Cut and Run

by Carla Neggers

  “Not me this time. Ryder.”

  It wasn’t a name Stark wanted or expected to hear, but he kept his face from showing it. “What’s Ryder got to do with you?”

  “I owe him. He tried to set me up after ’Nam, give me a hand, remember? I fucked up, made him look bad.”

  “He survived. The Sam Ryders of the world always do. You don’t owe him a damn thing, Weaze. If anything, he owes you. Whatever trouble Ryder’s got, let him handle it.”

  Weasel gave a honking snort, and Stark recalled that in the last ten years Otis always seemed to have a runny nose. “Shit, man, I thought I could count on you.”

  “You can. Ryder can’t.”

  “He’s in deep shit, Stark, and you know what a goddamn asshole he is, he’ll never learn, and if we don’t pull him out, he’ll go down. Man, I mean it. This time he’s in it.”

  “That’s his problem.”

  “May be a story in it for you.”

  “Too much history between me and Sam Ryder, Weaze. No objectivity.”

  “Then a book, maybe.”

  Weasel somehow sounded both hopeful and smug, as if he’d struck the right note, the one that would make Matthew Stark do what his old buddy wanted him to do. “Forget it, Weaze,” Matthew said. “That part of my life is over.”

  “Oh, come on—for old times’ sake, then?” Otis Raymond laughed hoarsely, coughing. “’Member the good ol’ days, huh, Matt?”

  The good ol’days. Jesus. “You never change, Weaze. Go ahead, tell me what you’ve got. I’ll listen.”

  Otis started chewing on the knuckle of his index finger, as if he’d gotten further than he’d expected and now didn’t know what to say.

  “I can’t help,” Matthew said, “If you don’t level with me.”

  “Hey, I’m doing the best I can.”

  The Weaze had his own rhythms, and Stark knew better than to push. “What’re you doing in D.C.?”

  “How do you know I haven’t been here all along?”

  Weasel’s look was filled with challenge, saying he was just as good as Matthew Stark and anybody who didn’t believe it could go to hell. Getting a straight answer out of Otis Raymond had always been one big pain in the ass, Stark remembered. He managed a smile. “You wouldn’t stay anywhere the temperature falls below freezing.”

  “Yeah, right.” Weaze laughed, one of his high-pitched, slightly hysterical laughs that always gave people goose bumps. It ended in a fit of coughing and then an ugly grin. “Fuck winter. I been to see Sam, that’s what I’m doing here. Had coffee together, me and Sam. Bought me breakfast. He’s doing good, you know? Man, I wouldn’t be surprised to see his ass in the White House. I’d vote for him, yeah, shit, why not?”

  “No, forget it, I know you never liked him, but, you know, he means well.”

  “I know too many good men who are dead because of Golden Boy Sammy Ryder and his good intentions. So do you, Weaze. No point in you being one of them.”

  “Don’t make no difference to me if I am.”

  Stark said nothing, knowing there was nothing he could say that would make any difference. He didn’t give a damn what kind of mess U.S. Senator Samuel Ryder, Jr., had gotten himself into, but Otis Raymond, crop-picker at fourteen, Huey door gunner at nineteen, was another matter. He was a loner and a survivor, and he considered the greatest accomplishment of his life not getting killed in Vietnam—and coming between Sam Ryder and a rush of AK-47 bullets. Since then, he hadn’t been able to slip quietly back into the daily routines of his old life. What Otis Raymond was and what he had been no longer mattered. The bond was there. Stark couldn’t abandon him.

  “Sam wouldn’t like it if he knew I was here,” Otis said. “You make him nervous, you know.”

  “Good.”

  Weasel laughed a little. “Christ, you two. He’s got some plan, Ryder does, to get money to get himself out of the mess he’s in. He wouldn’t give me all the details, but it sounds nuts, really crazy, Matt. Says he’s going after a diamond, goddamn biggest uncut diamond in the fucking world. You believe it? Jesus, what a stupid asshole.”

  Coming from Weasel, that was almost a compliment: it meant Ryder needed him.

  “He’s meeting a guy tomorrow night at some concert at Lincoln Center—a Dutchman. Name’s Hendrik de Geer.”

  “Know him?”

