McMurtry, Larry - Novel 05

by Cadillac Jack (v1. 0)

  "Why does he have ferrets?" I asked.

  "Cyrus likes little quick things, like Koreans and ferrets," Boss said.

  The ferret run turned out to be a fair distance from the house. We passed a gazebo in a modest grove, a small pond with willows around it, and a skeet range. Down the hill we could see a tall man in tweedy garb standing by a fence watching a bunch of small animals dart around. A lumpy woman was with him, Bessie Lump no doubt.

  When we got closer I saw that the ferrets had a very nice run to disport themselves in, with holes for them to pop in and out of and a number of small humplike structures reminiscent of Dutch ovens, which may have been ferret houses. The ferrets that weren't busy darting moved along with a peculiar sidling motion, sniffing at the fence.

  "Ah, Boss," Cyrus Folmsbee said, when he turned and saw us. He had very red cheeks and wore a blue silk neckerchief around his throat. He also had a monocle dangling from his tweed jacket, but he mostly just let it dangle.

  Bessie Lump was wearing the same nondescript dress she had worn at the auction.

  "Well, is this our buyer?" Cyrus asked, when he shook my hand. He had skinny hands—the bones in them pressed mine like a vise. His pale blue eyes peered at,me out of his red face.

  "Have you got four million, won't take a cent less," he asked, acting at once on the assumption that I was a buyer.

  "Slow down, Cyrus," Boss said. "This is my nephew. Jack. He's up from Texas for a few days. I thought I'd show him Middleburg while he was here."

  "As well you might," Cyrus said, looking at me thoughtfully. "As well you might. Good place to buy. People are damned bores, but then most people are damn bores. You won't find a gazebo as good as mine, I'll tell you that. Man who built the Brighton Pavilion built that gazebo. Besides, there's this run. Best ferret man in England built me this run. They know ferrets, in England. Only place they do know ferrets—as a matter of fact. I've had good luck with my gray ferrets—can't say that I care much for my browns. You won't find a decent ferret handler in these parts, I'm afraid, but that's your lookout, assuming you've got the four million, of course."

  Bessie Lump had turned and was looking at me with eyes that would have been right at home on a dead fish.

  Cyrus pressed on relentlessly, ignoring both Bessie and Boss.

  "I'm glad you've come straight to the point," he said. "I like a man who doesn't beat around the bush. Speaking of which admittedly my boxwood is not all it might be, but if you coax it along I think it will do. I shan't take these ferrets. I have other ferrets. Be careful with the grays or you'll get bit, I can assure you."

  I looked at Boss, hoping she'd stop him, but Boss was making no effort to stop him. She was surveying the acreage. Cyrus had a staff of some kind, leaning against the fence. It was as tall as he was, and made from some kind of gnarled wood. I had never seen one like it and I looked at it admiringly. Cyrus immediately picked it up.

  "Can't have this," he said. "Yugoslavian shepherd's staff, in case you're wondering. Tito gave it to me. Yugoslavians whack their sheep when they want them to do something. Far simpler. Admirable thing, isn't it?"

  "I say it was cheap," Bessie said. "He should have given you an estate."

  Cyrus looked startled. Then he whirled on Bessie.

  "Absolute nonsense," he said. "Why would I want an estate in Yugoslavia? Can't speak the language, don't like the food. The people are damned bores. Stolid peasants, worse than Virginians. I'd rather have this staff. I can whack those damn black cattle with it, when I feel like it. Much satisfaction to be had from whacking a black cow. They don't move, you know."

  Bessie was not convinced.

  "I still say it was cheap," she said.

  "Sorry, forgot to introduce you," Cyrus said. "Actually, I can't introduce you because I don't know your name."

  "Jack McGriff," I said. "Actually I met Mrs. Lump yesterday."

  "How astonishing," Cyrus said, looking hard at Bessie. "I heard nothing about that. What's going on here? More plots, eh Bessie?"

  Bessie stared at me with her dead-fish eyes.

