“And what’s that going to be?”
“Beef Stroganoff,” he replied.
“God, I haven’t had that in years!”
He moved them to the small dining table in the kitchen and served the food. A bottle of red wine stood open and waiting.
“This is wonderful,” she said, sipping the wine and looking at the label. “Clos du Bois Merlot,” she recited.
“One of my favorites, and not very expensive.”
“Murray liked sweet wines,” she said. “He was very Jewish.”
“But you’re Jewish, too.”
“Yeah, but I’m sort of a civilian. Not that Murray was religious, but he was culturally more Jewish than I was. He liked to eat and drink the traditional things his mother had brought him up on.”
“And did you learn to make matzoh ball soup and gefilte fish?”
“Not on your life. We had a cook who did all that. Murray knew from the beginning I was never going to be any good at cooking.”
“What sort of life did you have with him?”
“Confined. We never saw anybody socially but his family, who hated me because I wasn’t Jewish enough, or his clients, who always wanted to grope me.”
“I can see how you might have wanted out.”
“I didn’t, consciously, until I met Jimmy. Then I began to see another world.”
“What sort of world?”
“Oh, Jimmy was very smooth. He told me he’d made money in the stock market, and I believed him. He loved the best restaurants, the best seats at shows, expensive cars, the hundred-dollar window at the track. For a naive kid like me, it was like being in a movie, instead of real life. It was a while before I began noticing that everybody he knew seemed to have an angle. We’d bump into people at the track that I couldn’t believe he was friendly with.” She stopped talking for a moment. “Listen, I hope you don’t mind, but this is starting to get to me. I’d rather not talk about that life anymore; I want to put it behind me.”
“Of course, I understand. I shouldn’t have pried.”
“I’ll still tell you anything you want to know.” She put her hand on his.
“I know enough,” Eagle said, leaning over and kissing her lightly.
She kissed him back. “I think it’s time I did a little questioning myself,” she said.
“Okay, shoot.”
“How old are you?”
“Well, uh…”
“Your age isn’t important, but it’s important that you’re willing to tell me.”
He laughed aloud. “Forty-eight.”
“Ever married?”
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Just lucky, I guess.”
She burst out laughing. “What do you have against marriage?”
“Not much. I just think marriage is something you should do when it’s the only alternative, when you can’t stand it if you’re not married. That never happened to me. Not at the same time it happened to the girl, anyway.”
“You never found the perfect woman?”
“Once, I think.”
“What happened?”
“She was looking for the perfect man.”
She laughed again. “That’s a very old joke.”
“It’s an old question.”
They finished dinner and moved into the study, settled on the big leather sofa. The fire was their only light. She kissed him.
Things moved quickly after that.
In the middle of the night, Eagle got up to go to the bathroom. When he came back, he stopped and looked at Barbara. In the moonlight she seemed startlingly pale, sprawled across the bed, her hair in her face, her arms thrown out, her breasts free and beautiful.
Eagle bent over to kiss her and was stopped by an oddly familiar sight. Tattooed onto the inside of her right breast was the shape of a flower—he didn’t know which one; he was lousy at flowers. The colors were bright, and even the moonlight failed to wash them out.
T
hey came back from Albuquerque crammed into the Porsche, the three of them and a lot of Christmas presents. Wolf had watched the rearview mirror all the way, but the police didn’t seem to be on his tail. He relaxed when they crossed the county line.
Sara, tucked into one of the tiny rear seats and walled in by packages, pointed at everything, asked about everything.
“You’re talking too much,” her mother said to her.
“I know, but I can’t help it,” Sara said. “I like it here.”
“You’re going to like it even more in Santa Fe,” Wolf said. “It’s like something out of a picture book.” He avoided the strip-city called Cerillos Road and detoured through the East Side Historic District.
“It looks real old,” Sara said, pressing her nose to the car window and taking in the adobe houses.
“It is,” Wolf replied. “There was an Indian settlement here
for centuries before the Spanish founded the town in 1610. Santa Fe is the oldest state capital in the United States.”
“What’s the Santa Fe Trail?” Sara asked. “There was a movie on television called that, with Ronald Reagan, but they didn’t say much about the trail.”
