Badger Games (29 page)

The guy to talk to, everyone agreed, was Cris Tantiello. Cri-
stan,
as he liked to be called, was a man of middle age who contrived to look thirty. He sported two-hundred-dollar designer shades and was always impeccably dressed in handmade silk shirts and very fine, beautifully tailored silk or linen jackets and slacks. No open collars and gold medallions for Cristan; his watch didn't even seem to be gold, until you looked closely. (The maker, Vanio of Parma,
made a dozen watches a year; this one looked like a bracelet until Cristan touched it with his forefinger, whereupon a glaucous face materialized briefly.) He was a more sociable man than Roman. He claimed, with a flash of perfect white teeth beneath his pencil-thin mustache, to know more or less everybody in the world, by his or her first name. Cristan listened to Roman's problem with great interest.

Cristan knew of an agency, in Miami, that provided aid for refugees, like this Fedima, presumably. This was merely a phone call; he would do it for free. Alas, it turned out they knew nothing about her. But they suggested a group in Atlanta that did some placement work. Another phone call—again, pro bono. No Fedima, however.

Cristan was not daunted. “I know a man in Brooklyn,” he said. “He's Armenian. He knows everybody I don't know. But it will cost you.”

They were sitting in a little bar off the beach. Cristan was sipping ginger ale through a straw from a frosted glass. A tall blond woman wearing a bikini that concealed nothing of her twenty-year-old body but nipples and pubic hair, was waiting for him impatiently on the terrace, under an umbrella, paging through a fashion magazine.

“Two C's?” Roman asked, indifferently.

“Four,” Cristan said. “Come by and see me tomorrow, about this time.”

“Today,” Roman asked. “Three C's.”

“Five,” Cristan said. “Okay,
mi amigo.
But first, I must break the sad news to Claudia.” He went out and leaned down to the tall girl. Her shoulders drooped; then she stood up and shook her mass of blond hair angrily. When she shook her head every man's head within visual range swiveled, because Claudia's head shake created a sympathetic vibration in the rest of her, particularly her upper torso: it was like a submarine disturbance, hidden at first and slow to build, but as it reached the surface the inertial violence threatened
to rip her flimsy costume to pieces. Cristan calmed her with his hands upheld like a traffic cop's. He promised her. She folded her arms and waited while he returned to Roman.

“Ladies,” he said to Roman, “they're so … volatile. I have to go for a drive. You wait here.” He went off with the girl, jumping into a white Cadillac convertible.

Roman sat and stared at the open door of the bar. It framed an oblong of tan sand, some colorful umbrellas, the deep blue of the sea, and the paler blue of the sky. He sat there, hardly moving, patiently waiting, for almost an hour. He tried to imagine what the Liddle Angel wanted with a girl named Fedima, but he had no clue. He quit wondering. And then Cristan returned, alone but looking simultaneously refreshed and depleted.

“My friend Ari has said he will inquire of some Arab friends. We must wait. I'm sorry, Jake. He may not call back this evening.”

“Who are the Arabs?” Roman asked. “I'll go ask them myself.”

“Ha, ha!” Cristan laughed gaily. “You can't do that,
mi amigo.
They are in New York!”

“There are airplanes,” Roman said. He took out a packet of bills from his breast pocket and counted off five hundred-dollar bills. He stopped, looked at Cristan, who was watching him expectantly, and counted off five more. Cristan picked up the bills and disappeared out the door, walking directly to his car. He drove off and was back in ten minutes. He handed a piece of paper to Roman.

“
R
adium mines?” Boz didn't get it. If the mines were radioactive, wasn't that dangerous? Who would sit in a radioactive mine?

Kibosh assured him it was so. “It's a real low-grade radiation, they tell me,” he said. “Might be somethin' to it. I was talking to Frankie about it, and that kid knows just about ever'thin'
about science. He brung over a whatchamacallit, one a them little gewgaws, and checked out the Seven Dials for me.”

“Geiger counter,” Boz said. They had moved into the mine, but sat near the open door so Kibosh's pipe smoke could escape. The cat wandered back and forth. They were on their second bottle of County Fair, and it was getting pretty low.

“Naw, it wan't a Geiger counter,” Kibosh said. “This thing counts all kinds a radiation. Frankie said what I had here was a little bit a ray-don. It ain't the same. An' I didn't have anough to bother 'bout. Ray-don daughters, he said. He 'splained it all, but I didn' git the whole gist.”

