White Sands

---

Hey, Ray.

Your wife get you that hat?

Something wrong with it?

Nothing that pissing

on it won't cure.

Maybe we ought

to form a circle and do it.

- Hi.

- Hi.

We were flying over the gorge,

and Cas spotted him.

I got 20/15 vision.

Pilot called in

and told the authority.

He's an Indian.

I'm Harold Kleinman.

What were you doing

way out here, Harold?

We're amateur archaeologists.

We left the wives in Santa Fe hoping

to find this ancient "Anastazi"...

Anasazi.

Guess you don't find

many bodies out here, huh?

No, we sure don't.

- What do you think, Bert?

- He's dead.

Why would anyone come way out here

to kill himself?

Maybe his wife bought him a new hat.

I won't be positive

without an autopsy.

Hi. How you doing?

You bring

these tourists out here?

Just trying to keep them

from finding any arrowheads.

- Ray Dolezal.

- Delmar Blackwater.

- Don't touch the car.

- Okay. Sorry.

- Navajo?

- Mescalero Apache.

Bloodthirstiest red bastards

this side of the Rio Brazos.

I was kind of hoping

for that scalp.

Let's get this bad boy out of here.

He's starting to smell ripe.

If you need any more pens, just tell

me. I sell novelty pens...

...imprinted with the message

of your choice.

Holy sh*t!

Ray, you're not actually

going to tag that...

...and report it as evidence,

are you? Ray?

- What stopped that bike, Ben?

- I don't know.

Gravity?

Is that real money?

- Uh, yeah.

- Gee, that's a lot.

There's got to be $ 1000 there, Dad.

What you looking at?

Look, Ace, go tell Mom

I'll be home real soon.

- I got more work to do.

- Okay. See you later, Dad.

Okay.

This is Deputy Sheriff

Ray Dolezal, Torrance County...

...4-3-9er-2-7-7.

I'd like a trace

and status on a '90 T-Bird...

...VIN number 2-6-Charles-

Henry-Charles...

...3-9er-Nora-1-John-

I can be reached

at 412-5607.

I'd appreciate it if you

could expedite this. Thanks.

Maybe the federales can I.D. Him

and get him out of here.

Maybe I won't even

have to cut him open.

That briefcase could be

$20,000 lighter, Ray.

Nobody'd know

we didn't find it that way.

Was it

a self-inflicted wound?

There's no reward for being

so black-and-white ethical.

Was it a self-inflicted wound,

Bert?

Rug fuzz.

Here. Take a look.

- Ugly rug.

- Butt-ugly rug.

Longhorn Ranch Motel.

Paid cash up front

for the first night.

Had this big old wad

of bills.

That's what fooled me,

that big wad of cash he had.

I figured he could stand good

for the balance.

That's a $63 mistake,

isn't it?

How'd you know

it was my rug, anyway?

You see him go?

Didn't see him at all

after he checked in.

I'm not the nosy type.

Did this Mr. Spenser

make any calls?

If he did, he didn't make them

from the room.

We got this deal. For $4.00

you can make unlimited local calls...

...but he passed on it.

- Did he have a car?

He said he did.

I never seen it.

We usually clean these rooms up

almost every day...

...but Mr. Spenser put "Do

Not Disturb" on the door.

You probably saw it

when we come in.

If a customer wants privacy,

he gets it.

Decorate these rooms yourself,

Mr. Peterson?

No. I brought a fairy over

from Albuquerque. He did it.

I couldn't do this.

I'm colorblind.

- There's been a fire in there.

- What?

- Don't touch anything.

- No, sir.

Jesus Christ, what's

he been doing in here?

My Lord.

This look like

teeth marks to you?

Well, maybe.

- Teeth marks?

- Yeah, I think so.

You got a hell of an imagination,

Raymond. Let's go.

Got this John Doe

up your butt now, don't you?

Going to drive us crazy

trying to figure it out.

Ruin my Saturday afternoon

in front of the TV.

Guy's in trouble, in a motel

room with half a million...

...scared, writing on everything,

making desperation calls.

He covers his trail: Burns his

clothes, swallows that paper.

That happens in the morning,

and he's dead by noon.

Maybe that piece of paper

wasn't digested.

Intestinal gases. The ever-loving

death fart of a warthog.

All we got are two names:

"Goodman"...

...and a date written on

a fast food wrapper...

...kind of looks

like an appointment:

"Noreen. "

Who the hell is Noreen?

Ease off. You're as persistent

as a dog with two d*cks.

You'll owe me for this one.

Promise you that.

Looks like a radish.

They in season?

Oh, cut it out, Bert.

And here's a carrot.

Garbanzo beans.

This may be putrefied lettuce.

Must've been a salad bar.

There's a sorrowful last act

for a desperate man.

Hey, maybe Noreen was with him.

Maybe she had

a big burger with fries.

Maybe Mr. Goodman had apple pie.

Yeah, it's all starting

to make sense now.

We'll call it

"The Big Lunch. "

Wait, what is...?

Goddamn. This looks like paper.

It's that kind of waxy paper

they wrap hamburgers in.

It's got about a 200-year half-life.

Something's written on it.

- What's it say?

- It's smeared.

Numbers?

- Numbers.

- Son of a b*tch.

Seven digits doesn't mean

it's a phone number.

We're sorry. The number you've

reached is not in serv...

Maybe it's in Utah.

Motel didn't have a

long-distance record.

He used a credit card

or billed another number.

We're sorry...

- What's the area code in Texas?

- They have five.

You are one tenacious S.O.B.

You calling all 50 states?

Maybe that's not a six,

but a zero.

Holy unrelenting bastard.

- Hello?

- Hi. Who's this?

This is 803-1424.

And who is this?

Mr. Spenser.

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