The Daisy Ducks

by Rick Boyer

  He frowned and sank lower into the covers.

  "Not for ten more days. Maybe more."

  "Well that's not too bad. You could use a rest anyway. And some time off the booze. They say your liver looks as big as a beachball."

  "Ahhhh screw 'em!" he said, waving his hand impatiently. "That's not what I'm worried about. Listen: I got no health insurance. You know what the bill's gonna be for this? About ten grand."

  "Sounds about right."

  "Yeah. And I got no savings either. How am I gonna pay? Doc, I gotta get that statue now. Gotta."'

  "We'll talk about that later."

  "We'll talk now. Look!" He pulled the front of his hospital johnny down, revealing his bare neck. "He took my key. That's why the guy shot me, Doc. To get my key. Christ, he's probably been there and gone by now. With my gold Siva!"

  I thought back to that morning on the frozen road, to the man in the tan parka with the black knife in his hand hunkered down over Roantis. That was what the knife was for: to cut the thin chain from his neck and take the safe deposit key.

  "The gunman knows you, Liatis. He knew about the key and he knows you. Who is he?"

  "I don't know, I never saw him."

  "You spent a lot of time looking out our porch windows, remember? And you asked for my automatic before you went to sleep. You knew something was up. What?"

  "I don't know exactly. just something. It's an instinct I've developed, I guess. I knew something had happened to Ken and I suspected it had to do with the loot. I still think that. That's why I came to you in the first place. Thing is, before it was just something I wanted for myself and my son. Now it's something I need."

  He reached out to grab the water pitcher on the table but couldn't do it. Wincing, he returned his arm to its resting place across his chest. Nesbit had done his cutting from the back, but any arm movement on Roantis's part picked up painful signals from the severed tissue. It must have hurt; I saw a shiny film of sweat along his brow and chin—and Liatis Roantis knew pain as most of us know our shadows.

  I picked up the water pitcher and poured him a glass, but he told me it was the paper underneath the glass that I was to take. I picked it up and saw a list of names and addresses: Jusuelo, Kaunitz, Royce, Summers, and Vilarde. The Daisy Ducks. After each name was an address and a phone number.

  "Did some checking up while lying here on my back. Those are the last known addresses. Can't say for sure on any of them except Royce. I'm pretty sure he's still at the VA hospital in Manila. They've got him in a padded cell and he's never getting out."

  "He violent?"

  Roantis shrugged and yawned. "Who knows? Maybe. He's wacko though. Summers is probably still in Chicago if he's not dead yet. But Vilarde's da guy I want."

  "Liatis, which of these guys shot you?"

  He shook his head slowly back and forth on the pillow.

  "Doc, it wasn't any of .'em. Trust me. The only one of them who knows about the Siva is Ken, and it couldn't be him. I'm giving you the list because these guys are good leads to finding him."

  "You're sure."

  "I'm positive. What I'm not positive of, I'm not positive he dint tell any of the others. I don't think he'd do that, but you never know. A lot of time has passed and we were all pretty close."

  "If you were all so close, then why not sell the statue and split the cash eight ways instead of two?"

  "It was hard enough trying to split it two ways. Can you imagine eight guys—scattered all over the globe, God knows where—each waiting for his hunk of the loot? The way it was, I took none of the first loot Siu Lok dished out, those gold pieces and gems. I gave them to the guys. Old Siu Lok took me to that cache in the dead of night. Me alone."

  "So who was the rifleman? Who knows you well enough to have tracked you down to my place? Somebody must have been tailing you for days, Liatis. Who was it? If not one of the Ducks, then who?"

  He gave me the weary headshake again.

  "It was a three-o-eight slug," I continued. "That's the same as the NATO round."

  "I can tell you right now what the rifle looked like, okay, Doc? Can you remember it in your mind? It was jet black, with a black plastic forepiece with three vent holes in the side. Barrel projecting from the lower part of the forestock, and a carrying handle above the receiver."

  "I can't remember it clearly. I saw it mostly from the muzzle end." .

  "It was a Belgian FAL rifle. Take my word for it. I know. It's the mercenary's rifle, worldwide. But that still leaves it open. I know quite a few mercs, and some of them don't like me."

