Malice kac-19

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

  "Say, Coach, you mind if we go downstairs and watch the TV while you old folks catch up?" Len asked.

  "Watch it with the 'old folks' comments, Clancy, unless you want to be running suicide sprint drills every day for a month when I get reinstated," O'Toole said, laughing. "But go ahead, you know you don't have to ask, and you've probably behaved yourselves about as long as you can stand. There's beers in the fridge, but leave your keys with me, you're spending the night. I'm about to throw some steaks on the barbecue. How many cows do you think the two of you can eat?"

  "No more than two or three each," Len said, and tossed his keys to O'Toole. "I'm not too hungry… What's for breakfast?"

  O'Toole sighed theatrically. "I've gone into massive debt trying to feed these guys," he said. "And there are a couple dozen more just like them on the team. But come on in, I'm forgetting my manners, making you stand out in the cold."

  Without being asked, the two baseball players took Marlene's suitcases into the house, followed by the others. Then with a wave to the 'old folks,' they disappeared down a big spiral staircase, and the sound of a game on television soon wafted up.

  The next day while sitting in the university meeting room, Marlene smiled at the memory of O'Toole's banter with his players. Not exactly the sort to use sex and booze to recruit youngsters, she thought, and looked over at Huttington and Barnhill. So why were these two so willing to throw him under the truck for some racist jerk just because some fat-cat booster wants his boy on the baseball team?

  Two hours after the deposition began, Meyers asked for a quick break so that he could go back over his notes and make sure he didn't miss anything. Back on the record, he asked a few housekeeping questions and then finished with a question that Karp had suggested during their telephone conversation.

  "We're about finished here," he said, and looked directly into Huttington's eyes. "Is there anything else you can think of that would be relevant or significant regarding this case? Something I might have missed or was omitted?"

  Barnhill scoffed. "What kind of a question is that? President Huttington has been completely forthcoming with both the ACAA investigation and your rather lengthy deposition today."

  Up to this point, Meyers's demeanor had been polite and reserved. But now he fixed Barnhill with an angry glare, which made the other attorney laugh nervously and look quickly away. "Mr. Huttington, I asked you a question," Meyers said tightly. "This is a deposition and you must answer my questions, even if your attorney objects. And do remember you're under oath."

  Barnhill scowled and began to say something, but Huttington waved him off. "That's okay, Clyde, we have nothing to hide here."

  "Yeah, that's right, Kip," Barnhill agreed, though the smile he tried to assume looked almost painful. "Nothing to hide."

  Marlene got the distinct impression that a message had just been passed between Huttington and his attorney. Indeed, it made her wonder what they were hiding.

  "Your answer?" Meyers demanded.

  Huttington blinked at the tone. Nice timing, Marlene thought. Richie's sending his own message.

  "Uh, no, I can't think of anything to add that would be relevant or significant," the university president replied.

  Meyers smiled like he'd just caught Huttington in a lie. "You're sure?"

  Recovering his nerve, Barnhill angrily retorted, "Are you implying that President Huttington is lying?"

  "Not at all," Meyers replied, his tone suddenly light again. "People sometimes forget when they're asked something in an uncomfortable circumstance, such as a deposition. So I was just making sure he'd had plenty of opportunity to answer the question completely and honestly."

  "Then your question has been answered."

  Meyers grinned. "Indeed. Thank you, that's all."

  Huttington and Barnhill stood up quickly and left the room without saying anything more. Meyers looked at Marlene. "How'd I do?" he asked.

  "Perfect," she replied. "Butch would tell you he couldn't have done it better himself."

  "He's a great coach," Meyers replied.

  "He had a great coach, too," Marlene noted, looking out the window. Big flakes of snow were floating gently to the ground. She shivered. "Someplace around here where a gal can get a hot cup of coffee?"

  "You bet," O'Toole replied. "There's a great little Basque coffee shop around the corner."

