Hidden River (Five Star Paperback) (20 page)

“Well, it was slow, and the smoke in those places, terrible, I felt sorry for the bar staff, really awful,” Charles says.

“Don’t they play that game with the sticks?” Abe asks me.

“Hurling,” I say.

“Do you play it?” Abe asks.

“No.”

“Charles was the lacrosse champ at Bright,” Abe says. “Kind of a similar game, no?”

Amber and Charles look briefly at each other.

“What’s Bright?” I ask.

“You ever read
A Separate Peace, Catcher in the Rye,
any one of those?” Abe asks.

“No.”

“Well, it’s a bit like their school, Colorado version, Charles and Robert both went there. Very snooty, play cricket and everything,” Abe says. Clearly, he’s trying to get under Charles’s skin, wind him up a bit, tease him, but he’s overstepped the line somehow. Amber scolds him with a look that stops him in midsentence.

“Alexander, do you have any hobbies or anything like that?” Amber asks, questioning me with those big glacial eyes.

“No, not really,” I say. “I go to football matches, soccer matches, I mean, sometimes, I’m not very athletic or anything.”

Mercifully, the pizza finally comes.

I don’t eat any. Instead, I find myself staring at Amber Mulholland as she spills Coke on her white blouse. I hand her a napkin and she thanks me with a beautiful smile. Something about that smile, though. Beautiful like a sun-drenched cornfield above a missile silo.

How much does she know about what happened to Victoria? Would she even care if her husband or brother-in-law was a murderer? I examine her closely. Maybe I’m wrong. There’s something vulnerable about her too. A touch of the Marilyn or the Lady Di.

We drive back to Denver. I’m freezing, but no one else is. I try to get warmth from a cup of coffee. Charles is talking, but I’m not listening, ticking off the seconds till I can get home. We’re all exhausted. Amber, in a whisper, asks Charles how the filming went. He says it went great and gives her a kiss. The kiss makes me wince.

They drop me on Colfax Avenue.

A few hookers, a few gypsy cabs, their lemony headlights distorting in the rain.

I stand under the overhang at Kitty’s East Porno store. Still a few blocks to our apartment, but I’m so tired. Junkie tired. Drizzling still. The last rain for weeks to come.

From now on a continuation of the drought. Drought until August, when freezing rain would fall in Fort Morgan. And I would beg it to come down, invoking Vishnu, Storm Bringer, Lord of Night, begging him to cover me up as I lay there in the graveyard with gunshot wounds, wondering if it was too late then, to live, to survive, to avenge yet another horrible murder in this sorry, sorry excuse for a case.

8: AIR, WATER, EARTH, FIRE

P
atrick and I are both irritated. It’s hot, dry, we have the fan way at the other end of the room so the cards don’t get blown over and John and Areea are not taking the game seriously at all. John has his hand on her lap, Areea has her hand at the back of his shorts.

I look at Patrick and shake my head in disgust.

“The one thing, John, that I can’t stand is people not taking poker seriously when there’s money in the pot.”

“It’s only two dollars,” John says, and winks at Areea.

Areea giggles for no reason at all.

“It’s the principle of the thing,” I say.

I can tell Patrick feels the same way. For him in particular, whose weeks remaining on planet Earth can be counted in the few dozen, minutes are precious, seconds are bloody precious.

“Are you calling or not?” I say.

“No, then,” John says impatiently, throwing down his cards.

“Your hand, Patrick,” I say, annoyed.

He picks up his winnings.

“I think maybe we’ll take a martini break,” he says.

“Good idea,” I say, looking significantly at John, who has started snogging Areea on the lobe of her ear. It’s been two hours since I shot up and another rule I have is that ketch and spirits don’t mix, but what the hell, anything to get away from those two, who have been carrying on like this for the last few days.

I follow Patrick all the way along the corridor and into his apartment, which is minimally decorated with a few photographs of friends and a bookcase filled with art books. CD player and CDs of all descriptions but mostly classical. He puts on a piece by Stravinsky, which does nothing to soothe my mood.

