Bad Moon Rising

“I don’ know. She was here, then…” He shrugged his shoulders.

Hondo said, “So you know who she is.”

“Yes, because of the reward.”

I looked at Hondo, then back at Juan, “What reward?”

“A hundred thousand dollars, to the person finds thees Bodhi womans.”

“Where did you hear that?”

He said, “The paper, she’s in my sock, I din’ want to lose it.” He dug deep in there, pulled out the paper. He unfolded it and held it out to me.

The paper looked damp.

I eased my hand away and wiped my fingers on my pants even though I hadn’t touched it. I said, “Hold it up so I can read it.”

He displayed it like a tiny banner, and there it was. Reward: One hundred thousand dollars to the person or persons who return Bodhi Artell to Sylvia Artell. There was a photo of Bodhi and the phone number was Franco Torelli’s.

Hondo asked him, “Where did you get this?”

“They are all over the place, hombre, like hundreds of theem. An amigo brought thees to our day labor camp, and I took it. I told my friend I would chare the moneys.”

“You’re undocumented?” Hondo asked.

“Seguro. Soy mojado. You don’ stay in a labor camp with thirty other people unless you don’ have a choice.”

Hondo said, “Did you follow Bodhi here?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you first see her?”

“Where the family wass staying in the old houses below Clear Springs Road, maybe a mile from here.”

Hondo asked, “Where your family was staying?”

“No, not my family. They call themselves the family. Bunch of young guys and girls, living in some old houses at the base of the big granite hill. The silver car was there, an’ I saw her, this Bodhi, stumbling aroun

d like she wass drunk.”

I said, “What were you doing there?”

“Some of us guys, we go there when we get paid. The girls are friendly if you have enough moneys.”

“Was a guy named Moon there?”

“I don’ know thees Moon, but plenty of peoples are in and out of there, so maybe he iss there. The Kiowa was there, but he is in and out all the time. He’s Indian,” Juan used his hands to show braids on each side of his face, “A real Indian.”

“Does he have a real name, something other than Kiowa?”

“No, thass all I hear.”

“Who was in charge of the family?”

“The Kiowa most of the time, but thees time was two black guys, big like the football mens, how you call theem, the linesmens.”

“The Kiowa wasn’t there?”