  They got up from the table and walked out into the hallway just in time to see Huttington and Barnhill confronted by an olive-skinned man wearing a bright red beret and carrying a wooden cane. "Where is my daughter?" the man demanded in heavily accented English.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Santacristina, we've been over this; I have no idea regarding the whereabouts of Maria," Huttington replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He started to move toward his office but Santacristina blocked his way.

  Barnhill took a step toward the man. "I believe there is a restraining order that prohibits you from coming within one hundred feet of Mr. Huttington. Now, do I need to summon the police?"

  "Summon whoever you want, Barnhill," Santacristina shot back angrily. "I'm sure the newspapers and television stations will enjoy the story of the father who was arrested for asking a married university president what happened to the student he was having an affair with."

  On cue, a campus police officer appeared from inside the president's office. "Is there a problem here?" he said to the men.

  Marlene expected that Huttington would have the angry man thrown off campus or in jail, but instead the university president shook his head. Glancing nervously in the direction of Marlene, O'Toole, and Meyers, he said, "No, it's all right, Officer. Mr. Santacristina's daughter, Maria, was a student intern in my office. She was reported missing by her father last spring, and he now labors under the mistaken impression that I know something about her disappearance."

  "She was more than a student intern, wasn't she, Huttington?" Santacristina demanded. He pointed to the university president with his thick wooden stick. "This man used his position and smooth words to lure a young woman into an illicit affair. What would any father think?"

  "Thinking might actually be wise before 'any father' goes around making more wild accusations," Barnhill retorted. "Or shows up drunk at a university dinner party thrown in honor of Mr. Huttington and makes a scene in front of all the guests, which is what got him slapped with a restraining order…an order, I might add, I am about to invoke if he doesn't get out of our way. Or maybe it's the Immigration and Naturalization Service I should call."

  Santacristina glared at the two men. "I will leave," he said. "But I will never stop haunting you until justice is done." He turned to go but hesitated when he saw Marlene looking at him. His eyes narrowed as if sizing her up; then he headed for the exit, with the police officer following to make sure he left. Huttington and Barnhill glanced once more in their direction before walking into the president's office.

  "What was that all about?" Marlene asked.

  "Well, it was pretty big news here for a little while when Maria Santacristina disappeared late last spring," O'Toole said. "But that's the first I've heard that she was having an affair with Huttington."

  "Do you believe it?" Marlene said. "Or is…what's his name-Santacristina?-a desperate father grasping at straws?"

  O'Toole shrugged. "Believe what? That good ol' Kip was having sex with a student? What's not to believe? She was a lovely girl; he's a good-looking, well-spoken older guy. But I'm sure he wouldn't want that to get out. Sawtooth is a pretty small, conservative town-screwing students, excuse the imagery, would not go over well. Plus, he married into big local money, and knowing his wife, Suzanne, she'd leave him penniless. But the part about Huttington knowing what happened to her? That's not something I've heard about, either."

  "Do you know the father?" Marlene asked.

  "Not really. His name is Eugenio Santacristina," O'Toole replied. "He's one of our local Basque sheepherders, but well respected in their community from what I gathered from the news re
ports when Maria disappeared. Otherwise, quiet, keeps to himself like a lot of the other Basques."

  Marlene recalled seeing a group of swarthy, mustachioed men standing outside the Navarre Restaurant in Boise wearing white leggings beneath red skirts and red berets. Willis had pointed them out and said they were Basque dancers taking a break from a festival taking place at the Basque Cultural Center on West Grove Street.

  Marlene followed the other two out into the cold and headed for the Basque coffee shop. Several inches of snow had fallen since they'd gone into the university building, and Marlene was shivering by the time she spotted the sign for the restaurant. She stepped inside, gratefully basking in the warmth and the smell of fresh roasted coffee. However, as they made their way to the counter to order drinks, she noticed that the other patrons and waitresses were nervously eyeing four young men sitting in a corner booth.

  What made them stand out was the "uniform" that, as much as their shaved heads, identified them as either skinheads or neo-Nazis. They wore baggy jeans held up by red suspenders over white T-shirts emblazoned with the Iron Cross, and completed the ensemble with heavy, steel-toed Doc Martens boots. They'd piled their long wool coats, which looked like German army issue from the Second World War, on a table next to them.

  "If I'm not mistaken," she said, "that's Rufus Porter sitting over there with several of his friends."

  Meyers didn't turn to look. "You're not mistaken, that's him, but best we ignore him."

  However, as if he understood that he was the subject of their discussion, Porter and his friends got up and walked over to where they stood. "Well, well, if it isn't my dear old coach, Mikey O'Fool," Porter sneered. "I'm looking forward to getting back on the field this spring, but guess you won't be there."

  "Don't count on it, Rufus," O'Toole replied. "The only way you'll get back on that field is if you get a job mowing the lawn."

  Porter's eyes blazed at the insult and then noticed Marlene's smirk. "What are you smiling at, bitch?" he snarled, and started to poke at Marlene with a finger.

  A moment later, Porter was yelping in pain as she grabbed his index and middle fingers and bent them backward, locking his elbow and forcing him up on his toes. With her attacker off balance and unable to do anything except respond to the pain, she propelled him back into his friends, silently thanking Jojola for the jujitsu training.

  Porter's face changed into a mask of rage. He'd been humiliated and now he and his friends intended to settle the score, but their attention was diverted when the front door opened and Eugenio Santacristina walked in.

  The Basque's dark eyes immediately took in the situation. He strolled over, placing himself between the skinheads and the others.

  "You and your friends are not welcome here," Santacristina said calmly.

  "Fuck off, spic," Porter spat.

  Santacristina's face grew grim as he gripped his wooden cane around the middle and tapped it lightly into the palm of his free hand. "Say that again," he replied. "And I promise that you will not walk out of here on your own. I will break both of your kneecaps, and those of any of your friends who interfere."

  "And I'll be glad to help," O'Toole added.

  Santacristina glanced at the coach and smiled before turning his attention back to Porter and his friends. "Now, what is it to be? A future as a cripple, or merely a moron?"

  Porter seemed to be weighing his options. His former coach was a big man, and even the small attorney looked pretty tough. The woman knew some sort of trickery, too. But it was the Basque and his stick that worried him the most.

  "Let's go, Rufus," one of the other skinheads suggested. "We'll settle this some other day when there's not so many witnesses."

  "I will look forward to that," Santacristina said.

  Porter did his best to look tough and as though he would have still preferred to battle. But he said, "You're right. Too many witnesses." He stepped back from Santacristina and snapped a Nazi salute with his right hand raised, exposing a tattoo on the inside of his right bicep that appeared to be some Aryan symbol. "Death to niggers, kikes, spics, and race traitors."

  "Get out," Santacristina said, infuriated by the salute but still keeping his cool.

  "Got to get our coats," Porter said.

  "Esteban," Santacristina said to someone behind the skinheads, who turned to see that four other Basque men had emerged from a back room and had positioned themselves behind them. "Bring these dogs their coats."

  The youngest of the Basques responded by grabbing the coats, which he held at arm's length as though they smelled, and tossed them to the skinheads. "Now leave," Santacristina ordered, "or I will beat you like the mongrel dogs you are."

  The skinheads made their way to the door and left. Porter, who was the last to leave, shouted an epithet but fled as the Basque men moved toward him.

  When they were gone, Santacristina introduced himself, extending a hand to Coach O'Toole. "I was sorry to hear what happened to you. I do not believe these things they say."

  "Thank you," O'Toole replied. "We're planning to fight back."

  "So I have heard," Santacristina said. "I hope you win."

  On impulse, Marlene asked, "Would you care to join us?"

  Eugenio Santacristina inclined his head slightly and flashed a smile that looked all the brighter for his tan skin and created a whole series of smile lines around his mouth and eyes. "I would be delighted." He turned to the other Basque men, thanked and dismissed them in their language, and they left for the back of the restaurant again.

  Some shepherd, Marlene thought. There's a man used to giving commands and being obeyed out of respect. "I noticed that you don't need the cane to walk," she said.

  Santacristina held up the four-foot-long piece of gnarled but polished oak. "This? No, this is not a cane," he said. "I am a shepherd. This is a walking stick I use to keep up with my charges on the steep hillsides. However, I admit that at nearly sixty years old, I lean on it more than I used to."

  "You're sixty?! I would have guessed much younger," Marlene said.

  "Chasing sheep keeps one youthful," he replied with a laugh.

  The three men and one woman were soon talking over steaming cups of rich, dark coffee, which Marlene would later swear had the consistency of motor oil but was the richest, smoothest, most flavorful coffee she had ever tasted.

  Santacristina signaled to the waitress and ordered something. The language sounded similar to Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese, but with some other intonation-more like what she'd heard once on a visit to Romania.

  A few minutes later, the waitress returned with a plate of cheese, bright yellow in color but streaked with blue veins.

  When Marlene asked about the cheese, Santacristina replied, "This is Onetik, a traditional type of Basque cheese made from sheep's milk. It is best with a red wine, but seeing as how I am with another man's wife, and tongues may wag, we will stick with coffee." He laughed and said something to the hovering waitress, who laughed, too.

  "Are all Basque men so charming?" Marlene asked.

  "It is ingrained in us by our mothers from the day we are born," Santacristina said, and smiled.

  As Santacristina and the other two men chatted, Marlene used the opportunity to study his facial features, which were strong-a prominent nose between deep-set eyes that flickered with intensity below thick, dark eyebrows. His tan face was framed on the bottom by a five o'clock shadow that she suspected might be permanent. But his most striking physical characteristic was the color of his eyes, almost amber against a darker background. When he turned to meet her gaze, she noticed a jagged white scar that started just below the hairline on the left side of his forehead and disappeared into his full head of jet-black curls.

  Marlene hesitated, not wanting to be rude, but then asked, "If I'm not being too nosy…we saw your confrontation with Huttington and Barnhill today. What happened to your daughter?"

  Santacristina's smile fell from his face, and he hung his head and appeared to be
studying the depths of his coffee. "It is not a pleasant story," he replied. "I may not show it always on my face, but my heart is broken. I do not wish to burden you with my tears."

  "I'm a good listener," Marlene answered.

  Exhaling, Santacristina explained why he'd confronted Huttington. Indeed, why he'd been asking the same question of the man for the better part of a year, ever since his Maria had disappeared without a trace.

  "She was a good girl," he said. "An angel given to my dear wife and me. She was attending the university and majoring in early childhood education. All of her life she wanted to be a teacher. But I am a poor man and unable to pay for her education, so she made her own way through work-study programs, including as an administrative assistant for that sasikumea Huttington."

  Huttington had begun his pursuit by lavishing praise on her for her work and then finding reasons to keep her after hours and reward her with dinners. "I started to notice that she was spending more and more time with him, and then he started taking her on these little trips. She told me they were for 'university business,' but I could see that she had fallen in love, and my heart ached for her. He was a married man and twice her age. But she was as head-strong as her mother-who married me against the wishes of her family-and would not listen to me."

  "Where is her mother?" Marlene asked, though she suspected the answer already.

  Santacristina shook his head sadly. "She died four years ago, when Maria was seventeen," he said. When he looked back up at Marlene, his eyes were shiny with tears. "It was ovarian cancer. I was, of course, devastated. But it was even harder on Maria. Her mother doted on her, and they could talk about anything. Maybe if Elena had lived, she could have talked sense into our daughter. But I would not have wanted Elena to have the pain that I endure now."

  "I'm so sorry," Marlene commiserated. "Was your wife Basque, too?"

  "Yes," Santacristina replied. "I met her shortly after I arrived in this country and came to Idaho, which you may have heard has a large Basque community. My Elena was much younger than me and very beautiful." He stopped and pulled out his wallet, from which he produced photographs of two strikingly beautiful women. "This is my Elena and my Maria." He replaced the photographs. "They were my reasons to live. But now they are both gone, and I live only to find my daughter so that I may lay her to rest beside her mother."