The buzz-thwack of the stamp machine cut him off as I slid another envelope in. “So what happened? That didn’t work for him?”
“No. When it came down to it, his Johnson deserted him.”
“His…?”
“He wasn’t up to the task.”
“Ah.” I shook my head. “So now he does this every year? Hires a detective, spins this whole yarn about I raped someone and her brother’s after me?”
“Every year since he turned forty.”
I shook my head. Tossed the last freshly stamped envelope in the Outgoing Mail basket. “I guess it’s tough to let go of a dream,” I said.
“Well, forty’s not so old,” said Weiss. “He could still be a rapist if he set his mind to it.”
“You think so? I don’t know. I mean, a man is what he is, in the end.”
“Right. Right. That’s the moral of the story, I guess.” Weiss heaved a big sigh. I fiddled with a pencil, watched as he wandered away, back toward his office.
Just as he reached the threshold, I heard him give a husky laugh. “So ends the Case of the Spanish Virgin,” he called back to me.
And he went in, shutting the door behind him.
Ten
Weiss had two vices. One of them was whiskey, good single-malt scotch. After nightfall, he would pour himself a Macallan’s—the twelve-year-old; he found the older vintages too smoky. He’d sip it and replenish it steadily till bedtime, sometimes consuming as much as half a bottle, sometimes a whole lot more. He was a big man. He could manage it. I don’t think I ever saw him drunk. But I don’t know whether he could’ve given it up either or if he ever would have. He once told me it was one of the things that made life worth living.
His other vice was prostitutes. I won’t tell you how I know this but I do. His sex life consisted of the occasional incall services of an escort agency run by a woman named Casey. Now I call this a vice out of deference to the delicate sensibilities of my readers. (You do have delicate sensibilities, don’t you?) Because in my own coarser view, it was pretty hard to find anything blameworthy in it. Weiss was an ugly man. He was ungainly. And he had absolutely no romantic way with women at all. I heard he’d been married once a long time ago but apparently it was a pretty toxic affair. Since then: nothing. Nothing, that is, with any possibility of becoming real.
He was too much in awe of women, that was the problem. It was really kind of odd when you think about it. I mean, here was a man who’d seen more than his share of depravity in both genders, but somehow he was still saddled with this idealized view of the opposite sex. For him, ladies were by nature tenderhearted and sweet-tempered and nurturing—all traits which he cherished and which he craved. As a result, he treated most females with elaborate gentleness and respect, an almost courtly kindness. He was protective toward them. He fell in love with them only from a distance, only when they were impossibly engaged or out of reach. Women could immediately sense how desperately romantic he was about them, how he glamorized them, yearned and longed for them, dreamed of holding them and shielding them from evil and so on. So, of course, they came to regard him either as a sexless father figure or as a rather nice but silly old pain in the ass.
And here he was: a man who probably would’ve been deliriously happy married to a plain Jane homemaker with a couple of kids in a house on the peninsula, but he was baffled by his own imagination, left alone. At the same time, he was a man. He craved women. Not just the sex but the sound of their voices, the way the light hit their hair—like most of us—the whole package. So he called on Casey’s girls.
He was a favorite with them, I understand. Why not? He paid without complaining. He tipped well. He was generous with liquor, even food. For the ones who gave a damn, he was tender and solicitous, genuinely interested in what they had to say. Plus he never asked for anything complicated or difficult. He basically just wanted to hear them talk, hear them laugh, see them move, catch the scent of them—and have the comfort and pleasure of holding them, being inside them. You know.
Anyway, that night, the night after he read the Mousey Guy’s notebooks, he went home and poured his whiskey and then called Casey.
“Hey, where’ve you been?” she said when she heard his voice. “I was afraid you’d found true love or something.”
“Must be a problem in your business.”
“Nah. But it is good to hear from you.” Casey liked Weiss, or seemed to. She knew a good customer when she saw one anyway. Every now and again she’d come by herself and provide him with services at no charge. But Weiss was never sure whether this was an act of affection or one of those buy-ten-get-one-free deals. “What can we do for you tonight, my dear?” she asked.
