Wag the Dog (59 page)

I
N THE MIDDLE
of making my installation the nanny comes back with Beagle's son. Hawk and then Dennis both warn me—whispers in my ear.

I decide to stay and do what I came to do. I've walked into hooches in Vietnam in the middle of the night, killed everyone inside, walked out without waking a soul.

There are five separate tape recorders. Fortunately, they're labeled. Bedroom, living room, dining room, reading room, bedroom 2. While I'm there, one of them comes on briefly. The living room. The nanny is passing through with Dylan. She tells him that it's a nice bottle and he will have a nice little nap, yes he will. She sounds like she knows what she's doing.

I tap into three of the lines. I put in broadcast units. Maggie's house is close enough to be the listening post. When I'm done, I use the directional microphone again. I can hear Dylan sucking on his bottle and the nanny murmuring to him. Then her breathing gets heavy and I think she's napping too.

I get out without any problem. Then the three of us make our way back. It's six miles as the crow flies, nine miles by road, about the same cutting cross-country if you don't want to be seen. We cross the road onto Maggie's land below a curve that hides us from U. Sec.'s watchers.

I send Dennis back to L.A. He has some business there. I don't need him for the moment. I keep Hawk, Steve, and
Martin. I'm going to spend my time with headsets on. I won't delegate that to anyone except Maggie. I don't even tell the three guys what I'm doing or what I want. If they can guess, that's fine. If they can't, that's fine. Their job is to patrol the perimeter. To make sure Taylor's people don't get in. To protect Maggie. We have sufficient firepower for almost any nonmili-tary situation. Not that I expect anything to happen. The way I figure it, it's my move.

L
ISTENING TO PEOPLE
, for the most part, is boring.

Surveillance is boring. Waiting in ambush is boring. It doesn't bother me. I'm good at doing nothing, having nothing happen. It makes me a good soldier, a good P.I. Whenever I do need a break, Maggie listens for me.

John Lincoln Beagle and Jacqueline Conroy seem to be making a go of it. She's acting real sweet. I say that to Maggie, that the gossip we've all heard in L.A. seems wrong. Maggie laughs at me. “She's faking it,” Maggie says.

“I don't think so,” I say.

“She's a terrible actress. If I ever have to play a terrible actress, I'll do what Jacqueline Conroy does.”

I figure Maggie is being a little catty.

I'm certain I'm right that night when I hear them make love. Maggie wants to listen too. I hook up a second set of ears. We lay in bed and listen together. They even make love twice. Maggie is certain that she's right.

Martin is very impressed with Hawk. I can see him comparing Hawk to his father. The fancy clothes, the attitude, the whole thing. He's also very impressed with Maggie and this rich white people's world. I don't think about that shit much most of the time, but he is Steve's son and when I count on my fingers the number of people I trust in the world, I don't get much past Steve.

The next day Jackie and Line snipe at each other a little

He's playing with the kid and showing him things and he's enjoying it. In small doses with the nanny to help. I don't know about child raising. I think it's a woman's thing. They have patience and a different kind of love. I know I'm not supposed to think that, but I was raised by my father and it was shit. It wasn't even that he didn't know any better, it was that his makeup couldn't do any better, even if he wanted to do better. It just wasn't in him. The patience, or whatever it is that women have.

Line's surprised at how well coordinated the kid is and how well he communicates, though all he says is “dis” and “wus” and howls almost to bust a microphone when he doesn't get what he wants. It's a happy surprise. You could use him in a Dad commercial. But Jackie, she uses it to nail him. That he wouldn't be surprised if he spent more time at home. If he spent more time with his only son. With his wife. This is a common song that women sing about men. Maybe she's right. I don't know how much time a man is supposed to spend at home. If Maggie gets pregnant and we have a child, are we going to sing this song?

But then they get past it and go back to sounding good together. Not like new lovers but not like they're going to get divorced tomorrow.

At dinner Line tells Jackie that he's happy that they're trying and it's working and he thanks Jackie. “I love my son,” he says. “And I loved you. We lost our way. I'm sorry. It's partly my fault, I know. We can find our way back. To loving each other. I'm starting to feel it.”

“Thank you for saying that,” Jackie says. “It's important to me too. How things work out between us is very important.”

