Wild Card pp-8
Page 24
“I had two visitors arrive at my office together first thing this morning,” Baxter said. “One was a prosecutor from the Attorney General’s office, a spic named Herrera attached to the Terrorist Financing Task Force. The woman practically holding his dick in her hand was with Commerce. Ingrid Price. Agent Price, that is. The Export Enforcement Office.” He paused. “How’s this sounding to you so far?”
Jean Luc gazed past his police guards at the elegant topiary gardens out front, let his attention roam to the thick ruff of cedars sweeping around the foot of the hill. Then he turned toward his desk and the flintlock atop it.
“It sounds as if we’ve suddenly become very hot tickets with the law-enforcement set,” Jean Luc said. “A whole lot of those people are waiting in line to see us.”
“How you can make jest of this?” Baxter snapped. “Didn’t you hear me use the word terrorist?”
Jean Luc sat down at the desk, studied the demon-headed stock of the pistol, and took a small wedge of flint from the objects arranged beside it.
“I heard,” he said. “And rest assured, I’m able to grasp the seriousness of our problems.”
“They’ve prepared an indictment to put before a grand jury,” Baxter said. “Twenty counts, you should have heard that cunt rattle them off to me. Like she was reading a grocery list. Conspiracy to ship products to designated state sponsors of terrorism. Concealing shipments from authorities. Money laundering. And they’re threatening to tack on murder conspiracy charges. The Secret Service, Internal Revenue, even the State Department… they’re all jumping aboard.”
Jean Luc lifted the gun and wedged the flint into the jaws of its hammer, slyly designed in the shape of a serpent’s mouth.
“As I said, Reed, I understand,” he said.
“I hope you do,” Baxter said, his voice raspy with nerves. “Because if one of us goes down, the other goes with him. Like it or not, that’s how it is.”
Satisfied that the flint was securely in place, Jean Luc thumbed the pistol’s hammer into a half-cocked position and reached for another of the items that had been laid out next to it, a leather flask he’d bought at an antique gun shop a while ago. He removed its stopper, poured some gunpowder from inside it down the barrel of the weapon, then picked up the ball and ramrod and loaded up.
“Reed, you border on insulting me, though I realize that isn’t your intent,” he said. Calmly again. “I know it’s tough where you sit. I understand the pressures you’ve always been under better than you might think. In Washington, it’s all in your face, all the time, and now more than ever I suppose it must be tempting to imagine it’s somehow easier for me to cope here in my tropical paradise.”
“I’ve never said anything to give you that idea,” Baxter said. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”
“Not in your head, though,” Jean Luc said. “I’ve developed a good sense of how you think, Reed. How you characterize our roles. You’re the mover and shaker. The executive who needs to be at the office at nine A.M. and the boardroom by eleven. The insider that plays the hard part. And I’ve always been the flighty one. The rootless traveler, dilettante inheritor of land and oil fields who returns from his wanderings to reap the free-flowing rewards of the family enterprise. Or do you want go on insisting that I’m off the mark?”
“I’m not about to insist on anything,” Baxter said. “Look, this isn’t the time for either of us to be speculating about what’s on the other’s mind. Or arguing—”
“You’re probably right,” Jean Luc said. “But I still feel it might be worth reminding you there would be nothing without the oil. No shining office towers, no conference tables, nothing. And the same goes for every dollar that you’ve pocketed or gambled away or stuffed into the fingers of your expensive casino whores these past few years. The whole thing, Reed, all of it, has flowed from my wells. From me to you.”
Andrew Reed Baxter made a harsh, dry sound in his throat. It had an unhealthy quality, as if he were straining for air.
“Damn it, Jean. Goddamn it. I don’t know where you’re coming from today,” he said. “We are in the deepest shit possible and need to stick together. No, it’s more than that. We’re bound together by fucking history.”
Jean Luc was silent, taking a moment to admire the pistol in his hand, the cool gleam of its barrel in the daylight pouring through his window. He slid his thumb appreciatively over the detail work on its butt plate, over the demon’s head, and then his free hand went for the last of the implements he’d set out on his desk. It was a useful gadget that resembled an expensive brass cartridge pen, and a concession to modernity that hadn’t been invented back when old Redbone had given the gun to his ancestor… but hadn’t he once told Eckers he was a now kind of person?
Inserting its tip into the flintlock’s pan, Jean Luc pushed down on the finely calibrated little primer to eject three pre-measured grains of gunpowder and finish his preparations.
