What of Terry Conniston? (7 page)

Adams bowed to the audience and coughed behind his wrist.

Conniston came from the side bar with a small round wooden tray holding four drinks. It did not escape Oakley that the liquid in the drinks trembled. Louise was still laughing merrily at Adams' imitation of Sullivan; Oakley had to admit it had been uncanny, even considering Sullivan's imitability. The tone and quality of the voice had been exact, the phrasing perfect. Adams wheeled toward Louise and launched into Henry Fonda doing a Wyatt Earp speech from
My Darling Clementine
, which convulsed her; Conniston looked on, unamused. Louise's tawny hair gathered light; unconsciously she struck theatrical poses in Adams' company. (“Seems the sonofabitch out of work,” Conniston had explained. “Camping out with old buddies until his agent can get him bookings. Says he's broke because he played slow horses. Told me his father was always ahead of his time, went bankrupt in 1928, which was supposed to break me up in helpless laughter. Can't stand the debauched little bastard.” Understandable, now that Oakley had met Adams: the comedian had a flip manner of a sort offensive to the sanctimonious—and Conniston, in his profane way, was the most pious of men.)

Conniston stood a slight distance apart, drinking quickly, watching Adams distastefully. Suddenly Adams turned toward Oakley, breaking off his drawl, and winked brashly. “Tell you what, Carl, send message Cairo cancel Russian oil leases or we pull out. Hell with widows and orphans. What's one lousy billion? Teach sonabitch Arabs thing or two. Make him realize Conniston important man.”

Adams was halfway through the speech before any of them caught on to the fact that he was doing Conniston—and doing him with eerie accuracy, down to the shoulderlifting gesture and the fast blink of eyes. The speech completed, Adams settled back to await applause. It was forthcoming only from Louise. Embarrassed, Oakley did not stir. Conniston drew himself up. Adams beamed at him, dapper and pouter-pigeon-proud. “You ready for that, hey?”

“I don't find that amusing,” Conniston remarked. He turned his back to Adams and strode across the room to the bar.

Adams' face fell; Louise said, “Really, darling”—calling her husband “darling” with steely emphasis.

Conniston mixed a fresh martini for himself before he replied; then, turning to face them, he said caustically, “Don't tell me you're afraid I've put guest's nose out of joint.”

Trying to cut the tension, Adams said weakly, “Let's have no loose remarks about my nose.” He tried to smile. With a nervous gesture toward his feet he said, “I sure admire your house, Earle. Never saw a carpet like this—you need snowshoes to travel it. Oh hell, never mind me, I thought it was funny, hey? Didn't mean to insult you. Chalk it up I've spent too many years in fourth-rate clubs MC'ing blue acts. MC, that's Mental Case, hey? Look, I'm sorry, okay?”

Oakley watched the jewel-hard shine of Louise's glance against Conniston. Conniston shook his head and threw back his head to drain the martini at one gulp; afterward he said, “All right—all right. Didn't mean to fly off handle. Been a lousy day—apologize.”

“Sure—sure,” Adams said, and stood silent, having run out of things to say.

“Really!” Louise breathed, and strode toward the kitchen, walking with a magnificent jounce and heave of young buttocks which seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Oakley caught the way Adams stared at her, unblinking. He distinctly heard Adams whisper, “Yes sirree Bob,” although it was plain Conniston didn't catch it. When Oakley threw a direct glance at Adams the comedian met it with a guileless lecherous wink. Oakley turned half away and closed his eyes. So that was how it was: Louise's childish revenge. She would use Adams to pay Conniston back for his “neglect.” That was why she had uttered her extraordinary plea earlier: “He just shuts me out. What can I do?” She had been absolving herself of the blame for it. Trying to convince Oakley that whatever happened was Earle's fault, not hers. She was an actress; she needed an audience to applaud her performance; she wanted Oakley's good opinion.

She must hate Earle terribly to do it right here in his own house under his nose. Watching Conniston's broad tense back as Conniston poured himself a third drink, Oakley thought,
I don't know if I can blame her
.

A few hours later the phone rang.

C H A P T E R
Six

Mitch Baird squatted brooding on his haunches. Below him he could see the road winding north through the hills. The heat, rising from the earth in the dusk, sucked sweat from his pores. Out across the flayed surrealist landscape dust-devils funneled erratically in yellow wheelings of sand and twigs and leaves.

