She said, "What makes you think Kingsbury needs another warning? I mean, he's got the mob after him, Joe. Why should he care about a couple of John Deeres?"
"He's a developer. He"ll care." Winder leaned back and squinted at the sun. "Keep the pressure on, that's the key."
Carrie admired the swiftness with which Oscar went about his task. She said to Winder: "Tell me again what they call that."
"An RPG. Rocket-propelled grenade."
"And you're positive no one's going to get hurt?"
"It's lunch hour, Carrie. You heard the whistle." He took out a pair of waterproof Zeiss binoculars and scanned the shoreline until he found the stand of pigeon plums that Molly McNamara had told him about. The dreaded bulldozers had multiplied from two to five; they were parked in a semicircle, poised for the mission against the plum trees.
"Everybody's on their break," Winder reported. "Even the deputies." At the other end of the boat, Oscar assembled the grenade launcher in well-practiced silence.
Carrie cut the twin Evinrudes and let the currents nudge the boat over the grassy shallows. She took the field glasses and tried to spot the bird nest that Molly had mentioned. She couldn't see anything, the hardwoods were so dense.
"I'm not sure I understand the significance of this gesture," she said. "Mockingbirds aren't exactly endangered."
"These ones are." Winder peeled off his T-shirt and tied it around his forehead like a bandanna. The air stuck to his chest like a hot rag; the temperature on the water was ninety-four degrees, and no breeze. "You don't approve," he said to Carrie. "I can tell."
"What bothers me is the lack of imagination, Joe. You could be blowing up bulldozers the rest of your life."
The words stung, but she was right. Clever this was not, merely loud. "I'm sorry," he said, "but there wasn't time to come up with something more creative. The old lady said they were taking out the plum trees this afternoon, and it looks like she was right."
Oscar gave the okay sign from the bow. The boat had drifted close enough so they could hear the voices and lunchtime banter of the Falcon Trace construction crew.
"Which dozer you want?" Oscar inquired, raising the weapon to his shoulder.
"Take your pick."
"Joe, wait!" Carrie handed him the binoculars. "Over there, check it out."
Winder beamed when he spotted it. "Looks like they're pouring the slab for the clubhouse."
"That's a large cement mixer," Carrie noted.
"Sure is. A very large cement mixer." Joe Winder snapped his fingers and motioned to Oscar. Spying the new target, the young Colombian smiled broadly and readjusted his aim.
In a low voice Carrie said, "I take it he's done this sort of thing before."
"I believe so, yes."
Oscar grunted something in Spanish, then pulled the trigger. The RPG took out the cement truck quite nicely. An orange gout of flame shot forty feet into the sky, and warm gray gobs of cement rained down on the construction workers as they sprinted for their cars.
"See," Carrie said. "A little variety's always nice."
Joe Winder savored the smoky scent of chaos and wondered what his father would have thought. We all shine on.
That night Carrie banished him from the bedroom while she practiced her songs for the Jubilee. At first he listened in dreamy amazement at the door; her voice was crystalline, delicate, soothing. After a while Bud Schwartz and Danny Pogue joined him in the hallway, and Carrie's singing seemed to soften their rough convict features. Danny Pogue lowered his eyes and began to hum along; Bud Schwartz lay on the wooden floor with hands behind his head and gazed at the high pine beams. Molly McNamara even unlocked the door to the adjoining bedroom so that Agent Billy Hawkins, gagged but alert, could enjoy the beautiful musical interlude.
Eventually Joe Winder excused himself and slipped downstairs to make a call. He went through three telephone temptresses before they switched him to Nina's line.
"I'm glad it's you," she said. "There's something you've got to hear."
"I'm honestly not in the mood – "
"This is different, Joe. It took three nights to write."
What could he possibly say? "Go ahead, Nina."
"Ready?" She was so excited. He heard the rustle of paper. Then she took a breath and began to read
"Your hands find me in the night, burrow for my warmth.
Lift me, turn me, move me apart.
The language of blind insistence,
You speak with a slow tongue on my belly,
An eyelash fluttering against my nipple.
This is the moment of raw cries and murmurs when
Nothing matters in the vacuum of passion
But passion itself."
He wasn't sure if she had finished. It sounded like a big ending, but he wasn't sure.
"Nina?"
"What do you think?"
"It's...vivid."
"Poetry. A brand-new concept in phone sex."
"Interesting." God, she's making a career of this.
"Did it arouse you?"
"Definitely," he said. "My loins surge in wild tumescence inside my jeans."
"Stop it, Joe!"
"I'm sorry. Really it's quite good." And maybe it was. He knew next to nothing about poetry.
"I wanted to try something different," Nina said, "something literate. A few of the girls complained – Miriam, of course. She's more comfortable with the old sucky-fucky."
"Well," Winder said, "it's all in the reading."
"My editor wants to see more."
"You have an editor?"
"For the syndication deal, Joe. What'd you think of the last part? Nothing matters in the vacuum of passion but passion itself."
He said, " 'Abyss' is better than 'vacuum.' "
The abyss of passion! You're right, Joe, that's much better."
"It's a long way from dry-humping on the Amtrak."
Nina laughed. He had almost forgotten how wonderful it sounded.
"So how was your hot date with The Voice?"
"It was very enjoyable. He's an exceptional man."
"What does he do?"
Without skipping a beat: "He markets General Motors products."
"Cars? He sells cars! That is exceptional."
Nina said, "I don't want to talk about this."
"Buicks? Pontiacs? Oldsmobiles? Or perhaps all three?"
"He is a surprisingly cultured man," Nina said. "An educated man. And it's Chevrolets, for your information. The light-truck division."
"Boy." Winder felt exhausted. First the poetry, now this. "Nina, I've got to ask. Does the face match the voice?"
"There's nothing wrong with the way he looks."
"Say no more."
"You can be such a prick," she observed.
"You're right. I'm sorry – again."
"He wants to marry me."
"Showing excellent taste," Winder said. "He'd be nuts if he didn't."
There was a brief pause, then Nina asked: "Are you the one who shot the golfer?"
"Nope. But I don't blame you for wondering."
"Please don't kill anybody, Joe. I know how strongly you feel about these issues, but please don't murder anyone."
"I'll try not to."
"Better sign off," she said. "I'm tying up the phone."
"Hey, I'm a paying customer."
"You really liked the poem?"
"It was terrific, Nina. I'm very proud."
He could tell she was pleased. "Any more suggestions?" she said.
"Well, the line about the nipple."
"Yes. An eyelash fluttering against my nipple."
"The imagery is nice," Winder said, "but it makes it sound like you've got just one. Nipple, I mean."