“Radon daughters. I could go for some daughters,” Boz said. “Jesus, lookit that bottle! Time for another, Kibe.”

Kibosh picked up the bottle, poured them each the same amount, about a shot apiece, and then hurled the bottle out the open door. It bounced across the gravelly yard and rattled down the hill past the pines and out of sight. He sipped his shot and got up to fetch more. He came back shortly with a bottle that was only half full.

“Thissisit,” he said. “Thought I had more, but I forgot this'n'uz only half full. Wal, jist have to take 'er easy.”

“Fuck that,” Boz said. “We'll drive down an' get some more. Maybe we should go while it's still plenty light.” He glanced out the door.

Kibosh agreed. “We could git some bread, too. I never been any good at makin' bread. I miss it now an' then. An' maybe somethin' to dress that scratch a yers.”

“Let's go, then,” Boz said. He picked up the bottle. “Take this along.”

Kibosh hurried after him. It was a little touchy turning the big Dodge around on the narrow road. There was a steep dropoff on one side and the embankment on the other. But at last they went
bouncing down the hill, out to the highway, and soon were whizzing along toward French Forque and Basin.

“Pull in t' Frenchy's, here,” Kibosh directed Boz as they approached French Forque. “Ye want t'git it, er me?”

Boz handed him a fifty. “Get three—no, four,” he said. Then he peeled off another bill. “What the hell, get a six-pack. And you might as well get some beer, too. And maybe some of them beef-jerky things.”

“Aw, I got plenty a elk sausage,” Kibosh reminded him.

“Oh yeah, well go on then.”

Kibosh came back with a sack full of booze and beer. “I cleaned him out on the County Fair—he on'y had three bottles—so I got some brandy. All right? The rest of the stuff we gotta git down to the ‘little store.'” He pointed down the road and they drove on. Here Kibosh loaded up with loaves of Wonder Bread and Twinkies, a couple of cans of salted nuts, a dozen eggs, and some first-aid supplies.

They got back on the highway, drinking and talking, having a fine time. Just as they were approaching their exit, Kibosh looked ahead to his road and saw an old pickup coming out.

“Shoot, there's the kid,” Kibosh said. “He musta been up to the place. I missed 'im.”

Exiting southbound traffic was provided with an off-ramp, which led to a stop sign at Kibosh's road. Vehicles on that road, headed northbound to Basin, had to pass right under the freeway, then turn onto an entrance ramp on the other side. The pickup had gone into the underpass by the time Boz got to the off-ramp. But he didn't exit.

“He prob'ly was jist stoppin' by, t'see if I was doin' all right, needed anythin' from the store,” Kibosh said, craning around to catch a glimpse of the pickup as it entered the northbound lanes. “He's a good kid. Hey, ye missed the turnoff!”

“I was just thinking,” Boz said, “that I need my stuff from town. I been wearing the same clothes for two days.”

“Hell, I been wearing these since … well, I don't rightly remember,” Kibosh said. “But go ahead on. In this rig, won't take a half an hour to git to town.”

He was right. They pulled up to the motel and Boz jumped down, saying he'd be right back. What he found inside made him furious, however. All his stuff dumped on the bed, his Glock and his money gone! He raced to the bathroom and jerked off the lid of the commode tank. To his relief, his Star automatic, a Spanish 9mm, had not been discovered. It sat in its sealed plastic bag with an extra clip and extra cartridges. He took it out, unsealed it, and slipped it into his coat pocket.

He looked at the shower wistfully. He would have appreciated a cleanup, but now he felt nervous about hanging around here. He stuffed his gear into the suitcase, took it out to the truck, and tossed it into the back.

“That was quick,” Kibosh observed as they wheeled out of the lot. “Ain't you gonna check out?”

“Fuck 'em,” Boz said. “Who needs that joint? We got everything we need, eh, Kibe?”

Kibosh grinned and cracked open a can of Budweiser and handed it to Boz. “Ye got that right, pardner,” he said, and got out a can for himself.

A half hour later, with the light dwindling but still present, they bounced on up the trail toward the mine. Boz drove the Dodge right up to the yard and stopped to let Kibosh out.

“I'm gonna turn her around,” Boz said.

