Authors: Donald Westlake
Oh, not again. Were those four people back? I will not permit distraction, Raphael promised himself. This is a critical moment, a critical — Was he going to get pinged again? The memory of the large man returned to him, that finger cocked, then fired, ricocheting off Raphael’s skull. Through the clouded temple bells, he could almost hear again that painful ache in his head. Should he give it up for now and hope to get back to
Voyij
once the four had left, hope he was still at that point in the zone? What a shame.
A balloon face appeared, very close, coming in like a dirigible from the right. It was sideways; it was smiling; it was speaking; its glasses were starting to drop off its head; it was female — It was his mother.
“Hiy!” cried Raphael, recoiling. But it wasn’t as though he’d sprung back; it was as though that dirigible had abruptly receded, still smiling, still talking, becoming somewhat smaller but also regaining its body, bent sideways in a pretzel shape over his table, dressed in a high–neck white blouse and loose golden slacks, twisting down to get that balloon into Raphael’s line of sight.
Raphael’s bounce had taken him, on his castered chair, immediately to the limit of the cord attaching his earphones to his editing equipment, which gave him an immediate choice: reverse, or lose your ears. Meanwhile, his mother was definitely losing her glasses, and then, in an effort to grab them before they hit his control panel, her balance.
Mother and son did quick, separate dances of survival, and then stopped, she with her glasses on, he with his earphones off. “Ma!” he cried, shutting everything down with both flailing hands. “What are
you
doing here? What are you doing
here?
”
Because his mother had never set foot in this house before. No member of his family had ever set foot here, or even close to here. This was his retreat, his nest, his safety net. But now, his mother. Here?
Wildly staring around, still shutting things down, not waiting for an answer to his first two questions, he stammered, “I was about to sweep, uh, laundry, I figured tonight I’d get, uh …”
“Raphael.”
“It isn’t always like this, Ma, I’ve been working very —”
“Raphael.”
“A lot of times the place looks just like any —”
“Raphael, I’ve come to get you, dear.”
He blinked. “Get me?”
“You’ll want to dress nicely,” she said.
He gaped at her, trying to understand what she was talking about, trying to read her mind, but of course that was doomed to failure, because of the smiley face.
Raphael’s mother always smiled, day and night, in sickness and in health, in warm sun or wintry blast, stuck in a traffic jam or just sailing along. Apparently, she’d started taking the medication for stress way back when she was carrying Raphael, and somehow had never quite stopped taking it, and quite obviously was still taking it today.
There had been times in Raphael’s childhood when he had envied the other kids he knew whose mothers lost it, went ape, freaked out, dissolved into bitter tears, screamingly accused their children of everything from leaving the toilet lid up to attempted matricide, threw things, slammed doors, drank before lunch. There was none of that at Raphael’s mother’s house. In her house, everything was serene.
And now she was here, in his house, talking about “getting” him, talking about “dressing nicely.” The way he dressed, in fact, was so that he wouldn’t feel his clothes and wouldn’t be distracted by them. He
liked
his loose T–shirt and baggy shorts. What could be nicer than that?
The question he asked, though, was slightly other: “Why do I have to dress nice?”
“Because you’re going to court, dear. Come along,” she said. “Your father is waiting in the car. He’s afraid people will steal it. This is not a very nice neighborhood. Come along, Raphael.”
“Court?” He’d said that word three or four times, while his mother had just kept calmly speaking on, and when at last she finished, he said it again: “Court? Why? What court?”
“Well, it’s all to do with your uncle Otto’s bar,” she told him. “
You
know the one, you’re taking care of it now that Uncle Otto lives in Florida.”
“Everything’s fine there,” he said, but he did feel a moment of queasiness, thinking again about those four people.
They’d
been here because of something to do with that bar, too. Oh, why couldn’t the O.J. just go out of business and leave Raphael Medrick alone?
Meanwhile, his mother smiled and said, “Well, there does seem to be a little problem, dear, and Uncle Otto has flown up from Florida to do something about it. As I understand it, if this problem with the bar doesn’t get fixed, your Uncle Otto will have to stay up here and not go back to Florida, and move in with your father and me.”
“Why would he do that?” I’m not frightened, Raphael assured himself. There’s nothing really wrong.
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have to,” his mother said. “So, to help,
your
job is to go to this court and explain everything to the judge.”
“What judge?”
Ignoring that, she said, “And remember that nice Doctor Ledvass, from when you were on probation? He’ll be there, too, and he’ll help you with the questions.”
“Doctor Ledvass?” A droning, yawning, boring man, who’d been assigned by that other court, and couldn’t have cared less about Raphael, and was only doing it for the money, and made no bones about it. He and Raphael had come to an understanding of mutual disinterest at once. Why would
he
come to help?
There was something wrong here. “I don’t want to go,” Raphael said.
“Oh, dear, darling,” she said, but the smile never faltered. “If you won’t go, they’ll just send state police officers to come and take you there, and that might make the judge think you had something to hide or you didn’t want to help or I don’t know
what
judges like that think, but you’d better come along with your father and me.”
Raphael looked mournfully at his equipment. “I’m in the middle of something here.”
“Oh, it’ll keep, dear, don’t you worry, everything will be just fine. Now, let’s not keep your father waiting, dear, go get dressed. As nicely as you can, dear. Socks, if you have them.”
“Sure I’ve got socks,” he said.
“Oh, good. Put them on. Go on, dear.”
