The Mexican Tree Duck

  “What?”

  “Maybe those are the good guys,” I guessed.

  “Why?”

  “Because the bad guys always have tanks and choppers and planes and that kind of shit,” I said. “Only the good guys can hump Indian Country like that.”

  PART FOUR

  WHILE JIMMY DROVE the van down to Albuquerque to wait for us, Frank and I flew from Aspen to Denver—cash tickets, assumed names; who knows what computers the FBI can read?—where he stayed long enough to turn in his retirement papers and take his children to dinner and where I caught the first flight back to Meriwether, a long silent flight.

  “So what do you want from me?” Solly asked as he poured another four fingers of his expensive Scotch into my crystal tumbler. The sun had just dropped behind the Hardrock Peaks, and suddenly it was too cold to be sitting on Solly’s deck. “Want to go back inside?” he asked, dipping the end of his Cuban cigar into the Scotch.

  “It’s fine,” I said, watching the clear valley air cloud with woolly puffs of woodsmoke. “You could check with some of your bureaucratic pals in D.C. and find out why the FBI is dogging my tracks everywhere I go.”

  “Can’t you think of something else?” he suggested. “In order to come up with that kind of information, Sughrue, I’d have to call in some markers so heavy that it would cause more trouble than it’s worth.”

  “I suppose you’d have the same answer if I wanted Joe Don Pine’s FBI file?”

  Solly just stared at me, then smiled. “He’s a lying, no-good, worthless piece of shit,” he said.

  “I take it you’re not fond of the gentleman, speaking personally?”

  “We crossed paths,” Solly said, “several times. But the first time was enough for me. The first time I shook his hand in Saigon, I wanted to take a shower.”

  “I always wondered what you officers did with all that shower time,” I said. “What was wrong with him?”

  “Professional Texan, for starters. Starched and tailored fatigues. Talked a hell of a game but his sunlamp tan faded every time the air-conditioner compressor changed tunes,” Solly said.

  “We all saw a lot of officers like that,” I said. “What’s new?”

  “He worked for the Defense Intelligence Agency.”

  “So did I,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah, but that was just to stay out of Leavenworth,” Solly said. “That’s different.”

  “I hope so,” I said, meaning it. The DIA had seen too many spy movies and was completely out of control in those days, doing the jobs that not even the cowboys at the CIA would touch, roaming across the world in whatever manner suited them, bureaucrat-warrior-spies. “And since then?”

  “Well, I hit a clipping service in D.C. for you,” he said, then tossed a file folder on the table. “Usual oil and politics shit. Got rich after the war playing the international market. Then went public and lost all his stockholders’ bread. Joe Don would have come out all right, but some slick lawyer proved that he was trading on illegal insider information, so the judge stripped him of everything but the desert ranch his grandmother left him in New Mexico. And that ruined his political ambitions. Again.

  “Luckily, he married the Cisneros woman just about that time, and her relatives’ money bought him a little junkhouse exploration outfit, and he hit a couple of wildcat holes on the Overthrust Belt, so he’s about to go public again. Plus, his wife opened a fat farm on the southeast corner of the ratty-ass ranch where the rich, famous, and politically powerful who haven’t taken up public confessional chic can dry out in seclusion and luxury, which gives him a lot of clout in all the right places …”

  “Except among the voters of Texas,” I said, “who are renowned for their resplendent political accuracy.”

  “Don’t sell them short,” Solly said. “They’re known to be half-right half of the time.”

  “It could have been California,” I admitted.

  “So what’s next?”

  “Replenish the trinity of twentieth-century power,” I said, “then confront Joe Don in his lair.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll bet he hasn’t told the FBI everything,” I said.

  “What makes you think he’ll talk to you?” Solly asked, then changed his mind. “Don’t tell me, okay?”

  “Just call one of your secretaries—that great-looking blonde will do—and tell her to open the safe and meet me at the Riverside with the rest of Norman’s cash.”

  “What’s Norman going to say?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “if you don’t tell him.”

