He married Sinsemilla in part because in her deepest drug stupors, she seemed dead, and death stirred Preston as beauty stirred other men. Furthermore, she’d come with two children who, by his philosophy, needed to die, and he had been attracted to her because he possessed the desire to fulfill her children’s need. So was his purpose in breeding new babies really so enigmatic? Preston was fond of saying that death was never truly a tragedy but always a natural event, because we are all born to die, sooner or later. From his perspective, could any significant difference exist between children being born to die, as are we all, and children bred to die?
Chapter 50
Elsewhere, the California dream might still have a glowing tan; but here it had blistered, peeled, and faded. Once a good residential street, the neighborhood had been rezoned for mixed use. Depression-era bungalows and two-story Spanish houses — never grand, but at one time graceful and well maintained — now wanted paint, stucco patches, and repairs to crumbling porch steps. Some sagging residences had been torn down decades ago, replaced by fast-food outlets and corner minimalls. These commercial properties, too, were beyond their best days: bottom-feeding burger franchises you’d never see advertised on television; shabby beauty salons, themselves in need of makeovers; a thrift shop selling all things used. Micky parked at the curb and locked her car. Ordinarily, she wouldn’t have worried that her aging Camaro might be boosted, but the low quality of the other iron on the block suggested that her tired wheels might present a temptation.
In the windows that flanked the front door of the narrow house, a blue neon sign in the left pane announced PALM READER, and in the right glowed an orange neon outline of a hand, bright even on a sunny morning. The cracked and hoved walkway led to a blue door featuring a painting of a mystic eye, but it also branched toward a flight of exterior stairs, most likely not originally part of the house, at the south side of the structure, where a discreet sign indicated that the detective’s offices were on the second floor.
The house stood among enormous phoenix palms, one of which shaded the stairs with its great green crown. The tree hadn’t been trimmed in years; a densely layered, twenty-foot-long collar of dead fronds drooped over one another and encircled the bole, creating a fire danger and an ideal home for tree rats.
Ascending toward the covered landing, Micky heard the rustle of busy rodents scurrying along vertical tunnels in the thatchwork of dry brown fronds, as though they were pacing her, keeping her under observation.
When no one responded to the doorbell, she knocked. When the knock was ignored, she leaned on the bell again.
The man who finally responded to her insistent summons was big, good-looking in a rough sort of way, with melancholy eyes. He wore tattered sneakers, chinos, and a Hawaiian shirt. He had skipped his morning shave.
“You,” he said, without preamble, “are a woman in some kind of trouble, but I’m not in that line of work anymore.”
“Maybe I’m just from County Vector Control, want to talk to you about the rat farm in this tree right here.”
“That would sure be a waste of talent.”
Expecting a nasty crack in the tradition of F. Bronson, Micky bristled. “Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It wasn’t an insult, if that’s how you took it.”
“Wasn’t it? Talent, huh? You think I should be turning tricks or something?”
“That’s never been your type of trouble. I just meant I think you could kick something way bigger than a rat’s ass.”
“You’re the PI, the detective?”
“Used to be. Like I said. Closed up shop.”
She hadn’t called ahead because she’d been afraid that he would obtain a quick financial report on her before she got here. Now, having seen the place, she figured most of his clients weren’t the type that American Express pursued with offers of platinum cards.
“I’m Micky Bellsong. I’m not with Vector Control, but you’ve got a rat problem.”
“Everybody does,” he said, and somehow managed to convey that he wasn’t talking about long-tailed rodents. He started to shut her out.
She planted one loot on the threshold. “I’m not leaving till you either hear me all the way through — or snap my neck and throw me down the stairs.”
He seemed to consider the second option, studying her throat. “You ought to sell Jesus door-to-door. The whole world would be saved by Tuesday.”
“You did good work for a woman I knew once. She was desperate, she couldn’t pay much, but you did good work anyway.”
“I take it you can’t pay much, either.”
“Part cash, part IOU. Might take me a while to pay you off, but if I don’t, I’ll break my own legs and save you the trouble.”
“Wouldn’t be any trouble. I might enjoy it. But the fact still is, I’ve gone out of business.”
“The woman you helped was Wynette Jenkins. She was in prison at the time. That’s where I met her.”
“Sure. I remember.”
Wynette had arranged for her six-year-old son, Danny, to live with his maternal grandparents while she did her time. She’d been in the can less than a week when her ex-husband, Vin, had taken the boy to live with him. The law refused to intervene because Vin was the child’s legal father. He was also a mean drunk and a wife abuser who had frequently knocked Danny around, and Wynette knew that he would terrorize the boy on a daily basis and eventually scar him for life, if not kill him. She heard about Farrel through another prisoner and persuaded her parents to approach him. Within two months, Farrel had provided the police with evidence of Vin’s criminal activities that got the man arrested, indicted, and separated from his son. They returned the boy to the custody of Wynette’s parents. Her folks said they suspected Farrel had taken the case, even at a loss, because it involved a child in trouble, and that he had a soft spot for kids.
Still employing her right foot as a doorstop, Micky said, “A little girl’s going to be killed if I don’t help her. And I can’t help her alone.”
This dramatic claim had an effect opposite of the one that she expected. The detective’s expression of weary indifference hardened into a glower, although his sudden anger seemed not to be directed at her. “Lady, I’m exactly who you don’t need. You want real cops.”
“They’re not going to believe me. It’s a strange case. And this girl… she’s special.”
“They’re all special.” Farrel’s voice was flat, almost cold; and perhaps Micky should have heard a dismissive platitude in those three words, or even callousness. But in his eyes, she thought she saw pain instead of genuine anger, and suddenly his glower seemed to be a mask that concealed an anguish he’d long kept private. “Cops are who you want. I know. I used to be one.”
“I’m an ex-con. The girl’s sonofabitch stepfather is rich and well connected. And he’s highly regarded, mainly by a bunch of fools, but they’re fools whose opinion matters. Even if I could get the cops to take me seriously, I couldn’t make them move fast enough to help this girl.”
“There’s nothing I can do for you,” he insisted.
“You know the deal,” Micky said stubbornly. “Either hear me out — or throw me down the stairs. And if you try throwin’, for starters you’ll need Bactine, Band-Aids, and a sitz bath for your balls.”
He sighed. “Pushing me like this is a mile past desperation, lady.”
“I never claimed I wasn’t desperate. But I’m glad to hear you think I’m a lady.”