Tightrope

by Teri White

  Spaceman took the last bite of the cheeseburger into his mouth. It gave him time to think as he chewed and swallowed. “What’s to understand?”

  “I don’t know. Just why this one person is your friend. I don’t know.” Robbie began to gather the trash from the table and shove it into a sack. “You want it straight? I went to Maguire to see if he could tell me how to get you to like me. To be my friend. Dumb, huh?”

  “I see,” Spaceman said, although he wasn’t sure he saw at all.

  Robbie crushed the paper cup. “Can we split? I mean, Big Macs and heavy conversation don’t exactly mix.”

  Spaceman nodded. As they left, he noticed a table in the corner was crowded with kids who seemed to know Robbie. His son walked out quickly, though, without glancing that way. Maybe their presence was the real reason he was in such a hurry to leave.

  They drove back to the house without speaking. Once there, they both got out of the car and walked into the backyard. Confronting them was the rusting hulk of a swing set that Spaceman had put up when Robbie was just a little boy and the problems were more easily solved.

  Or maybe not. Maybe, Spaceman thought suddenly, those seemingly easy problems hadn’t been solved at all by brightly painted swing sets or ball games or whatever, and that was why they had these big problems now. It made him tired just thinking about it.

  Robbie sat down on the one surviving swing. It hung so low that his knees reached his chest.

  Spaceman strolled the perimeter of the small yard; he sometimes missed having even this much land to walk on and call his own. Not often, but once in a while. “Can I ask you something?” he said at last.

  “Ask.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Why did I do what?” Robbie asked dully, moving back and forth very slowly.

  “What?” Spaceman turned to look at the kid in the glare of the light from the back porch. “Shit, what do you think I’m talking about? Why did you set all those fires?”

  “Well, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Spaceman stalked across the distance between them, one arm raised. Robbie didn’t even flinch, just sat looking up at him from that ridiculous position. Spaceman stopped short and lowered his hand. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath. “Please, Son, tell me why. I have to know.”

  Robbie ducked his head and watched his shoes move through the sparse, muddy grass. “Because,” he said in a muffled voice. “Because I wanted somebody to notice me.”

  “That way?”

  “Any way.” Robbie looked up at him again and this time Spaceman could see the bright tears washing down his face. “I was scared, Dad. The world was all against me and I was so alone and so scared. I wanted you to save me. But you didn’t.”

  Spaceman was quiet for a long time. Inside the house, Karen was listening to some music, something classical, maybe Mahler. Finally he reached out and touched his son on the shoulder, very lightly. “It’s not too late, Robbie,” he said quietly. “I can still save you, if you’ll just give me the chance.”

  Somehow Robbie was up out of the damned swing and in his arms. The boy held onto him tightly as Spaceman stroked his back. “It’s going to be okay, Son. Really.”

  Finally, Robbie broke the embrace and stepped back. He wiped his face with one hand. “Thanks. For the burger and stuff.”

  “Sure. No problem. I’ll call. We’ll go out for a real dinner while you’re here.”

  “Okay, sure.” Robbie looked at him for several seconds, then turned and ran into the house, slamming the door.

  Spaceman took one more glance around the place that used to be his—a long time ago, in a different life—and then he left.

  19

  “You can be a very scary son of a bitch.”

  Lars Morgan just grinned. His damned hair, which he kept forgetting to get cut, was hanging in his face again, and he shoved it back with one hand. The other hand was wrapped around the glass of whiskey. “Me, scary?”

  Devlin looked around the dimly lit, moderately crowded Wilshire bar, as if hoping that by seeing other people engaged in normal activity, he could ground himself in something more real than what had happened earlier in the evening. “The way you handled Phillipe Tran. I thought you might really hurt him.”

  “Not yet. And maybe never, if he cooperates.”

  “And if he doesn’t?”

  “Why borrow trouble?” Lars was still smiling.

  Devlin searched for the barmaid and signaled her to refill both their glasses. He didn’t speak again until she had done so and departed. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. A lot of years have gone by. I’ve sort of forgotten just what it was like over there. What you were like.”

  “I was a mean, vicious bastard,” Lars said cheerfully.

  “True. Very true.”

  Lars took a sip of his drink. “But I got out alive, Dev. Wasn’t that the point? And more than that, I got almost every one of my men out alive, too. All the ones who listened to me, anyway.” He raised his glass in a mocking toast. “As a matter of fact, I even got a few dumbass civilians back home in one piece.”

  “Like a certain bloody stupid picture taker. Who shall remain nameless.”

  “Right, mate.”

  Devlin was quiet briefly, then said, “Granted that you were a smashing success in Nam. Did your job just the way they ordered you to and still managed to save yourself and the rest of us. Damn, you were the best. But I guess I just thought that you would have changed since then. Like the rest of us. Softened a little. Maybe even gotten civilized.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  He looked up quickly. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Okay. Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, lover. But there is one difference that you seem to have forgotten.”

  “What?”

  “For me, there have been a lot more jungles between then and now. You and the rest pulled yourselves out of that madness. But not me; I’m still there.”

