The Daisy Ducks (6 page)

"You mean the kid who almost died after that
barfight in the Combat Zone?"

"Naw. Dis was before that. Down in Southie. And
a li'l more serious too, because the guy did die. I was told not to
leave the state, so I couldn't leave even if Ken wanted to. So that
was that for a year. Finally, last fall, he was back in Washington.
We were all set to go just after Thanksgiving. Then he disappeared."

"He was still in the army?"

"No. He left the army after the Afghan thing.
Part of it was, I think, he got divorced. He was kinda down on his
luck in general. Anyway, he called me from Washington. He said he was
going to fly up here and meet me. But he never showed up. I called
and called the number he'd left me. I got no answer and later a
recording saying the number was no longer in service. I even called
Rosie—looked her up where she'd remarried out in LA—and she
hadn't heard from Ken in almost a year. So where is he, eh? That's
what I need help on."

"Let's see: you and Ken Vilarde put your golden
Siva friend in that safe deposit box a long time ago. Over ten years.
I can't believe that neither of you has made a move for it."

He placed his palms against the edge of the table and
shoved back until he balanced the chair on its rear legs. He seemed
to chuckle to himself silently.

"Well, for starters, the round-trip airfare from
Boston to Hong Kong is over two grand. Think about that. That's a big
stumbling block right there. And remember, we still don't know how
much we can get for the Siva. It may not be more than about twenty
grand. But . . . I think the odds are that we can get a lot more for
it. Another thing is, I'm the kind of guy who lives in the path of
least resistance. A bed, a broad, a bottle, and a roof over my head
is all I want. Wait: you can skip the roof. Up until now those were
my only goals. So I know that if I did get the money back in
seventy-two or seventy-six or something, I'd just have blown it. I'd
drink and party every night. Buy fast cars, travel, lend money to
other broken-down old soldiers. I could promise you—promise
you—there would be nothing left today. But now there is. And now
something's come along that I really want. There's a building for
sale down in Quincy that I could make into my own martial arts
school."

"And leave the Union club?" asked Mary.

"Yeah. I got a lot of friends there I know, but
the pay's lousy.

In my own club I could do what I really like and
maybe even make some bucks. Most important of all, maybe I could
finally make something of myself besides a broken-down old soldier.
Maybe I'd finally want more than just a bed, broad, and bottle, you
know? My son's fifteen now. I want him to go to college. I need the
money now. I want it. It's mine."

"And Vilarde's."

"Yeah. His too. If he's not dead."

"You think he is?" asked Mary. "And if
he is, then why ask Charlie to help find him?"

"I think he's dead because he's not here, ready
to fly with me to Kowloon to pick up the piece. He wanted that bread
as much as I do. So where is he? I've contacted army friends, called
his wife . . . I've reached a dead end. I don't know where to go
next. Now, I've seen the way Doc can track down things, Mary. He's
good. And if you help me, Doc, half` my share's yours, whatever the
piece brings. If it turns out he's dead and I get the whole thing,
then you get half the total."

I stared down at my coffee cup. Tan-white swirls of
cream spiraled in its center, like a miniature galaxy.

"No," I said. "If you want, maybe I
can get some of my policemen friends to do some digging for Ken
Vilarde. But as for me going snooping around a bunch of paratroopers
and mercenaries, helping you find your partner, no way. I'm sorry,
Liatis. But I've used up all the survival luck I have during that
last caper."

"Listen Doc: that's why I want you. You got guts
and brains. You got what it takes."

"Not anymore I don't. There's nothing like
getting beat up and shot at and almost killed to make you have no
more guts left. Now are you going to call Suzanne and tell her you'll
be spending the night?"

Mary shot me a glance that both questioned and
accused. But noon she was convinced of the wisdom—the necessity—of
not having Liatis attempting to drive all the way to Jamaica Plain or
around the block, for that matter. We offered him the guest room but
he declined, saying it was too much trouble. He flumped down on the
porch sofa, explaining that he had enough antifreeze in him to forgo
the blanket Mary brought him. She left it by his side anyway. He
nestled down into the pillow and asked if he could borrow my Browning
nine-millimeter auto pistol for the night.

