“We had to move fast,” Harry said. Bird’s fingers tightened around his vodka and tonic. Harry winked at him. “But I guess I know a thing or two about horse-trading. If we’d gotten there any later, those horses would be on their way by now to Prince Waznar’s stables in Kentucky. Guess we showed him, huh?”
Bird flushed.
“Well,” Harry said, giving him a whack on the shoulder blade, “you must just be so damn proud of her. Ben! You son of a gun, where the heck you been keeping yourself? Jill! You look like a million euros! Oops—I meant Swiss francs!”
The sound of braying jocularity buffetted Bird’s ears. He escaped to the bar to self-administer more vodka. En route he spotted Myn and pulled her by the elbow away from her circle of worshippers.
“Harry just told me that I was a real sport. For letting him buy you the horses.”
“Darling, I was going to tell you. We had to move quickly. I tried calling, but you were at your ‘undisclosed location,’ making the world safe for the arms race. You were supposed to speak to the bank? Remember?”
She adjusted his missile-themed bow tie. “It’s actually starting to grow on me. What kind of missile is it, exactly? Are we using it against anyone at the moment?”
The VanderSomethings were approaching.
“Myndi! Congratulations! We are just so proud of you! Walter, are you proud of this girl or what?”
Dinner was served.
While the others filed in, Bird repaired again to the bar to refuel. This was his . . . what . . . fifth? Sixth?
Myndi was seated next to—surprise—Harry. Bird was seated next to—surprise—the wife of the Saudi defense attaché. As they took their places, Myn whispered, “Harry thought she might be useful to you. Show her your cummerbund and tie.”
Bird tried to make conversation with Mrs. al-Hazim, but it was slow sledding. She had no interest in Bird, correctly sensing that he was not a billionaire. After valiant conversational forays, all he managed to extract from her was the riveting information that she found Washington “nicer than New York.”
He felt light-headed. He realized he hadn’t touched his food.
“I know what you mean,” Bird said to Mrs. al-Hazim. He leaned in and winked at her. “Not as many Jews.”
Mrs. al-Hazim stared.
“I was speaking of the New York traffic,” Mrs. al-Hazim said stiffly, pivoting forty-five degrees to her right and not addressing another word to Bird for the rest of the dinner. Bird seized on his liberation by repairing to the bar for a sixth—seventh?—V and T.
Myndi and Harry and the others were laughing and chatting away. It dawned on Bird that the current Mrs. Brinkerhoff was not present. Then he remembered that she was in the process of becoming the formerly current Mrs. Brinkerhoff.
The conversation turned to the naming of horses. It seemed that Myndi had given Harry the right of naming the two new nags. Well, why not? Harry, in an expansive mood, was inviting suggestions from the table.
“Rappahannock.”
“Traveler.”
“Terpsichore.”
“Yes We Can.”
Bird dinged his glass with his fork. “Wawaza name of that movie . . .?” His tongue had turned into a dead flounder. Myndi shot him a look of frigid horror.
“You know,” Bird continued, “the one where the kid blinds the horses and sets fire to the barn? And they all burn up? Great movie. Loved that movie.”
Conversation came to a screeching halt. Everyone stared. Bird went on. “Hell of a movie. Seen that movie, Hank? You’re a horsh-person. Wait—whoa, everyone. I got it! Equush!”
“I’VE NEVER—EVER—BEEN so mortified in all my life,” Myndi said as she drove, fingers wrapped around the steering wheel in a death grip.
“Shperfectly good name,” Bird announced from the backseat, where he had assumed a horizontal posture. “Equush.”
“You’re stinking.”
Bird began to hum “The William Tell Overture.” “Da-da dum, da-da dum, da-da dum-dum-duuuuum . . .”
“Walter! Stop that! Stop it right now!”
“Da-da dum, dum duuuuuuum . . . da . . . dum.”
BIRD AWOKE, STILL IN THE BACKSEAT, still in evening clothes, to light and the twittering of fowl. His head hurt.