  Weasel shrugged his bony shoulders and pulled out his pack of cigarettes, tapping one out unconsciously and sticking it on his dried, cracked lower lip. “Sort of. He’s nobody you can’t handle, Matt. I thought maybe you could show up tomorrow night and look into this thing.”

  “Look into what?”

  “The de Geer connection, what Sam’s got cooking with this diamond thing.”

  “And begin where?”

  “How the fuck do I know? You’re the reporter.”

  “All right,” Matthew said. Sometimes he forgot what a cocky little shit Otis Raymond could be. “What about you? You want to hang out at my place until we figure this thing out?”

  Weasel shook his head, lighting his cigarette. “Naw, can’t.” He grinned, showing crooked, badly yellowed teeth. “I gotta be heading back.”

  “Where to?”

  “Some place warmer, that’s for damn sure.”

  “Weaze—”

  “Buddy, don’t ask me questions I can’t answer. You do your thing, I’ll do mine.”

  “He’s not worth it,” Stark said in a low voice.

  “Man, who is? You gonna help or not?”

  “Yeah. I’ll see what I can do—for your sake, not for Sam Ryder’s.”

  The Weaze sniffled and coughed, his breathing rapid and noisy, and he laughed, a hollow, wheezing sound that Stark found utterly desolate, the sound of a wasted life. “You do remember,” he said in his raspy voice. “Man, I knew you would. I did good back in ’Nam, huh? I was okay there.”

  Matthew felt his mouth suddenly go dry. Behind his stoicism and quiet air of competence, he’d always felt helpless where Otis Raymond was concerned. “You were the best, buddy.”

  Dragging on his cigarette, Weasel headed out. He gave Feldie a grin that was almost a come-on, and Matthew had to laugh. He could hear his buddy’s out-of-tune whistle as he disappeared down the corridor. The stupid shit thought he’d won. That Matt Stark was on the story and all was well.

  Stark stood up, feeling the sorrow and anger he always felt after he saw Otis Raymond, but he kept the mask in place, the one that said he was always in control, always at a distance. He picked up his coffee and went over to Feldie’s desk. She’d finally sat down, but he’d been aware of her looks in his direction—suspicious looks tinged with concern. Feldie was a stickler for facts—give people the facts, she said, and let them arrive at their own truths—and a damn fine editor, but she also cared. Trying to reform him gave her something to do besides going after facts and pleasing the big guns upstairs. But she’d never admit as much, and although Matthew admired her for it, what the hell. He’d had his fifteen minutes of fame. He still led a pretty good life, and as much as Feldie carped, he did get his assignments in, more or less on time. Maybe a few years ago he’d had the drive and ambition to do more—to make a difference. But that was a few years ago.

  Feldie pulled off her glasses and snapped them closed. “Well, what did he have to say?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You two yakked it up enough.”

  “Catching up.”

  “On what? I want facts, Stark.”

  “You don’t get facts from Otis Raymond.”

  “You’re not going to tell me,” she said. There was resignation in her tone, and maybe a little respect.

  Stark smiled. “Nothing to tell.”

  “Christ, Stark, you drive me fucking crazy.”

  “Without me around, who’d give you ulcers? I’m going up for some fresh coffee, you want anything?”

  “No, jackass, I want you to tell me what that conversation was all about!”

  Mug in hand, Stark started ac
ross the newsroom but, as if remembering something, turned back around. “Hey, Feldie, you want to do me a favor?”

  “No. Sit your ass back down and tell me what that sorry-looking bastard wanted. He said he had something for you—”

  “I’ll be taking the shuttle to New York tonight,” Matthew said, cutting her off, “probably spend the weekend. I’d like to take in tomorrow night’s concert at Lincoln Center, on the paper.”

  She frowned, opening up her glasses with both hands. “Why?”

  “Something to do while I’m in town. I figure the paper can afford to spring me a ticket.”

  “You’re checking out something this Weaze character said, aren’t you? He gave you a hot tip.”

  “I just like music.”

  “Then who’s playing?”

  “Has to be someone good.” He grinned. “It’s Lincoln Center, right?”

  “Stark, damn you.”

  But he ducked out for his coffee, leaving Alice Feldon sputtering.

