The Cypress House (15 page)

    Arlen
did as he said. They left Paul and Rebecca behind and walked in silence until
they reached the Ford. When they got there, Wade pulled open the driver's door
and stood with one foot resting in the car and one on the ground, his arm
leaning against the roof. He put the Panama back on his head.

    "Shame
to hear about the loss of your savings," he said. "Tough country
right now for a man with no dollars."

    He
was staring back up at the inn, where Paul was watching them and Rebecca was
pretending not to.

    "I'd
expect," Wade continued, "that you'd like to have that cash
back."

    He
was waiting for an answer again, just as he had with Paul. Arlen said, "I
expect you're right."

    Wade
nodded. "Now of course I know nothing of the circumstance of your loss. I
don't know how much money you carried, if there even was any money."

    "Of
course not," Arlen said, wanting to smash those glasses back into Wade's
face.

    "But
I do know of a way that your loss could be made up. I have some sway in this
county, and I believe I could see that you're reimbursed."

    "On
what condition?" Arlen said. "Because you're damn sure not making
that offer without a string on it."

    "On
the condition that you do what you should have done all along, and tell me the
truth about Walter Sorenson."

    "Judge,"
Arlen said, "you've heard the truth. Heard it over and over. I can't make
you believe it."

    Wade
gave a little sigh, as if this were expected but still disappointing.

    "You
believe you're making a stand, Mr. Wagner, and, like so many foolish men, you
believe that making a stand, even at the loss of a few dollars, is worth
something. It's a sad, silly notion. You couldn't fathom the amount of money
that passes through this place. Tell me, where do you think it goes?"

    "Right
into your pockets," Arlen said, and Wade smiled and shook his head.

    "You
make my point for me. You possess a staggering lack of understanding of the
world. The dollars that pass through my hands, Wagner, they rise and disappear
like smoke. Then men you'd never imagine are connected to a place like Corridor
County fill their lungs deep with it. You know my role in all that?"

    Arlen
didn't say anything.

    "I
am," Solomon Wade said, "the match."

    He
shook out a cigarette, put it between his lips, then struck a match
theatrically and lit the cigarette. When the tip glowed red, he inhaled and
then blew smoke into Arlen's eyes.

    "Those
men I speak of," he said, "they need their smoke. I provide it.
Someday, a day not far off, I will breathe of it myself."

    He
leveled his gaze at Arlen. "I suspect you believe that you can carry on
out of this place and out of my reach, Mr. Wagner. Believe that once you've
made a few dollars from Miss Cady here, you can just go back to Alabama or West
Virginia."

    Arlen
bristled. He had never spoken of his home state. Not to the judge or the
sheriff. In fact, he rarely spoke of Fayette County to anyone.

    Wade
looked at him and nodded. "Yes, I know where you're from. The boy, too.
And if I desire, I can tamper with his life same as yours. Hell, I'm one phone
call away from bringing shame down on his family."

    "What
do you know about his family?"

    "More
than you, probably. His old man used to work in a silk factory in Paterson. Got
into an accident, lost the use of his legs. Was in a wheelchair until he killed
himself on some bad hooch."

    "I
don't see any shame in that," Arlen said. "I just see some
sorrow."

    "Sure.
Thing is, with no father around to work, his mother had to. Pretty woman, his
mother, or so I've been told. She took to waitressing at a few supper clubs.
They aren't the sort of clubs where you want your mother waitressing, you know?
She's not getting paid for delivering steak and potatoes. Be easy enough to
send some local police down to make life hard on her."

    Arlen
felt a slow, liquid heat spreading through his body. "Listen," he
said, "you want to stick your short, sorry pecker into my life, have at
it, Judge. But you tamper with that boy's mother? With that boy, period? Wade,
I'll cut your damn throat. Think that's a lie? I will cut your throat, you son
of a bitch."

    Wade's
voice was cool. "You're an ignorant man, Mr. Wagner. Not a brave one — just
stupid. We can stand here and trade threats, but when the time comes to deliver
on them? That won't be a pleasant day for you." He nodded at the inn.
"Go on back to work. Go on back and hope I don't have cause to venture
your way again. Pray for it."

    It
was the midafternoon before Arlen had the opportunity to get Rebecca Cady alone
for a few minutes. Paul was immersed in work on the porch, the rest of the
world vanishing from his mind the way it always seemed to when he was on a job,
and when Arlen heard Rebecca moving around inside the barroom, he told Paul he
needed a drink of water and then went inside.

    She
was cleaning the bar with a wet rag and merely glanced at him. Only after he'd
stood and watched her for a few minutes did she look back up.

    "Can
I help you?"

    "I
hope so. We've been helping you, so I figured you might do the same."

    "Well,
what is it?"

    "Why
did the judge come out here?" Arlen asked.

    Her
face darkened, and she looked back down at the glossy bar top.

    "You
heard him. He's going to rent the place on Monday night."

    "I
heard that he was sending people down here Monday night," Arlen said.
"I didn't hear a word about
renting,
though. Which brings to mind
another question: where in the hell is your business ? You know, customers
?"

    "There
was a hurricane."

