Watchers (26 page)
Einstein looked at everything, sniffing with interest at the people who passed, and he seemed immediately to have forgotten his enthusiasm for matrimonial publications.
However, they had taken fewer than twenty steps when the dog abruptly turned and ran between Travis’s legs, jerking the leash out of his hand and nearly knocking him down. Einstein went directly to the pharmacy, snatched a magazine out of the rack, and returned.
Modern Bride
.
.
Nora still did not get it. She thought it was funny, and she stooped to ruffle the retriever’s coat. “Is this your favorite reading material, you silly pooch? Read it every month, do you? You know, I’ll bet you do. You strike me as a complete romantic.”
A couple of tourists had noticed the playful dog and were smiling, but they were even less likely than Nora to realize there was a complex intention behind the animal’s game with the magazine.
When Travis bent down to pick up
Modern Bride,
intending to return it to the pharmacy, Einstein got to it first, took it in his jaws, and shook his head violently for a moment.
Modern Bride,
intending to return it to the pharmacy, Einstein got to it first, took it in his jaws, and shook his head violently for a moment.
“Bad dog,” Nora said with evident surprise that Einstein had such a devilish streak in him.
Einstein dropped the magazine. It was badly rumpled, and some of the pages were torn, and here and there the paper was damp with saliva.
“I guess we’ll have to buy it now,” Travis said.
Panting, the retriever sat on the sidewalk, cocked his head, and grinned up at Travis.
Nora remained innocently unaware that the dog was trying to tell them something. Of course, she had no reason to make a sophisticated interpretation of Einstein’s behavior. She was unfamiliar with the degree of his genius and did not expect him to perform miracles of communication.
Glaring at the dog, Travis said, “You stop it, fur face. No more of this. Understand me?”
Einstein yawned.
With the magazine paid for and tucked into a pharmacy bag, they resumed their tour of Solvang, but before they reached the end of the block, the dog began to elaborate on his message. He suddenly gripped Nora’s hand gently but firmly in his teeth and, to her startlement, pulled her along the sidewalk to an art gallery, where a young man and woman were admiring the landscape paintings in the window. The couple had a baby in a stroller, and it was the child to whom Einstein was directing Nora’s attention. He wouldn’t let go of her hand until he had forced her to touch the pink-outfitted infant’s chubby arm.
Embarrassed, Nora said, “He thinks your baby’s exceptionally cute, I guess—which she certainly is.”
The mother and father were wary of the dog at first but quickly realized he was harmless.
“How old’s your little girl?” Nora asked.
“Ten months,” the mother said.
“What’s her name?”
“Lana.”
“That’s pretty.”
Finally, Einstein was willing to release Nora’s hand.
A few steps away from the young couple, in front of an antique shop that looked as if it had been transported brick by brick and timber by timber from seventeenth-century Denmark, Travis stopped, crouched beside the dog, lifted one of its ears, and said, “Enough. If you ever want your Alpo again, cut it out.”
Nora looked baffled. “What’s gotten into him?”
Einstein yawned, and Travis knew they were in trouble.
In the next ten minutes, the dog took hold of Nora’s hand twice again and led her, both times, to babies.
Modern Bride
and babies.
and babies.
The message was painfully clear now, even to Nora:
You and Travis belongtogether. Get married. Have babies. Raise a family. What’re you waitingfor?
You and Travis belongtogether. Get married. Have babies. Raise a family. What’re you waitingfor?
She was blushing furiously and seemed unable to look directly at Travis. He was somewhat embarrassed, too.
At last Einstein seemed satisfied that he had gotten his point across, and he stopped misbehaving. Until now, if asked, Travis would have said that a dog could not look smug.
Later, at dinnertime, the day was still pleasantly warm, and Nora changed her mind about eating inside, in an ordinary restaurant. She chose a place with sidewalk tables under red umbrellas that were, in turn, sheltered by the boughs of a giant oak. Travis sensed that she was not now intimidated by the prospect of a real restaurant experience but wanted to eat in the open air so they could keep Einstein with them. Repeatedly throughout dinner, she looked at Einstein, sometimes glancing surreptitiously at him, sometimes studying him openly and intently.
Travis made no reference to what had happened and pretended to have forgotten the whole affair. But when he had the dog’s attention, and when Nora was not looking, he mouthed threats at the mutt:
No more apple tarts. Choke chain. Muzzle. Straight to the dog pound.
No more apple tarts. Choke chain. Muzzle. Straight to the dog pound.
Einstein took every threat with great equanimity, either grinning or yawning or blowing air out his nostrils.
Early Sunday evening, Vince Nasco paid a visit to Johnny “The Wire” Santini. Johnny was called “The Wire” for several reasons, not least of which was that he was tall and lean and taut, and he looked as if he was constructed of knotted wires in various gauges. He also had frizzy hair the shade of copper. He had made his bones at the tender age of fifteen, when to please his uncle, Religio Fustino, don of one of New York’s Five Families, Johnny had taken it upon himself to strangle a freelance shit-and-coke dealer who was operating in the Bronx without the permission of the Family. Johnny used a length of piano wire for the job. This display of initiative and dedication to the principles of the Family had filled Don Religio with pride and love, and he had wept for only the second time in his life, promising his nephew the eternal respect of the Family and a well-paid position in the business.