  "All right. But he took the key. He knew you were wearing it and snipped it off you. You looked dead enough, so he didn't finish you with his black knife."

  "A black knife. You sure it was black?"

  "As coal."

  Roantis stroked his stubbled chin in thought. He pointed at the paper I held in my hands.

  "Find Vilarde. If I saved your life you can help me find Vilarde. Besides, you're getting paid, too."

  The phone on the bedside table rang and I picked it up. It was Roantis's wife, Suzanne. I handed the receiver to him and he grunted into it. He grunted again, and again, and his face grew agitated. Then he swore, sighed, and seemed to collapse into the pillow. His eyes were closed. I thought he'd passed out, but then the eyes opened again.

  "Read it to me again," he said.

  There was a pause, then another sigh.

  "Yeah, okay. I figured as much. What was the date again? Yeah. No, nothing we can do. But I've got some good help, so don't worry. Huh? His name is Charles Adams, you remember him. He's standing right here."

  I was not heartened by this monologue. I went over to the guest chair and sank down into it. I smelled the bouquet sent to Roantis by the Boston Tai Kwon Do Club. It didn't smell nice. Nothing would have. Roantis hung up and glared at me.

  "We just got a fancy receipt from Barclays Bank in Kowloon. Guess what it says?”

  "That the golden statue has danced right out of his hiding place."

  "Right. According to their records, Ken and I took possession of the contents of Box 1001 at ten-thirty on the morning of December thirty-first. The last day of the year. That's two days after I was shot."

  "And you're still positive Ken Vilarde didn't shoot you?"

  "Just find him, Doc. Or find out what's happened to him." He sank back into the pillow and closed his eyes. I left the room. As I descended the stairs, I turned on the landing and found myself looking into a pair of shiny black eyes that were level with mine. The eyes were surrounded by flawless olive skin. A small delicate nose. Full lips that pouted a little. jet black hair that glowed. The eyes were almond-shaped, the cheekbones wide and high. It was an Asian face that was staring at me. The straight black hair was gathered in a bun behind the woman's head, and fine tendrils of it drifted around her beautiful face. The eyes and face bore a look of sublime seriousness.

  She was a six-footer—unheard of in Asian females. I quickly looked down at her feet. Was she wearing high-heeled boots? No, moccasins. Was she Mongolian? The North Chinese are huge. But her face wasn't Mongolian. The skin was too dark and the face too rounded. She looked Vietnamese. A gorgeous Vietnamese giant. How long did I stand gaping at her? Six months?

  "Excuse me," I murmured, too bewitched to move.

  She didn't reply. I was dying to hear her voice, but she slipped by me, silent as a wraith. Just as our faces met she smiled quickly. Beautiful. The last I saw of her was from behind, her lithe form dressed in white jeans and a ski parka, rounding the turn on the landing to continue up the stairway. Then she was gone.

  5

  I WENT HOME after that and made a pot of steaming keemun, which I drank in the living room while holding the list in front of me. Certainly Roantis needed help; he was dead broke and soon would be over his head in debt. And I owed him a big favor. Big, but not huge.

  The five-by-seven list in my hand looked huge. It had the presence of the Magna Carta or the Declarati
on of Independence. I picked up the phone and dialed the overseas operator. Manila was on the opposite side of the globe from Boston. I told the operator I wanted to place a call to the U.S. military hospital there at ten RM., which would be midmorning over there. Next I called the number after Vilarde's name. Out of service. So much for that. I called Rosie Vilarde in LA. No answer. I called the Flying K Ranch in Leander, Texas, and asked to speak to Fred Kaunitz. A nice lady with a heavy Mexican accent said that Senor Kaunitz was "no en casa" at the moment. I left a message for him to call me back collect, saying I was a close friend of a mutual friend, Liatis Roantis. I wasn't certain she got the message entirely correct, but it was clear enough. Back to Rosie Vilarde, still not home. On to Mike Summers. Last known address was 5472 South Woodlawn, in the Hyde Park section of the South Side of Chicago. As a sometime visitor to the University of Chicago, I was acquainted with the area. Parts of Hyde Park are very nice. Other sections are very mean. The address indicated that Summers lived north of the Midway Plaisance, which meant it was probably decent. South of the Midway, you might need an armored personnel carrier to get around safely. There was no number. I called Information and was told there were eight or nine Michael Summerses in Hyde Park. None lived at 5472 South Woodlawn. I finally boiled it down to three likely prospects, and struck out on all of them. Next I tried the Summerses under women's names. I finally found it under Ella C. Summers, 9605 South Blackstone. Ella herself answered, saying she was Mikey's mamma. Mikey worked for a security company, night shift. She didn't know where he was now. Probably down at the Blue Flame Lounge around the corner.

