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  "I mean if I was to come back this way again would you have dinner with me?"

  "I might. Now's not a real good time for me. I got an ex boyfriend on my tail's meaner than a rattlesnake."

  Earl puffed up. "Oh yeah? I'd like to see how mean he is."

  "You are a sweetheart."

  "Can't stand to see a man bully a woman. That's what we're all about, the Wheels. People think we're a bunch of violent drug-dealing savages. Because of Hollywood. But we're just a bunch of decent, hard-working guys who like to ride bikes. It's nuts."

  "I know what you mean. A lot of people think that because I dance at a place like Dante's, that makes me something else."

  Earl shook his head. "I would never think that."

  "You're a gentleman."

  Earl cleared his throat. "Well, sorry to interrupt. I just had to say hello. You need any help, that fool shows up and you want some protection, don't you hesitate to call. I mean that. We're gonna be rattling around the Four Corners for awhile."

  Suddenly Summer rose, stepped up to Earl and kissed him on the cheek. "You take care now."

  Embarassed but pleased Earl rumbled back to his buddies.

  My champion.

  Fiona brought the bill. "Was he hittin' on you?"

  "Naw. He's cute."

  Summer left a generous tip, went out through the side door to the parking lot so as to skip the boys and returned to her motel room. The black satchel from the Camaro lay on her bed. She opened it up. She took out the map. She moved the satchel and spread the map out on her bed. It was made from some kind of animal skin, very thin with a fine but strong texture. The ink was faded along the folds. The map was almost three feet square and hand-painted but not crude.

  Whoever had drawn the wadis, the mountains, the flats and certain geological formations was a skilled artist. She aligned the map with north at twelve o-clock. She was unfamiliar with the landmarks. In the northeast quadrant was a drawing of an unusual butte surrounded by a radiant pattern of squiggly lines.

  It was labeled "Shipapu."

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  "Luca"

  Luca Bonamici ran Luca's Limos. He also owned Fernando's out by the airport. Vince had bounced for him and driven limo. He'd never got in the deeper stuff although Luca offered. He was about to get in the deep stuff now.

  Vince pulled the gray Hummer into Fernando's parking lot at three in the afternoon. The strip joint looked drab in the merciless sun, its neon stilled, windows dark. Vince went around the back where Luca parked his Corvette. The delivery door was open. Vince stepped inside. It smelled of booze, sawdust and stale jism. There were several private rooms in the back which Luca used for all sorts of things.

  Luca was expecting him. Vince waved to the dude stocking the bar and went through the main room to Luca's office in the back, up three steps.

  Luca sat in his black leather and teak chair, hands behind his head, thick black hair smoothed slick with brilliantine, a Costa Rican guitar the size of a toilet paper tube jutting from his mouth. Vince thought Luca watched The Godfather too much. Real hoods looking to Hollywood to learn how to behave.

  "What I can do you for, Vince. Have a seat. Want a cool one?"

  "Yeah sure. Why not?"

  Luca pressed on the intercom. "Manny, bring us a couple of that new whatchamacallit, that new micro beer."

  "Odell's?" chirped the intercom.

  "That's it." Luca waited patiently puffing.

  "My girl ran out on me. She stole some shit."

  Luca's thick monobrow arched. "A good-lookin' guy like you? Why would she do that?"

  "Maybe I hit her too hard. I don't know."

  Luca shook his head. "Vinnie, Vinnie, Vinnie. What's with you and the ladies? You've got to treat 'em nice!"

  "I know. But look, Luca. I need some help finding her. She don't know what she took. She took my car and the shit was in the trunk."

  "Wha'd she take?" Puff puff.

  "An old map. Like 17th century or something. I got a buyer lined up and everything. I need help finding her."

  "So you say."

  "Map's worth a hundred gees."

  The eyebrow humped. "So you say."

  "Come on, Luca. You know I'm a stand-up guy! Help me find her and I'll cut you in for twenty percent."

  "Fifty."

  "Come on, Luca! This is my one chance to score big. You've already made it. All I"m asking for is a little help finding her. You're plugged into those hackers, right? Face recognition hardware and all that shit?" Vince reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a series of photographs of Summer. Some were from her dance portfolio. Others were personal.

