San Bernardino is a wasteland. A row of cracker-box houses drifted past the windows of the car, fenced off and forgotten ghosts of the postwar boom, their yards full of garbage, the lot for sale sign that hung over them cracked and faded with age on its post. A homeless man in a greasy parka poked at something in a field. Around him, pieces of foundation showed through the weeds like broken teeth, catching the light of the street lamps. Ella guided me in near pantomime. She seemed worn out by telling me her story — deflated by putting it into words. With hand gestures, and once by grabbing my sleeve, she led us to Foothill Boulevard. We passed beat-up cars parked by the side of the road with for sale soaped on their windshields, groups of young men in black coats, enormous running shoes on their feet, standing angry at the corners. At some intersections brand-new and gleaming gas stations stood. The boulevard showed signs of both growth and decay — bent chain-link around vacant parking lots, new neon-striped strip malls, rotting motels and used-car lots with their multicolored flags flapping in the night air.
“There it is,” Ella said, pointing with her chin.
It was a low, dark brown wooden building, with a neon open sign in one smoky window, next to a Steinlager ad. There were four cars parked in its gravel lot, and a big black Harley next to the door. The name of the place — the hiphugger — was nailed to one outside wall, in old, graying wood.I parked at the far end of the lot. Ella turned toward me, not quite looking at me — catching just the edge of my face with her eyes.
“We followed him to San Bernardino twice. Both times, he came here. Once he left with a woman, and they drove over to a motel down the road. The other time, he sat out in the parking lot until a man came out. A tall blond guy with tattoos. He let the guy into his car and they talked a while, or just sat there. Then another car pulled up next to them and they made a trade of some kind between the cars — a package for a package. The blond man went back inside, and after Vernon left, Gary and I waited in the car. Gary wouldn’t tell me what it was all about, but we waited until the place closed down, and finally the blond guy came out with a girl — the same one that Vernon had left with the first time, I think. They drove to the same motel down the road. The rooms look like tee pees. I can’t remember the name of the place, but I could take you there if you want. We waited outside, but they were parked out near the office, and the girl went to one of the rooms. It seemed like they owned the place, or at least they lived there.”
“Is this where you thought he would be today?”
“Yes. Sundays he goes out to Palmdale. Tuesdays he goes here. It’s always the same. I figure it’s drugs — and since it’s San Bernardino and Palmdale I’m betting that it’s crystal.”
I nodded. “It makes sense. He’s somebody’s gopher. He’s either making pickups or deliveries.”
She looked at me.“Of course, if I were him, I would be out of the state by now. Maybe even out of the country.”
“You’re right. But you don’t leave women lying around in bathtubs, either. And you didn’t kill your wife.”
“Well,” she said, doubtful, “I hope we find him.”
I climbed out of the car after checking my gun under my jacket. It was a paranoid reflex, but once, twenty years before, it had saved my life when I’d left it in the glove box accidentally. If I had not caught it . . . I shut the car door and walked across the gravel parking lot. I could smell the smog that lay over the town, invisible at night but always there.