Colonel Rutherford's Colt (12 page)

“Well, sir,” the colonel said. “Will you answer?”

General Ruelas' fingers closed about the aide's salad fork, an action that the aide took notice of with a worried sidelong glance. “I cannot,” said the general hoarsely.

The whispered conversations taking place in every quarter of the room swelled in volume as news of this development was passed from table to table. Elated, because it was clear that his presentation was winning the day, the colonel pressed his advantage.

“Much as I wish I might,” he said, “I cannot undo the past. All I can do is to apologize for making a hasty judgment, and to regret the tragedy I have caused. And to assure you, sir, that from this day forward, your family will have in me the staunchest of allies in whatever cause they choose to support.”

At this point the colonel offered his hand. It was a dicey moment. By the standards of Cuban justice, if not the letter of the law, Colonel Rutherford was in the right no matter the reason for Carrasquel's incursion upon his property. A man who did not defend the honor of his marriage was not a man. The colonel's admirable forthrightness in challenging the general's aspersions would seem to speak eloquently to the possibility that if Carrasquel and Susan had been having an affair, the colonel may not have been aware of it. If the general did not accept his hand, Colonel Rutherford had lost nothing; but he was banking on the fact that Ruelas was a realist and would ultimately decide that having a friend in high places, a friend who was in his debt, would compensate for the loss of a nephew-by-marriage who, no matter what slant one put on it, had behaved in a disgraceful fashion. Then, too, his behavior would appear less disgraceful if the general were to validate the colonel's view that Carrasquel was either drunk and misguided, or playing a prank. The colonel believed that this would prove an irresistible lure and that the general would accept the handshake, perhaps telling himself that he reserved the option to change his mind at a later date—by that time, however, the colonel suspected that he and Ruelas would be involved on many levels, on their way to becoming the best of friends.

Ruelas' eyes flitted over the silverware as if he were choosing a weapon with which to assault the colonel. But at length, albeit with a small show of bad grace, still declining to meet Colonel Rutherford's eyes, he shook the colonel's hand and said,
“Muy bien.”
He squared his shoulders, fussed with his tie, then beckoned imperiously to the waiter.

 

* * *

 

Brandywines was less than half-full that night. Jimmy and Rita ate cheeseburgers at the bar, watching a Seahawks exhibition game. The Hawks were getting their asses kicked by the Jets in the first half—Coach Holmgren, walruslike in his teal and blue jacket, looked as if he'd swallowed a mouthful of bad salmon. The Seattle quarterback overthrew a screen pass, and Rita shouted, “Jesus!” and pounded the bar with the hilt of her hunting knife. “That's the guy's gonna take us to the Super Bowl? You believe this shit?”

The bartender, a glossy little man with slicked-back hair and extremely white teeth, wearing a yellow vest with black piping over a shirt with blousy sleeves, shook his head in agreement. He did not appear to know very much about football, but had become somewhat intimidated by Rita's vehemence, and now was doing his best to keep up with the game.

“Hasselbeck,” she said disdainfully to Jimmy. “Y'can't have a quarterback with a name like that and expect to go to the goddamn Super Bowl!”

Jimmy had on his suede jacket and an old cowboy hat with a grease stain on the crown that he'd worn on-and-off ever since she had met him. The hat shadowed his face, giving him a lazy, sulky look. He stared at his fries and muttered something inaudible.

Frustrated, Rita addressed herself to the bar in general. “Lookit the guys who win Super Bowls. Kenny Stabler. Troy Aickman. Brett Favre. Joe Namath. John Elway. Solid leadership-type names. And what do we got? We got Matt fucking Hasselbeck.”

“Dilfer,” said a wide-shouldered fortyish man with a seamed, tired face, wearing a work shirt and a Sonics cap. Nice-looking in a low-rent kind of way. He was sitting two stools farther along the bar. Rita challenged him with a stare. “What'd you say?”

“Trent Dilfer. That's a doofus name there ever was one, and he won the Super Bowl with the Ravens.”

“Dilfer . . . Oh, yeah.” Rita mulled this over, then smiled at the guy. “Fuck, I guess I'm wrong.” She showed the bartender her empty glass and he hustled to bring the Jack Daniels. “Wouldn't hurt me none the son-of-bitch changed his name, though.”

“He can call himself Madonna for all I care, he gets us to the big game,” said the man.

