She keeps her voice low. “What about the Mafia, Charlie?”
“Says he never heard of any Albert Hartman. But one Albert LaCasse fits the description—twelve-room house, so forth. The kid says everybody knows him. Seems they know him just well enough to stay clear of him.”
He drops his arms to his sides. His eyes are narrowed; he’s fuming. “Who is he? Who’re you?”
“Names don’t matter, do they?”
“Jesus. The Mafia.”
“He’s not Maf—”
“For God’s sake don’t do a J. Edgar Hoover number on me and pretend there’s no such thing as organized crime.”
He walks around the nose of the plane to the far side and performs the same experiment with the aileron there. She follows him around.
“I’m trying to tell you he’s not in the Mafia. He’s not even Sicilian. Do we need to talk about this? I’ve been trying to forget all of it. Hell. Albert and his friends—they’re people who do business together.”
“That sounds like his words. Not yours. Rationalization.”
“You couldn’t call it an organization. It isn’t the Mafia.”
“Drugs and murder. That kind of businessmen.”
She hesitates, then gives way. “All right. Yes.”
“But it’s not Mafia. It’s not Syndicate.” He makes a face.
“There are thousands of people smuggling drugs, Charlie. This isn’t the twenties or the thirties. They’re not just thugs and gangsters. They’re normal people.”
“Normal?”
She can’t decipher his expression. In front of the wing strut he kicks the right-hand tire and then gets down on one knee to inspect its tread.
She says: “You probably won’t believe this but I didn’t know he was involved in anything besides building construction. Not until after Ellen was born. I only found out by accident.”
At the tail he stoops to inspect the elevator surfaces. He’s not looking at her when he speaks. “You married the guy and you didn’t know who he was?”
“I thought I knew. I didn’t realize how much I couldn’t see.”
“Funny. Everybody up here seems to know about him.”
He moves the rudder from side to side, feeling for cable tension and smoothness of movement. He glances at the sky.
She says, “I’m not trying to excuse my stupidity but all this is beside the point. It’s got nothing to do with you. You won’t have any contact with him. They’ll never lay eyes on you. He’s probably in New York today anyway.”
“Sweet Jesus.” He closes his eyes and draws a deep breath. “Ellen. That’s your kid’s real name?”
“I’d planned to call her Wendy from here on.”
He walks forward, ducks under the strut, kicks the second tire and looks back at her. Having followed, she tries to touch his hand but he retreats a pace and bangs his head on the strut; he utters an oath and wheels out from under the wing, sidestepping to keep his distance—as if he can’t stand the smell of her.
“Charlie, doesn’t it help you understand why I have to get her away from there?”
“You could’ve told me, you know. You could’ve.”
“Why? So you could lie awake worrying?”
“Come on. You were afraid you’d scare me off. You had to have me to fly the fucking airplane and you calculated just how much you could tell me without risking that I might take a walk.”
She says slowly, “Yes, that’s true.”
One side of his mouth curls up.
She says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you well enough then.”
“Nobody likes to be used. Don’t you know that yet?”
“She’s fifteen months old and defenseless, Charlie. That’s what I know. I never set out to hurt you. I didn’t tell you any lies that mattered.”
“Leaving out the undigestible parts isn’t the same thing as telling lies?”
“Haven’t you ever rationalized something? I haven’t done you any harm. And you’ve been paid. I expect you to keep your part of the agreement.”
He glances toward the radio shack with its tall loran pylon; the kid is in there behind glass reading a comic book. Charlie turns a full circle on his heels, scowling at the trees. “The last couple of days—I thought we were getting to know each other. Now I think you were just sinking the hook. One good fuck and I’d follow you anywhere—that the idea?”
“No. That’s not the idea. It wasn’t any part of my plans.”
Charlie opens the pilot’s door and reaches into the cabin, prodding the yoke and then the pedals, watching the movements of control surfaces at wing and tail.
He says: “I’m vain enough to want to believe that. Let’s say I buy it. Let’s say I buy everything you’re telling me the same way I bought the horseshit you sold me before.” He isn’t talking loudly but his voice makes her wince.
He says, “Let’s say it’s all true this time. What it comes down to, you want to take the kid out of that house and there’s a pretty good chance you could get yourself killed, these guys being that kind of people.”
“You won’t be in danger, Charlie. I’m not asking you to—”
“You’re missing the point, luscious one. I’m pretty good at worrying about my own hide. What bothers me is worrying about yours.”
“Thank you.”
“Wasn’t fishing for gratitude. The thing is, you know—what happens if you die or something? How do I explain that to myself?”
“I’d be doing it with you or without you. Put your conscience away, all right? I can’t afford it. What time have you got?”
He looks at his watch. “Ten-forty.”
She confirms it against her own watch. “My feet are freezing. Are my boots in the Jeep?”
“Back seat.”
“Are you ready to go?”
“Airplane is. Not so sure about you and me.”
“Come on, Charlie, I can’t fight with you all day.”
“Go on. Dry your feet off. Put your boots on. I’ve got to pay Dennis the Menace for the gas.”
By the time he comes back from the shack she’s in the Jeep tugging her boots on. She feels it sway when Charlie puts his weight on the open door sill. He leans in, scraping his head on the top of the doorway, and levels upon her at close range a grave stare.
“Tell me about the landing field.”
She’s showed it to him on the map; he marked it. She says, “It’s about a mile and a half from the house. On government land, I think. They put down the strip a year ago last spring.”
“If it’s a grass runway we’ll need a long throw to get off the ground. It’ll be pretty wet. Happen to know the length of the strip?”
“It’s about three quarters of a mile, I think. In any case it isn’t just grass. They laid down some sort of metal webbing. It came on big flat trucks in rolls.”
He’s astonished. “Marsden matting? That stuff costs a fortune. They used to use it to build temporary fighter strips during the war.”
“I don’t know what it’s called. I know they’ve landed bigger planes than this there—even in the snow.”
“If they spent that kind of money on the strip … I take it we’re talking about smuggling now. What is it—cocaine?”
“I don’t know. More likely heroin, wouldn’t it be? I really don’t know much about it. I suppose I made it a point not to know anything. I know the airplanes don’t always bring things in. Sometimes it goes the other way. Sometimes he sends suitcases full of cash out.”
“Out to where? Switzerland? The Bahamas?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’s still watching her, head ducked under the door frame. He says, “I guess I believe you. How often do they use the runway?”
“Two or three times a month. That was last year, of course. I don’t know about now.”