Reluctant but unable to refuse, he got to his feet and padded barefoot toward his bedroom, and his mother called after him, “And bring your toothbrush, dear.”
He looked back at her. “Bring my toothbrush? To court?”
“Oh, just to be on the safe side, dear,” she said, and gave him the most reassuring smile in the world.
As another preparation for lunch, Preston slipped into his shorts pocket the fart buzzer he intended to place on her chair in the dining hall, the first of the jollities with which he intended to test this new one through the week. He certainly hoped that, like most of the women down here, she would condone and accept his little jokes by keeping her mind firmly fixed on his bank accounts, so that he would have a free hand to plague her at the same time that he would be taking pleasure from her in the more normal way. He did hope she’d react the way most of them did, because in fact he quite liked Pam, especially physically.
But then, as they were about to leave for the dining hall, Pam already in her big, sweeping straw hat and deep sunglasses, she said, “Honestly, Pres, I’m not the slightest bit hungry. You go ahead, I think I’ll go for a sail.”
Preston stared at her, not believing it. “Not hungry? How could you be not hungry?
I’ve
just worked up an enormous appetite.”
“I’m glad,” she said, with that contented–cat smile and purr. “Myself, I just feel like stretching, laaazily stretching in the sun, on one of those little sailboats. I’ll see you for drinks, shall I?”
“Yes, of course,” he said, keeping disappointment out of his voice. A fart buzzer was less effective in a bar setting, less disgusting somehow. Well, he had other tricks.
They stepped out to the shaded walk, the soft air, the yet–another beautiful day. “Later, my darling,” she said, and smiled, and turned away, with all those wonderfully padded joints moving in all those wonderfully complex ways. They were such marvelous
machines,
women; pity about the brains.
But then she turned back: “Why not come along?”
He actually didn’t understand her: “Come where?”
“For a sail. It’s wonderful, Pres, you’ll love it.”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” he said. He knew there were those among the guests on this island who from time to time went offshore, in sailboats, or snorkeling expeditions, or little jaunts in the glass–bottom boat, or even scuba diving, but he was not among their number. Since his arrival on this island, he had not once so much as set foot off it. If his body insisted on a swim, there was the pool, non–salt and heated. Sailing and those other boat things held no fascination for him at all.
“I’ll just wander hither and thither,” he told this one, “thinking about our rendezvous this evening.”
“So will I, on my little boat,” she told him. “Rocking slowly up and down, on my little boat. You’d be astonished at the movements those little boats deliver, Pres,
very
different from a waterbed,
much
more erotic.”
“In front of the boatman?”
Her smile turned quite lascivious. “They know when to go for a little swim, Pres,” she said. “If you ever change your mind, be sure to tell me.”
“Oh, I shall.”
“Ta,” she said, with a little wave, and walked off, all her parts in gentle, persistent pulsation. He watched her go, admiring the look of her, but at the same time sorrowing for the poor fart buzzer, bereft in his pocket.
Alan Pinkleton shared his lunch instead. There was no point playing fart buzzer with a paid companion, so the simple humor machine remained in Preston’s pocket as he collected food from the serving tables and joined Alan at a half–occupied table. Lunch was always the least–attended meal, since so many of the residents were off doing physical things here and there around the island.
Preston settled himself and his tray, settled his napkin onto his lap, and said, “A good afternoon to you, Alan. Did you have a lovely morning?”
“No,” Alan said. He seemed out of sorts. “I can’t find her,” he said.
Polite, Preston raised an eyebrow. “Can’t find whom?”
“Your new one,” Alan said. “This Pamela Broussard. Not a trace.”
One of Alan’s jobs, as Preston’s paid companion, was to do background checks on the women Preston chose to pal around with on this island. But this one he couldn’t find? “Oh, well, Alan,” Preston said, “all these women have so many different last names, you know. Like Indians with scalps on their belts.”
“Yes, but they still have to have a background,” Alan insisted. “They have to
have
those scalps. Pamela Broussard has nothing, no history, nothing.”
“Alan, that’s impossible,” Preston pointed out. “She can’t be paying
cash
for her room here.”
“No, that’s all right,” Alan said, “I’ve got that much. Pam Broussard’s bills are paid by I.T.L. Holdings of Evanston, Indiana, which is very near Chicago.”
“And what,” Preston asked, “is I.T.L. Holdings?”
“The financial investment arm,” Alan said, “of Roper–Hasty Detergent, a Chicago conglomerate with a base business in home–cleaning products.”
Preston considered this information. He also considered his lunch and ate some omelet. Delicious. “I wonder,” he said, “if she’s too rich for me.”
Alan didn’t understand. “Too rich? Preston?”
“I know Roper–Hasty,” Preston told him. “It’s no longer entirely family held, but the Roper family still maintains a commanding interest. If Pam Broussard is related to the Ropers, it’s perfectly logical the company will pay her expenses, to turn them into something tax–creditable farther down the line. But that would mean that Pam would be far too rich for me to play with. The only reason these women put up with me is because they want my money. If Pam Broussard is a Roper, she’s already at least as rich as me, and all my little witticisms will fall quite flat. In fact, I could be quite extensively humiliated. Before we do anything else, Alan, find out for me for sure and certain just who Pam Broussard is when she’s at home.”
“I signed on to this death ship as a paid companion,” Alan pointed out, “but it seems to me you’re converting me into a private eye.”
“Let’s hope,” Preston said, “you’re good at it.”