Relic of Time (41 page)

“There's a bookstore called the Old Curiosity Shop. Just ask for it.”

“I'll get there as soon as I can.”

“You should be there before I am.” No need to tell Crosby he was already in the neighborhood.

“The Old Curiosity Shop. Who runs it, Little Nell?”

“Wait until you see her.”

After hanging up, Traeger had second thoughts, but then he had third thoughts. If he couldn't trust Crosby, he was in very deep doo-doo indeed.

“Were you talking to yourself in there?”

“A call from my partner.”

“I thought you were single.”

“An old colleague. He was working for Hannan before I was, but we were on the same job. Now that I'm missing, Hannan has brought him back.”

“To find you.”

“That's right.”

“You trust him?”

“I'll be careful.”

He thought of going as a jogger and checking out the bookstore to make sure Crosby had come alone. Any associates he might have would get in place early. But if Traeger jogged back and forth past that store, they would get more curious about him than the bookstore. Besides, he would be taking his backpack and joggers don't wear backpacks.

“Would you like me to ride shotgun?” Lowry asked.

Traeger thought about. He liked it. “You can go as you are.” He walked to where secondhand men's clothing was piled or hanging from rods. He picked an old gray sweatshirt and a tattered pair of jeans.

“Tennies will go nice with those.”

Anything but sandals. His feet were still sore from that trek to the border from Mexico City. Without a couple of truck rides, he would have been crippled. He found a pair of running shoes, huge, maybe a size fourteen. They felt nice and loose when he got them on. The bookstore was five blocks away, but they walked.

Lowry took up vigil on the bench near the Old Curiosity Shop and opened the book he had brought. He meant to read, of course, but in the circumstances the book seemed a prop. There were benches on the opposite side of the street, at intervals of twenty-five yards, shaded. The bench Traeger wanted was already occupied by a hawk-faced woman with orange hair and a malevolent expression. She watched Traeger watching her. He whispered to her.

“What?”

“Is that paint dry?”

She sprang to her feet, nearly losing her balance, and tried to get a look at her bottom. She appealed to Traeger. He shook his head.

“Why didn't they put up a sign?”

Her purse, on a long strap, almost touched the sidewalk.

“When did they paint it?” she demanded.

“God only knows.” Traeger sat down and brought out his cigarettes. She gasped as if he were a flasher. With his arm on the back of the bench, Traeger watched her stomp away, her purse swinging rhythmically. He lit his cigarette, got out his laptop, and put his backpack on the bench to discourage company. He found that he was in a Wi-Fi area and checked the news of the day. The
Drudge Report
featured his photograph under which, in caps, was written FUGITIVE. That picture was at least ten years old, but Traeger hadn't changed that much. He switched screens, checked his email, and found a message from Dortmund. “Watch your back.” Just that. He felt like the lady who thought she had sat on wet paint. He put the computer away.

Across the street, Lowry was supine on his bench, head on its armrest, hat pulled over his eyes. His open book lay on his chest. Some shotgun.

It was nearly two hours later that the car came slowly up the street, the driver leaning forward, scanning the storefronts. He went past the bookstore, parked, and sat in the car for several minutes before getting out. It was Crosby, in a suit and carrying a briefcase. He walked slowly past the bookstore to the bench where Lowry lay. At the sound of his voice, Lowry sat up and Crosby stepped back, all apologies. Traeger swung his backpack over a shoulder and crossed the street.

“Is this man bothering you?” he asked Lowry.

“Hello, Traeger. Now what?”

“We'll use your car.”

Lowry had a meal to prepare, so Traeger and Crosby went to George Worth's office to decide on a plan of action.

“You left by the window?” Crosby asked when Traeger told him about the encounter with Arroyo in Justicia y Paz. He seemed to be enjoying the narrative too much.

“Luckily I saw the parking lot filling up with police cruisers.”

Crosby liked it when Traeger told him of parking in the lot across the street and waiting for Arroyo.

“The hunted becomes the hunter.”

Traeger scowled. “But he got away.”

“Where is he now?”

“It's where we want him to be. That's where you come in.”

Traeger listened while Crosby made the call to Justicia y Paz and told them he had been hired by Ignatius Hannan to track down the rogue agent. He was told to hold. He took the phone away from his ear and held it out so Traeger could listen. Not Muzak to soothe the savage breast but “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” The door opened and Lowry came in, still wearing his apron. The guests were being fed.

“Will Crosby.” Crosby was addressing the phone, which was back at his ear. “Miguel Arroyo?”

Ah. Crosby again explained the mission he was on, insisting that he needed to talk to Arroyo.

