Spy hook: a novel (23 page)

The shake of his head was almost imperceptible. Bret’s expression had locked up tight. The gold had gone from the sunlight; he looked old and tired and wrinkled. He’d never come back and work in the Department again, I was certain of that. Bret’s time had come and gone. His voice was little more than a whisper as he said, “I think you’ve said enough, Bernard. More than enough, in fact. We’ll talk again in the morning.

You’re booked on the London flight tomorrow.” I didn’t answer. In a way I felt sorry for him, doing his exercises every day, and trying to keep in touch with the Department, and even interfere in what went on there. Telling himself that one day it would all be like it was before, and hoping that his chance of a knighthood wasn’t irretrievably lost. I stood up. So it was the stick and carrot. Play ball with Bret and I even get help with the mortgage: but keep looking into things that don’t concern me and I’ll lose my job, and maybe lose it the way Jim Prettyman lost his job. Feet first. Or had I misunderstood him?

Disorientated and jet-lagged, my mind reeling with memories,

I slept badly that night. That damned house was never quiet, even in the small hours. Not only was there the relentless whine and hum of machinery close by but I heard footsteps outside my open window and muttered words in that thick accented Spanish that Mexican expatriates acquire in Southern California. I closed the window, but from behind the house there came the sounds of guard dogs crashing through the undergrowth and throwing their weight against the tall chainlink fence that surrounded the house and kept the animals in the outer perimeter. Perhaps the animals sensed the coming storm, for soon after that came the crash of thunder, gusting winds and rain beating on the window and drumming against the metal pool furniture on the patio.

The storm passed over rapidly, as storms out of the Pacific so often do, and about four o’clock in the morning a new series of loud buzzes and resonant droning of some nearby machines began. It was no good, I couldn’t sleep. I got up to search for the source of the noise. Dressed in one of the smart towelling robes that Mrs. O’Raffety thoughtfully provided for her guests, I explored the whitewashed corridor. Here were doors to the pantry, the larder, the kitchen and various store rooms. The main fighting was not working - perhaps the storm had caused a failure - but low-wattage emergency lights were bright enough for me to see the way.

I passed the boiler room and the fuse boxes and the piled cartons of bottled water that Mrs. O’Raffety believed was so good for the digestion. The mechanical sounds grew louder as I got to the low wooden door next to the kitchen servery. The key was left in a big brass-bound lock. By now I’d come far enough around the house to be behind the guest rooms.

I opened the door and stepped cautiously inside. The hum of machinery was louder now and I could see a short flight of worn steps leading down into a low-ceilinged cellar. Along one wall there were four control panels lit with flickering numbers and programs. The glimmer of orange light from them was enough to reflect the large puddles that had formed on the uneven flagstones of the floor. It was the laundry room, with a battery of washing and drying machines. On the top of one of the dryers there was an empty beer can and some cigarette butts. The machines were aligned along the wall that I guessed must back on to mine. From somewhere close by I heard a cough and an exclamation of anger. It was one of the Mexicans.

I went past the machines to find another room: the door was ajar and there was bright light inside. I opened the door. Four men were seated round a table playing cards: three Mexicans and Buddy. He was wearing his Stetson. It was tilted well forward over his brow. There was money on the table, some cans of beer and a bottle of whisky. Propped against the wall there was a pump-handle shotgun. The machinery sounded loud in here but the men seemed to be inured to it.

“Hi there, Bernard. I knew it was you,” murmured Buddy.

He hadn’t looked up from his cards. The three Mexicans had turned their heads and were studying me with a passive but unwelcoming curiosity. All three of them were men in their mid-thirties; tough-looking men with close-cropped hair and weather beaten faces. “Want to sit in?”

“No,” I said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“I wouldn’t go strolling around at this time of night,” said

Buddy, rearranging the cards he was holding. “The night-shift guards are too damned trigger-happy.”

“Is that so?” I said.

