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                                            CHAPTER SEVEN

                                                Doone's Café

1:30 p.m.

The lights blinked throughout the café–every light flashed. No one seemed to notice. Reggie thought it was lightning.

A pretty brunette waitress hustled around the restaurant, smiling, nodding and zipping from the kitchen to the tables so effortlessly that she could have been on ice skates. She carried four plates of steaming hot food down her left arm and two smaller plates of salad in her right hand to a table, deftly pirouetting around three middle-aged women who burst into the café with umbrellas snapping.

Still, no motorhome and no crew. Gloom. Rain. He was soaked to the marrow, cold and hungry.

The rain had come down so hard that Reggie hid the shotgun in some bushes at the lake and looked for cover. He didn't want to miss I.Q., and he couldn't understand why he'd taken off. There had to be a good reason; I.Q. had brains and good sense–or did he? Near the entrance to Paley Recreation Area, through which I. Q. would have to drive to return to their parking space on the other side of the lake, was Doone's Cafe and Greyhound stop. It was purposely quaint, with a shingled roof, hand-knitted animal mosaics hanging in big windows with blue trim brushed with black to make it look "antiqued." The decor was early American, stools ran along the long counter and the walls were covered in lithographs of frontiersmen, grizzly bears and vast panoramas of the west. It’s quaintness awoke that monster in his brain. That monster loathed imitation. Quaintness was the cream of imitation. His hunger began to subside as he looked around the room at all these desert rats pretending their way of life was real.

From his window seat, through the downpour and afternoon darkness, Reggie watched for I. Q. and Jackie and listened to the locals. The locals all talked about the mayor's death, the future of Paley, which seemed, to them, to have fixed most on the mayor's leadership. And they talked about the unusual–but welcome–summer rain.

The lights flashed in the restaurant when the front door opened. Two men in western suits and rain-soaked cowboy hats, one with his shirt open and the other, older man with a string tie, found the last empty booth by the restrooms. Place was filling up. With locals, not tourists. Food must be good. Reggie flicked away a grease pencil tied to a string that hung from the corner of the menu and browsed through it.

A finger tapped his shoulder. He jumped. The brunette waitress stood over him, smiling. "Oh. Didn't hear you coming."

She nodded.

"What kind of soup you got?"

She shook her head, pointing to her ears.

"No soup, huh?"

She rolled her big eyes. His breath stopped. The monster was beginning to feel soothed. She took the pencil hanging by the string, held it out to him and circled her finger around the menu. Watching her, his mind drifted back and the monster disappeared.

The way she squinted, the way she stared at his lips, he thought there was something wrong with them.

Her eyes went from his lips to his eyes. She smiled, then watched his lips again.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "What're you looking at? You want a kiss?" He let his own lips grin, conscious of one corner of his mouth doing more work than the other corner–for that Elvis appeal. Her eyes momentarily avoided his and sought refuge from her embarrassment by staring down at the floor.

"I didn't...I didn't mean to embarrass you, I'm sorry. Maybe I should shut up and order." She nodded. He ran the pencil down the menu, found clam chowder, circled it; found grilled ham and cheese sandwich, circled it; and then circled coffee, adding several exclamation marks.

"Guess you can wipe this off for the next guy, huh? Kind of unique idea you got here. No one talks."

She took the menu and smiled again. Then it hit him.

"Are you...deaf?"

She nodded. Her expression was clear. He'd asked a doozy of a dumb question. The flashing lights signaled her that a customer had entered.

Enunciating comically, he asked her:

"Do you read lips?" She wiggled her hand in the air and shrugged.

He read her name tag. "Brenda?" She nodded, glanced over her shoulder at the chef's window and looked back at Reggie.

"I'm Reggie."

She nodded again, smiled. She raised her finger to excuse herself and went to the kitchen.

What a beauty. She's got something, Reggie thought. What is it? Whatever it is...it's made me forget about...hell, what was it I forgot? There was something silently exotic about her face. Was it her smile? It was shy but open. No, he didn't think so–a smile wasn't enough to make him feel like this. What could make him feel like this? The rain? The gloomy day? Yeah, the gloomy day. Or what about his anxiety–losing the motorhome and his crew. Has to be anxiety. Take some deep breaths, he instructed himself. Get your mind off the girl. She's a kid. That's trouble. Don't think about it. He rummaged through his thoughts for something else to think about, something interesting to sink his attention into. A newspaper lay on the edge of the counter across the aisle, where an overweight man in overalls ate.

