Читать книгу Acting Badly - Michael Scofield - Страница 9

STOP YAPPING

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IN HIS POINTY BLUE COWBOY BOOTS AND HOME LOAN Champ billed cap, Ron Kirkpatrick lumbered into the hotel lobby where Maxine Morgan sat—smelling like paint thinner—on one of the three Hopi-blanket upholstered benches facing the registration desk. Behind the counter ascended the mural that gave Hotel La Concha its name. The Spirit of Flamenco arched from a white oyster shell in an embroidered gold bodice and flouncing red skirt. Her right arm stretched toward the oaken ceiling; both hands gripped ivory castanets. Beside each ear an angel plucked a guitar.

“What in the name of Judas Christ did you bring Pixie for?” Ron growled.

From violet-smeared eyes Maxine squinted up under her swirl of black hair. White and red stripes snaked along the sleeves of her cashmere sweater, the rest of it a blue field of white stars. Gold hoops large as merry-go-round rings swung from her ears. No smile for Ron this morning.

“Shut up,” she snapped at the black-faced Pekingese that, having sniffed Ron, had begun to yip and flap a tail still matted from his monthly carbolic-acid bath. The dog’s pop eyes stared through a hut-like cage of red willow that perched on a red wooden wagon. A stars-and-stripes kerchief drooped from his neck.

“Why Pixie?” Maxine asked. “I need support. Which I have a feeling you’re not going to give.” Clearing her throat, from under the dark wool skirt she lifted one knee-length boot and settled it on the opposite knee.

“You been redecoratin’?” Ron asked.

“Hunh?”

“That smell.”

“Turpentine, big boy. Balanchy’s latest.”

“It waters my eyes.” The duck’s bill of his cap dipped toward her. “Fuckin’ why did you throw that note last night?”

“I didn’t want to email it and I didn’t feel like phoning. I figured you’d smell it when you came out to your car.”

Face flat as Pixie’s, long black hair fanned over his coat, a Native American strode toward the restaurant’s arched entrance. “Stupid,” Ron muttered.

“Him?”

“You. What if Lila’d found it?”

“I was drunk.”

He watched her larynx bob. “Move over.”

Gripping the end of the bench, she tugged her buttocks to its end. He lowered his hulk beside her, unzipped a red polyester fleece with high collar and pinched cuffs, and peeled it from his back. Over his heart showed the badge, Onward Christian Soldiers, that a jeweler on the Plaza had fashioned for him the month before from turquoise and copper wire.

“Yip, yip.”

“Quiet down, buddy.” Ron waggled his pinkie through the cage’s grid. “We’ve got business here.”

Glancing at the mole that squatted like a bug on the bridge of Maxine’s nose, he let his eyes drift with the hand he eased to her thigh.

She grabbed his wrist and set it on the rough blanket between them. “Didn’t you read my note?”

“After Lila threw your Tabasco’d hankie and toilet paper tube in my face. I told her your ‘Don’t come over Thursday’ meant that the regular meetin’ she thinks we have with Giordy won’t work next week because he’s back to drinkin’.”

“You’re quick.”

“What are you goin’ to do about our tiles and the deck, Max?”

“Hunh?”

“The bathroom tiles are poppin’; last night the deck hightailed it down the hill.”

“Rotten luck, big boy. I’ll send Victor over.”

“Lila’s already called him. She’s right, you sold us a piece of junk. Where’s this new pigeon of yours?”

“Room service spilled latte on his slacks fifteen minutes ago.”

“How do you know? You spend the night together?”

“Shovel your shit elsewhere, okay? He phoned me downstairs.”

“How’d Giordy snag him?”

“Off our website. He collects petroglyphs.”

“Saws them out of the rock?”

“No, dum-dum—collects motif sculpture, pottery, furniture, whatever. The funding flows from his security-software company in San Jose. Giordy’s convinced him to buy a vacation hacienda here now, retire later. The usual.”

She pressed her palm to her high forehead and clenched her eyes. “Look, I’m not saying you and I can’t do deals together any longer, though that lard around your middle has become pretty unattractive. Mainly it’s your wheezing that scares me. I can see Giordy driving home from Thursday poker to find you flopped in his bed with a heart attack.”