“That Mexican girl, Ynez—she still there?”
“No, sorry, she’s long gone. She got married, in fact. She had to move to Dallas to be with her husband.”
“Well…Good for her.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll give you her number if you ever go down there. Meanwhile, I have got Carmella. Am I getting the theme of the evening right?”
“Carmella sounds good.”
“A little darker than Ynez, more up top.”
“Terrific.”
“You want anchovies with that?”
Weiss snorted, hung up the phone.
Casey always instructed her girls carefully in what Weiss liked. No pretense, no routines, no porno poses. Everything friendly, easygoing. Some of them couldn’t pull it off, but Carmella turned out to be good at it. She sat on the sofa and told funny stories about her sister’s children, cracked herself up. Laughed so hard she doubled over, slopped wine over the rim of her glass. Weiss’s eyes sparkled with pleasure to see her like that, to hear her laughing.
When she was gone, though, he was depressed. He returned to his whiskey. Put on his bathrobe. Sat in the chair by the bay window. Looked out at the street, glass in hand. The fog had come down from the water, down into the north city. Weiss watched it folding over the streetlamps one after another, glowing with the light of them then swallowing the glow. He nursed a half-pleasant melancholy, the sadness of desire, his own and other men’s, everyone’s. He thought of the Mousey Guy. He thought, with some self-disdain, that they were not all that different, Spender with his spiral notebooks, Weiss with his whores. But then maybe that had been the object of the exercise tonight—the whole business about Ynez, Carmella—maybe he’d been trying to punish himself with the similarities.
Anyway, he thought about the Mousey Guy for a while and then his thoughts drifted to Jim Bishop. Which just made things worse. Because the thought of Bishop just now only brought on envy, a gnarling pain. Bishop wanted nothing from women—or just the one thing—and he seemed to be able to call them to him with the snap of his fingers. Weiss wished that he wanted nothing too, that he could snap his fingers too. That, finally, was his fantasy tonight.
He set his scotch glass down on the end table. He pushed out of his chair. He went to his desk, to his computer. Turned it on. This was also perverse of him, more self-punishment. He knew there might be an e-mail from Bishop. He knew it would probably rub salt in his wound. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself. Soon he was on-line.
Weiss. More action here. Chris getting daily flights—cargo and passengers, new faces. Can’t tell how many are assignments from gray moustache—Hirschorn—but some. Hobbes time all off whenever I can check. Client Ray very scared, nervous. Might not stay on board so we need results. I see two avenues. One: Chris is drinking hard at local bar, the Clover Leaf. I hear he’s mouthing off about “big plans, big success in future.” If Hirschorn gets wind of this, could be rift between them, I could move in. Two: I’m getting closer to the girl. She knows something, maybe a lot. Lonely, wants to unburden. Almost there with her. All professional, of course. Hope you’re well. JB
By the time Weiss rose, his hound dog face was at its hangingdown hound-doggiest. Stooped, he lumbered back to his chair by the bay window. Settled into it. Picked up his scotch again, sippe
d it.
All professional, of course.
He watched the rolling fog.
Eleven
The sun was sinking. The air was still. Bishop was in the Skyhawk, a single-engine. Sailing home over the treetops at forty-five degrees to the active’s downwind. The clouds above the western foothills were bright orange against the deep, deep blue. The stubble fields around the runway looked shady and peaceful from above. Something in Bishop felt quiet and good.
He turned base leg, his hands light on the controls, the plane descending almost by itself. A light tug on the yoke and the Skyhawk was on final approach, angling for centerline. Bishop had no thought of anything else, just this. A last glance at the sunset sky, the hills and trees rising up over it as he floated down. Then the runway was before him. The airplane’s gear touched the surface without a noise, without a jolt at all. As the plane rolled over the pavement, Bishop drew a deep breath in through his nose as if awaking.
That’s when he noticed Chris with Hirschorn, the man with the gray moustache.