  Devlin nodded. “By choice.”

  “Really?” He thought about that. “Well, maybe. But I think that a man likes to do what he’s best at.”

  “I’m not really disagreeing with any of that. It’s just that … well, like I said, you can be scary.”

  “For our purposes now, I’d say that’s very good.”

  “I guess so.” Devlin was quiet, then he began to smile. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “Let’s have a go at the game.”

  Lars drank. “I was hoping you’d say that.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter, which he tossed quickly into the air. “Call it.”

  “Heads.”

  He checked the fall of the coin and shrugged philosophically. “Go to it, old man, your choice.”

  Devlin got to his feet and began a slow tour of the bar. This first trip was simply a recon, sizing up the territory, so to speak. When he had reached their table again, he paused.

  “Well?” Lars said.

  “I’m deciding.” He walked off again.

  Lars watched, amused, as Devlin approached a well-built redhead in a short, tight yellow dress. She looked like a moderately priced whore.

  Devlin squeezed in next to her and leaned close for some conversation. She listened briefly and shook her head, but Lars wasn’t worried. No broad in the world could resist Devlin Conway’s sky-blue eyes and line of Aussie bullshit. He talked some more and, like always, the broad finally nodded.

  They both walked back to the table. “Lars, meet the charming Miss Lydia. She has generously agreed to spend some time with us this evening.”

  She wore too much eyeshadow and her face was hard-edged, but that was the way Lars liked it. A whore should look like one.

  “Nothing generous about it,” she said. “You’re paying double, since there’s two of you.”

  Devlin lifted his glass and drained it. “Three is the perfect number,” he said. “Right, Lars?”

  Lars nodded at hi
m.

  The motel she led them to was just around the corner from the bar. Devlin paid for the room, shoving a bill through the small window in the bulletproof wall that protected the clerk. Lydia led them up two flights of narrow, dimly lit stairs. This place was the real pits and, again, Lars was pleased.

  The rules of their game were strict. The winner of the toss not only got to choose the woman in question, but also had the first go round with her. Lars, meanwhile, sat in the only chair the room offered, a grimy, overstuffed relic of another era. He snapped a can of beer from the six-pack they’d picked up on the way over, popped it open, and lighted a cigarette.

  The room was dark, except for the vivid glow cast by a large neon sign just outside the window. As Lydia and Devlin undressed quickly, the light changed from red to blue and back again every few seconds, casting a strange glow over the room and its occupants.

  It was funny, but even though they hadn’t played the game since that night in San Diego, Lars could still anticipate how things would go between the two on the bed. Devlin’s screwing technique was predictable. Of course, Lars decided ruefully, his own sexual habits were probably just as reliable. In a way, it was reassuring to know that Devlin hadn’t changed.

  For thirty minutes or so, he drank beer and smoked as he watched the two red-blue-red shapes roll around on the bed together. Finally, Devlin raised himself over the woman and plunged into her. Lars figured that he could have predicted the exact number of strokes required before Devlin stiffened, gasped once, and came. The woman knew her job; she gave a soft moan at just the right moment.

  Even though the whole thing had an air of comfortable familiarity to it, Lars still felt a sudden rush of heat at the final moment.

  While Devlin caught his breath, Lars stood and undressed. He handed Devlin a half-full can of beer and a partly smoked cigarette, then took his place on the bed. At the urging of Lars’ hands, Lydia slid down his body and took him into her mouth. The sheets smelled of her, and of sweat and semen; the dampness and the odors made Lars hard almost at once. That was the danger of getting the second helping: Finishing didn’t take long under those circumstances. He was peripherally aware of Devlin across the room, watching. Or maybe not watching, but there.

  When Lars was done with the woman, they paid her off and she left. Since there was still some beer to drink and the room was paid for, Lars stayed where he was. Devlin dragged the chair closer, propping his feet on the bed, and they started talking about old times.

  Blue was in bed, but not asleep, when the call came. “Hello?” He recognized the tentative sound of his own voice and that irritated him.

  “This you, Blue?”

  “It’s me.” He scooted up on the pillows a little.

  “Well, good. I called before, but there wasn’t no answer.”

  “I had to work late.” Blue reached over toward the night-stand and picked up a half-full glass of wine. Just a simple Chablis. That wasn’t really like drinking.

  “Yeah? You work, huh? Even with all that dough?”

  “Sure. I mean, you have to work, right?”

  “Not me. I been laid off for ten months now.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “Well, it wasn’t like this was the first time or nothing. Actually, I’ve had a kind of hard time keeping jobs. It’s funny, but the last time I worked really steady was in the service.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” The sparkling gold liquid felt good going down.

  “So what kind of work you do, buddy? Your old man, he’s like a big shit in electronics or something right?”

  “Computers. He was into computers.”

  “Jeez, yeah. Fucking computers. That’s the place to be today. All the fucking money’s in those babies.”

  Blue stretched. “Well, that might be true, but I’m not in computers. I’m a cop.”

  “You shittin’ me? That the truth?”

  “It’s true.”