He turned around on his heels. Floyd Rymer nodded and smiled. Beyond Floyd, down in the dry arroyo, Mitch could see the dusty Oldsmobile. Theodore and Billie Jean were in the back seat. Georgie Rymer sat on a rock near the car, yawning and scratching.

Floyd looked at his watch. “Another forty minutes, about.”

Mitch's eyes flickered when they touched Floyd's. Floyd said, “Your mouth looks like a coathanger. Smile. You're about to break out in dollar signs, remember?”

Mitch drew in a deep breath. “I don't like this. It's too risky.”

“Nothing's risky if the stakes are high enough. Mitch, me thinks you complain too much.” The hooded gray eyes smiled lazily with cool disdain.

“They'll be after us for stealing that Olds, you know.”

“Relax. These country cops have trouble finding the chief of police. The license plates are clean.”

Mitch held his tongue. No point arguing with Floyd. All he wanted was to get away from the whole nightmare. But Floyd hadn't let him out of his sight.

Floyd's eyes, wary and predatory, scrutinized him with secret amusement. “You know what you're supposed to do.”

“Yeah—yeah.” Mitch felt sick. “But the whole thing's stupid.”

“On the contrary. Mitch?”

“What?”

“You fuck this one up and I'll feed you to the birds. Understood?” Floyd took the snub-barrel revolver out of his windbreaker pocket and spun it casually on his finger like a gunslinger in a Western movie. It was the only gun in the group. Floyd didn't trust anyone else with one.

“Take heart, Mitch,” Floyd breathed. “Into each life a little loot must fall.” He smiled and got to his feet like a cobra uncoiling. “
Après vous, mon ami
.” He gestured with the .38, still smiling.

Mitch got to his feet and climbed carefully down to the car. His desert-boots dislodged pebbles and made a tiny avalanche that spilled into the arroyo with a racket. Forewarned by the noise, Billie Jean opened the back door of the car and adjusted her dress down around her meaty hips while she climbed out. Theodore made a lunge for her, missed, and barked an obscenity; he came roaring out of the car and got the laughing girl in a hammerlock.

Floyd came off the hill and stood with his feet braced, scowling. “All right, get untangled, you two.
Georgie?
”

Georgie appeared beyond the car, coming forward, trying to walk like his brother. “Everything okay?”

Floyd looked at his watch. “Seven o'clock, and all's well.”

“I could use a jolt,” Georgie complained. “You know. A cat gets tense, time like this?”

“You'll get one,” Floyd said. Theodore and Billie Jean stirred, came forward toward the hood of the car and ranged themselves alongside Georgie. Mitch hung back. Floyd gave him a dry glance and said, “What ho. Everybody ready?”

“Hail, hail,” Mitch muttered dryly, “the gang's all here.” Floyd's irrelevant humor was contagious. He realized that and made a face.

He caught Floyd's caustic grin; Floyd said, “All right, Mitch, cool the wit. Get the flashlight, that's a good boy.”

Mitch went past the others to the car and got the flashlight out of the glove compartment. He tested it twice and put it in his hip pocket. Floyd made some nonvocal signal behind his back; by the time he turned, he saw Theodore opening the trunk of the car. Theodore removed various pieces of wood and began to assemble a pair of sawhorses. Floyd said, “Lend a hand, Mitch.”

Mitch helped Theodore carry the sawhorses and detour signs and firepot bombs to the edge of the main road. When he looked back he could see Floyd watching him, one hand in the pocket that contained the revolver. Floyd's expression was unreadable in the dimming twilight. He heard Floyd talking out of the side of his mouth to Billie Jean:

“Remember what to look for. Little red sports car with a girl driving. You'll see it come under the bright lights at the freeway ramp when she gets off.”

Billie Jean said, “I just flash at you, right?”

“That's all, sweetness. But you had better be God damn sure it's the right car.”

Mitch's lips pinched together; for a moment he felt faint. He knew what to expect before he heard Floyd speak: “Mitch, come over here and give the flashlight to Billie Jean.”

Mitch swallowed an oath and came forward, Theodore tramping heavily behind him. He gave the light to the girl. She swayed her bottom at Theodore. “Rub it for luck.”

When the girl had climbed the hill to her lookout post and Theodore had gone back to the road, Floyd said to Mitch, “You didn't really think I was going to let you go up there by yourself, did you?”

