Bird's-Eye View

by J. F. Freedman

  They’re pros, I’m not.

  So much for my promising Buster I wouldn’t fuck with Roach anymore, at least until he and I had talked. Roach is fucking with me, the situation is out of my control.

  I can’t be here now, knowing they’re out there. I need a break from this.

  My mother usually likes advance warning before allowing anyone, including her children, into her sphere, but she’s happy to see me anyway. I find her in the spare bedroom she’s converted into an office, sitting in front of her computer, typing away. An old photo album is open on an adjoining desk, piled on top of other albums. I sneak a look at the pictures on the open page.

  The pictures are from 1940, over sixty years ago, when she was a young bride, before the war. They are of her and my father, on their honeymoon. They sailed to the Caribbean and South America—Havana, where they got drunk on champagne and gambled all night, San Juan, Caracas, Rio de Janeiro, Buenos Aires. And smaller cities, and small islands with fine white sandy beaches.

  This is one of the Havana pages. Mom and dad on the steps of the casino, dressed to kill, highballs in hand. They were a striking couple, the tall dark man in a pencil mustache, looking like Howard Hughes but more handsome, and the petite blond woman who could give Myrna Loy a few tips on style. Mom in a bathing suit, standing ankle-deep in the warm ocean water. Dad on a diving board, a lit pipe in his mouth, comically posing as if he’s going to dive into the pool with the pipe still in his mouth, à la Bing Crosby. Some other pictures, of them and a second couple, another doctor and his wife from Fort Worth, who are honeymooning, too. My parents corresponded with them for a few years, until the war started. Then they were too busy. Both that doctor and my father went off to war, my father in the Navy, the other in the Army. My father returned from the Pacific, where he was a ship’s doctor. The Fort Worth doctor died in France. My mother tried to rekindle her correspondence with the widow, but her letters came back stamped Return to sender. Address unknown.

  Other albums have pictures of the family. My brother, sister, and me as kids, then teenagers. My brother and Emily on their wedding day. They were married here, on the front lawn. My sister and her husband were, too. The receptions were held in the house. Hundreds of guests attended both weddings.

  There are no wedding pictures of me. If my mother can paste a wedding picture of me and a bride into one of these books, she’ll die a happy woman. Although she would like to live long enough to see the grandkids, too.

  It could happen, with Maureen. It’s premature to think about that, but it could. Hopefully, before my mother passes away.

  “What’re you doing, mom?” I look over her shoulder to the screen. She’s writing something. I don’t want to pry, but I’m curious. It doesn’t look like a letter.

  She stops typing and looks up at me over her shoulder.

  “My memoirs. A history of the family as seen through my eyes.”

  I almost gasp. “Boy, mom. That would be something.”

  She is the repository of our history. When she dies, there will be a huge gap. There are records, of course, in our files as well as in the county historical society’s, but there are many blanks that need to be filled in.

  A great tenderness wells up inside of me as I look at my mother. She’s been there for me my entire life, giving me much more than I’ve given her. My father’s been dead a long time, but she’s soldiered on. She’s not going to be with us much longer, though; the thought of that, the physical act of her recording her history, is both wonderful and finite in the extreme.

  “Can I see some of it?”

  “Not yet. But you will, soon. You can edit for me.”

  “Nothing would give me more pleasure, mother.”

  I lean down and kiss her lightly on the cheek.

  “Come to dinner tonight. Bring Maureen. I’m growing fond of that girl.”

  “Can’t, mom. I have an appointment, and Maureen’s out of town. As soon as she gets back, okay?”

  “Yes. Call and let me know.”

  I give her another kiss and leave her to her labor of love.

  • • •

  Fred’s office is a second-story walkup over a Chinese takeout restaurant in one of Jamestown’s ratty strip malls. I arrive shortly after eight. I’d called ahead and ordered shrimp with lobster sauce, chicken chow mein, egg rolls. Fred’s giving me his time and expertise, gratis; the least I can do is buy dinner. We sit at his desk across from each other, eating off paper plates and drinking Kirin beer from the bottle.

