“I didn’t know you lived together.”
“Works out good, on account of we’re both gone a lot, but at different times.”
Back inside, Frye could hear their footsteps echoing on the paver tiles. A wooden chandelier with big candles glowed overhead, a rounded doorway gave way to a library with ceilings a mile high and bookshelves all the way to the top. Burke had one of those sliding ladders attached to each shelf. There were four good leather recliners, each with a reading lamp next to it. Along one wall was a small bar, well-stocked. Burke waved him toward it, then reached over the counter and stood back. A section of the paneled wall eased out, to the low grinding sound of a motor. A light went on. Frye regarded the staircase leading down.
Burke smiled. “I’m gimmick-heavy, Chuck. It’s my nature. Watch these steps now, kinda steep.”
Frye followed him down.
“You know, Chuck, that Cristobel’s one good-looking hunk of girl. Lucky find.”
“I’m not sure how lucky it was, Burke.”
Parsons turned to look at him. “She a dud in bed or something?”
“She’s great in bed. We get near one, she starts a feeding frenzy.”
Burke smiled. “Think that’s true about blondes bein’ dumb?”
“No.”
“Me neither. But I sure like ’em that way. Blonde and dumb is a hard combination to beat.”
The basement was one big space, divided only by poles supporting the ceiling, and lit by rows of industrial fluorescent lamps hung by chains. It felt like the parking structure for a department store, but without the cars — wide and cool with the light tapering off into dark planes and corners. Frye heard his footsteps echo as he stepped to the floor.
The left quarter of the room was covered with padding. There were two exercise bikes, two heavy bags, a speed bag, a Universal machine and a bunch of shiny weights in stands. The support pole by the speed bag was wrapped in padding to head height.
“The gym,” said Burke. “I try to get in an hour a day, but usually it’s more like two. I got pairs of everything for Lucia, but she don’t go for this stuff.”
Frye smacked the heavy bag on his way by.
“You spar?” asked Burke.
“No.”
“It’s fun.”
“I get carried away sometimes. Same as Bennett does.”
Burke gave him an assessing look. “How far you get carried is the question. Sparring and fighting are two different things. Check these.”
A stand in the corner contained six Japanese fighting swords, some long, some short. Frye noted the long handles, the lacquered scabbards, the leather grips well-stained by sweat, the ornate pommels.
A fancy version of what was used on Tuy Xuan, thought Frye.
“Katana,” said Burke. “Several thousand dollars’ worth of Jap killing edge. I got them black market in Hong Kong during the war. Those two on the end were billed as genuine Sagami School, and they’re not. But you know what, Frye?”
“No.”
“It don’t matter.” Burke slid out the weapon. The layers of the temper line caught the light. “Waste of money, actually. I don’t get more than a couple hours a week on ‘em. The exercises bore the hell out of me, and there’s nothing you can actually hit with these things. Cut that pole in half if you put your mind to it.”
“Looks wicked.”
Burke looked closely at a blemish on the blade, then straight at Frye. “Not ‘less the man who’s swinging it is. How come you been poking around Elite Management, Chuck?”
“I wanted to talk to Rollie Dean. Seen him lately?”
The padded floor was soft under Frye’s feet. Burke set the weapon back in its scabbard. “Over there’s the gun range, Chuck.”
The bullet traps and targets were flush with the far wall. A bench was positioned about fifty feet away. A chain with clips on it ran from each trap all the way to the bench, powered by smallish motors to bring the targets back and forth. Frye noted that the trap walls, angled gently to guide in the bullets, were pocked with silver and gray. Two padded headsets rested on the bench, and several boxes of foam ear plugs. Burke tapped a file cabinet that stood beside the bench. “I got a weakness for sidearms, Chuck. When I got in the agency, they took advantage of it. I was good at what I did. You know, Chuck, in a way I’m just a good ol’ boy. I like to sip my beer and watch the boxing match. I like a round of poker and a good rodeo. I can talk redneck with anybody’s fucked his daughter. But there’s another side of me that just don’t care about some things that lots of other people care about. I want you to think on that for a second. Anyway, I’m into hardware. Pull out that drawer there, have yourself a peek.”
The inside of the drawer was lined with felt. On the bottom was a wooden tray with two rows of handguns, upright, handles fitted perfectly to the wood, barrels resting on the felt bottom. Fifteen, Frye thought, maybe twenty.
“That’s the big-caliber stuff, forty-fours and fives. Hell, I got a fifty-four magnum in there I killed a grizzly with up to Montana. Hit him in the snout at fifty yards and the thing did a back flip. Ended up with a bearskin rug without a head. Anyhow, below those are the medium-caliber ones, and the last drawer down has the derringers and subcompacts. You shoot?”
“Pop taught me to shoot trap. I was pretty good with his old .45, too.”
“Pick up that Gold Cup, there. Clip is full. See how you can do at fifty feet.”
Frye removed the Colt from its place, checked the magazine, jacked a round into the chamber. He flicked off the safety and aimed down the length of his arm at the white-on-black silhouette.
“Shoot for speed, Chuck. Bad guys are always fast.”
Frye took a breath and let it out slowly — just as Edison had taught him — then squeezed off the first round. His ears rang, smoke rose into his eyes. The automatic bucked up, and when it leveled, he added six more.
Parsons laughed, hit a button, and the target slid toward him, pulleys squeaking. “You didn’t even get paper with that first one,” he said. “The other six all got on the white, though. That’s fair shooting at fifty feet, but I’ll tell you, it’s that first one you want true. Usually, that’s all you get.”
“Your turn, Burke.”
Burke shook his head. “We’re not in the same league, Chuck. Not at this game, anyhow. Let me ask you something. I saw an old convertible parked at Elite Management last night. That was your Mercury, wasn’t it?”
“Sure was.”
“Then I guess you figured out by now that Rollie Dean Mack don’t exactly work there, in the strict sense.”
“That’s what I gathered.”
“World’s a crazy place, ain’t it?”
Frye shrugged, slid open the action, and put the pistol back in place.
“You know, Chuck... I feel awful bad about what happened between you and Elite. If I’d have been paying closer attention to things, you wouldn’t have lost your job. But I’m too damned busy these days — really. Would you be willing to let me square things with Billingham and get you all set to write again?”
“I thought you were going to do that two days ago.” Parsons pushed the drawer shut. “Just between you and me, I was hoping you’d give up trying to find old Rollie. I didn’t bank on you being so damned tenacious. You nosed around my business, and you blew my little cover, so there’s no sense playing games with you anymore, Chuck. See, Elite’s my business, but I don’t like being the front man. I hate those bright lights — I’m best in a backup position. It’s actually none of your concern why. Put it this way, if I was a Beatle, I’d want to be Ringo.”
“But you’d still want to write the music.”
Parsons smiled. “You got it. Can I get you your job back? I mean... do you want it or not?”