A Deadly Shade of Gold (41 page)

Talavera got up quickly and walked away. He went about fifty feet and stood with his hands locked behind him, staring at Toro Peak.

"The poor twisted son of a bitch," Paul said softly. "He thought you would want to try to kill him. If it's any consolation to you, McGee, you took a perfectly legal authorized official bullet in the back. I have my little sources. The gentleman who plugged you broke his cover by doing so.

He was assigned to infiltrate Doctor Girdon Face's organization. He had the idea that Face was using Tomberlin's dirty pictures to extract contributions for the cause. When he found there was a fire aboard, and saw you running with sacks, he thought the fire was a coverup, and you were taking off with the files and record. It upset him because he was on the verge of getting a search warrant. Even though I... do a little work on the side for the same organization, I am glad that stuff got burned. It shouldn't sit in government file cabinets."

"Pablo," I said, "now that we know where Tomberlin stands, I get confused by this relationship with Dr. Face."

He gave a latin shrug. "Why should you be confused? Reasonable conservatism is a healthy thing. But that kind of poisonous divisionist hate-mongering Face has been preaching is one of the standard Communist techniques. If you create a radical right, their vicious nonsense pushes more people toward the radical left. Then-when fear pushes people into violence, or silence, the comrades enter and flourish. My friend, any way that they can make Americans hate Americans helps the cause. They would like to make Rockwell stronger too. That is the heart of contemporary propaganda, amigo, to strengthen ignorant terrible men who believe themselves to be perfect patriots.

"Now Tomberlin's other activities begin to seem most curious too. Suppose there are three groups of Cuban exiles eager to hurt the Castro regime. Two are plausible, sane and orderly.

One is reckless and wild and dangerous. Tomberlin strengthens the dangerous element, thus dividing the cause. Perhaps he is under orders. Perhaps he is merely a dilettante. The effect is the same."

Ramon Talavera came back to the group.

He sat down and studied his knuckles and said, "I can promise one thing. I can make them understand that Rafael's program was so effective, it had to be stopped by them, one way or another. When they understand that, they will take heart. It will all be organized again, stronger than before. I promise that."

"Count me in," Connie said. "Count me in this time."

Talavera smiled at her. "Of course. I will squeeze money out of you, Senora." The smile was gone abruptly. "And there is that one small thing left unfinished, Mr. McGee. I would have thought, when you had the chance... "

"I had no taste for it. Not after that girl."

"Of course. But I have made a personal vow. I shall not please myself by doing it myself. It was no pleasure, actually... that other time."

"It never is," Paul said gently.

"That man did not beg. I wanted him to beg. He merely fought. I think this might be a good time. While that man is still in the hospital. There is some sort of rupture of the diaphragm which they wish to mend. He has special nurses, of course. If one became busy on other matters, I believe a replacement could be arranged."

Connie shivered, though the sun was hot. "Shall we drop it right there?"

"Of course, Senora. Forgive me. I was merely saying that it is not remarkable when persons die in a hospital." He turned to Paul. "I will need help to continue Rafael's project. There can be money for staff salaries."

"Let's talk about that while we're driving back." Connie walked off with Talavera. Pablo grinned at me.

"So the adventurer has the woman and the gold and the healing wound, eh?"

"Thanks for the help. The place and the doctor. And the nurse."

"A little money was needed. I found it in your wallet and in your belt."

"Let's not say it's all roses, Paul."

"I did not imagine that it was. Is it ever? You add things in your mind and wonder where you are, and where you have been, and why. But you have much woman for a nurse, my friend.

Sometimes a woman is a better solution than too much thinking. No one has yet tamed this one.

But it is amusing to try, eh?"

"Are they looking for her?"

"Not seriously. What will you do now?"

"Mend. Send her home. Go back where I came from."

He shook my hand. "Goodby. I think you have done some good around here. I do not think you meant to do it. I think it was incidental to the gold. But some people will think of you with gratitude. Kiss Nita for me. And tell Raoul he is an ugly fellow."