Kibosh jumped down with the groceries and went to the door. There was a note stuck there on a nail. He picked it off and stuffed it in his pocket while he opened the door and carried his goods inside. Boz turned the truck around and parked facing down the trail.

Boz sat out on the stump, sipping at a beer and enjoying the pleasant fall evening, while Kibosh bustled around inside, frying up
some supper. After a bit the old man came out with the grub—scrambled eggs, sausage, toasted bread—and they set it out on handy stumps to eat.

“Damn, this is good,” Boz said. “By God, Kibe, you got the fuckin' life!”

After dinner they sat back to watch the evening settle in. Kibosh smoked his pipe, and Boz sipped beer. “Where's that rifle of yours, Kibe?” Boz asked.

Kibosh brought it out and handed it over, proudly. It was a deer rifle, a .30-06. Boz hefted it and looked through the scope.

“By God, I can see the cars on the highway,” he said. “How far is that?”

“Oh, a mile or more, depending on where ye're lookin',” Kibosh said. “Them lights goin' up the grade,” he said, glancing at where Boz was aiming, “that'd be two mile, easy.”

“I believe I could hit it,” Boz said, his finger curling around the trigger.

“Oh, Jesus! Don't!” Kibosh said. He reached for the barrel, but Boz pulled it away.

“Leave off,” Boz said. “I ain't gonna shoot, you old fool! But, Jeez, looks like I could.” He looked through the scope again. “Too far. You'd never hit nothing at this range, what with elevation, wind.” He set the rifle down beside him, leaning it against a pine.

“Them thirty-ought-sixes'll carry, though,” Kibosh said. He was a little nervous about the gun staying by Boz's side, but he didn't say anything. “Folks a been kilt, from ca'tridges fired two mile.”

“What was that you was telling me about walking to Butte underground?” Boz asked. “Was that bullshit?”

“Wal, as to that,” Kibosh said, feeling sobered, “I mighta 'zaggerated there. Butte's a good ways. I knowed a feller in Butte, though, that claimed he could go from one end a town to t'other, underground, and I b'lieve 'im.”

“So it was bullshit,” Boz sneered. “How about to Basin?”

“To Basin? Wal, no. The river cuts in, see. But French Forque, hell, yes,” Kibosh said. “Wal, ye'd come out 'bout a mile from Forkee, maybe a little closer. I never did it. I got through to the river, a little further up, an' come out above Frankie's place, oncet.”

“Frankie. You're always talkin' about that kid.” Boz frowned, then said, “You mean the Oberavich kid? Grows dope up there, up the crick?”

“I don't know nothin' 'bout dope,” Kibosh said. “Ain't none a my business what he grows, nor nobody else's.”

“Don't matter to me,” Boz said. “I just heard a rumor. So where'd you come out at?”

“There's a ridge, comes out 'long the river 'bove his place,” Kibosh said. “I got to foolin' 'round in there one day and I'll be damned if I didn't come out acrost the crick from his place. Took me the better part of the day. But I walked right back in a couple hours. See, I marked the way with chalk, so's not to git lost.”

“You got a map?” Boz said. “I'd like to see where you're talking about.”

They went inside, Boz carrying the rifle. He leaned it up against the shelves next to his chair while Kibosh cleared away some of the clutter and spread out some forest service maps.

“See, here we are,” Kibosh pointed out. “And there's the crick. Ye can see it ain't but a mile or two, 'cept that there's a whole damn mountain in betwixt.”

Boz looked at it carefully. The mountain was part of the ridge that determined the course of the Forkee. It angled to the northeast, so that the highway angled as well, before it reached French Forque. By road, it was at least six or seven miles, then the ten miles or so of twisting road that ran up and around and through the jumbled hills, to come out onto the big meadow that formed the major part of Oberavich's place. The southern bank of the river was
very steep, high cliffs in some places, whereas the north side was a gradually rising block of another mountainous structure pushing down from the north. A straight line through the ridge was amazingly short. But any system of tunnels and mine shafts would not run straight through, Boz understood.

“Is it dangerous?” he asked Kibosh.

“Oh, I dunno, d'pens.” Kibosh opened a bottle of bourbon and poured them each a small glassful. “Been a couple year since I been back in there any distance. I ain't noticed no falls, but ye never can tell. Durn thing could be plumb blocked off.”