    "So
you're telling me that a few days from now, when people have settled from the
storm, this place will be busy ?"

    She
didn't answer.

    "That's
what I figured," he said. "Now tell me about Solomon Wade."

    "I've
got nothing to tell. You've met him and you've met the sheriff. You should be
able to gather plenty from that."

    "I've
gathered that they're crooked as snake tracks, sure. I'd like to know what in
the hell it is they're up to, though, and where Sorenson figured in."

    "I'd
have no way of knowing."

    "I
don't believe that. As soon as the poor bastard blew up, you suggested we leave
and let you handle the sheriff. Just as if you knew what might happen."

    "I
knew there was a chance you'd be treated unfairly."

    "Treated
unfairly," Arlen echoed, nodding. "You mean locked up, beaten,
robbed? That's what you knew there was a chance of?"

    She
held his eyes.

    "Sorenson
was a bootlegger," he said. "But this isn't a dry county. What was
his business here?"

    "I
couldn't say."

    "That's
a damned lie and you know it."

    She
looked away, then back to him, and said, "What did Wade tell you when you
were talking at his car?"

    "That
he might have a way of finding our money if we told him what he wants to know
about Sorenson. Trouble is, we don't know anything."

    "Really?"

    "Really.
You do, though. You probably know a hell of a lot. Care to tell me what a man
from Cleveland's doing as sheriff of a place where visitors from the north are
about as common as penguins ? Care to tell me what it is brings men like those
two to a backwater like this, what brought your father to it, what put your
brother in —"

    "Don't
you speak of my family," she said, and her voice was so low and cold that
she seemed truly dangerous.

    He
studied her, then nodded and said, "I'll keep such questions to myself.
They're of no concern to me. Solomon Wade and his thug sheriff are."

    She
dropped her gaze, and when she spoke again her voice was soft and measured.
"You should be careful with Solomon Wade. Whether you're here or somewhere
else, you should be careful with Solomon Wade."

    It
was a different version of the same speech Wade himself had given.

    "I'm
wondering," Arlen said, "why all of these boys seem to spend so much
time at your place ? What are
you
doing here ?"

    She
picked up the rag and began to scrub again, rubbing so hard that the muscles in
her arm stood out.

    "As
you already said, my private affairs are of no concern to you."

    He
watched her for a long time, waiting for more, but she didn't look up again. At
length he turned and went back outside.

    They
finished the porch roof by noon on Sunday, and as they stood in the sand
surveying their work, Arlen was unable to avoid feeling a small tug of
satisfaction at the way the job looked. For what they'd had to work with, it
was damn fine construction.

    "Could
leave," he suggested. "Most everything's done now."

    "We're
not even close to done," Paul said, smearing sweat around his face with a
rag. He looked older, with his skin burned dark brown and his hair a few weeks
past cutting. "Haven't even started on the widow's walk or the
generator."

    Arlen
stopped with a cigarette halfway to his mouth. "The
generator?
Have
you lost your senses ?"

    "She
can't buy a new one," Paul said calmly. "So I'd say that one will
need fixing."

    "Son,
ain't a mechanic alive can put that thing back together now, and neither of us
is a mechanic. You've got to know what you're doing to work on one that's
solid, let alone one that's been busted up into a hundred pieces. That thing's
covered in sand and grit and —"

    "I've
got it cleaned up. Come have a look."

    So
they went around to the front porch, and Paul pulled free a tarpaulin and there
were the pieces of the generator, all neat and tidy.

    "When'd
you do that?"

    "Been
getting up early," Paul said, dropping to one knee and running a fingertip
over one of the flywheels. "Brushed all the sand off and then wiped it
down with a rag and oil, because that salt water would rust it awfully fast, I
think."

    "Any
chance the thing came with some sort of a book? A manual?"

    "She
said she never saw one. But she has all the tools for it."

    Arlen
stared down at the mess and shook his head. "You ever worked on an engine
before in your life?"

    "No.
But the way it works is, it charges that bank of batteries," Paul said,
pointing at a row of batteries stacked against the back wall. "All of them
seem fine. The exhaust pipe is still solid, too."

    "Great.
But the
engine
is not. Not to mention that however it was connected to
the house is no more than a memory."

    "Well,
let me show you what I've done. There were two plugs on the frame, and I got
those out and then the frame came off and I could get at the flywheel and the
camshaft and the main bearing. All of those are intact."

    "How
in the hell do you even know what they are?"

    Paul
shrugged. "I've read a lot about engines. My point is, the main assembly
of this thing is fine. So now that I've got it cleaned up, it's just a matter
of figuring out how it went together in the first place. That'll be common
sense."

    "Sure,"
Arlen said, looking down at the gears and wrenches and belts scattered on the
porch floor. "Common sense."

    "I
got the inspection plate off," Paul said, oblivious to Arlen now, focused
on the machine, "and you can see the connecting rods in here. Looks like
they got loosened up when it was knocked around. See here, when I move the
crankshaft? It's wiggling down at the bearing. That shouldn't happen. It needs
to be tight. So I've got to get those tightened up before we try and run it
again."