It’s July 10. I’ve been going to CAW for more than a week now, making about a hundred and fifty bucks a night, commuting downtown, buying the groceries, and also attempting to look discreetly into the Victoria Patawasti murder. John, by contrast, has been hanging out on the fire escape smoking pot, eating potato chips, drinking beer, and making out with Areea when she’s off her shift. It’s starting to get on my nerves.

“It’s starting to get on my nerves,” I tell Pat.

“Me, too. You know, I was bluffing that hand, I had nothing,” Pat says.

“I know.”

This is one of Pat’s good days, in fact since we showed up, he says he’s been doing much better. He was perishing through loneliness: the lawsuit’s pissed off most of his old pals in the DFD, and his only family lives in Wyoming.

Stravinsky’s violins start screeching at one another and Pat puts ice into the martini shaker. Pat makes a dry martini, a very dry martini. He informs the Bombay Sapphire gin about the existence of a substance called vermouth before he pours it in the shaker. He takes two glasses from the freezer, adds an olive to each, and asks me to do the shaking, which I do.

We retire to the fire escape.

“She’s very pretty, isn’t she?” Pat says.

“She is, Pat, gorgeous face, great legs, honestly, I don’t know what she sees in that big ganch.”

“Well, it’ll all end in tears,” Pat predicts, as we lean forward to watch two men attempt to beat each other senseless at a brown, grassless park on the corner.

“John and Areea?” I ask, unsure if we’re still on the same subject.

“Yes,” he says.

“Because of her parents?”

“She says she’s eighteen, but I think she’s much younger,” Pat says.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really,” he says.

We sip our martinis.

“What about you, is there a special someone in your life?” Pat asks, the vowel sounds making his cheeks hollow sickeningly.

“Nope. There isn’t.”

“Back home, I mean.”

“Answer’s still no. I can’t seem to hold on to a steady relationship.”

“You leave them or they leave you?”

“They leave me, Pat.”

“You think maybe the smack doesn’t help?” Pat asks.

“I’m sure it doesn’t. I’m sure it does not,” I say.

Pat looks at me. He’s not going to lecture me or give me grief. He’s just pointing out the obvious. And it’s that question yet again. And the answer. I must release it from me. Let it go. I don’t have to do heroin now, I don’t have to. So why am I doing it?

“We all need something, Pat,” I say lamely.

“Yeah, we do,” Pat agrees.

“And what about you, Patrick, is there someone in your life you’ve been hiding away?”

“Well, actually, I was in a long-term relationship until last year. Of course, he left me when I started to get sick.”

“Shit.”

“Shit is right,” Pat says with disgust.

The sun is making its way across Colfax and the street is yawning, waking up, putting on its usual show. Guys appearing on the street corners, women walking hand in hand with little kids, other kids playing basketball. Old men talking. Big old cars playing N.W.A. and Public Enemy, bigger, newer cars blaring Tupac and Notorious B.I.G.

And as always the professional dealers, easy and unobtrusive, and the rookie dealers looking around a million times to see how much attention they can bring to themselves.

I stretch.

“Pat, it’s time I was heading,” I say.

“Not yet,” Pat says, and rubs his hand over his gaunt, unshaven face.

“Love to stay, Pat, but it’s twelve o’clock. I’m supposed to be downtown by one.”

“Don’t know why you’re working for those right-wing bastards. Strip-mining the national forests, polluting the skies. Drought all year, couple of snowstorms which did nothing, and they’re talking about the Wise Use of water to promote business, which means less conservation. I mean, Jesus, how about telling the goddamn Coors family to give some of their surplus water to Denver.”

I can’t help but suppress a smile. Pat clearly cares a lot more about this than I do. I don’t mind arguing for fewer environmental regulations, I’ll argue any point of view if I can get some dough out of it.

