Free Fugitive Nights by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

when the Range Rover parked at a café that advertised itself as a bait shop, near the north shore marina. There were several gulls lurking around the parking lot but not much else. The desert wind ruffled across the green-yellow water, making it very chancy for two fishermen trying to launch a small dinghy.
    Clive Devon strolled inside the café. There was one old pickup in front and Lynn didn’t dare get too close. The only convenient place to park and observe was five hundred yards down the highway, so he decided to use Breda’s fancy binoculars.
    He was watching the café when a man ran across the highway from the direction of the All-American Canal, a twenty-foot wide artery of fresh water from the Colorado River. Lynn didn’t pay much attention to the guy, who wore a baseball cap and a dark windbreaker. He was wondering why a rich guy like Clive Devon would hang around this dying place. Even the lowliest desert denizens had just about given up on the Salton Sea. That morning the wind was blowing a foul algae-sewage smell his way.
    Clive Devon came out of the café with a six-pack of something, beer or soda pop, and what looked like a bag of potato chips, and stood by his Range Rover. The man in the baseball cap also walked out, with a newspaper, and ran across the road, disappearing from sight.
    Early that morning the migrant workers who’d camped in the stand of tamarisk trees had awakened to find the bald man driving away. He was gone for perhaps thirty minutes. When he returned he took off his jacket, parked under the trees once again and began reading a newspaper. After a little while he started the car as though to back out from under the trees, but just then a police car cruised down Box Canyon Road. When the police car had gone, the bald man jumped out of the Ford with his red canvas bag.
    Before he left them he warned the three campesinos in Spanish that the car was stolen and that they must not drive it. He asked which way it was to Palm Springs and if he could get there by going the opposite way from where the police car had gone. They pointed him toward Highway 10 assuming he would hitchhike.
    The Ford was a big temptation for three migrant workers, the oldest of whom, though he looked thirty, was only twenty years old. He had lived by his wits for five years, and had made many illegal crossings from Mexicali to work in the fields of the Imperial and Coachella valleys. He knew how to start a hot-wired car. Skillful driving was another matter.
    Through binoculars, Lynn watched Clive Devon drink two soda pops during the half hour that he remained in the parking lot. Lynn saw only three other cars coming and going from the café during that time. Then a rusty old Plymouth rattled down the highway from the direction of Mecca and Thermal, and pulled into the parking area. A short slender woman got out. Even from his distant vantage point Lynn could see that she was young. Her shiny black hair hung down to her waist and she wore a blue T-shirt and jeans.
    The young woman and Clive Devon greeted each other, but they stood on the far side of the Range Rover. Lynn’s view was completely blocked and he could only get glimpses of Clive Devon through the side windows. He thought they stood close enough to be kissing but he couldn’t be sure.
    A large brown dog leaped out from the backseat of the rusty Plymouth and bounded toward Clive Devon; then he too was blocked by the Range Rover. After a moment Clive Devon opened the door of the Range Rover and the dog jumped up onto the backseat. Then the young woman got into the front next to Clive Devon, who started the Range Rover and drove back toward Mecca and Thermal.
    By the time Lynn had allowed them some lead time he had to floor the Rambler because the Range Rover was accelerating. Lynn tried to see the license number when he passed the rusty Plymouth in the parking lot, but couldn’t. He figured he’d get it on the way back. He