamed to say I don’t.’

I smiled at Vicki even more forcefully than I had at Bebe, though not the A smile. The A smile was too dangerous. Women sometimes began to loosen their clothing when I gave them the A smile.

‘What was it concerning, Mr Spenser?’

‘Steve Buckman,’ I said.

‘The man who was… ?’

I nodded encouragingly.

‘I’ll see if Mr Ratliff is free,’ she said, and went up a circular staircase in the back corner of the room and along a balcony and into an office.

While she was gone, I looked at the movie posters. All of them had Ratliff’s name attached as producer. Some of them had stars I’d heard of. There was also an article clipped from
Variety
and framed, in which Ratliff was referred to as ‘cult film master Mark Ratliff,’ which, I think, meant that his films didn’t make money. I was still looking at the posters and listening to the white noise of the air-conditioning when Vicki came back with good news.

‘Mr Ratliff will see you,’ she said as if she were announcing
It’s a boy!

‘How nice,’ I said.

‘Top of the stairs, turn right,’ she said.

She smiled at me as if we were co-conspirators. I smiled back. Pals. One of my best friends in Potshot.

I went up the stairs.

Mark Ratliff was sitting behind a huge, hand-carved, Mexican-looking desk. He had on a light blue satin sweatsuit. He wore small gold-rimmed glasses low on his nose. His hair was white blond and brighter than Bebe’s. He was very dark, and the light coming in through the window behind him illuminated the contrast between his dark skin and his pale hair. He stood when I came in and looked at me over the glasses.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Mark Ratliff.’

The introduction was superfluous. I obviously knew who he was. But I didn’t make a fuss about it. I said hello and sat down.

‘So,’ he said. ‘Poor Stevie.’

‘You close to him?’ I said.

‘My best friend,’ Ratliff said.

‘How about Mrs Buckman?’ I said.

‘Oh sure, Lou and I were pals too. But Stevie was the one.’

‘Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?’

‘God, I wish I knew which one,’ he said.