“We all know that,” said Stoltz. “And rhetorically that’s an interesting stance. Practically, it will never happen.”
“You’re right,” said Max. “I thought Dick Nixon would run on that plank if anyone would. But no. He doesn’t have the balls for it.”
“He’s got to get into office first,” said Stoltz. “Look what happened to Goldwater.”
“Dick will win it this time,” said Marie.
“Roger,” said Monika. “I’m just glad you’re our man in Washington now. Keep up the good fight.” She smiled. Big and beautiful. And a rarity, thought Andy.
Stoltz smiled, too. “Business has never been better since Max and Marie started running it.”
Andy felt his anger rise at Stoltz. Automatic. Always had been. But it wasn’t for anything he could ever put a finger on. Maybe his voice, his easy sincerity. His casually handsome face, the dumb/dashing aviator’s mustache. Maybe something to do with the way Stoltz got Clay into the language institute, then the CIA, then killed. Or how he got David into Anaheim First Presbyterian right out of San Anselmo’s, when there were so many extra ministers waiting. Or arranged the congratulations letter from Nixon when Nick graduated from the Sheriff’s Academy. Or put Andy’s disillusioned and heartbroken father to work at his goddamned chemical plant while the representative spent half his time swilling at the public trough in D.C.
And made his mother smile.
It annoyed Andy that Stoltz had infiltrated his family. Just like Stoltz brayed about the Commies infiltrating his government. The International Stoltz Conspiracy.
“I heard you got some more contracts for Orange Sunshine,” said Andy.
“That’s right,” said Stoltz. “Last month your father and Marie nailed down San Bernardino County. Thousands of miles of asphalt to clean. And they’re paving thousands more.”
“That’ll take a lot of rotten oranges.”
“More of those to come, too.”
“I liked it better when Orange County had orange trees instead of bulldozed groves,” said Andy. “When people like Max Becker had good work. When my mom used to smile.”
“Enough, Andy,” she said.
Stoltz nodded. “He’s right. I hate to see the groves go, too, Andy. But people need somewhere to live. And the Florida oranges are just as good for juice. At least we’re using the last of the fruit.”
“America will fall like overripe fruit into our hands,” said Max.
“You watch, you’ll see,” said Stoltz.
“Satan’s hands,” said Monika.
“Every Soviet prediction since nineteen-seventeen has come true,” said Marie.
Andy stood, kissed his rigid mother, and ran a hand over his father’s shoulder. Nodded to Marie. Shook Stoltz’s hand, saw the scratches and a scab just below the thumb when he let go.
“You people are all crazy,” Andy said, and walked out.
17
DAVID TOOK TWO DAYS off from work. Then another. He’d never felt so drained. He couldn’t face another sermon or funeral or wedding or baptism. Not one more witticism for the marquee. Not another inmate who didn’t do it. Not one human being except for his immediate family.
Barbara rewrote the sermon preempted by Janelle. She was an excellent writer, adept at both hermeneutics and homiletics. David invited her to deliver the message on Sunday but Barbara refused. He took a marquee adage from a magazine rather than compose one: Exercise Daily-Walk with the Lord. Deacon Shaffner put it up and took the old one down.
His doctor did an electrocardiograph. Normal. Took blood for lab work, put a hurry-up on it, and got results in a day. Normal. Did a thoracic X ray to be safe. Normal again.
The doctor said he was in perfect health, that God was taking care of David as well as David was taking care of God.
He took long walks on the beach in Newport with Barbara, Matthew, Rachel, and Wendy. Matthew was two now. Rachel almost one. Wendy was five. She was a Vietnamese girl David had arranged to be placed in an adoptive family that was part of his congregation. He had prayed long and hard for the well-being of the frail, frightened girl. One week later the entire family had been killed in a car accident caused by a speeding drunk driver. All of them except for Wendy, who at three years old was hurled cleanly from the open side window of the station wagon and caught in the blossom-heavy branches of a navel orange tree that grew beside the boulevard. Bruises, nicks, and a mild concussion. That was all.
David and Barbara brought her home from St. Joseph Hospital, never a doubt that she belonged with them. And they were back in exactly one month for Barbara to give birth to Matthew.
Now, two years later, all three children were blessings to them. Rachel was peaceful and observant like her father. Matthew was mobile and fearless like his mother. Wendy was often delighted and took a helpful role with the younger ones. She had a large and selfless smile.
On the morning of his third day away from work, David was changing Matthew’s diaper when Barbara put her head in the room.
“Whew! Special Agent Hambly? FBI?”
“Oh? On a Saturday.”
“Guess I’ll finish this.”
They sat in the study of David’s home, door closed, afternoon sun blunted by the shutters. Hambly was David’s age, early thirties, with a compact face and body. Blue eyes, short dark hair, a deep dimple in the middle of his chin. His suit and shoes were brown. He moved the ottoman aside and lay his briefcase flat on it.
“I attended the memorial service,” said Hambly.
“Almost all the way back, on the left.”
“You were close, you and Janelle?”
“Yes.”
“It seemed like you’d known her a long time.”
“Fourteen years.”
“She liked LSD, didn’t she?”
“I believe she tried it.”
“Tried it. Yeah. Liked Leary’s Orange Sunshine, didn’t she?”
“I’m not familiar with the different brands.”
“Brands,” said Hambly.
David sensed that Hambly was not interested in his own line of questioning.
“It’s unusual for the FBI to investigate a murder,” said David.
“We’re not. Did Janelle ever talk to you about political organizations?”
“Never. She had no interest in politics that I know of. Except she was against the war.”
“I’d call that politics.”
“As I just did, Mr. Hambly.”
David still had the unbalancing feeling that Hambly wasn’t asking questions he cared about. Until the next one, which Hambly delivered after moving to the edge of the sofa.
“What about the John Birch Society?”
“Janelle Vonn?”
Hambly said nothing. But he looked at David with a pugnacious blankness.
“Actually,” said David, “she did mention the John Birch Society a few times. She asked me about them. What I knew. If they were legal. If they were good.”
“Legal?”
“She wasn’t sure at first if they were a legitimate group,” said David, “or perhaps an outlawed one.”
“What do you mean by at first?”
“When she first mentioned them.”
“Which was?” asked Hambly.
“Four, five years ago.”
“Did she know any members?”
“My father and mother are Birchers. Not that she knew them very well.”
“Give me the names of four of her friends,” said Hambly.
David nodded but didn’t speak. He regarded the dimple and blue eyes of Special Agent Hambly. Saw that the dimple was too deep for a razor to safely negotiate. Little sprout of black whiskers dead center in the man’s chin.
“No,” said David.
“Why not?”
“I don’t like your attitude or your manners,” said David.
“Are you a friend of Roger Stoltz?”
“Yes.”
“Howard Langton?”
“Yes.”
“Good friends with them, Reverend Becker?”
“Not close.”
“Close enough to have dinner with Langton and Janelle the night she died?”