Leon Uris (21 page)

DENVER—EARLY 1980
s

Bloody secrets! Bloody lies! The church, the ranch, his parents, the whole goddamned valley seemed to conspire.

This was far worse than losing Greer Little. Greer never betrayed him. He had seen truth in Rita. But what the hell, Quinn thought, he had been away at El Toro Air Base shagging the ladies, breaking hearts. She couldn’t make promises to him, for there were no promises to be made.

But Carlos? Hot and deliberate. Aimed to gore him! Why hadn’t she come to him with this before the wedding? Why did it have to be a part of the goddamned secrets and goddamned lies?

Reynaldo Maldonado returned from Cuernavaca after Rita had fled. He was shocked and hurt almost as deeply as Quinn.

“Sorry it took me so long to get here,” Mal told Quinn. “I made a couple of stops along the way.”

“Did you find her?”

“The day before yesterday she went to Carlos in Houston.”

Mal watched his son-in-law shudder.

“Apparently, she arrived in bad shape. Shewouldn’t see me. Quinn, I had no idea they were carrying
on. When a woman deceives, she can carry it off so smoothly. Only, she got caught in her own web.”

“I thought she loved me more than this,” Quinn said.

“She does, beyond all reason. Don’t jump on me. My throat is dry from the salt from my eyes.”

“What kind of destructive logic consumed her with the notion that she had to become a writer to atone for a sin she never committed?”

“If anyone is responsible, I am. I should have seen it coming,” Mal said.

“Why didn’t she tell me? Why Carlos?” Quinn cried.

“Desperation from warped logic. Confusion. Quinn was the Quinn she could never really have. Carlos was the Quinn who loved her.”

“Stop it right now. I don’t want to hear his fucking name, right? I’ve got nasty images in my head. I could kill him.”

Mal unearthed his hash pipe. He found a bottle for Quinn.

“Rita grew up surrounded by dozens of drawings and wire figures and polished marble of her mother. Every pose of Mimi sang out that she was perfection. I remember Rita trying to imitate her mother. Maybe it all made her feel inferior to Mimi. When Mimi died, Rita wanted to supplant her mother in my heart. I couldn’t paint or sculpt her, and that probably cut her even more deeply.”

Quinn poured. Mal puffed.

“Then came a never-ending parade of women. What was I searching for? My dead wife. Poor Rita, always in an adjoining cabin on a cruise while daddy, next door, was banging some rich widow or some adulterous married woman. I didn’t even see her growing away, tucking herself in a corner writing poetry. Soulful, deeply hurt. That’s why I found Troublesome
Mesa, so she would gain her self-respect.”

Quinn poured himself a neat double and closed his eyes. After he had gone off to the Corps, he had tolled up the difference in their ages. It was not the number of years that counted. When a young man in Troublesome getting urges, Rita was still a little girl in the second grade. When Rita blossomed, Quinn was at the university, engaged in his flame-out affair with Greer Little. When he went into the Corps, Rita was just beginning Wellesley.

As his image of Rita had grown in the semi isolation of the RAM unit, she had crept into his mind more and more. He equated it at first with missing the mountains. He was Colorado. She was Colorado. He looked forward to her letters and photographs. Yet he continued to correspond with her as he would a younger sister.

In a full, rich moment Mal had told Quinn what he had not seen. Rita was a glory among women, and she had waited for Quinn patiently. By the time of their marriage, he had begun to realize how deeply Rita had woven herself into his fabric.

“She’s my daughter,” Mal said. “I have to go to Houston and see what I can do.”

Quinn nodded his head that he understood.

“I’ll probably have to reach Carlos. Will she ever be able to come back to you?”

“No,” Quinn answered. “As for Carlos, if I see him, I’ll blow his face away.”

Siobhan broke her tour off and rushed back to Troublesome. She immediately grasped that the only thing she could do for Quinn was to leave him alone and be there, should he ask for help.

The ranch and other business had backed up so badly that Juan Martinez had to seek the boss out.
When Juan entered the ranch office, he had to contain his shock at Quinn’s appearance. Quinn settled on the other side of the big partner’s desk and emptied his briefcase.

“These checks have to be countersigned,” Juan said. “The new fencing along Silver Alley Creek looks very good. I want you to inspect it before I order more.” He studied a paper. “I don’t like the Mountain Feed bid. I’m for sending ten or twenty head to the feed lot and see if we aren’t spending too much per animal.”

