“What are you doing here?” he said.
I kept moving toward the door.
“Just morning prayers,” I said. The girl looked confused. “What are you doing here?” I continued.
“My job,” he said curtly.
“The mullah is free now,” the girl said.
I had the outside door open.
He pointed at me. “You stick around. Wait for me in the parking lot. I want to talk to you.”
I saluted and shut the door behind me.
The official Fed car was parked next to my Mustang. It was running. I slid into the front seat of the Mustang and looked across to the agent that was behind the wheel. I shot him with my forefinger and thumb and backed out and drove away.
30
I parked in the crowded asphalt lot in a space directly under the light that illuminated that corner of the lot. I was next to an older van. It looked tired. A light was on in the condo I was interested in. I had never been here before, but I knew where it was. It belonged to Boyce. It was where she had moved when she moved off of Tiger Lily. It was a ground floor unit in a middle-income complex. It was neat and tidy, with enough grass to make it seem friendly.
I saw her little Miata parked under the cover of the reserved parking that was numbered to coincide with her unit number. It wasn’t late. But late enough that most of the residents were home and watching their TV shows, and eating their microwavable dinners. Most all the parking slots were filled.
I walked across the still-warm asphalt and up the walk to her door. The blinds were drawn. I rang the doorbell. I could hear it chime faintly behind the door.
A moment later the door opened. Boyce had her hair back, a glass of red wine in her hand and an apron on. Her eyebrows went up.
“Jackson,” she said.
“Boyce,” I replied, ever the wit. “I thought I’d stop by and see how..” my voice trailed off as a man came into view. He too was holding a glass of red wine.
She turned to look.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know you had company. I should have called.”
She smiled. “Come on in, I’ll introduce you.”
I felt like turning and running, but instead I stepped in. The man was about my height. He wore a light blue shirt and tie with the tie loosened and hanging down around his neck. He seemed young. He was good looking and seemed somehow familiar.
He stepped across the room with his hand outstretched, smile in place. A born salesman.
“Ronnie Hawkins,” he said. I accepted his hand. He had one of those bone-crusher grips. The easy way to defend against that is to move your forefinger up on the wrist. This protects the bones in your hand when someone is trying to make them dust.
“Jackson,” I said. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Not at all,” he said with a smile that didn’t tell me anything.
“Can I get you a beer?” Boyce asked.
“No, thanks, I truly was just close by and thought I would stop and check on you. See if you guys have made any progress.” I didn’t say progress in what, but I didn’t have to.
“In the bombings?” Ronnie said.
“You’ve probably seen Ronnie on the morning news,” Boyce said.
His smile got brighter and I realized that I had seen him making the report on the bombings while Eddie and I sat in the bar in Sedona with Dahlia and Megan.
“Yes, I believe I have,” I said.
“Senior correspondent, Channel Five news,” he said. He looked at Boyce, then at me.” He smiled. “Maybe you can get more out of her than the local press can.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“My lips are sealed by the U.S. government,” she said, watching me with a twinkle. “I’ve invited Ronnie to enjoy my world-famous pasta and marinara sauce. Would you care to join us?”
“Oh, no thanks, I can’t stay. I have dinner plans.”
What I wanted to do was to tell good old Ronnie to turn and run fast. I’ve had Boyce’s marinara sauce. Okay, I admit, I had lied and told her I really liked it.
“You sure you don’t want to stay, dude,” Ronnie said. “I’m sure the girl has made plenty.”
Girl, I thought, remembering the shot in the shnoz she had given little Calvin in Cottonwood. I looked at Boyce and she was smiling very demurely.
“Very tempting,” I said. “But truly, I can’t.”
“Who are you having dinner with?” Boyce asked.
My turn to be demure, “Not a who, a where.”
“Where then?” she persisted.
“El Patron,” I said, for lack of a better answer.
“Be sure to give my best to Blackhawk and Elena,” she said.
“Blackhawk?” Ronnie said. “There’s actually someone named Blackhawk?”
“A very real someone,” Boyce said. “I’ll tell you about him someday.”
“Well, dude, don’t let us keep you.”
Dude?
I withstood the urge to smack him, and Boyce knew it and she thought it was funny. I looked at her. She returned a very innocent gaze.
“See you around,” I said.
“Tell everyone I said hi,” she said.
I turned to leave and did everything I could to not make it look like a full retreat.
31
As I drove out of Boyce’s parking lot, I was muttering to myself. I had intended to head back to the boat, but now, since I had said I was going to El Patron, the Mustang just headed that way.
I felt a little foolish. It must be a male thing. When I had pulled up to Boyce’s I had been perfectly content to enjoy our friendship, with no expectations of anything. At the same time, I could acknowledge the reasons we were no longer together. Everything was cool. But now, with old Ronnie in the picture I was suffering those irrational male competitive urges. Having proprietary feelings on things that weren’t mine. How could I want something that I had already decided I didn’t want? It wasn’t rational. And besides, if I got it, would I want to keep it? Yeah, that was dumb. I pushed Boyce out of my mind and instead started concentrating on an icy cold shot glass of clear, pure, Arta tequila. That would do the trick.
