“Mike, I lost everything for you, and you left me,” she screamed before the bailiff holding Peregrine managed to deck her with a back handed punch. She was then tackled by two more court guards. The point to the plastic comb handle had been sharpened up fine. Smoke/Eugene’s orange prison jumpsuit was torn. Blood ran off two slashes in his shoulder.
“Her name’s Rosanne Casey,” an old duffer informed the Fed from Temptations, now in a nice clean suit. “She was Peregrine’s lover, under his Baumann alias.”
They stood in the hall, the arraignment broken up when Rosanne was carried off in hysterics. Smoke had been hustled off, bleeding and still in silence, into the bowels of the court. David flagged him out, gesturing for them to avoid the crowd.
“Greg, why didn’t you tell us Smoke was Peregrine,” David whispered. He wore a “New Afrika Lives!” button.
“He’s not,” Greg said, caught off guard. “I mean, he’s not the Peregrine Larry and I know. I mean...”
But it was too late. David’s eyes lit up, and Greg realized he had blown it. His one chance to rid himself of the Solidarity Brigade, his opportunity to unobtrusively ditch the riemanium in the furor around Smoke/Eugene, and he had blown it with a careless remark.
“So, Smoke doesn’t have the riemanium,” David smiled, then started to whine. “Then we have to talk this Solidarity Brigade stuff through. It’s an opportunity we can’t let slip through our fingers.”
“Not here,” Greg glanced about, “And not with Joseph and Nina. Another meeting. Well have another meeting, Sunday again. Call me and well arrange the time and place. I’ll be there this time.”
Greg passed the Fed on his way to the exit. He could not resist.
“Finally cleaned all the brains off that suit,” Greg commented. The Fed reddened, to Greg’s satisfaction as he sauntered off.
“Give me a call,” Lori smiled, brushing up close against him in the courthouse lobby’s confusion as she was about to leave. She playfully squeezing his crotch.
He tracked down the information he needed. Smoke was being held in the Federal Corrections Complex, and his visiting hours were weekday mornings, from 8 to 10. He kicked himself for blowing it with David as he drove through the city toward home. Then, a vague inkling of what to do with the riemanium, once and for all, stirred in his mind. He did not head back to Alabaster immediately. Instead, he drove to Mount Tamalpais and his meadow. His backpack and shovel were still in the trunk of the car. The meadow dreamt in shadows as the northern bay smoldered with the day’s late sun. As he retraced his steps to his buried treasure, he considered his own private storm. The meadow and its history provoked his response even without his usual ritual.
Janet had hurt him, but Greg could not imagine how she could have done things differently. He was grateful she had not kept him hanging on. She had not lied to him. He preferred the pain and his own life, to the comfort of illusion and lie. He was thankful at least that she had not been cruel, that in fact she had tried to minimize his pain and remain his friend.
He was monogamous by nature. Sleeping with Margaret and Lori had not been the fantasy fulfilment he had expected. First, there were no equivalencies. Making love with two women he liked did not add up to making love with one woman he had loved. No more than having fair sex with two different women added up to having excellent sex with the same woman.
Second, emotional complexity took the edge off the new and promiscuous. He still had his feelings for Janet, only they were compounded, contradicted and complimented by his feelings for Lori and especially Margaret. He could not have sex without becoming emotionally involved to some degree, and he was not helping matters by weaving one relationship upon another, in turn upon vet another. Emotionally, he felt confused and anxious.
The grass had started to re-root under his sod patch, so he applied his shovel carefully around its edges until it peeled up. The riemanium was where he had left it. He extracted it, also with care, brushed off the dirt, and fitted it into his backpack.
He liked Lori, but he was also wary of her. The vindictiveness with which she now went after her former lover, Smoke, gave him pause. She liked toying with other people’s thoughts and emotions. She did not fully believe Larry’s and his story about the riemanium, as her fishing expeditions made clear. And, she used sex to further her own agenda. He could considerably simplify his life by no longer sleeping with her.