  Luca picked them up and puffed. "Beautiful girl. I think I seen her before. This the one dancing at Dante's?"

  "Yeah."

  "Fucking Dante didn't know what he had. Forty."

  "Thirty," Vince said. Luca stuck out his hand.

  "You got a rifle?" Vince said.

  "You don't ask much, do you?"

  "C'mon. No blowback. I promise."

  Luca stood and walked to a closet door at the back of the room, opened it, rummaged around. Vince heard dull clanking. Luca returned with a

  Remington 30.06. "Sorta fell into my hands. Of unknown provenance."

  "Perfect," Vince said, taking the rifle and sighting through the window at the passing traffic.

  Luca turned back to the cabinet, withdrew a black windbreaker, tossed it to Vince. "Check this shit."

  Vince looked at the windbreaker. It was XXL. It said Zobel's on the breast in white script. "What?"

  "Check the zipper pull."

  Vince found the molded plastic zipper pull and started playing with it. A tiny black nylon key popped out. "What the fuck?"

  "It's a handcuff key! Ain't that the shits? I bought a couple dozen to give away. That's for you. Hope you don't need it. You got to get your own scope, though."

  "No prob. Thanks, Luca."

  Luca sat and puffed. "Just remember. We got your picture too."

  ***

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  "An Offer"

  Beadles phoned Panny. "Rolf. There was a kid in jail with me. Black kid. Ninja Preston. I need to talk to him. Could you track him down for me?"

  "Not difficult. I can just check the jail records. They're public. You find Cerveros?"

  "I found his kid. Cerveros killed himself." Beadles brought Panny up to speed.

  "Wow," the PI said. "Looks like you've uncovered a snakepit. You got any money to pay me with?"

  Beadles fingered the gold medallion in is pocket. "No of course not."

  "Do you expect to have any money down the road?"

  "Rolf, I'm more convinced than ever that the Azuma existed and that I can prove it. When that happens I'll be able to write my own ticket."

  "I'll do this one thing for you, Vaughan, because I believe you were framed. But that's it. I have a family to support."

  "I understand. And thanks."

  Beadles thought about the five grand. Panny would run through that in a week. Beadles was ready to start camping to save money. His only other expenses included food, internet service, and insurance. He'd converted Potts' check into cash and that was what he lived on. He thought others might be after the Azuma. Mainly Liggett. Beadles was getting paranoid, signing motel registers with a made-up name and paying cash for everything.

  Beadles was close. He could feel it. Maybe getting fired was the kick in the ass he needed to get out in the field and do his job. Sure. So it had cost him his marriage. That was going to blow up anyway. There were structural flaws. Betty had always kept her own checking account into which she deposited her earnings. Occasionally for no apparent reason she would give Beadles money or pay for something like a vacation.

  There were weeks, sometimes months when she shunned physical intimacy. That didn't excuse the affair. Obviously there were trust issues. Beadles looked at other smiling couples and wondered what their marriage
was really like behind closed doors.

  Salvation lay within a couple hundred miles of where he sat in the Durango Public Library, studying ley lines in the Four Corners Region. Most significant Anasazi sites lay at the convergence of the ley lines. These had been tracked and quantified by scores if not hundreds of scholars over the years and virtually all major intersections had been thoroughly explored.

  But still. It was like staring at one of those trick pop-art posters that initially appears to be a jumble of nonsense when suddenly the hidden message appears. Beadles hated optical illusions. He wasn't good at them and never saw the message even when others pointed it out.

  The library closed at six. Beadles set up shop in a booth at Mel's Diner and ordered a cheeseburger. The waitress looked like a Will Elder drawing of an old woman. His phone rang as she plunked the burger down. Beadles thanked her and picked up his phone.

  "Beadles."

  "Panny here. The man with whom you shared a cell, his actual name is Arcel Preston and he has done time for hacking. I got in touch with him through his parole officer and gave him your number."

  "Thanks, Rolf. How did they let him go if he was on parole when he was arrested?"

