The Demolishers (9 page)

“It’s a good thing you’re almost a foot taller than Daddy; otherwise he’d have made you wear his spare dinner jacket,” she said. She laughed a bit sharply. “What do you bet everybody else in Palm Beach is sitting down to dinner in shorts and slacks and bathing suits; only the Wicked Vareks are dining formally.”

I said, “I think it’s kind of nice, dressing for dinner. I’d have brought my tux if you’d warned me. I think I remember how to tie one of those ties.”

“Well, I think it’s silly,” she said. “Are you lost or something? We ought to pass out little maps like a Holiday Inn. This way.”

The outside of the house was Palm Beach Classic, all tiles and stucco and towers and arches and verandas. The rooms through which she led me were light and airy, with high ceilings and elaborate furniture. The room we finally entered, however, was all dark paneled walls filled with racks of guns and heads of animals. There was no rug or carpet on the parquet floor, just a tigerskin and a bearskin, both complete with heads. The bear, an Alaskan brown, was a good one, over ten feet squared the way the trophy boys measure. The elk rack over the fireplace was also a prize, seven points to the side and very massive; and the mule deer that had carried the nearby antlers must have been the size of a small horse. I had no basis for judging the more exotic stuff, like the tiger. I’ve never gone in for trophy hunting myself; but if it
pleases a hunter to bring in the hide and the head as well as the meat, I can see nothing against it. He’s really showing more respect for the animal he kills, and utilizing it more fully, than the gent like me who just goes out for the chase and the steaks.

Varek was standing by the fireplace when we entered, dressed in a black dinner jacket with a ruffled shirt and a black tie that was not the clip-on variety. I thought it was rather touching, the way he was reaching for respectability. What the hell, we all have our dreams. A small man in a white coat waited by the bar in the corner. His manner was respectful and unobtrusive, but there was a bulge under his left armpit.

“I hope they’re making you comfortable upstairs,” Varek said. “Tell Philip what you want. You, too, Sis. Sit down and take a load oflF. ”

“I’d like to look around a bit first, if you don’t mind,” I said, after specifying a vodka martini, a choice with which Sandra concurred.

There’s a certain protocol to be observed when you enter a room like that, if you’ve ever done any hunting yourself. You’re supposed to act interested. As a matter of fact, I was interested. He had a lot of good stuff, and I moved around the walls checking out the display.

Varek said, ‘‘I’m a sucker for a good gun. I won’t say I’ve shot them all at game. Some I bought just to look at. Most of my big-game hunting I did with that .300 Weatherby Magnum, except for the really big stuff, of course. . . . God, it’s a long time since I’ve been out in the field. Sis says you got some good duck shooting down in Texas. New dog, she said. Handsome yellow Lab. From Sweden, she said. Why Sweden?”

He was working hard at being the gracious host. Even though our backgrounds made us natural enemies, he wanted me to realize that he was no comic-strip thug. And I must admit that I’m always more favorably inclined to-

wards guys with guns and trophies on their walls, as long as they didn’t buy them at auction so they could put on a phony outdoorsman act. I may not love them, but at least I have something in common with them; which is more than can be said for the tender folks, male or female, who faint at the sight of a firearm.

I said, ‘‘The pup was a present from some relatives. I’ve got family all over that country.”

‘‘A Svenska boy, eh?”

‘‘That’s right.” I was tempted to ask about his origins, but a Varek with the middle name of Konstantin just had to have roots somewhere in middle Europe; and I didn’t want us to get off on a long and irrelevant discussion of genealogy. I said, ‘‘There’s only one thing about this room that bothers me, Mr. Varek.”

‘‘Alex, call me Alex. What bothers you, Matt?”

‘‘Your daughter.”

He frowned quickly. ‘‘What do you mean? What about Sis?”

‘‘How can she stand it?” I asked him. Without looking in the direction of the girl, I was aware that she was frowning at me. I went on: ‘‘I mean, when we met in Texas, she made a big production about how guns scared her shitless. I even had to get my shotgun out of her sight so it wouldn’t frighten her—one lousy little Remington 1100 all dressed up in a stout leather carrying case. But look at her now, totally surrounded by naked firearms, as relaxed and happy as you please! And see what she was carrying this afternoon!” I took the automatic pistol from my pocket and laid it on the mantelpiece beside him, putting the cheap .22 there also. ‘‘You may want to ditch both of those. The revolver belonged to the kid I shot and could be hot; and the automatic left some evidence behind, like a bullet and an empty cartridge case. But it’s kind of a strange object to find in the purse of a young lady who’s terrified of guns, wouldn’t you say?”

The small man named Philip had tensed when I brought out the weapons; now he relaxed and came forward with two stemmed glasses on a tray. Sandra took one and tasted it approvingly; I got the other. Varek started to speak, but she interrupted him.

“You’re exaggerating, Matt,” she said. “I never said they scared me shitless.”

“Okay, you just said they made you very nervous. You also indicated that you disapproved of hunting and all other forms of shooting. That was in Texas. But here in Florida, apparently thinking you were in some kind of danger, you asked your daddy to give you a handgun to pack around in your purse. Not exactly the behavior of a young lady who detests firearms and all associated activities. So what was the idea of that phony I-hate-guns routine you pulled on me. . . ?”

“Who hates guns?” That was the seductive Mrs. Varek, entering with a platter of tiny, colorful sandwiches. “Nobody hates guns in this house; they wouldn’t dare. Here are some poo-poos for you. That’s Hawaiian for hors d’oeuvres, Matt; but don’t spoil your appetite. We’re having dinner a little early since it’s been a harrowing day and young people do get hungry when they get excited.” She smiled fondly at Sandra. “I don’t know how you’d survive in Mexico, my dear, they never eat dinner before nine or ten o’clock. . . . Philip, would you bring me a margarita in the kitchen, please.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We waited politely until she’d left the room. She was wearing something filmy and white that might have looked bridal and virginal on another woman but not on Lia Varek. Her husband waved me towards a deep red-leather chair like the one in which Sandra was already ensconced. He sat down beside me, but it was Sandra who spoke first.

“You must understand, Matt, that my previous stepmother, Barbie, like in doll, went in for interior decoration in a big way—well, you’ve seen the house. So Lia, poor girl, feels she has to have a specialty, too, and she’s picked cooking, even though she’s hardly the Aunt Jemima type. She’s driving the kitchen help nuts.”

Varek said mildly, “Now, Sis. Be nice.” He glanced at me. “You had a problem, Matt.”

“Two problems, Alex,” I said. “In addition to the problem of why my daughter-in-law was kidding me about her fear of firearms, there’s also the problem of just how did she know she’d be in danger today—danger enough to justify packing a gun and riding in a bulletproof car.” I looked from one to the other of them. “Somebody might get the idea that you folks knew they’d be laying for us in that little street by restaurant La Mariposa to which Sandra had us drive. Somebody might even entertain the wild notion that we were bait for some kind of a trap, or countertrap, you’d planned there. If so, I guess the opposition pulled a surprise on you with that heavy gun. Clearly you weren’t expecting that.”

Sandra licked her lips. “What are you trying to say?”

I grinned. “I guess what I’m really trying to say, in my lousy Spanish, is:
Disponos la mierda
,
amigos.
I hope I got the gender right this time, teacher. In other words, let us dispose of the bullshit.”

There was a period of silence during which I could hear the distant clink of china and clatter of silver as a table was set in a dining room not too far away. Philip slipped quietly out of the room with a tray holding a single stemmed glass.

Sandra spoke stiffly: “I don’t believe that’s a proper Spanish sentence, Matt.”

I said, “Hell, it isn’t even a proper English sentence. In fact it’s very improper indeed.” I shook my head, looking at her. “As I’ve just said in two languages, let’s cut the crap. You didn’t go to Washington with Beth just to hold her hand, you wanted to talk her out of her wild idea
of finding me and sending me out to avenge our dead son, right? And since you couldn’t dissuade her, you followed along and got to work on me with that nonviolent, law-abiding, gun-hating act, trying to keep me from going on the warpath in spite of her urging.”

