The Texas Twist Page 10

  “Some of the endowments are quite strange,” said Ames. “Problematic, you might say. There’s one from 1964, a bequest from an actual Ku Klux Klansman to set up a white-studies think tank on the Saligny campus. Can you believe that? Well, with Lyndon Johnson off in Washington getting the Civil Rights Act passed, no one had the stomach to fund a racist institute, so the money just sat. Technically, that grant is still open, if someone could find a way to meet its conditions. Not that anyone wants to promote racism. But there are medical grants as well, and one of particular interest.”

  “And that would be?” asked Radar, playing good cop, daft cop with Mirplo.

  “The bequest of Eartha Wilson, widow of a rich alum named Scuggs.”

  “Scuggs Wilson,” said Vic, “that’s a colorful name. How about Scuggs, Radar? Scuggs Hoverlander?”

  “Not now, Vic,” said Radar. He turned to Ames. “Go on.”

  “Well, it turns out this woman had a deep and abiding faith in trephination.”

  “Trephination?” asked Vic.

  “Trepanning,” said Radar. “Drilling holes in the skull to relieve pressure or release bad humors.”

  “Yes, exactly,” said Ames. “When she passed away in 1920, she left money to study the science—such as it is—and advance its practice.”

  “I doubt you’ll be able to get a trepanning chair funded.”

  “Obviously no one has been able to. But it’s a matter of interpretation. If the donor can be construed to have been interested in brain study in general, then that money can be put to work. You know, Radar, people laugh at me when I say I define myself through service. You yourself had an… adverse reaction, as I recall. But I see a resource like that going to waste, and I won’t put up with it. Not when lives can be saved.” Ames leaned against the balcony railing and stared out over the lake. “For almost a century, Widow Wilson’s dream to advance understanding of the human mind has lain fallow. I’m going to make that dream come true. Not through caveman science, of course. Through cutting-edge investigation of the human mind. The Scuggs Wilson Center for Brain Studies. I can make it happen. And Radar, I want you to help.”

  “How so?”

  “Join me. Be my director of fundraising.” He looked at Vic. “You too, Mirplo.”

  “You don’t need two directors of fundraising,” said Vic.

  “No, of course not. You’ll be my head of special projects.”

  “I am a special projects kind of guy,” Vic conceded.

  “I know you are. That’s why I want you with me.”

  “Why do you need fundraising?” asked Radar. “I thought there was an endowment for the spend.”

  “Well, yes, but it seems to require a matching grant.”

  “That’s one of the conditions?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Radar said nothing. He’d just been handed a Texas Twist, and though he had run the gag many times before, he’d never been on the receiving end of it. He found the sensation quite strange.

  In the Texas Twist, a hapless do-gooder is roped into working for a worthy cause. There’s never any problem finding such folk, for charity enthusiasts abound: people desperate to give their lives some sense of purpose. Those who take the bait are invited to take on roles of great responsibility within the worthy cause, but really they’re just getting primed for the bleed: the key moment in the con when, for some bafflegab reason, the cause finds itself in sudden need of fast cash. Well, the mook is so passionate and dedicated and do-gooding and all, that he reaches for the first wallet he can find: his own. It’s a trope of the Texas Twist that the charity’s primary fundraiser is also its chief chump, and for Ames to imply that a grifter as savvy as Radar could be put in that position was really quite insulting. But Radar didn’t know if Ames apprehended the gag on that level, so he kept his indignation to himself as he diverted the discourse to, “Special projects. What’s that all about?”

  “Whatever Mirplo wants,” said Adam. “He’s a charming character. And a character. Perhaps he’ll be our spokesman.” Ames waxed poetic for many long moments about the opportunities that awaited Vic as the public face of the Scuggs Wilson Center. Radar and Vic instantly understood that Vic was being magpied—distracted by something shiny. Radar decided to distract back. “You sure you don’t want Dr. Mirplo on your medical staff?” he asked.

  The question was so preposterous that it almost blew its own cover. But it also threw Ames. “He…he didn’t name his specialty,” stammered Adam. “It would be a huge coincidence if—”

  “Neuroscience,” said Vic. He allowed for just a beat of reaction, then said, “Nah, I’m just joshing. It’s not neuroscience. Anyway, if Radar’s in, I’m in. Whether he goeth, I goeth, too.”

