It was well after midnight before Thumps was able to walk out the front door of Duke’s bungalow. On the way home, Howdy had had a small accident in the back seat, and it had taken some effort to clean it up. Then there was the hour or so that the three of them spent in the backyard while Howdy got everything out of his system that there was left to get. After which Duke made a bed next to his bed, so the dog wouldn’t feel abandoned.
Thumps wasn’t sure if this effort was for Howdy or for Duke. Or the both of them. Not that it mattered.
What mattered was that, by the time he got back to his house, he was beyond tired, and no matter how the rest of the night went, he was not going to get his required eight hours. The good news was that Freeway and Cookie were not hogging the bed. In fact, the cats were nowhere to be found. Thumps imagined that they had crawled in with Cruz and were annoying him.
No way he was going to rock that boat.
A night without the cats squirming around on the bed, curling up next to his neck, purring at decibels above the legal limit, breathing their fishy cat breath in his face, was a gift horse that he was not going to look in the mouth.
He didn’t bother to undress. He simply lay down on the bed, shoved a pillow against his side, tucked the other one under his head, and dragged the quilt over his body. He was debating whether or not to take off his shoes when sleep took him.
CRUZ WAS WAITING at the breakfast table the next morning when Thumps came into the kitchen. Cookie and Freeway were nowhere to be seen.
“Where are the cats?”
“Asleep,” said Cruz. “They had a hard night.”
Thumps went to the refrigerator, opened the door.
“They spent half the night trying to bite my toes.” Cruz beat his fingers on the table, as though he were playing a drum solo. “The other half of the night was dedicated to prime-time wrestling.”
Thumps closed the door. “We’re supposed to be at Shadow Ranch for the tournament.”
“You can buy me breakfast,” said Cruz.
“I’m not buying you breakfast.”
“I should charge you for cat sitting.” “I should charge you for a room.”
Cruz stood, put on his jacket. “You know, when I make my report, I’m going to blame you.”
THE PARKING LOT at Shadow Ranch was full, with cars driving around in circles like a flock of vultures in search of a carcass. Thumps pulled into the loading zone, put the sheriff’s card on the dash.
“I see you’ve settled into the job.”
“You want to walk in from Idaho?”
“You’re actually going to watch a golf tournament?”
“We got any leads on Gage or Dalca or Para Bellum?”
Cruz got out of the cruiser, took in the herd of people milling about the clubhouse and the first tee.
“Looks like the cattle drive in City Slickers.”
Thumps stood by the rear fender, seriously considered returning to the office, braving Duke’s coffee, enduring a round of Jenga.
“There you are.” Archie popped out of the roundup, a paper bag in his hand. “Youngbeaver had an early start. He’s probably on the sixth tee by now.”
“We haven’t eaten,” said Cruz.
“You can forget the dining room.” Archie handed the bag to Thumps.
“Skippy’s?”
“Of course not,” said Archie.
“It says ‘Skippy’s,’ ” said Cruz.
“Yes, it’s a Skippy’s bag,” said Archie, “but inside is biftekia.”
“Sure,” said Cruz. “Nothing like a bif . . . bife . . .bifeka . . . for breakfast.”
“Biftekia,” said Archie. “It’s a Greek hamburger.”
Thumps opened the bag, brought it to his nose. “Any octopus in it?”
“Lamb,” said Archie. “And spices. And onions. And tomatoes. And tzatziki sauce.”
“Which is?”
“Strained yogurt, cucumbers, garlic, olive oil, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Salt, dill, mint, parsley, thyme, and lemon.”
“Strained yogurt?” Cruz looked in the bag. “Wait. There’s only one.”
“I didn’t know you were coming,” said Archie. “You two will have to share.”
“And one cup of coffee?”
“Share.” Archie grabbed Thumps by the arm, began dragging him through the crowd. “Share.”
Thumps had never lived in large cities, cities such as Salt Lake, or Denver, or San Francisco, or Los Angeles, cities where people and traffic and the racket of living came together in a gridlock of impatience and exasperation. He had lived in smaller towns such as Roseville and Eureka and Chinook, towns where, if there happened to be a traffic jam, you knew who it was.
“Come on, come on.” Archie plowed ahead, moving people out of the way.
“How’s he doing?”
“Not bad.” Archie dodged around a group of men laughing and spilling beer on each other. “Two under after the fifth.”
“What you should do,” said Cruz, “is fire a couple of shots in the air. That should part the Red Sea.”
“More like the white sea,” said Thumps.
“Point taken.”
The golf course was a freeway at rush hour. Thumps was rear-ended and side-swiped, run over by several large SUVs in walking shorts, overwhelmed by the fumes of humanity packed into too tight a space.
“Over here.” Cooley Small Elk, in his red and gold Team Wutty shirt. “Kinda amazing, ennit.”
“Where’s Deanna?”