I heard their car leave. Connie came back. She sat on the blanket again, cocked her head, stared at me and sighed. "Your eyes look sad, querido."

"I was doing some forlorn mathematics. Sam, Nora, Alma, Miguel, Dru, Boody Rafael, Enrique, Maria, Manuel. Ten. And three to go."

"Three?"

"Carlos Menterez, Chip Fertacci, Calvin Tomberlin. Thirteen, Constancia."

"And almost you, darling. Two inches to the left, and it would be you too."

"But who are the good guys and who are the bad guys?"

"Darling, death does not make those distinctions. With your pale pale grey eyes, perhaps you are an angel of death. Perhaps you are the branch that breaks, the tire that skids, the stone that falls.

Perhaps it is not wise to be near you."

"You can leave."

We glowered at each other, her eyes golden slits, her big mouth ugly, the cords of her neck tautened. She broke first, saying, "Ah, you are incredible. I have four and a half million of your dollars, and here I am cooking and sweeping, carrying wood, pumping water, making beds.

Doesn't anything impress you?"

"Gentle, courteous, humble women always impress me favorably."

She stalked off, but as she went around the corner of the cabin I heard her laugh.

The veterinary's assistant came just at dusk the next day. He expressed delight. I did not give a damn about his delight. He removed the drains, pulled healing edges more closely together with criss-crosses of tape, provided separate and smaller bandages. I felt like a sad sick dog. I wanted no part of anyone's care and attention. When I went down into sleep, broken women grinned at me. Almah, Nora, Dru. And there were other faces, standing behind them, fragments of older memories, all grinning at their personal angel of death.

She went out with the little doctor and talked for a long time in the night before he went rattling down the slope in his old car. When she came in she was thoughtful, absent-minded. I put a jacket on and sat in the old rocker on the porch while she cooked. She called me and we ate in front of the fire. A silent meal.

While she was cleaning up, I went back to bed as was the custom, after using the back lot privey and brushing my teeth in the out of doors.

I lay with my back to the room and heard her getting ready for bed. She flipped my blankets up and slid in with me, fitting herself to my back, naked as a partridge egg.

"I didn't realize my teeth were chattering," I said.

"Perhaps mine are."

"What the hell is this, Connie?"

"I had a long talk with that nice little man. He couldn't help noticing how morose you are. I told him that some very bad things had happened, and you thought they were your fault, and you were brooding about them. He said there is a certain depression which one can expect as an aftereffect of shock and weakness. I proposed a certain antidote for his consideration. He was dubious. But he is a very practical little man, and I am a very practical woman. There is one
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thing, Senor McGee, that is the exact opposite of death. Now turn over here, darling."

That big husky vital woman was incredibly gentle. I don't believe that at any moment I bore more than five pounds of her enfolding weight. I do not think she expected anything for herself, but at the final time, she gave a prolonged shudder and sighed small love words in her own tongue and, after a little space of time, rested herself sweet beside me.

"Angel de vida," she murmured, "de mi vida."

I held her close, stroked that silver head, her curls crisp to the touch, damp at the roots with her exertions, her breath a sighing heat against my jaw and ear. It made me remember something from a long time ago, visiting the zoo man who had the half-grown lioness for a house pet. She had come to me in a tawny stalking, bumped the great beast head against my thigh, made a furnace sound of purring, huffed that hot breath of carnivore, demanding that this stranger scratch her ears and ruffle her throat fur, tilting her yellow eyes at me in a kind of mocking amusement at this charade we played.

"Happier?" she whispered.

"Bemused."

"Sleep now, and we will awake singing. You will see."

"You'll stay here?"

"From now on, querido. For whenever and however you want me. I was not designed by the gods for an empty bed."

