Down to the car again, with one last look up the slope to that spot where she slept, invisible from here. If she sat up now, if she saw him—
She didn't. He started the engine, waited for a tractor-trailer to go by, and headed out onto the highway. In no time at all he was doing eighty on 80. Next stop New York.
Well? Something the matter with you?
The late entry…
SIX MEMBERS OF the Open Sports Committee — David Fayley, Kenny Spang, Felicity Tower, Ben Cohen, F. Xavier White, and Wylie Cheshire — sat in the living room of David and Kenny's apartment and told one another stories about statues. And the more they talked, the more it seemed to them that something funny was going on.
This meeting had been prompted by a phone call Wylie Cheshire had made to Ben Cohen this morning. After the two of them had compared notes — Wylie's statue smashed on Wylie's head, Ben's statue stolen from Ben's boat — they'd made more phone calls, and not the least interesting discovery they'd made was that several committee members seemed to have disappeared. Among those still available, these six had gathered here to try to figure out what was going on, but they weren't having much success. "Our trouble is," Ben Cohen said at one point, "we're coming into this too late. We don't know what it's all about."
Felicity unexpectedly said, "I do know something about the statue."
They all looked at her. Wylie Cheshire shifted his football player's bulk on one of the little living room chairs (David Fayley winced), and said, "Well, let us in on it."
"I saw a copy," she told them, "in the Museum of the Arts of the Americas. I took one of my classes there, from Liberation High. Some of the children have Hispanic parents on one or both sides, and of course it's vital to reconnect the children with some sense of their heri—"
"That's fine, that's fine," Ben Cohen said. "But what about the statue?"
"They have copies of some items in the museum," Felicity said, "because the originals are still in their native land. And I distinctly remember seeing a copy of the Dancing Priest there, with a notice giving information about the original. It's supposed to be very valuable."
"I thought it might be," Ben Cohen said.
The Recidivist…
JERRY'S ARGUMENT WITH himself was only half vocal. Every time his interior monologue came up with some other damn stupid pointless argument he invariably replied to it out loud: "How do I know she likes me?" he yelled at one point. "She doesn't even know me!" And a little later he announced to the empty car, "No, I don't have to give a damn what the other guys think, and that isn't the point, anyway." And somewhat farther east he slapped an angry palm against the steering wheel and shouted, "I know I'm as good as she is. She's the one, with her goddam symphony orchestra and her goddam college teacher husband!" And a bit after that: "All right, all right, so what if nobody said anything about permanent? And if it isn't permanent, then what's the fuss all about?" And right on the heels of that one: "Bullshit! I hardly know her! Okay, she's fine, she's all right, there's nothing wrong with her, some other time I could go for her, it's just too bad we met this way, all right?"
No U-turn said the small black-on-white sign marking the little dirt road that crossed over the central grass strip to the westbound lanes. "GODDAM IT TO HELL AND BACK!" Jerry screamed, punching the steering wheel and the seat and his own leg, and he made the U-turn, anyway, despite the sign and despite everything else, and headed west as fast as the goddam drag-ass station wagon would carry him.
Maybe she was still asleep, and she'd never know he was even gone.
Maybe she woke up and hitched a ride already, and he'd never see her again. (Get herself murdered by some passing maniac?)
But when he got there she was on the other side of the road, wheeling the harp along through the grass (how did she do that?) the suitcases already side by side on the gravel shoulder. Jerry didn't waste time looking for any more No U-turns. He made a no-u-turn of his own, across the lumpy greensward, squealing to a stop at her feet, jumping out with a combined expression of relieved smile and repentant frown, saying forcefully, "Listen."
She pointed a finger at him. Her face was as hard as granite. "Where's the statue?" she said.
The Interrogator…
WHICH WASN'T EVEN the main question. The main question, of course, was Why? Everything else Bobbi already understood, and had understood almost from the instant she'd awakened, alone and stiff, on that sunny slope. Only in the immediate dislocation of coming to consciousness naked on the open ground in the sunlight were there any other questions in her mind: Where am I? Where's Jerry? What's happening?
