Free Arizona Dreams by Jon Talton

homicide and precise directions to the body.
    â€œWhere are we going?” We were now on the Red Mountain Freeway, speeding past Tempe Town Lake.
    Peralta set aside his folder and looked at me. His eyes were unreadable. “You’ll see. You aren’t the only one who gets to keep secrets.”
    â€œThis wasn’t a secret,” I said. “I just didn’t think…” I let the sentence trail off.
    â€œGo on,” he said. “You got the letter from the old man, and you went out to the desert. You find the body of this Harry Bell. Did you know him? Know his brother?”
    â€œNo and no.”
    â€œGo on.” He opened a new file and started making notes with a gold pen.
    I went on. But I was also wondering. Peralta had been a genuine friend to me over many years. Some days, though, I tired of his games, his pride in having people beholden to some transaction or obligation. I’m sure he wasn’t even aware of them, as most of us are not fully self-aware. It was worse for him. Although he was brave and charming, he was also stubborn and, on so many fronts, shut down. His curiosity didn’t extend beyond cop stuff and golf—even a younger interest in custom cars had been set aside. He didn’t read books and was proud of it. He didn’t know much beyond an encyclopedic knowledge of law enforcement, and wore that comfortably. In this, he was different from his late father, Judge Peralta, and from Sharon. They had been divorced for a year now. Without her, his worst tendencies seemed to come out. I used to think Peralta was a throwback. But now I realized that he is the American male of the new century. I admired Peralta for many things. But I wondered if I liked him.
    By this time we were pulling off the Pima Freeway and entering a parking lot. It was smaller than a New England state, and full of cars. Beyond was a dun-colored building that could have been a Wal-Mart or a Best Buy. It was a big box—a big box of gambling. Going a few hundred yards east of the Scottsdale city limits made the difference. Casino Arizona was the economic prize of the Salt River Indian Reservation. We were in a sovereign nation, and also a part of suburban Phoenix. The city ended abruptly and changed to fields—the Pima and Maricopa Indians had been farming in Arizona for centuries. It was a good bet they were related to the Hohokam, the ancient people who dug the canals and settled in the valley that became Phoenix, and then disappeared. No history here, remember? Fast forward to the twenty-first century, where the sweet spot for these Indian nations is the gambling addiction of the white-eyes. Indian gaming had come to Arizona while I was living in California, and although I was vaguely aware of casinos encircling Phoenix I had never been in one. I was no prude. Gambling was one of the few vices I had passed on when going through the devil’s cafeteria line.
    It was three p.m., but the parking lot was full. By the time we pulled under the portico marked for valet parking, it was clear Peralta was not thinking of an afternoon of blackjack. Several tribal police cruisers sat bumper-to-bumper, flanked by sheriff’s vehicles and unmarked sedans. I turned to Peralta. The SUV had stopped but he was getting out the door. I followed him inside, past a cordon of tribal cops.
    We walked through the lobby into a vast, dimly lit space. It seemed that way, at least, after the intense sunlight outside. Light came from row upon row of slot machines packed closely together and from a discreet purple glow around the ceiling. More light identified the Pima Lounge and Starz Bar. Then the room opened into a large space under a circular ceiling. The noise was overpowering, electronic pings, blips, and gurgles, snatches of up-tempo songs that changed every few feet, nothing coherent, just a wave of unending sounds. All the sensory inputs were meant to focus on the business at hand. I recalled