Oasis, 1979

Light pours through the motel windows, creating an illusion of solid blonde, obtuse triangles that will either eat your arm or burn it off. The A/C is on, and the scars across his face are hairless and dry. His hair is naturally curly, but in this arid climate, he straightens it with a bit of pomade. The only thing that moves is a fan that is not on, and when the room attendant knocked on his door, he said very little, but enough for her to continue down the carpet hallways of Monk's Motel 9.

He gets up and looks out at the desert with a glass of porter in his hand. He thinks he might be the only man in Arizona drinking a stout. The cacti are blooming.

He takes his first sip and keeps the glass near his leather belt. He can't imagine being anywhere else. He wears a pink, long-sleeve button-up and slacks. He returns to the bed and looks at his leather wing-tips as Tommy knocks on the door.

"You in there, moron?"

He sighs. His stocky friend, inappropriately dressed in a black hat, peacoat, dress shoes, and boots, walks in and is not sweating. Fat Tommy needs to be in a meat locker to not sweat. He removes a pistol with a silencer screwed onto the end of it and shoots Bill in the head. Tommy chuckles before he falls over.

"What a French-Irish potato."

The suitcase is under the bed, as expected, and Tommy leaves the do not disturb sign on the door. It'll be days, he thought, till they find what that cologne is covering. Tommy thinks the room could actually use a little stink. He does not think about it.

Tommy’s gold tooth shines in the rear-view mirror. His grin is permanent, and his face resembles someone who is on the cusp of saying, "Motherfucker," all the time. He drives a brand-new 1979 maroon Lincoln Continental through 92-degree heat. The briefcase is in the trunk, next to Larry, who is in a bag full of lime. Larry and Bill worked together.

At Mel's Gas Stop, a 17-year-old girl has her thumb up, over the side of the highway that would cook her feet if she had not bought a pair of moccasins. Tommy notices her right away because he does not know if she is a boy or a girl. Her head is shaved, and there is a swastika between her unkempt eyebrows, just like her sisters and leader, Charles Manson, but she is alone and smiles. Tommy tries the car's new feature, automatic windows, and rolls down the passenger side. He shoots her in the stomach r and looks into the rear-view mirror, admiring his gold tooth.

William Greer, 39, puts down his newspaper and pays for his eggs.

"Anything else, Lieutenant?"

"I wish there was, Caroline. I truly do."

Third-generation officer, and firstborn in Texas. Beaumont. Most of his family is from Louisiana, and before that, god knows where. He has neither accent, and appreciates it. He was sent by his mother at the age of two to live with his Uncle and Aunt in Phoenix, Arizona, where he grew up. His father flipped sides, or was always on the criminal side, but wore a badge. He got caught and is still in Angola. William doesn't know how he ended up with a badge, too—highway patrol, Pima County, Arizona.

Though he is chasing Tommy du Pont, he does not look in a hurry, and Tommy is bad. He has killed three people, but two were jewel thieves, and the other was a member of the Manson family. The only gold on William Greer is his wedding band. The only thing in his patrol car is the photo of his children. They are in their backyard, showing the various stages of lost teeth with their enormous grins. He looks at them before he puts the car in drive.

William has known Bill and Larry for some time. Diamond runners for the cartels. One of the few knuckleheads trying to get things out of this country instead of in. He has no idea who the Manson girl is, other than she wanted to be Squeaky and had it written down a thousand times in her journal.

William's wife is black, something his neighbors never talk about and certainly do not understand in the expressions he catches at barbeques and birthday parties. His family in Beaumont and Louisiana hate his family in Arizona. His kids have no idea what they're missing back east, where they're hated for being alive. William has blue eyes and blonde hair, and they believe he has wasted that. He believes they can think what they want, and that his kids will not meet them.

The dossier William read three days ago said Tommy was "The New Jersey Devil" and violent. There are two mug shots from ten years ago, and for some reason, William has a hankering that Tommy is still in Pima County, Arizona. However, most of his fellow officers believe he is somewhere in San Bernardino County, California, or Mexico. When asked why they thought that, no one had any answers, which is why William Greer thinks he's still here.

Driving through the desert, where the road flickers and heat waves out ahead, he remembers one boy who robbed a bank three times. He got caught the third time because someone threw out the trash, and the kid said, "Ow!" in the dumpster behind the bank. William had a feeling and turned around, back to where they found Bill, back to the dumpster that is Monk's Motel 9.