Twenty

THE TEMPTATION Was to stay there too long. I pushed myself to the limit each day. At first it was shockingly limited. A mile of walking, a few simple exercises, and I would get weak and sweaty and dizzy. When I had begun to improve, she left me alone for two days, went back to the city, and came back in the gunmetal Mercedes, bringing more clothes for herself, many gifts for me, games and exercise equipment and clothes and wine and target weapons. And she brought news.

Chip Fertacci was being sought for jumping bail. After a minor hernia operation, Calvin Tomberlin had died in the hospital of an embolism. The day after she returned, I went with her in the grey car to Palm Springs and brought back the jeep she had left there at the airport.

We had no visitors. We spread blankets and took the hot sun. She said it was foolish for her to do it, as she was already as dark as she cared to be. The hole in my back was healed first. I looked at it with an arrangement of mirrors, a shiny pink button, the size of a dime.

As I became fit again, able to split mountains of wood, jog my five miles up hill and down, do the forty pushups, and heartily service the lady, our relationship became ever more violent and disruptive. We brawled like wicked children over the competitive scores we made on our improvised shooting range, and she could yell Spanish obscenities that echoed in the stone canyons. Once in a fury over my comment about her having let vegetables boil dry, she sucker punched me with an enthusiasm which split her knuckle and caused my knees to sag. I upended
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her and walloped her rear, trying to get some yelp of pain out of her, but the only sound was my own roar when she sank her teeth into my thigh.

We took all the fierce and childish competitions of the day into the bunk at night, and there it became competition on a different level. I was sometimes fool enough to imagine I could sate her, and even managed to, a very few times. We had immediate and violent differences of opinion on everything from Freudian theory to how to cook beans. But there were the good times too, when something set off laughter, laughing until we wept, rocking and gasping, setting each other off all over again. It was good to laugh like that. It was another part of healing. I hadn't known laughter like that for years.

But we were tearing each other apart in the constant clawing for advantage. I have memories of her, naked by firelight, pacing back and forth, shaking her fist, yelling at me. Nobody sulked.

Nobody walked away. We fought every fight right down to the bitter finish, and they all ended in a draw. We learned each other well enough to learn all the tender places, to be able to draw blood at each encounter.

The symbol of the end of it was the sizeable wooden packing case I brought back from the town, along with a dime store stencil kit and excelsior. I got a big enough case so the size to weight ratio would not be unusual. I packed the thirty-four gold images, fastened the top on with wood screws, labeled it as marine engine parts and addressed it to myself in Lauderdale. I had about a hundred and seventy-five pounds of gold and twenty pounds of crate, and I took a childish pride in making the effort look easy when I swung it into the back of the jeep.

I took it down alone and shipped it out and got back in the first cool of dusk. It was a quiet and thoughtful evening. We finished the wine. In the night I missed her. I got up and put something on and went looking for her. I found her beyond the road, throwing the gifts and games and toys one by one down into the rocky gully, hurling them with great force, crying as she did so. It was foolish and petulant and very touching.

I held her and, in the wrack of sobs, she kept saying, "Why? Why?"

She was asking, I suppose, why she had to be the person she was, and why I had to be the person I was, and why it was impossible for us to find any way to be at peace with each other. She knew it was time to end it, and she wanted to end it, but resented the necessity of ending it. I led her back in and made love to her for the last time. I guess it should have been symbolic, or a special closeness or sweetness. But we had already lost each other. Our identities had been packed in separate crates, with the lids securely fastened. So it was merely competent and familiar, while our minds wandered. It had all been reduced down to an amiable service.

She was bright and cheerful in the morning. We tidied the place, buried the perishables and left the rest, stacked wood high and scrubbed the board floor. On the way down in the grey car, we did not look back. At Los Angeles International I found a flight that would leave for Miami in ninety minutes. I checked my luggage aboard and then walked her back out to her car. There was no point in her hanging around, and she showed no desire to do so.

After she got behind the wheel, I leaned in and kissed that indomitable mouth.

"Come around for the next incarnation," she said. "I'll be a better one next time."

"I'd planned on being a porpoise."

"I'll settle for that. Look for me."

"How will I know you?"