  “I’ll be hungry in an hour,” Fred burps as he dumps his soggy plate into the trash container in the corner. He tilts his bottle back to get the last drop.

  “I won’t.” I finish off my beer and loft the empty toward the trash can. Nothing but net.

  The meal out of the way, he takes some reports out of a folder. “What’s on the agenda?”

  “Can you track an airplane through a tail ID number?” I ask him. “Who owns it, what dates it was flown, who flew it.”

  “Sure. There’s a special program for that stuff. It’s called Choicepoint. Tracks planes, boats, cars, you name it.”

  “Which you have access to?”

  “Good detectives do, if they’re up-to-date.” He’s letting me know he’s not some backwoods hick.

  I read off three airplane ID numbers: the one the counselor and his killer came and went in, and the two I saw land when Roach met with his visitors. I’m guessing the last two are legitimate, the first one maybe not.

  “Can you narrow it down to an area?”

  “Washington, northern Virginia, Maryland for openers.”

  “Okay. And dates?”

  “Start back three months, to last week.”

  “That helps.”

  His computer is running—he logs on to the program. “This’ll take a few minutes.” He points to a stack of magazines on a corner table. “Check ’em out.”

  I thumb through his stash and select a recent Car and Driver. There’s a good article on Porsches. A Carrera would be a nice toy to own.

  A few minutes later Fred looks up from his screen. “Got one.”

  I put the magazine down. “What kind?”

  “A Lear 35. Registered to your man Roach. Does that compute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any specific dates you interested in?”

  “Later. Keep working on the other IDs.”

  He goes back to work. I go back to reading about Porsches.

  “Got another one.”

  This is more important. It’s either the one that landed with Roach, or the one the counselor was on. “Go.”

  “It’s a King Air, owned by Landmark Charter, based at National. That’s another small jet, like the Lear.” He notices something. “This is interesting.”

  “What?” I get up and walk over to his desk, so I can read the screen over his shoulder.

  “On one occasion this plane and Roach’s were logged out the same day.”

  “When?”

  “A week ago.” He gives me the date.

  A week ago is when I saw that plane alongside Roach’s on Roach’s runway. “Does it say who signed out for that plane?”

  He scrolls down. “Name of Lance Edwards. Pilot for hire, looks like.”

  “Okay. Go back to Roach’s Lear. Who was the pilot of record that day?”

  He futzes with the program again, then looks up. “Wade Wallace.”

  “Who leased that plane?” I ask. “Not Roach’s, the other one.”

  He looks at the screen. “Doesn’t say. I can find that out, but we’ll have to check flight logs. Not a big deal.”

  “Keep going.” I want to know about the third plane, the one Wallace flew that the counselor was on.

  I wait impatiently while Fred gets the third ID number.

  “Here we are,” he says after a few minutes. “It’s a Gulfstream, GS4. That’s a bigger plane. That’s what the heavy players like Tiger Woods use.” He peers at the screen. “Owner is Ram
part Industries. Registered in the Bahamas. Currently hangared at Wilson Aviation. Private field in Virginia.”

  “Go back five or six weeks. See who’s on the log.”

  He scans down a list of names. Then he smiles.

  “Wade Wallace,” I say, before he can.

  He looks at me in surprise. “How’d you know that?”

  “Intuition,” I lie. “It fits.”

  “What now?”

  “I’d like to know who Rampart Industries is, for openers. The players. I want to know who’s been visiting Roach.”

  “That’s going to take time,” Fred tells me. “I’ll get on it tomorrow, see what’s there.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “I really appreciate this, Fred.”

  “Hey, that’s cool. It’s a kick, man.”

  We’ve worked enough for one night. A last beer, then I leave. As I’m going home I think about how neat it would be taking this drive in a Porsche Carrera.

  My house is as I left it: lights on, television blaring away. I was sure Roach wouldn’t ambush me tonight, not in my own house, not so close in time to our meeting and Wallace’s murder. But I wanted to give the impression that I was awake and alert, hence the lights and noise.

