Nerve Damage (18 page)

“Excellent coffee, Roy,” said Cal Truesdale.

“Thanks,” said Roy.

They sat on stools in the big room, steam rising from their mugs. Truesdale glanced at Roy's cast.

“Quite the hockey player in your college days, I understand,” he said.

“Krishna tell you that?”

Truesdale smiled. “I'm a big fan of hockey.”

“Yeah?” said Roy. Truesdale's accent somehow cast doubt on his own statement.

“'Course I've never even had ice skates on my feet,” Truesdale said. “Football was all we played when I was a boy—six-man football in the bitty little schools like mine. So I came to hockey late in life.”

“In what way?” Roy said.

“Got involved with the National Hockey League,” said Truesdale. “For my sins.”

“How?”

“By acquiring a piece of the Stars in a moment of madness,” Truesdale said. “A fifty-one percent piece.”

“Who needs more?” said Roy.

Truesdale laughed, a sharp, sudden bark. “My goodness,” he said. “You're one of those artists with a head for business.”

“Far from it,” said Roy.

“And modest to boot.” Truesdale twisted around so he could see
Delia
. “But there's turning out something like that and then there's a head for business. Different magnitudes entirely—puts things in perspective.”

“I don't know,” Roy said; that kind of talk made him uncomfortable. “People exaggerate the differences be—”

“Think of it this way,” said Truesdale, facing Roy. “No one's going to settle for fifty-one percent of
Delia
. They'll want it all.”

“The thing is,” Roy said, “I'm not so sure about selling it.”

Truesdale shook his head. “Oh, boy,” he said. “I'm in the briar patch now.”

“What do you mean?”

“And how you soft-pedal that business sense,” Truesdale said. “Seldom seen it done better. So I'll save us both time and effort by giving up on the spot and confessing straight out that two hundred and fifty grand was just my opening offer.”

Roy laughed. “It's not the money,” he said.

“You're good,” said Truesdale.

“I mean it,” Roy said. “This isn't a ploy.”

“Anyone says that,” said Truesdale, “what's my very first thought?”

“Ploy,” Roy said.

Truesdale leaned across the space between them, gave Roy a friendly punch on his right arm. Not hard, and his good arm, so there should have been no pain at all.

“My kind of guy,” Truesdale said. “Knew it the moment I laid eyes on you.” He rose, walked around
Delia
. His voice fell, almost like he was talking to himself. “For the sake of argument,” he said, “if it's not a ploy, then the obvious question comes to mind—is there a real Delia, maybe, to explain your reluctance?” He took a sip of coffee, his silver-blue eyes watching Roy over the rim of the mug.

“No,” Roy said.

Truesdale nodded. “A striking name, though,” he said. “What made you pick it? If I'm not being a nosey parker, to use one of my mother's favorite expressions.”

“Mine, too,” Roy said.

“You don't say,” said Truesdale. “Is the good lady still with us?”

“Yes.”

“Glad to hear it,” Truesdale said. “My own mama's long gone, of course. But now let me guess—yours is named Delia.”

“Edna,” Roy said.

“And does mama live somewhere close by?”

“Florida.”

“Whereabouts, if you don't mind my asking?”

“Sarasota,” said Roy.

“Very nice,” said Truesdale. “I had an aunt Edna long ago. Terrible battle-ax. Leathery old wranglers on the ranch trembled at the sight of her. Been down to Texas much, Roy?”

“A couple times.”

“Ever on a working ranch?”

“No.”

“Then consider this an open invitation to come visit with us.” He took a notepad from an inside pocket, scribbled on it with a gold pen. “Here's my personal number.” He came over, handed it to Roy. Looking down—Roy finally realizing that most of his height advantage came from his boot heels—Truesdale said, “So, what's the secret of
Delia
?”

The radiating pain from that friendly little punch began to recede. Roy felt normal again, or close. “No secret,” he said. “She was my wife.”

“Divorced?” said Truesdale. “Say no more. I'm on my fourth.”

Divorced from Delia? That would never have happened. Could there have been a better marriage? Plus they'd been starting a family, Delia three months pregnant. “No,” Roy said, “not divorced.” He heard the anger in his voice, regretted it at once: how would Truesdale—this rich and powerful admirer, fan even, probably being shabbily treated right now from Krishna's point of view—know things like that?