Quinn studied the propositions, rubbing his beard and catching Juan’s eyes piercing him. “I guess I look like ten miles of dirt road,” Quinn said.

“Fifty miles,” Juan said, “after a thunderstorm.”

Quinn managed a smile as Juan rolled a cigarette, biting on the label of the drawstring to close the sack. A few of the Marines on the RAM team had rolled their own.

“Anything else?” Quinn asked.

“A lot else,” he retorted. “Siobhan and I have taken care of everything we can without you. So, what’s it to be?”

“I’m bleeding, man,” Quinn rasped, “valley of deceit, valley of lies, present company exempted. You don’t lie, Juan. I have lied for the honor of the Corps.”

“That’s not lying.”

“You’re his brother, you tell me, Juan.”

“I certainly sensed something was happening. But I don’t spy on my brother. It was none of my business. You had kept Rita longing for you for far too long. It happened in a moment when they were free. Now? Jesus, I don’t know. He is my brother, and I must come down on his side. The Martinez family is ready to leave the ranch.”

Quinn felt himself sinking, deflated.

“Carlos could not resist Rita. He can’t now,” Juan went on. “Even if it meant betraying you. You were younger than him, but you were his hero.”

“Why? Carlos did everything better than I. Macho, fists, sports, women, guitar strumming.”

“Carlos,” Juan interrupted, “worshiped you because of the quiet way you stuck to your ideals. You would not let the gringos and Mormons gang up on any Mexican kid. When Carlos ran away and took your father’s car, it was you who stood between Carlos and the sheriff. And your father came, and you made him take Carlos back.”

“Funny,” Quinn mused, “for years I thought of Dan as another Archie Bunker.”

“Dan was reactionary as hell,” Juan said, “but he was a man of principle. He not only gave us a good life but he made us belong in this valley.” Juan picked up on Quinn’s desire to keep talking. “What is it, amigo?”

“Carlos could have said no.”

“How could he resist Rita Maldonado? Look, there are very few of us who know about this.”

“I don’t give a fuck who knows,” Quinn snapped. “One by one the valley unearths its dirty little secrets.” The delayed punch of Juan’s possible leaving the ranch hit him now. “Where would you go, Juan, what would you do?”

“My parents are enjoying their old age, except for the aches and pains. As for me, there’s enough in the Martinez kitty for me to start up a small ranch.”

“Does the idea appeal to you?”

Juan hesitated. He stood and his spurs jingled.

“How do you feel about it, Quinn?”

“I want you to stay,” Quinn answered, and rose from his chair. He gave Juan a big
abrazo
.

“This is my home,” Juan said.

“You did the right thing by not ratting on your
brother.”

*  *  *

Denver had a nice flow to it. It was not a glorious or dynamic city, but it was friendly and had lots of elm trees. The O’Connell condo on Chessman Park afforded a lovely view to the state capital and the foothills into the Rockies.

Being the state capital and a town of Western tradition, there were always circles of lively ladies about.

Quinn eventually took up with Helena Baxter, a sharp CEO of a Denver-sized public relations firm. She was twice divorced, with no children, and a pleasant and striking companion. They went into an “easy does it” relationship. It grew in warmth as six months passed since the disastrous night. Helena knew the ache in Quinn was dimming but would never totally go away. She was great about it, made him start to feel good about himself again. He reacted to her kindness with kindness of his own.

In the beginning Mal saw or called Quinn often. There wasn’t a lot of information about Rita. He saw her only once in six months. Quinn buried his loss in his vault, and Mal seemed to grow more distant. With Quinn in Denver a good part of the time, they grew somewhat as strangers to one another.

An aging showed in Reynaldo Maldonado’s eyes, and his work was hovered over by dark angels.

A moment of truth came with startling speed and completely unexpected. Quinn and Helena were at the breakfast table, checking the papers, making calls, trading little nothings when the lobby desk buzzed.

“Morning, Mr. O’Connell. Someone to see you. I sent him up.”

Quinn knew. He pulled himself together. His
doorbell insisted. Quinn opened it and looked into the eyes of Carlos Martinez. Carlos entered without invitation, took a pistol from its inside holster, and placed it on the pass-through kitchen counter.

“Oh, my God,” Helena cried.

“No, no,” Carlos said with a barely audible voice. “I leave the pistol in your hands, Quinn. It is loaded. Kill me, or otherwise speak with me.”