Margaret was another matter. Peggy was not who he wanted to stay with for the rest of his life. She was nice, but they shared little except an interest in fun sex and weird music. Yes, he liked Peggy, but he did not love her, not at least in the way he had loved Janet. He did enjoy her company, and knew that mostly what interested her was a good time. No heavy commitments, which was fine by him. If he could keep a better handle on his own feelings, he could keep their relationship at the level of friendship, and friendly sex.
Or could he? How would he feel if she decided not to sleep with him again? Not to see him again? How would he feel if, having found somebody to love and commit to, he had to tell and then leave Margaret? How would he feel if Peggy wanted to get more serious? The politics of friendship, love and sex were not so simple. After seeing Smoke/Eugene in that courtroom, Greg realized that friendship was to be valued, perhaps even above love. Loved and hated, Eugene did not have a friend in the world. At least not in the Bay Area. And here he was, trying to shove a friend of a lifetime in Janet out of his life, out of bitterness, while settling for nothing more than friendship with Peggy.
He carried the riemanium in his pack back to his car. He drove home as the sun set, streaming dying light over the coastal ranges. He heard crows among the sun fired trees about the house as he carried his heavy load down into the basement. Andre sat in his den when Greg walked through.
“Good, you’re home early,” his father smiled, “I was wondering if we could have dinner a little earlier. I have a late, late meeting with a client in the city. Kind of an emergency that developed while I was in Australia.”
“Sure,” Greg said.
Consuello quickly grilled up the trout stuffed with onions and mushrooms, and wrapped in bacon. She served it with the rest of the food which had been on hold; baked potatoes, fresh tomatoes stuffed with a spicy nut and cheese mix, and a tossed green salad with ranch dressing. Andre offered Greg a beer, who declined it. They chatted amiably over events in the Bay Area during his father’s absence, Andre glad to see his son in better mood, and Greg glad not to reveal how close he had been to those events.
“Isn’t it an old Chinese curse, May you live in interesting times’,” Andre cut into his potato smothered in butter, sour cream and chives. There’s going to be a lot more trouble if we don’t end that war.”
That’s for certain,” Greg said. He paused, fork over his plate, interested in changing the subject. “Dad, how long did it take you to become friends again with mom? After she left?”
“Well, we were talking all the time, you understand,” Andre peeled off more fish from its skeleton, secretly pleased that even his son’s tone on Janet was more positive, “But I wasn’t talking too friendly for the first year. To be truthful, I badgered Rachel into giving me full custody of you, and into accepting the minimum in alimony. I wasn’t a very nice person to your mom during that time. So I guess I’d say it was a year after the divorce when I finally could have a friendly conversation with her. Since then, I’ve tried to make things up to her. I gave her more money, let you go down to live with her those summers, things like that.”
The meal was savory, but short, ending in conversation about the son’s schooling and the father’s travels.
“Sorry about this, but I really have to get into the City,” Andre apologized. This thing may turn out to be an all nighter. Maybe we can get together this weekend. Sunday.”
“Sure,” Greg said, and helped his father clear the table, “I need to get some studying in also.”
He did not study. Instead, he called Peggy.
&
nbsp; “And where’ve you been?” She sounded a bit put out. Greg found himself silently pleased with her reaction. He imagined her sexy mouth pinched in disapproval and her dark eyes blacker than usual.
“I was in Oakland last weekend,” Greg told the truth, “And I got so far behind in my studies that I just had to bury my head in the books. Sorry I didn’t call you sooner, but I’ve been living at the library.”
“You were in Oakland?” her voice was unbelieving. Greg knew he had been provisionally forgiven.
“Yeh, I left Monday morning, after New Afrika ended. Want to get together tonight?”
“Sure,” she said, “But my room mate’s here.”
That’s all right,” Greg said, “My dad isn’t.”
He waited until Andre was gone before driving over to pick her up and take her back to his room. He showed her his New Afrika arm band, but not the grenade shell, and told her stories from the Liberated Territory. They made love several times. Greg watched her lips wrapped around a pleasured moan, before sleep took them. He fixed her breakfast quietly, not to disturb Consuello or Andre, before driving Peggy to her apartment the next morning.