  "The reasoning of the judicial system escapes me. This is the last favor I can do for you, Professor."

  "Do you have his number?"

  Panny gave him a number. "But it's probably no-good. This guy changes phones as often as most people change underwear. Don't worry. I told him there was money involved."

  "Thanks, Rolf."

  Five minutes later Beadles' phone rang again.

  "This the cat I shared a cell with?" Ninja Preston said.

  "Yes. Yes it is. Thanks for getting back to me. I wonder if you'd help me out with a scientific problem."

  "A Sci-in-tif-ic problem? What that? Whatchoo got that I want?"

  "I'm searching for an ancient civilization in the Southwest. I think maybe you can help me. As for what I can do for you, I can give you a stake in my enterprise. Sort of like investing in sunken treasure only the odds are better. I know what I'm doing. Google me."

  "Done dat. Says you was fired from the u-ni-VER-sity for stealing that pot."

  "I was framed!"

  "Sure you were. All my friends be framed. They frame me!" Ninja sounded less manic than he had in jail. Maybe he was lucid.

  Beadles laughed. Ninja chuckled. "Whatchoo likely to find?"

  "Gold."

  "Now you got my attention. Whatchoo need?"

  "You mentioned hacking into a surveillance satellite. I'm trying to locate ancient ruins in the desert. Could you use spy satellites to look beneath the surface? Could you find ley lines?"

  "Ley lines? Dat when you tell some hoochie you love her?"

  Beadles explained.

  "I can do dat for sure. Where you at, man?"

  "I'm in Colorado."

  "Well I'm in Springfield. You gots to come here. My la-BOR-a-tory here."

  "I can be there in 24 hours. How do I find you?"

  "Man, this better not be a set-up or you wish you never met me."

  "It's not."

  Preston game him an address and a phone number. "You ain't here in twenty-four you find no one home."

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY

  "Blanket Amnesty"

  Vince knocked on the double-wide's tinny door. Shreds of plastic whipped through the scrub brush as a harsh wind blew through the desolate trailer park on the edge of nowhere. Hava hadn't been hard to find. Nothing was in the internet age. Vince had googled it and come up with "a mobile home park seeking township status on the fringes of the Navajo Nation."

  Four brown boys were doing skate stunts on a bare concrete apron--foundation for a missing trailer--on which they'd set up a plywood ramp. Three of them had buzzcuts as seen in Skate! magazine while the 4th favored the traditonal long-haired savage route. It cost Vince five for them to point out the Funderburk manse. He thought of offering them meth but he didn't want to leave a footprint.

  The door opened. A stupid young Indian with glazed eyes and a big nose stared at him smelling of weed. "What?"

  "Summer here?" Vince said pushing his way inside.

  The kid stepped back. "You must be the boyfriend. No she ain't here and I don't know where she went."

  Vince looked around the trailer. What a shit hole. The TV was the nicest piece of furniture. Paid for with our tax dollars. "Where's my Camaro?"

  "What Camaro," said stupid face.

  Vince smacked him across the face and he went down like the little bitch he was. "You know what Camaro."

  "Hey chill out, dude! She took it down to Bosselman's and sold it to some bangers!"

  "Get up," Vince said. "Sit down over there." He indicated the sofa. He walked over to the refrigerator, opened it and found two Dos Equis. He took out one and cracked it. The kid looked stressed. He'd been looking forward to those beers. Vince saw the baggie and works on the table. Not smart enough to hide his shit when a stranger comes to the door.

  That baggie looked familiar. Vince scooped it up and got a whiff. He must have made a face because the kid cringed like a whipped dog.

  "She gave it to me! I didn't know it was yours!"

  Vince stuffed the baggie in his pocket. "What happened after she sold my car?"

  "I don't know, man," the kid whined. "She came back here, talked to the old lady and took off again."

  "In what?"

  "An old Ford pick-up!"

  "What year?"

  "Fuck if I know! I don't even have a driver's license!"

  Vince turned toward the bedrooms. "What old lady?" But he was already back there. He opened the door and saw the old lady sitting up in bed, one hand to her throat in a stricken posture, staring at him. But of course she'd heard every word. The trailer was made of cardboard.

