Beggarman, Thief (50 page)

“Yeah,” Wesley said sourly. “Turn off the goddamn light.”

Billy reached over and put out the light. He didn’t try to close his eyes for a long time, but kept staring up at the dark ceiling. After five minutes he heard Wesley’s steady breathing as he slept and an occasional low moan, as his dreams took over once more. Billy lay awake till the light of the dawn filtered into the room. In the distance the throb of the music could still be heard. Spanish hours, he thought, Spanish fucking hours.

«  »

The next day, promptly at four, Carmen appeared at the court looking rested and serene. They were playing doubles that afternoon and the other players were already there and Carmen greeted them and Billy with the same radiant smile. Although the others were men, they were weaker players than Carmen, so she and Billy were on opposing teams. She played better than Billy had ever seen her play before, agile and accurate, poaching at the net and making Billy and his partner work hard for every point. The score was four all when, after a long rally, she lobbed over Billy’s head. He got a glimpse of her ironic smile as he backpedaled at full speed and by leaping into the air, just managed to reach the ball. He hit the overhead viciously, trying to put it at Carmen’s feet, but she had charged the net and the ball whistled toward her head. She stumbled a little, and the smash hit her in the eye and bounced crazily off the court as she dropped her racket and bent over with a cry and put her hands to the eye.

Oh, God, Billy thought, as he jumped over the net to her side, that’s all I needed.

The doctor was grave. The eye was in danger, he said. Carmen had to go to Barcelona immediately to see a specialist. An operation might be necessary.

“I’m terribly sorry,” Billy said as he drove her back from the doctor’s office to the hotel.

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Carmen said crisply, although he could see she was in great pain. “It wasn’t your fault. I had no business being at the net. I was trying to psych you into missing the shot. Don’t let anybody make you believe it was your fault.”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. This time she didn’t push him away.

But no matter what she or anybody would say, he knew that it was his fault, that if the night before hadn’t happened, he would never have hit the ball at her so hard and at such a short distance.

The next afternoon, the manager of the hotel called him into his office. “Young man,” he said, “I’m afraid you’re in very deep. The father has just called me. The eye will probably be all right, he said; the specialist doesn’t think he will have to operate, but the father is furious. As for me, I did not pay you to brutalize the guests. The father insists that I dismiss you, and although the daughter called me, too, and said she would never forgive me if I did, I’m afraid I have to bow to the father’s wishes. You’d better pack your bags and leave. The sooner the better for you.” The manager took an envelope out of the drawer of his desk and handed it to Billy. “Here’s your month’s pay. I have deducted nothing.”

“Thank you,” Billy said numbly.

The manager shook his hand. “I’m sorry to see you go. You were well liked here.”

As Billy walked toward the pool to tell Wesley what had happened, he remembered what his father had said about the luck of the Jordaches. It made no difference that his name wasn’t Jordache, but Abbott.

«  »

That same afternoon they were on the road for France, driving in the sunshine in the open Peugeot. Billy had tried to persuade Wesley that it was foolish for him to leave his job, but Wesley had insisted and Billy hadn’t pressed too hard. He had grown fond of the boy and the prospect of driving through the springtime countryside of Spain and France with him was a tempting one. They went at a leisurely pace, sight-seeing and having picnic lunches of sausage and rough bread with a bottle of wine on the side of the road, shaded by olive trees or on the edge of vineyards. They had their tennis gear with them and usually were able to find a court in the towns through which they passed and play a few sets almost every day. “If you keep at it,” Billy said, “you’ll be able to beat me in two years.”

As they traveled north Billy realized that he was glad they had quit El Faro, although he would always feel guilty for the way it had come about. He regretted leaving Spain but he didn’t regret having to wonder every day if Monika would arrive to chill him with her hopeless tennis and oblique threatening hints of future complications.

Wesley spoke more openly about what he had been doing than he had at El Faro and told him of the people in his father’s life he had searched out. He told Billy a little about his visit to Bath, just mentioning Kate and not saying anything about Dawson and the fight, but describing his half-brother lovingly. “Pretty little kid,” he said. “Strong as a young bull. I think he’s going to turn out to look like his father—our father. He’s a real happy little boy.”

“You
don’t seem happy,” Billy said. “You’re young and strong and good-looking and from what my mother writes with a big career ahead of you if you want it, but you don’t act like a happy boy.”

“I’m happy enough,” Wesley said evasively.

“Not when you sleep you aren’t. Do you know that you moan practically all night?”

“Dreams. They don’t mean anything.”

“That isn’t what the psychiatrists say.”

“What do
you
say?” Wesley’s voice was suddenly harsh.

“I’d say that something is bugging you. Something bad. If you want to talk about it, maybe it would help.”

“Maybe I will,” said Wesley. “Some other time. Now let’s drop the subject.”

When they crossed into France, they spent the first night in a small hotel overlooking the sea just across the border in Port Vendres. “I have a great idea,” Billy said. “We’re not due in Cannes for another two weeks—why don’t we tool up to Paris and give ourselves a holiday there?”

Wesley shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’ve got to get to Cannes. I’ve been avoiding it and now it’s time to go.”

“Why?”

Wesley looked at Billy strangely. “I’ve got to see Bunny, he was on the
Clothilde
with me. Actually he’s in Saint-Tropez. He may have some information for me. Important information. You drive up to Paris. I’ll hitchhike east.”

“What sort of information?” Billy asked.

Again Wesley looked at him strangely. “I’m looking for someone and Bunny may know where I can find him. That’s all.”

“Can’t whoever it is wait a couple of weeks?”

“He’s waited too long.”

“Who is it?”

“It’s the man who’s responsible for the way I sleep. I dream about him every night. I dream that I keep stabbing him with a knife, over and over again, and that he doesn’t fall, he just stands there laughing at me.… When I wake up I can still hear him laughing.”

