Norman Partridge - Saguaro Riptide

Then her expression changed. A splash of surprise, a demitasse of awe.

At the same moment Kate heard a car engine behind her. She looked over her shoulder just in time to see a florist’s van pull into a parking space near the pool.

The driver got out and opened the side door of the van. He disappeared inside for an instant, then reappeared with a dozen red roses in hand.

Kate looked at Sandy.

Found that Sandy was staring at her.

Neither one smiled, because both knew that at present there were only two women at the Saguaro Riptide Motel.

So the order of the day was poker faces for two, like gunfighters doing the high noon thing.

Simultaneously, they looked at the delivery boy.

He nodded. “Howdy, ladies.”

They smiled like homecoming candidates awaiting a crown.

The boy turned. He passed the motel office and headed for the motel proper.

Jackpot, Kate thought.

The boy climbed the stairs.

Neared Kate’s room.

Glanced at a receipt.

Passed Kate’s door without breaking stride.

Stopped two rooms down, at the end of the landing, and knocked.

A long moment passed. Finally, the door opened.

The delivery boy presented a black man with a dozen red roses.

Sandy Kapalua-Dayton said, “Shit.”

“It’s like this,” Wyetta explained, shooting a thumb over her shoulder in the librarian’s direction. “Marge plays bridge with my dear old gray-haired mama. They had themselves a game just yesterday, in fact.”

“And girls will talk, won’t they?” Jack said.

“Will you look at that.” Rorie chuckled. “Not only can it read, it can think, too. Next thing you know, it’ll be using tools.”

Wyetta let the comment go, focusing on Jack. “Yeah. Girls will talk, all right. Especially my mama. Why, she just had to tell Marge the story of how I locked up the ex-light- heavyweight champion of the whole wide world for stealing a stack of magazines.”

“So … let me guess: Marge, being a good upstanding civic-minded citizen, figured you needed to know when a magazine-rustling desperado such as myself appears at the public library with periodicals on his mind."

“Just like lettin’ a horny rooster into the hen house,” Rorie said.

Jack folded the computer printout and stuffed it into the back pocket of his jeans. “Then I guess there’s no point in me trying to take a gander at the old magazines, is there?”

Wyetta feigned surprise. “Hey, did I wake up in another country? Russia, maybe? Heck, cowboy, this here is America. Home of the brave, land of the Freedom of Information Act, and all like that.”

“Uh-huh.” Jack sighed. “So where does your pal Marge hide the back issues?”

Wyetta shrugged. “Well, I hate to be the one to piss on your hydrant, but magazines are for reference use only here at the Pipeline Beach Public Library. Marge keeps ’em in the back room, safe from thievin’ sidewinders like yourself We wouldn’t want you to go cuttin’ any erotic pictures out of the National Geographic when we weren’t looking.”

“Actually, nothing turns me off faster than that ritual scarification stuff,” Jack said. “And modern primitives. . well, you show me a woman with a tongue stud and I get the all-over heebie-jeebies, believe you me.”

“I don’t know.” Wyetta glanced at Rorie. “What do you think, pardner? Can we trust this gringo?”

“Well. . it’s okay by me. But just this once.”

“C’mon, cowboy.” Wyetta escorted Jack to the reference desk. “Marge, our friend here wants to look at a few magazines.”

Marge smiled at Jack. “Certainly. Just give me your library card and I’ll get whatever you’d like.”

Jack pulled out his wallet. Flipped through his card collection-Nevada driver’s license, corporate plastic, ATM card, a couple of video rental membership cards.

“Looks like I’m short one library card,” he said.

Marge pushed a form his way. “No problem. Just fill this out. We’ll need to see some identification with your address here in Pipeline Beach.”

“Actually, I’m a stranger in these parts. And I’ve got a nasty suspicion that you can’t accept anything with my Las Vegas address.”

“Sorry,” Marge said. “Our facilities are for local taxpayers only.”

Wyetta shook her head. “Fats Domino said it best: Ain’t that a shame. Can’t we bend the rules just a teeny-weeny bit. Marge? The boy has promised that he won’t ask for any National Geographics.”

“Well. . maybe if our friend here could get the City of Las Vegas to share some of its tax dollars.”

“C’mon, Marge,” Wyetta coaxed. “Just this once?”

Marge tsk-tsked the sheriff. “Now, Wyetta. . you know better than anyone what your mama always says.”

The women traded sly nods.

“Okay,” Jack said. “The suspense is killing me. I’ve got to know. What does Mama Earp always say?”

In unison, the women said: “Bending’s as good as busting.”

Wyetta slapped Jack on the shoulder. Hard.

“Them’s words to live by, cowboy,” she said.

And then, as punctuation, she winked.

Sandy said, “The thing is, my husband’s been dead for five years. But a delivery boy shows up with an armful of red roses and I figure that heaven must have finally got 800 numbers and Dale figured I was way past due for a dozen.” She shook her head. “That man still has such a strong hold on me, it’s amazing.”

The hot breeze brushed Kate’s hair like an invisible hand. She let things go dark for just an instant, then pushed her hair away from her eyes and stared at the swimming pool.

Water shimmering there, catching the sunlight, reflections dancing there that could have been anyone.

Her own reflection. Sandy’s reflection. But in her mind’s eye she saw only one person. Vincent Komoko. It seemed she’d never forget him. Never. No matter how hard she tried.

“Jesus. I’m sorry,” Sandy said. “You want me to get you some Kleenex?”

“No,” Kate said, wiping away her tears. “I’ll be all right.”

“I know it’s none of my business. . but does this have something to do with that guy you were asking about? That Vincent Komoko?”

“Yeah.” Kate wiped her eyes with die back of her hand. “It’s him.”

‘Trust me, kiddo-he ain’t worth it. Not to tell tales out of school or anything, but I just gave you the Dragnet version when you asked me about Komoko the other day. You know, the way Jack Webb used to do it -just the facts, ma’am.”

“I think what I need is the Mike Hammer version.” Kate smiled unexpectedly. “You know, Mickey Spillane-down and dirty and play up anything juicy.”

Sandy chuckled. “It ain’t anything to laugh over, really. If you ask me, Komoko was a slime. I don’t know what he was like when you knew him-and I get the sense that you knew him and knew him well. But by the time he started showing up here at the Riptide he’d gone full-tilt Robert De Niro.”

Sandy shook her head. “Komoko would show up once a month, like clockwork. First time I saw him, he was wearing this purple gangster suit-same color as Barney the Dinosaur. And that turned out to be one of his most tasteful outfits. Anyway, he’d book a room for the night, always pay cash. Then he’d hang around the pool in a pair of ball-buster bikini trunks, and he’d hang one of those damn reflector things around his neck so his Adam’s apple got good and tanned. And he always wore a Walkman, and thank God for that. I got a look at his tape box one day. Talk about a waste of plastic. Any idea why they let Lionel Ritchie make so many albums?”

“Maybe they already had all the Tupperware they could use?”