Wolf laughed. “The Santa Fe Trail was one of the main routes west for the settlers,” he replied. “It started in St. Louis, Missouri, and ended right here, at the plaza. There’s a hotel right at the end of it.” He turned a corner. “In fact, we’re on the Old Santa Fe Trail right now.”
Sara looked around at the restaurants and shops. “It doesn’t look much like a trail to me.”
“I guess it doesn’t now, but it was once filled with covered wagons and trail herders, all making their way here. In some parts of it, east of here, you can still see the ruts the wagons made, and there are rocks with the settlers’ names carved on them.” He pointed at a small adobe house. “Look, see the sign? That’s the oldest building in the United States, put up about the year 1200.”
Sara did a quick calculation. “That’s almost eight hundred years old.”
“That’s right.”
“Why are all the buildings made out of mud?” she asked.
“People made their houses of mud because there were too few trees for building, and mud was the most available and cheapest material. Nowadays, houses are made of stucco, then painted to look like mud. A real adobe house has to have a new coat of mud every year, and that’s too much maintenance for most families.”
“Don’t you get dirty living in a mud house?” Sara asked.
Wolf and Jane laughed aloud. “Nope,” he replied. “It has a regular inside, just like a house in Los Angeles.”
They were climbing up to Wilderness Gate now, and Sara took in the view. “You sure can see a long way,” she said. “Why don’t you get to have any smog?”
“Well, there aren’t as many people and cars here as in L.A., and we’re also about seven thousand feet up in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains,” Wolf explained. “The mountain air is so clear that on some days you can see over a hundred miles.”
When Wolf opened the door to the house, Flaps was all over them. At the sight of a child, the dog went berserk. The feeling, apparently, was mutual; the eight-year-old burst in, hugged the dog, and the two of them ran from room to room, Sara asking questions about everything, while Jane tried to quiet her and Wolf laughed at her questions.
She found the Christmas tree immediately. “But it’s not decorated,” she complained.
“That’s your job,” Wolf said. “Yours and your mother’s. The decorations are in those boxes.”
By dinnertime the tree was magnificent, and all the presents were tucked under it. Jane fed Sara early and put her to bed, protesting; Flaps wouldn’t leave the child’s room. Wolf made pasta and a salad, and they sat at the kitchen table and ate slowly.
“I’ve missed you,” Wolf said.
“I’ve missed being here,” Jane replied. “Life has seemed dull.”
“Have you been working?”
“Not on a feature. I cut two commercials that a friend shot. That pays the bills while I build a career.”
“You’re not going to have to worry about a career when
L.A. Days
is released. The phone is going to be ringing off the hook.”
She grinned. “That would be nice.”
“How do you feel about your agent?”
“Not so hot. I seem to get all the work myself; he just negotiates the contracts.”
“Do you have an out in your contract with him?”
“Thirty days notice.”
“Call him tomorrow and fire him.”
“But then I won’t have an agent at all.”
“You’ll have an agent by the middle of January, I promise you. There’s a young woman at the Creative Artists Agency who’s doing great things for people on the production side; I’ll call her. She’d be perfect for you.”
“It’s scary being without an agent, even for a month.”
“You’ve got to get that thirty days out of the way; you don’t want him suing you for breach of contract later.”
“All right, I’ll do it.”
“I like it that you trust me so much,” he said.
“I owe you a lot.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I owe
you
for the way you came through on
L.A. Days
.”
“It was the kind of break everybody in this business dreams of.”
“It was a break for me, too,” he said honestly.
“I’m glad you think so.”
“Sara is an amazing child.”
Jane laughed. “She’s a handful, she really is.”
“She’s extraordinarily bright.”
“She is that. She drove her teachers crazy for a while because she learns so fast; she’s in a special class for bright kids now.”
“She also has the good fortune of looking like her mother.”
Jane laughed. “When she’s eighteen, I plan to start passing her off as my sister.”
“Good plan; it’ll work.”
“So how’s work on Jack’s script coming along?” she asked.
