"Probably," I admitted. "North Boulder Park?"
"Sure. Me and the rest of Boulder's health nuts."
I wasn't surprised by his sarcasm, or his cynicism. I wasn't taken aback by the barely subdued anger. I was surprised, however, by the depth of his depression, he'd lost something over the weekend. Some invulnerability, he'd lost it, and at this moment he didn't expect to ever, ever get it back.
As we walked he scratched at his side frequently, just below his ribs. Nonchalantly, I thought, I asked about pain, he said he just had an itch. I didn't know whether to believe him or not. On the west side of the park, about halfway into our walk, he asked me, incongruously, about Elton John. Usually, Sam and I talked about work, or hockey, not bisexual rock-and-roll stars.
He said "You like his stuff?"
"Yes, I do, the early stuff mostly. I haven't paid much attention since he insisted I know his sexual preferences better than I had any interest in knowing them."
Sam shuddered. Elton John's lifestyle was way out of his comfort range. "Me, too, I like the early stuff best, too. Remember that song that has the line in it, something like 'I thought the sun was going down on me'? Remember that?" Sam actually tried to attach a melody to the lyric. I forced myself to swallow a snicker.
He scratched at his side again. I said I remembered the song.
"That's what I thought when the pain hit. I figured I must be dying. I heard that song playing in my head and I felt, holy shit, the sun is going down on me. It's, like, high noon in my life— okay; maybe it's mid-afternoon— whatever, you know. But it's early, and the damn sun's going down on me."
I said nothing but looked over so that he would know I was listening to every word.
"But then I decided that maybe what it was is that, you know, it all got dark because of an eclipse. Just some celestial event, that this wasn't really a sign it was over for me, that I didn't need to act like some ancient wiseass who didn't know why it was so dark in the middle of the day. I mean. I didn't have to rush out and start killing virgins. I could wait it out, learn from it. Be enlightened, you know."
"That's an impressive insight. Sam."
"Yeah, well. I'm an impressive guy, alan." He looked over at me with soft eyes that I couldn't recall seeing before. "Is this kind of what it was like for you when Custer and Simes showed up and told you this guy, this old patient, wanted to kill you? Was it the sun-going-down thing? I mean, is that how you felt, too?"
We paced out another ten steps before I answered. "You know. Sam, it is how I feel, still. I feel, like, here I am. I'm trying to live a decent life, and now, at any moment, this thing, this guy— this asshole— thinks he can jump up and bite me in the jugular anytime he chooses, and when he chooses— bingo; it's over."
Sam said. "That's how I feel about my body right now. It's king. It's the one running the mortality show, maybe it'll make another stone, maybe it'll leave me alone. I don't know how it'll happen. I don't know when. I don't really know why, and I don't feel that there's a hell of a lot I can do about it."
"There's always eating well and stress reduction. I can help you with that."
"I think I'll let you, within limits, and I can teach you some things that will help you with your maniac."
"Like?"
He unzipped the ass-pack that was tethered around his ample waist and pulled it open far enough that I could see the glint of light off his pistol, he said. "I need to teach you how to use one of these. For you, it will have the same prophylactic value as me reducing my calcium intake and lowering my body fat percentage."
"I don't know, Sam."
"It's a package deal, buddy. You teach me about soluble fiber and yoga. I teach you about semiautomatic handguns. I guarantee you that you're getting the better part of this bargain."
Over breakfast at Marie's I introduced Sam to fresh fruit and the glories of toast without butter, he tasted oatmeal for the first time since he'd moved out of his mother's house.
It was a start.
I also caught him up on the sabotage to our renovation project, my trip to see Sawyer in Las Vegas, and my conversation with Sheldon Salgado.
His first comment almost caused me to choke on a crust of bagel I'd smuggled in from Moe's.
He said. "You and Lauren doing okay?"
Sam had never asked before.
"I think so," I said. "We have stresses, you know. This thing with me, her illness. It can be hard."
He looked over at me, his spoon halfway to his mouth, and nodded, he said. "I like eggs better."
