House of Sand and Fog (33 page)

I
HAVE FOLLOWED BURDON’S ORDERS AND COMPLETED THE TELEPHONE
call and I sit upon a stool at the counter with my wife and son and drink black tea that is bitter for the samovar has been lighted all the evening long. Burdon and his gendeh sit upon the sofa at our backs, eating our bread, drinking our tea. Through the kitchen’s window, beneath the steps of the new widow’s walk, the sky is as clear and blue as when flying at high altitudes in air with no clouds. From the woodlands across the street come the morning songs of birds, and far away, perhaps down in the village, a dog barks. It would not serve Burdon’s purpose to shoot us in the back as we sit, but I have the feeling my backside is not clothed, nor has even the protection of flesh over bone. Nadereh has eaten very little of the toast before her, and she drinks her tea without sugar in her mouth. This she does rarely and I assume it is to avoid the slurping sound it sometimes makes, the pull of air between the sugar and teeth. All the morning long she has been silent, the same quiet bird who clutched our infant son in the middle of the night as our bullet-proofed limousine drove through the alleys of the capital city. Once again she has surrendered the burden of action to me, and I am grateful and resentful as well.

My son has finished eating, and he sits and waits for what is to happen next. Again this morning, as we took our turn at the sink washing, I told him to do nothing but what Mr. Burdon instructs.

“Yes, Bawbaw,” he said, his eyes upon mine, and in them was a dark, hopeful light that is now a heavy timber across my back for I have no real plan of any kind. I hear Burdon upon the sofa, whispering to Kathy Nicolo. As I spoke on the telephone with the same tax bureaucrat as before, Burdon sat upon our sofa’s edge, his weapon placed on the cushion beside him, and the voice of the bureaucrat became nearly boyish, unable to conceal his relief at my news of selling back to the county this bungalow. For a brief moment, I felt a measure of his relief, a desire to simply follow his instructions, travel to Redwood City to sign the proper documents releasing a check in my name. Simply do as I am ordered and leave. But ordered by
whom?
This thin policeman sick and weak with love? And leave to what place? A hotel that will begin to eat our small nest of money even before we find a new home? One we would surely not be able to buy and sell at three times our investment? I drink my bitter tea, the whispering voices of our captors at my back. Many days, when I toiled as a garbage soldier under the hot sun or in the cool wet fog with the old Vietnamese, the fat and lazy Panamanians, the pig Mendez, the Chinese who smoked cigarettes as if it was air they had imported from their home country, as we fanned out along the roadside with our harpoons and bright yellow plastic bags, I sometimes believed I was being punished for the comfortable life I led as a high officer among beggars. But this belief came only on the worst of days, when my fatigue seemed to come from my own blood. Most days, however, I believed I was being tested by my God and that if I possessed a true desire to escape that life I must have patience and continue to endure until my opportunity revealed itself; this armed couple in our home is nothing more than a test within a test, something that comes when the prize is quite close at hand. Again, I must simply bow my head, and wait.

An automobile drives past the bungalow and someone rises from the sofa. There is the soft rustle of the drapery at the window, the footsteps over the carpet to the countertop and the telephone at my left. It is Burdon, the grip of his weapon protruding from the front of his trousers. He regards us all as he presses the receiver’s buttons. He is perhaps twenty years my junior but my veins speed at the thought of grasping the gun from his pants. Have I grown too slow? If I must ask, it is already too late. I breathe quietly, turn away from Mr. Burdon, and look over Nadi at Esmail, who regards me, then Burdon’s weapon, then me once again, his face still, his eyes bright.

On the telephone Lester V. Burdon identifies himself as a deputy and requests information on any dispatch of a weapon being brandished in San Bruno yesterday, a self-service benzine station off the King’s Highway. He is silent for a long moment, and I do not know if he is watching us or his woman. He speaks again. “Was there a vehicle ID on that?”