  “Shit, Sughrue. How the hell did I get to be your lawyer?”

  “Same way you got to be my friend, Solly. Luck and geography.”

  He laughed a little, then asked, “What’s the trinity of twentieth-century power?”

  “You don’t want to know,” I said.

  Cash, drugs, and firepower, I thought as I hoofed down the steps toward my rent-car. Millard, the goose, had circled it for the hour I had been at Solly’s, but had been unable to find a single sliver of chrome with which to admire his manly reflections. He followed me screaming down the driveway, anyway. He made friends too easily, too, but he had no luck.

  Norman didn’t sound surprised when I called and asked him to meet me at the Riverside for a few minutes’ conversation—guys like Norman are too cool to be surprised—but he groused when I told him what to bring.

  But he wasn’t so mad that he wouldn’t give me a little space while I chatted up Solly’s secretary at our small table by the river where she had consented to have one tiny drink, a Campari and soda. Norman raised what looked like jellied gasoline from the bar, then smiled. I ignored him almost completely.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever known a woman named ‘Whitney,’” I said, trying not to look too deeply into her bright blue eyes. “Or, hell, even a man for that matter.”

  “You’ve never heard of Whitney Houston?”

  “Who’s that?” I said, realizing that I had never gotten really serious about a woman with blue eyes.

  “You’re such a card, Mr. Sughrue,” she murmured. “Everybody at the office thinks so, you know. First, you did that crazy thing with the jukebox and now you’re living in the basement and Solly just thinks the world of you …”

  I guess I smiled.

  “Oh, here I am running on and on,” she said, then smiled. “You lead such an exciting life, you must be bored to death with my idle babble …”

  I caught myself before she could blast me with another of those perfect smiles, shook my head, and realized I was out of my depth with this woman. If she wanted marriage, children, all my money—well, Norman’s money—or just an idle, boring afternoon of rabid and wet sheet wrinkles, she could have it. I shook my head again, looked away, and said, “I take it you brought the cash?”

  “Silly,” she said with another lovely smile, “of course.”

  I glanced in the envelope she placed between us, said “Thanks,” then tried to look out the window where large dry snowflakes swirled into the dark waters of the Meriwether River.

  “Looks like a great year for skiing,” she said to the side of my face. She smelled so good I could almost taste her, but she wasn’t my sort of woman, and I vowed to stay away from her. “Maybe we could hit the slopes sometime,” she said, “when you’re finished with this case, of course.”

  “Absolutely,” I said quickly. “I’ll give you a call when I get back. First thing.”

  Whitney stood up, smoothed her skirt, and said, “Just walk upstairs, silly. I’m there almost every day.” Then she smiled and ankled toward the door, a rose on perfect stems, an orchid feeding on mountain air, a …

  Shit, I hadn’t been on skis in years. And even in my youth, I wasn’t any good. Couldn’t figure out how to turn. Christ on a crutch, I’d be dead or crippled in a hospital bed before I could get her to make the beast with twenty toes.

  Norman, as usual these days, looked as normal as he could in jeans and a
flannel shirt, as he plopped into the chair across from me. “That stuff’s not for road-dogs like us, Sughrue,” he said. “That’s somebody’s private stock. And besides, a taste would probably kill you.”

  “She asked me to go skiing.”

  “See what I mean,” he said. “You found my mom?”

  I shook the bullshit ski lodge, mulled wine, kisses like frozen limes in the snow blizzard of dreams out of my head. “No, Norman, but I did find a bunch of shit. And lots of Mexicans, some alive, some dead, and a new friend popped three times behind the ear with a .22 short …”

  “Jesus, man, you’re one unlucky bastard. I’m really sorry,” he said as if he meant it. “What’s this got to do with my mother?”

  I told Norman everything I knew. Except the names. And the places. If my clients were going to lie to me, I was duty bound to return the favor.

  “You think she’s in deep shit?” Norman asked.

  “Norman, anytime the feds can’t find you and your friends start finding people with holes in their heads or their throats unzipped, you’re probably in very deep shit.”

