The Texas Twist Page 6

  But the last one just left the lot, so I’m stuck with this.

  Beneath leaden winter skies, Athol is brown, the color of a brown goat. I easily find my way to the park. I don’t need directions; a Mirplo knows his way around. A crust of ice crunches beneath my feet as I cross the park to the shore of Silver Lake. There I see the ad hoc hockey rink, its perimeter defined by heaped walls of plowed or ploughed snow. Kids sit on the snowbanks, about two teams’ worth, lacing up their skates. My timing couldn’t be better, like my timing always is. I shift my leather duffel to my left shoulder, looking cool, and bestow myself upon them.

  “Mirplo,” I announce.

  “That supposed to mean something?” asks one of the boys. From the look of him, I guess his name is Tommy.

  “Just want you to remember it,” say I. “Case I get famous.”

  Tommy slides back and forth on his blades. It’s about a foot down to the ice from where I stand, but his face is level with mine. Even accounting for skates, this is a big galoot. That’s good. I like my galoots big. “What would get you famous for?” he asks.

  I look him dead in the eye and say, “I’m writing a book.” I whip out a printout of Adam Ames’s picture and shove it in his face. “You seen this mug?”

  “Mug?” asks Tommy’s buddy, who I judge to be Wayne.

  “Face. Appearance. Physiognomy.” I speak slowly and clearly, as if to infants. “Do you know this jamoke?”

  “Why? Is the book about him?”

  I square my jaw. “The book,” I say, “is about punks who ask too many questions.”

  Tommy and Wayne exchange looks. And then they laugh. “Okay,” says Wayne, looking around, “where’s the hidden camera?”

  But my jaw is still set. “No camera,” I say, then ask again, “Do you know the guy?”

  “If we did we wouldn’t tell you.”

  “Figured as much.” I nod toward the near net. “How about a shootout?” I drop the duffel and kick it open. A pair of skates falls out. Black leather bruisers. Even my skates look tough. The other kids stir, thinking, This could get good. Of course it could. With a Mirplo it always gets good. Let’s see what these Massachusetts Athols are made of. “Here’s the deal,” say I, “ten shots on goal. I make more than half, you spill all beans. If not, you keep my skates.”

  “What would I want with your dog-ass skates?”

  “I keep my dough in there.” I grin, slit-eyed. “And ten to one on a Mr. Franklin says you can’t half shut me down.”

  Tommy skates backward in a lazy weave. “I’m a pretty good goalie,” says he.

  “I’m a pretty good shot,” say I.

  “Then let’s get it on.”

  On it is gotten. Borrowing some local lumber from a gaunt, angular chick named Valerie I assume, I lace up and glide out on the frozen plane. It’s bumpy. Kids need a Zambezi. Zamboni? An ice resurfacer. I stretch my calves and they feel good. Then I do a few quick sprints up and down the ice and I can tell that they’re impressed with my speed. Can a Mirplo skate? Of course a Mirplo can skate. Well, since last night.

  I’ve always been a quick learner.

  Someone chucks me a puck and I make it dance on the ice, flicking the stick like a snake’s tongue. Tommy takes his position in the crease. The others gather round, all going “Woot, woot!” for Tommy. All except Valerie. She looks at me with doe eyes.

  Chicks get crushes so easy.

  I make my first run at the net, and send the shot wide on purpose, just to check his tendencies, and yep, he goes left. So next I come right, and he easily stops that shot, anticipating that I’d try for his off side. So now he thinks he’s got me figured out, only guess what? Now I’m riding the levels between what I know and what he thinks he knows, and it’s child’s play to get him leaning the wrong way. Which he does, over and over, as I rack up the goals. I shoot him a couple of cupcakes, so he can look good in front of the girls, but the conclusion is foregone. I beat him with brains, like you do.

  We skate back to our gear, and I can see the admiration on Tommy’s face. He appreciates this moment as a life lesson in humility. Very likely he will be transformed, as people often are when they meet me. “First things first,” say I. “You owe me ten bucks.”

  “What?”

  “Ten to one on the Benjamin, remember?” I open my hand flat. “Cough up.” Tommy coughs up a crumpled sawbuck. Best ten dollars he ever spent. “Now, tell me about the guy.”

