Adams was halfway through the speech before any of them caught on to the fact that he was doing Conniston — and doing him with eerie accuracy, down to the shoulderlifting gesture and the fast blink of eyes. The speech completed, Adams settled back to await applause. It was forthcoming only from Louise. Embarrassed, Oakley did not stir. Conniston drew himself up. Adams beamed at him, dapper and pouter-pigeon-proud. “You ready for that, hey?”
“I don’t find that amusing,” Conniston remarked. He turned his back to Adams and strode across the room to the bar.
Adams’ face fell; Louise said, “Really, darling” — calling her husband “darling” with steely emphasis.
Conniston mixed a fresh martini for himself before he replied; then, turning to face them, he said caustically, “Don’t tell me you’re afraid I’ve put guest’s nose out of joint.”
Trying to cut the tension, Adams said weakly, “Let’s have no loose remarks about my nose.” He tried to smile. With a nervous gesture toward his feet he said, “I sure admire your house, Earle. Never saw a carpet like this — you need snowshoes to travel it. Oh hell, never mind me, I thought it was funny, hey? Didn’t mean to insult you. Chalk it up I’ve spent too many years in fourth-rate clubs MC’ing blue acts. MC, that’s Mental Case, hey? Look, I’m sorry, okay?”
Oakley watched the jewel-hard shine of Louise’s glance against Conniston. Conniston shook his head and threw back his head to drain the martini at one gulp; afterward he said, “All right — all right. Didn’t mean to fly off handle. Been a lousy day — apologize.”
“Sure... sure,” Adams said, and stood silent, having run out of things to say.
“Really!” Louise breathed, and strode toward the kitchen, walking with a magnificent jounce and heave of young buttocks which seemed to writhe with a life of their own. Oakley caught the way Adams stared at her, unblinking. He distinctly heard Adams whisper, “Yes sirree Bob,” although it was plain Conniston didn’t catch it. When Oakley threw a direct glance at Adams the comedian met it with a guileless lecherous wink. Oakley turned half away and closed his eyes. So that was how it was: Louise’s childish revenge. She would use Adams to pay Conniston back for his “neglect.” That was why she had uttered her extraordinary plea earlier: “He just shuts me out. What can I do?” She had been absolving herself of the blame for it. Trying to convince Oakley that whatever happened was Earle’s fault, not hers. She was an actress; she needed an audience to applaud her performance; she wanted Oakley’s good opinion.
She must hate Earle terribly to do it right here in his own house under his nose. Watching Conniston’s broad tense back as Conniston poured himself a third drink, Oakley thought, I don’t know if I can blame her.
A few hours later the phone rang.
Chapter Six
Mitch Baird squatted brooding on his haunches. Below him he could see the road winding north through the hills. The heat, rising from the earth in the dusk, sucked sweat from his pores. Out across the flayed surrealist landscape dust-devils funneled erratically in yellow wheelings of sand and twigs and leaves.
He turned around on his heels. Floyd Rymer nodded and smiled. Beyond Floyd, down in the dry arroyo, Mitch could see the dusty Oldsmobile. Theodore and Billie Jean were in the back seat. Georgie Rymer sat on a rock near the car, yawning and scratching.
Floyd looked at his watch. “Another forty minutes, about.”
Mitch’s eyes flickered when they touched Floyd’s. Floyd said, “Your mouth looks like a coathanger. Smile. You’re about to break out in dollar signs, remember?”
Mitch drew in a deep breath. “I don’t like this. It’s too risky.”
“Nothing’s risky if the stakes are high enough. Mitch, me thinks you complain too much.” The hooded gray eyes smiled lazily with cool disdain.
“They’ll be after us for stealing that Olds, you know.”
“Relax. These country cops have trouble finding the chief of police. The license plates are clean.”
Mitch held his tongue. No point arguing with Floyd. All he wanted was to get away from the whole nightmare. But Floyd hadn’t let him out of his sight.
Floyd’s eyes, wary and predatory, scrutinized him with secret amusement. “You know what you’re supposed to do.”
“Yeah... yeah.” Mitch felt sick. “But the whole thing’s stupid.”
“On the contrary. Mitch?”
“What?”
“You fuck this one up and I’ll feed you to the birds. Understood?” Floyd took the snub-barrel revolver out of his windbreaker pocket and spun it casually on his finger like a gunslinger in a Western movie. It was the only gun in the group. Floyd didn’t trust anyone else with one.
“Take heart, Mitch,” Floyd breathed. “Into each life a little loot must fall.” He smiled and got to his feet like a cobra uncoiling. “Après vous, mon ami.” He gestured with the .38, still smiling.
Mitch got to his feet and climbed carefully down to the car. His desert-boots dislodged pebbles and made a tiny avalanche that spilled into the arroyo with a racket. Forewarned by the noise, Billie Jean opened the back door of the car and adjusted her dress down around her meaty hips while she climbed out. Theodore made a lunge for her, missed, and barked an obscenity; he came roaring out of the car and got the laughing girl in a hammerlock.
Floyd came off the hill and stood with his feet braced, scowling. “All right, get untangled, you two. Georgie?”
Georgie appeared beyond the car, coming forward, trying to walk like his brother. “Everything okay?”
Floyd looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock, and all’s well.”
“I could use a jolt,” Georgie complained. “You know. A cat gets tense, time like this?”
“You’ll get one,” Floyd said. Theodore and Billie Jean stirred, came forward toward the hood of the car and ranged themselves alongside Georgie. Mitch hung back. Floyd gave him a dry glance and said, “What ho. Everybody ready?”
“Hail, hail,” Mitch muttered dryly, “the gang’s all here.” Floyd’s irrelevant humor was contagious. He realized that and made a face.
He caught Floyd’s caustic grin; Floyd said, “All right, Mitch, cool the wit. Get the flashlight, that’s a good boy.”
Mitch went past the others to the car and got the flashlight out of the glove compartment. He tested it twice and put it in his hip pocket. Floyd made some nonvocal signal behind his back; by the time he turned, he saw Theodore opening the trunk of the car. Theodore removed various pieces of wood and began to assemble a pair of sawhorses. Floyd said, “Lend a hand, Mitch.”
Mitch helped Theodore carry the sawhorses and detour signs and firepot bombs to the edge of the main road. When he looked back he could see Floyd watching him, one hand in the pocket that contained the revolver. Floyd’s expression was unreadable in the dimming twilight. He heard Floyd talking out of the side of his mouth to Billie Jean:
“Remember what to look for. Little red sports car with a girl driving. You’ll see it come under the bright lights at the freeway ramp when she gets off.”
Billie Jean said, “I just flash at you, right?”
“That’s all, sweetness. But you had better be God damn sure it’s the right car.”
Mitch’s lips pinched together; for a moment he felt faint. He knew what to expect before he heard Floyd speak: “Mitch, come over here and give the flashlight to Billie Jean.”