"Well, you better start taking responsibility for your own behavior. If this sting goes down the shitter, you'll be in more trouble than you can shake a stick at."
"Wait a minute. Wait. I don't mean to sound defensive, but I got backed into this. When the deal first came up, I told you I didn't want to do it, but you talked me into it, smutty photographs and all. Fade out, fade in. I'm sitting there at Dale's and she opens her mouth and blows the deal wide open. What was I supposed to do? If I'd gotten up and left, there was no way of guessing what the hell she'd do next. Believe it or not, I was trying for damage control. I'll admit the situation snowballed - "
"Just do me a favor and stay the hell away from her, okay? She calls you, hang up and leave the rest of it to us. I'll get Vince on the horn and bring him up to speed. We'll see what he can salvage, if anything."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to screw things up."
"Well, you can't do anything about it now. What's done is done. Just keep your distance from Reba. Promise."
I held a hand up like I was taking an oath.
"I'll call you later," he said brusquely. He got up and headed around the corner to his car. I heard him fire up his engine and peel away from the curb with a chirp of rubber on pavement. I could feel my face burning for an hour afterward.
I locked myself in my apartment and tidied my underwear drawer. I needed to do something small and useful. I had to get a handle on life in a risk-free arena where I could feel competent again. Maybe folding underpants didn't amount to much, but it was the best I could do. I moved on to the chest of drawers and refolded my shirts. Then I tackled the junk drawer downstairs. I hated the idea of being prosecuted. Obstruction of justice was serious damn shit. I pictured myself in jail garb, legs shackled, hands manacled in front, doing the traditional inmate two-step while shuffling to and from court. That began to seem a bit melodramatic and I decided there was no point in going overboard on the self-flagellation. So I'd goofed. Big deal. I hadn't killed anyone.
After an hour, I became aware of voices outside my door, one being Henry's. I glanced out the kitchen window, but the angle was too extreme for me to see who else was there. I went to the front door, popped the locks, and opened it a crack. Henry, Lewis, and William were standing together in the driveway. Lewis and William were both in three-piece suits while Henry wore his usual shorts, T-shirt, and flip-flops. He'd backed the station wagon out of the garage and Lewis was loading his bags in the rear. As I looked on, I heard a soft ping, and William removed his pocket watch from his vest and checked the time. He took out a small packet of trail mix and made a production of opening the sealed cellophane, which generated copious crackling noises. Henry flicked him a look of annoyance but continued the conversation with Lewis, which seemed to be about nothing in particular. I eased the door shut, gratified that one conflict had been peacefully resolved, or so I hoped. The truth about strong emotion is that it's difficult to sustain. Despite how victimized we feel, it's hard work hanging on to anger, even when it's tinged with righteousness. Holding a grudge against someone is (sometimes) more trouble than it's worth.
Reba called at 2:00. As I'm constitutionally unable to resist a ringing phone, I was on the verge of snatching up the handset. I hesitated, curbing the impulse, and let the machine pick up. She said, "Oh, poo. I was hoping you'd be there. I just had this big ol' stinkin' fight with Lucinda and I'm dying to tell you about it. I practically threw her out on her ass only not really, but you know, figuratively speaking. Anyway, call me when you can and I'll fill you in. Also, there's something else we need to talk about. Bye-bye."
She called again at 3:36. "Hey, Kinsey, me again. Don't you check messages these days? I'm going stir-crazy up here. We really need to talk so give me a buzz when you get in, okay? Otherwise, I can't be responsible for what I do. Ha ha ha. That's a joke... sort of."
At 5:30, she left only her name with a request that I call.
I went into the office Monday morning and buried myself in the work I'd neglected the previous week. I'd read about the parking-lot shootout in the morning paper, and I knew the STPD vice and homicide detectives were working with the gang detail, interviewing witnesses and running down leads. The Santa Teresa gang population tends to be stable, their activities carefully monitored. Periodically, however, gang members from Olvidado, Perdido, and Los Angeles will swing through town, especially on holiday weekends when the homeboys, like everyone else, are hoping for a change of scene. Happily police officers from those communities make the same swing through town so that unbeknownst to the gangbangers, they're still under the watchful eye of the law.
I didn't hear from Reba again until late Monday afternoon, after I arrived home from work. Mercifully she hadn't called the office, where good business practice dictates that I answer the phone. She'd called my apartment twice, leaving a message at noon and then another one at 2:00. She sounded cheerful at the outset but increasingly plaintive as the day wore on. "Kinsey? Yoo hoo! Did you tell me you were going out of town or something? Don't think so, but I really can't remember for sure. I'm sorry to be such a pest, but Beck's back in town and I'm antsy as hell. I really don't know how much longer I can hold out. I'm on my way to Holloway's to pee in a jar and shoot the shit with her.
Then I'm supposed to go to an AA meeting, but I'm thinking I might skip. Too depressing, you know? Anyway, call me when you get this. Hope everything's okay. Bye."
