Click.
Rocky and Bullwinkle. He watched Boris and Natasha once more temporarily vanquished, watched the little fairy sweep up the fractured fairy tale, and was just getting into Shermie and Mr. Peabody when the phone rang.
Eleven o'clock. No one but Ed ever called him this time of night. He picked up the phone and said,"Yeah?"
"I thought you said you'd call me," Marilyn snapped. He sat up straight on the couch, zapped the TV set into oblivion.
"Jeez, I'm sorry," he said, "I meant to, but…"
"I thought this was so all-be-damned important to you, and so I go ahead and…"
"It is, it is," Stepovich assured her hastily. Where was his notebook? End of the coffee table. He reached for it, knocked the ketchup bottle rolling onto the floor, but let it go. It was a squeeze bottle, it wouldn't leak much anyway. Grab the pen, and "Go ahead,what did you find for me?"
"Too damn much, that's what, and not much at all. You want stuff done by gypsies, I got a ton of it.You want stuff done by John Does, possible first name Chuck, I got a ton of that, too. I mean, good lord,Stepovich, half the gypsies in the world have facial scars. Doesn't this man have a tattoo, or a lisp, or a birthmark or anything?"
"Not that I know of. There was no overlap, no gypsy of that description, possible first name Chuck?"
Marilyn sounded miffed when she replied. "I knew you'd ask that. I knew it. So I dug, and I dug like hell. How about a vagrancy, possible involvement in an arson, six years ago? In Kansas City?"
"That's not really what I was looking for," Stepovich muttered, not sure if he felt frustrated or relieved.No serial killings in some obscure part of the U. S. at least. No string of crimes attached to that description and name. "Is that all there was?"
"I swear to God, I been working with you too long.If you aren't too fussy about the gypsy description, I can give you about thirty-two shoplifting cases. Three grand theft auto, two of those from auto dealers in Sacramento, looks like a regular scam. A porno ring in Fort Lauderdale, but the ones they caught weren't really gypsies. Still, there was a Chuck involved. Airplane hijacking. In Oklahoma. Almost funny, that one's so stupid. Cropduster hijacked from one field to another."
"That's not what I meant," Stepovich cut in frustratedly. "I was looking for a felony, or a string of felonies, something serious. The arson and vagrancy were the only ones where there was a good overlap between the name Chuck and the description of the Gypsy?"
Marilyn sighed. "Almost, I had a feeling you were going to be stubborn on this. I pulled up stuff I didn't even know I could access. Stuff I would have sworn was too dead or too cold. How's this. New Orleans,A stabbing. In a bar. Victim Timothy DeCruz, also known as Timmy Dee, sometimes Tim del Mendicant much on the killer, but the victim had a file of past convictions as long as your arm. Mostly little scams, but the kind that hint he was involved in bigger, nastier stuff but didn't get caught. Cause of the fight was possibly cheating at cards, it was never clearly established. Ugly crime. The medical report comments on the strength required to drive a knife that size through a leather vest and completely into a man's body. The hilt left a bruise, it impacted so hard. Talk about your crime of passion. The guy was either horribly strong, or totally enraged. Witnesses described the killer, and it fits your guy to a tee. But for all that, they didn't seem too hot to help the investigation. The perp was never found."
A little prickle of certainty ran up Stepovich's spine,that little trickle of instinct that never betrayed him."It's him. When was it, and who handled it?"
Nasty satisfaction as she said, "August 12, 1935. But the description does match your man."
"Shit, Marilyn, my guy probably wasn't even born then."
"Maybe it was his father then. Maybe it's a gypsy crime family, and you're tracking the youngest member."
He was beginning to get an inkling of just how bad he'd pissed her off. "Jeez. I'm sorry. I guess I wasted a lot of your time today." Cautiously. "You sure that's all there was?"
He heard her breathe out through her nose in disgust. "You talk to Durand today?" she demanded,ignoring his question.
"Yeah. Marilyn, I don't think it's quite how you're seeing it. I think he really likes her."
"That's why he stood her up tonight, right? She turns down a date with a nice college boy to wait fora sleazy-ass cop who doesn't even show."
"I don't know nothing about that," Stepovich objected.
"No. Of course you don't. You didn't drag him off on this wild goose chase of yours, did you?"
"Swear to God, I didn't, Marilyn," Stepovich said fervently. "And Jesus Christ," he said, becoming annoyed in turn, "I lit into my partner like I was going to tear his throat out, just on your say-so, and it turns out the damn fool's in love with her. How do you suppose that makes me feel?"
"What makes you think-?"
"I see them together. You don't. All right?"
"Hmmph. I'd have seen them together if he'd shown up tonight."
"Marilyn, he's my partner, not my goddamn kid. I did what you told me to, and you were wrong about him."
"Well," she said, relenting a little. "Well. Maybe I was. Sorry. But you have to talk with him anyway. He's not right for Tiffany Marie, he isn't going to bring any good to her life. You reason with him."
"Sure," Stepovich said. "Sure, I'll do that. And you talk to her. Okay?"
"Okay."
The click as she hung up was a relief. For a moment he stared at the blank television screen. Then he heaved himself up with a sigh to go get his laundry out of the dryer. It was all stuck together with static,and as he sat on the couch and peeled it apart, he remembered the shiver up his back, and wondered how a patrol cop was going to get hold of the notes on a 1935 murder in New Orleans.
Raven, the hunter,
Was content to stay and poach,
Owl wished to go back home,
And I, to find the coach.
"RAVEN, OWL, AND I"
Raymond had seen three airplanes this morning, and nineteen birds. It was now four thousand, six hundred and twelve days since he had seen his brother,the Raven, and as for his older brother, he had lost count some time ago, much to his regret. Another bird went by overhead. Twenty. He unwrapped his tambourine from the old towels that protected it from the elements, and idly tapped it a few times.
Raymond looked nothing like an Indian. His face was swarthy, but not in the same way. His cheekbones were high, but his forehead was all wrong. His eyes had just a hint of slant. But still, tourists thought he was an Indian, and so paid him well to guide them through the Rockies, near Boulder. It was just as well.He knew the land. He spent most nights huddled in the ruins of the old "castle" on Mount Falcon, overlooking Red Rocks. He could find the best hiking, rock climbing, and sight seeing. The authorities for the most part ignored him.
It was full dark, and the stars were out in all their glory, the Pleiades as clear as spring water, looking like he could touch them. Four chipmunks gathered near his small fire. He held out nine pieces of bread for them to nibble from his hand. He couldn't always tell them apart, but two of these he recognized. One was a small, old female he called Brandy, and the other a very dark, large male whom he had named Fleetwood, after a Cadillac he had owned many years before. FIeetwood took the bread and said, "The Raven is flying. It is time for the Owl to do the same."
Raymond studied the chipmunk, surprised at how calm he felt to be addressed by the animal; it was almost as if he'd been waiting for something like this,and perhaps he had been. He said, "It is years since I've seen the Raven, or the Dove for that matter."
"It is time to see them both," said Fleetwood.
"Where?" said Raymond.
"That I cannot tell you."
Brandy spoke in a high, clear tenor. "The road will tell you. It is only for you to set foot upon it."