  It didn't sound as if Michael Summers, formerly of the Daisy Ducks, had found himself a comfy and lucrative niche in the civilian world. I asked Ella Summers to have Mike call me collect when he returned. I did not expect him to take me up on my offer, but I'd keep trying anyway.

  I went out to the florist's and bought Mary a dried flower arrangement as a token of peace. Then I went to the wool shop and bought her some new tartan cloth that had just arrived from the Outer Hebrides. She could sew herself a kilt from it. A couple of silver Scottish thistle pins completed the package. These I gift-wrapped and placed on the hall table. I was not trying to buy her off; one does not buy off a woman like Mary. I was just trying to smooth the way a little. She had remained pleasant, but distant, during the past two weeks.

  Mary got home at four-thirty. She loved the gifts. That was a real smile on her face. But somehow, the feeling that usually came out at me through her eyes didn't. It wasn't there.

  Dinner would cheer her up. I had been marinating lamb shanks in olive oil, lemon juice, garlic, wine, and crushed herbs and mint leaves. These I browned in oil, then baked in a covered pan with some of the marinade still in the pan, which was, in effect, braising them. I served them on a bed of rice pilaf with a Greek salad and a carafe of red. We sat in the kitchen nook, watching the news as we ate.

  "What are you thinking?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she said absently. "I guess I feel rather unfulfilled lately. Did I tell you I'm going to visit my mother next month?"

  "No. First I've heard of it. Want me to come along?"

  "Won't you be busy?"

  "Actually, the office is being redone. Remember? I think I'll have about a week."

  "Oh, I don't know . . ."

  I suddenly felt she was a million miles away. I felt all alone: the boys were back at school, not to return again until semester break. We cleaned up and Mary went into her pottery workshop while I returned to the study. I sat at my desk and looked at the rows of books in their shelves . . . out the window at the bare apple trees. Mary, I thought, I'm smothering in your distance. Drowning in your coldness. If it's just a game, please don't play it anymore. It hurts.

  Fred Kaunitz called me at seven o'c1ock, six Texas time. I keep thinking that Texas is way out West. Not so; it's way down South, at least the eastern half, and in the Central Time Zone. His voice was deep and confident, with a relaxed drawl reminiscent of Don Meredith.

  "So you know Roantis. Is he still in trouble?"

  "Uh-huh. With practically everyone."

  There was a dry chuckle at the other end.

  "Figures. He was a hell of a good team leader though. I'll never forget Liatis, though I'd like to forget those days entirely. Still have some bad dreams about 'em. He tell you what we did over there?"

  "Yes. He's anxious to find Ramon Vilarde. I guess you called him Ken."

  "Yeah. Well, I don't know where he is, Dr. Adams. You know, those guys in the Ducks were a strange breed. They could be anywhere, doing anything. We were like coati bears over there. Roaming around getting into all kinds of trouble, living off the land . . . destroying as we went."

  "Fred, do you have the faintest hunch where Vilarde might be?"

  "No. I'd think Liatis would know better than anyone since they were close. I think Ken was also close to Jesus Jusuelo. Last I heard, he was going to be a lifer."

  "Right. But then he got divorced, and quit the army, too. He was last living in DC. About two months ago he called Roantis to say he was flying up to meet him. Then he disappeared."

  "Maybe he just changed his mind. Who knows? Maybe an overseas job came up. Does Roantis think something bad happened to him?"

  "Frankly, yes. Do you know anyone, in the Ducks or otherwise, who had it in for Ken?"

  "Nope. But that sure doesn't mean there weren't any. Not in that line of work."