"Reading this?"

The man had just stuffed two mouthfuls of club sandwich. Mayonnaise leaked from the corners of his mouth, but he answered Reggie anyway:

"'Zit rook rike I weadin' it?"

Reggie reached over, took the man's elbow off the corner of the paper and slid it off the counter.

"Thanks," he said dryly.

Unfolding the paper, the headline struck him–he didn't know why: he knew that, by now, something like this would end up in the only paper in a small town.

PALEY PLOT PLUNDERED! it exclaimed in tall bold letters. He read the article beneath it. Nothing connected. Phrases sprang at him.

Buried three days ago...after suffering a stroke...exhumed with the cemetery's own heavy equipment...Paley's casket in pieces...Sam Poteet, the night watchman, said the graverobber killed his dog Digger and escaped in a waiting vehicle...police found no motive....

Reggie's appetite turned to butterflies in his stomach. Who had the caretaker seen? He'd been at least fifty feet away. It was dark. Had he seen the graverobber? Not likely; the graverobber was driving away when the watchman sicced his dog on Reggie. Then, uninvited, Logic arrived. He saw you!

Lights flashed. Reggie didn't look up. His mind was focused on what could be a dangerous snag in his plans. He didn't see them standing over him; he smelled their wet leather jackets: two Paley Police officers, both with farm boy grins and mustaches, thumbs in their Sam Brown belts.

"Reggie Thomas?"

He looked up at them, dazed. "What? Yeah."

The husky cop said:

"Mr. Thomas, please stand up, place your hands on the table and empty your–"

"What's going on?"

The wiry cop with shaggy blond hair took hold of Reggie by the arm and began lifting him from the seat. Reggie instinctively resisted. The monster stirred. But the cop was stronger than he looked and pulled him up again, growling, "He said, 'please stand up, place your hands on the table and empty your pockets!’ Now do it!"

The name tag on the husky, bald cop's jacket read "Pitts."

"What did I do?"

He bit his lip to keep a straight face. Reggie couldn't imagine what he thought was so funny. The other cop, whose name tag read "Tooley," also tried to stay serious.

Pitts said finally, "Grand Theft."

"Theft? Of what?"

Tooley frisked him, running his hand up one leg and down the inseam of the other.

The diners hushed. Pitts glanced around the room. Reggie could tell he enjoyed being the star of this act. Then Brenda emerged from the kitchen, curiously looking at him.

"I didn't steal anything."

"Whaddaya say we talk about it at the station?" Pitts said, as Tooley cranked Reggie's wrist around to his back, sending pain up his arm, and handcuffed him.

"Hey, Charlie, that the body snatcher?" said the fat guy in the overalls, chewing.

"Believe so, Mr. Oliver."

Everything focused for Reggie. No use arguing with these guys. They were only the delivery boys.

Tooley read him his rights. Fat Mr. Oliver reached across the aisle and took back his paper.

"Hang the son-of-a-bitch," said another rancher, approaching and shaking his fork at Reggie. Tooley put his hand on the rancher’s chest and pushed him back.

He'd been frisked, cuffed and Mirandized in the time it took for someone to suggest lynching him. This made him nervous. This was America. But this wasn't just any town in America. This was Christopher Paley's town. And some of these folk weren't like "November" Wallace. To some degree, they liked the mayor. And they think I took his body, desecrated his grave, Reggie thought, darting his eyes around the room for something...something he hadn't identified yet. His eyes fell on a tall, bald, stoop-shouldered man with a hearing aid. He wore a white apron and a cook's stove-pipe hat. And his owlish look was deadpan. It pierced Reggie's attention, held him a moment. He and Brenda were talking in sign language.

Pitts and Tooley escorted him out the door. As the door shushed closed behind them, Reggie twisted his head around to see the lights flash in the café.

"How'd you know I was in there?" he asked the cops.

"Easy," Pitts grumbled. "You're stupid."

* * *

The walls of the interrogation room were two-tone green. Four chairs randomly took space around a scratched, graffiti-marred table with a lone, mangled ashtray in the center. The two-way mirror had not been adequately disguised. Reggie pretended not to see it, calmly sitting like any innocent soul, hands folded, patiently waiting for someone to come and hear his side so he could get the hell out.

Ten minutes passed. The door unlatched. A rumple-suited 50-year old detective smoking a pipe and a squat, paunchy cop in his mid-forties, in full uniform, stepped into the room. They stationed themselves like bookends on either side of Reggie.

