“Old Faithful!” Cutter gloated. “Well, let’s go get a sandwich. We got big bidness to discuss.”
They drove the few blocks to Ziggie’s, a new self-serve sidewalk café located close to that point on State Street where the smart shops and neat tree-lined brick walks of downtown Santa Barbara began to go sour, in fact became the local skid row or at least what had to pass for one in the absence of any truly rundown area. In most American towns, the strip probably would have been the high-rent district, which pointed up one of Cutter’s favorite themes, that the city was the victim of creeping affluence, or, as he expanded on the subject, Blockbusting Whitey Style. Every few days the bulldozers would press a little farther into the barrio, razing a few more Mexican shanties, which would then be replaced by some exquisitely designed orthodontists’ office building resembling the Ponderosa hacienda and costing about a million dollars a square foot. In time there would be no hovels left, Cutter would complain, no place at all for the Mexicans to live. Who then would cut the Anglo’s grass and clean his toilets? Who would raise his children? Obviously the time to act was now, before the burro was out of the barn.
They took a table in the sunshine and for a time the three of them barely spoke, all hungrily downing Ziggie’s doughy hamburgers and fries. The baby, however, standing in Mo’s lap, had much to say about his mother’s nose and eyes and lips, which he kept touching and squeezing and kissing. And Bone for some reason found himself unable to look away from the two of them, this blond handsome young woman sitting across the small table in the pale lemon light, with her fat year-old son jabbering happily in her lap. He tried to think of his own family, Ruth and the girls, but there was nothing there, nothing comparable. He had courted the girl and married her, had lived with her and slept with her for over seven years, and together they had made children, together had raised them, or at least begun the process. Yet when he tried to feel now what those years had been about, he could not come up with much of anything except possibly habit, that tedious old whore habit. Yes, he was afraid that pretty well covered their relationship. Ruth finally had been a habit, that was all, and probably the girls too, Janey and little Beth, somehow so like their mother, so cool and correct, so contained.
Whatever the reason, he could not remember feeling then what he felt now as he sat watching Mo and the baby.
For Cutter, however, they might as well not have been there. He had other problems.
“Money,” he said to Bone. “That’s what we got to talk about, kid. Bread. The staff of life.”
“What about it?”
Cutter took a bite of his hamburger. “Ain’t none,” he chewed.
You’re short, huh?”
“You might say that, yeah. No food stamps. Disability check two weeks away. Mo and I got about four bucks between us. And the cupboard is bare.”
“That’s short, all right.”
“I’m already into so many cats around town, people dive through windows when I hit a place. And Sister Venereal here won’t call home to her mama and beg, so where does that leave us?”
“You tell me.”
Cutter drained the last of his Coke. “With you, buddy.”
Bone laughed. “You sure you got the right man?”
“Yeah. But let me say first, Rich, this hasn’t got anything to do with your staying at the house, the few bucks of groceries you may cost us. Nobody’s keeping tabs, nobody cares. We’re happy to have you.”
“I thank you, sir. But I’ll be out in a day or two anyway.”
“No reason to. We like having you.”
Bone looked at Mo, and she smiled cryptically.
“I appreciate that,” he said to Cutter. “But you got a lousy davenport. I think I can do better.”
“Dreams of glory,” Cutter said. “But even if you could, it’s beside the point—which is we need a short-term loan. Enough so Mo can go do her thing at Alpha Beta.”
“Right. I understand. But where do I fit in?”
With his one hand Cutter had taken out a cigarette. Now he lit it deftly, in a swift flow of movement. “You is duh loaner,” he said. “We is duh loanees.”
“You’re out of your tree.”
“Yeah, I know—you’re flat too. But your old buddy’s been busy. Let me ask you—how you gonna get your car back?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You’ll try to hit somebody, right? Well, let me tell you, sweetheart—you won’t connect. Everybody’s really up against it lately, I don’t care how goddamn much money they’re making. It’s like asking for blood.”
Bone plucked the last french fry out of its paper tray, ate it. “What’re you getting at?”
