Wildside

by Steven Gould

“I don’t know. I don’t like it, though.” I got back into the truck. “We’ll give it one more try. If he isn’t on the line in under a minute, I say we blow off the Sierra Club.”

  Joey and Rick climbed in the other side, Joey straddling the stick shift, Rick with his knees pulled up to fit in the seat.

  Joey said, “Blow off a hundred thousand dollars?”

  “Which would you prefer? Losing the hundred thousand or three hundred thousand?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Sierra Club.”

  “I want to talk to Mr. Saunderson right now.”

  “He’s very busy. Can’t you wait a minute?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you could call back later.”

  “Perhaps you could connect me now or Mr. Saunderson will never hear from me again. I’m pretty sure that’s not what he wants. You have fifteen seconds.” I held the watch next to the mouthpiece and started the stopwatch. It chirped loudly into the phone.

  There was no music this time. Another voice came onto the phone. “This is James Saunderson.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars for four female passenger pigeons. Are you interested?”

  “Uh, that’s a lot of money.”

  “Four females of an extinct species is quite a lot of bird. You have two days to think it over.”

  “How do I know—”

  “Two days.” I hung up.

  We drove back to Bryan.

  After dropping Rick and Joey off, I drove out University to the mostly empty strip mall across from the Hilton. In one corner, next to a pool hall, the strip’s only other tenant was a small office. The sign on the door said, Luis Cervantes, Attorney.

  I pushed in through a mirrored glass door. Sylvia, Luis’s paralegal, was typing on a computer.

  “Hello, Charlie. He’s next door.”

  “Business is that good?”

  She shrugged. “We were busy this morning. It’s enough.”

  “Thanks.”

  I went next door to the pool hall. The tables were crowded together and, when it’s busy, you can hardly take a shot without hitting other players. It was early, though, and there were only a few people in the place. Luis was in the corner, playing eight ball against himself.

  “Hey, Charlie, grab a cue. Or would you rather go flying?” Luis was a small man, my height, but where I’m big boned and overweight, he’s trim and perfectly proportioned. If you don’t have anything to scale against, he doesn’t look short at all. He makes me feel even fatter than usual.

  I said, “Thunderstorm coming in.”

  He grinned. “Good IFR weather.”

  “For idiots.”

  Luis was working on his Instrument rating. I met him in instrument ground school and, later, flew with him as a safety pilot when he flew “under the hood” to simulate instrument conditions.

  I took a cue from the wall and leaned on it while he sank all the balls.

  “So, what’s happening?”

  “Incoming money.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What?”

  “A wire transfer into the account.”

  He banked the six ball into the side pocket, then set up on the seven. “How much?”

  “One hundred K.”

  The cue scraped across the felt and the cue ball hopped sideways. He swore and rubbed at the blue mark on the green. “One hundred thousand? Who from?”

  “The San Diego Zoo.”

  He scratched at his head. “I didn’t believe it. I’m still not sure I do. You sold them pigeons?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you didn’t steal these birds, right? Or illegally import them?”

  “Right. Really. But they’re still going to want to know where I got them and I can’t tell them. So that’s why we set up the Austin account, right?”

  He took another shot. “Right. How much do we transfer to the private account and how much do you want to hold back for taxes?”

  “We’re going to declare a loss the first year. Expenses.”

  “Expenses? Expenses?” He put the cue down on the table and leaned forward, his hands on the felt. “How much money are you expecting in?”

  “Well, I expect either one, two, three, or four hundred K. I hope we’re talking four hundred—it’s not that unlikely. That’s within the month, but it’s really start-up money. We won’t see the real money until next year.”

  “Real money? Four hundred K isn’t real money? What kind of expenses are you talking?”

  “Better you shouldn’t know.”

  He got a pained look on his face. “Come on. No bullshit. You’re sure this isn’t illegal? You’ve got to tell me. I’m your lawyer, but I won’t be if you’re not straight with me. What sort of expenses?”