“Pat, I have to go.”

“Ok, mate,” Pat says, which makes me grin again. Pat’s taking on a bit of an Ulster accent and vernacular hanging out with us. And though we have screwed up our murder case and I am exiled from Belfast, at least it seems we are doing a bit of good for someone in this world.

* * *

July in Denver. Insanely hot. One hundred and one degrees says the board outside Channel 9. Drenched with sweat, I ride the elevator up to the CAW offices. Pat says Denver is livable for a few weeks in October and a few weeks in April. Winter and summer, the rest of the time. I can well believe him. People with sense leave town at this time of year for cooler places like a blast furnace or the surface of the sun.

I walk into the office.

I’m well liked now, established.

Abe says hi, he’s wearing the same Sex Pistols T-shirt he’s had on for the last week. Johnny Rotten is so coated with gook he has taken on a three-dimensional quality. Still, the place is air-conditioned and the offices are losing their chaotic feel and taking on a semblance of order.

The weird thing, the really weird thing is that apart from Abe no one has mentioned either Victoria’s or Klimmer’s death. Charles runs a tight ship and I suppose they want things upbeat for the new staffers like me. Or maybe they’re trying to be very positive in front of the camera crew, which has shown up twice more to follow Charles around.

Dozens of posters have gone up over the bare walls, nature scenes with words like “Perseverance” and “Serenity” underneath them. They’ve hired another couple of secretaries and the campaigners are coming together as a group. Aye, they’re looking to the future, not dwelling on the unpleasantness of the past.

Every day starts the same. Abe and Steve brief us about the evening’s assignment, where we’re going, what the rap is for the day, what to look out for. We do rehearsals, practice raps, role-playing and if there’s time left we stuff envelopes and write to our congressmen. There are about fifteen campaigners now. The organization is getting bigger.

We don’t see Charles and Robert at all until around five o’clock, when the van is ready to go. Sometimes Charles drives, sometimes Robert drives, sometimes Amber comes along.

No one will admit it with Abe or Steve around, but arriving at the office at one o’clock is a waste of everyone’s time. I suppose if you’re dedicated to the cause it’s all well and good, but I sense that most of the campaigners don’t give a shit about the forests or the Wise Use policy and are only here because they hope they can make cold cash.

Yeah, it’s been a week and I’ve been patient, laying the groundwork, being nice, friendly. I’ve endured Abe’s theories about why the Clash, the Ramones, and the Undertones were feeble imitators of the Sex Pistols. I’ve listened to him talk endlessly about the New York Mets. Tedious, but necessary. I’ve been cultivating him. Encouraging him. None of the Mulhollands will talk, but I know Abe will.

Abe was a University of Colorado student at the Earth Sciences Institute in Boulder. He started working for CAW during his vacations and stayed on after he graduated. He’s only twenty-five, but he’s the fourth in command.

For the last two days we’ve been getting lunch at the Sixteenth Street Pub around the corner from the office. Abe’s a lightweight, anyway, a 6-percent Stella Artois loosens his tongue.

We talk about the movies and when he’s finished his pint and it’s going to his head a wee bit I come straight out with it.

“Abe, why is there a film crew following Charles around?”

“I can’t tell you because we’re not supposed to talk about it. Robert would kill me. Charles would kill me.”

“Abe, you know you can trust me,” I say, trying to ignore Abe’s choice of words.

Abe takes a bite of his burrito and looks around the bar. No one else from CAW is there. And Abe wants to tell me, he just needs that final push.

“Abe, come on, what the hell’s going on? It hardly seems fair that everyone else is allowed to know and I’m not.”

“Everyone else doesn’t know,” Abe protests.

“Come on, mate, I won’t say a bloody thing, I can help better if I’m in the know.”

“That’s true.”

“Yeah, ’course it is, come on, what’s the deal with the camera crew?”

“You won’t breathe a word?”

“No.”

“Ok, listen, I swear to God, don’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t, just bloody get on with it.”