“Do you recognize him?” Billy asked. “I mean in the dream?”

Wesley nodded slowly. “He’s the man who had my father killed.”

Billy felt a cold tingle at the base of his neck at the tone of Wesley’s voice. “What are you going to do when you find him?”

Wesley took a deep breath. “I finally have to tell someone,” he said, “and it might as well be you. I’m going to kill him.”

“Oh, Christ,” Billy said.

They sat in silence, looking out at the sea.

“How do you plan to do it?” Billy said finally.

“I don’t know,” Wesley shrugged. “I’ll figure it out when the time comes. A knife, maybe.”

“Have you got a gun?”

“No.”

“Is
he
likely to have one?”

“Probably.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I’ll try to avoid that,” Wesley said grimly.

“And if you do manage to knock him off,” Billy said, “you’ll be the first one the cops would come looking for, don’t you know that?”

“I suppose I do,” Wesley admitted.

“You’d be lucky to get off with twenty years in jail. Do you want that?”

“No.”

“And still you want to go to Cannes and do it?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, Wesley,” Billy said, “I can’t let you go charging ahead to your doom. You’ve got to let me help you.”

“How?”

“I have a gun with a silencer stashed away in Paris, for openers.”

Wesley nodded gravely. “That would be useful.”

“I could help you plan it. The … the murder.” Billy stumbled over the word. “After all, I was trained as a soldier. I speak French a lot better than you do. I know how to handle guns. I’m going to tell you something that you’ve got to keep absolutely to yourself—while I was in the army I joined a cell of terrorists in Brussels.…”

“You?” Wesley said incredulously.

“Yes, me. I was in on a job in Amsterdam on the Spanish tourist office. I know how to put together a bomb. Sonny, you couldn’t have found a better partner for the job. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he went on. “While you head for Saint-Tropez, I’ll go up to Paris and get the gun and I’ll meet you in either Saint-Tropez or Cannes, whichever you say. Fair enough?”

Wesley looked at Billy consideringly. “Are you hustling me?”

“Oh, come on now, Wesley,” Billy said, sounding aggrieved. “I wouldn’t do anything like that. What have you got to lose? I’ll be back down south in a few days. With the gun. And enough ammunition so that you can practice using it. Does that sound like a hustle?”

“I guess not,” Wesley said, but he sounded reluctant to say it. “Okay. You let me know where you’re staying in Paris and I’ll call you and tell you where you can find me.”

“I think we can use a drink,” Billy said.

“I think so, too,” said Wesley.

The next day they drove together to Nimes, where Billy would turn north toward Paris. Billy sat at the wheel in silence under the shade of a poplar while Wesley got his backpack out of the car and slung it over his shoulder. They had agreed that Billy would send him a telegram at Poste Restante in Saint-Tropez to let Wesley know in what hotel he was staying in Paris.

“Well,” Wesley said, “take care of yourself.”

“You, too,” Billy said. “You’re not going to do anything foolish while I’m gone, are you?”

“No. I promise.” They shook hands. “I’m going to miss the tennis.” Billy grinned.

“You’ll remember,” Billy said, “that they play very little tennis in French jails.”

“I’ll remember,” Wesley said and stepped back.

Billy started the motor and waved as the car, built for holidays and sunshine, spurted onto the road from beneath the shadow of the poplar tree. In the rearview mirror he saw the tall, lean figure start trudging in the direction of Cannes.

«  »

When he got to Paris, the first thing Billy did after checking into a hotel on the Left Bank was put in a call to America. When Rudolph came to the phone, Billy said, “Uncle Rudolph, this is Billy Abbott. I’m in Paris at the Hôtel Alembert. I need help. Bad. Something awful is going to happen to Wesley—and maybe to me, too, unless …” He stopped.

“Unless what, Billy?” Rudolph said.

“Unless we can stop certain things from happening,” Billy said. “I can’t tell you over the phone.”

“I’ll be in Paris tomorrow,” Rudolph said.

“God,” Billy said, “those’re sweet words.”

He lay back on the bed wearily and a minute later he was asleep.

CHAPTER 9

“Now,” Rudolph said to Billy as they turned onto the auto route that led from the airport toward Paris, “explain.”

“It’s Wesley,” Billy said, driving carefully. It was raining and the headlights of the late evening traffic glared off the wet surface of the road. “He’s down in the south of France now looking for the man he says was behind the murder.” He pulled at the wheel to swerve into the right lane because the driver of the car behind him was blinking his lights impatiently at him. The car passed in a whoosh, throwing up a curtain of rain that made the windshield opaque for several seconds. “Bastard,” Billy said, grateful to have something else to worry about, even for a moment.

Rudolph pushed his hat back on his head and ran his hand across his forehead, as though relieving pain there. “How do you know all this?” he asked, his voice dull.

“He told me,” Billy said. “We became very close in Spain. I was glad we could become such good friends. He shared my room with me. He slept as though he were in a foxhole, with the artillery hitting nearer to him all the time. I could see something was psyching him out and it worried me and I finally asked him and he told me.”

“Do you think he’s serious?” Rudolph asked.

“Absolutely,” Billy said. “There’re no jokes in that kid’s repertoire. There’s even something scary about the way he plays tennis. He’s not like any other boy I’ve ever known. Or man, for that matter.”

“Is he sane?”

“Except for this,” Billy said.

“Do you think a psychiatrist would help?”

Billy thought for a moment. “It wouldn’t do any harm,” he said. “If you could get him to sit still for it for maybe a year or so. Only you couldn’t get him to do it.”

Rudolph grunted. “Why didn’t you stay with him?” He sounded accusing.

“Well …” Billy said uncomfortably. “That’s another part of the story. I said I’d help him.”

“How?”