El Patron was crowded but I got lucky and a blue Ford was pulling out of a spot in the middle of the lot. Once inside, I had to wait for a stool. That irritated me. Some gal in a tank top and very short shorts was sitting on my stool. Nacho and Jimmy were behind the bar. Nacho saw me and I mouthed the word Arta. A moment later handed me a rock glass with an inch of Arta in it. He reached it out, over the heads of the seated customers. I took it, gratefully. Nacho kept it refrigerated and it was cold and delicious. But I was still irritated at the girl on my stool. I glared at the back of her head. That’ll teach her.
I had forgotten what night it was, but it had to be a night Elena was performing because the place was packed. A spot at the bar finally opened up, and I grabbed it. Nacho brought me another Arta and a glass of beer. A moment later, I waved the empty shot glass at him. He took it, refilled it and as he sat it in front of me he gave me a look.
“Something on your mind?” I asked above the noise of the crowd.
He shook his head, and moved away, a slight smile on his lips. I sipped my tequila, then the beer. The guy next to me turned, and looked up toward the landing that led to the living quarters. I turned to look, and Elena was descending the stairs. She was wearing a shimmering red gown that flowed behind her. She seemed to float down the steps. All she needed was a few half naked, muscular young men to be fanning her with palm fronds. Everyone in the room was watching. If she knew it, she didn’t show it.
She reached the floor and her eyes locked on me and she came directly at me.
Uh oh.
I slid off my stool as she reached me. She leaned up and kissed me on the cheek.
“I am still very angry with you,” she said in my ear. She took me by the upper arm and pulled me after her. I grabbed my beer with my free hand. All the men were watching.
She walk
ed me through the crowd, and they parted for her like they had for Emil. She took me to a group that had three tables pulled together. There were nine people crowded around it. Four couples and an extra girl. They were all young, good looking and Hispanic.
“This is Jackson,” she said to the group at large. She then moved me toward the extra girl. “Get him a chair.” One of the men stood to fetch me a chair.
“This is my friend, Anita,” she said. Anita was smiling up at me. She was pretty with long, very dark hair, brown eyes and a pleasantly plump figure. Her dress was very short and if her round thighs hadn’t touched half way up there might have been trouble.
Everyone scooted around, and the extra chair was placed next to Anita. I turned to Elena but she was already moving to the band stand. I turned back and there were nine smiling faces all looking up at me. I sat my beer down, and took the seat.
“Hi,” I said.
Still smiling, they all looked at Anita. Then they turned toward the band stand. The rest of the crowd had grown quiet in anticipation of Elena.
“Is Jackson your first name or your last name?” Anita said brightly. We were packed in so close my leg was firm against her thigh.
“Both,” I said.
She laughed, “Jackson Jackson?”
Before I could respond, Nacho leaned over me and set another tequila in front of me. Jimmy was right behind him with drinks for everyone else.
“On Elena,” Nacho said with no expression, but his eyes were howling with laughter.
Anita raised her new bottle of Modelo and said “Saluda.” I touched her bottle with my glass.
As usual, Elena took off like a rocket and in seconds every available dance floor space was filled with dancers. Our table emptied as the couples got up to dance. This left Anita and me.
“You want to dance?” she shouted at me.
The thing about tequila is that it flows directly to your legs, which drains your brain and you start thinking you can dance.
“Be fools not to,” I said. Such a wit. I stood up and dumped my chair over. Anita laughed and set it up. She took my hand and led me onto the floor. The good news was, no one but Anita was paying me any attention. And she turned out to be a really good dancer. She moved her round little body like a professional. We danced and danced until we were drenched and glistening. At last we took a break, and went to our table. Awaiting us was a bottle of fresh Modelo for Anita and two more tequilas and a fresh beer for me. Waste not, want not. In a moment of booze-infused clarity, I knocked the tequilas back.
I turned to look for Blackhawk but he wasn’t there. Nacho was busy and Elena had the crowd, and her red dress, moving. From then on it became a blur. We danced a lot more and at one point I remember looking at my feet as they moved in strange and wondrous ways. I marveled at why I had not known they could do that.
32
I knew I was badly hung over before I even opened my eyes. You feel it like you feel your soul. Dante’s Inferno. On fire. A really cold, unforgiving fire. It’s really deep. Like someone dug a hole in crap, and you are the hole. And your head is the crap.
A well-earned hangover has properties of its own. It’s not so much a headache but more like the air around you has become ugly rocks, and very dense, and is pressing from the inside on all your sensitive places. Like your head. Like your stomach, and your chest and your arms and legs, and even your balls hurt. And your mouth is drier than you’ve ever experienced. So dry your teeth might turn to dust. And you wonder how you could have possibly got sand in your eyes.
Slowly, I realized I was lying face down. I tried to roll over and the only blessing was, whatever I was lying on had a back I could roll against. I half opened one eye and the room was dark. I realized I was on Blackhawk’s couch in his office. There was a soppy wet spot where my face had been. I groaned as I sat up. I put my feet on the floor and the floor seemed to shift. I put my head in my hands and sat very still for a very long time. Finally, I stood and realized that I was still drunk.
