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  In the mornin I said a sad goodbye to Pen and packed up for the long drive to LA. It would take me two days. I was driving out to see Yolanda first, then I’d take the interstate. En route at a gas station I picked up the newspaper and checked the terror-alert coding (orange) and the burn limit (fourteen minutes).

  Passing Earl’s I saw the pool guy, Barry I think she said his name was, going in with his buddy. Something made me stop and get out and follow them inside. I checked out his pickup truck in the lot outside as I went by; an ’88 Chevy with a sticker in the rear window: ‘Ass, Gas, or Grass – Nobody Rides For Free.’

  I squinted as I got into the almost empty bar: dark and cavernous after the blindin light outside. Barry Pool Guy and his buddy were shootin eight ball in the corner. I sat on a bar stool for a spell, readin the paper and watchin some of the play from the previous evenin’s ball game. After a while, Pool Guy came up and bought a couple of beers. — Hey, you work over at Mrs Halliday’s, I said.

  — I work a lot of places, he snapped back, an ugly ol leer distortin his mean face even more.

  I shrugged and turned back to my paper. The kid was an asshole. I finished my club soda and left the bar and climbed back into the Land Cruiser and took that long and dusty drive out to Yolanda’s. It wasn’t a comfortable ride. The confrontation with the kid at the bar was eating at me; it was minor pussy stuff, especially when I think of the situations I got into when I was full of liquor, but I was annoyed at puttin myself in a position where I could be rebuffed in that manner.

  Anger burned me, and I guess I wasn’t concentrating too much on the road. I heard a swish, then a thud, followed by an almighty clatterin sound tellin me that I had hit something. I stopped and saw the outline of a doglike figure splayed out in the road. It was a coyote, and by the looks of it a full-sized one. I approached the sonofabitch warily, but it seemed to be dead. I pushed at its head with my boot. Yep, it was gone. But the gray-and-yellow body looked unmarked by the impact of the car; it wasn’t torn open, and I could see no blood from the mouth, ears, or eyes. It looked like it was asleep, as if it was an ol pooch curled up in front of the fireplace, cept its eyes was kinda half open.

  Suddenly I heard the sound of a vehicle approaching over my shoulder. My heart sank as I turned and immediately realized it was a goddamn police car. One patrolman got out, and started moving slowly toward me in a loping John Wayne stride. Evidently he was worried that I still didn’t take him for a grade A1 asshole, so he kept his shades on as he addressed me. — Goin a little fast, ain’tcha?

  — I wasn’t aware, officer, I –

  — License and vehicle registration please.

  I figured it would be pointless arguing so I complied and produced the documents. He took off his shades to study the paperwork and smiled at me. He was a country goofball; a snide, pig-eyed mutant with a small, petty heart masqueradin as a good ol boy.

  He looked back at his partner in the car, a fat guy who was munchin through what looked like a taco (I knew there was a Taco Bell a couple of miles along the highway). This guy shot me a look that said, ‘If I gotta get my lardy ass out of this car, there’s gonna be big trouble.’

  — We got ourselves a little problem, John Wayne grinned, exposin big, capped teeth. — This coyote fella, he’s listed. Means a shitload of paperwork for me, all these environmental types gonna be up in arms. How far you goin, mister?

  — I’m just over to Loxbridge, I –

  — Fine. That’s in the next county, out of my jurisdiction. Now what say you just get a hold of this roadkill and stick him in the trunk of your nice big car, and when you cross that county line, maybe a respectable few miles inside, sling him out by the side of the road? Then I can get on with doin the things folks in this county want me to do.

  — Well, I –

  — That would be us quits. What d’ya say?

  I swallowed hard, my rancor tastin like bad whiskey in my gut. — Yessir, I appreciate it.

  This prick was full of shit. Ain’t no damn state in this Union gonna list the coyote as a protected species; since we killed all the wolves they were as common in these parts as squirrels in Central Park. We both knew this, of course; the mean bastard was bustin my ass just because he could.

