Missionary Stew (22 page)

“You wanta know why Citron took my daughter along?” Keats said. “Well, that's simple enough. He probably wants to fuck her some more, that's why.” Keats smiled at the general's wince of dismay and then continued: “That's one, and two, I’d say, is he figures she might be useful as sort of a hostage. I don’t reckon that sucker trusts me after all, despite all the time I spent butterin’ him up.”

“We are so close to complete success,” the general said, his tone full of regret. “So extremely close.”

“Hell, Ralphie, we’re still gonna make it,” Keats said. “But you and me might as well get one thing straight. Ain’t nothing gonna happen down there to my daughter, understand?”

The general nodded his agreement. “But that still leaves us the problem of young Mr. Citron, doesn’t it, hmm?”

“Yes, sir, that it does.”

The general sighed. “Gladys, of course, won’t like it. She won’t like it at all.”

“Now that's just too fuckin’ bad about Gladys, isn’t it?” B. S. Keats said, grinned his cold gray-toothed grin, and added, just for spite, “Hmm?”

They met for the first time outside the door of the grungy downstairs front apartment, the tall gray-haired woman in the dark-blue suit and the young blond woman with the sun-streaked hair and deep tan who was dressed in jeans and shirt and carrying in her right hand a small expensive Mark Cross suitcase made out of bleached pigskin.

Gladys Citron was about to knock on the door of Unit A when Velveeta Keats said from behind her, “I’ll bet you’re his mama. You two sure look alike.”

Gladys Citron turned. “I’m Mrs. Citron.”

Velveeta Keats smiled, shifted the suitcase to her left hand, and stuck out her right. “I’m Velveeta Keats, and Morgan and I’re just fixing to leave for the airport.”

“Velveeta,” Gladys Citron said, accepting the offered hand.

“Like the cheese,” the younger woman said.

“Well,” Gladys Citron said, smiling her most brittle smile and turning back toward the door. “Let's see if he's receiving.”

She knocked. A moment later the door was opened by Morgan Citron, dressed in his new tan suit. He looked first at his mother and then at Velveeta Keats. “I take it you two have met.”

“We introduced ourselves,” Gladys Citron said.

“Come in.” He moved away from the door.

Velveeta Keats backed up a tentative step or two. “I’ll come back later if you two’d like—”

Citron interrupted. “Don’t worry about it, Velveeta. Come on in. Please.”

Gladys Citron was now inside the apartment and turning as she swept it with her eyes. “I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by to see where you were living.”

“Would you like some wine?” he said as Velveeta Keats came in and put her suitcase down.

“Yes, please,” his mother said. “I think I would.”

“We usually sit around the table,” Velveeta Keats said, drawing back one of the bent-iron chairs.

“How cozy,” Gladys Citron said and settled herself into the chair the younger woman held for her. Gladys Citron smiled her thanks and said, “What do you do to keep busy, Miss Keats?”

“I sort of fool around.”

“Velveeta's a remittance woman,” Citron said as he put three Kraft-cheese glasses of red wine on the table and sat down between the two women.

“Really,” Gladys Citron said. “How fascinating. If you’re a remittance woman, then you’re not from California, are you?”

Velveeta Keats shook her head. “Miami.”

Gladys Citron turned to her son. “You two are taking a trip, I understand.”

“That's right.”

“Might I ask where?”

“Tucamondo.”

“Well,” she said, “the current bang-bang capital of the world. I’m surprised.”

“Why?”

“It's not your usual kind of peaceful backwater, Morgan, all quaint and curious. People keep getting shot down there, and decapitated, and kidnapped, and what-have-you. Not your sort of country at all.”

Citron sipped some wine, smiled indifferently at his mother, and turned to Velveeta Keats. “My mother is an authority on danger and violence. During the war she was with the Resistance in France.”

“Was that World War Two?”

Citron nodded. “See this ribbon?” He touched it. “That's the Legion d’Honneur. It was given to her by de Gaulle himself because of all the Germans she killed. An even three dozen, wasn’t it, Gladys?”

“Around in there.”

“She's really quite proud of it.”

“I don’t blame her,” Velveeta Keats said. “Lordy, that must’ve really been something.”

Citron turned back to his mother. “Come on, Gladys, what's the real reason Velveeta and I shouldn’t fly down to Tucamondo?”