"I'm Detective Tom Lee, and this is Police Chief Karl," he said pleasantly, smoke dribbling from his mouth with his words. "Mr. Thomas, where were you last night?"

"I'm under arrest, right?"

"Yes."

"If I'm under arrest, shouldn't I have a lawyer present?"

"Only if you think you need one."

"I don't need one. I haven't done anything." Yet, he thought. They can't get me on something I haven't done yet. "But I watch enough T.V. to know better." He shrugged for affect.

In a breathy, hoarse voice, the Chief asked: "Want a lawyer or not?"

No, he thought, I don't want a damn lawyer. They can't possibly know about the little deliveries to Paley. Paley was too smart for that--and it was nothing. This was something. Why else would the Chief of Police be in on the interrogation? I'll let them ask their questions. If it starts in the wrong direction, then a lawyer.

"Like I said, 'I didn't do anything.'"

"We'll take that as a 'no.'"

Reggie didn't reply.

Detective Lee glanced at the Chief, then asked: "You were in the cemetery last night."

"That's not a question."

"Okay, were you in the cemetery last night?"

Reggie grinned knowingly.

The Chief turned Reggie's arm over. "What happened to your arm?"

"I know what you think I did. I didn't do it. But I saw who did do it."

The detective drew on his pipe, slowly glancing at the Chief, who stared at Reggie, studied his face. Reggie sensed he was looking for a lie. The Chief remained silent.

"I took a walk up the road over the cemetery. Saw this guy acting strange. At first I couldn't tell what he was doing. Then he drives the tractor to a grave, digs it up, and the next thing I know he's hauling a body off on a dolly. And then they were gone–through the hedge."

"They?"

"Him and the body."

"What did he look like?"

"Never got close enough. He was just a...a shadow."

"Was he big, little, fat...."

"He was...medium." A question of his own bubbled to the top. "How could you link me to this thing? I mean, no one knew I'd been up there walking." He barely finished asking it and the answer came to him.

"I see on your face you know the answer to that question, Mr. Thomas. It was rather simple. Here's a motorhome parked in a secluded area of the lake. It isn't in season. And there's an under-aged female inside. And there's all sorts of film equipment. Enough to make, like, a porno film–you know, maybe some kinky necrophilia? Your partner Ivan was very cooperative. Told us how you parked near the cemetery last night and went for a walk. Guess what we found spindled on the north fence? A strip of blue jeans. Happens to fit a tear in your dirty laundry. Fit perfect, in fact. You look big enough to haul a cadaver all by yourself."

"And strong enough," the Chief huffed, "to, oh, say, break a dog's neck."

The detective looked into his pipe bowl. "Why don't you tell us the truth. And don't leave anything out."

"I didn't leave anything out. I climbed the fence so I could see who was doing this...this sick thing–I mean, it was...weird. I caught my leg on the fence." The cops nodded. "Why would I climb the fence on the northside and escape by truck on the southside?"

Detective Lee's pipe jumped when he bit down too hard.

"What truck?"

The one thing I don't want them to know, Reggie thought, can get the heat off.

"What truck? I don't know what truck. He had to put the body in a truck or something. Hell, it could've been a stationwagon. My point is he drove away in something–I heard him–and headed up Paley Pass."

Detective Lee nodded. "Why're you here, Reggie?"

"You arrested me."

"No, smartass, why're you in Paley?"

"I'm a film maker–not pornos either. I'm looking for location ideas for a script in development."

"Been here before?"

"Yes."

The Chief folded his arms, shifted his weight. He looked at Reggie as if he had something to say, but took a deep breath and said nothing.

"In fact," Lee said, "you've been here two or three times a month for the last six months, haven't you?"

He's changing direction.

"I like it here."

"We like it here, too. But we don't work for Chris Paley. You do."

What do they know? Was there some investigation going on before Paley died? Paley wasn't big-time crime. Shady, yeah. He didn't mind buying his favorite, pirated films. Could UCLA have traced them here? And the Amazon parrots. Department of Agriculture would be in his face, not two bo-hunk cops. Or was it the 1930 Ford? Is that what they're after? Has to be parked somewhere in the Paley garages, but I changed the plate. Paley must have enemies; men with so much power, even in this small town, always have enemies.

Detective Lee asked: "What did you do for Paley, Reggie?"