Light pours through the motel windows, creating an illusion of solid blonde, obtuse triangles that will either eat your arm or burn it off. The A/C is on, and Tommy laughs because he is rich, rich beyond his wildest dreams. He looks at his diamonds. The room attendant knocks on Bill's old door.

"I’m good!" yells Tommy. "Come back later!"

"Are you sure?"

"Sure, I'm sure!"

The TV is on, but he can still hear the wheels of her cart squeak down the hallway and, under his breath, says, "Stupid, broad." His hands are covered with diamonds, crystals, and prices. All he has to do now is wait for Carlos, who will bring them into Mexico, and sell the jewels and crystal to the rich abroad, who are always looking for a discount on these types of things. Though his hands swim in ice, they are not far from his gun that lies beside the briefcase on the bed.

William Greer walks past a brand-new 1979 maroon Lincoln Continental at Monk's Motel 9. He draws his pistol but keeps it close to his legs and tan uniform, not wanting to alarm the Mexican couple at the door. Bill was found in room 19, on the second floor. He heads straight for the reception desk.

"Excuse me, miss."

He recognizes the Texas twang in her immediately, but it wasn't the way she spoke; he knew where she was from before she ever said a word. It is the big hair, the 'tease it to Jesus' variety his aunts sported in Beaumont.

"Is room 19 occupied?" asked William Greer.

"Is there a problem, officer? Would you like me to phone the gentleman…"

"Good god, no."

"What’s going on?"

“Did he have a gold tooth?"

She gasps.

"He does, and asked if we had any discounted rooms, which is room 19, for reasons I'm sure you are aware of, Officer?"

"Greer, and your name?"

"Wilma."

"Does Wilma have a last name?"

He can see her scroll through the Rolodex in her head, looking for an answer instead of giving him one. Tommy knows he's here.

“Escobar."

"Escobar?"

"Mhm."

William nods and smiles. Steps toward the desk and rips the phone from the outlet.

"Tommy!" she yells. "Tommy!"

There are a few things Lieutenant Greer has seen too many times in his life, and one is a man hitting a woman, which he now has to participate in to silence the accomplice by hitting her in the head with the butt of his pistol. He catches her before she falls and props her up against the wall until he finds her a pillow. He checks her heartbeat, which is regular, and commences his pursuit.

He heads to the second staircase at the end of the first-floor hallway. He listens at the bottom. No doors open or close, and it's nearly three. No squeaky wheels or vacuums. Not even a TV. His pistol is up and out, close to his face as he slowly emerges into the second-floor hallway, eye level with the orange carpeting. His suspicions are not without warrant. Blood, thick as wax, seeped from the custodian's closet. He doesn't know how long ago yet. He turns the golden doorknob and finds a dead room attendant, a Hispanic woman in her mid-forties. He closes the door and heads for room 19.

He didn't like this; he didn't like this one bit. He wonders where the actual front desk receptionist is, but is interrupted by the perpetual quiet. It is like a ghost town, and he wonders about the couple he saw when he came in. Room 19 is on the right, and so is he, crouched down, skimming the hallway wall. He stops to listen in front of room 17 and hears nothing. Tommy knows he is here, and this will be a guns-a-blazing scenario, but he knows what to do. He rolls across the carpet and shoots the door handle, enabling him to push the door open from the floor. If Tommy were going to shoot, he would shoot at his chest, but no gunshots were fired; instead, Lieutenant William Greer found himself face to face with Tommy, lying on the floor with a single drop of blood rolling down his open mouth. The gold tooth is missing. William closes his eyes and whispers, "Shit."

Room 18, the room across the hall, opens, and a whole bunch of guys unload their shotguns without any fear of anything. Carlos wakes up Wilma and asks if she is alright. She says, "Do we have the diamonds?"

His hand goes through her soft hair. So soft, it is hard to stop wishing you woke up beside it every morning.

"What Diamonds?" asks Carlos.

"Are you real?"

"It's me."

The fan spins in 98-degree heat, and no sweat ruins their penciled brows or reaches the beads around their neck. The Cars are on the radio, and that is as cool as it gets on her side of the desk, over two glasses of cabinet whiskey, marked with red lipstick. Mrs. Greer asks if she worked with her husband, and all Detective Koellner can say is, "He was like a camel in an oasis."