  Juliana immediately sensed her mother’s tension when she came to the table, but Catharina smiled tenderly and introduced her friend. Rachel Stein rose, also smiling. “Ahh, Juliana, I’m so happy to meet you at last. You could only be a Peperkamp.”

  “You know my mother’s family?” Juliana was surprised: she had never met anyone who did. She knew Aunt Willie and Uncle Johannes, of course, but none of their friends, none of the people who’d known her mother when she had lived in The Netherlands. “You’re Dutch, aren’t you? I detect an accent.”

  “We knew Rachel in Amsterdam,” Catharina supplied quickly.

  “Yes, and I’m sorry I can’t stay,” Rachel said. “A pleasure meeting you, Juliana.”

  “Likewise. You’re sure you can’t stay another minute? I’d love to talk.”

  But Rachel hurried out, and Catharina swept away the remains of their tray and had a fresh one brought over. “It’s so good to see you, Juliana. I missed you. Now,” she said, filling two porcelain cups with hot tea, “tell me about your tour. Was it successful?”

  “Yes, but, Mother—”

  “A friend of mine heard you in Vienna. She said you were magnificent.”

  Juliana sighed. She wasn’t going to hear about Rachel Stein. She considered asking but knew it would do no good. Only on rare occasions would her mother discuss her life in The Netherlands, and then in the most general terms. Even her father remained relatively ignorant of that phase of his wife’s life. Catharina Peperkamp Fall had survived five years of Nazi occupation when she was little more than a girl, and she’d left her homeland not on the best of terms with her family, especially Aunt Willie, who was, to say the least, difficult. She hadn’t seen her older brother and sister since the concert in Delftshaven seven years ago, and neither Wilhelmina nor Johannes would travel to the United States. But no matter how deep her own curiosity, Juliana hated to pry into a past her mother obviously didn’t want to discuss. In any case, she knew better. Catharina would only tell her daughter precisely what she wanted her to know, no more.

  Already, simply by changing the subject she was exerting her will. If Juliana pressed for information on Rachel Stein, her mother would only get upset—and still would not talk about Rachel and how they’d known each other in Amsterdam and what she was doing in New York. You don’t need to know these things, her mother would say; they are of no consequence. You shouldn’t worry. You should be happy. They were the refrains, well-meaning but maddening, of Juliana’s childhood. She’d learned not to argue and, eventually, to keep quiet about her own problems, because they would always cause her mother more grief than they did herself. As a result, Catharina Fall had no idea her daughter was playing jazz incognito in a SoHo nightclub, no idea Shuji thought she was in a funk, no idea she both dreaded and looked forward to her long-awaited performance at Lincoln Center tomorrow night, her final concert of the year. Juliana wouldn’t tell her. Her mother would worry that something wasn’t quite perfect in her daughter’s world. And Juliana didn’t want her mother to worry.

  “Tell me everything,” Catharina said.

  Juliana did. At least everything her mother would want to hear.

  When Stark returned to his desk an hour later, Alice Feldon had left a note on his keyboard. “I want a story out of this. You can pick up your ticket at Lincoln Center before the concert. By the way, Juliana Fall will be performing the Beethoven Piano Concerto No. 1 in C Major, Opus 15, with the New York Philharmonic. That’s Beethoven as in Ludwig van.”

  Matthew grimaced. “Sounds like a yawner.”

  Four

  Master Sergeant (ret.) Phillip Bloch settled back in the oak swivel chair and watched a fat cockroach scurry across the pine floor of the rustic fishing camp he was using as his temporary headquarters. A rich man’s idea of country living. There was natural pine paneling on all the walls, a big fieldstone fireplace, lots of dark, sturdy furniture. He had a little fire going now, just to take the edge off, and the place glowed. It was a hell of a lot nicer than anything Bloch had ever known. But you couldn’t keep out the cockroaches. They crawled over a fancy hand-braided rug just as easily as over some old rag. Didn’t make no never-mind to them. Sometimes Bloch liked to catch the cockroaches, especially the fat ones, and squeeze them between his fingers. It was something to do to pass time. He’d hung around in enough of the cesspools of the world to have learned to amuse himself.

