J. Jance - Desert Heat

She walked back out into the terminal and made her way to the arriving passenger entrance where a driver was loading a stack of luggage into a hotel van. The van said “Spanish Trail.” Angie had no idea where or what the Spanish Trail was, but it was good enough to have a van, and that would take her away from the terminal.

“Room enough for one more?” she asked the driver. He was probably within months of being the same age as Angie herself, but he seemed much younger.

“You bet,” he said, smiling and reaching for her bag. “For you we’ve got plenty of room.”

Angie wasn’t willing to let the beach bag out of her hand. “I’ll carry this,” she said. “It’s not that heavy.”

She climbed into the van and went all the way to the back where a businessman sat with his briefcase resting on his knees. In the middle seat sat an older couple. The man smiled appreciatively at Angie as she went by, and she returned the smile. When she sat down behind him, though, she saw him jump as his wife elbowed him viciously in the ribs and scolded him in an exaggerated whisper.

You’re not working now, Angie reminded herself. Lay off. She was out of the life, and she wanted to stay that way.

As the van made its way through the city, Angie ignored her fellow passengers. Instead, she watched the scenery moving by outside the window, noticing how the desert seemed alive with vivid colors. The shadows on the pavement had hard, clear edges to them, and the silver-blue sky seemed to stretch away into forever. For the first time in her young life Angie Kellogg was free to go and do whatever she wanted.

The Spanish Trail Inn didn’t offer luxury accommodations, but it was far better than some of the flea traps Angie had frequented in her tune. At the front desk there was a bit of a hassle over her renting a room because she carried no ID, but eventually Angie was able to jump that hurdle, registering under her old name-Annie Beason. Desk clerks had never been impervious to her charms, and it pleased her to know they still weren’t. After picking up a newspaper from the stand near the front door, Angie was happy to let the van driver, who doubled as the bellman, carry her suitcase upstairs to her room.

“Will you be staying long?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Angie returned seriously. “If I like it well enough, I may just stay forever . ”

Alone in the room, Angie closed the curtains, kicked off her shoes, and lay down on the bed. Annie Beason. It was strange coming back to that old, nearly forgotten name. Just thinking about it caused a stirring of memory and speculation. What would have happened to Annie Beason, if she had stayed in Battle Creek and in school, Angie wondered. By now, she might even have been graduating from college, if she had gone to college, that is. But then again, with her parents, that probably wouldn’t have been possible. According to her father, boys were the ones who needed college. For a man, that was the only sure way out of the blue-collar jungle, but why would a girl need an education?

Why indeed? There were times, over the years, when Angie Kellogg had imagined what she would do with her life if she ever managed to slip her leash and escape the watchful eyes of her various pimps. Now, though, the issue of starting over in a new life was no longer a matter of idle imagining. Sitting up, Angie switched on the bedside lamp and reached for the newspaper. With the air conditioner turned up full blast, she thumbed through the paper to the help wanted ads.

Within minutes it was clear that there were hardly any openings for someone with her lack of skills and background. The office jobs all required at least “60 wpm,” and she couldn’t type any wpm. There were jobs for experienced fashion merchandisers. She was experienced in merchandising, all right, but not in the fashion arena. One sounded promising. It called for a motivated self-starter interested in earning up to 40k per year. She was interested in earning that much money, but when she dialed the number listed in the ad, it turned out to be an automobile dealership. She hung up without saying hello. Angie Kellogg didn’t know how to drive.

Chastened by the dawning realization of her limited employment options, Angie retrieved her beach bag from the closet, unloaded the money, and counted it carefully. Considering what she had spent getting here, including the cob fare, plane ticket, and hotel room, she must have started with exactly $50,000. That much money sounded like a nice round figure, and it seemed to be a fairly large sum, but Angie knew it wouldn’t last forever.

She put the money back in the bag and dug out the notebook. It was soft, made of high-grade, leather cowhide, with Tony’s initials-A V-embossed in gold in the lower right-hand corner. For a moment, she held it close to her face, breathing in the clean leather smell. She would have to make sure that particular item went to the highest possible bidder, whoever that person might be.

Angie put the notebook safely back in the bag along with the money. It was time to decide what to do. As soon as he realized she gone, Tony would be out searching for her, and if the cops ever learned of her existence, they would be, too. And both Tony and the cops would be eager to lay hands on the money. The trick now was to find a way to immobilize Tony without getting caught herself. As she sat there thinking about it, Angie realized that there was probably only one person in the world who wanted Tony Vargas caught worse than she did, and that was Joanna Brady.

She picked up the phone and dialed information. While she waited for someone to answer, she almost hung up. It didn’t seem likely to her that a cop would have his name and telephone number listed with information, but within seconds the mechanically reproduced voice was telling her “The number is…”

Quickly she jotted it down then dialed it before she lost her courage. A woman answered. “Joanna?” Angie asked tentatively.

“No. This is her mother. Joanna isn’t here right now. May I take a message?”

Angie put down the receiver without saying another word. Slightly discouraged, she slipped her shoes back on. Never trusting of hotel housekeeping folks, Angie took the beach bag with her when she went downstairs to have dinner. There in the restaurant, she treated herself royally at her first solitary dinner-prime rib, baked potato, and a wonderful salad. It was early, though, and the friendly waitress had plenty of time for idle chitchat. “Here for a visit?” she asked.

Angie nodded. “My baby sister’s getting married day after tomorrow,” she said. “Really. Whereabouts?”

“Some church up in the foothills,” Angie answered evasively.

It was growing dark outside by the time Angi ewas delicately making her way through a fluted glass filled with scrumptious chocolate mousse. Only by accident did she happen to be looking out through the lobby door as Tony Vargas walked past on his way from the front disk heading for her room.

Angie was thunderstruck and terrified. Obviously, he hadn’t fallen for the airplane ruse. AIready he was here, hot on her trail. How had he done it?

The look on her face must have shown. The waitress hurried to her side. “Are you all right?”

With trembling hands, Angie groped in her purse for some money. She threw a twenty-dollar bill into the waitress’s hand. “Keep the change,” she stammered. “It’s my boyfriend. He’s come here looking for me. Please don’t I him which way I went. Is there a back way t of here?”

The waitress nodded. “Through the kitchen,” she said. “This way.”

While angie stumbled past the cooks in the kitchen, Tony Vargas stood outside the door to her hotel room. He had come home to an empty house less than an hour after Angie left there. After storming through the place looking for her, he turned to the hall closet and discovered that the money was missing. And the notebook as well.