The pedal up 243 was even worse than he’d anticipated, the lactic acid setting his legs on fire, his heart hammering so hard he could hear it. He tried to remember the tips he’d read online on the bus back to Banning, to keep his breath steady, to bend forward and keep a low center of gravity, to slide back in the saddle to leverage more force from his glutes. But if any of it helped, his thighs weren’t getting the message.
His canteen was empty before he hit the top of the mountain and he considered stopping in town to refill it with tap water, but the sun had almost disappeared and, as it was, he’d probably be managing the last stretch to his house in the dark, so he rode on, parched and spent. He’d tested his mystery informant with four more messages over the course of the day, proposing they establish a specific time to meet and keeping him—Waldo was thinking of him as a male, based on the curtness of the initial texts—apprised of his progress toward Idyllwild, but the informant never responded. Now he worried that after all this, the guy wouldn’t show.
He indeed had only the light of the gibbous moon to guide him when he turned onto the dirt road to his property. Approaching, he heard voices from his cabin. So there was more than one. He hoped they wouldn’t be the dipshits from the Palisades again. He pedaled faster, the pain in his legs returning as he gained speed, but then his front wheel rammed something and he wiped out, landing on his elbow, still swollen and aching from the last night he was here.
He rolled over, hoping to leverage his good arm to raise himself up, and found himself inches from what looked like the back of a man’s head, or what was left of it. He got to his feet and poked the body with his toe to roll the corpse onto his back for a better look. He still didn’t look familiar.
Waldo pushed his bike out of the dirt path and made his way toward the cabin, from which the noise had not abated, treading as silently as he could. There was an SUV parked outside, a black Escalade, which he hadn’t been able to see at a distance.
He found two men waiting for him inside his cabin and his possessions trashed and scattered. He recognized one as the bodybuilder who’d been eyeing him at the bus station, wearing the same kind of muscle shirt. The other was a head shorter, a wiry, thirtyish Hispanic in a print guayabera, with one small hoop earring, wisps of a chin beard and carefully landscaped sideburns. He was holding Waldo’s Kindle. “How you like this thing? I’m tryin’ to decide between this and a Nook.”
“You can get a Nook cheaper, but Kindle’s better for content.”
The short man considered the device carefully and said, “Uh-huh. How’s their tech support?”
Waldo said, “Excellent.”
“Good.” He picked up Waldo’s hammer and smashed the screen. He tossed it aside, turned to Waldo and twirled the hammer ominously. “I’m Don Q. You hearda me?”
Waldo nodded and took stock of the situation. Body on the lawn notwithstanding, if they were here to kill him, they probably would have gotten right to it without the dialogue. Then again, if they were here to make some kind of point, he was pretty sure it wasn’t going to stop with his Kindle. They were in close quarters, three in the tiny room. He flashed a peek at Don Q’s gorilla on his right, wondering if he might be too muscle-bound to block a coldcock left to the Adam’s apple and whether Waldo’s own healing elbow had enough left in it to make it worth the trouble.
As if reading his thoughts, Don Q introduced his associate. “This is Nini. You do not want to fuck with this man: he was the number one ranked Inuit light heavyweight, and that was before he started goin’ all apeshit on the Bowflex.”
Waldo turned to Nini. “Inuit? That the same as Eskimo?”
Don Q answered for him. “Not exactly. All Inuits are Eskimos, but not all Eskimos are Inuits.”
Waldo, still looking at Nini, said, “Then you are an Eskimo.”
Don Q said, “Well, see, Nini’s from Canada. You can say ‘Eskimo’ in Alaska, but in Canada, they ain’t down with that. They want to be called ‘Inuit.’ To them, Eskimo is pejorative.” In case Waldo didn’t comprehend, he added, “That means it’s insultin’.”
Waldo nodded to indicate he’d be sensitive to the ethnic nuances.
Nini sucker punched him in the jaw.
“Fuck!” said Waldo, realizing that Inuit, Eskimo or Australian aborigine, he didn’t stand a chance against him.
“Thing is, Waldo, as you may have already surmised, all this chitchat ’bout heritage ain’t the reason we visitin’ your castle. So. Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
Don Q nodded at Nini, who telegraphed it this time but still drove a lead fist into Waldo’s stomach. Waldo doubled over, gulping for wind, which came even harder now than it did on the hellish slog up the mountain.
Don Q twirled the hammer some more while he waited for Waldo to stop heaving. “The item Lorena left with you.”
Waldo, hands still on his knees, looked up and wheezed, “I’m starting . . . to think . . . you’re not here to tell me . . . who killed Monica Pinch.”
“Waldo, Waldo, Waldo. You just give me the muthafucker, we’ll go on our way and you’d hardly know we was here.”
“Except for . . . the lawn ornament . . . you left me . . .”
“Oh, you met that gentleman.”
“Who was he?”
“Business associate of mine. Former.”
“Why’s he here?”
“Why’s he here? Shit, Waldo, he’s here to tell you somethin’.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s that? That I’m one fuckin’ serious individual, that’s what’s that.” Don Q looked around the cabin. “Thing is, there ain’t even much here to look through. This the only property you got? Where you keep all your possessions? Mementos, knickknacks, what have you.”
“This is everything.”
“Come on, man. You know that ain’t true.”
“I’m a minimalist.”
“Minimalist? Fuck’s that? Like those artists, with that white on white and shit?”
Waldo squinted at him. Apparently traffickers had gotten more erudite since he’d left the force. “It’s a lifestyle. I’ve divested. I’m only allowed to have one hundred Things.”
“Allowed? By who? You in one of those funky-ass churches be hidin’ up here?”
“Not a religion. Lifestyle. Self-imposed.”
“Self-imposed?” He looked around the cabin again. “A hundred things. That’s fucked up, Waldo. Especially if one of ’em is mine.” He said to Nini, “Backpack,” and the Inuit yanked it from Waldo’s shoulders. “Pockets,” he said, and Nini went through Waldo’s pants while Don Q dumped the contents of Waldo’s bag onto the floor and rifled through its compartments. “So what you tellin’ me—this, like, all your clothes?”
Waldo nodded.
“Paira socks,” Don Q said. “That one thing or two?”
“One.”
Don Q raised an eyebrow. “Kinda cheatin’, ain’t it, Waldo?” Before Waldo could decide where to begin, Don Q said, “I’m becomin’ convinced that you ain’t storin’ my item on the premises after all. What I’m thinkin’ now is, you stashed it someplace in L.A. May even be you got into this Pinch bullshit as a cover.”
Waldo shook his head, though he knew it wouldn’t make an impression.
“Here’s the deal, Waldo: you got twenty-four hours, and then I want my Mem. The alternative, you end up like your friend Lorena.”
“Where is she? And what’s a Mem?”
Don Q gestured toward Nini and said, “You telephone my man here when you got it in hand. Easy to remember his number: 818-ME-NANOOK.”
Waldo looked at Nini and said, “Me Nanook? Really?”
One more Inuit uppercut and Waldo’s endless day was finally over.