“Where?” Crosby looked at Traeger, but Lowry took the phone from him.

“Miguel? Lowry. Here's my suggestion. Why don't we meet in Santa Ana, at Bishop Sapienza's? Of course I'll be there.”

He listened for a moment. “Right. Good.
Más tarde.
”

Lowry hung up the phone. “Neutral territory. I don't think he'd have agreed to come here. Besides, Santa Ana splits the distance.”

“Is he in San Diego?”

Lowry looked dumb. “I didn't ask.”

But he recouped by explaining the attractions of a Santa Ana meeting. “Arroyo thinks Sapienza is a fan of his.” The bishop, when Lowry reached him, said that he would be happy to host the great confrontation.

It was a half hour later when the three men set off for the rendezvous in Santa Ana.

When Traeger asked Lowry if the Catholic Worker house could get along without him, he said, “George Worth is coming back.”

Lulu found an item on Zenit announcing that the resignation of Emilio Sapienza, bishop of Santa Ana, California, had been accepted by the Holy Father. The bishop was quoted as saying that he planned to spend his remaining years serving the poor more directly than he had been able to do as bishop. She read it aloud to Neal, who was lying on the bed in their room in the El Toro, and he just grunted in reply.

But Lulu was so excited that she forgot all about their first real argument. What in the hell had Neal been up to out here? Every floozy in the bar acted as if she knew something Lulu didn't. Neal's indignant reaction when she mentioned this made it clear that something had been going on.

“Catherine seems pretty chummy, Neal.”

“So was the wife of Bath.”

“Is that a confession?”

“Lulu, sweetheart, you're not wearing your stole.”

“What did she wear? If anything?”

“The wife of Bath? A terry-cloth robe.”

“Have you been naughty, Neal?”

If he hadn't been, why did he get so angry? He wasn't going to be quizzed in this way, God damn it. If she didn't trust him, what kind of a marriage was this anyway?

“That's what I'm trying to find out.”

“Why didn't you just ask her when you had the chance?”

“Because I already knew the answer.”

He stormed out of the room and Lulu went into the bathroom and cried. But it didn't come easily; she had to force the tears, putting her face up close to the mirror and trying to see herself as a betrayed wife. Rosita, who did the rooms, probably knew everything that went on in this crummy motel, but Lulu could not bring herself to question the woman. Instead, she called the desk and asked if Myrna had checked out, knowing that she had.

“Myrna.”

“I don't know her last name.”

There was humming on the line and then, “Myrna Bittle? She's no longer staying with us.”

“Darn. When did she check in?”

“She checked out.” The clerk became audibly less cooperative. “Is there something wrong?”

“Good heavens, no. How many days was she here?”

After a pause, the clerk said, “Five days.”

“That's what I thought. Thank you.”

Myrna, thin as a rail, who seemed never to have learned how to smile? She tried to imagine it. She couldn't. Catherine, now, well, Lulu knew the type. But Catherine was staying in Jason Phelps's house. Lulu went back to the bathroom, rinsed her face, put on some lipstick, and went down to the bar. Neal was in a booth, glowering.

“Can I buy you a drink, handsome?”

“Ask my wife.”

“She says it's okay.”

She sat next to him and bumped him over with her bottom. “I have a confession to make.”

He looked warily at her.

“While you were away? I don't know what came over me, Neal. It was a regular orgy. There were three or four of them.”

“Let's go back to the room.”

Afterward, exhausted, he napped, but Lulu couldn't get to sleep so she got up and logged on and found the item on Zenit. She was still researching when he awoke.

“I am going to do an article on that man, Neal.”

“Definite or indefinite?”

“Sapienza, Neal. Think of it.”

Neal thought of it. Of course he knew how Sapienza had distinguished himself from the other bishops as soon as he was installed in Santa Ana. He had sided with the migrant workers in every dispute; he had marched; he had spoken out. But every time he was written up there was mention of Disneyland and Busch Gardens and that diminished the impact of the story, as if Sapienza were engaging in California radical chic. Neal began to respond to her enthusiasm. He sat up. He got dressed.

“You're right. What in the hell are we doing here?”

“Messing around.”

“We can do that anywhere.”

Sapienza looked ten years younger, slapping around the house in huaraches, a big billowy shirt of a half dozen colors, and khaki pants. He even looked slimmer, but that was probably the shirt. He greeted them as if he had been expecting them. He showed them the letter, his face aglow. It read like a form letter, of course, and was signed + Hector Padilla, OSB. Congregation for Bishops. But at the bottom of the page, in the same ink as the signature, was a little addendum. “You have been an example to us all. God bless you. We must get together soon.”