In his ear, Baxter’s voice was an abrasive croak. “Jean Luc, have you been listening? Did you hear what I’ve tried to explain?”
Jean Luc Morpaign fully cocked the gun’s hammer now, raised the snout of the gun to the center of his forehead.
“Yes,” he replied. “Yes I have.”
“Then what’s the score?” Baxter said. “What do you have to say about it?”
Jean Luc turned toward the window, smiled faintly to himself.
“Consider us unbound,” he said, and then pulled the trigger on times present and long past.
BAY AREA, CALIFORNIA
Dressed in a tank top and jogging shorts, a digital music player clipped to her waistband, Julia Gordian was in her entry hall lacing her sneakers when she heard a car pull into the driveway.
She rose from her crouch, glanced out the side lights bordering her door, and then turned around to face the greyhounds.
“Hmm, kiddies,” she said. “What have we here?”
The dogs stared back at her from the living room, Jill’s teeth chattering a little, all of them showing the typical mix of fretfulness and anticipation with which they met any potential blip in their routine.
Julia looked at the car again. It was a small VW Jetta, and as its engine went quiet she saw Tom Ricci sit behind the wheel a moment, get out, reach in for a large white paper bag on the passenger seat, and start up her front walk.
Though her hair had been pulled into an operable ponytail, Julia paused to smooth it back anyway. Then she unlocked her door and opened it before he could buzz.
“Tom, hi,” she said. “This is a surprise… how’d you find my house?”
Ricci looked at her.
“I remembered from last year,” he said.
“Oh, right.”
“When you were missing.”
“Right,” Julia said, and nodded. “I should have figured.”
Ricci stood there on the doorstep holding his package.
“This a bad time for me show up?” he said.
“No, no…”
“I can go if it is.”
“Really, it’s fine.” Julia waved her hands over herself. “Guess you can tell from these clothes I was about to head out for a jog… every other day, rain or shine, you know… but it isn’t like I’m on the clock.”
Ricci nodded. He held his bag out to her, standing there in a white T-shirt, navy sweat pants, and sneakers.
“I brought muffins from that place you like,” he said.
“Michael’s?”
Another nod.
“They’re apricot and cherry,” he said. “The ones with the macadamia nuts were sold out.”
Julia took the bag, opened it, and made a minor performance of sniffing its contents.
“Yum-yum, I’ll settle.” She smiled. “Tom, this is really nice, but you didn’t have to go out of your way…”
“I didn’t,” he said. “You did that for me last time.”
Stuck for a response, Julia cleared her throat.
“Speaking of last time
,” she said, pretty much just to say something. “Did you enjoy your camping trip?”
Ricci hesitated.
“Got what I needed out of it,” he said. Then he looked slightly down and past her. “Hi, girl,” he said. “Good to see you.”
Julia suddenly realized Vivian had managed to poke her head between her leg and the doorframe. She watched as Ricci slowly extended the back of his hand, keeping his knuckles loosely bent, giving Viv a chance to pick up whatever dogs did from his scent. After a few seconds she began licking and nuzzling his fingers.
“Now you’re in trouble,” Julia said. “That hound’s an insatiable sponge when it comes to attention.”
Ricci had crouched to scratch under Viv’s chin.
“It’s okay,” he said, and brought his eyes up to Julia’s face. “Everything she’s been through in her life, she deserves it.”
Julia looked at him silently a moment, not quite sure why she’d again found herself at a loss for words.
“Well,” she said, hefting her bag of muffins. “I should probably bring these inside, brew us up some coffee…”
“Thought you were going for a jog,” Ricci said.
Julia shrugged.
“No reason it can’t wait,” she said.
Ricci straightened, looked at her from where he stood in the morning sunlight.
“It’s better to eat afterward,” he said. “You don’t want your stomach to cramp.”
Julia shrugged again.
“Weren’t you intending to join me?” she said.
“I was,” Ricci said. He took in a breath, produced a long exhalation. “But I let myself get out of shape lately, figured maybe we could go jogging together first… that is, if you don’t mind.”
Julia noticed what he was wearing—really noticed — and came close to slapping her head.
“No,” she said. “I don’t.”
“You’re sure,” he said.
“I’m positive,” Julia said. “In fact, Viv and I would really like the company.”
They looked at each other a while. Then Ricci nodded, and Julia opened the door wider for him.
“C’mon in,” she said. “I need to put this bag away for when we get back.”
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