Now, for the first time, he looked up and studied me with the same discontent that he’d given to his hand of cards. “Yes, Bernard. It is so.” He wet his lips. “We had a break-in last month. Some young punk got past our little soldiers, over the outer fence, past the dogs, cut his way through the inner fence using bolt-cutters, opened the security bolt on Mr. Rensselaer’s office, and tried to lever open the goddamned desk. How do you like that! Mrs. O’Raffety fired the whole army. She said they were asleep or drunk or spaced-out or something. She’s wrong about that, but new brooms sweep clean. These new recruits are hungry, and raring to do things right. Know what I mean?”

“I didn’t know Mr. Rensselaer had an office,” I said.

“A kind of sitting room,” amended Buddy and shrugged. “If you want to see my cards . .

“No,” I said. “No, I don’t.”

“These guys are taking me to the cleaners,” complained

Buddy light-heartedly. He poured himself a drink and swallowed it quickly.

“What happened to the kid?” I said.

“The kid? Oh, the punk who got in. I’m not sure, but he won’t be operating bolt-cutters in the foreseeable future. An excited soldado with a shotgun was a bit too close. Both barrels.

He’d lost a lot of blood by the time we got him to the hospital.

And then of course there was hassle about whether he had Blue

Cross insurance before they’d take a look at him.”

“That was a tough decision for you,” I said.

“Nothing tough about it,” said Buddy. “I’ll make damn sure

Mrs. O’Raffety doesn’t find herself paying the medical bills for any stiff who comes up here to rob her. It was bad enough clearing up the blood, and repairing the damage he did. So I told the night nurse I found him bleeding on the highway, and I had these guys with me to say the same.” He nodded at the three Mexicans.

“You think of everything, Buddy.”

He looked up and smiled. “You know something, Bernard.

That joker wasn’t carrying a weapon, and that’s darned unusual in these parts. He had a camera in his pocket. Olympus: a dam good camera too, I’ve still got it somewhere. A macro lens and loaded with slow black and white film. That’s the kind of outfit you’d need to photograph a document. I said that to Mr. Rensselaer at the time but he just smiled and said maybe.”

“I’ll try sleeping again.”

“What about a shot of Scotch?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I’m trying to give it up.”

I went back to bed and put a pillow over my head to keep the sound of the machines from my ears. It was getting light when eventually I went to sleep. A deep sleep from which I was roused by the buzzing of my little alarm clock.

The next morning brought a sudden taste of winter. The temperature had dropped, so that I went digging into my bag for a sweater. The Pacific Ocean was grecnish-grey with dirty white crests that broke off the waves to make a trail of spray.

Overhead the dark clouds were low enough to skim the tops of the hills, and even the water in the pool had lost its clarity and colour.

Time passed slowly. The London plane was not due to depart until the early evening. It was too cold to sit outside, and there was nowhere to go walking, for beyond the wire the dogs ran free. I swam in the heated pool which steamed like soup in the cold air. By ten o’clock the rain had started again. I drank lots of coffee and I read old issues of National Geographic Magazine.

The “family room” was big, with dark oak beams in the ceiling and a life-size painting, in Modigliani style, of Mrs. O’Raffety in a flouncy pink dress. Mrs. O’Raffety was there in person, and so were Bret and Buddy. There was not much talking. A jumbosized TV, tuned to a football game, had been-wheeled into position before us. No one watched it but it provided an excuse for not speaking.

We sat sprawling on long chintz-covered sofas, arranged around a low oak table. On it there stood a gigantic array of flowers in an ornamental bowl that bore the gold sticker of a Los Angeles florist. In a huge stone fireplace some large logs burned brightly, their flames fanned by the wind that howled in the chimney and was still fierce enough to whip the palm fronds.

Both Mrs. O’Raffety and Bret missed lunch. Buddy and I ate hamburgers and Caesar salad from trays that we balanced on our knees as we all sat round the fire. They were huge “burgers, as good as I’ve ever tasted, with about half a pound of beef in each one. But Buddy only picked at his meal. He said he’d slept badly.