Now Johnny The Wire was thirty-five and lived in a million-dollar beach house in San Clemente. The ten rooms and four baths had been remade by an interior designer commissioned to create an authentic—and expensive—private Art Deco retreat from the modern world. Everything was in shades of black, silver, and deep blue, with accents of turquoise and peach. Johnny had told Vince that he liked Art Deco because it reminded him of the Roaring Twenties, and he liked the twenties because that was the romantic era of legendary gangsters.
To Johnny The Wire, crime was not just a means to make money, not simply a way to rebel against the constraints of civilized society, and not only a genetic compulsion, but it was also—and primarily—a magnificent romantic tradition. He saw himself as a brother of every eye-patched hook-handed pirate who ever sailed in search of plunder, of every highwayman who had robbed a mail coach, of every safecracker and kidnapper and embezzler and thug in all the ages of criminal endeavor. He was, he insisted, mystical kin to Jesse James, Dillinger, Al Capone, the Dalton boys, Lucky Luciano, and legions of others, and Johnny loved them all, these legendary brothers in blood and theft.
Greeting Vince at the front door, Johnny said, “Come in, come in, big guy. Good to see you again.”
They hugged. Vince didn’t like hugging, but he had worked for Johnny’s Uncle Religio when he’d lived back in New York, and he still did a West Coast job for the Fustino Family now and then, so he and Johnny went back a long way, long enough that a hug was required.
“You’re looking good,” Johnny said. “Taking care of yourself, I see. Still mean as a snake?”
“A rattlesnake,” Vince said, a little embarrassed to be saying such a stupid thing, but he knew it was the kind of outlaw crap that Johnny liked to hear.
“Hadn’t seen you in so long I thought maybe the cops busted your ass.”
“I’ll never do time,” Vince said, meaning that he knew prison was not part of his destiny.
Johnny took it to mean that Vince would go down shooting rather than submit to the law, and he scowled and nodded approval. “They ever get you in a corner, blow away as many of ’em as you can before they take you out. That’s the only
clean
way to go down.”
clean
way to go down.”
Johnny The Wire was an astonishingly ugly man, which probably explained his need to feel that he was a part of a great romantic tradition. Over the years Vince had noticed that the better-looking hoods never glamorized what they did. They killed in cold blood because they liked killing or found it necessary, and they stole and embezzled and extorted because they wanted easy money, and that was the end of it: no justifications, no self-glorification, which was the way it ought to be. But those with faces that appeared to have been crudely molded from concrete, those who resembled Quasimodo on a bad day—well, many of them tried to compensate for their unfortunate looks by casting themselves as Jimmy Cagney in
Public Enemy.
Public Enemy.
Johnny was wearing a black jumpsuit, black sneakers. He always wore black, probably because he thought it made him look sinister instead of just ugly.
From the foyer, Vince followed Johnny into the living room, where the furniture was upholstered in black fabric and the end tables were finished in glossy black lacquer. There were ormolu table lamps by Ranc, large silver-dusted Deco vases by Daum, a pair of antique chairs by Jacques Ruhlmann. Vince knew the history of these things only because, on previous visits, Johnny The Wire had stepped out of his tough-guy persona long enough to babble about his period treasures.
A good-looking blonde was reclining on a silver-and-black chaise longue, reading a magazine. No older than twenty, she was almost embarrassingly ripe. Her silver-blond hair was cut short, in a pageboy. She was wearing Chinese-red silk lounging pajamas that clung to the contours of her full breasts, and when she glanced up and pouted at Vince, she seemed to be trying to look like Jean Harlow.
“This is Samantha,” Johnny The Wire said. To Samantha, he said, “Toots, this here is a made man that nobody messes with, a legend in his own time.”
Vince felt like a jackass.
“What’s a ‘made man’?” the blonde asked in a high-pitched voice she’d no doubt copied from the old movie star Judy Holliday.
Standing beside the longue, cupping one of the blonde’s breasts and fondling it through the silk pajamas, Johnny said, “She doesn’t know the lingo, Vince. She’s not of the
fratellanza.
She’s a valley girl, new to the life, unaware of our customs.”
fratellanza.
She’s a valley girl, new to the life, unaware of our customs.”
“He means I’m no greaseball guinea,” Samantha said sourly.
Johnny slapped her so hard that he nearly knocked her off the chaise longue. “You watch your mouth, bitch.”
She put a hand to her face, and tears shimmered in her eyes, and in a little-girl voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Johnny.”
“Stupid bitch,” he muttered.
“I don’t know what gets into me,” she said. “You’re good to me, Johnny, and I hate myself when I act like that.”
To Vince, it appeared to be a rehearsed scene, but he supposed that was just because they’d been through it so many times before, both privately and publicly. From the shine in Samantha’s eyes, Vince could tell she enjoyed being slapped around; she smart-mouthed Johnny just so he’d hit her. Johnny clearly liked slapping her, too.
Vince was disgusted.
Johnny The Wire called her a “bitch” again, then led Vince out of the living room and into the big study, closing the door behind them. He winked and said, “She’s a little uppity, that one, but she can just about suck your brains out through your cock.”
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