by Boston Teran
"The dude that created the labyrinth got himself imprisoned there. Did you notice what was written on the nose of my Husky?"
"The Big D."
Caruso nodded gruffly. "You're observant, that's good." He licked salt from the back of his filthy hand. "The D was for Daedalus." He couldn't get a shot of tequila down fast enough to get back to his story. His ragged teeth went at the sliver of lemon, and Dane waited.
"Daedalus made these wax wings for him and his kid to blow out of there on. There was the sun above, and water below when they humped it over the walls. The sun burns wax, and the waves and fish can get at you, so he told his ki d…'Don't fly too high… don't fly too low.'"
Caruso poured another shot of tequila. No time-wasting salt and lemon, just the straight drop. "That statement became my mantra for survival when I was whacked. It meant moderation… middle ground… and mind my own fuckin' business."
The Fenns swung in from the coffee shop giving off their best all-star vibe as they talked it up with other flyers they knew who ran out of Rio Vista. Shane came over to the table. "Sayyy, Paul." He held up a cellular to be scrutinized. "Check out my new phone. You think I could get good reception in here?"
With a minimalist's civility Caruso answered, "For about one second."
Tommy told his brother not to fuck around, nodded to Caruso, then cut on over to the bar. Shane leaned across the table and reached for a slice of lemon. Just a little space-invading pleasure trip. He glanced at Dane. "Nice eye covers."
By the time Shane had swung up onto a bar stool beside his brother, Sancho Maria was at the table telling Paul, "We've got to get ready for the memorial."
The men stood. "You have a place yet?" asked Caruso.
"No."
"There's showers here. We could lend you towels if you want."
* * *
WHEN THE three walked out of The Burrow dusk had turned the world a soft blue that lights only began to fill in with detail.
"It must be wonderful having your sight back."
Dane did not answer right away, which surprised Sancho Maria. Instead, he followed a two-prop as it approached out of the last fired edges of the horizon, its engine getting closer and stronger till it landed on the western runway near them. He then said, "It depends on the view you bring. I'm not forgetful I'm standing here because someone I never met died in some accident."
That word accident pulled Caruso around toward Dane. "Accident… who coated your asshole with that bullshit?"
Chapter Eleven
THE MEMORIAL FOR Taylor Greene was underway when Dane arrived at the dock in Sacramento. It was taking place on board a cherried paddle wheeler that had traveled the Delta waterways a century ago and was named Little California. The boat, moored that night on Wharf F, was lit for all its beauty. A stirring showpiece in the full regalia of whites and red and gold.
Dane stood alone on the dock where the glow of that packet boat fell away at his feet. He wore a black collarless shirt, black jeans and boots, a white vest, and with hands folded behind his back, silently took in the proceedings.
The decks were crowded with people talking and drinking and playing games of chance, the profits of which would go to the center that was to bear Taylor's name. A full out breeze made the strung lamps along the upper decks sing with movement, and waiters and waitresses and game dealers were dressed in the river boat style of that bygone era.
It was a vision steeped in memories of Bret Harte and Mark Twain and Herman Melville. An ambience meant to project an epoch when people carried their dreams around with them in knapsacks as they moved along the rivers of our history. When characters like John Oakhurst and Huckleberry Finn and The Confidence Man were there to greet us with legend and lore. When brawls and colorful speech and the clacking roulette wheel ball and Stephen Foster's banjo and bucket board slapped water and towns with names like Poker Flat and tragic outlaw songs filled our imagination.
How rich and fraudulent rituals are, Dane thought. How the magic of their accoutrements moves us with exhilarating nostalgia for a moment of time when divinities lived inside us, and we cradled dreams of self-sacrifice and social betterment. When our neighbors were our friends, and our shadows were a helpful compass to set direction and time.