They stared at each other for several seconds until Gladys Citron shrugged and looked away. “None really—if neither of you minds getting shot at or beat up or made to disappear. In fact, I understand the climate is rather pleasant down there this time of year. Not too hot.” She paused and then asked as casually as she could, “Just the two of you going?”

“Yes,” Citron lied.

“Well, if you run across something unusual down there in the way of a story, Morgan, do remember your dear old mother. We pay awfully well, you know.”

“All right.”

“Where will you be staying?”

“I suppose at the Inter-Continental, if there is one.”

“There is,” Gladys Citron said as she rose. “There always seems to be an Inter-Continental in places where the people spend much of their time shooting at each other.” She smiled at Velveeta Keats. “It was so nice meeting you, Miss Keats. I don’t think I’ve ever met a real remittance woman before. I do hope we see more of each other.”

Citron rose as his mother moved to the door, opened it, and then turned back. “Have a good trip, Morgan, and do be careful.”

“Thanks. I will.”

Gladys Citron said something very quickly in French, looked long and carefully at her son, and then left, closing the door behind her. Citron resumed his seat at the table. Velveeta Keats stared at him curiously. “What’d she say—in French, I mean?”

“Roughly translated, she said life is full of pitfalls for the unwary.”

Velveeta Keats continued to stare at him. Finally, she said in a very soft sad voice, “Gosh, you two sure do hate each other, don’t you?”

Citron thought about it. “Yes,” he said, wondering why two utter strangers should hate each other. “I suppose we do.”

CHAPTER 25

Velveeta Keats met Draper Haere for the first time up in the enormous room, which she examined with wide-eyed delight and wonder. They packed Hubert into his carrying case, checked him into the Musette Hotel for Cats, and then drove in Citron's old Toyota to Los Angeles International Airport, put the car in a lot, and checked into American Airlines for Flight 451 to Houston with its connection to Tucamondo.

There would be a thirty-minute wait before the flight was called, and Draper Haere suggested a drink. Velveeta Keats asked Citron to order her a Bloody Mary and then excused herself because she was just dying to go to the bathroom.

After the drinks came, Haere took a swallow of his and said, “My Candidate chickened out.”

“Oh?” Citron said, thought about it, and then asked why.

“They sent an arm-twister out from Washington. An old pro who told my Candidate if he’d drop the Tucamondo thing, they’d hand him the nomination on a plate in ‘eighty-eight, or maybe even ‘eighty-four.”

“Veatch believe them?”

“Not really. But there was an implied threat that if he didn’t do
what they asked—or demanded—he’d be a dead political duck after this term is over and maybe even have to go to work for a living—or something equally unspeakable.”

Citron nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I don’t think I need to ask who they are.”

“No.”

“You’re one of them, actually, aren’t you?”

“I’m a drawer of water, a hewer of wood. They’re philosopher-kings.”

“What about the Candidate's wife, the fair Louise?”

“Her.”

“Yes.”

Haere had another swallow of his beer. “Let's say she remained loyal to her husband's decision.”

“I see.” Citron had some of his own beer and said, “What else?”

“Those two fake FBI types you checked out. Well, they dropped by again.”

“When?”

“Yesterday afternoon. Evening.”

“And?”

“They told me to drop it.”

“And if you don’t?”

“They’ll break my cat's neck, and then mine, and then maybe even yours.”

Citron studied the beer in his glass. “I see.”

“You can still cut out. I certainly wouldn’t blame you.”

“No,” Citron said. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not? It can’t be the money; it's not that much.”

Citron drank some more of his beer before answering. “It's just that I’ve been away for more than two years now, and I’ve finally started back. I have a feeling that if I don’t keep on going, I’ll never get there. Back, I mean.”

“Back from where?”

Citron shrugged. “Who knows? A mild madness?” He grinned at Haere. “You don’t mind my being a little crazed, do you?”

“Not at all. What was it—Africa?”

“That—and maybe being the last American cannibal.”

“No shit?” Haere said, trying to decide whether to look surprised or shocked, but managing to look only amused.

“One of the last, anyway,” Citron said, remembering the young Mormon missionary from Provo.

“It still bother you?”

“It never did bother me—not really—because almost right away I came up with the answer—or the rationalization. It was the usual one.”

“What?”

“Simple,” Citron said. “I was hungry.”

