After Skip got off the phone he took the dogshit rake out of the trash can and walked north toward the hill. He turned left at the boulder shaped like a turtle and hopped from one flat rock to another until he reached a pile of boulders no different than hundreds of others. On one side of the pile was a tangle of whitethorn acacia branches, the thorns a half inch long and needle-sharp. Skip raked the branches away, revealing a deep hollow between two boulders. He poked the rake in there to check for snakes and dragged out a waterproof camper trunk. The trunk held guns. They were new and wrapped in plastic. Skip had paid straw buyers to buy them at gun shows in Utah and Arizona where there weren’t any background checks.
There were two assault rifles, a tactical shotgun, a Remington 700 sniper rifle, and a half dozen handguns. Skip chose the Glock 18c. A special gun he’d bought from an associate of Bonnie’s. The 18c was a fully automatic machine pistol and the so-called plastic gun. It was made from a polymer and light as a feather. The Glock’s rate of fire was twelve hundred rounds per minute and it would empty the thirty-three-round clip of multiple-impact bullets in 1.65 seconds. It would be like shooting thirty-three fishing nets and every knot was lethal. Whatever happened, he wasn’t going to miss and when it was over he’d go after the smart-ass and shoot that fucking Kurt too.
Skip thought he’d get in a little practice. Take Goliath out to the scrub, see if the dog could scare up something to shoot. To make it fair he’d use regular ammo and put the gun on semiauto. Drawing a bead on a zigzagging rabbit got his adrenaline going and shook the rust off his reflexes. When he hit one it twisted and tumbled before crashing into the dirt, Goliath on it in a heartbeat, snarling and shredding, little tufts of fur floating in the desert air.
They were in Dodson’s apartment waiting for The Shonda Simmons Show to come on. It was a nice place, Isaiah thought. Muted creams and beiges, Berber carpet, gentle art on the walls. Cherise must have put it together.
Dodson came out of the kitchen with two espressos and a plate of warm Danish. “You see what I’m doing here?” he said. “It’s called hospitality.”
Shonda Simmons was interviewing Noelle, the promos had been on all week. Isaiah didn’t know why he’d agreed to watch it here or watch it at all. The case was over and done. The failed dognapping was his last option. Maybe he should have swallowed his pride and accepted Bobby’s twenty grand. That was a whole lot better than no grand at all and he would have been that much closer to Flaco’s condo. Now it was out of reach forever. Then there was Skip to deal with. Crazy as he was, he might try to kill Isaiah again but he’d deal with that when the time came.
“Here it is,” Dodson said.
Voluptuous didn’t quite capture Shonda Simmons’s figure. It was more like the number 8 in extra-extra-large. She had an attractive face but her makeup had been applied like mochaccino icing on a chocolate cake, her eyelashes long enough to sweep the floor, her earrings like the chandeliers at Cal’s house.
“Thank you, Shonda,” Noelle said. “I try to keep myself together.”
“That dress may help. I haven’t seen anything that tight since I took the shrink-wrap off my new vibrator.”
Noelle laughed. “I must admit, I had some trouble getting into it.”
Noelle was naturally alluring, no need to hype her sexuality but she had anyway. Her skirt might as well have been a pair of men’s boxer shorts, the blouse scoop-necked and glittery. Her gold-tinted hair looked windblown, her smile, wily and entitled.
“Damn, Noelle’s hot,” Dodson said. “But you know what they say. No matter how fine a woman is, somebody somewhere kicked her ass out.”
“Why are we watching this?” Isaiah said.
“You said you never seen Noelle before. Well, here’s your chance.”
“So tell me, how’s your ex?” Shonda said.
“I have no idea. It’s not like I talk to him,” Noelle said.
“Yes, I suppose conversation would be difficult after you hit the man with Don Juan’s pimp cup.”
“Allegedly,” Noelle said.
“Now I know you had a lot of reasons for divorcing Calvin,” Shonda said. “That’s Black the Knife’s real name, for those of you who didn’t know—but was there something in particular that drove you two apart?”
“Yes. Calvin’s DNA,” Noelle said. “He’s part megalomaniac and part pervert. If he’s not telling you how great he is he’s trying to get you to do something nasty.”
“Ooh, we’re taking off the gloves now.”
“They’ve been off for quite some time. You hit Calvin with anything other than your bare knuckles he wouldn’t know you were in the room.”
A wave of snickering and light applause rippled through the mostly female audience.
“Now I’ve heard from several sources that Cal is having serious problems, which I’m guessing means drugs,” Shonda said.
“Calvin’s always had a drug problem but now he’s crazy too,” Noelle said.
“Crazy? Crazy how?”
“Let me put it this way. Wake up tomorrow morning and begin your day the way Calvin does. Start with a handful of Focalin, Fentanyl, Klonopin, and Wellbutrin and a dozen Krispy Kreme Originals and wash it all down with Spicy V8 and vodka and if you weren’t crazy before you’ll be crazy later that day.”
“I guess you would be,” Shonda said. The audience laughed and clapped. “Now a little birdie told me you have a new project in the works,” she said.
“How do you know about that?” Noelle said.