The Daisy Ducks (2 page)

Apparently he'd been badgering Roantis all evening,
making fun of his heavy Lithuanian accent and his short stature. Now
it's true that Roantis is not tall. But then, neither is a Gaboon
viper. Newcombe now accused Roantis of assault and demanded I call
the police. When Chief Hannon informed him that he was the police in
this particular town, Newcombe demanded that his assailant be taken
into custody. Chief Hannon then advised the plaintiff he would have
to file a complaint at the department. Then the remnants of the crowd
started throwing in their two cents worth. What a nice ending for a
party.

"Mistake, Charlie. Mistake! " said Mary.

"Huh?"

"Inviting him!"

"Who, Newcombe?"

"Him too. But mainly that trained killer. Look
at our guests, Charlie. What kind of ending is this for a Christmas
party? Oh, why do I ever listen to you!"

Close to tears, she stomped away. I considered the
situation. It was a wreck. From across the room Janice stared in my
direction with feline eyes. Jim glowered at me. My two sons, Jack and
Tony, who'd been promised pocket money for helping to tend bar and
clean up, came and went clearing up the glasses, ashtrays, and
plates. More and more guests were bidding adieu and donning their
winter wraps.

"Hey Doc, I'm asking you a question, "
boomed a voice.

"Huh?"

"What are we going to do?" asked Brian
Hannon. "You're the host. Can you keep this man here until
further notice?"

He was motioning toward Roantis, who hadn't moved. He
stood like stone against the doorway woodwork.

"If he wants to stay, he's welcome. Personally,
I wouldn't try to move him. Mr. Newcombe, are you going ahead with
your complaint?"

"Damn right!" he bellowed, buttoning his
sport coat. He rubbed the side of his jaw and grimaced as he started
for the door. ‘

"I would advise you to reconsider," I said,
looking at Roantis, "But we'll stay here until two. If we don't
get a call from you before then, Brian, I'll assume he's free to go,
okay?"

"He doesn't have to stay at all, but we'd
appreciate it. Now Mr. Newcombe, I'm going home. I'm going to sleep.
If you feel you must register a complaint, you're going to have to
drive to the station yourself. Goodnight everyone. Thanks Doc.
Where's Mary?"

"Out milking the elk."

"Well, thank her too."

People dribbled out. Some even bothered to say they
were sorry that the evening had terminated as it had. I felt a soft
touch along my lower back and turned to see Janice and Jim departing.
Jim deliberately looked away from me. Janice leaned over and pecked
my cheek. She whispered into my ear.

"I'm getting a nasty lecture when I get home.
How about you?"

"I am home, dummy. And I think I'm due for a
lecture too. Actually, I was hoping this fracas would dispel some of
the anger. We've got to stop this stuff you know."

"Nah. We've just got to start doing it right. A
cheap motel for a nooner. The whole shot. Right?"

"What're you two talking about?" growled
Jim.

"Nothing, love," said Janice, gaily
tripping her way down the hall stairs to the front door landing. I
saw the last of the guests off. No doubt Janice's little kidding
toward the end was meant to cheer me up. It did not. A beefy paw
latched onto my shoulder and spun me around. It was Detective
Lieutenant Joseph Brindelli.

"You're in trouble."

"Don't I know it. Hey Joe, listen: why don't you
stay awhile and have another drink? Maybe you and Mary could —"

"Have a talk? And I could get my sister to
forgive you? No way, pal. I grew up with her. When Sis gets mad you
can clear the decks. Besides, I've got an early day tomorrow. I'm
gonna feel had enough as it is. Good luck, Doc. Believe me, you're
going to need it.
Arrivederla
."

l started back toward the porch and was intercepted
by my second son, Tony, who was hauling a dozen glasses back to the
kitchen. He stopped and regarded me as one regards a wounded soldier
returning to the front.

"You're in trouble, Dad."

"Do tell."

"What did you do?"

"Nothing really. It was a misunderstanding."