He lumbered into the kitchen in a zombielike manner, a pathetic creature in search of ibuprofen. Myn was sitting at the table with her coffee. She looked beautiful in blouse, riding pants, and boots.
“Morning,” Bird said. Maybe she’d forgotten everything.
“Did you just say ‘Morning’ to me?”
Bird tried to focus on his wristwatch. “Is it afternoon already? Must have been some party.”
“Walter, you have a drinking problem. I’ve done the research for you. There’s an AA meeting at ten o’clock—ten this a.m.—at the Unitarian church in Downers Corner. The information is on this piece of paper here. I’m making it a condition of your remaining in the house that you attend.”
She left. Boots on tile to a slammed screen door.
BEWKS FOUND HIS BROTHER in a rocker on the porch, still in evening clothes, holding a bag of frozen peas to his forehead.
“Late evening last night, big brother?”
Bird groaned.
“Didn’t know you aristocrats partied so hard. Would have come along if I’d known.”
“Sit,” Bird said, “and pray let thy speech fall quietly from thy tongue.”
“You and the missus going through a rough patch?”
“Why do you ask?” Bird said, eyes closed.
“No reason. Well, she did kind of seem to be trying to run me over in her car just now.”
“Bewks,” Bird said, “is my wife having an affair?”
Bewks shrugged. “Not to my knowledge. She seems kind of focused on the riding. That’s great she made the team. You must be proud.”
Bird moaned.
Bewks said, “I haven’t seen any yoga instructors or anyone tippy-toeing out the back door or nothing, if that’s what you mean.”
“He wouldn’t need to tippy-toe. He’s got his own plane. A 757.”
“Well,” Bewks said, “if you’re going to screw around, might as well be someone with a 757.”
“He flies his horses around in it. They get massages.”
“Hell, in that case, I’ll have an affair with him.”
The two brothers sat in silence.
“I’m sorry for you,” Bewks said. “But sounds like you won’t have to pay alimony.”
“Have you considered a career as a grief counselor? My head . . .”
Dragonflies hovered above the fields in the summer heat. From the shaded edge of the pond came the foghorn moan of bullfrogs.
“How’s the Civil War going?” Bird said. “Any progress?”
“We kicked butt last weekend over at Culpeper. But it’s uphill, really.”
“Bewks,” Bird said, “this is in no way a criticism but have you ever been tempted to say screw it and get a job?”
“Been there, done that. I don’t honestly see the attraction in it. Hey, you been following this whole Dalai Lama thing?”
Bird opened his eyes slightly. “Sort of. Why?”
“I was watching that Penelope Kent on TV last night.”
“Penelope Kent? The woman’s a nutjob.”
“I know, Bewks said, “but she is kind of fun to listen to. She’s got a tongue on her like a komodo dragon.”
“If I were a komodo dragon and I saw Penelope Kent coming,” Bird said, “I would crawl in the opposite direction. Fast. I can’t believe she was actually governor of a state.”
“Well, Penelope Kent says it’s a one-hundred-percent-certain fact those Chinese gave him this phemo cancer he’s got. Man, do those Chinese play rough.”
Bird looked sideways at his brother. He felt—what did Joyce call it?—“agenbite of inwit.” The prick of remorse. It’s one thing to lie to the world, but to your baby brother?
Bird said, “Bewks, how
would a nitwit like Penelope Kent know the first thing about that?”
“I don’t know. But she says the United States government is sitting on the evidence but is afraid to come forward with it on account of it’d piss the Chinese off and they’ll stop lending us all that money.”
“Well, that’s fine, but if I were you, I’d ask Penelope Kent to show you some actual proof. She’s just looking to drive up her speaking fees.” Bird muttered, “This country. It’s going to hell.”
“Maybe. But it’s a human tragedy what those Chinese have done to that poor country.”
“What country?”
“Tibet.”
“Oh. Well, I suppose they had their reasons.”
“Whose side you on, anyway?” Bewks said. “They’ve pretty much destroyed it, you know.”
“I know, Bewks.”
“I was watching that Chris Matthews show the other night,” Bewks said. “He had that woman on, Angel Templeton. Heard of her?”
