Endangered Species (17 page)

I bit my fingernail and thought about the frogs and boas I'd seen at the Myers house. Those frogs could go for up to a thousand dollars in Japan. They were illegal there, the government having deemed that reptiles with the word poison in their names were probably not a good thing to have living in someone's house.

“Of course most of them died,” Chapman continued, his voice filled with scorn at Eli's incompetence. “I caught him on the way back in with a load of turtle eggs. Instead of turning him in, I gave him an option—do a couple of runs for me or get arrested.”

“That was very nice of you.”

“I thought so.”

We were now passing Mattydale. The parking lot at the Northern Lights strip mall was practically empty. The stores looked sad and neglected in the thin morning light, as if they knew they were slated for the wrecking ball.

I stated the obvious. “And everything would have been fine if Nestor hadn't taken the suitcase.”

“Exactly,” Chapman agreed.

“For which he has paid.”

Chapman gave an elaborate shrug. “So it would seem. As my mother used to say, greed kills.”

It was hard to believe this guy had a mother someplace. He probably never forgot to send her flowers on her birthday, either. I leaned slightly forward and searched his face. If there was any regret or guilt there for Nestor's death, I didn't see it.

“Don't you care at all?” I asked.

“No. And if you're honest, you don't, either.”

“That's not true,” I protested.

Chapman shrugged, as if the topic were too boring to discuss.

I sat back in my seat. “What do you want with me anyway?”

He gave me an astonished look. “I thought I'd made that abundantly clear earlier. I want you to find the suitcase.”

I picked at one of my nails. “Why don't you go out and find it? It would be easier for you, being a Feddie.”

“I could, but it wouldn't be an efficient use of my time. And anyway, Eli made this mess. It's only right that I give him a chance to clean it up.”

“You're so generous.”

“Don't push it,” Chapman warned.

I thought about the cat and put a lid on it. “It isn't as if I haven't been looking,” I answered. “The fact that Nestor is dead certainly isn't going to help matters any.”

Chapman pursed his lips as if to say that wasn't his problem. I studied the scenery. In the summer it would have been a pretty ride. Now it was grim. The trees were bare, their branches twisted and gnarled. The grass was a dried-out brown. Sheaves of dead reeds stuck out of the marsh. Flocks of crows circled overhead, their cawing filling the air.

“You know,” Chapman said after about thirty seconds had gone by, his tone as light and conversational as if he'd been discussing the arrangements for a summer dance, “when I was in the Army I found that most people aren't afraid of dying. They're afraid of two things: pain and loss.” He lingered on the last two words, caressing them with his voice as if he were talking about old friends.

“How long did it take you to come to that brilliant conclusion?”

He shrugged. “Not too long.” Then he reached a hand out and squeezed my shoulder. “I've really come to admire you.”

I gave him a sharp look. He put his hand down.

“No. It's true,” he protested. “I have. You've been dealt a rough hand, but you've managed to make it work for you. It's not easy keeping a business going. No one knows that better than I do. All that pressure. It must be your relationships that sustain you, wouldn't you say?”

I didn't answer. Chapman didn't care. He hadn't been expecting one.

“Some people, I'm told, get a lot of reassurance from their dogs. Now me, I wouldn't know about that. I don't feel that way about dogs—maybe because I used to eat them when I was in the Philippines.” He gave me a sidelong glance to see if I was taking in what he was saying. “I can tell you one thing—they didn't taste like chicken. The farmers used to break their legs and hang ‘em over a pole and leave 'em like that until someone came along who wanted one. Then they'd chop their heads off.” He smiled again. “Of course my stay in the Philippines changed my mind about a lot of things.”

I managed a fairly cool “Really” despite the fact that at the moment I was trying not to gag.

“Yeah. You really are lucky. George. Tim. Manuel. Zsa Zsa. They all care for you.”

“That's nice.” My throat felt dry.
This guy isn't just conning you
—
he's playing you,
I told myself. Too bad I wasn't listening to me.

