Blowing Smoke (30 page)

I breathed in the scent of my neighbor's honeysuckle. “On the sofa at one of your friends' houses, the way you usually do.”

“But you might need me.” There was real concern in Manuel's voice, and I felt a rush of gratitude.

“Leave your cell on. I'll call if I do.”

We walked for another couple of feet, then Manuel asked, “So why you giving George the heave-ho?”

“I'm not. I think we need to talk about our relationship.”

He made an impolite noise. “That's such a load of shit.”

“Don't talk to me like that, and it's not.”

“Hey, if you really believe what you just said, how come you're so smart and all and you lie to yourself like you do?”

“I don't.”

“All I know is that when a girl says that to me, she's already made up her mind that things ain't working out, and it don't matter how much talkin' we do. It don't help.” And he kicked at a soda can someone had left in the street, lofting it into the air.

I thought maybe he was right as I watched Zsa Zsa chase it down.

 

 

It was twelve-thirty. I was sitting on a lounge chair on the deck in my backyard, enjoying the cool night breeze, sipping a scotch and listening to Patsy Cline, when George walked in. He looked in better shape than he had when I'd knocked on his door how many days ago? I was beginning to lose track. He'd shaved. His shirt was clean, and his khakis were pressed.

“I thought you might not be coming,” I told him.

“No. I just had a few things I had to think through. I always liked this deck,” he murmured, looking around as he petted Zsa Zsa. “It's well designed. Murphy and I did a good job on it.”

“Yes, you did.” They'd worked on it every day for two weeks after work. I couldn't wait for them to finish so I could hear something besides electric drills and banging. I started to get up. “Can I get you a drink?” Suddenly I was talking to a guest instead of a lover.

He waved me back in my seat. “I think I'll pass. I've been doing a little too much of that recently.”

I felt a knot forming in my stomach. “Aren't you going to at least sit down?”

“No. No, thanks.” His voice was somber. “I'd like to just say what I need to, if you don't mind.”

My throat started to close. “Go ahead.”

He folded his hands across his chest. “I've been considering our relationship a lot over the past few days. And this is the thing. I don't think I can be with you anymore if you continue to do what you're doing. It brings me back to a world I don't want to be in, a world I'm trying to get away from. It makes me do things I regret. Like what I did to Sinclair. There was no reason for that. None. I know I've said this before, but this time brought it home to me here.” And he pointed to his gut. “I wish it wasn't the case, but it is. And maybe we could find a way around it, but when you add in all the other stuff between us ... I'm sorry. It's not working. I wish it was, but it isn't.” He put my house key on the table, turned, and walked away.

I watched him go. Then I got up, went into the house, and got the bottle of scotch and brought it outside.

I heard his car taking off as I poured myself a long, stiff drink.

Screw him. This was for the best.

After all, it's what I said I wanted, wasn't it?

I
didn't sleep well. At some point in time, though, I must have dozed off, because I woke up the next morning hot and sweaty and with a sour taste in my mouth, an ache in the front of my forehead that wouldn't go away, and vague memories of dreams I didn't want to recall. I felt as if I'd drunk too much, which I had. Taking a shower didn't help. Neither did a cigarette or a shot of scotch. In fact, they just made me feel worse. And they didn't help me stop thinking about George and what he'd said or about Rose Taylor and her family. Somehow I'd allowed them to seep into my life. And I didn't want them there.

I was tired of trying to figure out who was telling the truth and who was lying. Because maybe George was right. Maybe I should be doing something else. Maybe on a cosmic level none of what I did mattered. The problem was it mattered to me. As I looked around for my car keys, I decided I was glad I was going into work. Taking care of the animals would give me something else to focus on. But that wasn't the way things worked out.

I'd just turned on the lights in the store when the phone rang. It was Moss Ryan telling me that if I set foot on Rose Taylor's property again, I'd be arrested.

“She's not kidding, either,” he said.

I took a sip of my coffee and fed half of my doughnut to Zsa Zsa. “So I gathered,” I replied, thinking back to yesterday afternoon. My scalp still hadn't recovered.

“I just don't want there to be a misunderstanding on this matter.”

“No. It's pretty clear.” I took a cloth from under the counter and started dusting it.

“Good. Because I don't know what you did to Tom, but he'd really like to get his hands on you.”

Wonderful.

“Tell me,” I asked Moss Ryan. “Did Rose hire those guards to keep me out or to keep Amy in?”

“You've been warned,” Moss Ryan said. “I felt I owed you that much.” And he hung up.

I'd swallowed a couple more Tylenol to relieve the pounding in my head and was staring at the phone, telling myself not to call George, when it rang. Paul was on the line.

