Page 5 of Kiss Her Goodbye (Frankie Elkin #4)

F IRST ORDER OF BUSINESS WHEN beginning a case: figure out employment and lodging in whatever city is about to become my temporary new home.

Walking down the sidewalk from Aliah’s apartment with all my worldly possessions—a brown leather messenger bag and a small rolling suitcase—I squint against the blazing desert sun and do my best to get my bearings.

In the less than twenty-four hours I’ve been in Tucson, I’ve already figured out a few things.

One, that whole “at least it’s dry heat” is a load of hooey.

Mid-October, the mercury is still topping ninety, and I’m already sweating profusely after walking only three blocks.

Even if it’s slightly better than the tropical rain forest environment of my last venture, searing versus sweltering is hardly a consolation.

Two, it’s sprawling. The city itself seems to stretch on forever.

Long, expansive avenues; short, squat buildings; endlessly unfurling sidewalks lined with palm trees, mesquite, and palo verde.

The green contrasts nicely with one of the other main features of Tucson—it’s brown.

Brown adobe houses with brown scorched-earth yards encircled by brown towering mountains.

If I were more poetic, maybe I’d note the pinkish-red highlights or soft gray undertones, but I’m too tired and thirsty to care.

My final sad observation: the homeless epidemic has spread here as well, given the number of unkempt individuals planted in the middle of the broad avenues, begging for money at traffic lights. Most appear on the younger side, with the gaunt, haunted look of addicts.

I don’t judge—I’ve spent enough years in AA to know better than to take my own sobriety for granted. Speaking for myself, I fight my demons on a daily, if not hourly, basis.

Which brings me back to the matter of finding a job. Ironically, my one employable skill is bartending. Maybe not the best choice for a recovering alcoholic, but being around booze isn’t a major trigger for me. Getting up each morning is.

I make my way to a strip mall anchored by a massive grocery store. I’m grateful to step into air-conditioning, even if it has me shivering in a matter of seconds. I’m even more grateful to discover a local rag with a classified section.

I pause long enough to shrug on my worn green army jacket and purchase a bottle of water. Then I get to work.

Aliah hadn’t been kidding; the rents I see listed are high and higher. I’m not exactly flush with cash. Taking into account that most reputable places would require first month and last month rent plus a security deposit, and I’m officially priced out of this market.

I switch to studying employment options.

Good news, looks like every bar, restaurant, and hotel is desperate for workers.

Which should be to my advantage, except doing some basic math on what I’d make in a month still leaves me in the red when it comes to housing.

Yet another reoccurring variable I encounter across more and more of the country.

Fortunately, being a nomad of some experience, I know a few tricks—search for gigs that include housing. None jump out in the want ads, but no matter. I fire up my prepaid cell phone and spend some precious minutes visiting two websites that specialize in such exchanges—labor for rent.

One immediately jumps out at me. House/pet-sitting duties for one month, lodging included. With nothing to lose, I hit dial.

“Hello?” The voice on the other end is male, sounds younger than I would’ve expected, and is definitely frazzled.

“I’m calling about—”

“Yes! Can you start today? Excellent, you’re hired!”

This level of enthusiasm is a little off-putting. “Um, just so we’re clear, I don’t have much pet-sitting experience unless a feral cat or flower-loving crab count.”

“Do you have a pulse?”

“I’m pretty sure—”

“Great, I’m sending the driver.”

“There’s a driver?”

“And a swimming pool. An entire estate, actually. You’ll love it. Definitely, absolutely, yes, you will love it!”

The man/kid sounds so desperate, I feel compelled to at least humor him.

“My location for the driver—”

“No worries, I already have it.”

“How?” Belatedly I stare at my cell phone. “You can do that?”

“Driver will be there in twenty!” the kid says, and ends the call before I can utter another word.

Apparently, I now have an employment and housing opportunity all rolled into one. I’m already willing to bet I’m not tending something as simple as a cute puppy or fluffy kitty. But really, given some of my past rooming situations, how bad can this be?

“WHAT THE HELL is that?”

“Petunia. Isn’t she beautiful?”

My mouth opens, my lips move. No words come out. Though I now totally understand Boy Wonder’s hiring enthusiasm, or maybe it’s more like panic.

Driver came. Built like a bruiser and dressed in a Blues Brothers black suit to go with the sleek black sedan and luxurious black interior.

I got my own personal climate zone, while the sedan purred its way out of the concrete-and-stucco city into the cactus- and brush-covered foothills.

We wound our way up to a massive wrought-iron gate that seamlessly gave way to a long, curved driveway leading to a fountain and what appeared to be a luxury hotel but I quickly realized was a single-family home/estate.

Owned by a kid who didn’t look a day older than fifteen, but apparently is actually twenty-seven.

The driver, who clearly wasn’t paid to speak, led me through a two-story marble foyer to a kitchen that was roughly the size of a gymnasium and decorated in a distinctly Mediterranean style. It also sounded like a summer meadow. Crickets, I realized, chirping away from various nooks and crannies.

Which may or may not have something to do with the room’s main occupant. The driver, I notice, remained rooted in the doorway.