“Holding down the office,” said Cooley. “We played Rochambeau for who got to come to the tournament.”
“Rochambeau?”
“You know, rock, paper, scissors.”
“And you won.” “No,” said Cooley. “I lost.”
Archie was frowning. “The ninja assassin ate your biftekia.”
“I was hungry.” Cruz licked his fingers. “I didn’t get breakfast.”
“And he drank your coffee.”
Cooley fished his phone out of his pocket. “The photos you sent me? I’ve been showing them around.”
“Any luck?”
“Lots,” said Cooley. “Most everyone I asked thinks they saw Gage.”
“Let me guess,” said Cruz. “They saw Dalca as well.”
“At the concession tent,” said Cooley. “Or in the merchandise pavilion. Or having coffee in the resort. Couple of people were pretty sure they saw the both of them at the water park, coming down the Aqualoop.”
“So, a big bunch of nothing,” said Thumps.
“About it,” said Cooley. “People just want to be helpful.”
“Come on,” said Archie. “We need to get moving.”
“I haven’t had breakfast,” said Thumps. “I’m diabetic. My blood sugars are dropping.”
“Don’t you carry sugar pills for an emergency?”
“I’d rather eat something healthy. Like bacon and eggs.”
“Sure,” said Archie. “But in the meantime, eat the sugar pills.”
“Rest of the gang is waiting at the fifteenth hole,” said Cooley. “You guys remember the chant?”
MAKING HIS WAY through the crowds reminded Thumps of crossing a swollen river. The trick was to start above where you wanted to go and let the current take you down and across.
Until you were washed up on the far shore.
Stas Black Weasel, Alvera Couteau, Jimmy Monroe, Russell Plunkett, Ora Mae Foreman, Dolores Cardoza, Beth Mooney, Gabby Santucci, Fancy Whelan, and several other people Thumps recognized but couldn’t put a name to were standing in a cluster in their Team Wutty shirts.
Jimmy waved a finger at Thumps. “Where’s your shirt?”
“On duty.”
“What about him?”
“No hablo inglés,” said Cruz.
“Did anyone bring food?” said Thumps.
“You mean like a breakfast burrito?” asked Al.
“Yes,” said Thumps. “Like that.”
“Nope,” said Al. “Don’t tell me you didn’t eat before you came.”
“I didn’t eat before I came.” Thumps turned on Cruz. “There was a Greek hamburger and a cup of coffee, but he ate it.”
Fancy held out a large bag. “Would a doughnut or two be on the approved menu for a diabetic?”
“It would not,” said Beth.
“I’ll pretend it’s a veggie burger,” said Thumps.
“There’s a food tent near the thirteenth hole,” said Ora Mae. “Wutty’s group won’t be here for at least two hours.”
“Two hours?” said Cruz. “You have to be kidding.”
“Golf is four to five hours,” said Stas. “American football is three hours. Baseball is two and a half. Basketball is just over two.”
Going back to the thirteenth hole meant making his way back through the crowds. Staying where he was meant living off sugar pills.
Cruz pushed up against his side. “I’m coming with you.”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Keep your voice down.” Cruz put a finger to his lips. “Soon as Team Whatever figures out that we’re heading for the food tent, we’ll be taking orders.”
Thumps could see the golfers on the tee now. Par threes were fun. The chance of hitting the green. The chance, however remote, of getting a hole in one.
“Okay,” said Thumps. “Wait for it.”
“Wait for what?”
The man on the tee took a long, smooth swing. The ball rocketed into the sky, arched out over the fairway, landed on the green, took two hops, then spun back toward the hole. In an instant, a thunderous roar erupted, and the ground shook as the onlookers surged forward.
“Now,” said Thumps.
THE FOOD TENT had six lines. Six long lines.
“What the hell.” Cruz rubbed his head with both hands. “We could starve before we get to the front.”
“You already ate.”
“It was a small burger.” Cruz looked around. “How about you put your badge to good use?”
“As in, ordering a burger and a beer is official business?”
“As in.”
“I’m not going to flash my badge. You get into one line, I’ll get into another. First one to the front gets the food.”
“You know, the food is going to be expensive and disappointing.”
“Go for the hot dogs,” said Thumps. “The hamburgers will be dried out.”
THE LINES MOVED like a slow dance. One step, one step, with long pauses in between. Certainly not the skippy freedom of a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers number.
Thumps won the race, carried the hard-earned spoils to an empty patch of ground next to a utility building.
“Pizza?”
“It’s all they had.”
“What the hell is on it?”
“Supposed to be pepperoni.”
Cruz took a bite. “It’s not pepperoni.”
“I think it might be Spam.”
“Thought that stuff was illegal.” Cruz took another bite. “You’re right, it does taste like Spam.”
“Pork and ham meat, lots of salt, water, potato starch, lots of sugar, lots of sodium nitrate,” said Thumps. “Cleverly concealed in a blue and yellow tin.”