“Did you see the morning paper yet?” he asked.

“I haven't even had time to finish my coffee, let alone open the paper.”

“Well, check it out. Second section. Second page. Toward the bottom.” He paused for a few seconds before continuing, then casually added, “So, I understand you and George aren't an item anymore.”

I could feel myself flinch. “Jeez, that was quick.”

“I met him jogging along the canal this morning. Must be tough for you. How much time you guys spend together?”

“I don't know. Four, five, six years. Something like that.” I didn't want to do the math. It was too depressing.

“Well, if you ever want to talk or anything ...” He left the word “anything” dangling in the air.

“So you've said.”

Man, George just couldn't wait to tell everyone, could he? I fought off the impulse to pick up the phone and tell George what I thought about him. Instead, I opened the paper and looked for the article Paul had told me about. It was small enough, just a couple of short paragraphs, and I might have missed it if I hadn't been looking for it.

The gist of it was that Sinclair had agreed to help the federal authorities in their investigation into the ongoing problem of the illegal transport of undocumented workers into this country from Canada in exchange for immunity from federal prosecution. It also made mention of his status as the Reverend Ascending Moon and the fact that his “church” had at least one hundred and fifty members and was located on Wolfe Island.

The article went on to say that the site had recently been the location of a homicide, although so far investigators had found no link between Sinclair and the victim or a link between the victim and any members of the church. Amy's name was notable in its absence. Authorities also declared that Sinclair was not under suspicion for the homicide at this time and that the investigation was continuing. A variety of leads were being pursued. Anyone with information was asked to call. A number was given, and anonymity was promised.

“So what do you think?” I asked Zsa Zsa.

She barked and started chasing one of the geckos that had escaped from its cage a couple of weeks ago across the floor.

I folded the paper back up and drained the last of my coffee. What had Sinclair said to me when I was up in the apartment about his having to get his suit because he had an appointment at the federal building that Moss Ryan had set up? Well, it looked as if the meeting had been a success.

And then I thought about Amy crying when I'd spoken to her. About how she'd told me she was glad Sinclair was leaving. She certainly hadn't seemed surprised when I'd told her. She'd known. I reached for my cigarettes and lit one. I wondered if she'd already confessed to her mother that she and Sinclair had gotten married. Maybe in light of her husband carrying on with Pat Humphrey she'd decided her marriage wasn't such a good idea. Maybe she'd asked her mother to undo it. And she had. She certainly wouldn't want Sinclair as a son-in-law. Too lower class. Among his other failings. The undocumented workers would be the perfect tool to pry him loose.

I could see Rose talking to Sinclair and offering him a deal. Leave my daughter and I'll make your problems disappear. Don't and you'll be tied up in court for a long time.

Naturally, Sinclair would say yes. What choice did he have?

Then Rose would call up her friend, Fred, the father of the kid that owned Quotations, and explain the situation to him. And Fred would get on the phone to his pals in the U.S. Federal District Court, and they'd chat over coffee, and one of them would call Moss Ryan and suggest that they meet, and Moss Ryan would say something like What about a round of golf at the club?

And they'd agree because it's nice to be able to transact business and do something pleasurable at the same time. And anyway, the truth of the matter was—what Sinclair had done wasn't a big deal. He was a small fish in a world of piranhas, a world where people made billions of dollars moving people from one country to another. He wasn't connected. He couldn't lead them to anyone. He'd be an irritant to the feds, a mote in their eye, but that was it. However, I figured he was a hell of a lot more than that to Rose Taylor. I couldn't see her letting that marriage remain. And so she'd bought him out.

I picked up the phone and called Paul back.

“Do me a favor and see if you can find out where Sinclair is staying these days. I have a few questions I want to ask him.”

“You sound awful tense. Sure I can't interest you in a beer later tonight? It'll help relax you a little.”

I hung up without answering. As a figure in an ongoing homicide investigation, Sinclair had to register his whereabouts with the police. It wouldn't be a big deal for Paul to locate him. Then I wrote a check out to Rose Taylor for five thousand dollars and slipped it in an envelope to give to the postman when he came with the morning's mail. Between my expenses and reimbursing myself for the money I'd given out, I figured that was a fair figure. Actually, I thought I deserved it all, but half was as much as my conscience was letting me keep.

I spent the rest of the morning cleaning out the reptile cages, catching up on my paperwork, and trying to tell a customer—at length—why he didn't want a monitor lizard for a pet.

Paul got back to me at about two-thirty in the afternoon. I could have saved myself the call. It seems that Sinclair was still staying in Amy's apartment. Although he'd only be there until later that afternoon. He was booked on a six o'clock flight to Taos. I called Manuel and asked him to cover the store for me. When he arrived, I went to see Sinclair.