  "You Summer's mother?" he said going in.

  The old woman hunched back in the corner. "I don't know anything."

  Vince sat on the bed. "Bullshit."

  Ten minutes later he was on the road to Ned Lead's place. Summer had mentioned him. Some kind of shaman/grandfather figure. But of course the Injuns loved their mystic mumbo jumbo. It gave them something to hold onto after they'd failed at every other aspect of life. Vince was surprised the old geezer was still alive. To hear Summer tell it, he'd been ancient when she was a little girl.

  A pair of bony cattle looked up from a stock enclosure as the big gray Humvee jounced down the box canyon. Vince was surprised at the dome but the property was as unlovely as he'd imagined, surrounded by junk, a couple beaters, rusting appliances and wood pallets. An old man sat in front of the dome beneath a makeshift awning. He wore those geezer shades that fit over regular glasses and his lap was covered with an Indian blanket despite the heat. A mangy dog lay at his feet.

  Vince parked the car, drained a bottle of NOS, and laid out a line on the center console. He hoovered it up and was good to go.

  The old man removed a pair of ear buds as Vince exited his vehicle. Vince opened the passenger door on the driver's side and grabbed a bottle of Cabo Wabo. Trading goods. He probably could have got away with the cheap stuff but what the hell. Vince was a good tipper.

  The dog raised its muzzle and growled. The old man remained motionless behind the wraparound sunglasses.

  "Hey there," Vince said. "You must be Grampa Ned."

  "You must be the boyfriend," the old man replied.

  "So she was here. Brought you some tequila." He held out the bottle. The old man didn't move.

  Vince stood directly in front of him, the dog off to the side a little bit. "You are going to tell me what I want to know."

  "Git off my property. Go on. Git."

  "How'd you like me to smash this bottle over your head?"

  The dog's hackles rose and it showed its teeth. Vince's right leg lashed out and kicked it under the muzzle. The old dog yelped.

  An erection rose beneath the blanket on the old man's lap. "You got 'bout two sec
onds to get the hell out of here before I blow out your brains."

  Vince pivoted on his left leg and roundhouse kicked the old Indian in the head. Ned Lead went down sideways like a slamming door. With a snarl the old dog attached itself to Vince's left calf, sharp fangs half-gripping the Tony Lama boots, sinking deep into the flesh.

  Vince brought his right leg up and stomped straight down on the old dog's head, smashing it into the earth and busting its skull. It died without a sound. The old man grunted and struggled with the twisted blanket trying to free his pistol. Vince kicked him in the head so hard it bounced off the concrete base of the house.

  The old man lay still. Breathing heavily Vince knelt and put his fingers to the old man's neck. He was dead. Useless.

  USELESS! The whole fucking trip wasted because the old fool had to act the hero. Vince reflected way back in the brain's root cellar maybe he was doing too much meth but fuck it, he needed the energy to track the bitch down and reclaim what was his. He'd dry out later.

  Well fuck. Maybe the old fool had something of value in the house. The interior of the dome was neat and well-arranged, in contrast to the grounds. Motes of dust hung in sunny beams coming in through the skylights. The ceiling fan was inert. Vince found the switch and turned it on. In fact there was a lot of worthwhile stuff. If Vince had paid a hundred bucks for an auctioned storage locker he would have been well pleased.

  There were hand-carved animals. Soapstone with turquoise eyes. There was an exquisite Kachina doll with handmade clothes. Numerous Native American pots and some framed sandstone paintings.

  Vince spent tenty minutes going through the place as only a meth addict can. He emptied boxes of Quaker Oats and graham crackers into the sink. He cleaned out the refrigerator and freezer. He upended the old box spring and mattress lying on the floor. He found $125.76 in cash. On the way out he grabbed the old man's 1911 Colt .45. He couldn't have asked for a nicer handgun.

  As to the bitch's whereabouts, nada. He would just have to be patient. Sooner or later she'd turn up and Luca would send him a blip.

  His phone buzzed.

  It was Luca.

  ***

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE