by Dean Ing
"Maybe tonight, if I'm not all thumbs. I couldn't very well test it there in the lab. Listen, I met a guy today - "
"It doesn't have to be pretty, Andrew. We need to learn its range under breezy conditions."
He had explained that to her himself, weeks ago. "I know, Mom. This guy, he might be useful if I play my cards just - "
"Those beetles are busy killing my avocado plants. Should I bring a couple in while you do the soldering? I have to refuel anyway; you know I don't like to leave the Chamois on empty."
"Sure, why not?" He could tell her about Landis later. Once she tightened her focus on something she could be short-tempered as hell. The time to discuss my friend will be after the tracker meter gives a positive register.
He caught himself humming again after Mom went into the tunnel, relishing this chance to show what he could do without that critical presence at his elbow. As always her workbench was spotless, the small porcelain slab gleaming, lights positioned well, magnifiers ranked correctly on the shelf from the Rexall half-glasses through the two-power headset, on up to a 30X monocular with its own directed light source.
He chose the headset because with his youthful 20/15 vision he could do most of the work without any artificial aids, and the subamp solder connections could be made best with binocular vision.
He was so engrossed in securing his components and emplacing heat-sink clips - the setup was half the job, as Mom said - he barely reacted when she returned, peering at his work for some minutes, then snapping on the little exhaust fan to remove wisps of soldering smoke for him and moving away as he used a light-duty soldering pencil.
That silence, from her, meant more than consent: it implied a rare and complete satisfaction with his work.
For the next few minutes he worked steadily, fingers precise as a taxidermist's, as the occasional rustle of paper told him his mom was leaving him to his work.
Andy did not know when the rustling stopped. He did notice when she removed an X-Acto knife from the shelf near him, but he was intent on a solder connection and did not look around, blinking, until he was finished.
She was standing, arms folded, in the middle of the room with a scrap of paper, perhaps two inches by three, sliced from the Fresno Bee. It was barely noticeable between two fingers of her right hand. He might not have noticed the scrap, but for the way it was vibrating in her grasp. Her eyes bored into him, and in them he read cold condemnation beyond belief.
"It's done. I didn't damage it - what? What?"
Her motion in holding the clipping out was jerky, and she made him come to her. She said nothing.
He took the clipping, dry-mouthed, and read it. "Skeletal remains . . . aged 17 . . . accidental causes"
passed through his awareness like tiny lightning bolts and when he returned the clipping, his hand shook too.
"But why didn't they find the others?"
"Use your head. They must have found the others. Unless the remains walked away by themselves,"
she said with a tremor that he hoped was rage in her voice. Rage, he knew how to deal with. "We're going to have to start using quicklime. I needn't tell you to avoid that site from this point on, permanently. If either of those others have been identified as intelligence agents, federal agencies will be involved. FBI, most likely. Did you expect them to release that to the media?"
Of course they didn't just walk away, he thought, remembering how Mom had identified the client, Charles Lane, and how Andy had kept his own face averted at first; recalled how Lane had weakened and sagged after the deadly injection during the few seconds they had stood close, Andy gazing hungrily at the man's long hair instead of his face. Andy's heart fell as he realized he must tell Mom about the DEA's sudden interest in the Thomas Concoction - yes, that could be a frightening connection - and then he saw the face of Gary Landis and, in a yellow-hot flash of recognition, he mentally stripped away Lane's mustache; added a tan. He had spent too much time judging Lane's hair. "Oh," Andy said.
"And the fresh one may have told them a lot. Probably won't even have to use DNA testing for that one. . . Forensics pathologists may even know - "
"My," Andy said, substituting a bleached crew cut - a predictable move by such a shearling - for the long brown hair Andy had stolen.
" - how we put him down," Romana went on in a dull fury. "At least they can never testify."
Andy's eyes were bright and wide. "God!" he said.
27
JUNE 1994
" Go home," Vlsconti had said. "Your cast doesn't come off for a week, and this weekend it's a multiagency bust. People will be stepping on each other's heels. Don't-call-me-I'll-call-you, only I won't."
Had Pepe Luna's people been the target, Gary might have tried to argue, having met Luna, wanting to be in on the takedowns. As it was, Gary had needed a minute to realize that, with luck, only a phone call separated him from two days with Jan. That and - he reminded himself while punching in her number from memory, a few hours of windburn on the Kawasaki - dodging bugs as big as parakeets. He could stash his bike at the airport on the outskirts of Bakersfield as a dependable ride when flying down, and on the way south he could nurse the engine and check that leak. Maybe stop in Porterville, on a dogleg off Highway 99, and look up the Seibouldt girl, now Mrs. Linda Tate.
He still hadn't told Visconti about his findings. For one thing, the impending Big Bust held his RAC's attention right now. For another, he had nothing solid to go on yet, maybe never would. In that event, Visconti might be pissed at his unauthorized - Jan's answer deflected the thought.
"Ms. Betancourt?" His gruff slimeball. "Miz Janelle Betancourt?"
Quickly guarded, not bothering to correct him. "Can I help you?" Cool to the touch, her mercury dropping with each word.
"This is the Murrican Terpsichore Foundation, ma'am. There's a lot of underprivileged girls need help for a career in the dance. I'm sure you know that?"
"Yes," she said, with "no, no, and no" leaking from her tones.
"Well, we wonder if you'd want to donate an old tutu or two to the cause," he said, improvising.
"I'm afraid not." Now solid ice.
"Or failin' that, one of your ol' bicycle seats," he wheedled.
"You appalling cretin!" she said, magma bursting through the ice.
Now lapsing into his usual tones: "Aw, c'mon, Jan, is that any way to respond to the underprivileged?"
A tiny squeal of outrage before: "Gary Landis, I'm going to - I was right, you are a cretin. If you were a woman you wouldn't think obscene calls are funny."
"If I were a woman, I wouldn't be making this obscene call to another woman," he explained.
"You" - and now she was chuckling, still angry but seeing his point - "you do that ever, ever again and I will hang up on you."
"You gonna hang up on me now?"
"That depends. Is this still an obscene call?"
"That, as you put it, depends. I thought I might bring the Kawasaki down tonight, if you weren't booked."
"And spend the night here," she supplied.
"Well, it crossed my mind."
"Thoroughly obscene. How's tuna salad sound? Or would you rather chew on a bicycle seat?"
"Gee, dessert, too!" And in another two minutes, he was on his way to his apartment to pack the Kawasaki. Its gasket set had not arrived, but he could have it sent on to Jan's; or he might find a set in Bakersfield. Swede would probably be happy to help him do the installation, if and when the parts ever came.
Once he got clear of Fresno's Friday-afternoon traffic, his trip was uneventful as far as Porterville.
He'd found the Gavin Tate residence among the Porterville listings and hoped that Linda Tate would not regard him with too much suspicion. Perhaps it would be best to simply show his ID and trust her good judgment.
He found the Tate place in a settled development, a well-kept yellow bungalow with mature shrubs and a lawn that needed watering. Lord help me, I'm getting domestic, he thought without even a t
winge of dismay. Helmet under his arm, he rehearsed his opening, but to no avail. The girl who answered the buzzer was in her late teens, alert, plumpish, and very much in command of the two preteen girls in her care. The Tates, she said, were attending a fly-in in Gavin's old two-place Piper. "So I get to corral the animals," she grinned, jerking her thumb over her shoulder. "Great pair of wheels," she added, nodding toward the Kawasaki.
"Thanks. Well, it was nothing important; maybe next time," Gary said. "You might run a sprinkler on that front lawn just to surprise 'em." She could just tell them, he added, that a Mr. Landis dropped by and would try again. He headed on down the state highway in an optimistic frame of mind. Linda Seibouldt had married a ready-made family, it seemed. If there wasn't room for kids in their Piper, it would be a classic Cub, and people who flew slow old tail-draggers always had common ground for a cordial talk: the ruinous price of avgas; FAA rulings that discouraged general aviation. With his Cessna, he'd have a built-in advantage.
