I leaned against the Nash watching low-level lightning strikes from the direction of the camp. In ten minutes, a young woman in tan trousers marched up the grade. Her lush mane of black hair was tied in a ponytail, and she was lugging a Speed Graphic camera along with a smaller, elegant Leica dangling from around her elegant neck, and a heavy bag of other gear on her shoulder. Her large, dark eyes complemented high cheekbones.
“Hello, tall, blond, and handsome. What brings you here?”
I tipped my hat. Victoria Vasquez was a news photographer, a freelancer who sold her images to the Phoenix papers, the Associated Press, and the United Press. The Republic and Gazette were tiptoeing into using photographs, but the wire services were more likely to send her images nationwide. The caption below her photos carried the name “V. Vasquez” and “Special to the Republic” or “Special to the AP.”
She also worked for the police and went on some of the most lurid crime scenes. She was the first photographer at the Winnie Ruth Judd murders, and told me how the uniforms had allowed neighbors and reporters inside, contaminating the integrity of the crime scene, before I arrived as the first detective.
“What happened down there, Eugene?” she said. “It looks like a marauding army came through.”
“Kemper Marley and his goons, running out the commies, or so he said.”
“Oh, bullshit.” She took the nail I offered and I lit us both.
She exhaled. “That little punk thinks he’s the king of Phoenix.”
“Maybe he is,” I said, “or he will be. All the land he’s buying, plus the liquor business. It gives him a lot of cash to grease the politicians and the cops.”
“Speaking of liquor.” I pulled out my hip flask, and she took a sip. I toasted her and let the white stuff burn my throat and insides. No way was I going to give Sam Dorsey a toot of this.
She repositioned my hat to a jaunty angle and put a warm hand on my cheek. “You should show off those sad blue eyes, Eugene.”
“If you say so.” Only my mother and Victoria had ever used my full name.
She smiled. “Have to run. Midnight deadline for the wire services, chance to make the West Coast papers. Girl’s got to make a living.”
After the Nash swung around on the dark highway and headed west, I walked down toward the fire.
Considering the baseball bats, I was surprised not to find dead or injured bodies. Of course, the gorillas might have taken them in the truck to drop them off in the desert. Marley’s pull with the cops might not extend to overlooking cold-blooded murder here, out in the open.
The remains of the camp were without a human soul. Blood pooled in several spots on the ground as if a biblical plague had come through. A left-behind dog wandered, a frightened look in its eyes, barking and whimpering. Most of the cars were gone. But two were ablaze, along with piles of belongings and several busted-up shanties. Clothes, books, furniture, precious belongings turned to kindling. Sparks flew in the manure-perfumed wind. The piano had made it out, as far as I could tell.
No, the flames shifted and I saw it smashed against a cottonwood, its keys hanging askew as if a giant had been slugged in the mouth.
The only touch missing was salting the earth.
Through the dry air, the vault of the Milky Way looked down on us in judgment.
Then the toe of my shoe tapped against something substantial. Thanks to the blaze, it glimmered in the dirt. Bending down, I picked up a pocket watch. It had a gold case and white face with large numbers. I compared it with my wristwatch and it was keeping perfect time. I slipped it in my pocket and walked back to the Tempe Road.
* * *
The next morning, after breakfast at the Saratoga Restaurant at Washington and Central, I walked into Isaac Rosenzweig & Sons jewelry store on north First Avenue. Sometimes I acted as a guard for diamond couriers, escorting them from the train station to the store and back. Rosenzweig had also been good enough to allow me to place a small stack of my business cards on the counter after I started my PI business. The old man wasn’t there, but his son, Harry, was behind the counter talking to Barry Goldwater. They both greeted me.
“How’s the shamus business, Gene?” Barry was strikingly good looking with a shock of wavy dark hair, a healthy tan, and an easy grin. He wore a scraggly full beard that nearly obscured his blue bow tie.
“Probably about as good as the department-store business. What’s that wild animal attached to your face?”
Barry’s eyes twinkled and even standing still he radiated vitality like a dynamo waiting to be unleashed. It was easy to see why so many women fell for him.
“He’s been up in the High Country camping and taking photos,” Harry said. “And he’s on his way to Otis Kenilworth’s shop to get it shaved off, right Barry?”
Goldwater shrugged. “I rather like it. Peggy likes it. But I suppose so.”
Otis Kenilworth’s real name was William Jones, and he had opened his Kenilworth Barbershop in the Gold Spot Market Center at Third Avenue and Roosevelt Street in 1925. I didn’t claim to know why he took the new name, but he was one of the few Negro business owners serving a white clientele and gave the best haircuts and shaves in town.
Barry said, “I’m trying to settle into my duties. My dad’s been gone for three years now, so the family is pushing me to take over managing the store. Can’t say I love that. It’s not in my blood like it was for my dad and grandfather.”
“Big Mike” Goldwater, his grandfather, was a legend. He emigrated from the Polish part of the Russian Empire, and after time in Paris, London, and California, made his way to Arizona Territory. Stories say he ran a bordello and saloon in California before turning to dry goods. It’s also true he took an Apache arrow driving his wagon through an ambush. Big Mike hit better times with a store in Prescott—he served as mayor there, too—and a Phoenix location opened for good in 1896. His son Baron, Barry’s father, trained at Philadelphia’s famous Wanamaker’s Department Store.