  “Why the fuck are they following you? They think you know where she is?”

  “It takes a major criminal mind to figure out the FBI,” I said. “Unfortunately, I’m just a minor player.”

  “So what now?” he asked seriously, then gunned another shot of nearly frozen vodka.

  I left the manila envelope with the money on the table and placed another one on top of it. “Here’s the rest of your cash and my time sheets, expenses, and the bill,” I said. “You can walk away from it right now.”

  “What about you, C.W.?”

  “It’s like World War II, man, I’ve been drafted for the duration.”

  Norman didn’t even pause. He pushed both envelopes at me, saying, “Anything else you want, let me know.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “This is personal now, and I may end up in more shit than Solly can cover.”

  “I still got some connections … Where you headed now?”

  “El Paso.”

  “That’s why you wanted the birth certificate? And the adoption papers.” I nodded. “You think I might be lying?” he said. I nodded again. Norman handed me a sheaf of papers, smiling as he said, “I may be a fuckup, man, but I don’t lie much. Not to my friends.”

  “Just in case,” I said, gathering up all the paper and money.

  “How can I get hold of you?” he said.

  “I’m crashing at a place in the Upper Valley,” I said, “but I can’t remember the guy’s name. Some ex-SEAL or something.”

  “Barnstone, I bet,” Norman said. “He used to be connected to one of the border biker gangs. Not a member, but a safe housekeeper for brothers and vets. A solid guy. How do you know him?”

  “I don’t,” I said, and Norman left it at that. I didn’t like the connection, but it would bear watching. “He’s a friend of a friend.”

  “From what I know, man, he should be god, or at least President, he’s that straight,” Norman said sincerely. “Tell him I said hello. And, you know, I’ve got a couple of AKs stashed in the 4Runner. You want them?”

  “There’s other people involved now,” I said, “and I can’t take a chance of getting busted on the airplane. But thanks for the thought.”

  Norman raised his empty glass at the waitress, then turned to me. “You want another go?”

  “It’s your money,” I said, and Norman laughed as if it might be well spent.

  The Dahlgren boys were laughing, too, as we stood in their storage warehouse while I suggested a list of weapons they might be able to supply.

  “There’s only three of you?” the one I assumed was Joe asked. “One BAR and two M-Is. Not bad. Two Thompsons and a grease gun. Sure. No problem. And I’ve got a lovely Sako sniper rig,” he continued, but I shook my head. “Let me suggest a couple of the M-1A carbines with the automatic-fire option. Less power than the Thompsons, but a little more range. And light as a bamboo spear.”

  As if to illustrate, the other twin grabbed one off the wall and twirled it like a drum major. “Nice piece.”

  “How much unregistered shit do you have?” I asked.

  “Oh, just tons and tons,” Joe said. “Of course, we keep it out at the farm.”

  “If we had been interested, we could have been arms dealers,” Frank said with a trace of sadness.

  “Well, you’re getting close,” I said. “How much?”

  The boys looked at each other, grinned, then one said, “We’ll let you have it for exactly what we paid for it.”

  I must have frowned because the other quickly added, “Absolutely nothing.”

  “I can’t do that,” I said.

  “Of course you can,” one said. “The General would have loved it.”

  “Okay. Can you ship it to El Paso without any trouble?” I was learning how to ask for things, I guess. And it worked. They had a friend with a fish store on the east side of town who would hold a crate of fish tanks for me. “You guys got any hand grenades?” I asked after the details were settled.

  “We had some but we had to dispose of them. Too old and unstable.”

  “We couldn’t guarantee them,” the other added, then they both blushed.

  “You fucking guys were dealing, weren’t you?” I accused them.

  “We only sold off the stuff that was about to go bad,” one said.

  “And we only sold to people with the right politics,” the other amended.

  I didn’t want to know what that meant.

  “Besides,” the other said, “a stick of forty percent in a twelve-inch length of capped cast-iron pipe works nearly as well. And anybody can buy dynamite, right?”