  I took a deep breath and licked my lips. “Building materials. Aircraft. Fuel. Advanced flight instruction for five people. Radio and weather equipment.” I didn’t mention the weapons.

  “Weather-monitoring equipment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Weather-monitoring equipment.” He shook his head. “I don’t believe this. Look—just shoot pool. We’ll talk about this if the money comes in.”

  “When.”

  “Huh?”

  “When the money comes in.”

  He got a pained expression on his face. “Rack ‘em.”

  The Five moved me the next day, descending on my parents’ house to help me box stuff. I didn’t know what else to call us—Lazarus Company was a fictional front for dealing with the zoos, the Austin account was in the “Lazarus Company” name, and the corporation was called, “Wildside Investments.” Maybe later we’d be the Wildsiders.

  The probationary period on Joey’s DWI conviction was over and his dad let him use his full-size pickup. I left the bed and dresser, but took my desk, computer, and bookshelves.

  Mom was strangely quiet as we packed the two vehicles. When we were ready to leave she gave me a small cooler with sandwiches and sodas, for us to eat out at the ranch. There were tears in her eyes.

  “Mom. I’m coming home for supper, remember?”

  She shook her head. “I know. That’s not the point. Never mind. You can bring your laundry home if you want.”

  “There’s a washer and dryer on the ranch—it’d be silly.”

  “You’ll wash something in hot and ruin it.”

  “I won’t wash anything in hot. Don’t worry. See you at supper.” I kissed her on the cheek. She started crying in earnest. I was glad the others were outside, by the trucks.

  We drove out, Marie with me, Rick and Clara with Joey.

  “Your mom is sad about you moving out, isn’t she?” Marie asked, in the truck.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s a pain.”

  She just looked at me and didn’t say anything. I remembered that she’d barely known her mother and felt stupid.

  I moved my stuff into Uncle Max’s room. Mom mothballed his stuff to the attic a couple of years ago, after he’d been missing for five years already, so the closet and dresser were empty. It felt weird putting my things in there.

  Then we gathered on the front porch to eat Mom’s sandwiches.

  “What now, Boss?” said Joey. He pulled an insulated bag from behind the seat of his dad’s pickup. “Anybody want a beer?”

  Marie glared at him.

  Rick said, “I’ll take one.”

  Clara had one as well.

  “Charlie? You want a Bud?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Joey popped his top and drank a large swallow. “Well, Boss, what now?”

  “We wait.”

  “What for?”

  I started to answer, but the phone rang inside. I went and picked it up. It was Luis.

  “All right—when.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It was ‘when.’ The bank called half an hour ago—the transfer is in. My associate in Austin transferred it and I put ninety thousand in the working account.” The public account was opened
originally by Richard Madigan, an Austin lawyer who went to law school with Luis. He knew about Luis, but he didn’t know about us. He received two percent for his trouble. Luis received eight percent.

  Something felt odd in my stomach and the bite of sandwich in my mouth seemed dry. “Good.”

  “Is that all you can say? Good?”

  “Very good.”

  I heard his hair brush the phone as he shook his head. “Keep good receipts, dammit.”

  “I will. Thanks, Luis.”

  I hung up the phone, then took a small notebook out of my shirt pocket. From the third page, I dialed a nonlocal number. A voice answered, “Texas Institute of Aviation. Jack speaking.”

  “Mr. Reed? This is Charles Newell. I’ve got those three students I told you about.”

  “For the combined IFR, starting Monday?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And payment?”

  “They’ll have a cashier’s check when they arrive.”

  “For the whole amount?”

  “Yes.”

  “Certainly—that would be fine. Give me their names?”

  I gave him Joey’s, Rick’s, and Clara’s full names. He gave me registration information, and we said good-bye.

  Out on the porch, Joey had started on his second beer. “Well, Boss. You were going to tell us what we’re waiting for?”

  “Don’t call me that. And we’re not waiting anymore.”

  He put his beer down. Clara, Rick, and Marie stopped eating.

