High Country Nocturne - [36]

The parking lot of El TobacCorner was nearly empty. One dirty pickup truck and a tricked-out Honda lowrider sat directly in front, beneath the digital sign that urged passersby to “Have a Smoky Day.” Otherwise, half an acre of asphalt was badly in need of business.

I parked in the first row away from the shopping strip, facing toward the road.

Shadows approached and I tensed, reaching for the Python.

Dogs. A pack of five mutts trotted past the Prelude and kept going east. With the combination of people losing their homes in the recession and the immigrants moving out, or deeper into the shadows, Phoenix had a serious stray dog problem.

Another night in paradise.

A bell by the double glass doors and an electronic beep somewhere in the back announced my arrival. I was the only customer.

Del Shannon was singing “My Little Runaway” on the sound system. The shop was brightly lit and the first thing you noticed were walls covered with large colorful posters advertising Zig-Zag, Marlboros, Kool menthols, and brands I didn’t know. I doubted they carried Lindsey’s brand. Only on a second look did I notice a drop ceiling dating from the Carter administration with yellow stains from water leaks.

The shop was laid out like an “L,” with rows of waist-high, glass-fronted display cases running on either side of the long end and tall cases and a cash register closer to me. A four-sided, vertical plastic case held Zippo lighters with all manner of artwork. One showed a figure with a skull head drinking a glass of wine.

Behind the cases, the walls had been drilled to hold clear racks showing more product-individual packs of cigarettes, e-cigs, rolling papers, gum, and chewing tobacco.

That last made me think momentarily of Orville Grainer up in Ash Fork.

But only momentarily.

A big man sat on a stool ten feet away at the long end of the “L.” Beside him was a comic book. He was ethnically ambiguous, at least thirty, at least three hundred pounds, and dressed like a baby. In other words, the giant, sagging T-shirt and long-short pants gave the effect of a four-year-old with short legs and long torso. The look was completed with a cholo cap turned sideways and a riot of aggressive tattoos on each arm and one climbing up one side of his neck.

These ubiquitous outfits accompanied a society where most of the men, at least, seemed to postpone adulthood indefinitely. I thought about photos of working men and even criminals fifty years ago, how they would be in suits and ties. When Americans read books besides Harry Potter. But there was no time to linger on that thought.

The big head cocked and he spoke over Del Shannon. “Lookin’ at something?”

I thought about responding to his growly question. He looked like a clown. I was looking at a clown. His intention in all the “body art” couldn’t have been to make people look away. Then I remembered Lon Cheney’s observation that “there’s nothing funny about a clown in the moonlight.”

I looked away and approached a woman sitting in a low chair behind the register.

She was Anglo and might have been fifty, with gray hair that looked like a bathroom rug, a dead-fish complexion, mean porcine eyes, and a sleeveless size twenty-five housedress decorated with sunflowers. Only her head and shoulders were visible. Her hands were beneath the waist-level nook that held the register.

“Yeah?” An Okie twang.

That was customer service.

“Is Jerry here?”

“No.” She pulled out a burrito and took a large, messy bite.

“His pickup truck is parked out front.”

The pig eyes met mine, the Platters came on with “Only You,” and we stared at each other while she chewed. Phoenix used to have a big cohort of Okies, Texans, and Arkansans, but they had been lost in subsequent waves of immigration. I kept my peripheral vision open to movement from the man on the stool.

“What’s up, Belma?”

Jerry McGuizzo emerged from the back, stopping when he saw me. His face was as flat as a dinner plate and it didn’t look happy to see me.

He looked me over and whistled. “You look like shit, Mapstone. The old lady give you that shiner? How come you’re dressed so funny?”

“We need to talk.”

He suddenly laughed like I was the funniest guy on the west side, pulled out the kind of plastic comb I owned when I was ten, and ran it through what little hair he had. He used his left hand, the one with two stumps where complete fingers had once been. Then his hands went into his pants pockets.

“I don’t have to talk to you.” He sneered and leaned forward from the waist when he spoke. “You’re not a deputy anymore. I can call you Asshole, asshole.”

I said, “Sure, Jerry.”

“So without that badge, you’re only some asshole trespassing on private property, asshole.”

He stepped around Belma and let loose a large gob of spit. I turned in time to keep it out of my eyes but it went low and landed on my tie.

Lindsey gave me that tie.

Jerry laughed harder.

I laughed, too. We both had a grand old time.

Then he leaned over the counter to speak or spit again and I broke my promise to Sharon.

I suddenly grabbed him by both shoulders and pulled his face hard into the top of display counter.