  I had to agree, then Frank had to go back to the store. Joe asked me to wait a moment. He had something he wanted me to see. I had the names straight now because Joe said, “You know, I’m worried about Frank.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it’s sort of complicated,” Joe said, and I leaned back against the Sherman. “In lots of ways, Mr. Sughrue, hiring you was one of the smartest things we’ve ever done. I don’t know exactly how it happened, but you changed our lives. You didn’t treat us, you know, like freaks, and you took our concerns about the fish seriously. We both know what sort of picture we make and we both appreciated your treatment of us. And when you took us along out to Mr. Hazelbrook’s place …

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind if we think of you as a friend. Our lives have opened up again. We’re no longer caged, you know, by our size, and we no longer feel as if we’re two little fat boys playing with our father’s guns. We feel as if they are our weapons now, and we couldn’t have been happier when you called, but …”

  “What’s the trouble?” I asked, afraid I already knew the answer.

  “Well, we’ve been out to Mr. Hazelbrook’s several times, to see the fish, you know, and … well, I’m afraid Frank has not just fallen for little Mary, which is reckless enough given the sort of person, you know, Mr. Hazelbrook seems to be, but he seems to have become addicted to cocaine.”

  “I thought he looked like he had shed a few pounds.”

  “Almost thirty in a week,” Joe said. “And it’s changed him. I flew a couple of professional women up from Las Vegas, really tiny women, almost midgets. Frank has always loved tiny women. Compensation, I suppose. But he wasn’t even interested. All he wants to do is sit in the office and snort coke and feel sorry because Mary is marrying that animal.

  “What should I do?” he almost wailed.

  “I don’t have a clue,” I admitted. “He’ll either get over it or not.”

  “But isn’t there anything I can do?”

  “If you can’t take him to a shrink,” I suggested, “join him for a while. Take a road trip. Go someplace strange. Vegas, maybe. Get naked and get weird. You can afford it. Get a high-roller suite, dance, drink, gamble, and feed your head. It’ll either kill him or cure him or change your life. Whatever, nothing will ev
er be the same again.”

  “You think so? What about, you know, diseases? And what if one of us dies?” Joe was deadly serious now.

  “Wear a rubber, man, tell Mona to feed your bodies to a tank of piranhas, act like arms dealers,” I said, hoping I hadn’t ruined their lives by random chance. “But get his power of attorney before you go.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Sughrue,” Joe blubbered, “thank you.” Thanking me endlessly, as if I had found the cure for cancer, or saved somebody’s life.

  His brother Frank was trying to kill himself; my brother Frank was dying for no fucking good reason; and I couldn’t stop any of it. But my hand remembered the feel of Baby Lester’s skull, the pulse of his life, the sound of his laughter as he peed in my face.

  “Don’t thank me,” I said, “please. I should thank you, Mr. Dahlgren. Trust me, I’m in your debt.”

  Then I went back to work.

  I flew back through Denver and picked up Franklin Vega at the airport. Seeing his kids for what he assumed was the last time had kicked his ass hard, and I remembered why I had avoided children like the plague, so he ranged between false drunken hilarity to deep sad silence as he watched the desert clouds search for a reason or a shape or a single drop of rain.

  We had a white telephone page waiting when we walked into the terminal. In spite of getting to Albuquerque from Aspen on every back road he could find, Jimmy picked up a tail outside of Bernalillo when he turned onto Interstate 25. A red Cadillac convertible, of all things, carrying four dark-haired guys in big cowboy hats, which meant somebody didn’t give a shit if we knew, and another damned anonymous government sedan.

  “Fuck ’em,” I told Jimmy over the telephone. “Pick us up. Let’s see what La Gloria Azul will do.”

  “La Gloria Azul?” Frank said.

  “Norman’s van.”

  “Norman?” Frank said. “Who the fuck is Norman?”

  I told him as we waited for Jimmy to pick us up, then we were silent until I picked up Interstate 40 and headed west with the hammer down and the speedometer needle buried while Frank stretched out in the back estimating our speed and Jimmy screamed like an insane child in the passenger seat.