"Hell it was," said number one son, jack,
who entered stage left bearing a pile of dirty ashtrays. "You
were necking with Mrs. DeGroot in the hall corner. Tacky, Dad. You're
in a lot of trouble."

"I know, I know."

I returned to the porch and found Roantis leaning
against one of the windows. I thought for a second he was feeling
sick. Lord knows, with all the booze he'd drunk—neat, mind you—he
should feel woozy. But I noticed he had cupped his hands around his
face to block out the room light. He was looking out the window,
searching for something.

"You okay, Liatis?"

"Hm? Oh yeah. Fine."

He walked over to the card table and sat down. He
shook out a Camel from an almost flat pack, flicked open a shiny
Zippo lighter, and lit it. The lighter had a silver and blue crest on
it of a winged arm holding a dagger. Underneath were words in French.
It was the battle insignia of the French Foreign Legion. Roantis
opened a deck of cards and began to shuffle. The cigarette rested
between the middle and ring lingers of his left hand, deep in, toward
the palm. It stayed there automatically, an appendage. The hands were
what palm readers call "earth hands." Straight across the
knuckles, straight across the fingertips, with hardly any difference
in linger length. Palms squarish. Average size. Earth hands, the
palmists say, denote a person with minimum sensitivity and a strongly
practical outlook. Such people are supposed to make good middle
managers, staff sergeants, and craftsmen. That would fit Roantis, I
thought.

The hands didn't look menacing. Only an expert, or
one familiar with lighting, would notice the bulbous calcified knobs
on the oversized knuckles. Only when shaking hands were you conscious
of the horny ridge of callus that ran up the side of the hand from
the little finger to the wrist. These were hands that had severed
windpipes, broken sternums, mashed jaws, gouged eyes, torn scrotums,
splintered collarbones, and fractured skulls.

Just your little old average pair of mitts . . .

They floated in front of my eyes now, snapping the
cards down on the poker table's green felt top. Roantis said nothing.
He took a drag of his cigarette and a long pull from his tumbler of
straight Scotch, then looked up.

"Wanta play gin?"

"No."

"Wanta drink gin?"

"No. I'll have Scotch."

"Then do it, Doc. I want to talk with you
anyway."

"Liatis, are you ever going back to your wife?"

He shrugged his shoulders. They were average size,
not a prizefighter's shoulders. He snapped a card down and grunted. I
poured a linger of Dewar's and lighted a Punch corona. I cut a second
cigar for Roantis and gave it to him. He balanced it neatly on the
lip of the ashtray so it would be ready when he finished the Camel.
The hands and arms were rock steady. He didn't appear drunk at all.
How, I don't know.

"Do you mind staying here until two?"

"Nah. I'll stay as long as the booze holds out.
Sorry about that little scrape, too. The guy asked for it, though.
Didn't help the party, did it?"

"Well, it was about closing time anyway. Listen,
I'm in trouble with Mary —"

"I know. Wanta split for a while?"

"Where?"

"A small country I know. Nice. You'd like it."

"Hmmm. You know, Liatis, something strange is
happening. A year or two ago I wouldn't have given it a thought. Now,
I don't know . . . I just kinda feel like, like busting out of here.
I can't explain —"

"Don't need to. I know the feeling, Doc. Get it
alla time. I had a hunch you're the type who gets that feeling, too.
In fact, that's why I showed up tonight."

I was wondering what he meant by this when I heard
low voices coming from the kitchen. The kangaroo court was in
session. The only thing standing between me and Mary's wrath was
Roantis.

"Well, whatever brought you here, I'm glad
you're staying. Let's try to keep up a lively conversation. Something
she'll like. Then maybe she'll fall asleep. I know that if a certain
amount of time elapses, the possibility of violence will ebb. The
slow hatred will remain, but not the violence."

He leaned forward and looked me keenly in the eye.
Smoke dribbled out of his nostrils. He held my forearm in an iron
grip.

"Listen, Doc. I meant what I said just now. I
gotta talk to you. It's important."

