Running Dog (24 page)

He had visions of a mishandled investigation. They would fail to trace the rifle to its owner. They’d lose his autopsy report. Witnesses would move out of state, never to be heard from again. His funeral. A closed-coffin affair.

The phone rang. He watched Daryl start to rise. It rang again. Daryl came toward the table where Richie was sitting. He picked up the phone in a series of masterfully sullen movements, his face showing a blend of resentment and lingering obligation. Richie had doubled his salary on the way in from the airport and promised him a dune buggy with chromed exhausts for his birthday. This was in return for Daryl’s sworn allegiance, no matter what.

“It’s Kidder again.”

“What’s he want?” Richie said. “I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Same thing. A meeting.”

“I don’t have any can with any film. That’s all I’m saying. That’s the meeting. We just had it.”

“He doesn’t know anything about cans with films,” Daryl said. “He just wants to arrange talks. Someone’s coming.”

“Not here. They’re not coming here. Tell him the dogs.”

“He says outside is okay. He has someone he’s bringing.
Tomorrow, after eight sometime. Outside, inside, makes no difference.”

“What should we do?”

“Ask him who he’s bringing.”

“Ask him,” Richie said.

“He says no names available right now. A respected man in the field.”

“Ask him what field.”

“Too late,” Daryl said. “He hung up.”

Richie took a bite of one of the Danish butter cookies he’d carried back from New York. He pushed the container toward Daryl, who waved him off and headed slowly toward the sofa, his lean frame slumping. One of the dogs stirred, briefly, as Daryl dropped onto the sofa. The dogs were good dogs, Richie believed. Scout dogs. German shepherds. Trained in simulated combat conditions.

That was for break-ins. Close-quarter action. What about long range? There were bullets these days that went through concrete. On the other side of the parking lot and across Ross Avenue was the General Center Building. Excellent place for a sniper. Perfect place. He could stand on the roof and blast away, firing not only through Richie’s boarded windows but through the brick walls as well. He’d leave the rifle on the roof and disappear, confident that the police would smear his fingerprints.

It was a hell of a party. Loud. The Senator liked noise at his parties. Young crowd mostly. He liked having young people around.

He moved sideways through the living room, from group to group, smiling, barking out greetings, clutching the upper arms of men, gripping women at the waist. Maneuvering around the cocktail table he came across a woman who reminded him of a Vestier nude he’d seen in a private collection
in Paris—big-hipped, self-satisfied, status-oriented. An executive secretary.

Standing with her was a younger woman, much less monumental. Elbowing his way into the conversation, Percival wasn’t surprised to see her suddenly
actuate
—the eyes, the smile, the tense and hopeful and solemn delight. Being recognized would never cease to be one of the spiritual rewards of public service.

“You are,” he said.

Mouth moving.

“Museum. Fascinating, I would think.”

Noise music laughter.

Of course he’d
expected
to be recognized. It was his house and his party. Still, it was always interesting, watching people release this second self of theirs. Women especially. Becoming shiny little space pods with high-energy receptors. Percival believed celebrity was a phenomenon related to religious mysticism. That ad for the Rosicrucians.
WHAT SECRET POWER DOES THIS MAN POSSESS
? Celebrity brings out the cosmic potential in people. And that couldn’t be anything but good. What was the word? Salutary. That couldn’t be anything but salutary.

As the older woman, the Vestier, looked on, Percival led this mellow child to the short staircase at the other end of the living room. There they sat, intimate chums, with their drinks, on the next to last step.

“Now then. P’raps we can talk.”

“This is the really nicest house.”

“You were saying. Museum. You mentioned.”

“Where I work.”

“You’re associated with? Museums. I am passionate. Treasures, treasures.”

“The Medical Museum of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology.”

“Jesus Christmas.”

“Who did your décor?” she said.

“I did.”

“It’s so lovingly done.”

She was half smashed, he realized. Roughly his own situation. A Pakistani put his left hand on the fourth step, as a brace, then leaned up toward Percival, diagonally, to shake hands. Percival thought it might be Peter Sellers.

“I really like your programs,” the young woman said.