“As I said, I’ve been busy.”
“And—”
“I’ve got a buyer for your car.”
“A buyer?”
“That’s right. He buys, you sell. Push-pull click-click, we’ve got some bread again. He’ll give you two hundred.”
Again Bone looked over at Mo, hoping to see her reaction to this bit of footwork. But she was inscrutable, as usual firmly in Cutter’s corner.
“Who says I want to sell my car?” he asked Cutter.
“What good is it in the city garage? And anyway it’s a mess, right? You can’t fix it. Well, this guy can. He’s got his own shop. Did most of the body work on the Packard.”
Bone shook his head in appreciation. “Beautiful, Alex. Just beautiful. I sell my wheels and give you the money.”
“Loan it.”
“Loan it then. Either way, how do I get around?”
“My car.”
“When it works.”
Cutter shrugged. “Well, it’s up to you, man. Think about it. Meanwhile you better eat slow. All we’ve got at home is Cocoa Krispies and booze.”
Bone said nothing for a time. He lit a cigarette and watched the thin parade of winos, hippies, and straights moving along the sidewalk. At the near corner a truck pulled up and its driver, a young black man, got out and loaded a stack of newspapers into a vending machine. Mo handed the baby to Cutter.
“I’ll get it,” she said, reaching for her purse. “I want to read it first.”
As she left the table Cutter pushed the baby out to the end of his knee.
“Jesus, I hope this ain’t my kid. What an anal character. He’s done it again. Old brown pants himself.”
Bone did not trust his voice for a few moments.
“What a prick you are, Alex,” he said finally.
“What a real first-class prick.”
Cutter forced a laugh. “What’s all this about, huh? What’s with you now?”
“You know goddamn well.”
“About selling your car?”
“About Mo, you prick. That’s your kid and you know it.”
For a time Cutter sat there pretending to be surprised and puzzled. Then the old look of amusement lit up his wounds again. He knew something you did not. Slowly he shook his head. “I don’t know any such thing, kiddo. I don’t know nothing about nobody. What do you think the girl is, some kind of tin saint? Man, she was in the life from her teens. Than that Jesus Freak commune bit and a rebound after. You think you go through all that and come out a vestal virgin?”
“I’m talking about now, the last two years. The kid’s a year old, isn’t he? So he’s yours.”
“Don’t ask me, ask her.”
Mo had just returned to the table. “Ask me what?”
“If I made the front page,” Bone said.
She handed him the paper. “Not by name. At least, I didn’t see it. The story mentions a witness, that’s all.”
It was not the headline story—the worsening economy still reigned there—but it did get second billing. And there were two photographs, one showing the trashcans and the driveway leading through the apartment complex, the other a school portrait of the girl, Pamela Durant. Next to the pictures was a deck headline:
LOCAL GIRL SLAIN
BODY FOUND IN TRASHCAN
The accompanying story had nothing in it Bone did not already know. A man walking on Alvarez Street was alleged to have seen the car turn in and stop, but it was reported that he saw the suspect only in silhouette. His statement and tire markings on the driveway indicated that the vehicle at the scene was a late-model, full-size car. Residents in the apartment houses reported hearing the vehicle brake sharply, and then moments later depart with tires screeching. The victim, pretty seventeen-year-old Pamela Durant, had been a cheerleader and homecoming queen candidate at Santa Barbara High School. She was described as very popular, an active student with a keen interest in ecology and contemporary music. She was survived by her mother Angela Durant and sister Valerie, twenty-three, an employee of Coastline Insurance.
Bone handed the paper to Cutter, who had already given the baby back to Mo. Now he scanned the front page rapidly and then turned inside, where something caught his interest. He seemed surprised for a moment. Then he recovered his customary look of amiable scorn.
“Hey, maybe our friend Erickson was even busier than we thought last night.” He handed the paper back to Bone to let him see the item.
Glancing at the third page, at a large newsphoto there, Bone suddenly felt the sidewalk opening under him. The photograph came at him from inside as much as out, negative and positive. And he heard himself mutter, “My God.”