  All talk was gonna get me was a night in jail, so I moved over to the coyote and grabbed its front and back legs in each hand. I’m a pretty strong guy, around five ten and one hundred and eighty pounds, but I was strugglin in the heat with the shiftin weight of the thing. The asshole cop looked around all furtively, checkin nothin was comin up on us, then helped me bundle the ol boy into the back.

  As he moved back to the patrol car, where I caught Fat Boy shaking his head in petulant disgust as he crammed more gut-filler into his mouth, John Wayne gave me a mockin salute. — Drive careful and have a nice day.

  — Thank you kindly, officer, I smiled through gritted teeth.

  I had a dead animal in the back of my wheels, which would start to stink it out in this heat before I got close to the county line. I was livid and I couldn’t but wonder what Halliday would have done. Would he, like one of them stoical, rebel heroes in his pictures, have just taken the night in the county jail for the pleasure of comin out with some smart-ass line? Or would he have done the same thing as me? It was right about then that I got me some inspiration. I was going to see what Yolanda would make of this one.

  I drove real slow, nervy after the encounter with the cop. I crossed the county line but didn’t stop till I got to Yolanda’s. The big gates were open and I pulled up as close to the front door as I could. Hell, it was a hot one. Yolanda opened the door, and as I went to step in, puttin my hand on the frame, a lizard jumped out from nowhere, danced over my old mitt, then ran up the side of the house. It froze for a second, pulsin slowly in the heat before slurpin into a crack in the wall like some vacuum had sucked it in.

  It sure was a more sober Yolanda who greeted me this time around. — I’m so sorry about my behavior the other day, Ray …

  — It’s your home, Yolanda, you can act how you darn well please out here, it ain’t nothin to do with me. I’ve mentioned my past with the drinkin, so I ain’t hankerin to sit in judgment on nobody else, I told her. And it was true; sometimes I couldn’t believe that I’d gotten out of LA in one piece, save for maybe a little liver damage. Now I was goin back, but this time sober and to some proper work.

  — But it was so bad-mannered, she said, rubbing my arm. Under the cold air it made me shiver suddenly. — And you must think me so weird, all my stuffed animals!

  — No, ma’am, as a matter of fact I got me somethin that just might interest you, and I bade her to follow me. We stepped back outside into a heat that sucked the cool right out of me in two seconds. Through its haze I stumbled toward the Land Cruiser, as heavy as a drunk, and showed her what I had in the back. It was already starting to smell, but Yolanda didn’t seem to notice none.

  — Oh, he’s beautiful; a beautiful boy, she said appreciatively. — You can help me cape this one. We have to get him inside, quick.

  — What do you mean? I stood there scratchin my ass, as Yolanda pushed a button and a motor rolled the big garage doors open. She grabbed a trolley, which looked more like a gurney with its alloy frame and strong wheels with rubber tires. It was adjustable; through a handle at the back she lowered it to the height of the rear of the Cruiser, allowing me to pull the coyote onto it. Its body was slack in the heat, still too soon for rigor mortis.

  — Caping is when you skin out your trophy, she explained as we wheeled the stiff animal into the house. As I cooled off, Yolanda vanished down into the basement, returnin with a set of white linen which she draped over the kitchen table. On her instructions I managed to wrestle the dead beast from the trolley onto the table. — The most deft skinning needs to be around the delicate parts, the eyes, nose, lips, and ears, and it’s always best to leave these to a pro.

  — I’m more than happy for you to run the show, ma’am, I told her as
I raised my hands to my face, catching a scent of the dead animal on them.

  Yolanda headed on down to the basement again, comin back with what looked like a large aluminum toolbox. — Problem is that a lot of hunts happen in warm weather and it just ain’t always possible to cool the hide adequately. Most trophies are ruined in the first few hours. As soon the animal dies the bacteria begins to attack the corpse, she explained, clicking the box open. There was a power saw and a series of sharp, surgical-looking knives, as well as plastic bottles containin various fluids, some of which had the odor of strong spirit. — Heat and moisture is the ideal environment for bacteria to flourish. Caping spoils in the same way as meat does. That’s why I have the big fridge downstairs. How long has he been dead?

  — About an hour and a quarter. Hit him back in Cain County.