Quinn took up the weapon, opened the chamber, took out the bullets, and put them in his pocket. He set the gun down and turned to Helena.

“We’ll be all right,” Quinn said.

Helena looked from one to the other. Carlos lowered his head and nodded in confirmation.

“I don’t think I’d better leave.”

“No, we’re going to be fine. I’ll call you at your office in about fifteen minutes.”

“Uh-uh,” Helena said. “I’ll wait in your study.”

She bussed Quinn’s cheek, glared volcanic at Carlos, and retreated, leaving the door slightly ajar.

“Nice lady,” Carlos said. “Can I take my coat off?”

“Sure, sit down.”

Carlos stared blankly through the big sliding windows. “For a lawyer I’ve lost my golden tongue,” he mumbled. “Let me try to get out what is shuttered in me as best I can.”

Quinn nodded.

“First, Rita is all right. She is all right. Better, much better.” He asked for water and sipped. “I must let you know how much I hate myself—”

“Save that shit.”

“All right, all right,” Carlos answered. “Then let me go point blank. When she arrived at my place in Houston, she was in a bad way. Hysterical, incoherent. A bad way. Yes, she had phoned me. Yes, I told her come to Houston. I sent away my fiancée and
told her not to come back. I’m not going to lie to you, Quinn. You can’t hate me any more than I hate myself. I, uh, was in exultation that Rita was coming, in exultation. It overwhelmed any sense of decency, and sense of honor—”

“Save the shit!” Quinn snapped. “I
know
how you’ve suffered.”

“She was in a bad way. For the first days she was under sedation and watched ’round the clock. I travel a lot.”

“So I hear, a regular traveling laundry.”

“I’d be a septic tank for the fees I am paid. My point is that Rita had care day and night and the best professional help in Houston. I’m not going to try to lie to you, Quinn. I did this for me, Carlos. My desire for her has always been unbalanced.”

“Fuck it, get out, Carlos, before one of us gets killed.”

“No,” Carlos said.

Quinn felt Helena’s hand on his shoulder. “Let him speak,” she commanded.

“No.”

“Look at him, Quinn. He’s already a walking dead man. You’re not far behind. Let him speak.”

Quinn fell into an easy chair and stared at the carpet.

“Rita was awakened from her bad dream. For a time I was so thrilled by her restoration. But then, without sinking back into madness, she also began to die. Every day, every night. She wished for death. She does not love me, Quinn. I love her almost enough to try to keep her, but I love her too much to see her die.”

“Got a bundle of hot cash,” Quinn spat, “on your way to some quaint little offshore island. Offshore Martinez. Cash Carlos. Cocaine cash Carlos offshore Martinez.”

Helena realized that her days and nights with Quinn might be fast coming to a close. Thank God, she said to herself, she had not lost her soul to him. All that could be heard was their grunting breaths.

“We knew we couldn’t live with it anymore,” Carlos croaked. “Her head is clear now. She is very much on top of things. She called Mal a few days ago for him to come down to Houston.”

Quinn passed through the French doors to the balcony, easing back from his rage. A thousand sighs were released in a single sigh. He could not form words. Helena did. “Does Rita know you’re here?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Helena winced. Damn the lonely nights without that man.

“I’m fucked up now,” Quinn rasped. “The ebb tide and the high tide are ripping through my middle. Didn’t she know this would kill me?”

“She was sick. She is more well now than I’ve ever known her,” Carlos said.

“I’m not the only guy in the world who’s gotten stiffed. So what’s the proffer, what’s the tender? Lose my dignity—forgive? Can I set eyes on her again?”

“That’s up to you. Rita and I can’t go on together. Send her away if you must. Mal will be close by.”

“Can you?” Helena asked.

Quinn burst apart, sobbing. “I want children with her. I want to go to my end with her. It’s no time for mendacity. Maybe I can find forgiveness. I don’t know.”

Carlos knew what was coming, yet he took it bitterly. But Carlos was of Mexican stuff, and he had betrayed his friend and it would claw at him forever.

“Will it ever come to pass that you’ll forgive me?”

“We are men, Carlos. We are different from a man and a woman. I could not forgive you if you committed
treason or committed a hate murder or raped. Your crime is…not even a crime, yet there was a single moment in all of this it could have been prevented. You could have said no. I would have said no. Men who love each other cannot betray that trust. That’s worse than death.”