Ron tugged his cap. “So that’s why you flattened my tire? To say ‘lose weight’?” The turquoise cinch on his bolo tie rose and fell over the green shirt snapped to his collarbone.

“Hunh?”

“Hunh? Hunh? When you threw the billet-doux sayin’ don’t come over Thursday night, did you let the air—”

“What air?”

“Yip, yip. Yip.”

“Fermez la bouche, dog.” Ron’s stomach became a fist as he palmed his thighs and stood. “Watch you don’t buy yourself a lawsuit, Max.”

She threw her hands to her ears. “I didn’t goddamn let any goddamn air out of your goddamn tire and quit harassing me.” Her hands sunk to her skirt. “Maybe it bit into a nail. Though I did see some movement in the moonlight. Raccoon, maybe? Someone or something has it in for you, big boy.”

“You.”

“Not goddamn me. How’d you get to the hotel?”

“Lila’s Mustang.” He gazed at a stinkbug crawling onto the bench’s arm, where it lifted its rear toward Maxine. She flung out her left hand, bearing a diamond-and-emerald engagement ring and platinum wedding ring. The insect tumbled to the flagstones.

Patting the black cotton candy of her hair, she jumped up. Her smile burst forth like sunrise. Ron stared where she looked toward the stairs curving to the right of the reception desk.

Down the green-and-red runners pranced a slight man with brushed-back brick-red hair, open-necked white shirt, faded jeans whose belt held a cell phone, and loafers without socks. As he approached, Ron saw blue veins webbing his ankles. He looked no older than forty.

“Chuck here yet?” he asked, breathless.

“We don’t know what he looks like, partner.” Ron advanced toward him. “Least I don’t—she may.” He jerked a cracked thumb back toward Maxine. “I’m Ron Kirkpatrick, Los Alamos Mortgage.”

“Of course, by your cap.” Stretching needle-thin lips into a grin, he shot out a small, freckled hand to squeeze Ron’s paw. “Bret Wilkes.” His fingernails were crescent moons. Ron held the blue-ice irises that lifted to his own until Bret broke Ron’s grip and darted past him. “Hi, there, Mr. Raggedy Andy.” Bret strummed the top of Pixie’s cage. “We going to buy a place this morning?” He clamped Maxine’s shoulders. “Did you and Giordy stay up all night sifting properties?”

“I didn’t sleep much. I don’t know about my husband.”

Freckled forehead crinkling like the parchment frown of a nun, Bret turned to Ron. “This town, how I love this town, even more than last spring. And the Valley’ll bounce back, don’t you worry at all. I’m talking to fellows right now hatching DNA encryption systems that’ll bury digital.” He narrowed his eyes at Ron. “But I want a footprint here, you know? Santa Fe Institute, Los Alamos, the informatics boys, down I-twenty-five a ways the huge Intel fab, Sandia Labs, the university incubators, Kirtland Air Force Base. It’s why I asked Mr. Chuck Ridley two years ago to take on some of my tax work. Jake, here he comes.”

Jake? Ron faced the frescoed columns of the hotel’s entrance. Kneeling maidens ground corn and scrubbed clothes as they supported an arch of mounted conquistadors in peaked helmets brandishing lances. Their silver and bronze dominated the Native American reds, yellows, and greens, which alkali from roof leaks had streaked white.

Oak doors twice as tall as Chuck hushed behind him as he hurried over the earth-tone-marbled flags. He’d pinned a white-on-black peace symbol to one lapel of his blazer. Though perspiration cooled him, burrs that had lodged in his black socks from taking a shortcut through puncturevine pricked his ankles. His feet hurt from the tasseled loafers he’d bought last weekend while Helen shopped for more good-old-days new-to-you clothes.

“Sorry,” he breathed to Bret and Maxine, tonguing his lips. He addressed the double-chinned man in the mortgage cap. “I’m Chuck Ridley.”

“Ron Kirkpatrick.”

“Growing a beard, Chuck?” Bret asked.