“As opposed to emulsified meat trimmings, lots of salt, spices, MSG, celery powder, various fillers, and artificial additives all cleverly concealed in a tan little skin.”
“Spam and hot dogs.” Thumps took another piece of pizza. “The foods that made America great.”
“Don’t forget Froot Loops.”
There was little to recommend the pizza. It wasn’t even hot. Still, it was food. Thumps tried to imagine early man, off to bag a woolly mammoth, stumbling across a pizza. Would he have eaten it or left it by the side of the trail? And what would have been the evolutionary consequences of such a decision?
“I’m going to have gas,” said Cruz.
“Thanks for the update.”
“Don’t tell the cats,” said Cruz. “It will be my surprise.”
TEAM WUTTY WAS WHERE Thumps and Cruz had left them. Cooley was on his tippytoes looking out over the crowd.
“I can see Wutty’s foursome,” he sang out.
“Where did you two go?” said Archie. “You almost missed the big moment.”
“Food tent,” said Cruz. “He was hungry. I made sure he didn’t get lost.”
“You ate food from a food tent?”
“A Spam pizza,” said Cruz.
“Why would you do something so foolish?” said Archie. “Something so dangerous to your health.”
Thumps shrugged. “They had run out of hot dogs.”
“Wutty’s on the tee.”
Team Wutty surged forward, pushing through the crowd to the ropes. Sure enough, in the distance, Thumps could see Wutty talking to Chintak Rawat, consulting his yardage book, trying to figure out where he wanted his ball to land.
Jimmy and Russell began a low chant of “Wutty, Wutty, Wutty, Wuuuuuttyyy.”
The fifteenth green was long and narrow, sloped from back to front, left to right. There was a bunker at the near corner with long, cigar-shaped bunkers on either side. Hit the tee shot long and you’d wind up in the underbrush at the back. Hit it short with spin and the ball would roll off the false front and trickle onto the fairway, eighty yards from the cup. The bunkers at the front and on the right were okay, but the bunker on the short side presented the golfer with an impossible shot. Hit the ball too softly and it would catch the lip of the bunker and stay in the sand. Clear the lip and the ball would land on the downslope, roll out with no chance of stopping anywhere near the flag.
Cooley held up a hand. “Here we go.”
In the distance, Thumps could see Wutty settle his feet into the grass on the tee box, grip and regrip the club, check his line. And then slowly, almost leisurely, he took the club back and brought it through in a graceful arch.
As the club struck the ball, Team Wutty exploded.
Wutty hit a high fade. The ball curled in from the left, hit the green above the hole, took a skip, rolled back down the slope, settling at the front of the green.
“Uphill putt,” Archie shouted. “They’re the best.”
“Mr. Wutty is not near hole,” said Stas.
“But it’s an uphill putt,” said Archie.
Russell and Jimmy switched from the Wutty chant to “Birdie, birdie, birdie, biiiiirrrrdieee.”
Cruz leaned into Thumps. “Can we go now?”
“Not before he finishes the hole.”
“You do know this is embarrassing,” said Cruz. “The shirts. The singing . . .”
“Chanting.”
“Whatever. Any minute now, your Greek buddy is going to pull out a handkerchief and start dancing.”
The other golfers in Wutty’s foursome hit their shots. Two in the sand trap to the right. One on the green closer to the hole than Wutty’s ball, but hole high with a nasty right to left break.
As Wutty strolled down the fairway, he raised his club over his head, and Team Wutty broke into another round of chanting.
Thumps didn’t hear it over the cheer, but he felt it. An annoying buzz against his thigh.
“That your phone?”
Thumps let it buzz.
“You’re not going to answer it?”
Thumps took the phone out of his pocket. “You answer it.”
“Do I look like I answer phones?”
Thumps looked at the screen. Deanna.
“DreadfulWater.”
“I should hope so,” said Deanna, “because that’s who I called.”
Thumps waited.
“What’s all that noise?”
“Wutty’s on the fifteenth green. Team Wutty is cheering him on.”
“How’s he doing?”
“Uphill putt. Fairly straight with a left to right at the end.”
“You want to call me back?”
Wutty and the other golfers reached the green. Chintak Rawat put the bag down and began pacing out the putt, walking the slope.
“What’s up?”
“Remember that woman we were looking for?”
Thumps stood up straight. “Nora Gage?”
“The same,” said Deanna. “Appears we found her.”
Thumps paused before he asked. “Alive or dead?”
The two guys in the bunker both got their balls out. Neither was a great shot, but they were on the green. Wutty was next. Jimmy and Russell raised their hands over their heads and began chanting.
“In the hole! In the hole! In the hole!”
“What was that?”
“Team Wutty.”
“Sounds like someone is having a good time.”
“Gage?”
“Alive,” said Deanna. “Not in showroom condition, but alive.”