The Daisy Ducks (11 page)

"No. Not yet anyway."

"And what are the odds, do you think, of
Roantis's ever paying you back?"

"Slim. As slim as spider's silk. But the odds of
my being here now in one piece would be nonexistent if he hadn't
saved my skin in the parking lot."

"I know. I think we're doing the right thing.
Maybe you shouldn't even tell him."

"I'm not going to tell him unless we recover the
golden statue. Then I'll hand him the tab."

She sat in thought for a minute, then asked me what
the odds were of actually recovering the gold Siva.

"Uh . . . slim. As slim —"

" —as spider's silk. I thought so."
 
 

7

MOE TURNED the small aluminum crank and the
windowpanes squeaked and squealed their way open, letting in the
breeze that was colder by the minute. He bent his tall wiry frame
over to peer out the tiny aft window of his ancient Airstream
trailer.

"Gonna snow, Doc. Feel it?"

"Uh-huh. Haven't you eaten yet? Maybe I'm here
too early."

"Dinner's almost ready. Want to join me?"

He took four plastic bags out of his breadbox, along
with a black loaf of Russian rye bread. He put a big hunk of bread
and some cream cheese on a plate and from the bags took out dried
apricots, apple slices, soybeans, and cracked wheat. To top it off,
he placed a patty of tofu on the plate and covered it with two scoops
of steaming bulgur.

"You're not really going to eat that, are you?"
I asked.

"Yes, and so should you," he replied,
taking the plate and a glass of skim milk into the living room, which
was built onto the aluminum trailer. He dug in, washing it down with
sips of the bluish-gray milk.

"Doc, you really know how to live it up. Do you
have any cold cuts?"

He held up his hands as if to fend off evil spirits
and moaned and grunted as he chewed. He made the same gestures of
repulsion when I inquired after other foods I liked. I could see
myself starving to death if I had to stay in Moe's trailer home for
more than a week. As it was, I was merely stopping over for a quiet
game of chess and some nice conversation. I watched Moe eat and
sipped my beer. Outside, the two Nubian goats bawled. The wood stove
tinked and purred, making the air above it dance.

"Where's the picture?" he asked.

I flipped the photo over to him. He stared at it and
shook his gray head.

"Dis isn't good, Doc. Not good at all. Siva is
the evil form of the Hindu god—a dancing demon devil. Not good."

"It's a goddamn statue, Moe. Period."

He shook his head again and looked me in the eye.

"I'm concerned about you, Doc. So is Mary. I
know because we've had a little talk about you. I heard all that
happened at your party a few weeks ago, including the fondling of
Janice DeGroot. Now that's not the first time that's happened. You
seem to be looking for any kind of trouble you can find. Why?"

"I don't know why. It's just that life seems,
well, a little stale lately. It seems to have lost its spark."

"Well if you're not careful, you're going to
lose your spark. You are fast becoming an adult delinquent."

I pondered these words. As usual, Moe was correct. It
was time to quit moping about the imponderables and to make sure I
held on to what I had, which was considerable. I heard a faint
whisper against the windowpanes. The snow had begun. In much of
literature, I had read somewhere, snow symbolizes death. Is that what
it meant then? The death of a relationship? Were Mary and I simply
having a difficult time, or was this the beginning of the end? I
thought it could never happen to me, but most people probably think
that. Half the marriages end in divorce now. And divorce is not
confined to brief marriages, either. I bowed my head and ran my hands
through my hair. I think I must have sighed, because Moe looked up at
me, a worried wrinkle on his high, shiny forehead.

"Things not going too well lately?"

"No. I just feel—I don't know—like I want to
go off by myself for a while. I think maybe Mary feels the same way."

"You seeing ganybody else? Huh?"

"No. Course not, Moe. I still love Mary. It's
just that I feel . . . confined. I need a break."

"You think she's seeing ganyone?"

I looked up, shocked.