  Ames looked greatly relieved. Apparently the prospect of Dr. Mirplo on staff was more than he had mapped. He drew a deep breath and said, “So, Radar, what do you think? Have I piqued your interest?”

  “With all due respect, Adam, you can’t know I’m right for this job.”

  “Because I barely have your measure, right?” said Ames.

  “That’s right.”

  “Radar, you’re a close and guarded man. I get that, and I respect it. But your true nature shines through.”

  “Does it?”

  “Definitely. The way you’ve protected Sarah, looked out for her interests, that shows me your integrity. I know I can count on you, and I know that the people you approach for contributions will see you in the same light.”

  “I appreciate your confidence,” said Radar. “Have you run this by Sarah? I mean, what about Jonah and the Karn’s?”

  “On that front,” said Ames, “I admit to a certain frustration. I had expected Dr. Gauch to be more forthcoming, but now he won’t even release his serum.”

  Radar gave Ames some eyebrow. “No?”

  “No. He says it’s not ready. I accept that—you can’t rush science right? But that’s all the more reason to move on, find another approach.”

  “Substitute Karn’s for trephination and research the hell out of it?”

  “That’s the idea. The intent of the original grant is honored and Karn’s research gets a big leg up. And not just Karn’s. My contact on the allocation board says my research will have a free hand.”

  “Allocation board?” asked Radar.

  “The group at Saligny responsible for these orphan endowments.”

  “I see. And you have a good ol’ Texas hookup with them, do you?”

  “With one of them, yes.”

  “Have you talked yapay?”

  “Yapay?”

  “Baksheesh. Lagniappe. This is Texas, buddy. Wheels don’t turn without grease.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t be a party to that,” said Adam, upright. “And Radar, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention it again. This will be a square deal, or no deal.”

  Of course it will, thought Radar. Why wouldn’t it be? Through the glass door, he saw Allie and Sarah approaching. “Why are we talking alone?” he asked. “What’s wrong with Allie knowing?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t have a job for her. I didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Not that she’d want a job anyhow. I mean, she’ll be occupied with the little one, right?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Radar, “she’s got stay-at-home mom written all over her.”

  The girls came out on the balcony and the conversation turned elsewhere.

  At a certain point later, Radar came out of the bathroom to find Ames waiting for him. “I wanted a moment alone,” he said. “I want you to know how key you are to my plans.” Radar said nothing. “You have a special quality, Radar. People gravitate to it. Sarah has, and she’s not the fluffhead you think she is, not when it comes to judging character.”

  Then how’d she get mixed up with you, man?

  “I want you involved,” continued Ames. “I need you involved. Of course you can say no, but think about it first. Really think; don’t just pay lip service. Because I have qualities, too. And one of my qualit
ies is commitment. I worked hard to find someone like Sarah, someone in need. When I set out to find people, I don’t stop. I’m not boasting, that’s just how I am. So you can turn me down now, go your separate way, that’s okay. But next time, it could be you who’s in need, you know? Or someone in your family.”

  “Viewed through a certain filter,” said Radar slowly, “that could sound like a threat.”

  “Oh, no, no, no, you misunderstand me. Again.” Ames looked exasperated. “Radar, I only mean that if you help me out here, I’ll be in your debt, and that’s a debt you can call in any time. That’s all I’m saying. How could you think otherwise?”

  “Must be the cortisol talking,” said Radar. Ames wondered what he meant, but Radar didn’t bother to explain. He just looked into Adam’s eyes, and noticed for the first time how really dead they were.

  The evening wound down. Radar, Vic, and Allie went home and sat up late deconstructing it. Allie wanted to know if Radar felt sure he’d been threatened.

  “I’m sure,” said Radar. “I saw Adam’s hard side. He wanted me to.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Allie, “Sarah says she’s now disappointed that he doesn’t seem to be a crook.”

  “Which she would,” said Radar. “She’s the queen of the clueless parade.”

  “Is she?” asked Allie. “I’m not convinced.”