Cutter looked at him in puzzlement. “Hey, I’m not serious, man. That cat couldn’t blow up a balloon.”
Bone barely heard him.
“Hey, what’s with you?” Cutter pressed.
“It’s him.”
Mo too was looking at Bone now as if he had taken leave of his senses.“Who?” she asked.
But Bone had caught himself by now, realized the absurdity of what he had said. “Like him,” he amended. “That’s all. It’s like the man.”
Cutter leaned across the table to get another look at the photograph. His voice soared. “You putting us on, man? J. J. Wolfe? The conglomerate? The man on Time?”
Mo, who still had no idea what they were talking about, unceremoniously snatched the paper from them and looked at the picture Bone still could not believe: a heavy large-headed man in his forties standing next to a burned-out car and smiling happily, as if he were displaying a prize bull. Above, a banner headline explained:
CAR OF J. J. WOLFE BLOWN UP
FBI CALLED IN ON FIREBOMBING OF VISITING TYCOON’S CAR
“He’s like the man,” Bone repeated. “Same size and build. Similar. That’s all I meant.”
Cutter was staring fixedly at him, almost squinting, as if there were small print all over Bone’s face. “Ain’t what you said at first,” he said.
I’m saying it now.”
Cutter affected a look of deep confoundment, and turned to Mo. “Now isn’t that weird. One second he eyeballs the picture and tells us It’s him, just like that. And the next second he takes it all back. That is passing weird, wouldn’t you say?”
But Mo was busy reading the story of the firebombing. “Happened at one-fifteen in the morning,” she reported. “He’d been driving around late, alone, in a rented Ford LTD. Got back to his motel about midnight, ran out of cigarettes, and went back to his car to get more. On the way—bang. He saw it go up. But that was all. Didn’t see anyone running or anything else. And he’s got no idea why anyone would want to do such a thing to him.” Mo smiled maliciously now. “I quote: All my companies work for America. They create jobs and opportunity and prosperity for thousands of people. We don’t take, we give. Unquote.” Mo bowed humbly, playing folksy tycoon herself for the moment. Then she returned to the paper. “So he knows this thing wasn’t intended for him. It was either a prank that got out of hand or someone simply got the wrong car. Nevertheless he appreciates the fine job the local police and the FBI are doing.”
“What a sweet guy,” Cutter said. “It say what he was doing out so late?”
Mo reported from the paper. “He admires our fair city so much he just drives around it any chance he can get, day or night.”
“He’s here for the energy conference, I take it?”
“That’s what it says.”
Cutter looked at Bone. “What do you say now, man? Driving at midnight, all by himself. In an LTD, which I believe qualifies as a full-size car.”
“Along with a few million others.”
Cutter shrugged. “All right, Rich. Okay. I agree. The odds against this cat being your trashcan freak are—well, astronomical. Because he’s here in town, and heavy-set, with a large head, and driving the right kind of car at the right time—I agree, it doesn’t mean anything. Must’ve been scores of other gentlemen around town—maybe hundreds—that would fit the same bill of particulars.” Cutter had begun to light another cigarette but forgot it now, let it dangle unlit. His eye narrowed conspiratorially. “But you know, I must admit two things about this do just bug hell out of me. First, why you said It’s him. Not it looks like him, not it’s similar to him or a double for him, but him period. And second, the firebombing of his car—not even ninety minutes after the girl was dumped. Now isn’t that strange? Doesn’t it intrigue you a little, Rich?”
Bone looked at his watch. It was past twelve o’clock and people on their lunch hour were beginning to crowd the sidewalk café. Many were standing in line, waiting for tables.
“We’re through eating,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“And my two problems?” Cutter asked. “No answers?”
“Your only problem, Alex, is your imagination.”
Driving back uptown, Bone found it hard to believe the amount of traffic they had to fight through. Even in his small MG the going was rarely swift, but it was decidedly slower with the one-armed Cutter maneuvering the 1948 Packard, which reminded Bone of a beached whale, a great bloated tin fish. With the traffic already this bad, he hated to think of summer and especially Fiesta week, when tourists would glut the city like starlings in a favored tree.
