by Rick Boyer
"I know. I think we're doing the right thing. Maybe you shouldn't even tell him."
"I'm not going to tell him unless we recover the golden statue. Then I'll hand him the tab."
She sat in thought for a minute, then asked me what the odds were of actually recovering the gold Siva.
"Uh . . . slim. As slim —"
" —as spider's silk. I thought so."
7
MOE TURNED the small aluminum crank and the windowpanes squeaked and squealed their way open, letting in the breeze that was colder by the minute. He bent his tall wiry frame over to peer out the tiny aft window of his ancient Airstream trailer.
"Gonna snow, Doc. Feel it?"
"Uh-huh. Haven't you eaten yet? Maybe I'm here too early."
"Dinner's almost ready. Want to join me?"
He took four plastic bags out of his breadbox, along with a black loaf of Russian rye bread. He put a big hunk of bread and some cream cheese on a plate and from the bags took out dried apricots, apple slices, soybeans, and cracked wheat. To top it off, he placed a patty of tofu on the plate and covered it with two scoops of steaming bulgur.
"You're not really going to eat that, are you?" I asked.
"Yes, and so should you," he replied, taking the plate and a glass of skim milk into the living room, which was built onto the aluminum trailer. He dug in, washing it down with sips of the bluish-gray milk.
"Doc, you really know how to live it up. Do you have any cold cuts?"
He held up his hands as if to fend off evil spirits and moaned and grunted as he chewed. He made the same gestures of repulsion when I inquired after other foods I liked. I could see myself starving to death if I had to stay in Moe's trailer home for more than a week. As it was, I was merely stopping over for a quiet game of chess and some nice conversation. I watched Moe eat and sipped my beer. Outside, the two Nubian goats bawled. The wood stove tinked and purred, making the air above it dance.
"Where's the picture?" he asked.
I flipped the photo over to him. He stared at it and shook his gray head.
"Dis isn't good, Doc. Not good at all. Siva is the evil form of the Hindu god—a dancing demon devil. Not good."
"It's a goddamn statue, Moe. Period."
He shook his head again and looked me in the eye.
"I'm concerned about you, Doc. So is Mary. I know because we've had a little talk about you. I heard all that happened at your party a few weeks ago, including the fondling of Janice DeGroot. Now that's not the first time that's happened. You seem to be looking for any kind of trouble you can find. Why?"
"I don't know why. It's just that life seems, well, a little stale lately. It seems to have lost its spark."
"Well if you're not careful, you're going to lose your spark. You are fast becoming an adult delinquent."
I pondered these words. As usual, Moe was correct. It was time to quit moping about the imponderables and to make sure I held on to what I had, which was considerable. I heard a faint whisper against the windowpanes. The snow had begun. In much of literature, I had read somewhere, snow symbolizes death. Is that what it meant then? The death of a relationship? Were Mary and I simply having a difficult time, or was this the beginning of the end? I thought it could never happen to me, but most people probably think that. Half the marriages end in divorce now. And divorce is not confined to brief marriages, either. I bowed my head and ran my hands through my hair. I think I must have sighed, because Moe looked up at me, a worried wrinkle on his high, shiny forehead.
"Things not going too well lately?"
"No. I just feel—I don't know—like I want to go off by myself for a while. I think maybe Mary feels the same way."
"You seeing ganybody else? Huh?"
"No. Course not, Moe. I still love Mary. It's just that I feel . . . confined. I need a break."
"You think she's seeing ganyone?"
I looked up, shocked.
"Hell no! At least I hope not."
He shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal way.
"You never know, Doc. You got a lot to lose. Both of you. But you know what? I agree with you. I think you two should get away from each other for a week or two. Have fun on your own, get into your own identities and interests. Then, when you come back, you can make a fresh start. It usually works."
Moe walked over to the patio-style sliding doors of his living room addition, flipped a switch, and a floodlight came on, illuminating his little goat corral. The goats stood huddled in the cold, the snow on their backs and their breath coming in great steamy clouds. Moe's little residence, smack in the middle of Walden Breezes trailer park, across the road from the famous pond, was cozy indeed. He threw another chunk of red oak into the stove, and we played chess.