Thursday was his heavy class day. Afterwards he VR’ed in the library until it closed at 8 that night. Holed up as he was, he could not avoid a glimpse of the turmoil battering his friends and those he knew. A poster had been taped to the buttresses of the library beneath stickers proclaiming “New Afrika Lives!” It was a clear picture of Smoke in sunglasses and leather jacket, from mid-torso up. In the picture, Smoke smiled broadly, his strong white teeth possibly framing a laugh. Above the picture, in bold, bold type, it read: BEWARE, MAD DOG. Below the picture, in the same type face but smaller, it read: SHOOT ON SIGHT! SHOOT TO KILL!
An extensive and lively bathroom wall graffiti debate was in progress in the library’s outside men’s bathroom. The anonymous writers considered whether Smoke should be publicly flayed and skinned, strung up by his genitalia, branded with his crimes on his buttocks, have every bone in his body broken in at least three places, receive a molten steel enema, or two dozen other suggestions. Many folks had to have loved Smoke a lot to hate him so much now. He did not bother returning David’s, Lori’s or Larry’s messages on his machine when he arrived home, favoring a deep sleep instead.
***
Marcus and Gwen had almost everything packed by mid morning Thursday in Alabaster, when Neal drove up.
“Care for a beer?” Mark offered.
“Thanks,” Neal accepted, “So, its good-bye Alabaster.”
“Until the funeral,” Marcus helped order the suitcases by the door. Then he checked over the boxed computer and communications equipment. “We’re taking Joe’s girlfriend to the cemetery. Anyway, the job’s done here. And this is not Gwen’s and my idea of a vacation spot.”
“We’re going to Europe at the end of the month,” Gwen said, cheerily, catching her husband’s last remark.
“Oh?” Neal raised an eyebrow at Marcus, “What about the legal matters concerning the Peregrine Case? He’s going to trial...”
“But not for a long, long time, even under the best of conditions,” Mark said, “The government’s going slow on this case. Absolutely by the book. They don’t want to blow it on the arrest, on the trial, on anything. 111 give what depositions and sworn statements I can as needed before we leave. And I’m purchasing a portable fax service. Anybody willing to pay the fees can get a hold of me. We’ll be back before the trial starts.”
“Honey, can you help me?” Gwen struggled with two suitcases through the bedroom door. He took the larger one and they moved the last of their luggage next to the door.
“Could you take care of the hotel bill dear?” Mark said to his wife, “Neal and I have business to discuss.”
As she walked to the motel office, Marcus faced Neal.
“I believe the balance owed is $200,000,” Marcus said in business monotone.
“The riemanium still hasn’t been found,” Neal pointed out.
“That wasn’t our deal,” Marcus was firm, “You wanted me to find Peregrine. I did. I see the riemanium as incidental at this point. Eugene Wisdom is probably holding it as his last ace, to negotiate a lighter sentence.”
“This is not the Marcus Dimapopulos, the renowned detective that I once knew,” Neal sighed and fished into his coat pocket.
“You’re right Neal,” the detective said, coldly, “In the old days, I would have stayed on a case to wrap up loose ends like this, no charge. But I’ve come to discover a new Neal Emerson in the past two and a half weeks. One who is petty and vindictive. A Neal Emerson who pushed a young woman into a psychotic break only because she happened to love the man both of us wanted a little too much. A Neal Emerson willing to trample on whoever or whatever in order to keep his skeletons safely hidden in his closet.”
“That’s not quite fair,” Neal handed over a cashier’s check, drawn on Neal’s accounts, for the balance in full.
“Isn’t it?” Marcus folded the check and slipped it into his pocket, “I may have let my professional standards slide in closing this case. But you’re not the Neal Emerson I served with in the Marines. And to think that someone like Joe Manley died to keep your dirty laundry from seeing the light of day.”
“I hope we can remain friends,” was all Neal could muster.
“Yes,” Marcus replied, “But not close friends.”
