The Texas Twist (24 page)

“What, get married?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Of course we could,” she said with the same mock seriousness she assumed he was using. “I mean, what else do we have to do that night?”

Okay, rock of my life, let's go. Let's be the life together we already know we're going to be.

“Okay, let's,” said Radar, and his tone conveyed something so different that Allie came fully awake.

She propped herself up on her elbow and read his eyes. What she saw there—the earnestness and honesty that she knew was such a reach for him—made her leak tears. She threw herself over him and held him close. “Okay, let's,” she said breathlessly. “Let's really let's.”

It was full dark now. The bats had returned to the bridge
and tucked themselves in for the night, sated and content. If the collective happiness of several million bats could be measured in insect-pounds, all of it taken together wouldn't tip the scale of happiness by which the newly betrothed couple now measured themselves.

The next day, over pints and burgers at Al's House of Pints and Burgers, they shared the news with Vic. As an ordained minister (as were they all), he immediately offered to preside, and they happily accepted, not pausing to wonder how a Mirplo might preside. “Of course,” he said, “I might have to rethink my costume, for no end of fools put themselves up as the definitive link between man and God.” He mentioned Jimmy Swaggart, Ted Haggard, and some others. “Funny how the most rabidly anti-gay crusader is somehow always the one found in bed with the boy-toy.” Then, striking a serious tone, Vic said, “You realize that this wedding is a stunning offensive weapon. Ames won't know what to make of it.”

“That's not why we're doing it,” said Radar. He grinned goofily as he and Allie twined their fingers together, going-steady style.

“Still, it puts him in a bind. He's going to want you focused on the money at a time when you're focused on love. To the extent that he loses control of the moment it might make him careless.”

Asked Allie, “Do you think he thinks we buy his collateral glass?”

“He can't possibly,” said Vic. “It's so bogus on its face. But maybe it's like your wedding: another level; another layer of smoke.”

“Except our wedding is real,” Radar and Allie said as one, which made them giggle as one.

“That's too cute,” Vic said dryly. “I should of videoed that.”

A few days later, high pressure rolled into West Texas, served up warm with a side of puffy blanched clouds and cerulean sky. Stripped to their shirtsleeves, Mirplo and Kadyn crossed the UT campus to the south mall, just below that clock tower with those historic lines of sight. They spread out a blanket and lay in the sun, watching Frisbee players throwcialize nearby. Vic chose that moment to invite Kadyn to the fete as his date. To his surprise, she said no. “I can't go with you, Vic. It's not my best play.”

“You…wait…what?”

She sat up and patted his knee. “Honey, you're great, but frankly either Jessup or Wellinov would be more my type.”

“I don't believe you.”

“I don't know what to tell you. I only get to show up on one arm that night, and who I choose matters.”

“Well, but we can date later?”

Kadyn leaned back on locked elbows. “Let's get to later later,” she said.

Vic felt rocked, soul shaken. This was not the outcome he'd expected.

Riding on a puff of cliché, a cloud passed before the sun and the day turned suddenly cold.

It didn't get much warmer, on either the literal or metaphorical level, when Mirplo met Radar later at the Vegan Holiday Restaurant (“an Austin tradition since late last year!”) and, over yummy bowls of yeast flake soup,
brought him up to date.

“Crap,” said Radar, “now we have to worry about her levels, too.”

“What? No.”

“Yes, Vic. She just about told you she's jumping ship.”

“No way she's jumping,” said Vic. “She got glued good.”

“I thought she did,” said Radar. “Now I'm not sure.” Getting glued, as they both understood it, was a tyro's tendency to imprint on the person who first taught her to grift. The phenomenon could usually be counted on to lock a player's loyalty to her team for at least the first few snukes. But never forever; that's not how grifters roll. With Kadyn, smart and confident and naturally gifted as she was, it was reasonable to think that she'd go indy sooner than most.

Now,
thought Radar,
how can we use that best?

W
hen Radar got home, Sarah pounced on him the minute he parked his car. He had no idea how long she'd been waiting, but as waiting for him had become something of her leitmotif, he took it in stride.

“Radar,” she said, “we have a big problem.” Telegraphing an urgency that may have been real or maybe just telegraphed, she grabbed his hand and dragged him to a secluded spot behind the building.

“What is it, Sarah?”

He anticipated—and got—another vivid piece of her active imagination, for she drew him close and whispered, “I think Adam's going to bunny.”

“Bunny?”

“Isn't that what you call it when someone runs away?”

“Rabbit,” said Radar.

“Well, rabbit, bunny, whatever. As soon as he gets your money he's out of here.”

“Uh-huh. How do you know?”

“I did that history thing on his computer. History browser?”

“Browser history.”

“That's it. I saw all the websites he's been to. Airlines, hotels. I think he's going to Brazil.”

“Brazil? Really?”

“Rio de Janeiro.” She demonstrated great, brow-furrowing thoughtfulness. “Isn't that what you do when you're on the lam? Fly down to Rio? I've heard of it before.”

“I imagine you have,” said Radar. “Which is why I imagine you've made it up now.”

“Wait, you don't believe me?”

“As it happens, no. But it doesn't matter either way. Your actions, your interpretation—or your invention—of Adam's actions, none of that can affect my thinking.”

“But…” sputtered Sarah, “I'm trying to help you!”

