McMurtry, Larry - Novel 05 (22 page)

 
          
 
"He names all his motor scooters after
movie stars he's in love with,'* Khaki confided. "When I first met him he
had one named Tuesday, after Tuesday Weld. Can you imagine a motor scooter
named Tuesday?"

 
          
 
The thought depressed her so much that she
walked along in a funk for a few minutes, occasionally emitting flashes of heat
from her little black eyes. I walked along with her, past the emptying tables.
She reminded me of one of those little mean rat terriers that are so common in
the south. As long as you're looking at them they let you alone, but the minute
you turn your back they bite you in the leg.

 
          
 
I was hoping we'd run into Boss and Sir Cripps,
or perhaps Cindy and Boog, but instead we ran into Andy Landry and Freddy Fu.
They were standing by what was left of a lamb, pulling crisp little pieces of
skin off what was left of its hock and nibbling it. Freddy Fu had on a tuxedo
and looked very merry. Being the best spy in
Washington
seemed to agree with him, and being with him
seemed to agree with Andy Landry. She looked very healthful and had recently
got her hair frizzed. Since she was very thin and had a cloud of frizzed hair
she gave the impression of being slightly off the ground.

 
          
 
"Ah, Khaki," Freddy said, when he
saw us. He left off eating lamb skin and came over and kissed the air about an
inch from her cheek. He did it with merry self-assurance, as if that were
precisely the way to greet a person such as Khaki Descartes.

 
          
 
"Charming of you to bring her over,"
he said to me, in Oxbridgian tones.

 
          
 
Khaki at once transferred her full attention
to Freddy. I was immediately ditched. She and Freddy moved just out of earshot,
leaving me with Andy Landry, who seemed a nice tall girl.

 
          
 
Andy fed me a piece of lamb skin, which
surprised me. Food was the last thing I had come to expect from
Washington
women.

 
          
 
"Do you run?” she asked, after looking me
over in a shy way that was rather appealing.

 
          
 
"Nope," I said. "I drive."

 
          
 
"Why?" she asked, looking a little
shocked. "Driving isn't exercise."

 
          
 
"It may not be exercise but it gets you
from place to place," I countered.

 
          
 
"Yeah, but it isn't exercise," she
insisted. "What's your exercise?"

 
          
 
"Buying things," I said.

 
          
 
Andy looked a little hurt. I think she thought
I was mocking her.

 
          
 
"No," I said. "It's true.
Buying things is more strenuous than you think. A lot of exercise is involved.
Also you have to carry the things you buy."

 
          
 
"It's not real exercise though," she
said. "You should at least go to a gym once a week. I mean, you could do
your body that favor."

 
          
 
Fortunately at that point she happened to
notice that Khaki was scribbling frantically in her reporter's notebook.

 
          
 
"Khaki's a brain-picker," Andy said.

 
          
 
Suddenly Boog appeared at my elbow. Then he
passed my elbow and gave Andy a big kiss. His didn't land on the air, either.

 
          
 
"Let's you an' me go to
Bermuda
for a day," he suggested. "We
could ride motor scooters an' then fuck."

 
          
 
At this point Khaki and Freddy came back. Boog
had been extremely cheerful, but at the sight of Khaki his cheer subsided.

 
          
 
"What about the Croat and the Senator's
wife?" Khaki said, getting right to the point. "I know you know,
Boog. I know you know."

 
          
 
Boog widened his eyes and tried to look like
an innocent millionaire from
Winkler
County
.

 
          
 
"Whut Croat?" he said. "Hail, I
don't even know whut a Croat is."

 
          
 
"The Croat who's buying the
helicopters," Khaki said, through clenched teeth.

 
          
 
Boog cast his eyes heavenward, as if he
expected to see a helicopter beneath the Embassy roof.

 
          
 
“I don't even care about the
helicopters," Khaki said. "I know you set up the deal but I don't
care. George is the one who doesn't think the Croats ought to get helicopters.
I just want to know about the Senator's wife."

 
          
 
I felt a subtle touch at my elbow. It was
Freddy Fu.

 
          
 
"Whut Senator's
wife?"
Boog said.

 
          
 
"The one that's fuckin' the Croat,"
Khaki hissed. "Was she in on the deal? I want to know!"

 
          
 
At this point Freddy sidled back about ten
feet, and his look suggested that I accompany him. Since I don't know how to
sidle I just turned around and walked.

 
          
 
"I wouldn't ordinarily set her on
him," Freddy said, "but of course the Booger-man can take care of himself."

 
          
 
"You mean there's no Croat?" I
asked.

 
          
 
Freddy just smiled. "There are always
Croats," he said. "And there are always Serbs. How would you like to
buy a warehouse full of baskets?"

