“Who?”
“Free-lance contractor. He’s been on this a while. Don’t step on him unless you have to, but he understands you’ll be taking charge.”
“He the guy that blew it the last time?”
“He’s one of them.”
“That’s nice.”
“He knows the setup, he’s on top of things out there. I can’t run in a whole new crew on this, George, we need people who know the Los Angeles area. Deffeldorf’s the one who got us this line on Glenn Bradleigh. You work with him, all right?”
“Just so he knows who’s running it.”
“He knows.” Ezio got the airline ticket out and pushed it across the desk. “You still carry that Magnum, don’t you?”
“Sure.”
“The license is no good for a plane. Leave it home. Deffeldorf will give you another piece when you get out there.”
“When do I go?”
“Here’s the ticket. Flight leaves La Guardia at one. You’ve just about got time to throw things in a suitcase and get out there.”
“Miss my lunch.” Ramiro gathered the file and reached for the airline ticket. He opened it and smiled wryly. “Glad to see it’s round trip.”
Ezio laughed quietly and watched him walk out of the office.
Chapter Seven
Showlow, Arizona: 9–10 August
1
Jason W. Greene, he thought. Remember it. Born April 1930 in Binghamton, New York. Antioch class of ’52. Investment counselor, retired, had a minor heart attack, came out West for my health, writing a book, as he told the realtor who had come out to settle the lease.
He watched the realtor’s Buick roll away — down the ruts of the driveway and a left turn into the road, past Caruso’s car and quickly out of sight in the pines. Caruso waved to Mathieson from the front seat of the car. Mathieson saw him turn a page in his paperback.
In the kitchen Jan inspected the cabinets. She had a dinner plate in her hand, upside down. “South Korea. But they’re not bad, are they.”
“Sure you can hack this place?”
“For the rest of the summer at least.”
“It’s better than a motel. God knows. If we don’t mind the winter we can look for a place of our own next spring.”
“And otherwise?”
“Well, ma’am, I reckon we’ll just drift on till we find a place that sizes up right.”
Her smile was distracted. She turned a slow circle, looking at things. “All the mod cons.” Her voice was a little dry. The refrigerator must have been twenty years old; the furniture was sturdy but battered — Salvation Army style. The uncovered log walls were self-consciously rustic and the high fireplace that separated kitchen from living room lent it a hunting-lodge flavor.
Ronny came in the back door. “That’s a freaky old plow in the barn.”
“It’s a disk cultivator.”
Jan said, “You’ve got grease on the knees of those Levi’s and you just put them on an hour ago.”
“Nag nag.” Ronny made a face and dodged Mathieson’s good-natured swat. He went outside again. The screen door slapped shut; Mathieson heard him running across the dry pine needles.
“I don’t think we need to worry about his adjusting. He’d be more traumatized by a trip to Disneyland.”
She said, “Were you worried about him?”
“I wasn’t sure how he’d take all this.”
“He’s got all the bounce in the world. We’ll rent him a horse for the rest of the summer — he’ll be in seventh heaven.” It was why they’d taken the rental — the three acres of woods behind it, the barn and the corral.
It was eight miles from town. The road served weekend and summer cabins — A-frames and mobile homes. It was the part of Arizona the world didn’t know about: the piney-woods high country. Nothing elegant about the neighborhood but he didn’t know how long their money was going to last; and it accorded with Bradleigh’s dictum — You can’t just change the name. You’ve got to create a whole new profile.
After lunch he took Ronny out to the rent-a-car to drive into town. Caruso’s partner got out of the stakeout car at the foot of the driveway. The partner was a slight man with a round dark face and eyes that always seemed amused. Mathieson had had difficulty figuring out his name until he’d seen it written on a luggage tag: Michael Cuernavan. The accent came on the second syllable. “Welsh,” Cuernavan explained.
Cuernavan rode into Showlow with them. They explored the village and did their shopping. At half past three they all had McDonald’s milk shakes and then went car shopping. “If we’ve got to feed a horse we’d better look at pickup trucks.”
At the third used-car lot they found a four-year-old El Camino. It was dented and the truck-bed had wisps of straw stuck in the corners but it seemed to run smoothly. Mathieson kicked the tires and slammed the doors. Ronny tested the radio. Cuernavan announced, “I’m the best amateur Chevy mechanic this side of the Bonneville Salt Flats,” and prowled around under the hood while the used-car dealer watched with a great show of nothing-to-hide confidence, beaming at all of them, singling out Ronny as the most impressionable and zeroing in on him with amiable ebullience: “You’ll have yourself a ball tootling around in this here machine. What’s your name, son?”
“Ronny. Ronny Math — Ronny Greene.”
Red-faced, the boy wheeled away on the pretext of ducking to look under the back of the pickup. Mathieson caught Cuernavan’s sharp glance. Cuernavan spoke quickly: “Probably need a valve job in another ten, fifteen thousand.” He went around to shut off the engine. “But she’s reasonably sound.”
They transferred the day’s purchases into the bed of the truck and turned in the rental car. Mathieson drove the El Camino slowly, getting the feel of it. Ronny sat between the men poking at controls on the dash — air-conditioner, radio, cigar lighter. Finally he said in a low voice, “I’m sorry, Dad. It won’t happen again.”
“I know. Don’t worry about it too much. I still think of myself as Fred Mathieson. It’ll be a long time before it comes easy.”
But it had unnerved him more than he liked to show. The burden on the boy would be heavy.
Cuernavan said gently, “Best way to handle it, just take your time every time somebody asks you a question. Any question at all. Wait a couple seconds before you answer. Give yourself time to make sure before you talk.”
“Yes, sir,” Ronny said.
When they returned to Cochise Road a Mountain Bell truck was pulling out of the driveway; they had to wait for it to emerge. Caruso was still parked at the side of the road. The truck drove away into the pines and Cuernavan let himself out of the pickup.
Caruso said, “I checked him out. Genuine telephone company. Your phone’s connected. How you getting along, Mr. Greene?”
“Pretty good, thanks.”
“We’ll see you in the morning, then. Relief shift takes over in a little while; we’ll be going off.”
“How long do you have to keep watch on us?”
“Until Glenn Bradleigh pulls us off.”
“It must be boring as hell.”
“We get paid for it.” Caruso had a kind smile. He displayed his paperback. “I catch up on my trash reading. Anyhow this is a picnic, running surveillance out in quiet countryside like this. Anybody comes along, we hear them coming from half a mile away. It’s not like a city stakeout where you’ve got to watch everything that moves.”
Cuernavan said, “Check the oil every hundred miles or so until you find out how much she’s using.”
“Will do. Thanks for the help.”
“Thanks for the company,” Cuernavan replied. He slid into the car beside Caruso.