  “I’ll be damned.” There was a pause, then the voice said suspiciously, “You’re not tracing this call or something, are you?”

  “No, of course not. Why would I do that?”

  “That’s the kind of thing a fucking cop would do.”

  “I’m not tracing the call. Forget that.” Blue wondered why he hadn’t even thought of trying something like a trace. “What kind of work are you into?”

  “Didn’t I just say I was laid off? Aren’t you even listening? My only job is going down to the fucking welfare office once a week.”

  “Before that.”

  “Lotta things. Mostly, I was on the line.”

  “The line?”

  “Making cars, Loot. Doing my bit for the good old American dream.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Good? You think?”

  “Don’t you?”

  There was a harsh laugh. “I think that none of it matters very fucking much. Not one goddamned little bit, in fact. I go through the motions with the damned welfare and the damned union and you go through the same motions with the damned pig department, but none of it fucking matters. Just a lot of motion, that’s all.”

  Blue shook his head. “That’s not true.”

  “Ahh, Loot, cut the crap, willya? You don’t hafta to play the game with me. I know you. I seen you fall apart and I knew what was happening, ’cause I was fucking falling apart, too. Don’t you know the truth of it yet?”

  “What truth?”

  “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put us poor bastards back together again.”

  Blue very carefully replaced the receiver in the cradle.

  20

  It was almost dawn. The grey sky was beginning to brighten just a little, but the street outside the motel was still almost deserted. He leaned out the window to see if the clouds looked like they were threatening more rain. “This frigging weather is going to make me crazy pretty soon,” he said.

  “More than you already are?”

  Lars lifted a finger in the other man’s direction, then finished buttoning his shirt. They were both in rotten shape. They had talked almost all night, finally falling into a drugged-like sleep that lasted only about an hour. It left them bleary-eyed and speaking in rough-edged voices.

  Devlin went into the grimy bathroom, eyed the toilet doubtfully, and decided just to splash some cold water into his face. It didn’t help much. “Hell,” he said glumly, staring into the cracked mirror. “I have a meeting with a critic from the Times in a few hours.”

  “Oh, well, aren’t all you artistic types supposed to be like dissipated or something?”

  “I’m definitely that. Or something.” He walked back into the other room. “And what about you?”

  “Me?”

  “What happens next?”

  “I’ve got some feelers out. People I need to talk to.”

  “Good luck.” Devlin didn’t sound very optimistic.

  Lars pulled his jacket on, automatically patting the pocket to be sure that the gun was still in place. The gesture was so ingrained that he wasn’t even aware of doing it. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Outside, there was a faint promise of maybe some sunshine later in the day, and Lars felt his mood lift higher as they headed back to where the car was parked. “I could do with some chow,” he said. “You want to get some breakfast?” He was feeling really up. This had been a good time and he was reluctant to have it end.

  Lars knew very well that things could get—would get—pretty rough before long and this would be a good memory. All his life, he tried to collect the nice times and save them inside. There weren’t so many. “What about some pancakes?” he offered.

  He knew better than to let his defenses down, even for a moment, but nobody was perfect. Lars didn’t see the man step out of the alley, but something in Devlin’s face alerted him. Before he could react, however, there was the unmistakable pressure of a gun barrel jammed firmly into his spine. He stayed very still, silently willing Devlin to do the s
ame.

  “Wolf, you’re making some very important people nervous. They don’t like being nervous, so it would be good for you to stop.”

  Devlin was so quiet that he scarcely even seemed to be breathing. Apparently by deliberation, he was ignoring the man, staring instead at Lars.

  Lars smiled faintly, although the creep with the gun couldn’t see him. “Hey, buddy, all I want is a meet. Just to talk.”

  “Nobody wants to talk to you, Wolf. Nobody even wants to hear your name again. Got that?”

  “Got it. Fine. No problem.”

  “So I can tell my people that we have an understanding, right?”

  “Sure thing.”

  The pressure of the gun was gone. “Don’t turn around,” he warned.

  “Fine.” Lars waited another second, then, without even pulling the gun out of his pocket, turned and fired once. The man fell like a rock and died on the way to the ground.

  Lars let go of the gun and pulled his hand out. “Maybe now those assholes will talk to me, right?”

  Devlin looked away, taking several deep breaths.

  “You okay, Dev?”

  He finally turned back to face Lars. “Sure. Sure. It’s just that the sight of violent death before my first cup of coffee in the morning always gives me a queasy feeling.”

  “He was one of the bad guys.”

  “No doubt.”

  Lars bent over the dead man, grabbing him by both ankles, and dragged him into the alley. He shoved the body behind a line of garbage cans. “Which is actually quite appropriate, if you think about it,” he said over his shoulder.

  Devlin didn’t say anything.

  When Lars had the body completely hidden, they began to walk again, more quickly this time, in an unspoken but mutual desire to distance themselves from what had just happened.

  Once they were safely in the car, Devlin leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. “Christ Almighty, you’re one cold son of a bitch, Lars.”

  Lars had the key ready to shove into the ignition, but he paused, looking at Devlin. “I’m damned sorry.”