Burdon thanks his colleague and hangs up the telephone. He does not move, and I regard him evenly. His eyes are small and moist with fatigue. It is clear he has not slept, but I do not know if this will be to my advantage or not.

“You and your son are coming with me. Get cleaned up. We have a lot to do.”

L
ESTER ALLOWED THE COLONEL AND THE BOY TO GO INTO THEIR
rooms one at a time for fresh clothes, then ordered them into the bathroom together to change. He stood in the dim hallway and waited, holding the pistol down at his leg, and even though it was on double safety he wished it wasn’t part of the equation at all. But what was the equation? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was they had a perp and vehicle description on Kathy but no plates, and his appointment with Alvarez had gone better than he had honestly expected. Lester had sat in a steel chair in front of the lieutenant’s desk and told him most of the truth of Monday night, that he’d gone to the Corona address on behalf of a friend and simply suggested to Mr. Behrani that he do the right thing and move. He had never made any threats of any kind, was just trying to act as an intermediary in a dispute. “Unfortunately,” he had told the lieutenant, “I made the mistake of leaving my uniform on. I know now that was highly inappropriate.”

“He says you threatened to have his family deported.”

Lester smiled and shook his head. “I’m not INS.”

Maybe Alvarez had had an especially good run this morning, or maybe the sight of Lester’s still-damp hair, nicked face, and wrinkled pants kept bringing the lieutenant back to Lester’s phone message about family troubles. Alvarez sat back in the upholstered chair behind his desk, his elbows on the arms, the tips of all ten fingers touching.

“Are you and your wife getting counseling?”

“Yes.” This was a lie Lester hadn’t planned on, but it came out so naturally he had to wonder if he
was
getting help. The lieutenant looked at him for a long five seconds. Then he sat forward and picked a pen up off his blotter. “You’re an FTO, Deputy. I shouldn’t have to tell you squat about departmental code.”

“Yes, sir.”

The lieutenant tapped his pen once in his open palm, then he stood, and so did Lester.

“Consider this an oral reprimand to get back in line. And next time I ask you to my office I don’t care if there’s a death in the family, I want you in that chair. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have a bright future here, Deputy. I highly recommend you don’t shit where you eat. Good day.”

On the other side of the bathroom door the colonel was speaking low in Farsi to his teenage son. But the son was quiet and Lester wondered if he was scared. The colonel certainly didn’t sound scared. Was he feeling resigned to this new situation? That he would just have to reverse the house sale and that was that? Lester didn’t think so; he remembered the colonel’s face after he’d pulled the gun barrel from under his chin, his narrowed eyes, his lips a straight line. Now Lester wiped sweat from his forehead, tried to breathe deeply through his nose, but the air wasn’t coming fast enough. This
was
crazy; Behrani was too proud to take defeat so passively. Was he playing possum? Was he just biding his time until he and his family were free of Lester and his gun? And when would that be? After this little house was empty of their things and they got about four blocks down the road in their U-Haul to a pay phone to call Alvarez in Redwood City?

The colonel’s wife was washing dishes quietly in a sink full of water. Lester could smell Kathy’s cigarette smoke, and he thought he could get away with leaving Mrs. Behrani alone for a minute or two. He called Kathy’s name and heard her get off the couch immediately. He didn’t know how she would take what he was about to tell her, but he began by pulling the loaded magazine from the pistol and thumbing each 9mm round into the palm of his hand. She came up to his side, her hair a little wild, her face shadowed, and he kissed her quickly on the lips, tasting tea and nicotine, then took her hand and placed the bullets in it. One fell to the carpet and he stooped quickly and put it back in her palm. He whispered: “We have to bail out of this.”

Kathy looked at him and shook her head, her eyes dark and moist, her lips parted like there was something she’d been prepared to say but now forgot what it was.

“This prick’s not going to let this all slide, Kath. As soon as we send him packing he’ll make his move.”

“What do you mean? Let him keep the
house?”