I waited for him to go on more about my marriage, and I considered asking him how he and Sherry were dealing with his illness. Instead I said. "There are some things you can do to help. Other things I think I'm going to have to do on my own."
"Confidentiality shit?"
"Yeah, Confidentiality shit."
"I understand." The growl in his voice said he didn't really. "What do you need?"
"You have any contacts in security at Rocky Flats?"
"You planning an assault?"
I told him I had a lead and that I needed to talk with the man who was head of security at Rocky Flats during the time I was an intern in Denver.
"You're piquing my curiosity."
"I bet. Can you get me the name?"
"Easier than you can get me a fat-free doughnut."
TWENTY
If I didn't have a great little shack of my own that was undergoing renovation across town in Spanish Hills. I decided that I wanted to live where Reginald Loomis lived, he had a little place that backed up to city greenbelt on the west side of Fourth Street between Iris and Juniper. His wide, unfenced backyard segued, unobstructed, into the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. His closest neighbors to the west were the wild animals that combed the ridges of the jutting hogback a few hundred feet away. In that short distance the elevation rose at least a thousand feet.
Mr. Loomis's shack did not appear to have ever been renovated, actually; I wondered whether the siding had ever been painted. I guessed that the frame house had been built in the thirties and that Reggie Loomis had bought it for a song in the mid-sixties, before Boulder became cool and northwest Boulder became chic, the shake roof was older than I was, the windows were single-pane and probably leaked like a special prosecutor's office, the concrete walkway had more fissures than the tax code.
The front lawn wasn't really a lawn at all, but rather a collection of grass and weed clumps that dotted the dusty expanse between house and street like an archipelago.
But, despite its many shortcomings. I could only dream of owning Reggie Loomis's home. I would have to win a damn good lottery jackpot to afford the half acre of ground this little shack was occupying. I suspected that at least one salivating Realtor knocked on his door each week praying he'd decided to sell.
I'd pondered my approach to Mr. Loomis from the moment that Sam had called me with the name and address of the man who had been chief of security at Rocky Flats during the early eighties. Sam had called himself and Mr. Loomis neighbors. "Only difference between us is eight blocks and about a half a million bucks." I decided right away not to approach Mr. Loomis via telephone, and I resolved to be relatively straightforward about my problems when I spoke with him. I hoped he would do the same for me in return.
The early eighties were a difficult time for anyone working at Rocky Flats Nuclear Weapons Facility, the plant, now in perennial shutdown mode, hugs a huge piece of prime, though partially radioactive, real estate not too many miles south of Boulder along the Front Range, the facility has been a source of controversy since its inception. Protests against the plant, which mada plutonium triggers for nuclear warheads, were constant, and must have put particular pressure on anyone who was involved in plant security, the majority of the protesters wanted the plant shut down out of support for nuclear disarmament, a minority just wanted the damn thing closed because it had no business existing upwind and upstream from a major metropolitan area.
Reginald Loomis was retired
from a tough job that had probably made him popular with very few of his neighbors.
He answered his door in a fashion I would call leisurely. I saw the light change behind the peephole in his front door from shadow to bright and back a good thirty seconds before I heard the rasp of the dead bolt being thrown, the door opened without a squeak. Given the state of the rest of the house. I was surprised at the lack of audio accompaniment to the operation of the hinges.
"Mr. Loomis? Reginald Loomis?"
He clenched his jaw. "No one calls me Reginald but strangers and my mother, and you, sir, are not my mother. Whatever you're selling, young man. I'm not buying. Unless it's youth. I'm always interested in buying a little youth."
"I'm not selling anything, Mr. Loomis. I'm hoping you will be kind enough to help me track someone down. Someone who worked for you about fifteen years ago at Rocky Flats."
Reginald Loomis was a gaunt man with white hair. Other than eyes the color of blue bank checks, his face was not blessed with much color. But at that moment. I thought he paled even further.
"You said fifteen years, right?"
"Right, actually a little longer. Nineteen eighty-two."