“She died,” Roy said.

“I'm sorry,” said Truesdale.

Roy nodded. “It was all a long time ago.”

“Still,” said Truesdale. “I'm very sorry.” He glanced at
Delia
. “How long ago?”

“Almost fifteen years.”

“Have you remarried?”

“No.”

Truesdale nodded, as though piecing things together. That annoyed Roy—a fan, but also a collector, possibly a connoisseur, making connections between the life and the work, and doing it right in front of him.

“I wouldn't read too much into that,” he said. But he couldn't help remembering:
You got damaged, too—like it deadened some nerves, deep inside
.

“Oh, no, never,” Truesdale said. “Just getting to know you, is all.” He made a steeple with his hands, spoke quietly. “How did she die?”

“In a plane crash,” Roy said.

Truesdale gazed up at those twisted blades on
Delia
. “A helicopter?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Hate the goddamn things,” Truesdale said. Roy waited for him to say something about his own helicopter and the high meadow, but he did not. Instead he said: “Where did it happen?”

“In Venezuela,” Roy said.

“A beautiful country,” Truesdale said. “I have some interests there.”

“Pineapple plantations?” Roy said.

Truesdale looked surprised. “A shrimp-processing plant and some warehouses,” he said. “Why pineapples?”

“It's a long story,” Roy said.

“I have time.”

“How well do you know the country?”

“Venezuela? I've been going there off and on for forty years.”

“Travel much in the interior?”

“Some. What's this about?”

Where to begin? Roy didn't know. But here was someone rich, powerful, connected, a best buddy of the president of the United States, for God's sake, the two of them hunting together on the Truesdale Ranch: When would he have another chance like this?

“Tell me about the pineapple industry in Venezuela,” Roy said.

“Don't know what to say,” Truesdale said. “They grow pineapples.”

“Is it traditional?” Roy said.

“How do you mean?”

“Forty years ago, for example,” Roy said, “when you first started going there—did you see a lot of pineapple growing?”

“Ah, I see,” Truesdale said. “Now that you mention it, I don't recall seeing a lot of pineapple growing back then, no.”

“And now?”

“Now, yes. You see pineapples.”

“When did the change happen?”

“Hard to pinpoint,” Truesdale said. “I'm not down there that often. In the last five or ten years, if I had to say. But I wouldn't take an oath.”

Roy thought about that. Delia's pineapple project made no sense if Venezuela had already been a big cultivator, as Dickie Russo said; made total sense if it hadn't been, as Truesdale said. It didn't add up: What was he missing?

“Does that help you any?” Truesdale said.

“I'm not sure,” said Roy.

Truesdale leaned forward, touched Roy's knee with the tips of his long fingers. “Mind telling me the significance of these pineapples?”

Roy took a glance at those silver-blue eyes. The skin around them, darkened and creased by the southwestern sun, crinkled in a friendly, down-home way. “Delia was on a mission to get Venezuela to grow pineapples when she died,” he said.

“And you want to know if the mission ended up succeeding,” Truesdale said, “as a lasting tribute? A very moving sentiment, Roy.”

“That's not exactly it,” Roy said.

“No?” said Truesdale, sitting back, taking his fingertips off Roy's knee. “Then I'm in the dark.”

“Have you ever heard of the Hobbes Institute?” Roy said.

Truesdale's eyes shifted in thought. “Can't say I have,” he said. “How are you spelling that?”

Roy spelled it.

“Nope,” said Truesdale. “What is it?”

“The think tank in D.C. where Delia worked,” Roy said.

“Don't know that world at all,” Truesdale said.

“But you know the president.”

Truesdale laughed. “I like you. I really do. Know the president? Sure—known him for the best part of thirty years, back when he was VP and even before, when he was nothing but a wet-behind-the-ears congressman from the dustiest district in the state. But let me ask you something, Roy—run across many politicians in your life?”

“None.”

“The truth about politicians,” Truesdale said, “career-type politicians, especially after they've been around for a couple decades or so, is that you can't know 'em. Any idea why?”