Lester could see her heart beating in her jugular vein. “No, you need to
sell
him this house. Take the money he gave the county and let him do whatever he wants with this little place.”

“It was my
father’s,
Les.” A tear edged itself out her right eye, and Lester thumbed it away. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply through his nose. He was about to say he was sorry, he’d lost his temper and fucked up, but the bathroom door opened and the colonel and boy came out, the colonel in dress pants, white shirt, and silk tie, the boy in basketball shoes, bright green surfer shorts, and a tank top. Lester could smell the colonel’s cologne, something sweet and European. He stepped with Kathy into the doorway of the boy’s bedroom and waved his gun at them to move into the kitchen. He felt Kathy standing squarely behind him out of sight, sniffling and sticking the bullets into her shorts pockets. When the two Behranis reached the kitchen counter, their backs to the hallway, Lester told them to stay right there. The boy was taller than the father, and he was looking in the direction of his mother at the sink. Lester leaned back against the door casing so he could still see them, but Kathy too. She was looking at him, her eyes welling up. “This is my fault. I didn’t mean for you to get into this.”

Lester thought how it was true they wouldn’t be here now if she had only met him last night at the fish camp, if she had gone there—drunk or sober—instead of here with
his
gun, but he could feel the Behranis waiting and this wasn’t the time; they would have to talk later. He whispered: “I know you didn’t. Listen, take his money and he’ll still have his real estate and then maybe I can convince him to keep things between us.” Kathy wiped her nose and shook her head. “It won’t work. You haven’t seen his temper.”

Lester looked at the father and son. The boy had crossed his arms across his chest, and the colonel was resting one hand on the countertop as if he were close to losing
his
patience. A warm flash passed through Lester’s face and neck, and his mouth went dry. She was right; even if Behrani agreed to this sudden change in plan, they couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t turn on them anywhere along the line out of vengeance, the house in his hands or not. He felt Kathy’s fingers on his arm.

“We have to get away, don’t we?”

Lester nodded. But what were they going to do? Just drive away from here and keep driving? And in what? His Toyota and Kathy’s wanted car? Or would they have to leave Kathy’s car behind? Airports would be put under surveillance. So would all the bus and train stations. They would have to disguise themselves, rent a car under false names, and make their way north or south to the border. Lester’s mouth tasted like metal, his legs seemed to have disappeared, and he was adrift in cold black space. How and when would he be able to see Bethany and Nate again? To hold them? Kiss them? But what was the alternative? Criminal charges?
Prison?

“We’re going to need that money, Kathy.”

She looked down the hallway, then closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t want you to fall into my shit, Les. I really didn’t.”

“Hey,” he said, kissing her quickly on the cheeks and lips. “Your shit’s my shit. Think of someplace sunny we can go.”

T
HE KEYS WERE
still in Kathy’s Bonneville, and Lester had the colonel and boy sit in the front while he sat in back. The upholstery was already warm from the sun, and the inside of the car smelled faintly of gasoline and Kathy’s cigarette smoke. At Lester’s feet was an empty Bacardi rum nip. He told the colonel to start the car and drive it over the lawn and around to the rear of the house. Behrani paused before putting the car in gear. The son glanced at his father, then looked away, and Lester leaned forward and pressed the gun barrel to the back of the colonel’s neck. The boy seemed to stiffen in the passenger’s seat, and Lester felt bad about that, but not enough to pull the gun away. The colonel drove slowly around to the back of the house. There were beads of sweat on his bald head. One dripped into another and caused a rivulet to run into the old officer’s thinning black-and-gray hair.

“Pull right up to the hedge and give me the keys.” Lester turned to the son, who was looking straight ahead through the windshield as if they were on the open road. The boy’s sideburns were soft, downy hairs. “Esmail—am I pronouncing your name correctly?”

The boy nodded once.