He smiled again, and in the smile there was no madness that Haere could detect, only the strange, utter calm that sometimes follows absolute despair.

There was no line at the Tucaereo Airlines check-in counter at Houston, but the clerk on duty still took forever to scrutinize the visas that Carlotta Preciado, the travel agent, had obtained from the Tucamon-dian consulate in Los Angeles.

The clerk, a Tucamondian himself, was no more than twenty-five and wore on his lip a fierce mustache so carefully waxed and tended it could only have been a hobby. “Are you going on business or pleasure?” he asked Haere.

“Pleasure.”

“There is no pleasure there,” the clerk said, slapping the tickets and passports down on the counter with absolute conviction.

“The flight on time?” Haere asked as he gathered them up.

“Yes, on time. And why not? There will be more crew than passen
gers. You three and two others will have an entire DC-8 to yourself. You wasted your money buying first-class tickets.”

“He is an innocent in such matters,” Citron told the clerk in a Spanish that had a slight, pleasant French accent.

“Of course,” the clerk said. “You are all innocents. Who else would go to my country but fools, innocents, and missionaries?” He produced a small hand mirror from down behind the counter and examined his mustache. “The flight will be called in forty-five minutes,” he said as he twisted one end of his mustache into needlelike sharpness. “If you miss it, I will understand.”

As the three travelers turned from the counter, the tall man with the big ears and the nearly green eyes swept off his Stetson with a smile, a nod, and almost a wink. “Howdy, folks,” he said and gave Velveeta Keats a small courtly bow. “Miss Keats, isn’t it? And you’re Mr. Haere, I bet, and you must be Mr. Citron. Welcome to Houston.”

“Who the hell are you?” Haere said.

“MacAdoo. Bill MacAdoo, and I’m your hospitality committee of one who's hoping you’ll join me up in Captains Country for liquid refreshment and, if you’d like, a bite to eat.” He paused to deliver another smile and nod. “I sure hope you folks’ll join me, because I need to pass on some information that you might find of deep interest and mutual benefit.”

“MacAdoo,” Haere said, looking the tall man up and down. “Any kin to the MacAdoo that Al Smith kept from being President?”

MacAdoo beamed. “Distant kin, Mr. Haere, very distant.”

“And since the MacAdoo you’re kin to married Woodrow Wilson's daughter, Elly,” Haere continued, “that means you’re even more distantly related to Wilson. So despite all that Texas bullshit, you must’ve gone to Princeton, and from Princeton where? It almost has to be Langley.”

The broad MacAdoo smile vanished and with it went the chamber-off-commerce affability. The merry, nearly green eyes narrowed themselves into suspicious slits. The big nose sniffed something bad.
The booming voice lost its twang and turned cold and Eastern. “You make a nice intuitive leap, Mr. Haere,” MacAdoo said. “Can we talk?”

Haere turned to Citron. “You want to talk to the CIA?”

“Not much.”

“He’ll buy us a drink.”

Citron shrugged. “Okay, let's see what he's got to say.”

They took the escalator up one flight to Captains Country, where all was dark paneling and deep leather chairs and shuffling old white waiters with impeccable manners and clawhammer tailcoats. It was Houston's version of a gentlemen's club as seen through a Hollywood prism.

After one of the old retainers took their orders, Velveeta Keats looked guardedly around, lowered her voice, and asked MacAdoo, “You really with the CIA, Mr. MacAdoo?”

“I work for my government, Miss Keats.”

She took this for a yes and said, “Morgan's mama was sort of a spy with the French Resistance way back in World War Two, wasn’t she, Morgan?” Before he could reply, she smiled at MacAdoo and continued. “I met her just today, Morgan's mama, and she told me all about it. Well, not really all, but some.”

“Gladys Citron, right?” MacAdoo asked the son.

“Right.”

“She's still something of a legend, your mother,” MacAdoo said.

“Or a myth,” Citron said.

The old waiter reappeared and served the drinks with identifying murmurs. Beers went to Citron and Haere, another Bloody Mary to Velveeta Keats, and to MacAdoo a Dewar's and water. MacAdoo had ordered by brand name.

After the waiter went away, Haere said, “Okay, let's hear it.”

“It's really quite simple,” MacAdoo said. “It would be better if you didn’t continue your trip to Tucamondo.”

“Better for who?”

“For everyone.”