 
          
 
"Did you say a warehouse full of
baskets?" I asked.

 
          
 
"That's right," Freddy said.
"Approximately 190,000 baskets, representing virtually all
cultures and all periods."

 
          
 
I love baskets, almost indiscriminately. I
like the cheap bright basketry of
Mexico
, and the somber expensive basketry of the Apaches.
I've also seen some wonderful Peruvian baskets, but in all my scouting I may
have now owned 150 baskets, surely no more. Now I was being offered 190,000.
"The Booger-man mentioned that you know baskets," he said. "He
thought you might be able to take them off our hands."

 
          
 
Freddy never stopped smiling, but his smile
had nuances, cadences almost. Sometimes he smiled the smile of the inscrutable
Oriental, at other times the smile an old Princetonian might adopt when
confiding in a slightly doltish friend.

 
          
 
"Is there a price?” I asked.

 
          
 
"The price is four million," Freddy
said. "I think when you've seen the baskets you'll find it a
bargain."

 
          
 
I could easily believe that, since one really
good American Indian basket, from almost any tribe, will bring anywhere between
$1,500 and $10,000 these days.

 
          
 
"Are you interested?" Freddy asked.

 
          
 
"Yes," I said, reduced to a
monosyllable by the audacity of it all.

 
          
 
Of course even my monosyllable was a bluff. I
didn't have $4 million, or even a significant fraction thereof.

 
          
 
Besides that, I didn't have any place to put
190,000 baskets. The volume buy had never been my style. It was Big John's
style. My style was to buy the solitaries, such as the single best Sung vase in
the '77-'78 auction season, for example. Or the only known Brancusi hood
ornament.
Or, possibly, the boots of Billy the Kid.

 
          
 
Nonetheless Freddy had just offered me an
opportunity to fulfill one of the great scouting fantasies: getting inside the
Smithsonian warehouses. It was a chance not to be missed.

 
          
 
"How do I get a look at them?" I
asked.

 
          
 
"You want to see a man named Hobart
Cawdrey," he said. "He's in the Department of Transportation,
extension 1000.
Easy to remember.
I suggest you call
him tomorrow. Things are beginning to move."

 
          
 
It seemed odd to me that a man responsible for
the fate of 190,000 baskets would be in the Department of Transportation, but
then what did I know?

 
          
 
"I'll call him tomorrow," I
promised.

 
          
 
Freddy shook my hand again, still smiling.
"I hope it works out," he said.

 
          
 
It had all seemed kind of odd. We had stood
there surrounded by some of the most famous journalists in
America
and talked openly about the sale of part of
a great national institution. Any passing journalist could have heard us—even a
deranged stringer like Eviste. And there was another thing to consider: what my
purchase would do to the basket market.

 
          
 
That question at least had an obvious answer.
The basket market would be finished for a generation. It would suffer the fate
the Boy Scout knife market had^uffered when Big John bought the warehouse in
Poughkeepsie
. All the basket scouts I knew, and I knew
some good ones, would have to find new careers.

 
          
 
It was a sad thought. As people tend to
resemble their pets, so scouts come to resemble the objects they scout for.
Basket scouts are among the nicest people I know. They tend to be simple,
spare, graceful,
unaggressive
. They have a kind of dry
quiet humor that I like.

 
          
 
"You better watch out," Boss said.
She had come up behind me and seemed to be regarding me with a motherly eye. It
annoyed me a little, that she was looking so motherly.

 
          
 
"I'm watching out," I said.

 
          
 
Boss smiled. Worse still, she ruffled my hair.

 
          
 
"You're cute when you're huffy," she
said. "What time does Cindy let you out in the morning?"

 
          
 
"I do as I please," I said, wishing
I could think of something wittier or more original to say.

 
          
 
"I don't know who you think you're
fooling, but it ain't me you're fooling," she said. "I'm going out to
see Cyrus in the morning. He's selling his second-best horse farm. You could
come if you can talk Cindy into letting you out."

 
          
 
Boss was a master of the taunt. It is not
exactly a rare skill, among women, but she had developed it to a very high
level of subtlety. At times I tended to forget that she employed both of my
former wives, and thus knew more than most about my behavior with women.

 
          
 
"Did you mean Cyrus Folmsbee?" I
asked, remembering that he was supposed to be the power behind the sale of the
Smithsonian.

 
          
 
"Yeah, Cyrus," Boss said. "You
better come and meet him before you let Boog and Freddy get you in trouble.
Cyrus is no one to fuck around with. Come by about nine, if you can get
loose."

 
          
 
"I can get loose," I said.

 
          
 
Boss looked amused. "We'll see about
that," she said.