  I sleep fitfully, feeling the presence of the gun perched ominously on my bedside table. Waking before dawn, I clear the road. I almost go down to see the birds, a “fuck-you” gesture toward Roach, but for once I decide to act like I have a brain, and stay away. I have to remember to keep the big picture in mind, let the small stuff go.

  When I hear a car approaching I tense; I actually go for my automatic. But then I see it’s Maureen, back from Boston, and my pulse returns to near-normal. I hide the gun under my mattress, go outside to greet her.

  We’re on each other like two animals in heat, locked into a passionate embrace as soon as we touch each other. I would pick her up and carry her inside, but she’s too tall and gangly, I might slip and fall on my ass, and how romantic would that be?

  We make love, we tell each other how much we missed each other. I wait until we’re up and dressed to break the bad news.

  “We’re not going birding today.”

  “Why not?”

  I could give her some bullshit about my schedule, the tides, all sorts of lies. I don’t want to do that, so I tell her the truth, a sanitized version. “Roach knows we’ve been out there.”

  She pauses, turns to me. “So?”

  “So he doesn’t want us anyplace where we can spy on him.”

  That riles her. “He can’t tell you where to go on your own property, Fritz,” she says indignantly. “And if he isn’t doing anything wrong, why should he care?”

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”

  “Meaning?”

  “That he is. Doing something wrong. At least something he doesn’t want anyone knowing about.”

  “How do you know? Did he call you?”

  “Worse. He had me come over so he could deliver the news in person.”

  “He asked you to come over?”

  “He sent some men here to provide me with transport.”

  She looks aghast. “He sent goons over here?”

  I nod.

  “That’s awful! What’s he trying to do, acting like that? I thought he was trying to make things nice between the two of you. Although being spied on would upset anyone,” she concedes. “I mean I can understand why he’d be upset about that, especially since there’s all that weird stuff going on with the planes flying in and out and whatever. But how could he think you’re a threat to him? You haven’t done anything stupid that would make him suspicious of you, have you?” she asks sharply. “You promised me you wouldn’t.”

  As she says that, I realize she doesn’t know Wallace has been killed. It was a local story, it wouldn’t have been in the news in Boston.

  “There’s another reason for him acting like he did,” I say.

  “Which is?”

  “His bodyguard, security guy, whatever. The guy I hit?”

  She nods.

  “He was killed the other day.”

  Her hand goes to her mouth. “You’re kidding!”

  “I wish.”

  “Where? Was he with Roach? Oh my God!”

  I shake my head. “He was in his own house, alone. The police are speculating it was a robbery. Stuff of his was missing.”

  “That’s incredible. I mean, he was an asshole, but still . . .”

  I nod. “Roach is upset about that, of course. He somehow has it in his mind that I had something to do with it. By my spying on him.”

  Now she’s really flustered. “Why would he think that? It’s preposterous.”

  “I know that and you know that, but he’s a sinister man, he thinks everyone has sinister motives for everything they do, like he does. And should, the more I see what’s going on.”

  “I’m scared for you, Fritz.” Her voice is shaking.

  I don’t want her carrying any of this load. I’ve made this my fight—she hasn’t. “James Roach isn’t going to hurt me. I’m a gnat on his ass.”

  “After what you’ve told me? Hardly.”

  She’s right—but I don’t want to face that.

  “Does this mean we can’t go out there anymore?” she asks fretfully. “At all? I’m going back to Cambridge soon, I can’t not see those birds. It’s important to me.”

  “I haven’t thought that far ahead.”

  “We’ll let things cool down for a few days, then we’ll go out again,” she declares. “Roach can’t stop you from going on your own property.”

  He can stop me from doing any number of things. But I don’t say that.

  I can’t have her hanging around here today, in case Fred calls or comes by with some information I have to act on. “I’ve got stuff to do today anyway—more family business. So why don’t we plan on getting together later on?” I feel bad about lying to her yet again, but there’s no alternative.