  “I’m with Allie, Radar. She’s bedlam-built for sure, but she wears her stupid on her sleeve. It’s there for show. I would know. I’ve worn that costume often enough.”

  “That you have, my dear Dr. Mirplo. So,” he said “we have Ames in the game for sure. Everything from Athol confirms it.” The others nodded. “And he knows we know it, but he won’t come off his true-believer script, even though tonight would’ve been the perfect time to.”

  “Why should he?” asked Vic. “It’s a great docket for dodging graft, or at least knocking down the price. And it plays well against us.”

  “And what about this allocation board? Is it anything but smoke?”

  “He might’ve stumbled onto something,” conceded Allie. “We know he prospects for leads pretty hard.”

  “Will his story track for them? Will it hold up to an undiscerning eye?”

  “I would think,” said Allie. “Precedent of concern for brain-sick kids. His own sad story, if you buy it. Finds true love in Texas and dedicates himself to a new dream. Who around here doesn’t love to see ‘love’ and ‘Texas’ in the same sentence?”

  “That’s beside the point,” said Vic. “He’s running the Twist, right Radar?”

  “What, past us?” said Allie. “He can’t think that’ll work.”

  “Maybe he underestimates us,” said Radar. “He must be feeling pretty confident. After all, he does have us tar babied up pretty good.”

  “Agreed,” said Vic.

  “Which I’m sick of.”

  “Agreed,” Vic repeated.

  “As far as I’m concerned, he can stick his Texas Twist right up his—”

  “Agreed,” said Vic one more time.

  “Vic, what are you doing?”

  “Waiting for you to come around. It’s obvious we’re going to war with this guy. I wrote about it all day. This is the point in the story where you finally put it on the table that we teach the dude a lesson. But Allie and I are already onboard with that.”

  “You’ve talked about it?”

  “We haven’t had to,” said Allie. “We’re just at the same point of impatience. Your same point, Radar, otherwise why are we having this discussion?”

  “No reason I can think of,” said Radar. And with that, they went to bed.

  The next morning, finding the apartment’s feng shui antagonistic to his creative framework, Vic decamped to Java Man (the new one, slightly nearer than the old one) to write. Back at the flat, Radar was doing some dishes and thinking about stocking his bench. It might be useful to have a new player to throw at Ames, if and when the need arose. One came immediately to mind. Radar did a little mental math, contemplated a difference in time zones, and thought, He’s probably teeing off about now.

  The doorbell rang. Allie went to answer, and there was Sarah, breathless, bouncing back and forth from foot to foot, unrestrained elation on her face. “It’s a miracle!” she shouted, throwing herself into Allie’s arms. “Oh, Allie!”

  “Sarah, what’s going on?”

  “It’s Jonah!” crowed Sarah. “He’s not sick after all!”

  The Visine Gag

  Two states away, a friendly dome of high pressure kept winter off Arizona’s back, bringing buttery blue skies and scudding white clouds to Phoenix, Scottsdale, and the rest of the Valley of the Sun. The snowbirds were out in force at the Loco Creek Golf Resort, so much so that anyone wanting to play short of a foursome would likely have to pass the starter some serious change. The golfer known on these links as Chuck Woodrow had done just that, somewhat to the surprise of his guest, an average white dentist named Bleeth. Chuck was sixty-five but looked young for his age, unless he chose not to. Today he presented himself as a reasonable man of reasonable means who just happened to hate playing in crowds. Despite a considerable bribe, the best the starter would do was a threesome, and so they were joined on the first tee by a paunchy retired black auto worker from Detroit who called himself Honey. Honey was reluctant to gamble at first. He said the greens fees on these fancy Phoenix courses were killing enough as it was, but Chuck was persuasive, and Bleeth was just keen. By the end of the front nine, Honey was two grand to the good, having pounded them on stroke count, putts, first-on, first-in, closest-to-the-pin, bingle bangle bungle, and some just plain wacky proposition shots that the grizzled ebony veteran always seemed to make. With the contented sigh of a man on a roll, he dropped his golf bag at the tenth tee and headed for the snack bar to get something to eat.

