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CHAPTER 20

      PETRIE WAS in a foul mood.

      He had inquired in every hotel, boarding house, and tourist camp in Las Cruces, Mesilla Park, and Old Mesilla, and nobody knew Rand. He had cruised the streets looking for Rand. His inability to find Rand, combined with Brennan's sarcasm, was wearing him down. But the main reason for his unhappiness was that he had gradually discovered something that bothered him more: he was afraid to kill Rand. Not because he feared to pull the trigger, or jab the knife - he thought he would enjoy that - but because he had begun to feel a certain distrust for Brennan. He was afraid that after he killed Rand, Brennan would blame him for everything - killing Rand, the hay-truck driver, and the Mexican. Brennan would then get off free, while Petrie would take the rap.

      Shooting snooker in Alfonso's Pool Hall, Petrie thought what he needed was a cast-iron alibi, and somebody else to do the dirty work for him. And he thought he knew just the man. It was three o'clock in the afternoon, and the pool hall was almost as hot inside as outside, despite the electric fans and the evaporative cooler. The two dozen or so sweating men at the tables moved in a haze of cigarette smoke, sighting with the pool cue, clicking their tongues or cursing softly when they missed a shot. Overall, except for the hanging lamps that illuminated the green felt, the room was dimly lit. The players glided like dancers around the tables setting up their shots.

      None was more graceful or shot snooker better than Billy Diggs. Again and again Petrie watched him sink one red snooker ball after another until he swept the table. Diggs was a head shorter than Petrie, and probably weighed a third less, but Petrie was in awe of his speed and expertise. And his decisiveness. Petrie had been standing nearby the day one of Diggs' opponents refused to pay the fifty cents he had bet him. Diggs had told him to pay up or else, and his opponent had said, "Or else wha-" when he was interrupted by Diggs' knocking out four of his front teeth with the butt end of the cue stick. Petrie was still shooting snooker when the man's wife came into the pool hall and brought Diggs the money and a tearful apology.

      Diggs also had a sister, an ugly girl with few brains and a bad disposition. A snooker opponent of Diggs had once tried to unnerve him before a difficult shot by suggesting that she was somewhat less than gorgeous, but probably a good lay. Within two minutes, after three brutal punches and one kick that almost detached his scrotum, he was carried to the McBride Clinic. After his discharge from the hospital he was never seen again in Las Cruces.

      Now Petrie allowed himself to be drawn into a series of games with Diggs, although he played far below Diggs' level, and generally shied away from him. After Diggs said, "Gotcha again," to Petrie for the fourth time, and Petrie had again instantly thrown tribute on the table, Petrie heaved a great mournful sigh.

      Diggs said, "What's the matter, somethin' eating you? Losing too much?" Petrie hastily assured him he enjoyed losing to such a fine player, and he had plenty of money. Then he said, "I've got a bad family problem."

      "Yeah?" said Diggs, who couldn't have cared less.

      "A man raped my sister," Petrie said.

      Having made up a brother earlier in the day, it was easy for him to make up a sister. Diggs was waiting for the rackman to set them up again, but now he swiveled around and his eyes grew grim.

      "Sonofabitch! You know who did it?"

      Petrie nodded. "I'd like to kill him."

      "Why don'tcha?" Diggs asked seriously.

      "They heard me threaten him. They'd get me in a minute."

      "So what, they wouldn't do nothin'. Fucker who'd rape a man's sister deserves what he gets."

      "This guy's a big shot. Petrie said nervously. "Slick talking guy, got lots of money. Took my sister out to El Patio, punched her around in the parking lot, forced her into the car and drove out of the desert." He shook his head sorrowfully. "She begged him but . . ." He slapped his hands together in mock despair. "Afterwards she tried to kill herself."

      Diggs' eyes blazed. His hands knotted around the pool cue. "Bastard!"

      Warming to his story, Petrie said, "She was a virgin." Diggs clucked his tongue. "No shit?"

      "The guy's a monster," Petrie said, his voice breaking. "If I knew somebody I could trust, I'd pay him a lot of money to beat him up."

      Diggs flexed his shoulder muscles and looked thoughtful. "How much?"

      "Fifty bucks."

      "I'd beat him up for that," Diggs volunteered. "Shit, I'd break his arm or leg for you, for that, considering how much he deserves it."

      Petrie looked down into Diggs' pale eyes. "Let's go someplace and talk," he said.

      They went to the back of the room, fished cold beers out of the icy water in the Coke box, and sat down in a couple of the high chairs that were scattered around the room for spectators and resting players. Alfonso, who saw all and spoke little, wandered over for the money, which Petrie paid. "My mother cries all day," Petrie said. "My dad wants to kill him himself, but the man's big, and he'd make hash out of him."

      "You should do it. It's your duty," Diggs said.

      "Well, I kinda tried," Petrie said, touching his eye. "Sonofabitch jumped me before I could get in there."

      Diggs was sympathetic. "You lost your gut. I can understand that. It happens to people sometimes."

      "I'll give you a hundred bucks to kill him," Petrie said suddenly. "So he doesn't rape some other man's sister."

      Diggs thought about it. In fact, a hundred bucks wasn't much money for him. Lots of times he made that much in a couple of days just hustling pool and collecting bills for people. But he liked the idea of killing a rapist. "That's not enough," he said guilefully.

      "How much?"

      "One twenty-five?"

      Petrie looked as though he thought that was a lot of money. Pretending reluctance, he said, "You want it up front or after the job?" Diggs grinned broadly. "I trust you. Just tell me how to recognize the sonofabitch and where I can find him." It was part of Diggs' mental makeup to have no doubt whatsoever that Petrie, or anybody else, would even contemplate not paying off a debt to him.

      "He's almost as big as me, about six one, I'd say. He's in his early forties, and he's a snappy dresser. Sort of light brown, almost blond hair. Weighs maybe one-ninety. Drives a light blue '35 Chevy with one of the windows, on the passenger side, shot out and a bullethole in the door. Wears lizard boots. He hangs around the white house beyond the old cemetery on Griggs Street. The house with the red tile roof."

      Diggs pulled from his back pocket a small pad that contained a tabulation of his earnings and who owed him money, licked the stub of a pencil and began laboriously writing down the description. "Be there tonight?" Diggs asked.

      "I think so."

      "I got pool to shoot," Diggs said. "If I'm gonna have to wait around someplace, I want more money."

      "How much more."

      "Ten bucks?"

      "You're a shrewd businessman," Petrie said. "Deal - kill the sonofabitch for one thirty-five."

      Petrie started for the door, but Diggs called him back brusquely. "Wait a minute. You forgot something!"

      Petrie turned and Diggs stuck out his hand. "We didn't shake on it."

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