“Slightly. We met. Once.”
“Man oh man is she a fox. There’s another woman with a tongue on her. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of it. No, sir.”
“You seem to be watching a lot of television these days.”
“I like to keep up. Living out here in the country as I do. And spending most of my time, as it were, back in the nineteenth century. Anyway, Angel Templeton says now that the Dalai Lama is dying, the least the Chinese could do is let him go back home to Tibet, where he can die in peace. She was on with some woman named Winnie or Minnie Chang. Chong. I can’t make sense of their names. Boy, they were going at it like a couple of Vegas mud wrestlers. Hammer and tong.” Bewks chuckled. “Chris Matthews looked like he’d died and gone to heaven.”
“Sorry I missed it. I was busy ruining Myndi’s big night out.”
“Winnie Chang, Chong, whatever,” Bewks said. “She’s some kind of hot, too.”
“Bewks. If it’s hot women you want, why not just watch the Hooters Channel?”
“I like them with brains, you know,” Bewks said. “Anyway, Winnie says it’s all a bunch of lies cooked up by Angel Templeton. She says the United States government ought to file an official protest at the United Nations in New York City.”
“Yeah, that’ll put the fear of God into the Chinese.”
Bewks rocked back and forth. “It’s certainly an interesting situation. It was on the news this morning that China’s putting on some kind of massive naval exercise. Calling Admiral Perry!”
“That was Japan, Bewks. It’ll all get sorted out in the end.”
“Oh,” Bewks said, “almost forgot what I stopped by to tell you in the first place. I went over to Peckfuss’s coupla days ago to yell at him about not fixing the fence in the high field. Man, there were some strange characters there with him.”
“That’s news?”
“I’m not talking about your standard trailer trash from Peckfuss’s normal social circle. These people looked like they’d just got out of prison. Escaped. And still ought to be in prison. One of them had a .357 lying there on the passenger seat of his truck. I said to him, ‘Is that thing loaded?’ He gave me this look. I thought he was going to pick it up and demonstrate.”
Bird groaned. “Are you telling me that my caretaker—the father of our mother’s companion—is consorting with armed criminals?”
“Well, they didn’t look to me like Mormon missionaries,” Bewks sniffed. “Unless the Mormons have decided to take a whole new approach. Something’s going on. And I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to have something to do with that smell.”
Bird raised himself from his rocker of pain. “Just what I need right now—ATF agents busting down my doors. All right. I’ll speak to him.”
“Oh, by the way, Belle’s pregnant again.”
“Again? Oh, for crying out loud. Who is it this time?”
“I don’t know,” Bewks said, “but I sure hope it isn’t the guy with the .357, ‘cause if it is, that is going to be one horrible-looking child.”
Bird decided that the only thing to do was to go to bed.
MYNDI RETURNED about three o’clock, looking beautiful, wind-blown and simmering.
“Did you go to the meeting?” she demanded.
“Yes,” Bird lied.
“How did you get there?” she said suspiciously. “Your car hasn’t moved.”
“How do you know? Did you check the odometer?”
“All right, then,” she said, sounding unconvinced. “And how did it go?”
“Great,” Bird said. “Very nice people.”
“Did you tell them you’re an alcoholic?”
“Um-hm.”
“And? Walter, do I really have to drag every word out of you? What did they say?”
“They said if I was going to drink six vodkas, I should at least eat something.”
“They told you . . . that?”
“They also suggested I switch to beer. Beer is more filling than vodka or bourbon, so you drink less. Very sensible.”
“What kind of AA meeting was this?”
“It’s a four-step program instead of the normal twelve-step.
Apparently there’s been some new thinking about alcoholism. Suits me. Wasn’t really looking forward to going totally cold turkey.”
He propped himself up on his elbows and smiled at his wife. “You look good, babe. Wanna play horsey?”
Myndi sat down on the side of the bed. “Walter, look at me.”
“I am, darling. And you’re so beautiful my eyeballs hurt. Of course, that could be the hangover.”
“Tell me the truth. Did you go to the meeting?”