“I’m trying to think. Are you a Renoir? I see you as a little firmer. A Titian Venus. Not quite melted.”

“I am just so charmed by this whole situation.”

“Let me ask,” he said. “An important question. But private. Calls for outright privacy. Repeat after me. This question.”

“This question.”

“Calls for.”

“Who did the wallpaper?”

“Some Irishman with a crooked face
did
it. I selected the patterns.”

“It really. It shows so much obvious love and care.”

“Important, important question. Now wait. We need to ensconce ourselves. Because it’s that kind of question.”

“Ho ho.”

“Exactly,” he said. “Now follow me. How’s your drink?”

“My dreenk she all right, señor.”

He led her into the bedroom. She let her body sag to indicate awe. The canopy bed, the armoire, the miniature lowboy, the grain cutter’s bench, the cloverleaf lamp table, the mighty oak rocker.

“Sit, sit, sit.”

He found himself thinking of Lightborne. It may have been the sight of the phone. He’d been trying to call Lightborne, who had promised him a screening. They’d talked twice on the phone and Percival had disguised his voice, in a different way, each time. He was trying to figure out how to handle the screening. Lightborne had assured him it would be private. Still, there’d have to be a projectionist in the immediate
vicinity, and Lightborne would probably want to be present as well. How to view the footage without being recognized. Preceding that, however, was the problem of contacting Lightborne. Percival had been calling for two days. A disconnect recording every time. No forwarding number.

He sat at the end of the bed, watching her rock.

“You had a question, Senator.”

“Call me Lloyd.”

“I am so charmed by this.”

“You have an extraordinarily expressive mouth.”

“I know.”

“English-expressive.”

“I would like to ask, confidentially. Are you thinking of the presidency? Of running? Because I have heard talk. Young people find your programs extremely appealing.”

“No, no, no. That’s a dead end, the presidency.”

“I think you’d find young people very supportive.”

He watched her drink.

“I’m having trouble with the Titian concept,” he said. “Your mouth is so English. Do you know Sussex at all?”

“Tallish man? Wears striped shirts with white collars?”

“Call me Lloyd,” he said.

He got up and closed the door. He stood behind her chair, gripping the uprights, and rocked her slowly back and forth.

“Except the Sunbelt would be a problem,” she said. “You wouldn’t find a power base down there.”

The phone rang. He moved quickly to the side of the bed, realizing belatedly that it couldn’t be Lightborne, that Lightborne didn’t know who he was, much less how to reach him. It was his wife, back home. A picture came immediately to mind. She is sitting up in bed. Her face gleams with some kind of restorative ointment. All over the room are volumes of the Warren Report along with her notebooks full of “correlative data.” She is wearing a pale-blue bed jacket of puffy quilted material.

“What do you want?” he said.

“Wondering how you are.”

“Go away. Will you go away?”

“I am away.”

“I’m having a noisy, noisy party and I love it.”

“I don’t hear a thing,” she said.

“I’m in the bedroom and the door is closed.”

“Who’s with you?”

“Oswald was the lone assassin. When will you get it through your thick skull?”

“There’s someone with you and I don’t give two shits, if you want to know the truth.”

“She’s a girl with lambent hair,” he said.

“What else? Jesus, I mean what else would she be?”

“I’ll put her on.”

He carried the phone over to the rocking chair and asked the young woman to tell his wife where she worked.

“The Medical Museum of the Armed Forces Institute of Pathology.”

Percival took the phone from her and walked back across the room. This time, addressing his wife, he whispered fiercely.

“See what you’ve done to me?”

“I’ve done? I’ve done?”

“I have no patience with this kind of thing.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Lloyd.”

“It’s all been drained out of me.”

“What kind of thing?”

“I’m bone dry,” he said.

He went downstairs, circulated briefly and came back up with two fresh drinks. He stood behind her chair, rocking.

“Senator, you had a question.”

“It all started with a question.”

“I’m sure waiting.”

“Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

He swiveled the rocker a few degrees to the right so that she could see him, and vice versa, in the mirror over the
lowboy. He felt completely sober. He felt clear-headed to a remarkable degree.

