Relic of Time (28 page)

She tugged gently at the ends of his mustache. “And you have placed your bet?” She sounded disillusioned. Earlier, she had been shocked when he dismissed the whole legend of Our Lady of Guadalupe as unimportant.

“Unimportant! Jason, people are shooting one another over it.”

“It is not a religious war. It is not a war at all.” He thought of Miguel Arroyo, for whom it was all political, a matter of power. Spokesmen for the people always long to be the people's masters.

George Worth was another matter. Jason had long been sty-mied by Dorothy Day, who was the inspiration for what Worth was doing in Palo Alto.

“Are there many workers in your soup line, George? I mean on the receiving side.”

There was little pleasure to be had from twitting the young idealist. Let him go on ladling out soup. Like Dorothy Day, he was completely devoid of politics.

And then one morning Catherine had answered the door and come back to the study manifestly upset.

“It's a reporter.”

“I have no appointment with a reporter.”

“He wants to talk to me. About Lloyd Kaiser.”

“So talk to him.”

“Please send him away.”

Her reaction interested him. He urged her to talk with Neal Admirari.

“I've already talked to his family.”

“So his daughter tells me.”

“Is she a friend of yours, too?”

“I only met her once.”

“At Lloyd's funeral.”

“Yes.”

“The daughter, Judith, was very touched by your being there.”

“I was not there for her sake.”

“His loss must have been hard on you.”

“Why are you asking me such questions?”

“I explained. I am writing a book about the theft from the basilica in which Lloyd died.”

“Are you interested in all the victims?”

“Lloyd was an American. The only one killed. That is what piqued my interest.”

“What has that to do with that missing picture? Isn't that what your book is about?”

“One needs an angle, Catherine. Lloyd is my way into the story.”

What an annoying man he was. No, she was annoyed, but he was not particularly annoying. Persistent, yes. Attractive in a way. Staying with Jason made her aware of how much younger Neal Admirari was. Her own age. Well, somewhere in his fifties. And he had led such an interesting life. He had begun the interview in a disarming way, ticking off the things she had done, then alluding casually to the years he had spent in Rome.

“Are you Catholic?” she asked.

“Should I show you the secret handclasp?”

He held out his hand, took it back, extended the other, his right. Was he left-handed? There was no wedding ring. Lloyd had been left-handed, as was she. She took his hand, smiling.

“Is there a secret handclasp?”

“Surely they taught you that at Saint Helena's.”

The parish in south Minneapolis where she and Lloyd had grown up, where they had attended the parish school. The girls had worn uniforms, blue skirts and white blouses with “Saint Helena's” embroidered on the pocket. The boys had worn blue slacks and white shirts and ties that were always askew. Somewhere she had a class picture, sixth grade, all of them at their desks, artwork pinned above the blackboard on the back wall. Some of the class had to stand along the side wall so the photographer could get them all into the picture. Those seated at desks had their hands flat upon it, thumbs and index fingers touching. “Make a Christmas tree,” Sister Rose Alma had told them. Catherine had been in a front seat, because she was small. Lloyd was among those standing.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Why would a good Catholic girl be staying with the notorious Jason Phelps?”

“Did I say I was good?”

If they were anywhere else, sitting in a bar, say, she could imagine his almost pleased reaction leading on to more. The thought in turn pleased her. She had always known she was attractive to men; she had grown older but that had not stopped. Oh, the age of the men increased, as did hers. She thought again of Jason and realized that she did not want Neal Admirari to guess that she slept with Jason. What a circumlocution, “slept with.” Of course, Jason did fall asleep immediately afterward and she would slip away, feeling like a concubine. That was the etymology of concubine, wasn't it? One who sleeps with. Sharer of the bed. She had first read of concubines in Pearl Buck.

“Do you know Pearl Buck?”

“No, but I know a silver dollar.”

She laughed. He was fun. Did she ever laugh with Jason? “We were talking about your book. You are writing a book, aren't you?”

“Contract signed and sealed. A decent advance.”

“What's an indecent advance?”

“I could show you.”

Her laughter brought Jason into the room. Of course he was surprised. She had been so fearful about talking with Neal Admirari and here they were laughing and having the time of their lives.

“You should offer your guest something to drink,” Jason said.

“Why don't you join us?”

He sniffled. “Time for my nap.”

Neal Admirari had risen to his feet when Jason appeared. Now he crossed the room, introduced himself, and put out his hand.

“Watch it, Jason,” Catherine warned. “He'll give you the Catholic handshake.”

Jason looked at her and then at Neal. “I never heard of that.”

“It went out with Vatican II,” Neal told him.

“Maybe it will come back. Like Latin.”

“I've read everything you've written,” Neal said.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

“I mean the polemical stuff.”

“You'll be a better man for it.”

Jason gave a little wave then and left them. She could hear him slowly ascending the stairs to his room. If Neal Admirari were not here, she would have been following him up. She felt that Neal had spared her that.

“
Would
you like a drink?” she asked.

“Do you ever get away from here?”

“What do you suggest?”