"Hell no! At least I hope not."

He shrugged his shoulders in a noncommittal way.

"You never know, Doc. You got a lot to lose.
Both of you. But you know what? I agree with you. I think you two
should get away from each other for a week or two. Have fun on your
own, get into your own identities and interests. Then, when you come
back, you can make a fresh start. It usually works."

Moe walked over to the patio-style sliding doors of
his living room addition, flipped a switch, and a floodlight came on,
illuminating his little goat corral. The goats stood huddled in the
cold, the snow on their backs and their breath coming in great steamy
clouds. Moe's little residence, smack in the middle of Walden Breezes
trailer park, across the road from the famous pond, was cozy indeed.
He threw another chunk of red oak into the stove, and we played
chess.

After he won two games, I rose to leave. "Have
you finished T
he Kingdom of God Is Within
You
?" I asked.

"Yes. But you may not have it until I get my own
copy. It's the best thing Tolstoi ever wrote."

"But you've been saying you're going to get your
own copy for two years now."

"Don't rush me. And give me five dollars for
leaving, and five for the chess lesson."

I took out a ten-dollar bill and Moe stuffed it into
the oatmeal carton with the slot cut in the lid. His Charity of the
Month. At the door he handed me back the picture of the dancing gold
statue.

"Steer clear of this, Doc. This thing and your
Nazi friends in fatigues. I have a bad feeling about all of it."

I said I'd think about it and went out to the car. I
looked back at the shiny trailer with its attached room and small
corral. Above the scene, the floodlight glowed like a star, and its
bright light reflected off the trailer and fresh snow with startling
luminescence. The goats were lying next to each other now, puffing
their steamy breath. It looked like a real live manger scene.

As I started the car,
however, the idyllic mood was broken by a clap of thunder. Yes, in
New England—and only there, as far as I know—we sometimes get
thunder in snowstorms. This was a giant clap of thunder, and it was
thunder on the left.

* * *

Ten minutes later I sat at the breakfast nook in the
kitchen and watched while Mary placed the skewered shrimp on the
electric grill and doused them with a little hot-and-sour sauce.

"What do you mean, ‘thunder on the left'?"
she asked me as she poured two Asahi beers for us. "What's that
mean?"

"Some superstition about bad luck. If thunder is
heard on your left, it bodes no good. I think it's a British sailor's
superstition."

"Well, God knows in this case it's probably
true. Couple that with the devil statue and Liatis's being shot, and
everything else, and you see what I mean. Face it pal, this caper is
just too deep for you. Leave it to those other guys who like killing
and being killed. Stick to your job—your work makes people look
better and feel better. It's important and beneficial, and you're
very good at it. In short, Charlie Adams, stop being a jerk."

"You're right," I said, rising and kissing
her. I held her for several minutes. Neither of us spoke. Was she
thinking what I was thinking? I rubbed her shoulders and she sighed.

"I understand why you've got to go to San
Antonio next month. But for heaven's sake, don't contact that Kaunitz
guy. Leave it alone. Only a jerk would follow it up. I mean, I know
you'll eventually use your own good judgment and do what's best.
After all, the meeting is over a month away and you've got plenty of
time to make the right decision."

"Right, Mary."

"And I just know you'll decide not to see Fred
Kaunitz. After all, only an idiot would. And we both know you're a
little wacky, but not an idiot."`

"Of course. Uh, Mary? Mind if I ask a personal
question?"

"What?"

"Are you having an affair with anyone?"

She leaned back in my arms and stared at me with wide
eyes and a frown.

"What!"

"Well . . . ?" I could feel my heart skip a
beat. "No, Charlie."

I hugged her again, heaving a silent sigh of relief.
"But of course if I were, I wouldn't tell you."

I didn't say anything for a minute, then held her out
at arm's length, dead serious.

"Honey, you're a million miles away right now,"
I said.

She bit her lip. Her eyes came unfocused.