It was hard to leave her hanging when I'd been so available to her the week before. I felt like a mother cow separated from her calf - I could hear Reba's bleating cries, but I wasn't free to respond. I'd been serious when I promised Cheney I'd keep my distance, at least until the situation was under control. Once she'd talked to Vince and his pals, I could reassess. By then, of course, she might well have severed our relationship.
In the meantime, I heard nothing from Cheney, a silence I ascribed to his being up to his ears in work. To avoid the silence, I left the apartment and headed over to see Henry. I tapped on the frame and he motioned me in. He had his heavy-duty mixer on the counter, a ten-pound sack of bread flour, yeast packets, sugar, salt, and water at the ready.
"Can you put up with company?"
He smiled. "If you can put up with the racket my mixer makes. I'm about to throw together a batch of bread, which I'll let rise overnight and bake first thing tomorrow morning. Grab a stool."
I watched him measure ingredients, which he dumped in the big stainless-steel mixing bowl. Once he turned on the machine, we put our conversation on hold until he was done. We chatted while I watched him remove the sticky mass of dough, kneading and adding flour until the whole of it was smooth and elastic. He oiled a big wash pan, turned the dough in it until its surface glistened, and then covered it with a towel. He put the pan in the oven where the pilot light would generate the warmth necessary for the bread to rise.
"How much are you making?" I asked, looking at the quantity of dough.
"Four big loaves and two batches of dinner rolls, all for Rosie," he said. "I may do up a pan of sticky buns if you're interested."
"Always. I take it Lewis went home?"
"I dropped him at the airport Saturday. And speaking of him, he did apologize for butting in, which may be a first. I guess it never occurred to him that his flying out would have that effect. I told him there was no point worrying. What's done is done."
"Someone said the same thing to me yesterday under different circumstances," I said. "At any rate, I'm glad the two of you are back on solid ground."
"Never any doubt of that," he said. "What about you? I didn't see much of you this weekend. How's your new fellow?"
"Good question," I said. I told Henry the sorry saga of my bad behavior, risks taken, laws broken, gains, losses, and tension-filled escapes. He enjoyed the tale a lot more than Cheney had and for that I was grateful.
A little after six, I returned to my place and fixed myself a hot hard-boiled-egg sandwich, with more mayo and salt than your internist would r
ecommend. I was wadding up my paper towel when the phone rang. I tossed the wad and waited until the caller began to speak. Marty Blumberg identified himself and I picked up. "Hey, Marty. It's me. I just now walked in."
"I hope you don't mind me calling you at home. Something weird's come up and I'd be curious what you think."
"Sure." I picked up traffic noises in the background and pictured him calling from a pay phone.
"You want the long version or the short?"
"Long stories are always better."
"Right," he said. "So here's how this goes." I could hear that momentary lull as he inhaled and released a mouthful of smoke. "I get home from work today and my housekeeper's wringing her hands. She's upset about something, but won't say what. I press because I can tell she needs to unburden herself. She says, don't get mad. I say, fine. She tells me she arrived at the house at nine, like always, and she sees this phone company truck parked in the drive and a couple of guys on the porch. She goes ahead and lets herself in the back and then answers the front door. This one guy says the phone company's received a number of calls complaining the service is out and they're going through the neighborhood checking all the lines. They want to know is my phone working, so she asks' em to wait, tries the line, and sure enough it's dead. Well, she's paranoid - comes from watching way too many cop shows on TV - so she asks 'em to show some ill. Both have these pinch-on plastic picture dealies that say California Bell. Huerta writes down their names and employee numbers. Second guy has a clipboard and he shows her the work order, typed up as neat as you please. She figures it's legit so she lets 'em in. You with me so far?"
"Yes, but I don't like the sound of it."
"Me neither," he said. "She's telling me this shit and I can feel the rocks piling up in my gut. The guys are in my study fifteen, twenty minutes, and then they come out and tell her everything's hunky-dory. She asks what it was and they say the roof rats must've chewed through the outside wires, but now all's well. Afterwards, she's thinking none of this makes sense and she's worried she did wrong. I act like no big deal and tell her I'll handle it from here. So what I'm thinking is somebody's either bugged my house or put a tap on my phone."
"Or both," I supplied.
"Shit, yes. Why else would I be calling from a fuckin' minimart parking lot? I feel like an idiot, but I can't take the chance. My phone's tapped; I don't want whoever's doing it to realize I figured it out. That way I can feed 'em any bullshit I want. You think it's the feds?" I could hear him take another puff on his cigarette.
"I have no clue, but I think you're right to worry."
"How can they do that? I mean, assuming they planted a bug, or, like, a listening device, wouldn't that be illegal?"
"Without a court order, sure."
"Trouble is, if it's not them, it might be someone a whole lot worse."
"Like who?" I was thinking Salustio Castillo, but wanted to hear him say it.