  “We’ve got the first money. I’ve enrolled Rick, Clara, and Joey in flight school at the Texas Institute of Aviation at Brenham. It starts Monday and runs six days a week for the next three months. When you’re done, you’ll have an IFR ticket.”

  They all started talking at once.

  “Whoa! Who goes first?”

  Marie, with uncharacteristic vigor, said, “How come they get the flight training? I’m almost there now.”

  “Exactly—you get different training. Don’t sweat it—you’ll also get an IFR ticket out of it, trust me.”

  Joey was scowling. “Don’t we have any say in this? You just enroll us? What if we don’t want to learn to fly?”

  I was stunned. The thought had never occurred to me. How could they not want to fly? It was like not wanting to breathe. “Uh, well, what do you want? Wouldn’t you like to fly? The instruction and flight time cost over eight grand for each of you. Lots of people would jump at it.”

  Joey blinked. “For eight grand I could go to college.”

  “It’s peanuts, Joey. You’ll get lots more if you do it my way. But I need the pilots. I thought you liked the idea of flying.”

  He shrugged.

  Clara broke in. “Well I’d like to do it. I’ve always wanted to learn to fly. Two things, though. What’s an IFR ticket, and who’s gonna take care of Impossible and pay for his stable and feed?”

  Marie told her. “IFR stands for Instrument Flight Rules—it means you can fly in limited visibility, on instruments.”

  I nodded. “Also, as of Monday, we’re all on salary. Five hundred a week to start—will that cover Impossible?”

  “It sure will!”

  “What about you, Rick?”

  He was smiling. “I’m with Clara.”

  I turned back to Joey. “Well, Joey?”

  “Why?”

  I didn’t say anything.

  “Why the flying? What’s it for? Sure, I’d love to learn to fly. I’ve been crazy about planes for years—you’ve seen my radio control models—but why do you want to pay for it? What are we going to do that requires five pilots? Start an airline?”

  I looked down at the porch and said, “I can’t tell you. Not yet.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  I looked him in the eye. “Won’t.”

  “What if we won’t do it? What if we wash out of flight school? Why should you spend the money if it isn’t going to do what you want?”

  I shook my head. “The money isn’t important. It’s nothing. Not compared to the secret.” I raised my hands, palms up. “I don’t blame you for being pissed off. I don’t blame you for feeling not trusted. But in a way, it’s not my secret. It’s not mine to share!”

  Marie scooted over by Joey and took his hand. “So when, Charlie? Aren’t you going to have to share it anyway, eventually?”

  I thought about Uncle Max. What would he want? What I planned to do would probably not please him, regardless of whom I told.

  “Okay. You’re right. I’ll show you. Wait here.”

  I went into the house, unlocked Uncle Max’s gun cabinet, and took out the thirty-ought-six with the five-shot clip and the Mossberg twenty-gauge pump shotgun. I double-checked that they were loaded, and took an army surplus shoulder bag holding a pair of binoculars and more ammo.

  When I walked back on the porch with the two weapons, Joey’s eyes got wide. Everybody was watching me very carefully.

  “Here,” I said. I handed Joey the thirty-ought-six. “It’s loaded so be careful. Anybody else hunt?”

  Rick and Marie shook their heads, but Clara said, “I shoot skeet with a gun just like that.”

  I gave her the Mossberg. “It’s also loaded. Follow me.”

  I walked toward the barn.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “SO, YOU THINK HE WENT THROUGH AND GOT MUNCHED?”

  I unlocked the padlock and swung the door open. When they’d trooped in, I shut it behind us.

  The afternoon sun shone through cracks between boards, pushing long rays of light across the suddenly dark place and making floating motes of dust glitter like stars. I flipped the light switch on, then closed the padlock on an inside hasp, locking the door from within.

  Joey rolled his eyes and let out his breath. Marie watched me carefully, her face still. Clara and Rick raised their eyebrows at each other.

  “Help me move this hay,” I said, moving to the back wall and pulling down a bale from the top row. I had to stand on tiptoe to snag the wire and caught it as it fell.