After he won two games, I rose to leave. "Have you finished The Kingdom of God Is Within You?" I asked.
"Yes. But you may not have it until I get my own copy. It's the best thing Tolstoi ever wrote."
"But you've been saying you're going to get your own copy for two years now."
"Don't rush me. And give me five dollars for leaving, and five for the chess lesson."
I took out a ten-dollar bill and Moe stuffed it into the oatmeal carton with the slot cut in the lid. His Charity of the Month. At the door he handed me back the picture of the dancing gold statue.
"Steer clear of this, Doc. This thing and your Nazi friends in fatigues. I have a bad feeling about all of it."
I said I'd think about it and went out to the car. I looked back at the shiny trailer with its attached room and small corral. Above the scene, the floodlight glowed like a star, and its bright light reflected off the trailer and fresh snow with startling luminescence. The goats were lying next to each other now, puffing their steamy breath. It looked like a real live manger scene.
As I started the car, however, the idyllic mood was broken by a clap of thunder. Yes, in New England—and only there, as far as I know—we sometimes get thunder in snowstorms. This was a giant clap of thunder, and it was thunder on the left.
* * *
Ten minutes later I sat at the breakfast nook in the kitchen and watched while Mary placed the skewered shrimp on the electric grill and doused them with a little hot-and-sour sauce.
"What do you mean, ‘thunder on the left'?" she asked me as she poured two Asahi beers for us. "What's that mean?"
"Some superstition about bad luck. If thunder is heard on your left, it bodes no good. I think it's a British sailor's superstition."
"Well, God knows in this case it's probably true. Couple that with the devil statue and Liatis's being shot, and everything else, and you see what I mean. Face it pal, this caper is just too deep for you. Leave it to those other guys who like killing and being killed. Stick to your job—your work makes people look better and feel better. It's important and beneficial, and you're very good at it. In short, Charlie Adams, stop being a jerk."
"You're right," I said, rising and kissing her. I held her for several minutes. Neither of us spoke. Was she thinking what I was thinking? I rubbed her shoulders and she sighed.
"I understand why you've got to go to San Antonio next month. But for heaven's sake, don't contact that Kaunitz guy. Leave it alone. Only a jerk would follow it up. I mean, I know you'll eventually use your own good judgment and do what's best. After all, the meeting is over a month away and you've got plenty of time to make the right decision."
"Right, Mary."
"And I just know you'll decide not to see Fred Kaunitz. After all, only an idiot would. And we both know you're a little wacky, but not an idiot."`
"Of course. Uh, Mary? Mind if I ask a personal question?"
"What?"
"Are you having an affair with anyone?"
She leaned back in my arms and stared at me with wide eyes and a frown.
"What!"
"Well . . . ?" I could feel my heart skip a beat. "No, Charlie."
I hugged her again, heaving a silent sigh of relief. "But of course if I
were, I wouldn't tell you."
I didn't say anything for a minute, then held her out at arm's length, dead serious.
"Honey, you're a million miles away right now," I said.
She bit her lip. Her eyes came unfocused.
"So are you," she said.
8
SIX WEEKS LATER, in San Antonio, Fred Kaunitz rang the bell to my hotel room in the Del Rio Hilton.
I was sipping coffee after having run five miles up and down the Paseo del Rio, the riverway that snakes through the old part of the city. Twenty years ago, the canal—like stream was a favorite place to dump dead bodies. And the town was so rough that there seemed to be an ample supply each night. But it's been cleaned up, and the riverway is now the city's main attraction. I had walked out onto the balcony and was looking down at the live oaks that lined the stream. Big grackle-like birds screamed and whistled in the trees, thrashing their long tails back and forth. They sounded like mynah birds. I liked them. It was March first, but crisp and sunny out. In fact, the day would be downright warm by midafternoon. I didn't miss New England one bit. I whistled an imitation of the ‘blackbirds' song, and they answered me.