He said he was sick but he managed to eat all his French fries.

Outside the weather got worse and worse all morning until the grey cloud reached down and enveloped us, cutting visibility to almost nothing, and Mrs. O’Raffety made Buddy phone the airport to be sure the planes were still flying.

For the rest of the afternoon Mrs. O’Raffety - in red trousers and long pink crocheted top - exchanged small talk with her son-in-law, politely including me in the exchanges whenever a chance came along. Bret turned his head as if to show interest in what was said but contributed very little. He looked older and more frail. Buddy had confided that Bret had bad days and this was obviously one of them. His face was lined and haggard. His clothes - dark blue open-neck linen shirt, dark trousers and polished shoes - worn in response to the colder weather emphasized his age.

Mrs. O’Raffety said, “Are you sure you can’t stay another day,

Mr. Samson? It’s such a pity to come to Southern California and just stay overnight.”

“Maybe Mr. Samson has a family,” said Buddy.

“Yes,” I said. “Two children, a boy and a girl.”

“Do they swim?” said Mrs. O’Raffety.

“More or less,” I said.

“You should have brought them,” she said in that artless way that rich people have of overlooking financial obstacles.

“Wouldn’t they just love that pool.”

“It’s a wonderful place you have here,” I said.

She smiled and pushed back the sleeves of her open-work jumper in a nervous mannerism that was typical of her. “Bret used to call it “paradise off the bone”,” she said sadly. It was impossible to miss the implication that Bret was not calling it that these days.

Bret made a real attempt to smile but got stuck about halfway through trying. “Why “off the bone” I asked.

“Like fish in a restaurant,” she explained. “Every little thing done for you. Enjoy. Enjoy.”

Bret looked at me: I smiled. Bret scowled. Bret said, “For God’s sake, Bernard, come to your senses.” His voice was quiet but the bitterness of his tone was enough to make Mrs. O’Raffety stare at him in surprise.

“Whatever are you talking about, Bret?” she said.

But he gave no sign of having heard her. His eyes fixed on me and the expression on his face was fiercer than I’d ever seen before. His voice was a growl. “You goddamn pinbrain! Search your mind! Search your mind!’ He got up from his low seat and then walked from the room.

No one said anything. Bret’s outburst had embarrassed Mrs. O’Raffety, and Buddy took his cues from her. They sat there looking at the flower arrangement as if they’d not heard Bret and not noticed him get up and leave.

It was a long time before she spoke. Then she said, “Bret resents his infirmity. I remember him at high school: a lion!

Such an active man all his life ... it’s so difficult for him to adjust to being sick.”

“Is he often angry like this?” I asked.

“No,” said Buddy. “Your visit seems to have upset him.”

“Of course it hasn’t,” said Mrs. O’Raffety, who knew how to be the perfect hostess. “It’s just that meeting Mr. Samson makes Bret remember the times when he was fit and well.”

“Some days he’s just fine,” said Buddy. He reached for the coffee pot that was keeping hot on the serving trolley. “More?”

“Thanks,” I said.

“Sure,’ said Buddy. “And some days I see him standing by the pool with an expression on his face so that I think he’s going to throw himself in and stay under.”

“Buddy! How can you say such a thing?”

“I’m sorry Mrs. O’Raffety but it’s true.”

“He has to find himself,” said Mrs. O’Raffety.

“Sure,” said Buddy, hastily trying to assuage his employer’s alarm. “He has to find himself. That’s what I mean.”

We took the coast road back. Buddy wasn’t feeling so good and so one of the servants - Joey, a small belligerent little Mexican who’d been playing cards the previous night - was driving Buddy’s jeep and leaning forward staring into the white mist and muttering that we should have taken the canyon road and gone inland to the Freeway instead.

“Buddy should be doing this himself,” complained the driver for the hundredth time. “I don’t like this kind of weather.” The fog rolled in from the Ocean and swirled around us so that sudden glimpses of the highway opened up and were as quickly gone.