There's silence for a while. I hear some small sounds. I can't figure out exactly what they're doing, then I realize they're smoking some reefer. Jackie giggles. Line makes some smug noises. They leave the room. I pick them up again in the bedroom. Jackie urges him to take another toke. “I'm going to
make this special for you. I'm going to put you in orbit.” A little later she says, “No one knows you like I know you, John Lincoln, and no one can make love to you like I can.” I only have audio, not video, but I think what she does is tie him up and then start to tease him and rub his body with oils. She announces that she is going to take a long time, so I ask Maggie to take over and I go downstairs and brew some fresh coffee. When it's done, I go back upstairs with cups for both of us and some brandy too. “This is very strange,” Maggie says, “listening to them like people listened to us.”

“Is it?

“Yeah, we made some mistakes.”

“We did?”

“We were too aware of the microphone. This is much more . . . incoherent. And boring. Those tapes we made, those are exciting. I bet there's a whole underground market for them.”

“Does that bother you?”

“If they were real, maybe it would.”

“It really doesn't?”

“That's what I do. I show parts of my body. I make orgasm faces and orgasm noises. That has to be included in the act. The trick is . . . ”

“What?”

“I don't know. I've done different things at different times. I've always wanted to do the Jane Fonda scene. From
Klute.
Where she looks over the guy's shoulder at her watch.”

“Why? Is that the truth?”

“If it were, would that confuse you?”

“Yes.”

So Jackie does the kind of number on John Lincoln that you dream about getting in a good Bangkok whorehouse with the beads and the whole thing. And when he does make it, Beagle screams. A real howl. It's pretty impressive. Then there's silence for a long time. He's in outer space, floating. When he comes to, he says so, and how amazing it is.

Then he says, “What's this?”

“You have been served, John Lincoln Beagle,” Jackie says. Which is what you're supposed to say when you serve papers on
someone. We assume that she has just done so. It would be a comic scene if we could see it.

“Huh?”

Maggie's cracking up. She doesn't have to say, “I told you so.”

“I'm divorcing you.”

“What?”

“Do I have to spell it out?”

“Wha . . . Why? . . . I thought . . . Dylan . . . What . . . you just did.”

“I wanted to be sure you knew what you were missing.”

“Jackie—”

“Go to hell, John Lincoln—”

“What'd I do wrong?”

“What did you do wrong? What did you do wrong? Where the hell have you been for six months? Huh?”

“Working.”

“On what?”

“A movie.”

“What movie?”

“You know I can't tell you.”

“Well then, you know I can't be married to you and you know you can't see your son.”

“Can we talk about this in the morning?”

“Talk to yourself in the morning. I'll be gone. As will your son. And if you try to stop us or interfere, I will have you arrested for assault.”

“Come on, come on, I'm not gonna assault you.”

“Bye.”

“Wait.”

“What?”

“What can I do to make it right?”

“I don't know what the hell you've been working on, but is there a part in it for me?”

“Well, no, but—”

“Of course not—”

“Jackie—”

“That's OK, you don't have to put me in your mystery movie. But did you ever think of anyone but yourself? Did you
ever pick up the phone to your friend Hartman and remind him that one hand washes the other. That if you want to put some other bitch in your movie, which is fine by me—-you don't direct women very well, do you? That the other bitch's husband or father or whatever, might find a role for me?”

“What I've been working on—”

“So go to hell.”

“If you understood—”

“Just remember, to see your son—”

“—what I'm really doing—”

“—you better be very, very nice—”

“—is reality. I'm planning a real—”

“—and very generous.”

“—thing. A real thing.”

“A real thing. Great,” Jackie says.

“I am. A war. A real war.”

“Just like a divorce.”

Beagle picks up the phone and dials. “I'll prove it to you.”

“Hello?”

“Kitty,” Beagle says.

“Do you know what time it is?”

“I want you to remember . . .” Jackie says.

“I don't know,” Beagle says. “You have to go to the office.”

“Now?”

“Now,” Beagle says.

“I want you to remember what you're missing.”

“It's after eleven,” Kitty says. “It's eleven-eleven.”

“You have to go right now. In my desk . . .”

“And I want you to remember that what you're missing, the next guy is getting.”

“Hold on,” Beagle says. “I'm gonna prove it to you. I have a secret memo. Just wait . . . Kitty?”

“Yes?”

“Good-bye,” Jackie says.

“In my desk. In my personal drawer.”

“Your personal drawer . . .”

“Yes. In Correspondence. In letters from my mom.”

“Letters from your mom?”

“Yes. You'll find a memo. It says ‘YEO' at the top. I want you to go to the office and fax it here.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now.”

“Yes, sir.”

She hangs up.