  “All of it?” asked Clara. She leaned the shotgun into the corner, carefully. Joey copied her.

  “Just this center section,” I said, pointing. We stacked it to the side, in front of the empty stalls, passing it bucket brigade fashion. When we’d pulled the top two rows off, they could see the doorframe. Things went faster, then, and we soon uncovered the entire thing.

  It was a double door set firmly into the back wall, with a heavy wooden frame mortared into the fieldstone. The door wasn’t as old as the barn and was mounted with large chromed hinges and reinforcing straps. The door was closed with a three-foot-long, four-by-four drop bar set into steel brackets. In addition, there was a padlock hasp, very large, mounted to the door with round-head bolts. A large security padlock, the kind with a barrel cylinder, secured the hasp.

  “Jesus,” said Joey. “You’d think it was Fort Knox.”

  I smiled. “Interesting choice of words.” I lifted the bar and set it to the side. “Get the guns. There’s another door on the other side of this, but I don’t know if anything’s gotten past it.”

  “Anything? What sort of ‘anything’?” asked Clara. She wiped her hands on her jeans before picking up the shotgun.

  “Animals. It could be anything. Wolves. Wild dogs. American lion.” I gritted my teeth. “Mammoths.”

  “What are you talking about?” Joey said.

  “Passenger pigeons.” I unlocked the padlock but left it in place. “Joey and Clara, stand about ten feet back from the door. Marie, get that big flashlight from the workbench and stand behind them. Rick, get the other side of the door.”

  Joey moved to his spot, but kept shifting back and forth. “This is ridiculous. What are we doing this for?”

  I snarled at him. “You want to know, don’t you? I didn’t want to show you this yet, but you insisted! Or should we just go back and finish lunch?” I was sweating more than shifting the hay should account for, and my stomach didn’t like the thou
ght of food at all.

  Joey shrugged. “Okay, already. But when this turns out to be some gag…“

  He and Clara stood next to each other, guns at the ready, pointed high. Marie flicked the flashlight on and shined it on the door. I took the padlock off the hasp and said, “Safeties off?”

  Clara said, “Yes.”

  Joey said, “Oops. Now it is.”

  I looked across at Rick.

  Rick said, “Fast or slow?”

  “Slow.”

  The hinges screeched and I made a mental note to oil them. We kept pushing until the doors stopped against the inner wall. I peered into darkness. That it was dark was a good sign. It meant the far door, at least, was closed. Marie’s light showed a packed dirt floor and rocky walls and ceiling. There were timbers bracing the ceiling. About a hundred feet down the tunnel, a thin vertical line of light could be seen.

  There didn’t seem to be anything in the tunnel. “May I have the shotgun, please?”

  Clara hesitated, frowning. I said, “Doesn’t matter. If you’re more comfortable with it, by all means.”

  “I’d rather keep it,” she said.

  I wondered if she was more worried about what was in the tunnel or about me with a shotgun? I smiled at her. It occurred to me that I gained everything by involving her, by involving them all. “You and Marie check out the tunnel all the way to the far door, please. Especially the floor.”

  “The floor?” asked Marie.

  “Snakes,” I said.

  Marie stepped backward involuntarily and Joey started to laugh. “Get stuffed,” she said to him, and walked forward again. “Come on, Clara.” They walked six feet in front of us, searching the floor with occasional sweeps of the ceiling and walls. We stopped two yards from the door.

  “No snakes,” said Marie.

  This door was just like the last one, a double steel-banded door, set in a timber frame that was mortared into fieldstone. There was a hinged drop bar on this side, with a wire loop that threaded through a hole in the door so the bar could be lifted from outside as well. Rick pointed at that and said, “How come this door doesn’t lock?”

  I looked at him for a moment, then said, “You don’t want to be locked out on the other side of this door.”

  He blinked and licked his lips. “Well, if I’m picturing this right, this door should open onto the other side of that small hill your barn backs up against. If that’s the case, we’ll be facing nothing more dangerous than your airstrip.”