  He pressed one knee up against the rolltop desk, a giant hunk of furniture, probably worth four thousand dollars. It was pushed up against a paneled wall, just beyond a double window with a view of the lake and a stand of tall, gangly yellow pine. Bloch was a tall, muscular man in his early fifties, gray-haired, square-jawed, a maniac about fitness and nutrition. His men called him a nuts and seeds freak. That was all right with him; he could kill ninety-nine percent of them with his bare hands. He made sure they knew it.

  Right now he was listening to Sam Ryder whine to him from his office on Capitol Hill. United States Senator Ryder. Twenty years ago in Vietnam, Block had known Ryder would go far, and he’d cultivated his relationship with his platoon leader. Kept his eyes open. Listened. Ryder had a unique gift for making people think they were hearing what they wanted to hear when what he was telling them was damn near nothing. But Sammy Ryder did aim to please. At first Block had thought the handsome young lieutenant from central Florida and Georgetown knew exactly how he was wagging folks’ tails, but after a couple of months on patrol, the sergeant realized Ryder wasn’t talking in circles on purpose. It was just the way the poor dope thought. He believed what he was saying; he believed he was being forthright. He was absolutely, A-plus, fucking sincere.

  “Don’t ever send Otis Raymond to me again,” Ryder said, but his words came out more as a plea than an order. He knew where he stood with Phillip Bloch. Never mind who had outranked whom; they’d straightened all that out twenty years ago. “If you have something to say to me, then say it yourself. I think that would be a more appropriate method of operation.”

  “Okay, Sam. Fair enough.”

  “Good.”

  Bloch chuckled to himself: the stupid fuck thought he’d gotten his way. He kept his eyes on the cockroach, still moving slowly, and said congenially, “I like the idea of this diamond, Lieutenant.”

  “I’m glad you do,” Ryder replied, obviously relieved. It was a crazy idea, that was for sure, but Bloch liked crazy ideas. No risk, no gain.

  “I think you’re right: it could solve your problems and mine. So I wouldn’t screw up this opportunity if I were you, Lieutenant.”

  “I have no intention of screwing up anything. Give me some time, Sergeant. I have no proof this diamond even exists, much less where it is. And—for the record—I’m a United States senator.”

  Ryder knew who had the upper hand, but that didn’t stop him from using that cold, superior tone Bloch had always hated. It emphasized the class gulf between them. Ryder had everything: money, looks, power, reputation. But in Phil Bloch’s opinion, that
didn’t change a damn thing. Maybe in other people’s eyes it did, but not in his. If Ryder had a reason to act superior, maybe Bloch wouldn’t have minded so much. But as far as he was concerned, Samuel Ryder, Jr., didn’t amount to a pile of cold shit.

  “Yeah, you’re a senator all right,” the sergeant said, “for the time being.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  The superior tone had vanished, and the awe and dread that had always been there underneath surfaced. Now that’s the real Sammy Ryder, Bloch thought. No backbone. It made him easier to manipulate than he liked to think. Bloch had gotten to be a master sergeant—had stayed alive—because he knew how to read people. He’d been a career military man, but from the beginning he’d planned for this day. Now that he was retired, he was finally able to set up a military camp the way he thought one ought to be set up. He’d already begun training and dispatching mercenaries. Ryder knew about that. But the good senator didn’t know about the arms dealing. During his army years, Bloch had managed to pull together a small, illegal arsenal of weapons and ammunition, which he was now using as his nest egg. If Sammy found out about that part of his business, he’d start screaming about scruples and the law and all that bullshit, mostly because he’d be scared shitless he’d get caught. Bloch didn’t want to have to listen to any more whining. The arsenal was only the beginning. He had bigger and better plans for the future. And he’d get there, no question about that. He just had to watch for opportunities, know how to capitalize on them—and know just when to turn the screws on “friends” in high places.

  “Just stating the facts,” Bloch said, scratching the back of his neck. Damned bugs. He’d never get used to them. “You ain’t going to be a senator forever, Sam. Thinking about the White House one of these days, aren’t you? Be interesting, won’t it, having an ol’ skeleton like me rattling around in one of your closets. Better deal with me straight now, don’t you think?”

  “I’m doing the best I can!”

  “That’s what I like to hear. So tell me.” Bloch leaned back as the cockroach veered suddenly and started plodding across the huge, round braided rug toward the rolltop desk. “Is the Stein woman still on your ass?”