  She sighs. “Okay. I can find things to do. There are some other birding areas I haven’t seen.”

  “My mother requests the pleasure of our company for dinner. Tonight okay?”

  She gives me a smile. “She’s the sweetest.”

  “She likes you, too.”

  “So you’ll pick me up at the motel? Or should I meet you there?”

  “I’ll pick you up. A lady should always have an escort.”

  • • •

  I phone my mother to let her know I’ll be there for dinner and am bringing Maureen. She’s delighted to hear it, she’ll make it a special occasion.

  I’m antsy, hanging here, but I feel I have to in case Fred calls, not wanting to miss him if he does.

  I spend the rest of the morning anxiously waiting. Finally, too antsy to sit still, I pull on a pair of gym shorts and my Sauconys and head out the door, running along the overhung riverbank toward the southeastern end of our property. As I run I think about Maureen, what kind of life I’d have with her. It wouldn’t be conventionally domestic—she’s got a career, more important than I ever might, the way things are going. Which would be fine with me, I don’t want a conventional life—I think. I’ve never let myself go to that place, so I don’t really know. But if I never give it a try, I’ll never know.

  After thirty minutes of hard running I’m covered with sweat. I lick salt from the corners of my mouth. I’ve gone as far as I can go in this direction. From here, it’s all water and foliage. If I was in my boat I’d be less than ten minutes from the birds, less than fifteen from Roach’s property.

  I can’t go back there. But I have to go back there. I have no choice. Partly for Maureen, but mostly for me.

  No message from Fred when I get back. But there is one from Billy Higgins, my gun dealer buddy. My gun application has been approved. I can come pick up my license whenever I want, but he has to talk to me. Like as soon as I get this message.

  “Hey, Billy, it’s Fritz Tullis,” I announce myself when he a
nswers the phone. “Got your call.”

  “You coming by to pick up your paperwork?” he asks. He sounds guarded. “You don’t want to be waiting on it, since you’re already in possession of the merchandise.”

  “How’s about if I come get it today?” I can swing by his store on my way to fetch Maureen, it’s not far out of the way. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll fill you in then.”

  He hangs up. I cradle the receiver. Whatever his news is, my gut tells me, it won’t be good.

  • • •

  Billy’s expression is sour when I walk in the door, like I laid a turd on his doorstep.

  “Some nigger lady cop from P.G. County was in here, asking questions about you,” he informs me as he hands me my gun license. He scrounges around his countertop, finds a card, squints at it. “Mabel Ricketts. Know who she is?”

  My gut didn’t lie. “Yes, I’ve had the privilege of meeting her. What did she want?”

  “Did I sell you a gun? Not did,” he corrects himself, “when.”

  “How did she know about that?”

  “It’s on the computer, lamebrain,” he says harshly.

  I scowl. She caught me in the lie, as I’d feared she would. “What’d you tell her?”

  “That you came in and bought one, what else?”

  “What about your giving it to me before I passed muster?” I ask, brandishing my new license.

  “Well, I didn’t tell her that, for Christsakes,” he says, his voice rising half an octave. “My mama didn’t raise no fools. I’d lose my permit to sell if I did that.”

  That’s a relief. “So as far as she knows, I didn’t have it then.”

  “That is exactly correct. Technically. But . . .” He leans over the counter toward me. “She is one suspicious lady, that cop. I don’t think she believed me. What I did for you, it ain’t uncommon. Hear what I’m saying?”

  “But there’s no record that I had that gun,” I persist.

  “No. You’re in the clear—on the books.” He shows a mouthful of missing teeth when he grins. “What dirt is she trying to dig up on you, Fritz?” he questions me eagerly. “You been a naughty boy?”

  He doesn’t need to know about the troubles in my life—his big yap would have me hanging from the gallows before sundown if I told him one iota of what’s been going on. “It’s bullshit,” I throw away. “Some sorry asshole claims I gypped him on an old deal, he’s out to make me look bad, he’s grasping at straws. Nothing to raise a sweat about.”