Keeping a neutral tone by an effort of will, Mitch said, “I thought you might. I've seen the car before. Billie Jean hasn't. What if she makes a mistake?”

“She won't. Part of my genius, old cock, is that I never expect people to do more than they're capable of doing. Billie Jean has the best eyesight of anybody in this bunch. And she's not as likely to take a powder over the far side of the hill as some people I might mention.”

“If you're so sure I'm not going to be any help why keep me here?”

“I've got a use for you, old cock. Don't worry about it.”

Georgie was standing hip-shot against the front fender of the car, rubbing his nose. His eyes were red, his movements taut. His eyes looked dull and indifferent; he said in a complaining whine, “Hey, Floyd?”

“Okay, okay.” Irritated, Floyd went over to the car. Georgie was watching him unblinkingly. Floyd got into the car and said, “Mitch, come over here where I can see you. Georgie, turn around.”

Mitch walked forward reluctantly. A slow anticipatory smile spread across Georgie's gray face and he turned around to face away from the car, folded his arms as smugly as a child awaiting a surprise birthday present, and closed his eyes.

Floyd fumbled inside the car for a minute before he opened the door and got out holding a syringe that glistened dully in the failing light. He struck a match and held the needle in the flame, saying tonelessly, “We wouldn't want the kid to catch hepatitis from a dirty needle, would we?” Afterward he turned his smiling brother around like a mannequin and plunged the needle into the vein in the crook of Georgie's elbow. Georgie was tense; now he threw his head back and grinned, his mouth sagging open in slow ecstasy.

Floyd dropped the plastic syringe and crushed it under his heel. There were plenty more where it had come from. He said gently, “Get in the car, Georgie,” and helped his brother into the back seat. Georgie slumped back with his eyes shut, rolling his face from side to side, moaning softly. Floyd shut the door on him and stood for a moment frowning at the ground. Then he stirred. “Come on.”

Mitch followed him over to the road. Theodore was sitting on one of the sawhorses, dangling one leg; Theodore's grotesquely scarred face was ghoulish in the falling darkness. Floyd said mildly, “We all know what to do. Watch the hill for Billie Jean's signal. Theodore, if Mitch here gets cold feet you can warm them up for him.”

Theodore said, “Yeah.”

“Meanwhile stick your finger back in your nose.”

Mitch kept wary watch on Theodore—the gleam of his one good eye, the heavy roll of his brutal lips. Theodore would enjoy a chance to knock him around. Bleakly Mitch turned his back and stared at the hilltop. He could barely make out Billie Jean's plump silhouette against the night sky.

The signal light flashed.

“All right,” Floyd murmured. “Move.”

They lit the firepots and set them out in the road, blocking off the passage with the sawhorses. Detour with arrows pointing to the right into the narrow dusty side road that led nowhere. Fifty yards up the arroyo the Oldsmobile stood across the side road, making it a cul-de-sac.

Theodore touched Mitch on the shoulder and Mitch unhappily followed him across the road into the brush, where he crouched down with Theodore's hand on his shoulder, keeping him captive. He could hear the rattle of dislodged stones as Billie Jean hurried down the hill to join Floyd by the Olds.

Headlights came over a rise and stabbed the night, throwing their harsh brightness against the sawhorses, and he heard the snarl of the engine, the change in its tone when the driver discovered the obstacle and down-shifted. There was a brief squeal of rubber—she had been traveling fast. The little sports car came into sight, darkly red in its own reflected lamplight, slowed to a crawl, the girl plainly visible and frowning with baffled irritation, and turned off into the cul-de-sac, bumping along on its butt-jolting springs. The headlights picked up the Olds and the brake-lights flashed brightly. The sports car slowed to a halt, the girl's head lifting alertly. Floyd's leonine shape leaped from the shadows to her right. He jumped into the car with both feet, lighting on the right-hand bucket seat, and crouched forward to twist the keys and yank them out of the ignition before the girl had time to react. The rumble of the engine died with a chatter and dust swirled in the headlights.

Theodore said in his ear, “Okay, okay. Let's go.” Theodore dragged him onto the road and they picked up the sawhorses and firepots and carried them into the cul-de-sac. Mitch heard the brief sound of a struggle, a girl's high shriek cut off in its middle; he couldn't see through the dust. The headlights were switched off; he stumbled and almost dropped his armload. “Go on,” Theodore said testily behind him. “Pick up your feet.”