Chapman continued as if I hadn't said anything. “And you care for them. Which is important. Especially with your husband dying the way he did.” He tsked tsked. Then he blew a large bubble and popped it. “I understand you were there when it happened. Something like that, watching someone you love die, it must leave a mark inside. Here.” And he made a fist and smacked himself on the chest. “I imagine it's something you probably never want to see occur again.”

“Are you threatening them?” I demanded hoarsely.

“Is that what you think I'm saying?”

“If you're not saying that, then what are you saying?”

“I'm merely suggesting you redouble your efforts looking for the suitcase. Before ...” And he stopped himself.

“Before what?”

“Before nothing.”

“How would you suggest I go about this task? Any helpful hints?”

“One.”

“What's that?”

“Simple. To quote the French,
Cherchez la femme.
”

And with that, he pulled over onto the exit ramp and put me out of his car.

G
eorge shook his head. “So Chapman's a Fed?”

I corrected him. “Fish and Game.”

“Well, whatever the agency he's working for, it still brings things to a whole new level,” George observed as he scooped up some hummus on a piece of pita and bit into it.

“I know,” I said gloomily.

“You think he killed Nestor?”

“Probably not.” I moved the grains of cracked wheat in my tabbouleh salad around with my fork. I don't know why I'd ordered this in the first place. I wasn't hungry. Chapman had taken away my appetite. “And if he did, it didn't help much because he didn't get what he wanted.”

George took a sip of his coffee. “Which is why he wants you to find Adelina. He figures she has the suitcase.”

I nodded. She'd been hovering on the edges of this mess, like an unseen presence, sensed but not felt, ever since I'd gone looking for Nestor. I leaned back in my seat and shoved my plate away. The oil glistening on the stuffed grape leaves gave them a slick, greasy look.

“You're not eating those?” George asked, pointing at my food.

I shook my head and took a sip of my soda.

“You're positive?”

“Absolutely.” I was afraid I'd throw up if I took another bite. I pushed the plate over to him. I hoped I wasn't coming down with the flu. There was a lot of it going around. “Be my guest.”

We were sitting in Little Jerusalem, a Middle Eastern restaurant about two blocks away from the university. I glanced at the oversize generic travel posters on the wall as I hooked my feet around the rungs of my chair. They were the kind of posters establishments of this type always have, the kind of posters that promote foreign lands as exotic and different, but not too different, just like the food in the restaurant.

In the first one, a smiling couple was seated on a camel in the middle of an oasis filled with palm trees. The pyramids loomed in the background. The message underneath said: Come, experience the romance of the Middle East. The second poster featured a picture of a beach, blue water, and more palm trees. The inscription underneath read: Enjoy Yourself. I thought about the exhortation for a minute as I surveyed the room That's what my therapist used to tell me. You should get out and have some fun, she'd say. Go bowling. Learn how to quilt. When I told her if those were my alternatives I'd rather be depressed, she told me I had a bad attitude, a line I'd been hearing for the better part of my life.

At two o'clock in the afternoon, Little Jerusalem was almost empty. The waiters were sitting at a table in the back, eating their lunch and joking with each other, readying themselves for dinner's onslaught. The place had been here for twenty years and showed no sign of folding. It had everything the students wanted: cheap, fast, edible food, okay service, and large tables where you could sit and talk.

I unhooked my feet from the chair and shifted my weight around. For some reason, I was having trouble getting comfortable. As I watched, George started eating the grape leaves off my plate. He was dressed for the class he'd just finished teaching—blue shirt, tan cords, and fun tie—casual, but not too casual. George always got his clothes right, whatever the occasion, unlike me, who always got them wrong, whatever the occasion.

I'd arrived at his undergraduate class in European history fifteen minutes early. I'd waited in the hallway for him, leaning against the wall and listening to him talking to an undergraduate class about the implications of the Edict of Nantes. It was the first time I'd heard him lecture. His voice, animated and assured, seeped out through the space between the floor and the door, putting me in mind of when I'd gone to college. It seemed like a lifetime ago. Once in a while, a burst of knowing student laughter would erupt and I'd wonder what the joke was that I was missing.