But that selfsame ritual cuts with its poisoned view into the deeper reaches of truth. For even then, when Little California was the Concorde of its day, we as a nation, through selfishness and fear and greed, shut our eyes to a world we created with holsters and cut decks, with scabbards and lies and closed brutal hearts.
Dane approached a long table beside the plank way up to the boat where those invited got their name tags and presents and signed on board. At one end of that burgundy-clothed table was a large photo of Taylor Greene smiling effortlessly. At the other end of that table was the first architect's rendition of what, hopefully, the center might become. Dane saw too, that in the empty space between what had been and what might be was the inevitable truth of how a young man came to find himself twenty-six, forever.
"It was no accident," Caruso said. "Taylor was murdered."
Dane Rudd understood, full well, the power of guilt to determine people's actions. As a cutting tool guilt was finer than any scalpel, or any blade. To effect wellbeing or to destroy, guilt was one of time's most potent and mercurial archangels.
The woman glanced at the young man whose dark fine hair stood up across his high forehead.
"I'm here to sign on board," he said.
Chapter Twelve
NATHAN GREENE WAS on his cellular shredding some poor set of ears that worked for the catering company. The wine delivery had been screwed up and they were about to run short. "No one is going to shit on my son's memorial. So get some fucker down here and deal with it," he shouted, "or I will castrate the lot of you!"
He flipped the cellular shut. Nathan, Ivy, Charles, and the General were in a private room on the lower deck that had at one time been the captain's quarters. The room was done in solid oaks, with mahogany trim and brass hurricane lamps. It was stately and beautiful, but of more importance yet the room held sound well.
Nathan turned to Charles, who sat in a luxurious red leather chair and smoked. "Where is the money? Why haven't the loan papers been addressed?"
Charles looked across the room at the General. Nathan turned to Merrit and waited for what he had to tell him.
"Some of our people… have come… to the decision…" The old man was desperately fatigued… "this deal… isn't warranted."
Ivy could see all sense of calmness leave Nathan's face.
"I don't hear that when I talk to them."
"Yes, well," said Charles. Now Nathan turned to him. Charles put his cigarette out. He crossed his legs, then let his arms fold across his lap. These became time-consuming movements done for the art of making someone wait. "Our people are sensitive to what you've been through, Nathan. And what you want to achieve. You've helped make them money, but, they don't like the deal."
"I've helped—"
"Wait," said Ivy, who was sitting by the General. "It took months for the Delta Association to feel comfortable with this deal."
Charles interrupted, "Which is why—"
"It took a lot of hand holding."
"Which is why—"
"And a lot of promises."
"Which-is-why—"
"And some serious perks."
"Which-is-why we included in the package the development of a mall and town houses first."
"The center is first," demanded Nathan.
"Once there's a revenue stream—"
"You're talking a five-year delay," said Ivy.
"Once there's a revenue stream—"
"What is this 'revenue stream' crap? Suddenly thieves and drug dealers are financial experts. The only revenue streams they understand is what someone else shoots, snorts, swallows or shits. Charles, have you been running me down with these fuckers?"
Charles held a hand out toward the General so h
e could answer, which he did, with a somewhat defeated nod.
"I won't do it," said Nathan.
"Well, then let me suggest something else," said Charles.
"I won't do it."
"I've been approached by some new contacts with clients in Sierra Leone and Colombia."
"You're talking serious border land shit now."
"They're interested in the deal, as you want it done."
"There's a war in Sierra Leone and we have agents and soldiers all over Colombia. How well do you know these people?"
"Hardly at all," said Charles, "hardly enough."
"They could have sting operations tracking them," answered Nathan. "They could be on the verge of indictments and trying to pedal their money out quick."
"All that is true," said Charles, "which is why you would have to take a much more proactive role in handling this."
"What you mean is I'm going down into the rat hole and get dirty."
"If you want this center done your way, then a change of plans will have to take place. That is called compromise. I'm sure you've heard of it."