The detective backed their station wagon to the cottage door. Husband and wife packed it from experience. Neal watched. They had left the computer equipment for Neal to manage. As Mark and Gwen drove across the lot to the road, Neal waved. They waved back. Marcus was glad to be leaving the confines of Alabaster, though he figured there was a grave in this town he would be visiting now and again after Saturday’s funeral.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Eugene woke before dawn, fighting the knotted fear deep in his stomach. Fighting the urge to dry heave. So far, he’d gotten the kid glove treatment. He’d had a Miranda-correct arrest; polite interrogations from the highway patrol, police, and FBI; and court proceedings protective of his rights down to the crossed t’s and dotted i’s. He’d remained conscious and able to read the contents to the drugs with which they were injecting him while they stitched him up at the hospital. Then he’d been provided an attentive interview with a solicitous public defender, a cell all to himself in Maximum Security, and full weekday visitor’s hours in a visiting room certified unmonitored by the NLG. He’d refused to say word one during the interrogations, and he’d blown off his lawyer with the excuse of Rosanne’s attack. By now, his brother would know of his circumstances through the grapevine.
He’d returned to Alabaster Sunday night in a car from Oakland’s streets, modified by Captain Johnson so that it wasn’t hot. Remaining yellow police tape announced that his apartment was no longer home. A Sunday paper revealed some of the events of Saturday to him. Sulawesi, and the police. He’d slept in his car that night, and considered his options over a greasy diner breakfast the next day. The safest place to contemplate such a near miss was in the crater of that near miss. He felt no qualms about wandering about the town, purchasing what he would need for two days in the woods before the deal on his contraband went through. Afterwards, he’d be $170,000 richer and long gone from California. He’d even spent much of the last of his money on a pitcher of beer at the Redwood Eatery for himself as Smoke, before he decided on grabbing a little easy, extra spending money from the book coop for those two days in the woods.
His had been a stupid decision to rob the Conspiracy that night. But the nab at the post office had been good detective work. He gave that to Marcus Dimapopulos, his unexpected nemesis. His stomach felt as if he’d just been kicked in the gut, only he’d had that feeling ever since the detective cornered him. The same ulcerous pain he’d felt for a month after he’d read Kate’s rambling suicide letter. After she’d blown herself up with materials he’d helped her purchase. He fought back his feelings of guilt; the sense that thi
s was his “payback.” Christ, he didn’t want to go to jail. Now, all he had was a bluff.
He knew Greg had the riemanium. But no one else did, at least no one who held him in this prison now. What’s more, no one except Greg and, perhaps, Larry knew that he didn’t have the riemanium. It was a long shot. His silence during his interrogations, his arraignment, and even to his “visitors” from Alabaster the day before had been calculated. If the powers-that-be believed that he had the riemanium, or knew where it was hidden, he might be able to cut a deal. Today, when his lawyer came to visit him in the afternoon, he’d hint broadly that such a deal was possible. His freedom for the riemanium’s return.
Eugene needed to work out contingencies, in case the Solidarity Brigade reared its ugly head. If it didn’t by the time the deal was in process, so much the better. The FBI was backed against the wall, that Sumner character on the White House carpet for his disastrous handling of both the riemanium and Oakland. If he played everything right, he could pull a sting on the Bureau. Once outside the prison walls, he had the chance at escape. Organizing an escape meant getting in touch with his brother, though he suspected his brother was already getting in touch with him through his connections.
Day etched the narrow, pressure proof glass in the slitted windows of his prison cell. The knot in his stomach had not gone away. All he had was a bluff.
***
Friday morning, Greg got up early and had a surprise breakfast with his father. Both men were hurrying off for busy days, actually in the same direction, toward the city. But they managed to each complain about the earliness of the hour and the fullness of the day to come over a shared newspaper, scrambled eggs, hash browns and lots of coffee. This coincidental synchronization of their schedules gratified both of them.
“Oh, by the way, it’s polite to tell Consuello when we’re having guests over,” Andre arched an eyebrow in glancing up from the sports section, making his son blush. “We pay her to clean up mainly after us.”
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