  Tommy sifts through his memory for the trenchant details. I can tell he’s starting to like me. Well why not? Who doesn’t like a Mirplo? “Yeah, he came around last fall, asked if he could take some pictures. He offered good money. He could’ve been a perve. Could’ve been a.…” Tommy gropes for the phrase.

  I help him find it. “Photo hobbyist?”

  Tommy nods. “Either way, he paid.”

  “And bought us beer,” pipes up Wayne.

  Figures. Scum like that would naturally abet underage drinking. “Well, no beer from this quarter,” I aver, “but let me ask you this: He live around here?”

  They all shake their heads. But then Valerie says, “I know what he drives.”

  Bingo!

  “A Song Signature.”

  Mentally my jaw drops. A Signature? Those bad boys push 600 horses and go from zero to too fast too quick. Of course, they cost more than the house you grew up in and rock the mileage of a backhoe loader, but they sure are pretty: low white wedges you simply can’t ignore. And every one is autographed like a lithograph. Signature, man, that’s a rare breed.

  Be on the lookout for that.

  I get ready to split. “All right, kids, that’s rock ’n’ roll. Be cool, stay in school.” I toss my duffel over my shoulder and hump it on out of there. Not before giving Valerie my skates. Something to snuggle with at night.

  As I walk away, I hear someone mutter, “That’s a cool guy.”

  Of course I’m cool. I’m a Mirplo.

  And cool is how I roll.

  The Gun Smoketh

  They sat around the kitchen table, eating baba ghanoush on pita chips, something Allie had never been fond of before, but now, suddenly, couldn’t resist. Vic had just gotten back and was raving about New England clam chowder, and to Allie that sounded good, too. With about half a bottle of Tabasco sauce, mmm. Mirplo told them he’d tracked down Ames through his car. It hadn’t been hard. “They don’t exactly drape the landscape,” said Vic. “I asked a few car fans around town. They were happy to tell me about it. They’d never met a real Formula One driver before.”

  Allie smiled. “So now you’re a Formula One driver?”

  “According to me I am.”

  “Vic, why do you do that?” asked Radar.

  “What, oversolve the problem? Same reason you do, dude. That’s where the fun is. Besides,” he tapped his noggin, “you’re the one saying to keep the tool sharp. If you always have a story to tell, you’ll never be short a story. We writers know that.”

  Radar shook his head. “The amazing Vic Mirplo.”

  “Many people say so.” He turned back to Allie. “The guy’s got a McMansion in Orange, the next town over from Athol. The Signature, meanwhile, is frequently seen at the Orange Municipal Airport, for our hero also owns a plane, or leases it. Plus a boat. And a couple other cars. Museum-quality stuff, they say.”

  “Did you check out his place?” asked Radar.

  “Of course,” said Vic. “This ain’t my first chicken dance.”

  “And?” asked Allie.

  “He’s put a lot of money into it.”

  “New money?”

  “Nope. Been at it since he moved in. Got solar. Got sauna. Raluca likes it.”

  “Raluca?” asked Allie.

  “The girlfriend. Says he’s lived there three years. It’s mad stylish inside. Artwork up the wazoon. That’s the word she used, wazoon. She’s not exactly strong on English. And apparently in Romania they don’t see a lot of direct-to-door marketing.”

  “What
’d you sell her, Vic?”

  “Nice little rug shampooer. It’ll last ’er a lifetime. Well, it would if it ever arrived.”

  “In any case,” said Radar, “that sounds like stable money. So now we can hypothesize that he’s been running games for a while, pluck-and-ducks, with a specialty in medical mischief. He finds his Sarahs, flies out to meet them, fleeces them, and recycles the proceeds into new toys.” Radar turned to Allie, “But it isn’t dispositive, is it?”

  “Nope,” said Allie. “Just because he splashes money around doesn’t make the gain ill-gotten. Sorry, boys, I still don’t see a smoking gun.”

  “Never fear,” said Vic, tapping his Rabota, “I’ve got that, too.”