Well, all of those questions answered themselves almost at once. As they say in the detective novels, everything fell into place. Of course their meeting last night had not been accidental; a young man from New York, travelling alone, having dinner in a place that was actually closed by that hour. And of course he'd vandalized the Jaguar himself, in order to get her into his own car.
But why? Just for a quickie in the grass? That made no sense at all, but what other reason was there? Hurriedly dressing, taking it for granted the son of a bitch had stolen her luggage — all of her clothing, all of her possessions, her harp — she was both relieved and bewildered to see her bag still here where she'd left it, with its cash and its credit cards and everything else still inside. Touching up her face and hair, checking her progress with the mirror in her compact she was astounded to discover tears on her cheeks. She was crying over the bastard?
No, over the betrayal. The leavings of their picnic lunch were about her, the crumpled papers, the nearly empty tomato juice jar, the melting ice cubes in their plastic bag. Giulietta Masina near the finish of Nights of Cabiria, when the guy runs away with her purse. Goddam it! Why had he done such a miserable thing?
Partway down the slope she came across the harp and the suitcases side by side. At that point his motivation utterly bewildered her, and it was due to her perplexity that she opened both bags and discovered the loss of the Other Oscar.
So the only question left to ask was Why?; but she didn't start with that one. She started with an irrelevant question. "Where's the statue?" (when of course it had just been delivered to a confederate somewhere) because she wanted to hear him lie. Get the first bunch of lies out of the way, and then keep at him until she got the truth. Flag down another driver if necessary, bring in the police if necessary, but get the truth. After the lies.
(It never occurred to her he might have returned to do her harm, or to murder her. That opportunity had come when they were isolated and alone — and when she was helplessly asleep — and if he hadn't done it then, he never would. No, he was here to lie her out of suspicion.)
"It's in the car," he said. "On the back seat, under a blanket."
"What?" That was certainly a lie — he wouldn't have come back without getting rid of the evidence — but it was the wrong lie. It was a lie that admitted the theft, and what was the point in that?
Determined to get beyond bewilderment and obfuscation at once, Bobbi marched to the car, yanked open a rear door, flipped the blanket on the back seat out of the way, and found herself staring at the naked yellow ass of the Dancing Aztec Priest.
"Well, shit," she said.
"Listen," he said, less forcefully than before. "Let me tell you what happened, all right?"
Now there'd be some lies. Folding her arms, leaning against the side of the car, glaring at his face in the clear sunlight, she said, "Go right ahead."
"In the first place," he said, "that wasn't any accidental meeting last night. I followed you from New York."
She took a deep breath. "You son of a bitch," she said, "you're trying to confuse me.
"I'm trying to tell you the truth."
"That's what's confusing me. Go ahead, let's hear some more of it."
"Okay." He looked pained and uncomfortable. "I didn't know you, okay? All I knew about you, you were some half-ass broad throws her husband's clothes out the window and takes off
."
"What? Wait a minute, are you a friend of Chuck's?" No, not a friend. "Did he hire you?" A private detective, sent out by Chuck to get the Other Oscar. Was Chuck that crazy?
"You mean your husband?" Jerry shook his head. "He doesn't have anything to do with it. I met him once, that's all, and you were right, you shouldn't stick with him. But the thing is, I didn't know you, you know what I mean? So I figured you're this nothing broad, I'll just dance you around a little, cop the statue, and take off. Like, if I'd come up to your room last night, that's the way it would of been. No fuss, no trouble, you'd still have the Jag this morning, on your way to sunny Cal."
"So you admit you vandalized that car."
He shrugged, with the hint of an unrepentant grin. "Sure. I couldn't keep chasing any Jag forever with that beat-up clunker of mine. That's my sister's car, by the way, the cops towed mine away yesterday when you went into the building where your orchestra is."
"Orchestra? How long have you been following me?"