  — Well, we ain’t got time to waste, she mumbled, as she pulled out a knife, looking for a second like she was gonna stick it up the poor ol boy’s dead ass.

  — This is the dorsal method of skinning, she explained, making the long cut from the base of the tail to the neck. Knock me stone dead if that carcass wasn’t pulled out in that one incision, leavin the head and feet inside the skin. There was very little blood. I heard a terrible bone-crackin sound and shuddered as she snapped the neck from the body, usin what looked like large nutcrackers. I winced as I watched her cheerfully unravel the beast, like she was peelin an orange, as she continued to enlighten me. — This is a good method on long-haired animals. Now I have to take him downstairs to freeze immediately.

  She had the animal by its head, and it reminded me of a toy teddy bear I’d had as a kid: the stuffin had come out of its body and there was just a long tadpole-like tail of cloth hanging from his neck.

  — Can I help you downstairs? I asked, lookin a mite distractedly at the pile of meat and bones left behind on the trolley.

  — No, I’ll do the rest later. You take that carcass to the incinerator out back. Can’t miss it, it’s the big rust-colored thing. We gotta burn it or the buzzards will come. Stick it in there and I’ll fire it up later.

  I don’t mind admittin that I was a little squeamish as I got the skinned dog’s body onto the trolley usin the sheet and wheeled it out to the incinerator. Out back, the house thankfully shaded me from the sun’s merciless blast, though I could feel my sweat ducts opening up. I spied an old wire broom and once I’d opened the metal door and adjusted the trolley height to its level, I used it to push the now stinkin bastard inside, as dirty big flies that had come from nowhere started buzzin round like small bats, makin my guts churn. I was happy to get back indoors to that kitchen as Yolanda shouted up from the basement, — Ray, honey, mix me a gin and tonic, will ya? Plenty of ice!

  I wasn’t raisin much in the way of objections to kickin back a little. I did as she requested, refilling my own lemonade from the pitcher, though I gotta say that it was tastin a little sour in my belly now. I headed back into the kitchen and poured myself a big glass of water from the dispenser on the fridge. — Shall I bring it down to you? I shouted.

  — Nope, you just hang fire and I’ll be up in a second.

  I was so pooped after my efforts in the heat that I just lay down with my back on the cold floor, spread out like the savior on that ol cross, and God, did it feel good. I looked back at ol Sparky, then my eyes drifted across the room and there was an addition I hadn’t seen before: a huge German shepherd, lying with its paws spread out in front of it.

  Yolanda returned quickly and sat back to enjoy the drink.

  — I’ll start to mount it later, she said as I reluctantly dragged my own carcass off that cool floor and into the chair by hers.

  I pointed at the big dog.

  — That’s Marco, she said, — one of the best pieces of work I’ve done. He was such an angel, honestly, Raymond, the sweetest puppy you ever met. Somebody poisoned him, I don’t know who, but I have my suspicions, she spat, thinking, I guess, of one of her would-be property-developer neighbors. Things must have got pretty ugly at one time, but I was sure as damned that Marco’s puppy years had long passed when that big sonofabitch cashed in his chips. — Anyway, she said, more breezily, — I decided to bring some more of them up from the basement for you to have a look at.

  This had all been a great education for me, but it had taken some time and with LA and the Volkswagen shoot on the horizon, I reckoned that commodity was getting a little scarcer. I quickly got settled and asked her about the husband she had before Glen Halliday.

  — Larry Briggs was an alderman in town. Ran twice for state senate. The horniest sonofabitch I met, she said fondly, before her tone soured. — Problem was quite a few others knew him that way too. The main difference between Larry and Glen was that when I found Larry was after the ranch, for the water, it came as absolutely no surprise.

  — What happened to him? I raised the cool, clear glass of liquid gold and contemplated it for a moment, then put it to my lips.