“No.”

“'Cause they're unknowable—that's one of the most important things I learned in my career, helped me in ways you can't imagine.” He leaned forward. “By then, Roy, twenty or thirty years into a life in politics, they got nothing left inside to know. What's not sold and bartered just got pleased away.”

“Pleased away?” Roy said.

“Something an artist like you wouldn't know about,” Truesdale said. “Politicians are pleasers, first, last and always. Got to be.”

Was that true? “But the president—any president—has already made it to the top,” Roy said. “Can't they ease up on the pleasing part?”

Truesdale laughed, a single short bark. “You're thinking Washington and Lincoln,” he said. “Pretty clear that those days are long gone. We're in a late Roman phase, just scratching and clawing to hold on.”

“Hold on to what?” Roy said.

“Why, global power, naturally,” said Truesdale. “And the wealth and influence that comes from it.”

Roy knew nothing about any of that. What would Delia say now? What wouldn't he have given to hear her opinion? But he had a rough idea. “Delia's work was all about spreading the wealth,” he said.

The skin around Truesdale's eyes went crinkly again in that down-home way. “Was it really?” he said.

“That was the whole purpose of the Hobbes Institute,” Roy said.

“Ah,” said Truesdale. “And the Institute was sponsoring this pineapple project?”

“It was Delia's idea,” Roy said. “But yes.”

Truesdale twisted around again to gaze at
Delia,
almost as though she exerted gravitational force. “Can't tell you how grateful I am for your time, Roy,” he said. His gaze went to those twisted blades near the top. “I understand so much better now. It all adds up.”

Four months to a year: maybe Dr. Chu's cocktail would work, maybe not, but time wasn't on his side. Was he getting anywhere on this whole question of the Hobbes Institute? No. And here in the room sat the kind of man whose calls got returned, who could make things happen fast. Any negatives? Not that Roy could see. He came to a decision.

“Actually, Cal,” he said, “it doesn't add up.”

Truesdale's eyes stayed on
Delia
. “Oh?” he said. “How not?”

“This is going to sound strange,” Roy said.

Now Truesdale turned to him. “Care to guess my age?” he said.

This was like the temperature in Florida: best to aim low. Roy went with the same number he'd picked then. “Sixty-eight.”

Truesdale smiled. “All that does is show you're still a young man. The young have trouble with the big sunset numbers. I'm seventy-nine years old, Roy, be eighty come July. And when you've been around that long, nothing's really strange anymore.”

“Then maybe you can figure this out,” Roy said. “The Hobbes Institute seems to have disappeared.”

“Gone defunct, you mean?”

“That's what I thought at first,” Roy said. “But it's more like it never existed.”

“How's that?”

“Take the building itself, for starters,” Roy said. “I went down there a few weeks ago, hoping to find some of Delia's coworkers from back then, and—”

Truesdale held up his long index finger. “Why?” he said.

“Why?”

“Why did you do that?” Truesdale said.

Roy was silent.

“What got you interested after all these years?” Truesdale said.

Dr. Chu, mesothelioma, sarcomatous, unresectable: and all those other Latin words: did Roy want to get into any of that? No. “She's been on my mind lately,” he said. He recognized the truth of that as he spoke, a truth that had its own identity, separate from the Hobbes Institute problem.

“Of course she has,” said Truesdale, gesturing toward
Delia
. “Go on.”

And neither was it just the work. But Roy had no time to figure it out—figure out why Delia had been stirring inside him—because now, as an honest man, he was in the kind of situation where he didn't do well. Leaving out the Dr. Chu part meant leaving out the obituary part, too: the
New York Times,
Richard Gold, Jerry, even Sergeant Bettis. But the abridged version he stumbled through still included plenty: the Consulate of Greece; Tom Parish denying he knew Roy; the vanishing room behind Wine, Inc.; Roy's belief that Lenore had entered his house; and Skippy, out there somewhere, maybe having spotted Lenore and Westie and maybe in danger. Truesdale listened without saying a word or making a sound. Nor did he move: those silver-blue eyes, on Roy the whole time, barely blinked. Even when Roy came to the end, he didn't speak for a moment or two, maybe more.