“Camouflaging worry lines, but it itches.” He scrabbled at his cheek.

“Let’s go,” blurted Maxine, grabbing the wagon’s handle. “No poop, Pixie, no pee.”

She led them toward the hotel’s restaurant. Beside its dark iron chandeliers chained to vigas hung strings of red and green chiles. Daylight filtered through smudged skylights to bathe the room. Throughout, firefly lights twinkled on evergreen figs that soared from baskets as large as tumbleweeds.

“Ronald? Carry him?”

The dog’s odor of carbolic acid had already overpowered the restaurant’s usual fragrance of beans. Ron swallowed and cradled the wagon in his arms down three steps.

A goateed maitre d’ dressed in black coat and broad red-and-green necktie, his ponytail swinging, beckoned them to the corner table Maxine had requested. From its center sprang a red-silk hibiscus in a tulip-shaped vase.

Guests filled half of the circular tables, all of which boasted hibiscus centerpieces. The fan-haired Native American who had passed them in the lobby slouched at a table near the entrance reading yesterday’s Wall Street Journal. Amid the sounds of conversations and the clink of silverware against scalloped platters full of tortillas and eggs, Maxine, Bret, Ron, and Chuck pulled out oak armchairs and scraped them close.

“Shhhh,” Maxine told Pixie, leaning down to rock the red wagon. From a woven-leather purse she extracted a Baggie bulging with kibble, then slid back the door of the cage. “Here, sweetie.” She crooked her forefinger. “Waitress!”

A woman in black pantaloons, black crêpe-soled shoes, and a black blouse embroidered in red and green at the neck raised her chin in acknowledgment. Like most of the other waitresses she’d plaited her hair in a braid whose end flopped midway against her back. Balancing a tray of smeared plates and cups, she disappeared into the kitchen through stainless-steel doors.

Maxine moved her hand to Bret’s forearm. “The help here is Hispanic. The lips are more like ours and the faces are not so fleshy as Native American. You may recall from your earlier visit. Did you rest well?”

“I could have used another blanket.”

Chuck caught himself wondering if Bret slept nude or in pajamas. He reached for the napkin peaked like a blue-linen tent, and spread it over his thigh. “We may get snow yet. Walking over I watched the clouds fusing.”

“War clouds!” Ron exclaimed. “They told the Comanches when to arm.”

“Really? Jake.”

“Ron here.”

“Jake’s an expression,” Bret explained.

“Ronald never knows what he’s talking about. Where’s that waitress?”

“Don’t know what I’m talkin’ about?” Ron glared at her over the hibiscus. “I know the sooner we suit up, war clouds or none, the sooner we teach those Iraqi sand niggers some respect.”

Chuck noticed Ron’s Onward Christian Soldiers. The throbbing returned to his right eye as his mind replayed Helen’s march from the bathroom as he sloped against the footboard, the squashed tomatoes propped in his palms. He twitched, recalling how their juice dribbled down his belly.

“You with me, Bret? How do they feel in Silicone Valley? This damn dry air.” The crack at the tip of Ron’s thumb began to sting.

Before Bret could reply, their waitress appeared clutching what looked like a notebook computer. From under her elbow she dealt out menus garlanded in hibiscus blossoms. Her half dozen silver bracelets chimed as Pixie began to bark.

“Okay if I wait while you choose? We’re filling up.” She skipped back from the Pekingese. Her fragrance of sandalwood, added to Maxine’s Turpentine and the remains of Pixie’s bath, made Chuck blink. Through the mist he stared at the printed options wavering under Breakfast.

“Start me with a double Bloody Mary, two lime wedges, and a short glass of water for him,” Maxine said. “Pixie, quiet down. Eggs Benedict, Christmas.” She turned her shadowed eyes to Bret. “Christmas means red and green chile mixed—you may remember. See anything tempting?”

Not you, for sure, Ron fumed.

“The Southwestern Burrito looks lovely,” Bret said, pinching half-lens glasses from his shirt and pushing them to his nose. He fingered the silver chain that disappeared down his chest.

“Red, green, or Christmas?” the waitress asked.

“I think the last.”