  "We don't know him," she said.

  I was about to remind her that Boog had introduced us, when Boss gave me a hard pinch. I interpreted it to mean I had better keep quiet.

  "You deny it, do you?" Cyrus said heatedly, looking at Bessie.

  "Stay out of it but buy the horse farm," Boss whispered, while Cyrus was glaring at Bessie.

  "Did you meet this man or didn't you?" Cyrus asked loudly, thumping the ground a time or two with his Yugoslavian staff.

  I was supposed to buy the horse farm? I looked at Boss and she smiled and nodded.

  "I want to know what's going on," Cyrus yelled. "You know better than to keep things from me!"

  Though Cyrus looked ready to whack her with the shepherd's staff, Bessie didn't change expression. None of us seemed to interest her in the least. She was carrying the same little-old-lady handbag she had had at the auction. She just stood there, gazing at Cyrus idly, as if he were of no more interest than a boxwood bush.

  Cyrus' face was getting redder. His skinny hands gripped the stick tightly. He was clearly not a man who liked to have his stick-thumping ignored, but that is precisely what occurred. Bessie just walked off from us and ambled slowly up the hill, without saying another word. There was something about her silence that was very unsettling.

  "Absolute nonsense," Cyrus said. "Utter and complete bosh. That woman's a liar and always has been!"

  He shouted the last sentence, evidently hoping Bessie would hear it and turn around. She didn't turn around. She just continued her slow, inexorable progress up the long green lawn.

  "She likes to get my goat," Cyrus said, more quietly. "Always has. Worse than my wife. Much worse, in fact. My wife only likes to drink."

  "I hear you've been traveling," Boss said. A couple of ferrets stood up on their hind legs and sniffed at us curiously.

  "Oh well, it's Peck and his museums," Cyrus said. "He builds them in the most inconvenient countries. Was building one in Uganda but of course that's gone a bit haywire. Fm generally required to consult, you know. After all, blood is thicker than water."

  For a moment we stood and watched the ferrets.

  "Bessie's a damned snob, that's what she is," Cyrus said. "Denies knowing half the people we know, including people we've known for forty years. Bessie doesn't know them. Not good enough for her. That's because she's a Shipton. Absolute snobs, all of them."

  "Boog gets along with her, though," Boss said.

  "He flatters her," Cyrus said. "Anyhow she makes exceptions for certain males, if they're rich enough. Or if they flatter her. I'm the opposite. Can't stand flattery, don't have to be a snob."

  "Why not?" Boss asked, with a smile.

  "Perfect bosh, snobbery," Cyrus said. "Of course, I'm lucky. Nobody's as good as me, so I escaped it. I might as well know everybody. Saves energy. Are we set then, young man?"

  I glanced at Boss, who was inscrutable.

  "I guess we're set," I said.

  "Bully," Cyrus said. "Couldn't be more delighted. Never liked this place. The lake is the wrong shape: L-shaped, you know. Perfect bosh. Lakes should be round, not bent in the middle. Incidentally, you don't get the sailboat. I've plenty of round lakes, you know. Got one not ten miles from here. Keeping that one. It's got a helicopter dock, too, though I don't keep a helicopter anymore. The Agency's been very good about lending them to me, when I need one."

  During this whole speech he was squeezing my hand in his skinny fingers. Then he turned, bent in a courtly fashion, and gave Boss a kiss before seizing his Yugoslavian staff and starting for the house.

  "I'm glad you're not one of those types that have to be driven around and shown things before settling a deal," he said. "Decisive people, Texans. I've always said it. Buy what you like and live with it, that's been my motto. Middle class, I say, all this peeking and inspecting. Bessie's the same. Detests the middle class as only a Shipton can."

 
"You might ask Boog what she's up to," he said to Boss, after a pause. "He'll know. I’ve great respect for Boog. You ask him, will you? I hate it when Bessie goes about plotting. I think she's hired her own Koreans, which is a damned impertinent thing to do, if you ask me. I introduced her to Koreans—taught her all she knows about them. Cheeky of her to hire some for herself. I'll tell you one thing, they can cause no end of trouble if they aren't managed right. Not for amateurs, I can tell you that."