Charles' cool contempt forced Nathan to put a choke hold on his anger toward that thin and meatless fraud. And it wasn't just how all this was being turned against him, or how Charles now seemed to rule over the General. He could whitewash his way past all that, but it was knowing, with strained and urgent assurance inside his punished soul, that Charles had had a part in Taylor's death.
"I won't fuckin' do it."
Charles looked up at the ceiling for effect. On the shimmering decks above people talked and listened to music, they drank and happily gambled away their money to be donated to a research center they knew would bear Taylor's name. And, more importantly, they waited for Nathan to announce the date when ground-breaking would begin. "I guess," said Charles, "you'll figure out a way to let those people down… easily."
Nathan had had enough. Both Ivy and the General could see his wide, flat, blue-collar hands flex as he started across the room. The General called to Nathan just as Ivy cut him off.
"You two out," said the General.
* * *
WHEN THE door closed behind them Charles turned to Ivy and whispered, "If you don't keep him in line you know what it means for both of us."
* * *
NATHAN SQUATTED down beside the General's wheelchair. There was a buzzing in Nathan's head from all that running blood and he could barely see.
"Give up on the center your way."
"I won't. And he knows I won't. And you know I won't."
The General closed his eyes and wished everything would fall away in peace.
"Merrit, remember how we used to deal with pricks like Charles. How we'd take them up in a helicopter like we were gonna party and then when we were a nice comfortable five hundred feet or so above the jungle we'd quietly toss their asses out."
All that willful and dogged ferocity that had been Captain Nathan Greene was still there. And what had helped get them to where they were today was now a frightening and self-fulfilling reality the General could not run from.
"I have grandchildren to think of."
"And I used to have a son."
"Give up on having the deal…" he sighed, "… your way. Or… or work with these new people."
"We could be exposed. Everything we built could be destroyed."
"I know you'll watch out… for us."
Nathan straightened up a bit. "I'm ashamed to ask you this, but can you control him?"
"I look in people's eyes now… and…" The General's head slipped a bit to one side. "… I see… they know I'm dying and they're not afraid of me. Death gets even for everything we have and have not done."
He held up a hand as if swearing on a Bible. The fingers tremored. "I won't let anything happen to you. You are the only son I ever had. I can say no more than that."
No more was said. Nathan went to the door and called the others back in. "I'll meet these clients, but we stay in play. No setbacks. You make it happen."
Charles agreed. "I understand the stress you're under. If one of my girls died—"
"Taylor didn't die, okay. He was murdered. And everyone in this room knows it." Nathan's eyes scarred as they took in Charles. "I'll find out who did it. And I will burn them to the fuckin' ground."
There was a knock and, when ordered, a woman led Dane in. The palpable tension on that quatro of faces was unavoidable.
"Mr. Greene, you said that as soon as this young man arrived he was to be brought down here."
A finger snap commanded the woman out and fast. Nathan turned his anger on Dane. "You want to explain what the fuck is going on with the wine delivery?" Dane was caught off guard but he tried anyway to get a moment in against that full frontal assault. "This is a memorial, not some shit ass wine tasting your people can screw up."
"Mr. Greene—"
"I don't need wine in an hour, I don't need it in half an hour."
"Mr. Greene—"
"I don't need it in fifteen minutes."
"I'm not who you think I am, sir."
"Excuse me?"
His tone was dead calm. "I'm Dane Rudd. I wrote you, and you invited me."
Nathan's face went slack. Ivy said, "Oh… my."
While Nathan stumbled over his embarrassment and ill-placed anger introductions fell to Ivy. "General… Charles, this young man had a corneal transplant and it turns out… Taylor was the donor. We invited him here for the memorial."
Nathan walked around a desk and folded into the seat as Dane went from hand to hand, shaking them.
"Nathan," said Ivy, "why don't I take the General and Charles upstairs while you—"
Dane quietly finished her sentence, "Recover." He smiled at her, then at Nathan. "It's all right."
