Cast in Stone

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32

There
were two Tony Moldonados. One was the lovable fat guy we all knew
from the TV ads. The one who dressed up like the Wagnerian opera
singer, horned helmet and all, and proclaimed “The deal ain’t
over till da fat lady sings.” That Tony had a thirty-year marriage,
grown children, a successful string of auto dealerships, and, as we
all knew, would beat any deal in town.

The
other Tony was an entirely different matter. I hadn’t figured him
out yet and wasn’t sure I wanted to. Tony number two was, if
nothing else, a man of consistent habits. Unfortunately, those habits
were consistently disgusting, which was where I came into it.

Once
a year, like clockwork, Tony number two went on a binge. He’d fake
an out-of-town business trip, pack enough luggage for a safari, kiss
the wife good- bye, and take a taxi to the airport. From the airport,
he’d take another taxi across the street to the hotel strip on
Pacific Highway South, find himself a roach motel, and begin the
serious business of partaking of those prurient pleasures that cruel
fate denied Tony number one. Tony number two was into young girls.
For that matter, young anything. The younger the better. Rumor had it
that he billed himself as Tony Coitus.

For
the past four years, Tony was no sooner out the door than his wife
was on the phone to me. I have no idea how Rose Moldonado got hip to
Tony’s meandering ways; it didn’t much matter. My duty was to see
that Tony was returned safely to the bosom of his family. I wasn’t
supposed to stop him; I was merely to see to it that he survived the
experience.

I’d
been holed up for the past six days in the Pacific Vista Motel, a
pink, U-shaped, cinder-block emporium that specialized in adult
movies and a quick turnover. I was on the same floor, directly across
the U from Tony’s room, with an excellent view of the seemingly
endless stream of demented debutantes who
stumbled in and out.

The
first year I’d been part of this little charade, in a fit of
misplaced responsibility, I’d taken the room next door to Tony’s,
but the sounds and smells that filtered through the cardboard walls
had for weeks afterward polluted my dreams. Rose Moldonado paid
promptly and well, but neither promptly nor well enough for my
dreams. There were limits.

I’d
since cut a deal with the management. To reduce the chances of both
apprehension and infection, they kept the rooms on either side of
Tony’s vacant, made an honest effort to provide disease-free
specimens, and gave me the proverbial room with a view. Not only was
I paying them, but tumid Tony passed out hundred-dollar bills like
candy. It was the mythical offer they just couldn’t refuse.

I
was well prepared this year. I had enough food for a rural village, a
couple of good books, and a new pair of slippers that kept my feet
from ever touching the matted green shag carpet, which seemed
determined to stick to the soles of my shoes. This year, I’d even
brought my own sheets. Those provided by the management invariably
looked like a road map of northern Bosnia, embossed, I’d always
assumed, with the same substance that gave the carpet its adhesive
quality.

I
was up early. Tony's last volunteer, a prematurely purple
prepubescent type in road warrior garb, had left at about 3:00 a.m.
In spite of the massed mercury vapor lights, I'd been unable to
ascertain the gender of this particular specimen. I had the feeling
that it didn't much matter to Tony. Tony, I presumed, would be
sleeping in.

I
rummaged in my cooler and selected an onion bagel, some cream cheese,
and the last of the smoked salmon for breakfast. I washed it all down
with some orange juice, cleaned up my mess, and headed for the
shower, careful not to let any part of my body touch an exposed
surface.

The
shower head had only two adjustments. The first provided an
incredibly fine spray that was like trying to wash in fog. The other
setting could have easily been used for crowd control. It had been
set that way the first time I'd used the shower. I'd gotten in,
turned the handle up, and immediately been hit right in the groin by
a water cannon. It paralyzed me. If I hadn't been able to scoot down
by the drain, I'd still be pinned to the back of the tub with a hole
in my chest. Thank God I'd been wearing my new slippers.

After
about ten minutes of being alternately misted and bludgeoned, I
squooshed back into the room, got out some fresh clothes, and stood
up on the bed to get dressed. While I was lacing up my Reeboks, I
wondered what Tony dreamed about at night, deciding that I
probably didn't want to know.

I
was putting my slippers on the windowsill heat register to dry when I
noticed that Tony was about to have his first visitor of the day.
This was a bit of a disappointment. I'd figured he would be running
out of gas by now. Obviously the man had unimagined reserves of
strength. I wondered if maybe he'd been going to the health club in
preparation for his yearly sojourn, which, in turn, led me to
wondering exactly what would constitute a workout for a sport like

Tony's.
How many sets of what? I quickly wrote this off as something else I
didn't want to know.

This
morning's repast was pretty much standard fare, about five foot
seven, skinny, long blond hair grown out brown at the roots, wearing
jeans, a green flowered blouse, earrings the size of hubcaps, and red
shoes with impossibly high heels.