Shadows were fading as Gary pulled the Kawasaki to one side of Jan's sporty "Z" car and dismounted.
Someone had taken the Datsun's burned paint down to bare metal and applied a gray primer coat which was not fully feathered in; probably Swede's work. She'd heard the thrum of his approach; let the front door bang open as she twinkle-toed down the steps, helped him remove his helmet, planted a kiss on him in greeting.
He apologized for his previous call as he stepped inside and dropped his overnight bag on a chair. "I thought you'd recognize me right off."
"Wish I had, buster. I'd have strung you along like a mess of catfish."
"I just didn't think. It was, uh, I was just - "
" 'Simple-minded' is the term you're after," she said, and waved him toward her dining nook, set for two.
"You're excused. Now wash your hands and take a seat."
They feasted on beer, chips, and a tuna salad made exotic by a hint of Roquefort dressing. Jan validated his guess about her car: "Ampa's repainting it. If you don't want to be wearing a respirator tomorrow, when he does the finish sanding, better have an excuse - like, your arm hurts after that ride."
"You're kidding, right? The arm's fine. Just keep the beer coming, and help us up when we fall down,"
he said. And the smile she bestowed on him said that his unfeigned answer was the perfect one. In the back of Gary's mind lurked a selfish motive: one of these days, that old "Z" might well be community property.
An hour later, he called Swede and offered his help for the sanding job. He put down the phone with a grimace.
"Don't tell me he turned you down," Jan said.
"No. I know what's eating him; he just doesn't like it that I'm staying here."
"He said that?"
"Didn't have to," Gary sighed. "It's - a guy thing."
"It's an Ampa thing," she corrected him. "He knows you won't be sleeping on my couch, Gary."
"That's a relief," he said. "I think Swede wouldn't be so grumpy about us if, uh, he thought we were, you know, going somewhere in the relationship."
"We're already somewhere, luv. We're together." She sat beside him, her fingernails gently massaging his scalp. Softly: "Isn't this where we both want to be?"
His smile agreed. "All the same, Jan, he'd feel a lot better if you were wearing my ring."
As if to an idiot: "I'm married, Gary. Are you saying you would feel better?"
"That, too." Then he was holding her, face buried in her hair, glorying in the unique scent of her. He felt the reserve in the set of her shoulders, a subtle stiffness she had not meant to communicate. He pulled back gently. "Is there something I haven't said that you need to hear? I do love you, Jan, and I'm not a boozer, and I wouldn't fool around or knock you around or - "
"I know all that, Gary. No, it's something I haven't said recently enough."
"The 'F' word," he growled.
"He called the other night. He feels lost, wants me there." A sudden laugh and head shake. "Really made me feel like hell because I'm not going back. Maybe I can someday, just to do the right thing, say good-bye when I can look at him without feeling guilty."
It was Gary's suggestion that she simply get a new, unlisted number. And Jan's reply that cutting Freddie off would be only a new cistern of guilt to fill. "Maybe I'm waiting for him to put me aside first, maybe - I don't know. Sometimes he tries to lay a guilt trip on me." That little laugh again, as though watching herself from some great distance. "That's good, because it pushes me away.
If he'd just do that every time! Well, Ampa says I'll get over this eventually."
He nuzzled her again, gave her shoulder a squeeze that said, support, affection, acceptance. "I guess we'll just have to let it run its course. Like a fever."
"Catholic fever," she specified, with good-natured irony. "No, that's a cop-out, blaming my religion. It wasn't any priest who got me into this. But don't ask me to wear your ring, luv. Not yet."
"Not even to make Swede feel better? You don't have to - "
"Are we going to fight about this? Dammit, Gary!"
He showed both palms, giving her his caught-with-the-cookie-jar look, and after a long stare of exasperation she relented. If he promised to be good, she said, he could select a videocassette from her trove. Any naughty ones? She had a couple, she admitted. Her cassette machine was in the bedroom. On reflection, he chose an old Monsieur Hulot comedy instead, telling her that you don't need to sprinkle pepper on your salsa.