  By the time he had told us that we were rounding the comer of the big red brick house. Bessie was shuffling around the hunting brake, still holding her handbag. Herbert was standing more or less at attention, and looking extremely nervous.

  "Look at that woman!" Cyrus said. "What do you suppose she's up to now?"

  Chapter XVI

  "I don't know, but Herbert looks worried," Boss said. "I love that Herbert. If you ever fire him I'm gonna snap him up, Cyrus. I just thought I'd warn you."

  Cyrus looked puzzled. "Sporting of you, of course," he said, looking at Herbert as if he were noticing him for the first time.

  "I hardly suppose I'll fire him," he said, as if the very notion were surprising and droll. "Herbert has always worked for me. I'm surprised anyone's noticed him. I haven't in years, now that I think about it. But you're right, there he is. Bessie will have him in a state, I suppose. Keeps all the servants in a state, actually. Knows what to expect of servants and won't settle for less."

  We all stood and watched as she shuffled around the beautiful car. When she finished she shuffled into the house, not saying a word to anyone. Herbert remained at attention.

  He looked as if he were waiting for a firing squad to march out of the house and dispatch him.

  "All right," Cyrus said, slapping his thigh briskly. "Very good morning's work indeed. Never liked that L-shaped lake. You'll attend to the details, won't you. Boss? Draw up the papers and send them along to my people. Then this lucky young man can write his check and that will be that."

  "Fine," Boss said. "I'll be in touch with your people. See you later."

  "Months later, unless we're very lucky indeed," Cyrus said. "It's Peck, you know. No head for trade, though I suppose his museums are nice enough. Could have stayed home and been a gentleman, but nothing could persuade him."

  Then he turned and strode into the house I had just bought.

  As they strolled past the hunting brake. Boss winked at Herbert.

  "I wish I could give him a kiss, but of course Bessie is watching," she said.

  "I don't have four million dollars," I pointed out.

  "I do," Boss said. "I had no idea Cyrus was thinking so cheap. Bessie must have him going around in circles."

  "Are you planning to loan me the money?" I asked.

  "Yep," she said. "You're my decoy. We'll paint the fences and sell the place for six million. Maybe six and a half."

  That put matters in a different light. "How much do I get?" I asked.

  Boss laughed. "You'll get something," she said. "I haven't decided how much, or even what."

  Boss was a very fast driver. A big sale had a good effect on her, just as it did on Kate. The little Virginia roads that border 4-million-dollar horse farms are narrow and windy, but Boss roared over them at a high speed, the windows down and the cool fall air rushing through the car.

  Boss had a wonderful complexion. She could look tanned and rosy at the same time. That was how she looked with the cool air rushing through the car.

  "Did you really want to kiss Herbert?" I asked, jealously.

  "Boy, did I!" she said. "You know why? Innocence. I just can't keep away from innocent men."

  "That explains Micah," I said. I had long wondered what explained him.

  “Yeah," she said, giving me a look. "Only Micah never wears striped pants and a little black apron. Neat little innocent men in striped pants are the cat's meow, so far as I'm concerned."

  "I guess that lets me out," I said, hoping she would contradict me.

  She shot over a little hump in the road and swerved around a man on a tractor as if she'd known he'd be just over that hump. Then she grinned at me.

  "Don't worry about it," she said. "I might like you better once you've been despoiled. Despoiled innocence is kind of cute, too."

  "I don't understand your criteria very well," I said.

  Boss just shrugged. "I'd like a hamburger," she said.

  She got it in Chantilly, Virginia—basically just a wide space on Route 50, not far from the flea market where I had met Beth Gibbon, the flea marketer's daughter.

