Don Winslow - While Drowning in the Desert

“No,” I said. “The car was not locked.”

Even through his reflective sunglasses I could see the disdainful stare. Yeah, all right, I could imagine it, anyway.

“May I see the keys?” he asked.

“I don’t have the keys.”

A long, disgusted pause.

“You left the keys in the vehicle,” he said.

“I left the keys in the vehicle.”

“Your insurance company isn’t going to like that.”

“It’s a rented car.”

“Then your insurance company really isn’t going to like that,” he said. “Have you reported the loss to the rental-car agency?”

“Not yet.”

“You should.”

“I will.”

“License-plate number?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because it’s a rental car.”

“That’s right.”

“The rental agreement will have it,” Trooper Darius said. “Don’t tell me, it’s in the vehicle.”

“With the keys,” I said.

He sighed a long-suffering sigh, then asked, “What kind of car is it?”

I thought about it for a few seconds.

“Red,” I answered.

His hand twitched in unconscious yearning around his nightstick.

“What make?” he clarified.

Now I sighed.

“I know it’s not Japanese or German,” I said. This time he took the glasses off to stare at me. More of a squint, really, in the sun.

“I don’t suppose it’s much use asking you the year, right?” he said.

“I don’t know a lot about cars,” I said.

“No fooling.”

“I’m from New York,” I explained.

“Don’t they have cars in New York?”

“Subway cars,” I joked.

I should have had one of those cards that said Laugh.

“You want us to look for a red car,” Trooper Darius said.

“I can identify the driver.”

“How?” he asked.

“Because he was in the car.”

“When?”

“When I was driving it,” I said. “Before he took it.”

Another long pause while the sun beat down on his Smokey the Bear hat and my bare, sweating head.

“The passenger stole the vehicle?” he asked.

“I’m not sure I’d say ‘stole,’” I answered. “But, yes, the passenger took the car.”

“You know the suspect.”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“Describe him.”

“An older gentleman…” I began.

“How old?”

“Eighty-six.”

I had never before seen a state trooper struggling not to laugh.

“An eighty-six-year-old man stole your car,” he said.

“Well again, I wouldn’t necessarily say-”

“Did he beat you up?” he asked.

“No, I-”

“Threaten you in any way?”

“No, you see-”

“Was he armed?”

“No,” I said. “I went to use the bathroom and when I came out I saw him driving away. I thought he would turn around and come back, but-”

“Didn’t the old man need to use the bathroom?” he asked. “Because usually-”

“That’s what I thought, but he said he didn’t.”

“Now we know why.”

“I guess so.”

“Name?”

“Neal Carey.”

“His name,”

“I thought you meant my name.”

“No, his name,” said Trooper Darius. “I already know your name. Your name is Neal Carey.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

We stood for a few seconds enjoying the sunshine.

“So what is it?” the trooper asked.

“What’s what?”

“What’s his name?” the trooper asked. “Take it slow, now. His name, not yours.”

“Nathan Silverstein,” I said. “Or Natty Silver.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

“How many eighty-six-year-old men stole your car?” he asked.

“Just one,” I said.

“So we’re on the lookout for a red car driven by an eighty-six-year-old man named Nathaniel Silverstein aka Natty Silver,” the trooper said.

“That about sums it up.”

“Which way was he headed?”

“He went thataway,” I said, pointing west.

“He could be a long way thataway,” said the trooper.

“I don’t think so.”

“Why don’t you think so?”

“Because he was driving about twenty miles an hour.”

Trooper Darius thought for what seemed like a long time. Then he said, “Get in the car.”

“The car’s gone.”

“My car.”

“Oh.”

We were cruising west on Interstate 15 when the trooper said, “I thought if we can catch up to the old man, and if everything checks out, then you can just get back in the driver’s seat and you won’t have to call the rental-car people or your insurance company and I won’t have to file a stolen-vehicle report.”

“I really appreciate that,” I said. “Thank you.”

We were doing eighty miles an hour so it wasn’t long before we found the car in a ditch at the side of the road.

We pulled over and I jumped out of the cruiser, my heart pounding. I was scared to death I’d find Natty slumped over the wheel, hurt or worse.

I jumped into the ditch and looked into the car.

Nathan wasn’t in it.

Graham answered the phone.

I’d been hoping he wasn’t home so that I could leave a brief message after the beep. Something like, “Hi, it’s Neal. I’ll call back.”

But Graham was home, watching an exhibition game between the New Orleans Saints and the San Diego Chargers.

And they call me mentally ill.

“Hi, Dad,” I said.

“How’s Palm Springs?” he asked. After a couple of seconds he added, “You lost him again, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“How do you keep misplacing an entire person?” Graham asked. “I can understand a watch, a wallet, a glove. But an entire human being?! Twice, in the space of less than twenty-four hours?! Who is this guy, Harry Houdini?”

Sort of. Because he had simply disappeared. When Trooper Darius and I got to the car, there was no sign at all of Nathan. He was just gone. Without a trace. We even looked for blood on the steering wheel and windshield, thinking that maybe he’d hit his head. There was none, thank God.

Nathan was just gone.

“What do you mean, ‘blood on the dashboard’?” Graham asked. “I thought you were supposed to fly back.”

“I thought so, too.”

I told him about the scene at the airport. I told him about the Jeep and bouncing. I told him about Japanese cars, German cars “So what kind of car did you get?” he asked.

“Red, all right?!!” I hollered.

“Just asking.”

I told him about “Who’s on First,” about Lou Costello, Arthur Minsky, pastrami, Murray Koppelman, Irene the Irish Dream, Myra and her Doves of Love…

Graham asked, “How did she train the doves to land…?”

“I don’t know!”

… about Benny the Blade, salami instead of pastrami, how I screamed at Nathan “That was hostile,” Graham said.

I stopped. “Since when did you start using words like ‘hostile’?”

“Since I talked to Karen earlier,” he said.

“You talked to Karen?”

“I called to ask her if she’s registered for her patterns,” Graham said. “And she told me you were hostile.”

“I’m starting to get hostile…”

“See?”

I swallowed hard and told him about pulling over at the gas station, about going into the men’s room, about “You left the keys in the car and he took it,” Graham said. “But you found the car again.”

I told him about Trooper Darius.

“That’s where the ‘blood on the dashboard’ thing comes in,” Graham said.

“There wasn’t any.”

“Which is good,” Graham said.

“Graham, I’m scared out of my wits. We checked at the trooper station, the Sheriff’s Office. I called the hospitals, the morgue. What if-”