  I finished the conversation by asking Fred Kaunitz three questions. The first was whether or not he had any desire to see his old team commander again. He answered sure, but he wouldn't go far out of his way to see Roantis, saying he wished to put as much of that part of his life behind him as possible. The second question dealt with Siu Lok's loot. Did Fred get any of it? What did he do with it? He took his share of the gold and silver and emeralds and cashed it in at a Tokyo shop. He spent the money on books, artwork, and three Japanese swords. The third question was whether he would be willing to meet with me for a few hours in early March, when I'd be in Texas for the annual convention of the College of Oral Surgery. He said fine, and that ended it.

  I lighted a pipe and sat at my desk looking at the list of Daisy Ducks. Jesus Jusuelo. What sort of fellow was he? Roantis had said the best of the best as far as soldiering was concerned: a Navy SEAL. But I'd heard amazing things about the SEALs. Scary things. Apparently their training included some sort of dehumanizing process that was much more pronounced than the ordinary military variety. Some people said the SEALs were the closest things to killing robots ever produced. I hoped that one of the Ducks knew his whereabouts. Certainly knowing only that he was on the continent of Africa wouldn't do us any good. But even if I could find out where he was, I wasn't sure I ever wanted to get within five miles of him.

  Just before ten the overseas operator rang up, saying I could place my call to Manila. I talked briefly to the staff at the VA hospital. Information on patients was strictly confidential. I said I understood, but could they tell me if Bill Royce was currently a patient there? They said they'd check, and they did. Bill Royce was no longer a patient. He had been discharged in late June. Where had he gone? They didn't know or wouldn't say.

  I brooded over this interesting piece of news, thinking how timely it was that Royce was sprung just a few months before Vilarde disappeared. Probably just coincidence.

  Afterward, I read magazines until midnight. Actually, I looked at the pages and pictures and thought about Mary and me, and what the hell was happening. What was happening? Then I trudged upstairs. Mary had been asleep for an hour. At one-thirty the phone rang. In a panic, I grabbed it. It was either a crank call or an emergency. Like any parent with children away from home, I dreaded the late phone call.

  "Chief? Hey chief!"

  The voice was heavy and slurred. The man sounded black. I brusquely told the caller he had the wrong number and hung up. But just before I returned to sleep a thought slipped into my head, and before I
fully considered it, the phone rang again.

  "Hey chief! That you?"

  "Is this Mike Summers?"

  "Yeah, tha's right. Who's this?"

  Summers was apparently calling from the Blue Flame Lounge. A saxophone squeaked and honked in the background. There was the loud murmur of a crowded night spot.

  "This is Charles Adams. I'm a friend of Liatis Roantis, who's just recovering from a gunshot wound. Can you talk for a minute?"

  Mary had turned on the light. She sat up in bed, squinting and frowning.

  "Yeah I can talk. On your nickel. I'm about busted, man. Where's Roantis?"

  "In the hospital. It's a long story. Can I call you back tomorrow morning?"

  "Yeah, lemme give you a number."

  "Who is it, Charlie? What time is it?" asked Mary.

  "It's late. It's one of the Daisy Ducks: Summers."

  But Mary was unimpressed. She was even annoyed, and frumped back down and turned over, growling. I copied down the number Summers gave me and went to sleep.

  * * *

  "And so that's it. Royce is out, but God knows where. Maybe he isn't exactly sure where he is. That leaves Jusuelo and Vilarde not pinned down. Your guess is still as good as mine."

  Roantis squinted at me over the rim of his glass. It was a novel experience seeing him drink water. He sank back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

  "How did Summers sound to you?" he asked.

  "Wasted. He was drunk when he first called me and shaky as hell next morning. It seems the security firm just fired him too. He doesn't know how long he can keep his tiny apartment in the ghetto, and his mother is moving to her sister's in St. Louis. I think when she splits he'll go down the chute real fast."

  "Shit," murmured Roantis under his breath. He shook his head slowly back and forth on the pillow, then lighted a Camel. I don't know how he got the cigarettes; the doctors had nixed them. "I tell ya Doc, this soldiering sucks the heart right out of you. Then it takes the center of your soul and rots it away. Summers had a lot of potential. A shame."

  "I'm going out to Texas to see Kaunitz in March."