“It’s finished. Oh, there’ll be the inevitable changes as we get closer to production, but I’ve taken it as far as I can, for the moment. It’s lean now, and that’ll give us a little room to get creative during shooting.”
“What are you going to do for a director?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet. I can’t go into production until this mess is behind me, anyway, so there’s nothing pressing about figuring that out.”
“Why don’t you direct?” she asked.
“Oh, no,” he said, throwing up his hands as if to ward off an attack. “That’s not for me; I’d rather stay above it all and complain about the director.”
“You’d be a terrific director. I know; I worked on
L.A. Days
with you, remember? You were always improving Jack’s work. You knew when the camera should have been placed better. You were right on target in your comments on the performances.”
“That’s kind, my dear, but I don’t even know if I could get the film financed if I directed.”
“You’ve got a deal with Centurion, haven’t you?”
“Sure, but that was with Jack directing.”
“Listen, Centurion is yanking teenagers out of UCLA film school and throwing money at them. Why do you think they wouldn’t go with somebody as experienced as you are?”
“With Jack, we had the final cut; they’d never give me that.”
“They might. And even if they won’t, they’ll have to after your first feature.”
“You’ve got a lot of confidence in me,” Wolf said.
“No more than you’ve got in me.”
Wolf took a deep breath. “This is scary,” he said. “I mean, I’ve thought about this, sure, but not seriously.”
“Who were you thinking about to direct the new project?”
“Nobody, really. I didn’t have a name in mind.”
“You were thinking about you, that’s what you were doing. You just wouldn’t admit it to yourself.”
“I’ll think about it,” Wolf said. “But I don’t think I’ll do it. It’s too much responsibility, producing
and
directing.”
“No, it’s not. Dozens have done it, and most of them weren’t any smarter than you.”
“Well, I—” The doorbell rang, causing Wolf to jump a foot. “Excuse me.” He got up and walked to the back door, a few yards away. When he opened it, he recognized the two men immediately—Carreras of the Santa Fe Police Department and Warren of the state police; they had interviewed him at the beginning. He felt sick to his stomach.
“Mr. Willett,” the Latino officer said, showing a badge, “you’re under arrest on a charge of triple first-degree homicide. I’ll have to ask you to come with us, please.”
Wolf tried to speak and failed, then tried again. His bowels felt loose. “I’d like to call my attorney,” he finally managed to croak.
“You can do that from the police station,” the officer said. “Get your coat.”
The two officers stood and watched as he went to a closet and got a coat. He came back to the table, where Jane sat, looking frightened. “Jane,” he said, “I have to go down to the police station for a while. Please call Ed Eagle for me and tell him where I am. The number is in my address book in the study.”
“Let’s go, Mr. Willett,” the officer said.
Wolf stood his ground. “If for any reason I can’t get back tonight, I’ll have Ed call you and explain.” He put his car keys on the table. “Use the house as your own, and the car. Show Sara some of the town; there are some guidebooks in the study.”
“Mr. Willett?” the officer said.
“Jane, don’t worry about this. It’s going to be all right. Just call Ed Eagle, all right?”
She squeezed his hand. “Of course, Wolf. Don’t worry about us. We’ll be all right.”
He smiled at her and left the house with the two officers. He heard a clink of metal, and handcuffs were produced. “You won’t need those,” he said.
“Sorry, Mr. Willett, it’s policy.”
His hands were drawn behind his back, and he felt cold steel encircle his wrists. As they walked toward the police car, Carreras began reading Wolf his rights.
T
he two policemen drove Wolf to the Santa Fe County Detention Center, a low adobe structure on Airport Road. Wolf had passed it dozens of times on the way to and from his airplane, never thinking that he might one day end up there.
A sergeant booked him. He was told to empty his pockets, and his wristwatch and belt were taken away; he was allowed to keep a quarter, then everything else was sealed in an envelope and he was given a receipt. During this process he stood between a very dirty drunk who could hardly stay on his feet and a short, wiry Latino who, although bleeding copiously from an apparent knife wound to his arm, remained handcuffed, while cursing all those around him, including Wolf, who tried to meet all this new experience with numbness.