"That's where I picked you up," he said. "I was looking for you a while before that."
Now she narrowed her eyes, peering at him more closely and more suspiciously. "Have I seen you someplace before?"
"Well, a couple of times," he admitted. "The first time was when you left your place after you threw the clothes out the window. I was down by the street door, trying to get in."
She had no memory of anyone there when she'd stormed out; she'd been pretty singleminded at that point. "Where else?"
"We went up in the elevator together, when you went to the auto transport place."
"Right!" She pointed a finger at him, as though she'd finally trapped him in some clumsy falsehood. "That's where I saw you! So what in hell is it all about? What are you doing this for?"
"To get the statue," he said.
"The statue? The Other Oscar? But what for? Why?"
"Because it's real gold," he said. "And the eyes are real emeralds, and it's worth a million dollars."
The Fellowship…
"YOU'RE DRIVING TOO SLOWLY!" Krassmeier insisted, and pounded the seat back next to Corella's ear, a sight that would have done the long-suffering chauffeur Ralph a world of good to see. Let Corella find out what it was like to have the goddam seat back pounded next to your goddam ear. Let him see how much he liked it.
He didn't like it at all. "Cut out that pounding!" he yelled. "I'm not driving too slow! You wanna get stopped by a cop, waste half an hour getting a ticket? I'm doing a steady sixty-four!"
The bronze Oldsmobile, filled with Corella and Oscar Russell Green in front and Krassmeier, Bud Beemiss, and Chuck Harwood in back, was not in fact going too slowly. If anything, it was going a bit too fast. Had they been doing a steady sixty-owe for the last four hours, they would not have zoomed past Jerry and Bobbi's picnic spot before Bobbi reached the side of the highway with her first suitcase. As it was, she'd just been awakening on her hilltop when they'd driven past, and was out of their sight.
Not only that, they'd also seen the station wagon, though they didn't know it. In the first place, "Jerry Spaulding" had put a false license number on that motel registration card to go with his false last name, so Corella and party were now looking for a license plate that probably didn't exist at all on this road. And in the second place, they'd had no reason to pay attention to the dark-green station wagon when they'd seen it, because it had been going hell for leather the other way.
The five men had been cramped together in this car a long long time, and they were all getting irritable. They were also hungry, and every one of them in increasingly desperate need of a men's room. With the atmosphere also poisoned by the mingled smokes of Corella's cigar, Chuck Harwood's pipe, and Krassmeier's cigarettes, it was not a happy vehicle.
And now Chuck, in the back seat with Krassmeier and Bud Beemiss, twisted around to look out the rear window — elbowing Bud pretty badly in the process — and mildly said, "Here comes somebody who isn't as afraid of the police as you are, Corella."
Corella glared at the rear-view mirror. A dark automobile was coming lickety-split in the left lane. "Let him get picked up," Corella groused. And he doggedly maintained his sixty-four as the other car rapidly overtook them, passing on their left.
"There she is!" Bud suddenly yelled, and in waving his arms around he gave both Krassmeier and Chuck a mean flurry of elbows.
"Stop that!" Krassmeier slapped at Bud's waving arms.
"There she is!" Bud insisted, and now everybody looked to the left, at the dark-green station wagon passing them, and that was Bobbi in the passenger seat!
"That's her!" Oscar shouted, up front beside Corella, and he thumped his fist onto Corella's leg.
The station wagon was ahead, was moving away. "Stop hitting me!" Corella yelled, but everybody else was yelling louder:
"Stop her!"
"Catch them!"
"Run them off the road!"
"Hustle, man, hustle!"
Gotta hustle.
The fast friends…
FLASHBACK:
Jerry told her the rest of the story as they sat together in the car, parked by the side of the road. "I have a little independent trucking outfit at Kennedy," he started, and told her about the Spanish alphabet, the box marked A, the box marked E, the million-dollar statue, the dispersal of the sixteen candidates, the several searchers, the gradual winnowing of the prospects, and the ultimate discovery that hers indeed was The One. She listened wide-eyed, not interrupting, and at the finish she gazed with awe at the golden behind of the statue on the back seat. "A million dollars," she said.
