Free The Cactus Club Killings (Joe Portugal) by Nathan Walpow Page B

next door. “What’s going on back there?” said a female voice with a Southern accent. “Sounds like someone’s dying.”
    I muttered, “Not yet,” and fled out of the greenhouse into the yard, where the wasp figured out it wasn’t wanted and buzzed off. I stood with my hands on my knees, catching my breath. I looked up to see a woman with a colossal shock of red hair grinning at me over the fence. She must have been standing on a milk crate. I managed a weak smile back and escaped into the house.

     
    I braved the rush hour on the northbound 405 and arrived at Lyle’s just after six. He lived way up in Sunland by the Foothill Freeway, on a lot that didn’t look big from the street but went way back. This gave him room for several greenhouses, lots of outdoor benches, and his mule.
    The mule’s name was Merlin. He and I didn’t get along,which was odd, since I usually have a good relationship with animals. Take Brenda’s canaries, for instance. But the first time Merlin ever saw me he tried to bite my behind, and things had gone downhill ever since.
    The minute I emerged from the truck he began braying. This brought Magda out of the house. “Quiet down, you big old bag,” she told Merlin. “Joe is your friend.” She grabbed his mane and dragged him around toward the back. “Lyle is inside. Please go in.”
    I went through the screen door into the sunken living room. Native American artwork hung from every wall, occupied every table, overflowed from the mantel. If one were into that kind of stuff, one would be overwhelmed. I wasn’t, so I wasn’t. I idly fingered a construction of twigs and feathers dangling on the wall between two masks. “Chumash,” said Lyle.
    I stifled the urge to say, “Bless you,” and turned to say hello. He stood up on the riser to the hallway wearing only shorts and sandals, A thick mat of gray and black hair covered his chest and stomach. Lyle was almost ten years older than me, and in far better shape. His stomach muscles still had some definition.
    He sometimes wore a full beard, but now he was cleanshaven, although his stubble was obvious from clear across the room. His hair was black, thick, and pulled back into one of those two-inch ponytails that look good on only the rarest of men, of which he wasn’t one.
    He bounded over and pumped my hand with one of his massive ones. “Picked it up near Ojai a couple of years ago,” he said. “Old Indian guy in a cabin. Lived off the land.” He fingered the trinket lovingly, patted it twice before stepping away. “Want a beer? How about a joint?” He laughed, a big, hearty, hairy-chested guy’s laugh.
    “A beer would be good,” I said. Lyle offered me dopeevery time I came up. One time on a trip to Baja he’d gotten drunk and admitted he’d never smoked the stuff.
    We went into the kitchen. Lyle pulled two bottles labeled Kóbányai Korona from the fridge and gave me one. Magda came in and stirred something fragrant in the big pot on the stove. She took a taste with a wooden spoon. “Have some soup, Joe,” she said.
    I said that sounded good and sat down at the sturdy wooden table. Magda dished us out a couple of bowls. The soup was a flawless amalgam of beef and vegetables and essence of Hungary. It went perfectly with the beer.
    When we were done Lyle led me outside and into one of the glasshouses. The sun was on its way down, but it was still hot inside. The greenhouse effect, you know.
    Flat after flat of cacti and other succulents lined the benches. Everything from the rarest new finds to common species like the crown of thorns that were fodder for McAfee’s and several other local nurseries. As I not-so-casually zeroed in on the euphorbias, Lyle followed behind, briskly straightening out any pot that had gone askew. I pointed at a half dozen abdelkuri’s, babies three inches high and half an inch in diameter. “Anyone bought any of these lately?”
    “Sold a couple at the South Coast show a few weeks ago.