I had showered and dressed by the time the bell rang. I opened the door and there stood Fred Kaunitz. I had to look up when talking to him. He was dressed in blue jeans, a faded cotton shirt, and rough-out western boots. He did not wear a cowboy hat with a crown of feather plumes and silver in front. He did not wear a big elaborate belt buckle with a silly saying or a beer or firearm company on it. He did not wear a string tie with a turquoise thunderbird or arrowhead on it. He didn't have a can of Skoal or Copenhagen with an engraved silver lid. He didn't seem to need these things. At a glance and a handshake, I knew that Fred Kaunitz was the real thing, the genuine item: a cowboy.
He sat opposite me in a plush chair, placed his tan Stetson hat on the end table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He was lean, with a flat stomach and wide shoulders that sloped down like a gambrel roof. The hair was blondish and short. The big handlebar mustache was now trimmed short and flecked with gray. His eyes were very blue and piercing, and from the tan lines on his face you could tell he often wore aviator sunglasses. The eyes were interesting in another way. They had a keenness to them that was predatory. They could have belonged to a falcon or eagle. They were piercing but impenetrable; behind their burning intensity, I could detect no signs of feeling or emotion. The man was an incarnation of his native state: big, strong, rich, and rough around the edges.
He looked at his watch and then at me.
"Dr. Adams, I've got to move seven hundred head of cattle this afternoon, so I can't stay long. I hope you understand."
"Certainly. In fact, I was surprised you offered to fly down here. I was perfectly willing to drive up and —"
"Naw. I like to get away from the ranch every so often. In fact, one of the reasons I flew down is because I have to see some financial people here. Are you tied up all day?"
"I'm chairing a panel at ten and have a seminar at one that I have to attend. That's over at three and I'm done for the day."
"When's your first engagement tomorrow?"
"Eleven."
"Fine. Then we'll talk in the plane on the way up to Flying K. Tell you what: I'll meet you here at lunchtime and take you to a great little Mexican restaurant in the heart of the old city. We can talk a little then, and you can think of other questions you want to discuss during the flight."
"Great. I've got two questions I want to ask you now. One: do you know of anyone in particular who would want to kill Roantis?"
His eyes crinkled around the edges and he smiled, shaking his head.
"Nobody in particular, but a lot of people in general."
"Anyone in the Daisy Ducks?"
"Naw. Of course, he got along with some of us better than others. But hell, it was a pretty intense group. I mean, you get eight guys on a long patrol who are that highly trained and motivated—there's bound to be friction. The one common quality in everyone who does this kind of work is fierce independence. We all wanted to be generals, even though Roantis was the group leader. Now, he and Bill Royce never got along. Bill and I were both air force—we did a stint together before the Daisy Ducks thing. He was my friend, a good fighter and smart. But he was also high strung. I guess you heard he went over the edge. In a hospital now somewhere."
"He was released."
"Yeah? Well, whaddayuh know. Well, Roantis and Summers had some trouble too. Summers claimed he was a racist. Maybe he is, a little. But Summers had a chip on his shoulder too.
Roantis seemed to like me, Vilarde, and Larry Jenkins best. And Jenkins was black. Jesus, what a great soldier and great guy Larry Jenkins was. What a shame we lost him."
"He was MIA?"
"Yeah. Laos, in seventy-one, I think."
"And you lost the Korean, too."
"Uh-huh. Ton Youn was killed right outside Saigon by a sniper. But he wasn't MIA like Larry—they took his body back to Seoul."
"How did Roantis get along with Jusuelo?"
"Hmph. He's the mystery man. He and Vilarde were close: Vilarde was Mexican and Jusuelo Puerto Rican. They used to speak Spanish a lot. Sometimes I think they forgot I also speak it."
"Ah. Any interesting comments you overheard?"
"Not really. Except that twice Jusuelo commented under his breath that Roantis was incompetent. Over the hill. You know, too cautious some of the time and too reckless other times."
"And were these comments justified?"