  “I know I damn shouldn’t,” he said, patting his girth. “But what the fuck. Beer, yo? My treat. Maybe a little buzz’ll better y’all’s games.” Honey walked off chuckling and scratching his ass.

  “That smug bastard,” said Chuck. “I never should’ve brought him into our bets.”

  “I don’t know how he does it,” said Bleeth, whose successful chain of Bleeth’s Teeths generated enough revenue to feed his considerable gambling jones. “He doesn’t look that good. He’s just damn lucky.”

  Honey placed his food order, then headed to the bathroom. He whistled to get their attention and shouted, “I’ll be back. Gotta drop a deuce.” He disappeared around the side of the snack bar.

  “Know what I think?” said Chuck. “I think it’s time we changed his luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  By way of answer, Chuck reached into a zippered side compartment of his golf bag and pulled out a small bottle bearing the label of a popular brand of eye drops. “Check it out,” he said as he squeezed a drop onto Bleeth’s fingertip.

  Bleeth touched it to his thumb. “Tacky,” he said.

  “Uh-huh. They call this the Visine gag. See, that’s a liquid resin. Pitchers use it to improve their grip on the ball.” Chuck winked. “Till they get caught.” With a furtive glance toward the bathroom, he crouched down and started squirting the stuff on the heads of Honey’s clubs. “It dries clear,” he said, “but wait’ll you see what it does to his shots.”

  “You know, that’s kind of cheating.”

  “What, you don’t think he’s been cheating all along? All those trick shots he’s been making? He’s a hustler, Bleeth. I figured it out on the first hole. Now he gets a taste of his own medicine. I’m going to get all my money back and then some. You want in?”

  “I don’t know.…”

  “Hey, if you don’t want to get well, that’s up to you.” Chuck finished loading up Honey’s clubs. “But make up your mind, ’cause here he comes.” Chuck pocketed the bottle as Honey picked up his food and walked over.

  “False alarm,” said Honey with a self-satisfied grin. “Just a big, big ass flapper.” He bit into a
drippy taco—and explosively spat it out. Some shredded cheese and hot sauce landed on Bleeth’s Footjoys. “Jesus Christ, that’s disgusting.” Honey yelled angrily at the Hispanic kid running the snack bar, “Hey, Pancho! What the hell do you put in these things, horse meat?” The kid flipped him the bird and cursed him elaborately in Spanish. (He’d been paid ten bucks to do so.) “Damn border bunnies,” muttered Honey. “You’d think they’d know how to make Mexican food at least. I am throwing this shit away.” He walked across the tenth tee to a trash can.

  “What an asshole,” whispered Chuck. “Come on, let’s take him down.”

  Bleeth gave a terse nod. His liberal sensitivities had been inflamed by Honey’s racial rhetoric, and he now felt like he and Chuck were secretly united against a common enemy.

  Honey didn’t need much urging to double the bets. More candy from babies, according to him. He did, of course, insist on knowing that the others could cover. Chuck obliged by showing a wad of bills bound up in an I Love Boobies wristband. Bleeth opened his wallet and fanned a thick sheaf of hundreds—possibly fifty or more—and Honey seemed satisfied. They set off down the back nine.

  And sure enough, Honey suddenly couldn’t hit clean. His drives savagely hooked or sliced. He topped his fairway shots and hacked his way through the rough. Nor could he chip or putt, for all of his lines knuckled off at odd angles. “What the fug is wrong with me?” he asked himself as the bogeys and double-bogeys piled up. A blowup in a sand trap left him cursing and sweating as he dragged himself to the fourteenth tee. His two thousand dollar winnings were smoke.

  “This’s bullshit,” fumed Honey to himself. “Let these damn kabloonuks off the hook like ’at. A’ight, that shit stops now.” He looked at Bleeth. “I know you got five grand.” He shot a nod at Chuck, “How ’bout you?”

  “About the same.”

  “Well, I got ten,” said Honey, flashing his roll (a grifter’s roll, as it happened, with big bills on the outside and smaller ones within). “I’ll take on both of you peckerwoods. Five holes, best score, winner take all.”

  “No way,” said Chuck. “That’s too much.”