"Get serious. There won't be any intruders here.
This is Concord, not Jamaica Plain or Roxbury."

"I'll just sleep better with it. Habit I guess.
If I don't have it in my hand or near me I'll keep waking up."

So I trudged upstairs and took the piece from its
hiding place in the bedroom, removed the loaded magazine and flicked
out all thirteen rounds, checked the breech, replaced the clip,
decocked the hammer, and took it downstairs. I saw Roantis standing
in the dark, looking out the window again. I handed the pistol to
him. I knew he would know instantly if the magazine weren't in place,
but I wasn't counting on the fact that he could tell by simply
hefting the gun that it wasn't loaded.

"Don't trust me, eh?" he said, his eyes
crinkled up in a mischievous grin. "Sure, I can tell by the
weight. I can tell by the weight if half the rounds are gone. Now
when you go get them I can go to sleep, okay?"

"This is dumb, Liatis."

"Please Doc. Force of habit. I do it every
night. You can ask Suzanne."

When the piece had been loaded Roantis placed it on
the coffee table inches from his face, closed his weary and bloodshot
eyes, and began to breathe deeply. He made no noise as he slept. He
did not snore heavily like so many people—myself included—who
have been partying. He was silent and motionless, his left arm bent
and hand near his head, ready to reach out and snatch the pistol in
an instant. Was this grotesque bedtime ritual a habit, a preference,
or the indelible hallmark of the long-range boonie stalker?

I went up and joined Mary in the sack. She was
already asleep. I nudged her, then put my arm around her and began
nuzzling her neck. But she drew away, turning her head. Unusual. Was
she still angry, or was it something deeper? I felt a cold shudder go
through me. I suddenly felt a gap widening between us, cold and
desolate. I hadn't felt it before, ever, and it scared me.

This would not make sleep easier. Nor would the fact
that Liatis Roantis was asleep on the lower floor. Asleep and no
doubt dreaming of pleasantries like laser-guided bombs, victims
flayed alive, and a golden dancing god guarded by thick steel doors
and inscrutable Chinese.

And the rest of the Daisy Ducks . . . Where was that
glorious gaggle now?

Perhaps I'd breathed too much smoke from Roantis's
funny cigarettes, but I had an unforgettable dream that night. It was
filled with vivid sound and laced with bright color. I was in a
lifeboat in the North Atlantic, watching the sinking of the Titanic.
In my dream, for some reason, the ship was our home. Mary and I had
lived aboard her for twenty years together. The lights on the ship
were still twinkling as she dove slowly down into the icy blackness
in a roar of rushing water. The moon was out, and icebergs were
floating by. Mary was on one of them, talking to friends. She did not
seem concerned and was enjoying herself. I yelled at her and waved my
arms, but she never turned her head. Bright colored lights shot up on
the horizon. The northern lights. Mary watched them, laughing and
smiling with her friends on the ice Hoe. I beat my hands against the
cold as the ship went down. I was crying. Mary was laughing. Whales
leapt and snorted in the dark. The moon was bright. I called and
called, but Mary and her friends drifted farther and farther away.
Then the tears were frozen on my face.
 
 

3

WHEN I AWOKE, the world was looking razor blades at
me. It was not going to be a nice day.

Fuzzy-tongued and with ringing head, I rolled over to
look at Mary, who stared at me with big brown eyes.

"How do you feel, Don Juan?"

“
Okay."

"Bullshit. Close your eyes before you bleed to
death."

“
Mmmmm."

"Now we must get rid of your hunter-killer
friend downstairs, then finish cleaning up, then —"

"Stop. Not so fast. I've got to slide into this
day obliquely—if I hit it head-on it'll kill me. Now we'll just
quietly amble downstairs with our fuzzy bathrobes on. Put on soft
music. Soft. Then sip a bloody mary and some coffee. Then we'll take
a long sauna bath followed by a cool shower. Then we'll do it again.
Next, we'll have our deli brunch of lox, bialys, cream cheese and
tomatoes. Then I'll run four miles. Slowly. Can't do six today, but
four in this cold air will help. Then it'll be time for the opera
broadcast. Today it's
Tannhauser
.
Finally the playoffs at four-thirty —"

"Wrong. We're going down and cleaning up the
kitchen.