Mary came in with a mug of coffee and sat down at the
card table, glaring at me in silence.

"Sorry," I said. And I was.

"You're not forgiven. And when Liatis leaves the
ax will fall. By the way, Liatis, thanks for belting that jerk. I
hated him from the start. Now, are you going back to your wife or
not?"

"Maybe, Mary. I don't know. How would you like
to hear a story?"

"About what?"

"What happened in Cambodia in 1969. If your
husband helps me, I think I stand to gain a couple hundred thousand
bucks."

"Why do you want Charlie to help?"

"Because he's good at tracking things down. And
he doesn't lose his nerve. I like him, Mary. I trust him too. I don't
trust hardly anybody, you know. Doc can handle himself, and he's
smart at figuring things out. Remember that fishing boat? He —"

"Stop!" cried Mary. "Don't even talk
about that!"

"Amen," I said.

Roantis took a pull of whiskey from the tumbler and
lit his cigar. He inhaled a deep drag of it, and I winced. It didn't
faze him; he let out the pungent smoke through his nose.

"Nice taste,"‘ he murmured. "Anyway,
Mary, if Doc can help me track down this thing, I'll give him half my
share of the loot."

"Loot? Liatis," I said, "did you say
loot? I'm not sure I like the sound of that word. And what is this
loot anyway, five pounds of uncut heroin?"

He shrugged his shoulders and returned to the game of
solitaire. It seemed the perfect game for him—a symbolic pastime
for this battered soldier of fortune.

"Wish I could say it was something else, Doc,
but it ain't. It's Siu Lok's loot. That's what it is. And it's mine.
Or mine and Vilarde's, f1fty-fifty, just like we agreed. Only trouble
is, I think Vilarde's dead."

Mary leaned closer during this brief recounting.

"Then there was old Siu Lok. Nice guy. A shame
they had to torture him. They took out their belt knives and skinned
him alive, right in front of his own wife and children. Took all the
skin off his head and chest. The villagers said later you could hear
him howl a mile away—and that's through jungle, you know. Sound
doesn't carry well through the jungle. And remember: he was an old
guy. But you don't want to hear all this."

Mary leaned still closer. She reached over and took a
sip from my glass.

"Who says?" she said.

"Huh?"

"Who says we don't?"

Roantis stared at the columns of red and black cards.
He swiftly mashed them into a pile, squared the deck, shuffled, and
proceeded to repeat the game.

"Stop that game and tell us, dammit! " said
Mary. I slipped him a wink. Roantis flipped cards and puffed on the
cigar. He could have been on Mars.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well why did they torture him? Who tortured
him?"

Annoyed, Roantis stifled a yawn of boredom.

"Who did it? Why, the Khmer Rouge of course.
They dint mind Siu Lok giving us the loot—hell, they dint even know
about the goddamn loot. But I tink they knew he was a river pirate.
'Cause he was. But they were mad he told us about them."

"The loot. What is this loot, Liatis?"

He dug out his wallet. It was a tattered and crusty
specimen made from elephant ear. He riffled through its contents: a
collection of foreign and domestic bills in all denominations, old
photo booth pictures of women (mostly Asians), membership cards of
various self-defense and martial arts clubs, and some old and folded
color snapshots until he found the item he wanted. It was a crinkled
color Polaroid picture. He spun it over the felt table to us. Mary
turned it upright and examined it.

"A statue," she said. "A golden
statue. Who is it, Buddha?"

Taking the picture, I saw a shiny yellow figure set
on a black velvet background. Underneath the statue was an embossed
placard that said BARCLAYS BANK, LTD., KOWLOON. It appeared to be an
official bank photograph, much like those taken by appraisers and
insurance companies. The statue had a Hindu look to it and seemed to
be a deity of some kind. It did not have the sagacious and placid
expression of the great Buddha, nor his rotund physique. Its face was
a fierce demon's, its stance a whirling leap, a frenzied fit of
passion, rendered immobile in metal.