Nathan stared at his hands. Dane watched Nathan. "I'm sorry about your son."
Nathan remained silent, with all those life questions running through his blood. The confusion of anger at Taylor's murder, and what to feel for this young man, this innocent stranger, regret over his own faults and actions, his hate for Charles, his compromised position, his despair, and his human loneliness.
He looked up into those gray eyes with their jet-black core. There were phantom misgivings as he tried to find his son there. As he hunted that midnight face for someone he loved and laughed with, and in all truth, failed.
"If this is too hard for you, I will leave."
Nathan shook his head. No, he did not want the young man to leave. He closed his eyes and hid them behind his hands. He started to cry. "I'm so sorry," he said, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for you to see me like this. It's just, I'm confused and overwhelmed."
Dane came around the desk and put his hand on Nathan's shoulder and left it there. He did it so lightly and slowly the feel of it just seemed to materialize. "Mr. Greene, I want you to know, you're safe with me. Do you understand? You're safe."
Chapter Thirteen
CHARLES MADE HIS way through the crowd on the VIP deck when a metal crutch crossed his path. Roy was sitting on a backless chair leaning against the upper deck railing. Flesh was there beside him in a pale blue skin fitter that covered about a half-inch of thigh. Both were a few cocktails into the balmy night.
"How would you like to sponsor my run for the state senate?"
Charles was too wrapped up in the moves and counter moves of the last few minutes to give this any serious thought so he hit Roy with some of his more well-known negatives: "You're a pothead, Roy. And you've either banged or tried to bang every cunt who worked in the courthouse. Excuse me, Flesh, for being so blunt."
She corrected Charles on one point, "Roy would prefer they do 'the bow' to banging him."
"Whatever," said Charles, as he watched Nathan cross the deck, leading the young man he had just met toward the stage where a band played some tripe from the Celine Dion song book.
"I have one of the highest conviction rates of any public servant in the last twenty-three years," said Roy, "
in either Sacramento or Contra Costa counties. And I'm a lock on the handicapped vote."
Charles knew that with Nathan those bloodstained death remarks were not just bullshit, not with the kind of atrocities that son of a bitch carried around in his memory bag done at the behest of his dear General.
Flesh saw that Roy had gotten nowhere with Charles so she took a turn at him with what might be described as a quiet little vamp on spontaneous declarations. "Ivy and the Delta Association did a great job on setting that land deal for the center. But what happens when the General dies? You and Nathan aren't exactly a tight fit anymore." Charles turned to Flesh. "A state legislator with a legal background who was in your corner, one who was friends with that Nathan and had honest influence over him, might be something worth considering."
Having the cunt put it in his face like that, with her erotic smile and black lipstick, Charles took a moment to search out Essie; he found her near the prow with a small group of people. She was wearing a simple black dress and white pearls and she was laughing with the others at what someone had just said.
"You know, Roy, you were right. Essie looks knockout tonight."
As Charles walked away Roy threw up his hands, "I didn't say that, Flesh."
She was beyond believing or disbelieving. "And I'm here trying to help you." She flung her drink in his lap then went for a refill.
Roy couldn't pull himself up fast enough with one arm to save his crotch from the ice and vodka. But as he swiped at his pants he did manage to get off one good barb: "I'll be here waiting, in case later you want to lick it off."
* * *
THE UPPER deck was shaped like an amphitheater. A proscenium stage had been set there for the band. It was on that stage that Nathan would make his tribute speech and announce the date of the ground-breaking ceremony. As he readied the microphone Dane leaned over the railing and looked down onto the lower decks where a streamline of people moved through the shadow-toned lamplight. He spotted Paul and Sancho Maria, got their attention with a whistle, and waved them to come on up and have a drink. Caruso pointed to a security guard at the base of the stairwell dressed as a river boat gut puller with white puffy sleeves and black armbands. "Can't. We're not VIP."