“You first,” Bird said. “You screwing Harry?”
Myndi jumped to her feet. “That is a despicable thing to say!”
She stomped out of the bedroom. Myn was doing a lot of stomping these days, Bird reflected. No wonder the staircase was in such bad shape.
CHAPTER 15
THE THINGS HENRY TELLS ME
I hear you and Dragon Lady went at it again the other night,” Bird said. “You two are getting better ratings than Friday-night wrestling.”
“Yes. Nature red in tooth and claw. I gather you missed it?” Angel said, sounding a bit miffed.
“I was otherwise engaged, destroying my marriage. But I made good progress.”
“Oh? All is not quiet on the Virginia front?”
“I got a little tanked at dinner. It was at that club of hers. I just don’t have much conversation in me about horses. And what conversation about them I did have they didn’t seem to like much. Myn was on edge to begin with. All keyed up on account of . . .” Bird decided again not to mention the Tang Cup. “These horse competitions. It’s pretty intense pressure. She made the U.S. team. Impressive.”
“Indeed.” Angel yawned. “Just got word they’re going to make the announcement at noon. And then”—she rubbed her hands together—“we move from DefCon Three to DefCon Two. I remember the first time I was in the War Room—the real one, the NMCC, at the Pentagon. The electricity. You could touch it. How’s our ad hoc committee coming along?”
“It’s coming. I’m getting some good names.”
“Show me.”
Bird punched a few keys and brought up the list on his computer. Angel read over his shoulder. She scrunched up her face.
“Jason Stang?” she said. “Who the hell is he?”
“Movie actor. The one with the aikido moves? Ankles of Death. The Dragon Will See You Now.”
Angel stared.
“I take it you don’t get out to the movies much,” Bird said. “Google him. He’s revered in the American-Tibetan Buddhist community. According to his official bio, he’s the tenth reincarnation of Rampong Jingjampo.”
Angel did not appear impressed.
“I’m telling you, he’s huge.”
Angel’s eyes ran down the list. “I haven’t heard of half these people. I thought you were going to get some religious biggies. We need t
o get some ecumenical rage going. What about the archbishop of Canterbury?”
“I’ve got a call in to his person.”
“What about the U.S. Catholic bishops? This ought to be a low-hanging fruit for them.”
“I spoke to their monsignor. He said they’re sympathetic, but they can’t be on the committee. They’d prefer to work behind the scenes.”
“The way Jesus did?”
Bird shrugged. “He said it’s tough enough in China as it is, being Catholic. They’re shutting down churches all the time, throwing priests into jail. They don’t need this.”
“Pussies,” Angel muttered. “What about Jews? You promised me major Jews. Where’s Elie Wiesel? Why isn’t he on the list?”
“He’s out of town. He has to make a lot of paid speeches since getting fleeced by Madoff. I’ve got a call in to him. I got Norman Podhoretz.”
“Norman Podhoretz? That’s your definition of a major Jew? Please.”
“Then call your pal Henry Kissinger. He’s the biggest Jew since Moses.”
Angel laughed. “Henry? For an anti-China committee? Dream on. Speaking of whom . . .” Angel glanced about and lowered her voice. “I had forty-five minutes on the phone with him yesterday.”
“Oh?” Bird said. “Did he ask about me?”
“Oh, my God, Bird, the stuff that’s going on over there. Henry is so plugged in.”
“He must be thrilled by your recent contributions to Sino-U.S. relations.”
“Are you kidding? He’s furious!” Angel smiled coyly. “But he loves me. He can’t help himself. I’m his bad-girl protégée. The things he tells me. He knows everyone over there. They worship the ground he walks on. There is major caca going down in Beijing. Major.”
“Like what?”
“I really can’t say.”
“ ’Don’t tell me that. I’m up to my walnuts in this.”
“He trusts me. He’s like an uncle. I can’t betray his confidence.”
“So now I’m a security risk? Who told you about Taurus anyway? And muons?”
Angel hesitated. “All right, but this is in the lake.”
They Eat Puppies, Don't They? Page 12