“Congressman Wegener will be seventy years old on August sixth,” Abe says slowly and significantly.

I look at him.

“That’s it?” I ask. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Everyone thinks he’s going to run again next year in 1996, but he’s not, he’s going to announce his retirement on his birthday. He’s only told the chairman of the Colorado GOP and the chairman has only told Charles.”

“Who has told you? Amber, Robert—”

“Listen, Alex, you can’t breathe a word of this. Once he makes his announcement, there could be a feeding frenzy. Wegener represents the Eighth Congressional District, solid Republican, a safe seat, whoever succeeds him is guaranteed a place in Congress.”

“And it’s going to be Charles. That’s why he’s taken a leave of absence from his law firm. That’s why they’re filming him, campaigning door to door,” I say.

“The state GOP has had its eye on Charles for some time. He’s thirty-eight, successful, he has a seriously photogenic wife, and he’s founded an environmental organization, us, which could be the GOP’s route into the environmental debate, political turf solely occupied by the Democrats. Charles will have no serious competition for the seat, he’s being anointed, but it goes further than that.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say, you know.”

“Don’t start that again,” I tell him.

“Ok, well, but you gotta keep this quiet.”

“Sure.”

“Ok, look, what do you think’s going to happen at the general election next year?”

“I don’t know.”

“Dole will lose. Dole will lose to Clinton and the GOP will be thrown into turmoil. They’re going to need to move toward the center to beat Gore in 2000. They’re not going to pick someone like George W. Bush or Pat Buchanan. They’re going to pick moderates, and Charles will be a young, moderate, environmentalist, outsider congressman from a Western state. Do you see?”

“See what?” I ask.

Abe’s boiling with excitement. The momentum’s there, he’s giving me this secret, something he can’t contain anymore.

“Don’t you see, Alex? Charles could be an ideal vice-presidential candidate for someone like John McCain or even Colin Powell. Powell-Mulholland in 2000? This isn’t penny-ante shit. This is the big enchilada.”

“Jesus,” I say, impressed by his seriousness about it all. But surely it’s a fantasy, a long shot, more than that, a delusion. Who ever heard of a two-term congressman getting to be a vice president, no matter how good the demographics.

“Long shot,” I said.

“Nah, Bill Clinton was a long shot in 1992,” Abe says, and continues to explain the concept. I pretend to be entranced. Abe goes on and on in a whisper and gradually it occurs to me that whether Charles really could be vice president in 2000, or 2004, or whenever, it doesn’t actually matter, for I see now why Alan Houghton had to die. It’s enough that Charles has convinced himself that Congress and the vice presidency are possibilities and it gave him that final push to kill his tormentor, his shadow, his blackmailing familiar. Yes. And poor Victoria got in the way. I take a sip of beer, nod at Abe, and make a mental note that I’m going to have to find out who Alan Houghton is and what connection he has to Charles.

Abe whispering now: “Alex, listen, you didn’t hear it from me, ok? And it goes for all of us. We can’t rock the boat, we can’t do anything official until Wegener’s birthday announcement. Do you see? We all have to go hush-hush.”

“I do see, and I see why they moved CAW to Denver. This is going to be a campaign HQ as well? Right?”

“Change the topic, here’s Robert,” Abe whispers.

Robert’s in the pub looking for us. Looking for Abe. He can’t find the route maps for where they’re going tonight.

Abe gives me a look to say nothing, gets up, and they head out of the bar.

Later…

We get in a large van, almost a bus, and head south toward Littleton. Charles isn’t with us again tonight and Robert’s driving. Surprisingly, Amber’s accompanying her brother-in-law. I’ve seen Amber only twice since I started here. And this is the first time I’ve seen her without Charles. She’s dressed down in a sweatshirt and black jeans, but she still looks stunning. You’d have to be misogynistic, the president of Greenpeace, Maoist, and blind to refuse to join the CAW if she asked you.