You're doing the floor. Then you've got to clean the
gutters. Remember, you were going to do it last week?"

Her words struck me like ringing swords. I huddled
down under the covers again and wished it weren't so.

"Seriously, how do you feel?"

"I feel like I'm inside a painting by Hieronymus
Bosch."

"Oh dear. You mean those weird pictures that
show people being pecked apart by giant birds? And imps hatching out
of giant eggs? And people with flowers stuck up their butts?"

"Uh-huh. That guy. And I don't like it one bit."

"Well it serves you right. You go around
fondling Janice's ass again and you won't have one of your own to
stick a flower up. Understand? Now get up."

We dressed and went downstairs to find a note from
Jack and Tony saying they'd gone into Boston and wouldn't return till
nightfall. That simplified the day somewhat, except it meant I had no
young co-workers to help me with the chores. The thought of hanging
on to a steep slate roof three stories high working on gutters did
not appeal. I ambled into the sunporch, expecting to see Roantis
supine on the couch. He wasn't. He was standing at the windows
peering intently out, sweeping his keen predator gaze to and fro like
a leopard on a limb.

"See anything you like?" I asked.

He spun around fast, then smiled.

"Naw. Morning Doc. Hey, you look like I feel."

We walked into the kitchen and he snagged a St. Pauli
Girl from the refrigerator, downed it, and poured coffee. He chased
that with a slug of neat malt. Roantis never missed a beat. He winked
at us and kept pouring, then retired with his breakfast to the card
table, where he proceeded to roll more cigarettes with my pipe
tobacco. When he'd lighted up he took the deck of cards, shuffled it,
and began to play solitaire. It was as if we'd never gone to bed. It
was surrealistic, like a movie by Antonioni. It stunk.

We had the sauna bath and deli breakfast. When we'd
finished the pot of coffee, Roantis put on his fleece-lined leather
flight jacket, wadded up a huge pair of leather mittens and stuffed
them into the inside breast pocket, thanked us for the hospitality,
and apologized for the rough stuff the previous night. He mentioned
his offer of the hundred grand again, quite forcefully. If I could
help him locate Ken Vilarde and get the piece, a big share of the
loot was mine.

"Think about it, Doc. No hurry. I'll wait even a
week. Bye Mary. You sure been great to this old man." He kissed
her on the cheek and she hugged him.

I said I'd walk him to his car. We went out into the
cold December morning. It was gray and gusty, with newly formed ice
on the paths. We walked carefully along the brick path that runs by
the side of the house to the front. From there you can look down the
hill in any direction, to the gardens and orchards in back, or Old
Stone Mill Road and the big orchard and woods in front. It's a pretty
view, even in winter. We danced nimbly along the front walk, avoiding
the slickest ice patches. A stone wall runs along the bottom of the
yard, with a gate in the middle. We walked through this and out onto
the road. There is no sidewalk. Roantis's car was a good forty yards
away, parked against the wall. He had arrived late at the party. It
was an old maroon Dodge with big splayed tailfins. It seemed odd and
unfair that a man who'd continually risked his life for America over
a twenty-year period should have to drive such a wreck. Then again,
most of his personal and financial problems had been brought on by
the lifestyle he'd chosen. I looked again at the old car: a bent coat
hanger for a radio antenna. Two crumpled fenders. Trunk lid ajar and
wired down. Rocker panels rusted clear through. Yeah, Roantis needed
dough all right.

Still, looking at the crumpled, rusty wreck, I
couldn't help feeling a little envious of this broke and battered
soldier of fortune. Sure, I had a nice family, big house, beach
cottage, nice practice, community respect—all the things one is
supposed to want and to work hard for. But possessions are chains,
and I envied Roantis's free-wheeling life. Who else could take off to
a small country for a month on a moment's notice? Who else of my
acquaintances went through life doing what he damn well pleased,
answering to nobody? Only Liatis Roantis.