She licked her lips again. “Well, isn’t that just what I told you? Why is that so terrible?”

“I don’t say it’s terrible. I just say the motive you gave me was a lot of bull. You weren’t trying to call me off the vengeance trail because you were such a sweet and peaceful and legal young lady. You were trying to keep me from going after these terrorists because you were going after them yourself.”

She shook her head. “You’re not making sense, Matt. If I wanted them killed, why would I care if you helped?” “Because you already had all the help you could use,” I said. “You have a daddy right here whose homicidal resources are quite extensive, judging by the research I had done on him a couple of years ago. My hunch is that he agreed to put those resources at your disposal on one condition: He wanted you to make sure I wouldn’t interfere.” I glanced at Varek. “Daddy may have the local law in his pocket, but that doesn’t extend to the U.S. government. I think Daddy is violently allergic to having feds in his hair while he kills people for you. Right, Alex?” “You’re telling it, Matt,” Varek said.

I nodded, and turned back to the girl. “So, since you were putting on a phony act for me, I put on one for you to keep you happy while I was sorting things out: I told you how I wasn’t really the wild man I was cracked up to be, and how I’d never, ever dream of using my gun for personal reasons. But now can we just forget all that nonsense and admit that there isn’t a forgiving Christian character in this room? I’m here because my son was killed. Sandra, you’re here because your husband was killed. Your pop’s here because his daughter was hurt, and in his po
sition he can’t afford to have people get away with blowing up members of his family; somebody may think he’s getting soft in his old age. So let’s face it, we’re all nasty, vicious, violent, vengeful people, all three of us, and our common goal is to annihilate the bastards as painfully as possible. And since that’s the case, wouldn’t it make sense for us to work together instead of playing corny charades for each other. ...”

There was a knock on the door. It opened to reveal the young girl in a musical-comedy maid’s costume, Maria, who’d shown me to the guestroom.

She addressed Varek: “Senora Varek says I am to inform you that supper is served, senor.”

“We’ll be there in a minute, Maria. Close the door.” When it had closed, he turned to me. “So what’s your proposition?”

I said, “I have a list of seventeen names, or will have if our computer girl does her stuff properly. I’m not greedy. I don’t need to see them die; I just have to know they’re dead. You take as many as you want. I’ll figure out how to deal with the rest, personally or otherwise. How about it?” *

The door opened abruptly to show Lia Varek, looking impatient. “The soup becomes cold,” she said firmly. “You can all discuss your very important business at the table. It is very impolite to keep your hostess waiting.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Varek said humbly. He grinned at me as we rose to follow her. “As they say, you can’t live with ’em and you can’t live without ’em.”

“And you’re the living proof of that, Daddy,” said his daughter, but her voice wasn’t as sharp as it might have been.

The
dining room was impressive, high-ceilinged and very formal. A great crystal chandelier was suspended over the glossy table, the kind that could be extended by inserting extra leaves in the middle. Even now, at its smallest, it was too big for the four of us. With the lord and lady of the house at the ends, and the Varek heiress and the guest of honor, me, facing each other across the middle, we almost needed walkie-talkies to communicate. I wondered who the Vareks found to fill that dining room on festive occasions, with the table fully extended, unpopular as they seemed to be here in Palm Beach. Lia, on my left, seemed to read my mind.

“We were married on the lawn out there, Matt,” she said, “right by the ocean. It was rather overwhelming at first for an orphan girl from Key West; but Alex made it very nice for me since I had no people of my own to see me married. We had our wedding breakfast in here, but this table wasn’t big enough for everybody; Alex had to have extra tables set up out on the veranda. All his friends and family and business associates came, from all over the country; and Sandra, of.course, and . . . and your Matthew.” She shivered. “It was such a terrible thing that happened to him. He was such a sweet and polite boy. We miss him so very much.”

It wasn’t a subject I cared to discuss. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m glad he made a good impression, but I can’t take any of the credit. After the first few years, I had nothing to do with his upbringing.”