“Sarah, I'm sorry. I judge you're talking nonsense.”

Sarah put her hands on her hips. “Oh, you judge I'm talking nonsense?” He tried to step around her but she moved to block his path. “You're mean, Radar Hoverlander,” she said with rising ire. “You think you're nice but you're not. You kiss me and cuddle me and promise me tomorrow, but I know you're never going to pay off. 'Cause now I hear you're getting married.” She gave him a saucy look. “Yes, bride and groom costumes, I know all about it. It's cute. Very original. But what does it say about us? Huh? That there never
was
any us, right?” Now she looked genuinely sad, little-girl sad. “You tricked me. You used me for information. And now you just dismiss me.” She quoted him in a mocking voice. “‘I judge
you're talking nonsense.' That's just great. That's just fricking wonderful.” She crossed her arms and said, “So what's the deal, Radar? Am I in your heart at all? Or did you just play me like you warned me Adam would play me? Tell me the truth if you can.”

Radar thought for a moment before he spoke. He now understood that it had been a mistake to try to flip Sarah in the first place. Her docket was too chaotic to yield any sort of reliable line. Here, at least, was the chance to clean up a level or two. “I used you for information,” he said at last. “I'm sorry.”

“Oh, you're sorry.” She spat on the ground next to his foot. “Well, we're done then, Mr. Radar Fucking Hoverlander. I hope Adam does get your money.” Radar watched her stomp off and wondered if he had really cleaned up her levels or just created more noise. He was reminded of a piece of grifter wisdom from way back:
You can't figure out their strategy if they don't have one.

When Radar got inside, Allie was waiting for him with a jotted note. “Ames called,” she said. “He wants to meet you at a place.”

Radar looked at the note. “Well, that's the middle of nowhere,” he said. “Want to roll with?”

“He kind of said come alone.”

“So it'll wobble him if I don't. Maybe shift him off his script.”

“Okay, I'll come.” Allie suddenly grinned. “This is fun,” she said, “moving people off their script. This is how we used to have fun.” Radar started to respond, but Allie cut him off. “I know, I know,” she said, “no life for our daughter. I'll tell
you one thing, mister, our
son
is going to be great, no matter what he ends up doing.”

“You're so sure it's a him?”

“As sure as you're sure it's a her.”

“Sure enough to bet?”

“What stakes?”

Radar answered without hesitation, “Naming rights.”

“Oh, no. No, no. Nice try, bub. What is she today? Oleander?”

“No. But Oleander's nice.”

“Oleander Hoverlander? I seriously don't think so.”

“Okay, so not naming rights. Well, we'll think of something.”

“You know what, Radar? Let's not. I don't want to have to tell our son that his birth was a coin flip for us.”

“Agreed, then: no bet.”

“No bet.” They shook on it.

Shook on it and then some.

The car Radar and Allie had leased was a Song Subdominant, and the fuel-cell-powered, active-navigation smart car practically drove itself out east on US Highway 290 to County Line Road, then south to the intersection of County Line and Monkey Road. Why there should be a Monkey Road in the middle of Texas Radar couldn't guess, but just down it a bit was a neglected pocket park with a sandbox and rusting jungle gym, a battered ball field, and a couple of netless soccer nets. They pulled into a parking lot composed of dirt and coarse gravel. “There he is,” said Allie.

“I'm thinking…” said Radar slowly, “that it might be time to unbag the cat.”

“Huh?”

“Ping him about your and his past. See how he reacts.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“No, nothing. I'll take care of it,” said Radar. “You just stay mum. Give him the stink-eye.”

“One stink-eye, coming up.”

Radar parked the Subdominant, and they walked to a nearby band of struggling dogwoods, where Adam sat at a splintered picnic table, wearing a bulky daypack over one shoulder. He stood as the pair approached and blinked at the sight of Allie. “I don't understand.”

“Don't understand what?” said Radar.

“I asked you to come alone.”

“I forgot she was in the car. It happens. Don't worry, she's quite quiet.” Allie said nothing, just focused her gaze on Adam, trying with no success to make eye contact. “Or do you want us to go home?”

“No, it's…I would think the fewer people involved the better.”

“We're few enough,” said Radar. “What's up?”

“That's it? No preamble?”

“Preamble? What, chitchat? This isn't a date. What. Is. Up?”

Ames removed the daypack and unzipped it. Inside lay a poorly organized olio of money: stray twenties and fifties; attempted bundles of hundreds; and then just random wads of cash.

“That looks like a lot of money,” said Radar.

“It's a hundred grand.”

Radar and Allie studied the money for a moment. They
made no move to touch it or inspect it more closely. They exchanged looks. Then, seemingly in unison (though the trained ear would hear Allie a beat behind), they burst out laughing.

“What?” asked Ames in near panic. “What? Do you want to count it?”

“What are you doing, Ames?”

“Showing you I'm serious. I scraped together such cash as I could, but it's still not enough. Look, Wellinov's money doesn't work without mine, and mine doesn't work without yours. I need you to know I'm committed. Plus, there's this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small square velvet box. Allie turned away and bit down hard on her laugh. Ames handed Radar the box. Inside gleamed an antique ring, whole-karat diamonds squared around a spectacular center stone. The setting looked to be platinum or white gold, handwrought and classic.