"Never mind who. Either way, I don't like it. Friday night, when Reba laid out that shit about Beck, I figured she was yanking my chain. More I think about it, the more I'm thinkin' maybe she was telling the truth. Beck always made a point of keeping me in the thick of it. Like she says, could be he's setting me up."
"Who else is in on it?"
"On what?"
"The money laundering."
"Who says anyone? I never said that."
"Oh come on, Marty. You can't launder that much money without help."
"I'm not a snitch," he said, his tone indignant. "But other people are involved, right?"
"I don't know, maybe. A few, but you're never going to get me to name names."
"Fair enough. So what's in it for you?"
"Same as everyone else. We're paid to keep our mouths shut. We help Beck now and he'll see that we're set up for life."
"Life in a federal pen. That'll be a treat," I said.
Marty ignored that, saying, "Truth is, I got plenty and I'd skedaddle right now if I could figure out how. If Customs is in on the deal, I can't leave the country without getting my ass nailed. They flag my name in the computer, minute I check in for my flight, boom, I'm done for."
"I'm telling you, you better throw in your lot with the guys who count. Beck isn't looking after you. He's got himself to protect."
"Yeah, I'm getting that. I mean, sure he may need us, but how far is he willing to go? Beck's about Beck. Comes right down to it, he'd throw us to the wolves."
"Probably so." I nearly confided the rumor I'd heard, that Beck was on the move and likely to disappear within the next few days, but the likelihood hadn't been confirmed and the information wasn't mine to pass on. "Of course, it's always possible the phone company story is on the up and up..."
"Nuh-uhn. Don't think so."
"Well, I'm sorry I can't help."
"What about Reba? I've been trying to reach her all day."
"Probably at the house. She had a meeting with her parole officer earlier so you might try her again."
"You talk to her, tell her to give me a call. This is making my stomach hurt. I'm anxious as hell."
"Look, let me talk to a friend of mine and see what I can find out."
"I'd appreciate that. You call back, you be careful what you say. Meantime, you hear from Reba, tell her the two of us gotta talk. I don't like workin' with a noose around my neck."
"Hang in there," I said, and then winced at my choice of words. Once he disconnected, I dialed both Cheney's home and work numbers and left messages. I tried his pager, punching in my home number in hopes he'd call back. Marty was moving into panic mode, which made him as unpredictable as Reba, though more vulnerable.
I spent the evening stretched out on the couch, book propped in front of me pretending to read while I waited for Cheney's call. I wondered where he was and whether he was still pissed off at me. I needed to talk to him about Marty, but more than that, I craved the physical contact. My body was remembering his with a low-level yearning disruptive to concentration. Before he arrived on the scene, I'd lived in a dead zone-not exactly buzzing with joy, but certainly not discontent.
Now I felt like a pup just coming into heat. One of the problems with being celibate is that once sexual feelings resurface, they're almost impossible to repress. I found myself remembering what had happened between us and fantasizing about what might come next. Cheney had a laziness about him, a natural tempo half the speed of mine. I was beginning to see that operating in high gear was a means of protecting myself. Living at an accelerated pace allowed me to feel only half as much because there wasn't time to feel more. I made love the same way I ate - eager to satisfy the immediate hunger without acknowledging the deeper desire, which was to feel connected at the core. Avoiding the truth was easier if I was on the run. With quick sex, as with fast food, there was no savoring the moment. There was only the headlong rush to be done with it and move on.
At 10:00, when the phone rang, I knew it was him. I turned my head, listening until the machine began recording the sound of his voice. I reached over and picked up, saying, "Hey."
"Hey, yourself. You called."
"Hours ago. I thought you were ignoring me. Are you still mad?"
"About what?"
"Good."
"How about you? Are you pissed off?"
"Not my nature," I said. "Not with you at any rate. Listen, we need to talk about Marty. Where are you?"
"Rosie's. Come join me."
"You trust me to walk half a block by myself? It's pitchy dark outside."
"I was going to meet you halfway."
"Why don't you go the whole distance and meet me here."
"We can do that later. For now, I think we should sit and stare into each other's eyes while I put a hand up your skirt."
"Give me five minutes. I'll step out of my underwear."
"Make it three. I've missed you."
"I've missed you, too."
By the time I locked the door behind me and reached the front gate, he was waiting on th
e other side of Henry's wrought-iron fence. The sidewalk on his side was one step lower than the walk on mine, which made me feel tall. The night air was chill and the dark settled over us like a veil. I slid my arms around his neck. He tilted his head and ran his mouth down along my throat and across my collarbone. The fence pales were cold, blunt-tipped spears that pressed against my ribs. He rubbed his hands up and down my arms. "You're cold. You should have a jacket on."
"Don't need one. I have you."
"That you do," he said, smiling. He eased a hand between the fence pales, ran his fingers under my skirt and up between my legs. I heard him catch his breath and then he made a sound low in his throat.
"Told you."
"I thought it was a metaphor."