Mudger leaned toward the bulletproof partition.
"Flip an L," he told the driver. "Flip an R. Flip an L."
"Old man doesn't like me, it appears."
"He belongs in the archives," the driver mumbled into his steering wheel.
"Picturesque old character."
"He's an oral history. Keep talking. I'll find a museum."
"Ought to be driving a hansom. You ought to be driving a hansom cab with a colorful personality like that."
Mudger sat back, smiling. It was an unsatisfactory way to end. Caricatures and gibes. Moll felt an injustice was being done to her own feelings, which were complex.
A downpour hit. The cab was stopped outside her building. Mudger sat in darkness, looking straight ahead. He didn't speak until Mol! reached for the door, and then very quietly began. With rain beating down on the hood and roof, she had to concentrate intently to hear.
"I've seen you in motion, physically, only once. Walking toward my house that time. Getting out of the limousine and coming slowly toward the house. I remember it. It's engraved. It's the clearest picture I have of you. Physically in motion. Long legs. Long legs kill me. I'd die for long legs. I see you walking. You're tentative, not knowing really where you are. It's a lovely, a choice body. Forgive the crudeness. It's a choice body. Then you're standing still. Watching me in the doorway. I'd love to get my hands on that body. That's a little strong. That's crude. A little violent-sounding. But it's what I'd love to do. My hands, those legs. Feel those long legs wrapped around me. That's what I was thinking in that doorway. First time I saw you. Love to get my hands on that body. Has to happen, I thought. Must happen. I want that bitch. We'll fuck each other dizzy. We'll be walking in circles for two weeks. I'm trying not to be crude. Although I don't think you mind. You're way beyond minding a thing like that. Woman like you. Long legs like yours. You don't mind a little rough language, a touch of the unrefined. Legs like yours, and I'm only speculating, you can't possibly be put off by a little directness, a crude word now and again. This is number two. Second time I'm watching. Only this time you're walking away. Cunt. Aren't you? Only this time you're leaving, not arriving. Aren't you? Cunt. Bitch, Cunt."
He spoke softly all the way through, almost wistfully, even to the very end, so that his words were touched with a curious melancholy, a tone of longing. This was strange, of course, the voice he'd chosen, considering what he had to say. It was like a formal recital. Something learned for school. Yes, a recitation. A factual and rather pretty narrative. A calm and beautifully detached and rather touching enumeration of small truths.
She walked in the rain to the front door. Upstairs the first thing that caught her eye was the smoking pistol, the neon sculpture she'd bought to commemorate the final evening she'd spent at Frankie's Tropical Bar. With that other son of a bitch. That son of a bitch in entirely different ways. It was all so strange. She stayed depressed a long time.
The phone in Mudger's car was mounted on a panel behind the front seat, passenger side. When it buzzed he put his left foot on the accelerator, leaned far to his right and extended his arm over the seat to reach it, without taking his eyes off the road.
His driver had left a week earlier to take a job with the National Park Service in Arizona. Doctor's orders, he said. Dry climate. Mudger knew he was going back to PAC/ORD. It was Lomax in Dallas.
"Some progress, Earl."
"Tell me about it."
"I made contact. In fact I flew down on the kid's plane. What they call a carnival atmosphere prevailed."
"How'd you manage that?"
"Easy," Lomax said. "But I haven't located the item. Next step is the warehouse. Richie's jittery but I think I can get us inside."
"They have a moat, I understand, with crocodiles."
"They have dogs is what they have. It's a lot more secure than the DC-9."
"I heard from Van," Mudger said.
"Where is he?"
" Southwest Texas."
"How's his face? Still hurt?"
"They found the subject."
"Jesus, did they? That's fantastic. Okay, you said it. They'd get it done. Had me fooled, I admit. No more snide remarks about the rangers."
Mudger passed a Mercedes on the Jersey turnpike, heavy rain, the phone cradled between his head and shoulder.
"He wants to be found."
A pause while Lomax considered this.
"Explain, Earl."
"He wants to be found. That's the explanation. How the hell else could they have found him?"
"Why does he want to be found?"
"I don't know."
"Are they fixed or traveling?"
"They're still traveling."
"Where to, you ttiink?"
The Mercedes came into view on the left Mudger increased his speed.
"He's heading for the Mines."
"I guess, if he's led them down that far, could be."
"Sure, he's heading for the Mines."
"Does Van know he's being led?"
"Tell you the truth, Arthur, he was so goddamn happy I didn't have the heart to tell him."
Gao walked away from the roadside stand, eating a taco. He got into the microbus and Van drove off, obviously impatient. Propped on the dash was a Polaroid photo Cao had taken of his buddy standing in front of the statue of Davy Crockett in the town square in Ozona.
2
Talerico inspected the plants arrayed along the picture window in the living room. A police car turned into the street and went slowly past. Yellow cruisers. Cops with small neat mustaches, like army officers in World War I movies. He watched the car turn a corner and head toward the golf course. His wife had overwatered the Swedish ivy. He'd have to mention it.
His daughters kept asking about the Mounties. They'd seen pictures somewhere. Bright red tunics and widebrimmed hats. The famous musical ride. Talerico didn't think of them as Mounties. They were the RCMP and if they wore bright red uniforms while bouncing around on their horsies, they weren't always easy to spot the rest of the time. He'd also been made aware of the provincial police. Not to mention the Toronto morality squad, whose officers liked to keep busy confiscating equipment and prints, and padlocking bookstores, peep shows and other outlets.
Talerico had come up from the Buffalo arm to develop Toronto for hard-core, if and when it became legal. In the meantime he was dipping and dancing, teasing along the margins of what was legally distributable, checking out the under-the-counter trade and making contacts with local people the family might want to install as corporate officials.
His smallest daughter came into view, out on the lawn, playing with friends. After Buffalo, a city of sofa burnings and larger conflagrations, this place was easy to take. The kids, especially, loved it. His wife was right behind. He, Vincent, harbored secret yearnings for the familiar faces and voices. The mother, the sister, the cousins, the uncles, the nieces.
Still, it was only a couple of hours' drive to Buffalo and to all those smoldering ruins that were constantly being hosed down by overworked firemen. Here, once a week, to ease the longing for familiar things, he drove down to Pasquale Brothers on King Street and filled a couple of shopping bags with cheese, noodles, peppers, sausage, cold cuts, anchovies and olives.
He checked his watch. Two-hour time difference. Still a little early to call.
Talerico suffered from a facial nerve paralysis. About a year ago he got out of bed one morning to find that the right side of his face had more or less collapsed. It had slid down, like an acre of mud. He had trouble closing his mouth completely; the right corner didn't quite shut. His bushy mustache dipped far to the right and his voice occasionally sounded hollow.
The split was distinct. The left side of his face was normal. The right side was numb and set lower than the left. The right side was also expressionless. When he sneezed or blinked, only the left eye closed. The right eye hung there, frozen, staring blankly. It was slanted down, at an angle to the other eye. It was like an animal's eye, people said. A hawk, a snake, a shark. It was mysterious and fierce, staring out impassively, uninfluenced by what was happening on the other side of his face.