Tea with the Black Dragon (v1.4)

by R. A. MacAvoy

  “But Peccolo has done security. He contracted for one while I was at Stanford. I remember. It was for North Bay Savings.”

  Long stirred in his chair. “While you were at Stanford. That must be—oh—two years ago, then? You’ve not done badly, being only two years out of school. This shop filled with expensive toys, contacts in all fields of electronics…”

  Frisch linked his hands together behind his head and cracked all his knuckles at once, exhaling loudly through his moustache as he did so. “Well, I guess not. This shop? Yeah, it’s something.”

  The young man got up and regarded the row of screens before him. Some of them were dusty. Some dotted with fingerprints. He turned to the wall of esoteric journals, and the counter filled with boxes of components, spools of bright ribbon cable, and small chips laid like dead roaches on their backs, brass legs sparkling under glass. “Seems I never sell anything, though. I just have interesting conversations.”

  Long laughed at Fred Frisch and then, unexpectedly, he bowed to him, hands together across his middle, thumbs lightly touching. “May you have many more such,” he said, his accent shifting slightly from Oxford to the East. “And may they be of equal value to the people with which you have them.”

  He took his leave. As the door closed behind him, Fred Frisch leaned over to the console and hit the return key. The program resumed, the glider touched the small pulsing colony, and one particular dot of light went out.

  No one saw who cared.

  Chapter 6

  There were clouds toward the north, over the city. These darkened the rear-view mirror, while Mayland Long drove into the late afternoon sun. They reminded him that autumn was approaching: autumn and the rain.

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. His left arm lay along the sill of the open window. His bare hand sprawled out over the dark green enamel of the car door: too dark for the sun to burn.

  Fire was Mr. Long’s chosen element; he had no sympathy with the rain. Yet he knew water was preordained to win, in the end. In mans end, at least. No vault or sepulcher could keep out the damp forever, and even ashes dissolved. But if he stared at the mirror with a bleak eye, driving south on Alma Street in the dusty shade of trees, it was not such philosophical speculation which disturbed him.

  He parked out of the line of sight of anyone coming from or going toward RasTech, and strolled down the street. Mathilda Avenue was wide and choked with traffic. The earth around it—like the entire Valley—was flat and dry, only partially won from desert. In Long’s eyes it was an unworthy victory, too. The cheap concrete architecture depressed him; it seemed to spring out of nowhere, like the sudden idea of some not-very-imaginative child: all boxes and cylinders, not even colored with crayon.

  Each bare-fronted building had its tiny, begrudged rectangle of green and a huge parking lot. The only other shrubbery on the street consisted of the occasional ivy bed, and a few sapling olive trees which struggled for life at the corner, where the words Sunnyvale Industrial Park were engraved on a sign cut from an immense slice out of a redwood tree. RasTech itself was featureless as a shoebox, except for heavy concrete buttresses along the side of each window and which made a sort of porch before the front entrance.

  This landscape offered very little concealment to a man seeking concealment—especially a man as distinctive in appearance as Mayland Long. Nonetheless he concealed himself,- standing motionless in the afternoon shadows cast by the overhang of the entrance. Behind him rose the slab wall of the building. To his left was the lintel of the doorway. In front of him, further obscuring him from sight, stood a lattice overwhelmed by mounds of Algerian ivy. His clothes were dark; so was he. The shadow slowly grew.

  People issued from the building—it was nearly five o’clock. RasTech employees accounted for only a fraction of the workers who dashed out or paused on the walk before the door, expanding in the open air for a moment before confronting the traffic. Long searched them all from the darkness; his eyes were very good.

  He waited for Rasmussen, knowing he might well have a long wait. He wanted information from the president of RasTech, the last known employer of Elizabeth Macnamara. He did not think he would obtain that information by asking the man. He planned to follow him.

  Mayland Long was tired. Save for those few hours in the chair early in the morning, he had been awake for three days. He was also hungry, having neglected to eat since the previous day’s lunch with Martha Macnamara.

  He had no patience for the way his body clamored to be fed, two or even three times a day.

  Sleep, however, he took seriously. He liked to sleep, and he would have to sleep tonight, or his mind would begin to fail. He told himself as much and continued his watch.

  Three women came out of the door, dressed in tight trousers, talking in Spanish. He followed their conversation with half an ear. A man came out alone: too thin to be Rasmussen. Then a young woman appeared. She let the door slam behind her and stood hesitant on the stoop.

  She was tall and blonde, dressed in tailored navy blue gabardine. She turned her head left and right, as though she could not remember where she had parked her car. Mayland Long took a step out of the shadow and froze.

  Beneath the smooth grace of hair, above the strong jawline, she had the blue eyes of her mother. She was taller, yes. Larger of bone. Most probably Martha Macnamara had never been this beautiful.

  Nor, probably, had she ever been so quietly terrified. The face Mayland Long saw in profile was white and sweating, concealing a sick fear. The perfect lips trembled. Seeing this in a reflection of Martha, whose listening had pulled from him more than he had believed himself to know, who had said, “This is a rose” and thereby cracked all the barriers in his life, his abiding anger flared. One hand clutched at the redwood grating before him. Wood crumbled.