Maxine cocked her head. “Con mucho gusto, señor.”

The green-and-red bow at the base of the waitress’s braid bobbed as she dipped her gaze to her computer, tapping its keys. “You?” she asked Ron.

“Huevos rancheros. Heavy on the cowboy beans and mucho red.”

She turned to Chuck.

“Crunchy granóla and bananas. Add plain yogurt if you can.”

“You got it.”

“No Christmas on that?” Bret laughed.

“Who’s for coffee?” the waitress asked.

“I got mine upstairs between my legs. Mint tea will do me nicely.”

“Cup runneth over,” Maxine laughed. She began to cough.

A young Hispanic in baggy pants, hair shaved except at the top of his scalp, brought four fluted glasses of water.

“These people make good warriors,” Ron said when the boy sauntered off. “My son was trainin’ to be one. Hey, Bushie, get a move on. We want that black gold, boy. News this morning said Turkey still won’t let us through.” He jerked his head toward Chuck. “How you feel about this? That symbol on your blazer Anasazi or peacenik?”

Holding the big man’s turtle eyes, Chuck said, “Preemption bothers me. We’ve thumbed our noses at more weapons inspections, we’ve told China and Russia and France and Germany to fly a kite. True, we need the oil, we use a fourth of the world’s supply. My big concern is what happens after we level Nasiriyah and Baghdad. Have Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz developed a strategy for fighting the guerrillas who sabotage those pipelines we’re going to re-open? Or the electrical grid we’re going to repair or the water we plan to make potable? I doubt Iraqis want our democracy, I think Iraq is Arabic for Vietnam. So yes, this pin speaks for peace.”

“Where’s that drink?” Maxine muttered. With her left hand she fingered Pixie a few kibbles from her bag.

Licking the crack in his thumb, Ron swiveled toward Bret. “You a peacenik too?”

“Wars do happen. If I can make a profit, lovely. This morning, though, I’m here to buy property.”

“You’re neutral?”

“Yes, for now. Ten years ago when I was a data-security contractor in Kuwait, I smelled too many intestines spilling from both Christians and Muslims.”

Eye pain pounding toward his tongue, Chuck reached for his laptop and opened it on his thighs. Hoping to quiet Ron, he spread paperwork between his silverware and the silk hibiscus.

“He wants to talk real estate, Ronald.” Lowering her voice, Maxine faced Bret. “Ron’s and his wife’s son died in basic training at Fort Ord. A seagull that waddled into the mess hall startled a cook who spilled boiling water on Jonathan while he was scrubbing grease off the bricks under the stove. Two months later he died at Fort Benning from third-degree burns. I’ll take that.”

Tilting from her chair, Maxine grabbed the vodka and spiced tomato juice from the tray the waitress balanced on her palm. Glaring at Maxine, she grabbed the tray’s edge and swung it to a square table set against the wainscoting.

While the waitress doled out plates, Maxine gulped half the Bloody Mary and cleaned her upper lip with her tongue. Glancing to her right, “Good,” she began, “Chuck’s brought a paper trail—ah, jeez, another stinkbug. Waitress! Climbing that table leg! Pixie: calm.”

The Pekingese had straight-legged himself off the mat and knocked his skull against the cage’s woven willow. He scuttled back and forth, yapping. With each bark his jaw dropped like a Chinese puppet’s as the waitress, gripping the tray, strode to the side table to dislodge the insect with her shoe. Feelers and legs thrashed until she pile-drove her foot to the flagstones, squashing it.

“There’s a long, black hair in my beans,” Ron bellowed.

“Mister, I’m doing my very.” The waitress rushed over Bret’s cup, tea tag dangling, and Ron’s coffee, then returned with Pixie’s water. Sweeping up Ron’s plate, she hurried toward the kitchen’s swinging doors.

“Bring me another hair of the dog,” Maxine called, brandishing her glass in her left hand. From the next table a blond man flanked by a woman in a yellow smock and a girl with a tattooed dagger slanting up her cheek stared.

Bret flicked up the underside of his wrist to consult his watch.