George exited the classroom five minutes after the period was over. A group of ten students milled around him. He looked happy, as if he'd finally found someplace he belonged. I was pleased for him and sad for me. Watching him, I realized I was tired of working alone. I wanted to go back to working at the newspaper. It had been so much easier. I missed the joking around over coffee. The drinks after work. The benefits. I was wondering if they'd hire me back when George spotted me.

He was surprised to see me, which I suppose was to be expected, given that he didn't know I was coming. Childishly, I wanted his face to light up when he saw me. It didn't. Maybe I was reading too much into his look. Or too little. I seemed to have lost my ability to judge people correctly, an ability I'd prided myself on once upon a time in my life. I was thinking about that as George conveyed more hummus to his mouth.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked, wiping his fingers on a napkin.

“I know what I should do if I'm smart. Try and find Adelina.”

“You agree with Chapman? You think she has the suitcase?”

“She might.” I brushed some crumbs off the table. “Then there's always Littlebaum.” I thought about the way he had greeted me again. I'd assumed he was just paranoid. But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he thought I'd been there to get the suitcase. “And if he doesn't have it, I'm willing to bet he knows who does.”

“I can't believe Chapman hasn't been down there already,” George protested between mouthfuls of spinach pie.

“He could have been, but until now, from what I've heard, Littlebaum hasn't been buying anything he'd need a CITES certificate for, which means there's no reason for him to have come under Chapman's scrutiny.”

“You're saying it isn't illegal to own a lion?” George's voice rose in disbelief.

“It's not. At least, not according to Federal laws. It's illegal only if the place you're living in has a law on the books against owning exotics. It's strictly a local ordinance type of thing.”

“Unbelievable.”

“Not really. Think about it. Most locales have laws on the books against owning farm animals in the city, because at the time those laws were passed, there were people who were keeping chickens and sheep in their backyards, whereas—”

George interrupted. “You're telling me I can't have a chicken in my house in Syracuse, but I could have a tiger cub?”

“Until recently, when the Common Council amended the law, yes. Actually, more and more legislative bodies across the country are passing laws banning exotics because more people are buying them, which is turning out to be a problem for people who own large boids. Boa constrictors and pythons to you,” I told George. “This is mostly a dog and cat country. There aren't many Littlebaums around.” I reached across the table and snagged the rest of my pita bread. “Given the circumstances, I'm sure Littlebaum wouldn't hesitate to avail himself of the opportunity to buy a tortoise at a discount rate.”

“And Nestor would know about him?”

I ate a piece of the bread. It was slightly stale. “He has to have. He was friends with Sulfin. Sulfin works for Littlebaum. How could he not know?”

“True.” George drummed his fingers on the table. “Are you going to talk to him?”

“Eventually.”

Littlebaum was my backup plan. The truth was, I wasn't exactly anxious to go back there given the way my last talk with Littlebaum had ended. All things being equal, I didn't want to renew my acquaintanceship with Matilda. Adelina might be hard to find, but at least the chances were she didn't have the kind of bodyguard Littlebaum did. Plus, I had the feeling that Chapman had told me to find her for a reason.

George took a sip of his beer “What, exactly, do Madagascar tortoises look like anyway? What makes them so unique?”

“Their coloring and the fact that there aren't that many of them left. Maybe three to four thousand. Tortoises aren't what you'd call fast breeders.” I took another bite of pita and put the rest down. I was hungry, but not for this. I'd get an ice cream later, I decided.

George loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar. “If you find them, we can have some of Chapman's crew watching him take delivery of them from you through binoculars. The moment he takes the suitcase they close in.”

“Then he'll claim he was working a deal on me.”

“He can claim he's the Tooth Fairy. We'll have you wired.”