“Good. Now I want you to listen to me, Esmail. Last night you did something that got your family locked into the bathroom, and right now we’re going for a ride to Redwood City and I want you along for company. Look at me, please.” The boy did, and Lester pressed the barrel a bit deeper into the colonel’s neck. “Men learn from their mistakes, Esmail. And you don’t want consequences to get any worse, do you?”

Esmail shook his head, his eyes on the trigger finger of Lester’s hand.

“Good boy.” Lester got out of the car and stuck his weapon into the waistband of his pants, covering it with his shirt. The sky was a bright gray haze that made him squint, and he had the colonel walk first, then the boy. The inside of the colonel’s Buick was as clean as a model right off the lot, and Lester sat in the back directly behind Esmail in the passenger seat and stretched his leg out on the gray fabric. When the colonel started the engine, Lester pressed the window button for some air, held his pistol in his lap, and told the colonel to drive down the hill and take Hillside Boulevard for El Camino Real south.

Lester’s mouth was dry from the black Persian tea and no sleep, and he wanted a cold Coke, though he knew he didn’t need the sugar or caffeine; it was as if he was in a downward rush off a mountain, a fine electric current running from his feet to his brain, and the feeling wouldn’t stop until he landed on solid ground. But where would that be? Mexico? Driving south through Chula Vista and the neighborhoods of his youth to the same border post his father had worked? No, they would drive north to Vancouver or British Columbia, where he’d heard there were mountains along the coast. He and Kathy could get lost in them, find a cabin where they’d spend the morning and early afternoons in bed, getting up to shower together, then dress and go into one of those seaside towns in search of a long hot meal. Lester felt Bethany and Nate standing outside this picture, and he tried to swallow, but couldn’t. And would it be that easy anyway? Did the United States have an extradition treaty with Canada? Would they have to lie low there too? Lester didn’t know. He would have to find out.

At the bottom of the hill the colonel stopped at the intersection before the main drag through downtown Corona. Across the street was a black-and-white from the city parked against the curb, and Lester recognized the young cop behind the wheel. His name was Cutler. One night last spring Lester had given him cross-jurisdictional backup for a jeep full of drunk fraternity boys from San Francisco State. Now he glanced over at the colonel’s Buick just as it took the left for Hillside, and Lester slowly turned his face away, kept his eyes on the colonel’s profile as he drove them up into the hills past pure stands of ponderosa pine broken up by the trimmed lawns of homes with seaside views from their second-story decks. The sky was still gray and it made the grass appear a heightened green, not quite natural. The colonel was driving with both hands on the wheel, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds. Lester turned and saw three or four cars on the incline behind them and he leaned back and told the colonel in a calm and relaxed voice to speed up a bit. The colonel obeyed instantly. Was he still playing possum? Or was he truly deep under Lester’s thumb? Deep enough he
would
stay quiet after this was all through? Lester felt a rise of hope in him. Maybe there was still a way to work this out. He took his service pistol and slid it beneath his leg.

“We need to talk, Colonel.”

Behrani’s eyes darted to the rearview, and Lester saw new fear in them, that and a hardness, one he would have to start softening right now.

“How much did you pay for the house?”

“Forty-five thousand dollars.”

Lester looked down at his hands, his long thin fingers, the fingers of a woman; he knew an auction price would be low, but he hadn’t expected it to be a
third
of what the house was worth. He took a half breath and let it out. Why give this dictatorial son of a bitch the best deal? What had he done to deserve it? Why not take his money
and
the house? But it wasn’t what the colonel had done last night, Lester knew; it was what
he
had done. And Kathy. There was still time to plea-bargain; they weren’t completely on the run yet.

“Ms. Nicolo’s not a well woman.”

The colonel’s eyes moved to the rearview mirror again, and this time they looked softer, curious, not about Kathy probably, but the direction of the conversation, the shift in tone. This was good, Lester thought, two men talking.

“You saw that last night, didn’t you, Colonel?”

The boy looked at his father, then straight ahead at the road.

“Yes.”

“What she really needs is rest.”