"Maybe more."
She frowned at him. "Then why come back?"
He became immediately uncomfortable. Drumming his finger-tips on the steering wheel, looking past her left ear and then her right ear, he said, "Well — I just did, that's all."
"Why?"
"How do I know? I mean, why not? Can't leave you out here. Somebody come along and sex-crime ya, something."
"You got away with it," she pointed out, "and then you turned around and came back. After all, the statue is mine."
"Yeah, I know." And he looked glum, as though he too realized he'd behaved with less than brilliance.
"Do you expect me just to give it to you?"
"I don't know, lady." Irritation was popping to his surface like bubbles on fudge. "I come back, all right? We'll work it out later. So now we'll go to New York." And, under her level gaze, he started the engine, jammed it into gear, and kicked the station wagon out onto the highway.
Flash forward:
"I'll give you the statue," she said.
He showed her a sudden frown. "You'll what?"
"Well, not exactly give," she said. "I tell you what I'll do. You're supposed to split with your brothers-in-law, right?"
"Right."
"So you can share your part with me."
"That's an eighth," he told her. "You want an eighth, instead of the whole thing? A hundred thousand instead of a million?"
"Sure."
"Why?"
"They're both unreal. A hundred grand, a million. What difference does it make?"
His look at her this time was keen and unbelieving. "Come on, kid," he said. "You know better than that."
"Maybe."
"So what's the idea? Why you being so good to me?"
"Because I think you're in love with me," she said.
He laughed, trying to hide how much he was pleased. "In love with you! I don't even know you!"
"Maybe once you get to know me you won't love me any more," she said, "but right now I think you do."
"Is that right? I'm in love with you, huh?" He steered out and around a slowpoke bronze Oldsmobile; he himself was doing ninety-three. "And what about you?"
"Maybe once I get to know you I won't care for you at all," she said.
"And in the meantime?"
"I think you're terrific, if you want the truth."
"Is that love?"
; She frowned. "Love is such a big word."
"You won't mind hitting me on the head with it," he said.
She grinned at him, and he grinned back, and she said, "You know what I'd like to do?"
"Me, too," he said. "There's some woods over there." And he put on his right directional, to let that bronze Oldsmobile behind him know he was going to pull off the road and come to a stop.
The omniscient viewpoint…
THE HAWK WAS looking for a nice plump rabbit, or maybe a good juicy field mouse. Hanging in the middle of the sky, just to the south of route 80 in eastern Union County, Pennsylvania, the hawk held its wings outspread catching the updraughts, watching the ground for movement.
Movement ensued. A dark-green Ford station wagon slowed and left the concrete of the highway and came to a stop off the road, just at the edge of the field the hawk was studying. The front doors opened and Jerry and Bobbi emerged, just as a bronze Olds-mobile squealed to an angry shuddering stop, angled across the front of the Ford, the two vehicles almost touching. All four of the Oldsmobile's doors opened; Corella leaped out of the left front, Oscar leaped out of the right front, Krassmeier lunged out of the left rear, and nobody emerged from the right rear because, after opening a mere three inches, that door of the Oldsmobile struck the left corner of the Ford's front bumper. Therefore, as Oscar and Krassmeier and Corella all ran toward Jerry and Bobbi and the Ford, first Bud and then Chuck crawled out the left rear doorway of the Oldsmobile.
Meantime, Bobbi shrieked and Jerry jumped back into the Ford, yelling, "In the car! In the car!" But Bobbi didn't get into the car; she stood gaping instead. Not that it made any difference, since Jerry had taken the key from the ignition and didn't have time to reinsert it before Corella and Krassmeier were all over him, grabbing at him, trying to pull him out of the car. He punched Corella on the nose and kicked Krassmeier in the belly, but by then Bud and Chuck had arrived, and he couldn't fight off all four of them.
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