  Beth had been sitting on the tailgate of her father's old pickup when I spotted her, her five young children piled around her like little possums. Beth's father was a quilt man, although he also sold pocket knives, old bottles, and a smattering of knickknacks, when he could find them. Beth was only twenty-four when I met her and had a wildness in her eyes that was the result of feeling frightened and out of place in what she called "big ol' towns." She had a husband somewhere, the one who had given her five kids in five years, but he hung out in Cincinnati when he wasn't giving her a kid.

  The thought of Beth mingled with the smell of cooking hamburgers in the little place Boss had chosen. The hamburgers were excellent, but I was distracted by my memories. I hadn't seen Beth in almost a year, which probably meant that she had another child.

  On the jukebox Tanya Tucker was insisting that, if it came to it, she would prefer Texas to heaven. The song prompted a moment of nostalgia for Coffee, which mingled with the hamburger and mustard in my mouth and my nostalgia for Beth.

  Boss was cheerfully munching her hamburger and making eyes at a booth full of truckers, who on the whole were greasier than the hamburgers. The truckers were mildly abashed at being the object of her attention.

  "Penny for your thoughts," she said.

  "I have about a million," I said. "I can't sort them out."

  Boss swallowed too big a bite and hit herself in the breastbone a time or two, to help it go down.

  "I'll tell you what's wrong with you," she said. "You're too romantic on the one hand. On the other hand, you don't know the first thing about romance."

  It seemed to me an arguable point. After all I had two exwives and several girl friends and/or potential wives. I must know something about romance.

  Boss was wobbling a French fry in some ketchup. For a moment she reminded me of Belinda Arber. She gave me a cool look. Belinda was much like Boss, only forty-nine years younger.

  In fact, the women I sometimes inaccurately think of as my women were always reminding me of one another. There were plenty of differences between them, but somehow the correspondences outnumbered the differences.

  Boss didn't say anything for a while. She ate her hamburger and French fries and occasionally let her gaze drift over to the truckers, who continued to be mildly abashed. They were evidently not used to even such light attentions as Boss was paying them.

  The waitress kept refilling Boss's coffee cup, with coffee so hot that a wreath of smoke rose from it. When Boss lifted it to drink she gently blew aside the smoke.

  "I don't think you really know how to get girls," Boss said, breaking her silence. "It doesn't matter, though, because any girl would know how to get you."

  She looked hard at the truckers suddenly, causing them to shift nervously in their booth.

  "What's cute about you is that you're kind of chaste," she said.

  "I'm not chaste," I said, automatically. She knew enough about me to know that I didn't exactly avoid carnal relations.

  "There's just two romantic relationships," Boss said, fingering a strand of her black hair. "All the rest are what my granny used to call common doings."

  "Which are?"

  "Sexy friendships and adultery," Boss said, opening her purse and scattering change on the table. "I got the tip, you can get the ticket."

  Then she got up and headed for the door, walking right past the truckers all of whom fell instantly silent. They almost
cringed, in fact, though Boss didn't give them another look. She got a toothpick and went outside. I paid the ticket. As the door closed behind me the truckers, grown suddenly confident, began to laugh uproariously.

  Book IV

  Chapter I

  When I walked into Jean Arber's antique shop, in the cracked shopping center in Wheaton, Jean was on the phone, talking in such low tones that I assumed she was talking to her husband. Belinda was sitting on a beautiful Pennsylvania dower chest, swinging her heels, which as usual were in tiny red sneakers. Her sister Beverly sat over in a comer by a larger but less remarkable chest, attempting to fit a paper dress she had just cut out onto a paper doll.

  At the sight of me Belinda leaped from the chest and dashed to her mother's lap. She was not seeking shelter— she merely wanted her mother to get off the phone.

  "He's here, Mom!" she said loudly. "Let's go."

  Jean continued to talk in low tones, ignoring her daughter to the extent that such was possible. She cupped a hand over Belinda's mouth, cutting off further orders. Belinda countered by bouncing up and down in her mother's lap, impatiently and not gently. Annoyed, Jean opened her legs and managed to roll Belinda to the floor, where she bumped her head. The head bump was not gentle, either.