“How would I look in a beard?” he said.

Ignoring the mirror, she glanced back over her shoulder, as though only the real thing, the three-dimensional Senator Percival, could serve as a basis from which to develop a mature reply. He was gratified to see she was treating the question with the attentive care he felt it deserved.

“Would you recognize me as Lloyd Percival if you saw me in a beard? Dark glasses, say, and a beard. If you saw me in an unlikely place. A more or less run-down area. Far from the splendor of Capitol Hill.”

Talerico walked through the arrivals lounge. He was wearing a vested suede suit and carrying a Burberry trench-coat over one arm.

He saw Kidder waiting in the baggage area. Definitely a type. They ran to types, these people with nine phone numbers and a different name for each day of the week. A man who looks pressed for time or money. A man who operates in a state of permanent exhaustion. He was probably no more than thirty years old. A shame. Fatigue was his medium by now. He needed it to live.

“Vinny Tal, how are you?”

“Head winds.”

“Twenty minutes late. But no problem. We drive down there. You talk to this Richie. Nice and smooth.”

“It’s arranged.”

“It’s more or less arranged,” Kidder said.

They went outside and got into Kidder’s bent Camaro. He started up, turned on the lights, and they moved off.

“Vinny, I want to ask. Frankly. What’s wrong with your face? What happened to cause that?”

“This woman I knew, about a year ago, threw lye in my face.”

“That’s awful. That’s awful.”

Lye.

“What for? Why?”

“I was so fucking handsome she couldn’t stand it.”

Kidder hit the steering wheel with the heel of his right hand.

“Shit, you had me thinking.”

“It was driving her crazy, just looking at me. She had the permanent hots. She had to do something. It was wrecking her life.”

“You had me going. Vin.”

“It always gets a reaction. The lye. It has that effect on people. Lye.”

The door on Talerico’s side squeaked. Something rattled around in the trunk. He was sorry he hadn’t arranged to rent a car. He owned an Olds Cutlass Supreme. He was accustomed to a measure of comfort. This thing here was a coffee pot.

“Let me ask. Vin. Ever been down here? Everybody has two first names down here.”

“I watch TV.”

“That’s in case they forget one of them. Which they aren’t too bright, some of them.”

“First time down.”

“I have to say I frankly like it. It’s humane. People walk around. They’re living.”

“We’re almost there, or what.”

“We’re still in the airport,” Kidder said. “This is the airport.”

The car made Talerico think of his youth. Six or seven guys piling into an old Chevy. Chipping in a quarter each for gas. It was depressing to think this Kidder rode around in the same kind of car. This Kidder here.

“What kind of harassment up there? They harass people in Canada?”

“You have the FBI. I have the RCMP.”

“Which means what?”

“Which means they can kick in my door any time of day or night.”

“That’s Russia.”

“My ass, Russia. There’s a thing called a writ of assistance. With a writ of assistance they come pouring in. It doesn’t have to have my name on it, or my address, or whatever it is they’re searching for. It’s wide open. First they come pouring through your doors and windows. Then they fill in the blanks.”

“It must feel good to be back in the U.S.,” Kidder said.

“I’m thrilled.”

“We’re out of the airport. We just left the airport.”

“Keep up the good work.”

“That was the airport line right there. We’re definitely out.”

“You talk to this Richie?”

“I talked to the dipshit who answers his phone.”

“You didn’t get in the warehouse, in other words.”

“Tal, it’s a warehouse. What’s so special? You say you want to develop the kid. Does it make a difference where? You talk. You make your point.”

“Tell you what I found out, asking around independently. His dogs don’t bark. They’re trained to be silent. They come at you without warning.”

“See?” Kidder said. “Good thing I didn’t try to get inside. You should have told me earlier. What if I’d tried to get inside?”

“They come out of the dark, leaping,” Talerico said. “Trained to go for the throat. But silent. They don’t even growl.”

“What’s this thing you’re after?”

“Dirty movie, what else? Too hot for this Richie to handle. I’m doing the kid a favor.”

“How’d you hear about it?”

“I got a call from New York.”