“Have you ever had an iguana?” the kid, scruffy beard, ripped jeans, and worn gray T-shirt declaring Don’t have a cow, man , asks me hopefully.

“Uh… no.”

“They’re amazing pets! Some consider them to be the bunnies of the lizard world.

I wouldn’t recommend a male. They can be pretty territorial and aggressive, which you know, given their ripping claws and razor-sharp teeth, can lead to problems. But Petunia here has been hand-reared by humans since birth. She’s a giant love.”

Petunia, all four to five green feet of her, is currently slumbering in a bright sunbeam pouring through the sliders.

At the sound of her name, she cracks open one golden eye while the spikes running down her back briefly flare, then settle.

Like she’s pleased by the attention. Or preparing to attack.

“Now, for care and feeding,” the man child continues.

“I’m sorry, your name again?”

“Uh, I’m Bart.” He gestures to his T-shirt as if that should’ve been a clue. I got the reference, didn’t realize it was a statement.

“And you are?”

He blinks dark brown eyes behind wire-framed glasses. “The homeowner.” His voice has grown sharper.

I can’t help myself. I gesture around me. “As in…”

“Yeah, mine, mine, all mine. Including Petunia. Look, you know anything about gaming systems?”

I shake my head.

“Well, I do. So yeah, mine, mine, and all mine. Speaking of which, I gotta vamos sooner versus later. Major gaming conference, world tour, already two days late given what happened to my last caretaker—”

“Petunia didn’t eat the pet sitter, did she?”

“Nah, fucking idiot got bitten by a hot.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“Venomous snake,” Bart fills in at my blank expression. “His own, no less. I mean seriously, if he can’t handle his own snakes, why would I want him handling mine?”

“Wait a sec—”

“So Petunia here. Super simple. She eats once a day, basically a salad of rough chopped fresh veggies sprinkled with a special calcium plus vitamin D powder. I have the next two days prepped, which should get you off and running. Fresh water is very important, as well as her mister. Ahh, just to be clear, don’t walk around with a banana peel or apple core or, really, any kind of fruit or veggie refuse in your hand.

Iguanas are primarily herbivores, but sometimes they’re herbivores with really bad aim.

Hand, peel. Peel, hand. Just don’t do it, okay? ”

Bart is already on the go. He walks past Petunia in bare feet. I edge behind her with as much distance between myself and her long, pointed tail as possible. I wonder if mango-scented sunscreen counts the same as holding a scrap of mango. If so…

There’s nothing about this conversation I find comforting.

At the end of the kitchen, a glass corridor opens up, leading to another wing of the mansion.

The hallway is carpeted in a tightly woven cream-colored rug, while off to the right side is a small room roughly the size of a den.

Except this room features a terrarium theme of lush plants, zigzagging tree limbs, and definitely a tropical misting system.

The lower part of one wall appears to be swinging slightly.

Some kind of flap, I realize. As in a pet door for an iguana?

“I let Petunia out for most of the day to roam the kitchen and family room. It’s important for iguanas to have enrichment and socialization, especially one as domesticated as Petunia.”

I hear a noise behind me, turn around. Sure enough, Petunia is standing right there, stretched up tall on her front legs, staring at me with those crazy golden eyes while a large, nearly human-looking tongue lolls out, licks her lips.

I twitch but hold my ground. Never let them see your fear. Isn’t that the number one rule when encountering wildlife, including other humans?

“Petunia will wander in and out of her room as she needs. She prefers a humid environment, and I can hardly turn the entire house into a rain forest—especially, you know, given that I’m living in a desert—so this works for her.

The flap allows her to go outside when she wants, which helps her get enough UV light. And of course, she has a small pool.”

Petunia is still staring at me. “Of course,” I manage.

“In the evening, she likes to sit on your lap while you watch TV.”

“What?”

“She doesn’t always realize her own size,” Bart concedes. “Really, she rests her front half on your legs, which is your hint to rub her shoulders.”

“Wh-wh—” I can’t get the rest of the word out.

“Don’t touch the spikes running down her spine.

I’d think that much would be obvious? But yeah, rub her shoulders like you’d do with any life-form.

She doesn’t exactly purr, but you can tell you’re doing it right when she, like, totally zens out.

Her skin’s a little bit rough, a little bit silky.

Hard to explain. Up close you can appreciate all her colors, blues, greens, blacks.

Even by green iguana standards, she’s a beaut. ”

I don’t bother with a reply. I’m pretty sure I’ve entered a parallel universe, or drifted into a particularly realistic and disturbing nightmare. Which explains Bart’s next statement.

“Now, for the snakes.”

He turns, marches to the end of the corridor, where there’s a single closed door. “First rule of thumb, never let Petunia in the snake room.” Then for added emphasis, he turns to the lizard in question. “Petunia, stay. You get the rest of the house, pretty girl. But this room is off-limits. ”

Maybe Petunia blinks in acknowledgment. Maybe I drank a magic potion while in the black sedan. Anything is possible.

“All right, your next responsibilities.” Bart pops open the distinctly heavy door and marches inside the darkened space. “Meet my babies. And by that, I mean literally. Look, baby ball pythons!”