“He seems like a good honest lad,” said Sergeant Harry Bright, the chief’s confidant.
“Okay, I’ll take a chance on you,” Paco Pedroza told him. “I’ll give you to my F.B.I. man to break you in.”
“F.B.I. man?”
“Full-blooded Indian. Maynard Rivas. Probably find him in the Eleven Ninety-nine Club later today. Just look for flowered wallpaper. That’ll be him. He likes loud shirts.”
“Big guy, huh?”
“Lots a room for tattoos,” Paco nodded.
Maynard Rivas grew up on the Morongo Reservation. All the Morongos had in this world was some arid desert land and a bingo parlor large enough to house the Spruce Goose.
Maynard spent his life wishing he were an Agua Caliente Indian, that band of Mission Indians who own big chunks of downtown Palm Springs. Every other square mile is theirs and the tenants pay rent that has gone through the roof in modern times. One local Indian, it was rumored, received $20,000 every ninety days. Another, it was said, got that much every month.
The Palm Springs Indians are the richest per capita in America and are no longer under the care of the Department of the Interior, which was accused of “commingling” the Indians’ trust fund. (It was awhile before the Indians were informed that “commingling” is called “stealing” in their language.) The Indians don’t pay income tax on their trust, only on their investments. Some are sophisticated and take advantage of tribal scholarships. Some would just as soon sit under a tamarisk tree forever. Some are hypes and angel-dusters.
So when tourists ask the locals, “Where do the Indians live?” the locals answer, “Wherever they want. They got the bucks.”
If only the Morongos and Agua Calientes had swapped land eighty years ago Maynard would be driving a Ferrari while they’d be pulling into gas stations for two bucks’ worth of gas saying, “I keep it light for racing.” And they’d be listening to a bunch of maniac housewives from Banning screaming “Bingo!” in their nightmares.
Maynard Rivas had always wanted to get away from the Morongo Reservation and especially the bingo parlor. It was a few miles from two life-sized statues of dinosaurs, an enormous fruit stand, and a few thousand wind turbines. Other than looking at the big lizards and windmills, there just wasn’t much to do but get drunk. He had moved to L.A. County a few years earlier and hired on as a cop.
Many of the Morongos were large, but Maynard was a jumbo Indian. A four-inch service revolver looked like a derringer in his hand.
During his rookie year he won a citation for heroism for saving the life of a phantom who’d been driving the police nuts. The phantom was one of those “radio announcers” that just pop up from time to time at police agencies everywhere. The kind that sneak into police cars if the cops leave them unlocked and unattended for five minutes and pick up the mike to talk dirty to the communications operators. This particular phantom radio announcer would just say, “Cocksucker.” That’s all. When asked to repeat his message, he sometimes would. Or sometimes he’d just say, “That is all.” Or “Over and out.” Or “Ten-four.” Or some such radio gibberish.
It was Maynard Rivas who caught the phantom announcer when he was sneaking into a sergeant’s car while the sergeant was having a jelly roll at Winchell’s. The radio announcer had hair like Harpo Marx and looked twice as dumb. The big Indian chased him into an office building and up the stairway where the phantom climbed out on the fire escape and attracted a crowd, several of them cops who yelled, “Well catch you!” But not being that dumb, he didn’t jump.
Maynard Rivas talked a construction foreman into putting him in the bucket of a crane and he was lifted up to the fire escape. Maynard confused the phantom by saying, “You don’t wanna breathe my air no more? You want me outta your face? Okay, bye-bye.”
And while the phantom radio announcer contemplated that suicide meant no more days of whispering “cocksucker” into police radio mikes, Maynard Rivas made a daring leap from the crane onto the fire escape, snatching the phantom under his arm like a football. But he wasn’t a hero for long.
What ended the big Indian’s police career in Los Angeles County was a South American fish. In fact, several of them who had no business being in America in the first place.
Maynard was providing backup to some narcs on a raid on a million-dollar house in the foothills. As it turned out, the raid netted them only two Peruvian dope dealers and an Eastern European student who was there to buy some flake. They found a very small amount of cocaine on the student who happened to be the kid of a Bulgarian diplomat. The old man had diplomatic immunity and later argued that his kids did also.
It was a very disappointing raid and six of the cops left quickly. Two uniformed cops, one of them Maynard Rivas, ended up with the three prisoners while the plainclothes narcs searched the guesthouse out back.
The smallest Peruvian looked at one uniformed cop and then at Maynard Rivas and said, “Señor, may I speak to you privately?”
Maynard Rivas, who was about three times as big as the Peruvian, wasn’t too worried about tricks, especially since all three suspects were handcuffed.
“Keep an eye on them,” he said to his partner, taking the Peruvian into the foyer.
“If joo weel take my handcuffs off, I weel locate the cocaine,” the Peruvian said.
“Oh, yeah? I look like I just walked out of a teepee, huh? You wanna tell us where the coke is, do it with the cuffs on. In fact, tell the narcs. I’m just here to baby-sit anyways.”
“They slapped my face. I weel not tell them nothing. I weel tell joo or I weel tell nobody.”
“So tell me.”
“Please, señor, my wreests! I am een much pain. Joo have searched me. I am a leetle man. Joo are a giant.”
Maynard waffled for a moment, but decided if this squirt could take Maynard Rivas, he should go back to the reservation and spend his life screaming “B ten” and “O seventy-five.”
“You and me’re gonna hold hands while you show me,” Maynard said, removing the cuffs and letting the Peruvian rub some circulation back.
“Thank joo berry much, señor,” the Peruvian said. “Please come weeth me, and I weel geev joo what joo weesh.”
It was a fish tank. But what a fish tank. It dominated the living room: a hundred-gallon, lighted, filtered aquarium housing twenty fish. They were funny-looking black fish and they had very big teeth.
“Een there,” the man whispered as his crime partner cried, “¡Silencio, cabrón!” and tried to jump up from the couch but was jerked back by Maynard’s partner.
“In there?” Maynard Rivas pointed.
“There!” the Peruvian nodded.
There was a clear plastic bag at the bottom of the tank. The cocaine was camouflaged by the white material on the tank bottom. It looked like a three-pound bag, at least.
Maynard Rivas started rolling up his sleeve, hoping to surprise the narcs who would be back in the main house in a few minutes.
“They are piranha, señor,” the Peruvian said calmly.
“Piranha!” his partner said, and he left the prisoners momentarily to step over to the huge aquarium, which was mounted at eye level on a massive credenza.
There was a tool box containing plumbing equipment beside the tank. The cops were amazed at the voracious fish swimming in frantic loops, examining the faces outside the tank with dumb savage eyes.
“Piranha!” Maynard Rivas said.
“Piranha!” his partner said.
“Monkey wrench!” the Peruvian said.
He snatched it from the tool box: a monkey wrench. He used the Jimmy Connors two-handed, off-the-feet service return. On the glass.
And then people were screaming and jumping and yelling.
“Killer fish! Killer fish!”