  She headed for the street, her foot stumbling once on the concrete stair. She wound through the crowded parking lot, among cars that honked and bulled their way toward the exits. She climbed the grass edgeway and was at the street.

  Mayland Long followed. He abandoned the shadow, fading unnoticed through the crowd of loungers at the door. He pursued Liz Macnamara at a distance. She stopped by a white Mercedes and stepped out to the driver’s side. Standing a distance away, he smiled, imagining Martha behind the wheel of that car. Then he turned back the way he had come.

  She bolted the door behind her and leaned against it. Immediately the shaking grew worse. She bit her lip until she had her body in control again.

  Hearing the sound of the fountain in the courtyard, she strode over to the living room window. With repeated thumps of the heel of her hand, she forced the sash open.

  Cool air stole into the room, smelling of water. The pampered grass of the central court waved silver and green. There were gulls in the fountain; she heard the smack of their wings.

  Liz had heard a story about geese being used to keep watch in some country; warning of invaders. Where was that—Greece? Would these gulls cry out if one of the condominiums were invaded? She peered down at the sidewalk that wound through the grass below, and at the shingles of the wall. Finally she turned away from the window.

  Mumbling to herself, she pushed open the bedroom door and pulled off her suit. This she hung on a wooden hanger, with a care born out of habit. She pulled a pair of blue jeans out of the dresser drawer and put them on, along with a French T-shirt. Then she flung herself across the bed, trying to cry. Huge, painful sobs sounded for five minutes, wracking her body, while the bed dandled and rocked her. Abruptly she gave up the effort, for no matter how she wailed, her eyes remained dry. She could not cry for her mother. She could not cry for herself.

  Suddenly she jackknifed from the bed. Had she heard something? For almost a minute she stood listening. But why would they want to break in on her? They knew the thing they wanted was not there. And they knew better than to touch her personally.

  She sighed silently. Hysteria was no use; she had to think. She brushed her hair ba
ck with her fingers. Her hands were large boned, her arms long. The only thought that occurred to her was that she wanted a drink. Barefoot, she paced into the kitchen.

  She could reach the high cupboard easily. For years mother had depended on her to fetch things like the meat chopper from the cabinet on top of the fridge. Now her fingers closed on a dusty quart bottle of Teachers and brought it down. Setting it on the butcher-block table, she opened the china cupboard, where the tea cups hung in rows from little hooks, and picked out a pebble bottomed tumbler. She poured and downed the shot without tasting; Liz didn’t really like Scotch. She poured another and stared at it. After five minutes she capped the bottle and headed for the sink to dump the tumbler. She heard a step behind her.

  The only thought she could muster was that the geese had let her down. But they weren’t geese, of course. They were gulls. She swiveled and raised her slim right arm. With excellent aim, she threw the bottle of Teacher’s at the sound.

  And stood staring at the apparition in her kitchen: an elegant, swarthy man with black hair and a gray suit, whose hand wrapped around the sloshing bottle. Who smiled and said diffidently, “Thank you. Usually I use a glass.”

  Liz’s lungs filled with air, but the scream never arrived. “Shit!” she cried instead. “Who the hell are you?”

  He stood for a moment, brow furrowed, holding the bottle of whiskey. It was as though her question required some thought. “I am… not an enemy. Miss Macnamara. In fact, I am probably the best hope you have.”

  “Who are you?” she repeated in a small voice—a child’s voice. Then stronger. Angry. “Who are you? Rasmussen never said…”

  “Rasmussen? No, miss. I do not represent the interests of Floyd Rasmussen.” Calmly, he set the bottle back on the table, while his eyes followed her closely.

  Her hands clenched repeatedly. “Then who? Where’d you come from? How’d you get in here?” Liz Macnamara stalked closer, stiff legged, amazement and outrage overcoming her fear.

  The man, by contrast, leaned insouciantly against the table, rolling the bottle from hand to hand. “My name is Long—Mayland Long. I am sent by your mother to find you.”

  She took one more step forward, a cry escaping from between clenched teeth. She grabbed at ‘Mr. Long’s sleeves, caught one brown hand and held it. “Then she’s all right. He lied? She’s not being held…”

  Her words slowed and stopped, as she glanced down at the dark fingers clutched in her own. She stared at the hand, puzzled.

  Long sighed. “She is not all right at all. She has vanished, and if you have been told that she is being held somewhere, it is probably not a lie.”

  Two seconds worth of hope died in the young woman’s face. Without another glance at Long, she walked into the living room and sat down on the bright, chrome framed sofa. Jaw clenching spasmodically, she stared out the window. He, meanwhile, made a quick circuit of the room, drawing the drapes. Lacy panels of fiberglass filtered the light, concealing them from the outside and casting a pattern of brilliant squares against the stark white walls. In the dimness Long was nearly invisible, but the woman’s skin shone like blue glass. Wind blew the drapes about, sending the dappled wall into a star dance.

  Long sat down beside Liz Macnamara. “Elizabeth. Your mother is taken but she is not dead. We’ve got no time to brood.”