It was like soup outside. Two steps and I was blinking drops of perspiration out of my eyes. The sky had turned dark. The trees glowed against the clouds as if they were backlit. Out toward the west a fork of lightning pierced the sky. A storm was blowing in. It was just a matter of when. By the time I got to Sinclair's place, my shirt was sticking to my back.

One thing was for certain. When I knocked on his door, he definitely wasn't happy to see me.

He cracked the door to his apartment open and stuck his head out. “I don't have to talk to you, and I'm not going to,” he declared. He began to close it, but I yanked it open and stepped inside before he could.

“You're right, you don't.” I looked around while he glared at me. Two open suitcases sat on the floor. Stacks of sweaters, underwear, and shirts were piled on the coffee table. “What? No robes?” I asked.

“Not this trip. And yes, the police know I'm leaving,” he said, anticipating what he thought was going to be my next question. “I'm going to Taos for a while. I'm visiting one of my congregates there.”

“I know.”

He clasped his medallion in both hands. “If you know everything, then why are you here?”

“I was wondering if you'd answer a couple of questions for me. Just for my own information.”

He opened his eyes wide in feigned amazement. “And why, pray tell, would I want to do that?”

I shrugged. “Because you have nothing to hide. Because you're a reasonable man who would rather conduct his business in a civilized fashion.”

“Is that a threat?” He drew back, suddenly nervous.

“Not at all. I don't do things that way.”

Unconsciously, Sinclair brushed the side of his face with the tips of his fingers. “Your friend does.”

“My friend isn't here.” And I took two one-hundred-dollar bills out of my wallet and held them out. “Here, have some more of Rose Taylor's cash.”

He made a show of scratching his lower lip with his thumbnail. Then his hand shot out and grabbed the money with the speed of a chameleon snagging a fly. “I guess a person could always use a little extra,” he observed, tucking the bills away in his pants pocket. “What do you want to know?”

“How much is Rose giving you to get lost?”

“I wouldn't put it that way.”

“Then how would you put it?”

“Rose is giving me a contribution of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars so that I can bring my work to other parts of the country.”

“That's not bad if you consider the amount you already have in the bank.”

“It costs money to do God's work.”

“It's funny how everything has gotten more expensive these days. I wonder how much Jesus would need if he were alive today?”

“Ask the fundamentalists.” There was a crack of thunder. Sinclair moved to close the windows as it began to rain, the drops pelting the panes and wetting the sills and the floor.

“And you're not taking Amy with you.”

He pushed down on the sash of the window on the right, his face knotted up with the effort. “I wish I could.” Sinclair's tone was anything but regretful. “Unfortunately, Amy has some issues she needs to deal with. I don't think she'll be able to travel for quite some time.”

“Not from what I saw.”

He went and closed the window next to the kitchen. It came down with a thud.

“They have her on some fairly strong medication.”

“You've seen her?”

“No. The lawyer told me.” He turned from the window, crossed his arms over his chest, and made an impatient noise. “Is that all?”

“Not quite. The evening Pat Humphrey was killed. When George and I came through the door, you and Amy—”

“It was her idea,” Sinclair said quickly, a little more unsure of himself.

“But she already knew about you and Pat?”

Sinclair flushed and studied the stream of water running down the windowpane.

“So then why?”

He wet his lip with the tip of his tongue. “Who knows why women do anything?”

“I would have thought she'd have been furious.”

He remained mute.

“What did she say?”

He swallowed. “Nothing.”

“You're lying.”

“Fine. She said she was scared. She said she wanted me to hold her. And then she wanted a little more. Satisfied?”

“Not really” I studied him. His eyes shifted this way and that, studying the beaded curtain in the kitchen entrance, then moving to the coffee table.

“What was she scared of?”

He went back to staring at the rain. It was coming down in torrents now, as if the sluice gates had been open.

“That she was going to be arrested for shooting Pat Humphrey?”

“Look, all I know is that I've always wanted to live in the Southwest, and now I'm going to.” Sinclair tapped the face of his watch. “My taxi is going to be coming soon. I have to finish packing.”

“Do you think Amy killed her mother's nurse, too?”

“I don't think anything.” And he turned his back on me and began transferring his piles of clothes from the table to his suitcase. “The world is a mysterious place where strange things happen.”

I watched him for a while, but he wasn't going to say anything, and I finally left. The landlady snagged me on my way out the door.

“I did what you said,” she told me. “I called that lawyer you told me to, and he took care of everything. He said Amy really isn't coming back. What's she got, anyway? Cancer?”

“Something like that.”

“What a shame. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately.”

“There certainly does.”