Reggie concluded that it was conceivable that the police were Paley's enemy. Lee had made a point to say he didn't work for Paley. Reggie didn't know what lie to use. He'd have to wing it. They couldn't prove he stole Paley's body, because he hadn't. But if they were after something bigger than graverobbing there could be trouble–for him.

Lee tapped the table with his pipe. "You worked for Paley, didn't you?"

"What if I did?"

"Might help you to tell us what you did for him," the Chief strained to say.

Lee moved across the table from Reggie and sat down. He tapped the edge of his pipe in the ashtray. "Were you involved in any of the mayor's businesses?"

"No."

"What did you do for the mayor?"

Reggie cleared his throat, then wished he hadn't.

"It was a deal." The monster tried to intervene, but then an idea, a reason sprung from his imagination, suppressing the monster in his brain from taking over. The scenario rose from the knot in his stomach and reached his brain in a flash. "A movie deal. Takes time, you know. Budgets, casting, script changes...shoot, costs big bucks these days to make movies."

"Whose money?"

"Paley's money."

"Paley was making a movie," Lee said incredulously.

"He was the damn executive producer."

"And what was this movie about?"

Could he say it was a love story? No, Paley wouldn't put up money for it. With his own money, what kind of movie would Paley have made?

Reggie said, "It was about him."

"The mayor? You were making a movie about the mayor?"

"A docudrama. Called Paley's Plunge. He was an interesting man. Charismatic."

Chief Karl rolled his eyes over to Lee. Lee smiled at Reggie.

"You're right, Reggie. He was definitely an interesting man. It was a great loss to the town. One thing, though. Paley was the kind of man, as you know, being so close to him and all, who loved everybody to know about his accomplishments. He bragged about his projects. I don't recall him mentioning a movie about himself."

"He wanted it that way," Reggie replied lightly. "Didn't want any snooping around about it until it was in the can–you know, finished. If it turned out it wasn't any good, see, he wouldn't show it. He's a smart man."

"Was," the Police Chief wheezed.

Reggie held back a shiver, kept his calm appearance.

"We're booking you, Reggie. Trespassing, illegal exhumation, and killing Sam Poteet's dog. You'll be arraigned Monday morning."

"Monday! I told you what I saw! Check it out!"

"We will. While we do, you'll be our guest."

Reggie was overcome by a bitter urge. He wanted to tell them everything. About the films, the birds, the antique car. Tell them he came to make meth with Paley's son, who had a buyer in Oregon and a connection for the chemicals. Tell them the burn would be done in Josh's hangar in the desert. Tell them about Wallace's pick-up. Tell them everything.

Tell them nothing, a voice deep inside demanded. A voice of memory. His father's voice. His father, who lay in a convalescent home, barely able to breathe. Barely deserved to breathe. But his father's wisdom overwhelmed what his father deserved.

"Where's I.Q.?" Reggie asked.

"Who?"

"Ivan Sonneborn."

"Checked in to one of our fine suites in back."

"For what?"

"We found some marijuana in the motorhome."

Reggie feigned ignorance. "Marijuana?"

"Pot?"

"Wasn't his. Mine either."

"It was laying on a bed where the girl was, but he was chivalrous and claimed it in the face of the consequences."

"Where's Jackie?"

"We didn't hold her."

"So where is she?"

"Left a few minutes ago."

"She's just a kid. And you let her walk out of here alone?"

"Drove away. In that beautiful motorhome. Normally, we confiscate vehicles used to transport drugs, but it's a rental, so what could we do? She said she'd drive it back to L. A."

Reggie felt relieved, but wondered if she'd use good judgment or if she'd go straight to the first weirdo on a corner, buy more meth and end up busted in Paley with the rest of them. He fanned Lee's lingering pipe smoke away from his breathing space. Lee stood and held open the door. Cuffed again, he headed into the hall. Lee hazed him into a cross corridor, nudged him to turn the corner and stopped him at a large holding cell. Inside was a solitary prisoner seated on a bench with his hands steepled under his chin, elbows on his knees, contemplating something on the floor.

As Detective Lee opened the door, the squeak brought I.Q.'s attention up.

"Reg!"

Reggie stepped inside; the door banged close.

"Sorry, Reg, I–"

"It's alright," he said.

"Reg–"

"Shut up, will you?"

Lee smiled.

Reggie heard the sound of high heeled shoes from down the hall. Lee's smile faded. Then a smug grin spread across his face as the strong, beautiful face and the eye-pleasing figure of a woman came to the cell door. She smiled broadly.

"Hello, Thomas," Lucilva Paley purred.