"Maybe. Roantis made some decisions I wasn't happy about. But we never lost a man on the long walks. That's amazing when you consider the frightful losses we inflicted on Charlie. You've also got to remember that in unconventional warfare you throw away the rulebook—you make life-and-death decisions minute by minute and think by the seat of your pants and by your hunter-killer instincts. It's kind of weird."
"Okay. Question two: do you know where Ken Vilarde is?"
"No. Your guess is as good as mine on that."
"Did Ken stay in touch with the other Ducks? Would he contact you now and then?"
"Not me. Maybe the others. But probably less and less as the years went on. You know how that is. But I think he would have kept in touch with Jusuelo and Roantis. He and Roantis were close, and Ken was second in command. And I told you already about Jusuelo."
"Where is Jesus Jusuelo now?"
"Who knows for sure? I was up in Denver busting a bottle with some old Vietnam buddies a while back, and they said Jusuelo was mercking in Africa. That was last year."
"Can you give me a name or two to contact?"
"Rather not. If I did, they wouldn't talk to you anyway. We're a pretty closed group. But I can get in touch with them myself if you want and ask what they've heard lately about Vilarde and Jusuelo."
"That'd be great, Fred. Both Roantis and I would be in your debt."
"Where do you come in, if I can ask? Why are you so interested?"
"Liatis has helped me out more than once. He asked me to do some digging around while he recovers. I figured as long as I'm in Texas, why not see you?"
"Fair enough. And I still think enough of Roantis to help in any way I can."
Suddenly his eyes narrowed, and he peered intently into my face, as if measuring me.
"Well, well, Dr. Adams, welcome aboard. Having you up to the ranch might be more fun than I thought."
"Thanks," I said, shaking his hand. "Call me Doc."
* * *
At noon I walked into the Hilton lobby to find Fred waiting for me. We took a cab to a little Mexican restaurant in a rather rundown neighborhood. It was decorated with garish statues and Christmas tree lights. I suppose I had severe doubts about the place . . . until I tasted the food, that is. When Fred ordered for us, I got a sample of his fluent Spanish. I don't speak it, but to me his pronunciation seemed perfect; he sounded like a native Mexican. I announced that the seminar I was scheduled to attend had been canceled. He seeme
d pleased, and said we could fly up to the ranch as soon as we finished eating.
"What is it, some kind of shuttle flight? I assume I can get my ticket at the gate."
"The flight is anytime I decide to go, Doc. I flew my own plane down here."
We finished our chile rellenos and returned to the Hilton, where I packed my small carry-on bag with overnight gear. Just before two o'clock, our taxi dropped us off at Martindale Army Airfield, at the edge of town. Already the day was hot enough so that the horizon wiggled wet and seemed to come unglued, jiggling and dancing with the rising air currents.
Flying K's plane was a Mooney, made in Texas. I know nothing of planes, but it appeared to be a top-of-the-line model. The tail looked as if it had been put on the fuselage backward, so that it leaned slightly forward. We lifted off at two-twenty, made a wide circle, and headed north-northeast over the hot Texas plains, dotted with live oaks and the tiny, dark, moving specks that were cattle. The cattle seemed to cluster like sardines near the water holes and river gullies, which were shiny brown blotches against the buff-colored range grass. Kaunitz flew the plane with a calmness and detachment that showed his self-confidence and skill. Certainly, to a guy who'd been in the scrapes he had, flying a plane was child's play. In less than half an hour we were over Austin and approaching the Kaunitz ranch.
During the flight he related to me the events that occurred during the march of the Daisy Ducks through the village of Siu Lok. It was the story Roantis had told me back home in Concord, all right. But it differed in a few important ways.
"And you say that Roantis and Vilarde sought the old chief out?"
"Yes. They corralled him after the dinner feast and took him off into the bush somewhere."
I said nothing. But why did Kaunitz's version of the story differ from the one Roantis had told us at the card table? Was it memory lapse over time, or hadn't Roantis totally leveled with me?
Then Kaunitz stood the airplane on its port wing, throwing us into a steep turn. Below us was a magnificent set of buildings laid out in perfect geometric symmetry, with adobe walls and red Spanish tile roofs. Kaunitz pointed down straight at it as we circled.