They were standing in the car lot, standing off from one corner of the hangar. Bishop, suddenly alert, was looking right at them as he brought his plane around onto the taxiway. Hirschorn was a sturdy, elegant man in his late fifties. The face of an old charmer, tanned and strong and square. A lot of silver waves up top, the thick moustache darker, iron gray. He wore a white sports jacket, an open-collared polo shirt, gray slacks. All very crisp and dry, even in this heat. Chris hulked over him, muscles bulging out of his sweaty tee. But the way he had his hands slung in his belt, his stance slouched and sullen, he looked more than anything like a scolded child.
The older man wagged his finger at him. He locked Chris’s eyes with his own. He seemed to be talking quietly but he never stopped talking. And Chris didn’t interrupt him either. As the Skyhawk taxied nearer, Bishop saw how Chris shifted uncomfortably where he stood, trying hard to look cool under the steady barrage.
Bishop parked the plane behind the hangar, just out of sight of the two men. On the apron, tying down the wings, he tried to hear what Hirschorn was saying. The voice didn’t carry. Bishop finished up quickly, hoisted his flight bag and headed into the hangar.
It was late. Most of the staff had gone home. Ray, the older guy who half owned the place and ran it, was in there by himself. He was standing in the shadows next to a v-tailed Bonanza. He was supposed to be working on it but he was just standing there. Standing there, looking out through the hangar door at where Hirschorn was wagging his finger at Chris. Ray’s eyes were wide. His eyebrows were way high up on his bald head. The horizontal lines on his brow ran clear up the sweaty dome.
Bishop strode past him without a word. Ray practically jumped when he saw him.
“Bishop,” he hissed.
Bishop stiffened at the sound of his real name. “Shut the fuck up,” he hissed back.
“I mean, I mean, Kennedy…” babbled Ray.
“I said shut up. And stop gawking.” Bishop never broke stride.
Ray called after him in a stage whisper. “They been out there ten minutes. I can’t hear ’em but it looks like Hirschorn’s reading Chris the riot act.”
Bishop would’ve liked to read Ray the riot act. Or better yet just thump the old idiot, just club him to the ground. But Ray was the client, so Bishop just kept moving. He went straight through the hangar, out into the car lot on the other side.
The lot was a small square of macadam. Most of it had been busted up over time into gravel. Hirschorn’s Mercedes was parked on the one smooth spot near the road, not far from Bishop’s Harley. There was a man leaning against the Mercedes. A bodyguard, Bishop thought, a dyed-in-the-wool goon. Blocky and solid, arms as long as a gorilla’s. Hatchet-faced with slick black hair. He was dressed just like Hirschorn, only in the big boy sizes. He was smoking a cigarette, smiling down at his shoes.
Bishop walked casually to his bike. Opened a saddlebag, laid his flight bag inside. The goon watched him but only because he was there to watch. Bishop took his time, squinted off toward the setting sun. Squinted up at the sky as if weighing the heat that still sat on the day like a slab of stone. He took out a cigarette. Dug in his pockets as if he couldn’t find a match.
That’s how he approached the goon. “Got a light?”
The goon took out an expensive-looking lighter, flicked it for a flame. Bishop leaned into it.
“Nice scoot,” said the goon.
“Butt ugly but it’s fast,” said Bishop, drawing back, blowing smoke. He glanced off toward Hirschorn. Hirschorn had his finger flush against Chris’s chest. “Looks like we got a dissatisfied customer,” he said.
The goon just shrugged, just smiled.
“That your boss?” Bishop asked him.
“I’m his chauffeur, yeah.”
Bishop narrowed his eyes in Hirschorn’s direction. “Hey, that’s that guy, what’s his name, Hirschorn, isn’t it? Guy who owns the place with Ray.”
The goon just went on smiling.
“Shit,” said Bishop. “I guess Chris is in it ass deep. What’d he do?”
“I just drive the car,” the goon said.
“Right,” said Bishop. “Right. Poor old Chris. Now you mention it, I heard he had some business with Hirschorn….”
“I didn’t mention it.”
“No? Guess I heard it somewhere else then.”
“Guess so.”
Bishop drew smoke. He waited.
“Where, you figure?” the goon asked.
“What’s that?”
“Where did you hear it, do you figure?”