She
knocked and was instantly admitted. Obviously, Tony had been up
and expecting her. All was as well as it was going to be until I
managed to get out of this virus culture of a motel.

I
settled into the tape-patched coral Naugahyde chair by the window and
got out my book. Nobody but John McPhee could keep me reading about
oranges for two hundred pages. I was immersed in citric splendor
when a sudden movement in my peripheral vision jerked my attention
from the Indian River Country of central Florida to the door of
Tony's room.

I
was greeted by a scene that presented limited possibilities; either
Tony was broadening his area of interest to include large black men—a
notion that, while unspeakable, was not beyond the realm of
possibility—or we were about to have a serious problem. As I
grabbed the jacket that held my 9mm from its hanger, I got my answer.
The larger of the two, using the balcony rail for leverage, reared
back, cocked his leg, and planted one of his 14EEEs right in the
middle of the door.

I
had just begun my sprint around the third-floor balcony when the door
splintered and both men disappeared inside. I was ready for trouble.
I wasn't ready, however, for the scene that greeted me as I burst
through the door. The smaller of the two was madly snapping pictures
while the door kicker was holding down the center of the room.

The
room smelled like a stable and looked like a back room at Central
Casting. Costumes of all types were scattered about the room. A pink
leotard and tutu, size fifty-two stout. A sawed-off canoe paddle with
a taped grip. A World War I leather helmet, complete with goggles. A
yellow plastic miner's hat. A pair of white, woolly chaps, with
matching vest. Swim fins. Swim fins? Jesus. Whatever his myriad
failings, the man led a rich fantasy life. You had to give him that.

Tony
was backed up against the far wall, wearing his famous Viking
costume, sans the breeches, trying valiantly to cover his distended
organ with his hands. This type of intrusion would have deflated me
in a hurry, but not old Tony. I made it a point not to look at him.

The
girl was lying face down on the unmade bed, naked from waist to
ankles, making no attempt to cover herself. Her frilly dress was up
over her head. What looked like an accordion was bunched around her
ankles. If it hadn't been for the shepherd's crook leaning against
the wall, I probably would never have recognized her costume. Now I
was certain I didn't want into Tony's dreams.

I
lowered my shoulder and launched the picture taker toward the middle
of the room. He rocketed forward, tripped himself up in Zorro's cape,
which was lying on the floor, and fell heavily into the back of the
door kicker. They both went down in a heap. The big one started to
jump to his feet. The picture taker began to reach into his coat.
Staring down the muzzle of the 9mm put an immediate stop to both
actions. A picture's worth a thousand words.

"Who
the fuck are you?" asked the larger of the two, being careful to
keep his hands flat on the floor. The hands were covered with a
lace-work of faded tattoos. He wore a mismatched gray suit over a
red-and-blue Hawaiian shirt. The pockmarks on his cheek and the
out-of-style Afro made him look like one of the heavies on "The
Mod Squad."

"Funny,
that's just what I was going to ask you."

At
this point Tony, still clutching his organ— which, unbelievably,
was still holding its own—piped in. "They said they were the
police." I tried not to look at him.

The
dialogue seemed to revive the picture taker. He ran a hand over his
newly processed hair and started to rise.

"I
wouldn't," I said.

"You're
interfering with official police business. If you—"

"And
if you move that right hand of yours another inch, I'm going to put
one of these right between your nappy little eyebrows."

This
seemed to have the desired effect. He settled himself back on his
haunches and looked to the heavy for help. These two sure as hell
weren't the police, but if this went on much longer, we were going to
meet the real article.

I
pointed at Tony. "Get your ass in the bathroom and get dressed."
He was still holding himself. "And slam that thing in the door
while you're at it," I added. He began to move.

"Who
the fuck are you?" the big one asked again.

"I
guess you could say I'm sort of the good shepherd."

The
little one was persistent if not persuasive. "This is official—"

"No,"
I corrected him, "this is how it is. You and your girlfriend
here are going to gather up Bo Peep and her belongings and get the
flock out of here. The police shit isn't going to float."

This
was all the girl needed to hear. She slowly slid off the far side of
the bed and began to collect her street clothes. Her efficiency was
somewhat restricted by the full-length ruffled pantaloons around her
ankles, but she was a real trouper.

The
two men began to slowly rise in sections.

Shorty
wasn't willing to quit yet. As he smoothed his suit, he mustered his
best conspiratorial tone. "Listen man, this is a real sweet deal
here. Do you know who this guy is?"

Bo
Peep was struggling out of the pantaloons. I stopped her.

"No,
don't get dressed, sweetheart," I told her. "Just gather up
your shit and get out."

She
was a much quicker learner than the other two. She had the pantaloons
up in a flash, right over the dress, and was double timing it for the
door. I stopped her.

"Take
that with you," I said, gesturing toward the shepherd's crook.