“Not one of your typical Santa Fe desayunos,” Maxine simpered, leaning to pass the water glass into Pixie’s cage. “You’re looking for an acre and a half, pueblo style, Northside or in Las Campanas, right? Views and viga-and-latilla ceilings. Guest house for your daughter and baby girl if possible, expecting she’ll want to repair her relationship with you. Looking to spend eight hundred thousand to a million two, Giordy says?”

Bret was nodding when a series of flute-like whistles issued from his hip. He unbuckled the leather holster, jerked out his cell phone, and thumb-flipped its cover. “Yes? Yep. Lovely.” He swiveled his wrist again. “Probably half an hour, outermost. The Museum of Fine Arts? Okeydoke; jake.”

“That was your husband,” he told Maxine. “He wants to show me a couple of tin-shade lamps with little stick figures on horseback chasing horned toads.”

“Good. I’ll follow you, then we’re gone. I’ve lined up four properties before lunch at Geronimo.”

“Lunch?” Ron scowled. “I promised our manager—”

“Bret and me. Maybe I’ll call you later. Chuck? What do your figures show? Oh, Ronald, your huevos smell fabulous. Scrumptious with salsa.”

Emptying his lungs, Chuck rubbed the stubble on his cheek and, turning toward Bret, took in air. “Your preliminary tax return shows that from an investment standpoint, you should focus on income property; sorry about that, Bret. Perhaps take three hundred thousand from blue chips and look for office space or a fourplex.”

Chuck realized that his feet were pumping out as much pain as his eye. His hand shook as he spooned up a slice of banana.

“Son of a peccary, Ridley, you think defense stocks aren’t goin’ to rock-and-roll? Build this man’s portfolio fast, before we invade. Except for high-end restaurants and Canyon Road, commercial here is dead. Fourplexes? No way. High-end homes with views is what the real money wants in Santa Fe. Fort Worth, a different story. Agreed, Max? Say yes,” he wheezed.

“Hunh? We could look at the Lofts, I guess. I know a fourplex priced to sell near the Unitarian Church—perhaps tomorrow. Monday or Tuesday we can study Chuck’s figures if Bret can stay over. Bret?”

Like the rage Ron felt steaming up inside him, streamers of heat rose from the pink beans heaped next to the cheddar-topped eggs the waitress had clunked down before him. She returned to set Maxine’s Bloody Mary on its coaster and left. To Ron, something still looked wrong with his eggs, but Bret’s words broke his focus.

“Chuck’s tax counsel the last couple of years has played nicely for me, though his stock picks the last six months have been iffy. I tell you what. Maybe I can let my CFO handle Valley appointments next week if the hotel here has an extra blanket and forgets room service.” He spread a thin-lipped smile at Maxine.

Ron stabbed one of the eggs and sawed it open with his knife. He hoisted into his mouth a bite dripping yolk. Little of the hot, red-chile sting he’d expected accompanied the clicks his jaw made. He stared at Maxine, then Chuck, then Bret, then down at his plate. The cook had confettied his eggs green. He hated the mildness of green. Hispanic motherfucker.

Wheezing, he scraped his chair backward across the flagstones and stood, clutching the plate as though it held the cook’s head. Rising on his toes, he hurled the plate onto Pixie’s cage. It cracked, spattering beans, posole, salsa, and green-chile-speckled yellow over the terrified pet. The red-white-and-blue kerchief flapped as the Pekingese whipped his head back and forth and began to yowl like a black-masked cat.

Maxine bolted her drink, heaped hair tumbling to her forehead. Clapping a palm to one of the gold hoops swinging from her ears, she clutched the table’s edge and dropped to her knees beside the red wagon.

All Chuck felt when he squeezed his eyes shut was the chill of beefsteak tomatoes.

Forehead crinkling, Bret leapt up, hand on his cell-phone holster.

Ron began blowing like a walrus. Striding past the gaping faces to the steps, behind him over Pixie’s squalls he heard Max yell, “Let him go!” Twisting his head, he glimpsed not Bret Wilkes but the Native American pursuing, hair flapping behind him, Wall Street Journal rolled in a fist meatier than Ron’s own.

Acting Badly

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