He suggested the motel in Pinata where he was staying. There was a bar. How long had it been since she had been out of this house? She had come through the town when she first arrived. It hadn't looked like much.

“Can I go as I am?”

He inspected her. “You look wonderful. They may ask for your ID, however.”

He helped her to her feet, held her hand for a beat too long, and then they went out to his car. It was like going on a date, with Daddy in bed upstairs.

The motel was called the El Toro and there was a bullfighting motif in the bar where they ordered margaritas. When she licked the salt on the rim of her glass she watched him watching her. He lifted his glass.

“Olé.”

“I knew his sister Teena.”

They laughed. After a sip she told him of the statue of Ole Bull in the park above Minnehaha Falls.

“A toreador?”

“A violinist. Norwegian, I think. Minneapolis is a very Scandinavian town.” She told him of
svenskarnesdag
. And once she had seen Prince Harald when he came on a visit. “Where did you grow up?”

“Who said I have?”

It
was
a date. All the patter she had used in her sexually active days came back, the zest that meeting someone new always brought, wondering what would happen next and not really wondering, knowing that it was up to her. Of course that was out of the question now, wasn't it? On the third margarita it seemed inevitable. Would she like to see his room? She gave him a long thoughtful look and stood.

“You can show me the Catholic handshake.”

After she undressed and slipped into bed, it was of Lloyd Kaiser she thought, not Jason.

Smiley and Steltz were standing by, flight plan filed, plane fueled, off to a final Giants game before the departure. Traeger had rented a U-Haul and he and George Worth had been several times to the basilica considering the job they had to do. It did not seem that complicated, except for the size of the image and the awe to be felt in bringing it down and packing it in the foam crate. Don Ibanez, for all his devotion—perhaps because of his devotion—was now anxious to have the image returned to Mexico City. The old man was not given to any display of feeling, but Traeger sensed his anxiety. Traeger himself was struck by the fact that, quite by accident, he was about to fulfill the mission he had undertaken for Hannan. There had been frequent calls from Empedocles, monitoring progress.

“You'll get a bonus for this, Traeger.”

“How will I know? We never settled on my pay.”

“Let's just say you'll be happy.”

It seemed an odd suggestion from the zealous Hannan that money would make him happy.

Traeger had decided against telling Dortmund what was planned. There were too many involved already for peace of mind, but it was not a transfer that could be a one-man operation. He could wait for Dortmund's reaction when the deed was done.

The only fly in the ointment was Neal Admirari, who had come to the hacienda to consult with Frater Leone. They went off to the basilica and, half an hour later, Admirari returned with a springy step.

“You're Catholic, aren't you, Traeger?”

“You taking up a collection?”

“You wouldn't have taken a job like this if you weren't.”

Admirari did not of course know what was planned. Traeger wished the reporter would hit the road.

“I thought you came out here to talk with Catherine Dolan.”

“Wonderful woman.”

“If you say so.”

“You got something against her?”

“Not that I know of.”

Admirari seemed about to say something, then apparently changed his mind.

“Was she of much help?” Traeger asked.

“What do you think of Jason Phelps?”

“I don't know him.”

“Has it ever occurred to you how much he looks like Don Ibanez?”

“No.”

“Think about it. I wouldn't say twins, but close.”

“The mustache?”

“The height, too. And age.” He paused. “Phelps is an odd duck.”

“Catherine seems to like him.”

Admirari looked away. Why didn't he go away? The last thing needed once they got going was a reporter in the vicinity.

Later, talking with the returned Don Ibanez in his study, a thought occurred to Traeger.

“You already had a copy of the image in your basilica, didn't you?”

“Of course.”

“Which was replaced by the original?”

“That's right.”

“What did you do with it?”

Don Ibanez smiled. “Jason Phelps has it.”

“Phelps!”

“Not that he realizes it. When Clare was helping him, I asked her to get Phelps's permission to store something at his place.”

“The image.”

“A copy,” Don Ibanez corrected. “A very exact copy.”

“So why wouldn't he know he has it?”

“The foam container we have prepared for the transfer, it is modeled on the one holding my copy. As soon as the original is packed, we will retrieve the copy and put it in place.”

“Who will help?”

“Frater Leone, although it will break his heart not to have the original here. And Carlos, if we need him.”

“Carlos?”

“The gardener. Carlotta's father.” Carlotta worked in the hacienda.

“And Tomas.”

“Oh, Tomas would not be of any help. He has a very narrow notion of what a driver may and may not do.”

Frater Leone, the monk, was an old friend of Don Ibanez, who described him as “my spiritual director.” Traeger hadn't seen much of the priest. He pretty much kept to himself. Of course he said Mass every day in the basilica and sometimes came to meals in the hacienda.

“Like me, he is preparing for death,” Don Ibanez said.

Who isn't? Not in the way Don Ibanez meant, perhaps, but who could ever drive completely from his mind the thought that at any moment he might die? In Traeger's case, that thought had usually been accompanied by the violent means that might bring it about. He didn't like to brood, that never helped, but in planning the transfer of the original to Mexico City he was aware of all the ways the plan could go wrong.