By invitation, Swede showed up for breakfast: chilled fruit, French toast, freshly ground almond coffee. His only reference to their shifting relationships was elliptical, when he sat back to pat his gut. "The way to a grandpa's nihil obstat is through his stomach."
Jan, amused: "Latin from my Ampa? Next you'll be doing 'The Bell Song' from Lakmé."
"Church Latin. Some things you never forget," the old man said, pushing himself away from the table. "I brought an extra respirator in the Polara, Gary." He took a final sip of coffee and went outside to face the promise of Bakersfield heat.
Gary looked after his old friend and said, softly, "He gave me the fish-eye when he came in. You think he's accepting us any better now?"
"You know him as well as I do," Jan replied. "Damn, I feel like I'm walking over month-old eggs with you two. Tell me: are guys really worth all this trouble?"
"Nope." Gary, got up, heading for the door. "But we take out your garbage and repaint your car.
Among other things."
"Among other things," she echoed gently, and patted his rump as he passed.
Because it does not take a John Stuart Mill to feather a primer coat, the two men talked as they worked, Swede sensibly in a T-shirt, Gary naked to the waist, working mostly one-handed. They managed to generate extra warmth from an argument over football as played by the NFL and by the rest of the world, "I said - " being their most common phrase because they talked through muffling respirators. Gary supported the American game.
Swede Halvorsen claimed American football was a plot by middle-aged men to destroy the bodies of young men. "Soccer versus football is a contact sport versus a collision sport," he charged. "And football depends on three-hundred-pound freaks exploding in five-second bursts of energy that can't be good for your heart. Soccer builds stamina, and the players look like actual people."
"How the hell would you know?" Gary asked, forgetting that the old man watched a lot of TV.
"The Spanish-speaking channels - claro que sí, cabrón," Swede shot back. His squint said he was grinning behind the rubber mask. "Amazing how much of it you pick up. You watch a World Cup game in a week or two, ask yourself which game is healthier for the player."
When Gary found the logic of his own replies diminishing to helpless denials like, "Oh, bullshit," he shifted the discussion. "I'm thinking about some maintenance on my bike," he began, and eventually added that the Kawasaki would wind up at the nearby airstrip, as of Sunday - tomorrow.
Swede understood the implications. "Gonna be a reg
ular commuter, hmm? Well, shit, maybe I'll even see you now and then."
"Count on it," Gary promised, eyeballing his work on the Datsun's hood. It would be so easy, he thought, to let the old man know that only Jan's reluctance stood in the way of his becoming a part of the family. It would repair the little cracks in their old friendship. Yeah, and Swede would be leaning on Jan in my behalf, which would go over with her like a turd in her air conditioner. Bad idea. I'll just make haste slowly.
By dinnertime, Swede pronounced their job. complete and Gary's forearm felt tender. Jan's calls had turned up no appropriate Kawasaki gasket sets at local shops. Whatthehell, Gary said, he could wait. It was only a few minutes' ride to the "patch" of airstrip.
Both of the men were so full of beer that they downed only one of Jan's hamburgers apiece, and of course Swede stayed until Jan drove him away by insisting that they watch Saturday Night Live, which the old man loathed.
"You did that on purpose," Gary accused, as Jan waved good night toward the old Polara.
"It was that or have his snores collapse the couch an hour from now," she said. "Subtleties are lost on my Ampa. Now will you turn off that damned TV? I hate that program as much as he does."
Gary did as bidden. "Gotta drain my lizard again," he said, heading for the bathroom. "Still full of beer."
She eyed him suspiciously on his return. "Exactly how full of beer are you?"
"Too damn full," he admitted.
"You could've stayed in Fresno for that," she said, then kissed him gently. "And would you believe I don't care that you've drowned your lizard?"
"Not for a second," he said.
"Then we've reached perfect understanding," she replied, taking his hand, tugging him toward the bedroom anyway. "You can make it up to me tomorrow."
He did. Swede had the good sense to leave them alone on Sunday. When Jan looked up from the comics in midmorning and said, "Too bad you didn't fly down; this would be a wonderful day for it," Gary remembered that the little town of Taft was only a short drive to the southwest.