"So are you," she said.
 
 

8

SIX WEEKS LATER, in San Antonio, Fred Kaunitz rang
the bell to my hotel room in the Del Rio Hilton.

I was sipping coffee after having run five miles up
and down the Paseo del Rio, the riverway that snakes through the old
part of the city. Twenty years ago, the canal—like stream was a
favorite place to dump dead bodies. And the town was so rough that
there seemed to be an ample supply each night. But it's been cleaned
up, and the riverway is now the city's main attraction. I had walked
out onto the balcony and was looking down at the live oaks that lined
the stream. Big grackle-like birds screamed and whistled in the
trees, thrashing their long tails back and forth. They sounded like
mynah birds. I liked them. It was March first, but crisp and sunny
out. In fact, the day would be downright warm by midafternoon. I
didn't miss New England one bit. I whistled an imitation of the
‘blackbirds' song, and they answered me.

I had showered and dressed by the time the bell rang.
I opened the door and there stood Fred Kaunitz. I had to look up when
talking to him. He was dressed in blue jeans, a faded cotton shirt,
and rough-out western boots. He did not wear a cowboy hat with a
crown of feather plumes and silver in front. He did not wear a big
elaborate belt buckle with a silly saying or a beer or firearm
company on it. He did not wear a string tie with a turquoise
thunderbird or arrowhead on it. He didn't have a can of Skoal or
Copenhagen with an engraved silver lid. He didn't seem to need these
things. At a glance and a handshake, I knew that Fred Kaunitz was the
real thing, the genuine item: a cowboy.

He sat opposite me in a plush chair, placed his tan
Stetson hat on the end table, and poured himself a cup of coffee. He
was lean, with a flat stomach and wide shoulders that sloped down
like a gambrel roof. The hair was blondish and short. The big
handlebar mustache was now trimmed short and flecked with gray. His
eyes were very blue and piercing, and from the tan lines on his face
you could tell he often wore aviator sunglasses. The eyes were
interesting in another way. They had a keenness to them that was
predatory. They could have belonged to a falcon or eagle. They were
piercing but impenetrable; behind their burning intensity, I could
detect no signs of feeling or emotion. The man was an incarnation of
his native state: big, strong, rich, and rough around the edges.

He looked at his watch and then at me.

"Dr. Adams, I've got to move seven hundred head
of cattle this afternoon, so I can't stay long. I hope you
understand."

"Certainly. In fact, I was surprised you offered
to fly down here. I was perfectly willing to drive up and —"

"Naw. I like to get away from the ranch every so
often. In fact, one of the reasons I flew down is because I have to
see some financial people here. Are you tied up all day?"

"I'm chairing a panel at ten and have a seminar
at one that I have to attend. That's over at three and I'm done for
the day."

"When's your first engagement tomorrow?"

"Eleven."

"Fine. Then we'll talk in the plane on the way
up to Flying K. Tell you what: I'll meet you here at lunchtime and
take you to a great little Mexican restaurant in the heart of the old
city. We can talk a little then, and you can think of other questions
you want to discuss during the flight."

"Great. I've got two questions I want to ask you
now. One: do you know of anyone in particular who would want to kill
Roantis?"

His eyes crinkled around the edges and he smiled,
shaking his head.

"Nobody in particular, but a lot of people in
general."

"Anyone in the Daisy Ducks?"

"Naw. Of course, he got along with some of us
better than others. But hell, it was a pretty intense group. I mean,
you get eight guys on a long patrol who are that highly trained and
motivated—there's bound to be friction. The one common quality in
everyone who does this kind of work is fierce independence. We all
wanted to be generals, even though Roantis was the group leader. Now,
he and Bill Royce never got along. Bill and I were both air force—we
did a stint together before the Daisy Ducks thing. He was my friend,
a good fighter and smart. But he was also high strung. I guess you
heard he went over the edge. In a hospital now somewhere."