I made my way to the small refrigerator Blackhawk kept next to his wet bar. I pulled a bottle of water and drank it all. I got another and drank it, then pulled another and drank half. I replaced the amount I had drunk with vodka. I shook it, took a drink and gagged. I waited until my stomach had ceased the revolt, then took another sip. It would take some hair of the dog to get me home. There was a mirror behind the bar, and a strange and ragged looking creature stared back at me. There was something wrong with my mouth. I rubbed the back of my hand across it. The back of my hand turned red with lipstick. I don’t remember how it got there.
I took a deep breath and made my way out into the hallway and down the stairs, my hand trailing on the wall to keep me upright. To keep me on track. It was very early. No one was stirring yet. At the front door, I disarmed the alarm. I let myself out and rearmed the alarm. The Mustang was sitting in the faint dawn light. Right where I had left her. Out in the middle of the parking lot. All alone. The headlights and the grill were looking at me and she disapproved. She was not happy.
Despite her attitude, she started right up and I pointed her toward the Black Canyon. I gently sipped the life-giving water and vodka. I moved through the side streets quietly and carefully. Once on the highway the sun broke and it was painful. I drove very cautiously.
No one was stirring at the marina so there was no ride down the hill. The walk almost killed me. The boat was warm and musty and I cranked the air up on high and opened the bow and stern doors to get a cross breeze. I undressed and slipped my foot off. It didn’t look so magical now. I looked longingly at the bed but slipped on my trunks, hopped out onto the stern deck not bothering with the swim foot, and before I could change my mind, I dove overboard.
It was awful. I made myself start swimming. I could see the headlines. Unidentified body surfaces at lake. Drunken crawdads nibbling on it. I gutted it out and kept swimming until I felt the body get into the old rhythms. Finally, I climbed the stern ladder, slipped out of the wet trunks and dried off. Tiger Lily had cooled off and I shut the doors, leaving the air cranked. I shook two aspirin out of the bottle, and washed them down with a beer. I looked at the water bottle with the vodka- water concoction where I had set it on the counter, and suppressed a gag reflex. I pulled the blackout curtains, set the alarms and fell on the bed. I was going to live.
33
When I opened my eyes, I lay for a very long time taking inventory. Except for being terribly thirsty and hungry, I was okay.
I picked up my trunks from off the floor and they were still cool and damp, but I put them on anyway. I started for the head when I stopped. You live on a boat for a long while and it becomes as familiar as a longtime lover. Its moves and creaks and attitudes are familiar. And now there was something wrong. I stood quietly for a long time. Finally, I turned and reached back for the Ruger I keep on the magnet on the back of the headboard.
I checked the alarms and they were armed. I pulled the curtains back and the outside world appeared to be enjoying mid-afternoon sunlight. I disarmed the alarms and went out the back. There were no boats nearby. I went up the ladder as quietly as a cat and my eyes followed the Ruger over the top.
Blackhawk was stretched out on a lounge chair. As usual, he was immaculate. Dressed in four hundred dollar slacks. Tan loafers with tassels and no socks and a blindly white, crisp, shirt. So completely at ease, but so completely out of place in this marina. Especially on this old scow.
“Make yourself at home,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said.
I went back down and went to the head, then drank a glass of water. I put the Ruger back. I put on my foot, grabbed two cold beers from the locker and went back up. I handed him one of the beers. They had twist-off lids so we twisted them off. I drank half of mine in one swallow.
We sat in silence for a while. A good distance across the water, closer to the dam, an aluminum skiff bobbed on the waves the rising breeze was creating. A single man in the boat was fishing.
After a while, Blackhawk said, “Your phone is off.”
“Probably dead,” I said. “I don’t remember when I charged it last.”
“That’ll do it.”
I looked at him, “You nursemaiding me?”
He smiled. I could see my reflection in his sunglasses. “I had instructions to check on you.”
“Elena?”
“About the only one I take instructions from. Everyone else makes suggestions.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
He nodded, “Sure. I was told to check anyway. You had a real good time last night.”
“I’m fine,” I said again. It sounded lame.
“Anita sends her regards.”
“Shut up.”
He grinned. “Elena said she has never seen anyone dance in quite that fashion.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
He laughed again. We sat in silence for a while.
“How’d you get up here?” I finally said.
He smiled. “You aren’t the only trained operative that knows alarm systems. And you were snoring so I decided to wait up here.”
“I don’t snore,” I said, finishing my beer. I collected his empty and went back down. I returned with two more. I handed him his and he twisted off the top and took a small drink.
“First for thirst, second for taste,” he said, looking across the water. “That guy’s been out there in the same spot since I’ve been here. I haven’t seen him catch a fish.”
I shaded my eyes and studied the fisherman.
“That’s Eddie,” I said. “If he thinks that is where the fish are, he’ll sit there for hours.”
“There are fish in the supermarket,” he said.
“You miss the whole point.”
“I never miss anything,” he said.
I smiled, “Copy that.”
“His nephew still in jail?”
“Far as I know.”
“You think it was that Jordanian you’re looking for?”
The Librarian Her Daughter and the Man Who Lost His Head Page 13