I told him about Chapman checking me out.

“Okay. So we'll set up a listening post. God knows, with all the junk that's on the market, that shouldn't be too hard.”

“I think it will be. This guy is hipped to all this stuff. Given his job, he has to be. What if he won't talk? What if he wants to do the exchange in the middle of someplace with no cover? Then it'll come down to a ‘he said, she said' situation.” I wound a lock of hair around my finger. “He'll stick me with a felony rap. I don't need that type of trouble. I can't afford the thirty thousand, probably more given how much my lawyer charges per hour, it would take to get me out of it. Not to mention the time and the energy.”

George frowned. The vein in his neck was sticking out the way it always did when he was stressed. He knew I was right. He just didn't want to admit it. He pushed his plate away.

I rooted around in my backpack for a cigarette before I remembered I'd smoked my last one on the ride I'd hitched back to my car. “I've played this every which way and the bottom line is, I don't think I have a choice. I have to do what Chapman says. At least on the most obvious level.”

George nibbled on his lower lip. “Meaning?”

I leaned forward. “Remember how a little while ago you suggested it might be helpful if we knew a little more about this guy.”

“What sort of things are we talking about here?” George asked, cautious and interested at the same time.

“Like where he's staying. Like what he does with his spare time. Like whether he has any interesting hobbies.”

George didn't say anything. I watched him tear little pieces off the leftover pita.

I persisted. “Okay, the car didn't pan out, but you have the contacts. Maybe it's time to have a couple of drinks with some of your old buddies.”

“This guy could be serious bad news.” George pushed the pita aside. The pieces spilled over the table. “It might be better for you to just go along.”

“No.” I surprised myself with my ferocity. “Chapman is scum.”

George gave me a no-kidding look.

“I want to nail his ass to the wall. Doesn't he offend you?”

“How can you ask me that?” The vein under George's eyes twitched. “You know what I think about guys like that. I'd like to hang the prick up by his thumbs.”

“But?”

“But sometimes it doesn't work that way.” George made clicking noises with his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I'll tell you what really worries me. What worries me is the speech he gave you about Tim, Manuel, and me. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. It means he's gone to the trouble to find out about you.”

“It wouldn't take him very long to get that info,” I pointed out. “All he had to do was ask a few questions. I don't think it means that much.”

“Except that he's interested,” George said.

“That's why I figure we need to even the balance by finding out a little bit about him. As to his threats—You and I can look after ourselves.”

“What about Manuel and Tim?”

“I'll take care of Manuel and I'll talk to Tim. See what he says.”

George cracked his knuckles twice in a row. “And Zsa Zsa? What are you going to do with her?”

“I have a friend that lives south of Dryden. She has three dogs and a horse, some chickens. I thought I'd ask her if I could leave Zsa Zsa there for a little while.” There was no point in taking chances. I couldn't bear it if something happened to her.

George chuckled. It was the first time he'd laughed since I'd met him. “Zsa Zsa and the country. This I'd like to see.”

“She is a dog after all. She'll like it,” I said doubtfully, because I wasn't sure she would. After all, she was used to beer and barstools, not horses and hay. “It'll be like a vacation.”

George and I fell silent. We watched the street. Except for a few students hurrying by, the sidewalk was empty. It had begun to snow. Flakes were drifting down from the sky.

“I don't know if I'll even be able to turn up anything,” George said after a minute had gone by.

“I realize that. Which is why I plan to start searching for Adelina.”

“Do you know what she looks like?” George asked as he idly traced a pattern in the leftover hummus on his plate with a sprig of parsley.

“I've seen a picture of her. Of course, it's a couple of years old.”

“People can change a lot in that period of time,” George pointed out. “They can dye their hair. Cut it. Lose weight or gain it. Get glasses or switch to contact lenses. Get a nose job.”

“I have Manuel. He's seen her.”

George nodded.

As I left the restaurant, it occurred to me that sometimes George and I made a good team. It was a shame it didn't happen more often.