  Her eyes shocked open. She stared at the strange face so close to her own. “Oh hell!” she whispered. “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

  Hers was a strong face, smooth and lean featured. A Viking face. Suppressed fury sharpened its lines. “I did this to her… I did.”

  He raised his eyebrows as he settled himself cautiously into the ultramodern foam sofa. “Yes, I rather think you did,” he agreed, his voice terribly gentle.

  He turned to her in the dimness, with no sound except the rustle of silk. “You have been playing with the big boys, Miss Macnamara.”

  These words pierced through Liz’s funk. Her jaw tightened and she pulled herself up. “What do you mean by that crack? Why shouldn’t I ‘play with the big boys?’ “

  He folded his hands on his knee and considered. “No reason at all. But in this particular sort of game one does not call on one’s mother when things go badly. You see?”

  Liz Macnamara dropped her eyes. “You’re right. How can I explain? It felt like a nightmare, you see, and mother was always so good with nightmares. My mother has the power to put perspectives right… She’s so—so confident. I thought nothing nasty could touch her.”

  Then, abruptly, her hands clenched. “You can’t know about this. Not unless you’re from them: from Rasmussen or Threve. But I don’t know why they sent you. What more can you want from me? I’ll get the letter tomorrow; the banks are already closed today.”

  Mayland Long drank in this assortment of information. “Your mother also shifts mood like that: floats like dust in the air and then comes down with a great crash. I had thought this was part other spiritual attainment, but perhaps she was born that way.”

  He met the confused stubbornness in Elizabeth’s face and sighed. He let his eyes wander through the starkly furnished, expensive rooms.

  Liz Macnamara’s home was sharp angled, glacial pale. The walls were neither ecru, dove nor cream but a white so pure as to shimmer with blue. On the bare, bleached oak floor were scattered cobalt Rya rugs, like holes in smooth ice. On a table in the dining ell rested a tray of Swedish glass, glinting smooth and colorless.

  Long’s brow darkened. “What can I say that will convince you? Let’s see… You don’t get along with your mother. She irritates you. Makes you feel vaguely guilty. You believe she has abandoned her true life’s work as a concert violinist.”

  Her face remained frozen. “You got that from Rasmussen. I told him all that a long time ago.”

  He sighed, raised his hand to the side of his head, and scratched his ear with one elongated finger. Liz Macnamara stared at that finger, fascinated.

  “Did you tell him also that your mother wakes every morning at five to do zazen? That she appreciates the poems of John Donne? That she can listen to… a person… until truth comes out of him? Sometimes it’s a truth that never was truth before?”

  Liz’s jaw worked. She sorted the words Long spoke so diffidently. Her eyes sought reassurance in his impassive face.

  “Do you even know these things about her?” His voice sank away.

  There was silence in the room. Suddenly Liz Macnamara got up and paced to the window. The drapes swirled about her as she peered out at the gulls in the shower of the fountain.

  “How did you get in here?”

  He hesitated before answering. “Through that window. “

  “Here?” She leaned out. “It’s ten feet from the ground,” she accused. “The wall is shingle.”

  He sighed, as though he were being compelled to speak on a subject he found in poor taste. “Only the top six feet are shingle. The foundation is brick.” He shrugged off the doubt in her eyes, obviously irritated. “Believe what you will. I’m here. And I’m here for a reason. As of yesterday, my goal was merely to locate you. Miss Macnamara. I promised your mother I would help her. Now you must help me find her.”

  Mayland Long raised himself from the couch, frowning; in the soft depths of foam his thinking was hindered.

  He strode across the room and sat down in a white wicker chair. His back was straight. His fingers thrust among the twisted reeds. “It is time for you to tell me what you know,” he announced.

  Elizabeth Macnamara sat in the shadowed room, looking at the wall. “I’ve been robbing a bank.”

  “I guessed as much.” His voice reflected a dry triumph.

  Her head spun toward him. Her hair made a dim halo around her face. “You guessed? How… how did you? What kind of detective are you? From the police?”

  The complexity of her mistake amused Long, but the woman did not see his smile. “No, miss. I’m not from the police. Your mother didn’t want to call
the police.”

  Liz settled again, but wary as a bird. “How did you find out, then? Do you know how I did it?” It was difficult to see Long in the dark. He sat very still.

  “I believe I do. You wrote half of a bank securities package for North Bay Savings, while you were at FSS. What the bank did not know was that you had assisted Dr. Peccolo of Stanford to design the other half.”

  Liz shook her head violently. “Assisted, nothing. I wrote the whole thing. He said it would be valuable experience for me.”

  “Was it?” asked Mayland Long. His teeth glimmered briefly.

  Elizabeth let out a shuddering groan. As she turned from Long to the window she seemed to gather the stray light around her. Outside the gulls keened.

  “Shit! Lies lead from one to the other. That was Carlo’s lie—that he had done the system. It was the first bit of rottenness in this whole mess. I’d been dating him almost all of my second year in grad school—on the sly, of course. He’s married. But I broke with him while I was doing the security package. I realized he was using me, and it just stuck in my craw, you know?”