He seemed to get his color back. "That was a long time ago, and I had a lot of people working for me back then. In plant security, the early eighties, that was prime time. I didn't know all the staff. I'm not so sure I'd remember much that would be of help to you."
"I'd be grateful if you would try. I don't know where else to go."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Alan Gregory. Dr. alan Gregory. I live and work here in Boulder. I'm trying to find someone I was involved with years ago. Someone whom I need to re-contact. One of the only ways I have of finding him is to use the fragments of information I recall from my brief contact with him in the early eighties. One of those fragments is that he worked in security at Rocky Flats, and that you were his boss."
He shifted his weight and his face moved farther into the shadows. "What's his name? This man you're after."
I didn't want to admit I didn't know. I said. "May I come in? Would that be all right?"
His voice took on urgency as he said. "I asked you a question. What's the man's name?"
"I wish I knew. But I don't remember his name, the best I can do is initials."
"Well, then, what are those?"
"His initials are C.R."
His lips silently formed the two letters and he looked past me, out across Boulder toward the dry prairies that began the sweep of the seemingly infinite midwestern plains. His shoulders dropped an inch or two, as much to himself as to me, he mumbled. "Why don't you come on in then?"
Maybe walking into the tent of a Bedouin ruler would leave the same impression on me as walking into this little North Boulder bungalow. I don't really know. But the disrepair of the outside of Reggie Loomis's house could not have left me any less prepared for what I found inside.
The modest house was probably only nine hundred to a thousand square feet, but a good half of it had been converted into a kitchen. I was speechless at how it had been renovated.
He noticed my reaction— had, apparently; been waiting for it, and he was proud that his house had caused it. "Don't worry," he said. "Everybody reacts that same way the first time. I kept a little bedroom and the original bathroom pretty much the way they were, the rest of the house I modified to fit my needs. Have a seat. Please. Over at the counter."
I followed him toward the back of the house, which was all kitchen, he sat on a stool next to a huge worktable and I sat beside him, almost immediately, he popped back up and said. "Some coffee?"
"Sure."
"Espresso okay?"
"Absolutely."
He nodded his approval and moved across the room to a piston-driven espresso machine and began to grind beans to make us coffee.
I tried to digest the rest of the room. It was dominated by a lapis blue enamel La Comue six-burner range, a few months back. Lauren had sent for a catalog from the company and had not so discreetly let me know that she coveted one for our remodeled kitchen. I had choked, literally, at discovering that the range cost more than every car I'd ever owned but the most recent one.
Across the room from the La Comue range, a big stainless steel and glass two-door commercial reach-in refrigerator/ freezer dominated the opposing wall, the kitchen countertops were all made of either polished granite or stainless steel, except for one large alcove that was fitted exclusively for baking, that countertop was a gorgeous bronze marble, the pot rack suspended from the ceiling above the worktable in the center of the room was adorned with a dizzying selection of cookware, some of it oversized, most of it gleaming copper.
Reggie Loomis's voice knocked me out of my reverie of astonishment. "Can I offer you a scone? I made them this morning, they're currant and buttermilk. Perfect with coffee."
"Sounds great. Thank you."
He placed a demitasse of espresso and a dessert plate with a scone in front of me and then retrieved the same for himself.
I tasted the scone and chased it with a sip of coffee that was coated with a perfect layer of crema. "This is delicious. Do you, um— I don't know how to ask this— do you run a catering business or something from here?"
He laughed, the sound was contained, even self-conscious. "Hardly. How do I explain all this? Some people rot in front of the TV when they retire. I call it tube rot. Some play golf. Some people fix up old cars. I have a friend who drives around the west in an old RV. Me? I decided that I'd indulge myself during my retirement by doing what I've always loved best, and I love to cook. My momma taught me to cook. It's always been my vice. I'm never going to have a kitchen with a better view. I thought, so why not just do it here?"
I allowed myself a moment to savor the view that dominated to the west, the grasses on the hogback sparkled like a field of gilded wheat. I noted that the sky was the same color as my host's eyes. "Yes." I said. "Why not?"