  As it turned out, one of Mirplo’s new race fans had a sister-in-law with cancer. From out of nowhere, Ames had become her new best friend, supporting her in her time of need, and soon producing exciting reports of cures out of Mexico. “She wrote him a lot of checks,” said Vic. “I have copies. Plus emails. The gun smoketh.”

  Allie and Radar reviewed the evidence on Vic’s tablet. When they were done, Allie said, “We’d better show Sarah.”

  That evening they brought Sarah in and laid it out for her, chapter and verse. It was not a happy moment, no sense of triumph in unmasking a rascal. She sat on their couch, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Boy lay at her feet, not moving, seemingly in tune to the potent portent of the moment. Or perhaps he napped. “So then he’s rich?” They nodded. “He told me he wasn’t.” Sarah looked at the images of the cancelled checks and shook her head sadly. “Of course it isn’t true. How could it be true? I don’t deserve that kind of luck.” Just when it looked like she was about to start leaking tears, a renegade thought made her face brighten. “Unless he has the cancer cure, too, though, right? He could have both.”

  “He doesn’t have either,” said Allie gently. “Sarah, he doesn’t even have a son.”

  “What?”

  “Dylan isn’t real. He made him up.”

  “No,” Sarah protested. “No, that’s too much.”

  Radar nodded to Vic, who had tracked down the boy through his skate pals and now showed Sarah a shot of him holding yesterday’s paper.

  Sarah blinked. “He’s alive?”

  “He’s somebody else. Someone else’s son.”

  Sarah fell silent, processing all the evidence before her. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I see he is.” She squared her shoulders. “Well, that’s it, then. I’m going to the police.” The others said nothing, but their stone faces told her plenty. “What, I can’t even do that?”

  “It would be better if you didn’t,” said Rader. “Most likely it goes nowhere. This sort of case rarely does. But it could stir a certain hornet’s nest. With Ames, I mean. Guys like him, you don’t want them mad at you.”

  “Why not? What could he do to me?”

  Radar mentally surveyed the many ways a man in Adam’s line of work could wreak havoc on Sarah’s life, just for spite. He could rape her credit rating, of course; that would be easy. Do back-office nastiness to her medical insurance. Sell her identity on the black market. Sic other swindlers on her. Put her on terrorist watch lists. Get her arrested. Radar didn’t bother sharing these scenarios. Instead he said, “Don’t worry about that. Just make a clean break and send him on his way. Once he knows it’s no sale with you, he’ll move on.”

  “They do that? These…con people?”

  “Sure they do,” said Vic. “The ol’ shade ’n’ fade. There’s always other fish to freeze.”

  She looked bewildered. “What is he talking about?”

  “Few people know,” said Radar.

  “He means marks, honey,” said Allie. “Potential victims. Look, just don’t have contact with Adam. Let him pass out of your life.”

  “Of course,” said Sarah. “I mean, if I can’t have him arrested. But it doesn’t seem fair. It seems like he should be punished.”

  “A lot of people in this world go unpunished,” said Radar. “With some it’s best just to give them a wide berth.”

  “What about you?” Sarah joked dimly. “Should I give you guys a wide berth?”

  An awkward silence ensued. “I don’t know what you mean,” said Radar levelly.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sarah, covering her mouth, “I apologize. What a thing to say. It’s just.…”

  “It’s just that you can’t help noticing how much we know about his world.”

  “No, no, it’s none of my business,” Sarah said, flustered. “And just rude. To accuse you guys of being…bad people, and after all you’ve done to help me.” She stood up abruptly and dusted her hands theatrically. “Well,” she said, “no more Adam Ames. No more foolish dreams. Again, I’m sorry for.…”

  “It’s not important,” said Radar. “Don’t worry about it. But don’t have this moment with Ames, understand? Whatever he proposes, decline politely and say goodbye. Con artists don’t like being unmasked. It hurts their pride, and then they can lash out. Keep what you know to yourself.”

  Sarah nodded her understanding and departed, but she left an odd, unpleasant mood in the room. Well, it happens from time to time. You rub up against a genuine innocent and see the dark side of your business model. Every grifter goes through it. You either harden your heart or find another line of work. Vic shook off the moment by sitting down to record a bent, Mirplovian version of current events, right down to the fish to freeze.