“Oh.” Bishop made a face. “Fuck if I know. One of the pilots who hang at the Clover Leaf probably. That’s Chris for you, right? Mouths off when he’s drinking. It gets around.”
“Yeah,” said the goon slowly. “That’s Chris for you. So what’s he been saying?”
“Nothing much. Not that I’ve heard. Mouthing off. You know. Some deal him and Hirschorn were cooking up. The big payday of it all. That kind of thing.”
“Sure,” said the goon.
“You figure that’s what this is about? Chris talking?” The goon didn’t answer. Bishop felt that he’d pushed it as far as he could. “Well anyway…Thanks for the light,” he said.
The goon nodded. Bishop ambled back to his bike. When he glanced over his shoulder, Hirschorn had finally broken off. The dapper little man was striding back across the lot toward his Mercedes. The hulking Chris was slinking out of sight around the hangar like a whipped dog.
Bishop gripped the bike’s handlebars, slung a leg over the saddle. He watched as the goon hurried to pull the Mercedes’s rear door open for his boss.
When Hirschorn reached the car, Bishop called out. “Hey, Mr. Hirschorn.”
Mr. Hirschorn paused, looked at him, one foot in the Mercedes, one on the macadam.
“You ever need a pilot who can hold his liquor and keep his mouth shut, the name’s Frank Kennedy,” Bishop said.
Hirschorn had a bright smile, extra bright against his sun-dark skin. His narrow gaze seemed to take in everything about a man. “Thanks anyway,” he said. “Chris and me have a history.”
Bishop nodded. Hirschorn lowered himself into the car. The goon shut the door, got in himself behind the wheel.
Bishop looked away. He slipped the key into the motorcycle’s ignition. He was about to throttle the bike to life when he heard the Mercedes window buzz down behind him.
“Hey, Kennedy.”
Bishop turned. The man with the gray moustache was framed in the window opening. “What’re you rated in?” he asked.
“Any damn thing that flies,” said Bishop. “Jets, props. I flew helos in the service.”
Hirschorn gave his bright smile again. “Well, you have a nice day now,” he said.
Bishop sat astride the Harley, watching as the silver Mercedes crunched over the gravel, pulled out and was gone.
Twelve
It was deep twilight when he reached home.
There were three boys on the sidewalk, arguing over a skateboard. They stopped to watch as the motorcycle veered off the road into the driveway of Bishop’s house. By the time Bishop locked her up, the boys were gone, one boarding off through the dusk neighborhood, the other two chasing behind him.
Bishop watched after them absently as he walked to his front door. He was still thinking about Hirschorn.
He stepped inside the house. The living room was hung with dark. The air was stale, the heat was stifling. He started to reach for the light switch and stopped. Even with the windows open, he could smell the cigarette smoke.
Bishop scanned the shadows and saw her. She was propped against the windowsill. He could make out her shape on the fading daylight at the pane.
“Leave the lights off,” she told him.
He let his hand fall to his side. “Okay.”
“So tell me something,” Kathleen went on. “Just who the fuck are you?”
Bishop felt his heart speed up. He was glad she couldn’t see his face. “What do you mean?”
He watched the glowing tip of her cigarette travel with her gesture. “I mean, you come here, and you’re all…moving in on me right away. Out of nowhere like that. I mean, what’ve you been here—a week? I mean, shit, what’s that about? Who are you? That’s what I’m saying.”
Bishop was thinking fast, measuring his words. Was she onto him? Or was it just talk? He couldn’t tell. “I felt a connection,” he told her. “That’s all. I thought you felt it too. If I was out of line…”
“Well, shit yes, you’re out of line!” she said. “I mean, I’m fucking married, aren’t I?”
Bishop relaxed. He smiled a little, hidden in the dark. Yeah, it was just talk, after all. The usual thing. She had to talk—women had to talk before you had them. But he would have her, he was sure of that now. And then she would talk to him some more.
“Yeah. Yeah, you’re married.” He crossed the room toward her, stood over her, close. “But he’s not around tonight. He’s got a flight tonight, hasn’t he?”
Dynamite Road Page 5