Desert Cut Read Online Free Page A

“Isn’t that what dates are for, to get to know someone?” This from a man whose job was dragging skeletons out of closets.
    The worry-wart in me refused to let it go. Faking a conversational tone, I asked, “Where’d you meet her?”
    “What, you’re my mother, now? I already have two. Had, anyway.”
    Jimmy’s biological mother, a full-blooded Pima, died of the tribal scourge of diabetes when he was a baby. Several years later, his father died of the same disease. His white Mormon adoptive parents lived in Utah, but they had kept in close touch since Jimmy had returned to the reservation to reclaim his cultural roots. The Mormons had raised him to be polite, even when dealing with snoops like me.
    He sighed. “I’m sorry if I sounded rude, Lena. I know you care, but I’m a big boy and can take care of myself. Just to set your mind at rest, I met her at last week’s pow-wow.”
    I relaxed. Most members of the tribe had their act together, so his big heart might have lucked out this time. “She’s Pima?”
    “Anglo, but she came with a Pima friend. We danced. We talked. We made a date. Okay?”
    With that, we said good night and went our separate ways, Jimmy to seek love, and me to my lonely apartment above the office.
    At one time my two-room-plus-kitchen-and-bath had been a study in beige, but earlier this year, after deciding to put down some roots of my own, I’d tricked it out in neo-Cowgirl. All that beige-ness was now buried beneath bright Navajo rugs, a saguaro-rib sofa and chair, a red Lone Ranger and Tonto bedspread, and turquoise-shaded lamps with bases shaped like horse heads.
    But I’m not a purist. Although it interfered with the ambience, I still kept the “Welcome to the Philippines” toss pillow I’d stolen from one of my foster parents, either the fourth or the fifth. There were so many, I’ve lost track.
    After nuking a Ramen noodle dinner, I settled on the sofa and stared at the wall, afraid to turn on the TV and risk hearing the news. Music, perhaps? Some blues by John Lee Hooker or Gatehouse Brown might be nice, but a glance at my CD collection revealed a tall stack of discs gathering dust without benefit of their jewel cases. I would have to clean them first, which meant that my skittery mind might fasten on subjects better left alone.
    I wandered over to my book case, but nothing piqued my interest among the shelves of already-read mystery novels sandwiched between well-thumbed volumes of Southwestern history. Deciding a good movie might calm my nerves, I picked up the
Scottsdale Journal
and paged past the news section to Arts & Entertainment. Nothing interested me among the teen slasher flicks or—Scottsdale being Scottsdale—foreign films with subtitles. I hate subtitles.
    Next, I tried calling Warren, but his voice mail told me that while he appreciated my call, he wasn’t in right now, but if I left my name and number, he would get back to me as soon as possible. I didn’t. If he was out and about with some Hollywood starlet, it was none of my business, just as what I did with my free time was none of his. Not that I ever did anything. Flying in the face of reason, I was a one-man woman.
    Given my restless mood, the idea of hanging around the apartment wasn’t all that attractive, so I went into the bedroom and changed into a pair of sweats. I had promised my orthopedic surgeon to go easy on the pavement pounding for a while, but right now, a re-injured hip seemed preferable to an emotional meltdown. Running settled my mind.
    After transferring my .38 into its specially-designed fanny pack, I locked up and bounded down the stairs two at a time. Once on the sidewalk, I faced a decision: head east toward the Green Belt, a miles-long, path-lined arroyo that flooded every monsoon season, or south toward Papago Park, the unlandscaped piece of desert that divided Scottsdale from Phoenix. Opting for the park, I turned right on Scottsdale Road and began cutting my way through the