Concrete Desert by Jon Talton Read Free Book Online

want.
    ***
    Wednesday night, I had dinner by myself at a little Cuban place off Camelback Road. I read Lindsey’s report and sipped a Negra Modelo from the bottle. Then, full and comfortable, I went back into the heat and drove home.
    I turned onto my street just as the digital clock on the Blazer’s dash turned a phosphorescent green 10:00. The houses nearby were dark, the only sign of life being the sound of wind chimes across the street. When I was growing up, we all knew our neighbors. On the west was Mrs. Street, a widow who gave chocolate-chip cookies to the neighborhood kids. On the east were the Calhouns—I’d had a mammoth crush on Kathy Calhoun. Across the street were the Jarvises and the Herolds and old man Goodman—he hated it when we kids made noise. They were all gone now. I couldn’t tell you who my neighbors were. For ten years after my grandmother’s death, I had rented the house, returning only rarely. That seemed to have been enough time for the block to become a stranger to me.
    Into the carport, out into the heat. I was in that happy, sleepy state after a good dinner, and looking forward to reading Iris Chang’s book,
The Rape of Nanking
—I was about halfway through it, and it was riveting, moving; a stunning work. Not the kind of impenetrable mess history professors are encouraged to write nowadays. Oh well. I could always work for Mike Peralta. I closed up the Blazer and walked toward the back door.
    He must have been hiding in the oleander to the east of the carport, because I never saw him. I only felt it when he hit me hard on the back of the neck. My knees just gave out and I instantly wanted to throw up. I didn’t even think of fighting back. For what seemed like several minutes, I couldn’t even feel my arms and legs.
    “I could kill you right here, hero,” he hissed in my ear, and I felt a gun barrel, surprisingly cold, considering the hot night, press against the side of my face. I was beyond coherent thoughts. I was scared as hell. “Some fucking cop you are.” He had very bad breath. “You’re in way over your head.” A sharp kick in my side. “The message is: ‘Back away.’ Back away. Get the message, or I can find you again.”
    That was all I heard before I passed out.

Chapter Seven
    The first time I ate a plate of Sharon Peralta’s trademark chicken enchiladas was fifteen years ago. I had worked my last shift as a deputy sheriff; I was a freshly minted Ph.D. in history, with a new job at a midwestern college; I was anticipating living away from hot, dry Phoenix for the first time in my life, and I ate way too much. Now, Friday night, I was still hurting from the ignominious ass-kicking of two nights before, and our conversation about life, work, and Phoenix was nonstop. But I still managed to polish off four of those wonderful enchiladas. I helped clear the table while Sharon and Mike fussed; then Mike steered me into the study for cigars and cognac.
    The Peraltas had an airy new house in far north Phoenix, situated just below some of the low, bare mountains that once sat nameless and secluded well outside the city limits. While most of the house reflected Sharon’s careful touch, the study was cluttered with western furniture, a couple of knockoff Remington sculptures, three walls of books, more photos and awards, and a very large oak gun cabinet. This was Mike’s room. He went to his humidor, extracted two large dark brown cigars, and gave me one.
    “Anniversario Padron,” he said, cutting it for me. “Make sure you light it evenly. Let the smoke waft across your palate.”
    Sharon, wearing blue jeans and a white cotton short-sleeved blouse, her long black hair pulled over one shoulder, sat opposite us with a glass of white wine. “If I haven’t left him over this cigar habit, I guess we’re together for life,” she said, wrinkling her nose.
    “You know you love this, honey,” Mike Peralta said, puffing and rolling the cigar as he lit it.
    “I think it