  Radar cleared his disposition by downloading baby books, which made Allie chuckle indulgently. “You’re gonna obsess all over this, aren’t you?” she said.

  “Why not?” said Radar. “I plan to be a thorough dad.”

  “Thorough?”

  “Thorough. Comprehensive. The whole package. Cognitive play. Changing diapers. Two a.m. feedings.…”

  “I think that might be my department.”

  “And I’ll be right there with you, babe. Sleep-deprived right along with you. They’re gonna say, ‘That Radar Hoverlander, he’s almost a mother.’”

  “They say that now,” muttered Vic.

  “Radar, let’s not go overboard.”

  “Fine, fine, have it your way. I’ll be an aloof and distant dad. Little Pandemonium will hardly even know me.”

  “Pandemonium?”

  “Only if it’s a boy. Pandemonium is no name for a girl.” His eyes went to a faraway place. “Although, Panda.…” He paused. “Panda Hoverlander?”

  “I don’t think so.” Allie turned to Vic. “Have you been writing these down?”

  Vic nodded. “So far I like Madrigal and Flintlock.”

  “Oh, I so hope we have twins.”

  A few days later, Radar reported back on his reading and informed Allie that she was probably far enough along to expect to start getting cranky.

  “Cranky? Why?”

  “It’s genetic. Your DNA tells your hormones to make you disagreeable as a test of your mate’s loyalty. If he bails, you’re not so far along that you can’t land another one, but if he puts up with you at your worst, then you know you’ve got a keeper.”

  “Radar, do you know the phrase ‘critical thinking’?”

  “Of course.”

  “Apply it to your reading.”

  “I’m just saying, if you become irritable I will totally understand.”

  “Go for a run,” snapped Allie.

  “See? This is it!” crowed Radar. “This is the irritable!”

  “Go for a run,” she repeated, and Radar suddenly got it that he should go for a run.

  He crossed the Colorado River below the Tom Miller Dam and followed the Redbud Trail all the way out to Washington Hollow. The day wasn’t too cold, probably not much below fifty degrees, but the wind had some bite to it, and it buffeted Radar when he ran into it or across it as he wove his way through the West Hills, past the water treatment plant and the widely scattered ranch houses with their pools tarped over for the winter. Whenever Radar ran, he tried to empty his mind. He did this
by focusing strictly on the visual, absorbing the passing landscape like cinematography. Today, though, he couldn’t get clear of the thought of himself tarred with Ames’s same brush. Radar always thought that, despite his avaricious aims, crossing paths with him wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a mark. At least he was good entertainment. Seen through Sarah’s eyes, though, he knew he was no different from Adam; no different, really, from any Spanish Prisoner practitioner or three-card monte man. During his entire life on the razzle he had built nothing, created nothing, helped no one. That’s why the money bugged him, he realized. There was no design behind it, no mission. It was only meant to be gotten and spent, and he no longer felt completely comfortable with that. Not with the baby coming. Role models are supposed to, you know, model roles.

  Radar finished his run, walking the last quarter-mile to cool down. As he neared the condo complex, he saw Sarah’s car roll into its assigned space in the long, low parking shed that protected residents’ vehicles from the brutal Texas summer sun. He wondered if Ames had approached her again and whether she’d had any difficulty disengaging from him.

  Well, some.

  For the driver’s door opened and Adam Ames stepped out. When Ames saw Radar, his face creased into a big grin, and he immediately strode over. “Radar!” he said with frank enthusiasm, “How the heck are you?” He extended his hand, and Radar shook it quite quizzically. “I’m so glad I ran into you. I really wanted to thank you.”

  Radar refrained from asking what for, for in a situation like this, where you’re absolutely spun sideways by the unexpected, it’s best to act as if the unexpected is expected, at least until the spinning stops. The fact of Ames’s presence told him that, obviously, Sarah hadn’t given him the heave-ho, though right now who could say why? Maybe she just cowered out. Some people hate confrontation like a cat hates baths—you just can’t drag ’em to it.

  “Listen, as long as you’re here,” continued Ames, “would you mind giving me a hand?” He popped open the trunk of the car and Radar was surprised to find it filled with groceries. “Save me a trip?”