As they moved along, stopping, starting again, smoking and rattling past the handsome old fake-adobe structures along streets lined with palm trees and hibiscus and jacaranda, Bone could almost feel with Cutter the sick outrage of the native Santa Barbaran. For the town quite simply was perishing of its own spectacular beauty and climate, was on its back almost full time now, putting out for all kinds of pimps and promoters and developers, anyone with the price of a lay. Santa Condominia, Cutter called it, relishing how it too had betrayed him.
But Bone could not work up much of a sweat over the problem. In fact he could not even keep his mind on it. The photograph in the newspaper kept intruding. He had played the thing casually back at Ziggie’s, but the truth was he had no answer to Cutter’s question. He had no idea why he had blurted It’s him! And that uncertainty, he was sure, worried him even more than it did Cutter, for only he knew how immediate and thoughtless the connection had been. It was not the face, of course, for he had not seen the man’s face. Nor was it simply that both men had the same bearlike body and large head. No, it was something beyond that, an animus, an almost inhuman arrogance that flowed as equally from the dark shape dumping the body in the trashcan as from the face in the photo, the celebrated new conglomerateur grinning amiably next to the burned-out shell of his rented car. And for that matter, Cutter had a point there too, the car going up in flames within an hour of the dumping of the body—how many coincidences added up to noncoincidence?
But again Bone caught himself. Had he flipped or was it just exhaustion? As if to prove to himself the absurdity of his thoughts he picked up the paper now, which had been lying between him and Cutter in the front seat, and absently, almost carelessly, he opened it to the third page, expecting to find nothing there but a grinning stranger. Instead he found the same sick feeling as before. And Cutter did not miss it.
By the time they reached the house, Bone had begun to feel the need for both solitude and exercise, and he asked Cutter if he could take the car onto the beach. But Cutter crossed him.
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br /> “Great idea. I’ll join you. We can race.”
After Mo got out, taking the baby with her, Cutter drove off. On the way they went past the apartment building that once had been Cutter’s home, a huge three-story white stone structure sitting back amid the surviving palms and sycamores, its sprawling lawn all asphalt and parking places now, its porte cochere glassed in and modernized, a lobby. Behind the house rising young stockbrokers and communications specialists lived the chic life in converted stables and servants’ quarters and drank mai-tais around the same pool where Cutter’s mother, drunk, had fallen in and drowned a few years after his father, Alexander the Third no less, had met a similar fate, going down with his heavily mortgaged hundred-thousand-dollar yacht in a storm off Point Conception. By the time of the mother’s death the executors of the estate could scrape together only enough for Cutter to have a year at Stanford, and then it was all over, done, three generations of money and privilege canceled like a subscription. And Cutter moved on without a backward look, slipping easily into the mid-sixties, that golden age of cant, of bare feet and acid and Aquarius, followed by either disillusionment or boredom, Cutter was never sure which, except that it led to turnabout, metamorphosis into a marine of all things, a hardgutted grunt who reached Nam just in time for Tet of 1968, just in time to step on a claymore.
Most of this had come from Mo. What little Cutter ever revealed about himself was usually in the form of black humor, as when he referred to his parents as the aquatic branch of the family. Even now, driving past the old house, he did not glance its way. Nevertheless Bone could not forget the make and model of the car they were in, and he could only wonder what significance it held beyond the obvious, precisely how and where its psychic tendrils linked Cutter to the flesh and spirit of his past.
At Arroyo Burro they parked the car and made their way down over the huge winter boulders to the beach itself, where a ragtag school of scuba bums were preparing to go into the water, all looking to Bone infinitely weirder than anything they were likely to spear in the deep. Limping past them, Cutter asked one to keep a sharp eye out for his dog Checkers, a Labrador that liked to float out in the kelp beds for days at a time, especially at this time of year. Though the man looked dubious, he nodded.
Cutter and Bone Page 5