  — Who knows. I reckon he ran away with some damned slut who fell for his smooth talk. That type never was in short supply. He’d had it here. After two failed state senate attempts nobody wanted him on their ticket. I wasn’t going to fund his drinking and womanizing, so he left. Last I heard he was down in Mexico. The strange thing is that in a roundabout way, I met Glen through Larry. She now sounded a little wistful. — Glen was doing a film about the water politics of Arizona and he talked to Larry and some other would-be developers. Came out here to see Larry, who by that time was gone. So we struck up a friendship. It was platonic … well, drink-based at first, and she reached for the bottle to recharge her glass. — I knew he was a lush from the off, but he was fun back then. I think at first he liked it here, liked being away from LA, which he always loathed, though he was always flying up for meetings.

  — What about New York? How did he feel about the spiritual home of American independent cinema?

  — Not a whole heap better.

  That kinda made sense to me. All people who live in LA do is to say how shit it is, even if, I suspect, half of them don’t mean it. In New York they all tell you how great it is and I suspect that half of them ain’t properly convinced either. — I thought they’d be more understandin of what he was trying to achieve there.

  — Perhaps at one time. Yolanda shook her head. — But I got the impression that he resented the new breed of independent filmmakers that were working there. I think it was because they were getting things done while all the doors were slamming in his face, she explained and she started, for the first time, to talk about Glen’s work and his future ambitions.

  That ol coyote had eaten into our time but it was still a good session for me, I got the best stuff yet from her. But then things changed kinda sudden when I told her about the car-ad shoot and that it would be a few weeks before I saw her again.

  Yolanda looked at me like I’d just announced the death of her firstborn. I’ll be darned if that blood didn’t just drain from her face. — But I will see you again, won’t I? she squealed.

  I was pretty much taken aback at her reaction. — Course you will … that is, I mean, if you feel I ain’t just wasting your time. You’ve told me so much already, I –

  — Please come back, Raymond, she begged, hoistin herself up outta that chair as I started to rise with her, — there’s some other stuff I have to tell you about Glen, some things I need to show you.

  — Yes, I sure will, Yolanda … But can’t you tell me now?

  — No, no, no, she said, with a brisk shake of her head, — we don’t have the time and I must let you go while I tend to our coyote friend.

  All the while, though, I had noticed that after comin back from the basement the last time, she had let her hair down. At the time I had a horrible feeling it was for my benefit. This was confirmed when she gave it a fancy ol shake in my direction. Once upon a time that gesture and the accompanyin smile might have broken some buck’s heart into pieces, but right now it was grotesque in its ugly ol desper
ation. I couldn’t keep the repulsion outta my face and I guess she kinda caught it.

  — I’m so lonely, Ray. So damn lonely. I was, even with Glen, she sobbed, shakin her head miserably.

  — Yolanda …

  — But you will come back to me, won’t you, Raymond? she implored again, steppin forward to grab my hand in hers. Her grip was surprisingly strong. This close I could see ol-hag spines of hair sproutin from under her nose and on her chin. — I’ve so many more stories I want to tell you.

  — You bet, Yolanda, and I pulled her close to me and we hugged for a little while. But in that embrace I felt the sorry despondency on her part and, in turn, I must confess I felt pretty damn sad for her. But when it came to say goodbye she was already distracted, staring off into space, light years away. I let myself out.

  When I got outside, I twisted my Dodgers cap round to cover my neck from that sun creepin up behind the house. That asshole Barry had arrived and he was carryin a silver tank on his back, which seemed to continually explode in the dazzling sunlight. He was comin round the side of the pool and we couldn’t avoid each other. Our eyes met in a now mutual sneer and I held it, forcin him to break off first, his shifty eyes contemplatin God’s earth.

  It was a sad-ass victory but in spite of that it flushed me with triumph for a bit, as I climbed into the Cruiser and took off, Brad Paisley’s ‘Waitin on a Woman’ fillin up the car sweetly as I got out onto the interstate. At a station I filled up on gas and struck out for LA. Proper. I drove hard for a bit, trying to make good time on the highway so that I could goof off part of the journey along the back roads. A long red twilight, broken only by south-headin doves in flight for the river, stretched out before me as I slid off the interstate. I loved passin through them small towns, all the time hearin the thud and cranking of digging machines, and as the night fell, the barking of dogs and the mariachi music, while the low trees, covered as they were with insects, clicked, snapped, and whirred their own little tunes.