"I outfitted this place for less than it would cost to buy my friend's Winnebago. Did most of the work myself. Even had to cut a hole in the wall to get the La Cornue in here. Do you know it's seven vears old? Looks brand-new, doesn't it? It's the one thing I own in this world where I can honestly say there is nothing better, that, sir, is the finest cooking appliance on the planet. Probably in the whole solar system, but of course that's just speculation."
"It's .., truly impressive. My wife and I have just started to renovate our kitchen. I wish I'd seen what you did here first, the range is something."
"Yes, the best, there's no better,” he said.
"Are you married. Mr. Loomis?"
"Oh, was. Yep. But that ended."
"Children?"
"They moved to Texas with their mother. I was never partial to Texas. Or to Texans, for that matter, she was. Is. Good kids, though. Boy and a girl. Good." He had a wry smile on his face as he spoke of his distant family. I couldn't imagine why.
"So you just cook for yourself?"
"Lord, no,” he exclaimed, patting himself on the abdomen. "I do love to eat, but I try to be cautious as well. Moderation, you know? Discipline. It makes everything possible. Everything."
"So what do you do with all the food you make?"
He appeared quite embarrassed by my question. I wasn't sure he was planning to answer.
Finally, he said. "I feed shut-ins. Sick people. Disabled people. Word gets around at church, so I find out who could use a little hand. Who needs it. Some folks donate ingredients for me, the pastor keeps a pretty fair garden behind the church in the summer, and when the Lord steers the hailstorms elsewhere, the bounty from that garden of his is impressive. I fix what I can. People seem to appreciate well-prepared food. I learned that a long time ago.
"I do breakfast on Mondav, wednesday, and Friday.
J ' J ' J
Supper on Thursday and Sunday. Sunday's a tough one for the shut-ins, they appreciate the food on Sunday most, I think. So breakfast and supper is what I do. I li
ke the mornings best. Folks aren't so tired. Each morning, I choose a different one of my guests to go to last so I get a chance to chat with everybody once in a while. I don't drive anymore, so I get some help dropping the trays by, a church lady usually, she and her son, with one of those big Chevys. What are they called? They look like troop transports? Evening meals, the pastor sends somebody over from the church. Sometimes he and I, we do it together."
I was touched by the generosity of his spirit. "Suburbans. Those big Chevys, they're called Suburbans. It's wonderful, what you're doing here."
"Wonderful? I don't know. Sometimes it feels generous. Sometimes it feels selfish. Who's to say?" He drained his coffee. "Who's to say what's good and bad in this life? Things I was once so proud of.., well, now." He lifted his cup, using it as a prop. "I mean, other than a fine cup of coffee and an almost perfect scone, who is to say what's good and bad in this life?"
I shrugged. "You're right, of course. Who's to say?" I paused, then added. "It sounds like you're a religious man."
"Me? Religious? Hardly. But the beauty is .., the beautv of it is that to God, it doesn't seem to reallv
J * J
matter, the Lord has been gracious always. Generous often, and forgiving when I’ve needed it. What more can one ask?"
He stood and fussed with the dishes, moving them from the worktable over to a stainless-steel dishwasher built by the same German company that manufactured my spark plugs. His back turned to me, he asked. "C.R., right?
You're looking for an ex-employee of mine with initials C.R, that's a tough puzzle. Inadequate data to work with, I'm afraid, that'd be like trying to concoct a decent little coulibiac when all you've been told is that the dish contains a portion or two of wild rice."
"And that would be hard?"
"Yes, it would." He smiled warmly. "But, believe me, it would be worth it. You ever had coulibiac?"
"I don't believe I have."
"Then you haven't. You wouldn't forget that. No .., be like forgetting your first girl."
"Maybe I'll have a chance someday."
He didn't offer to whip one up for me. Instead, he returned his attention to my request. "But I don't recall any C.R.s in mv emplov. Mav have been a few. Odds are that there were. What did he look like?"
Manner of Death Page 18