Rita laughed and slapped the countertop. “I wanna buy that dude a drink,” she said to the bartender, who was busy pouring. “Matt Madonna. That's better than fucking Joe Montana.”

Jimmy was turning out his pockets, searching for something.

Rita put a hand on his shoulder. “What's wrong, sweetie?”

He gazed at her vacantly.

“Jimmy,” she said firmly. “Stop screwing around with the story and talk to me. What you looking for?”

“Loretta's address.”

“It's stuck in the receipt book. I left it in the van.”

A chorus of grousing came from the other patrons at the bar. Rita glanced up at the TV, now showing a replay of Hasselbeck being sacked for a huge loss. She turned again to Jimmy. “You gonna go see her?”

“Yeah . . . uh-huh.”

Rita tossed back her whiskey. Her butt was starting to go numb, and she shifted about on the stool. “One of these days,” she said morosely, watching the Seahawks' punt team running onto the field, “you gonna seriously fuck us up, y'know that?”

“I'll be back in a couple hours.” His voice had acquired a soft, flat intonation, as if he were under a spell. Which, she supposed, he was. The voices of his characters squeaking at him from the tiny stage he had constructed in his head.

“I really hate this part,” she said. “It's like you're in another damn dimension.”

He had no response.

“You gonna space out one day and run the van into the side of a wall, you don't watch yourself.”

“Okay,” he said.

She dug the keys to the van out of her hip pocket, held them above her head, and, with a flourish of the fingers, dropped them to clatter onto the bar. “Go on,” she said. “Get outa here.”

His hand swallowed the keys; he slid off his stool, straightened his jacket. “Couple hours.” It seemed he was about to say something more, but he merely stood there a few seconds before heading toward the door.

Feeling apprehensive, disgruntled, Rita returned her attention to the screen. The Jets had fumbled the punt, and the Seahawks had recovered on the 23. Hasselbeck's first play from scrimmage was a pass intended for the tight end that sailed high and outside.

“This game sucks!” she said.

“It's just an exhibition game,” said the man in the Sonics cap. “They'll pull it together.” He toasted her with the shot she had bought him and tossed it down.

“I ain't talking bout tonight, I'm talking 'bout the NFL, man!”

Rita gobbled a handful of peanuts, chewed and talked. “Free agency ruined the game. Now you got some teams with a good offense, some with a good D, and the rest of them ain't worth a shit either way. The players switch sides every year or two. Most of the time it's like watching air hockey.”

“The Ravens. Now they got Gerbach playing QB, they could be awesome.”

“Fuck a bunch of Gerbach,” Rita said. “What's he ever won?”

“Hey, he put up some numbers with the Chiefs.”

Rita scraped up her change from the bar and stood.

“You're not leaving, are ya?” asked the man. His eyes ranged over her body. “They're gonna play that new kid at QB next quarter. Kid's supposed to be pretty good.”

“Gotta make a phone call.”

She threaded her way among tables to the pay phones in an alcove next to the johns. Loretta Snow's number was written on a slip of paper in her shirt pocket. She misdialed the first time, cursed, and tried again. Two rings, and then that melting-lump-of-sugar voice answered, “Hello?”

“Hey, Loretta. This is Rita Whitelaw of Guy Guns. How you doing?”

“I'm . . . I'm all right.” Pause. “Is there a problem?”

“I'm just calling to tell ya Jimmy's comin' out to your place. He's got some business he wants to discuss.”

“Oh . . . well . . . that's fine.”

Oh well that's fine. Jesus. Rita had the notion she could have said Jimmy was bringing a chain saw and a body bag, and the woman would have responded in the same timid, shivery tone.

“ 'Member what I told you other day at the coffee cart? About you being vulnerable and all?”

Silence. Then, anxiously: “I don't want any trouble.”

Rita had the urge to start banging the receiver against the wall. Get a spine, for Christ's sake!

“There ain't gonna be no trouble,” she said. “The only reason I'm calling's to refresh your memory.”

Another silence.

“You're a free agent, Loretta,” Rita said. “You can do whatever you want. You wanna get crazy with Jimmy, that's fine by me. I'm not in the picture.”

“I have no intention of getting crazy with anyone,” said Ms. Snow with a tad more spine.

“Whatever you say. All I'm asking is you don't rush into things. Make an informed decision. Take a look at what you're getting into.”

Rita could hear the woman breathing, pictured her dabbing at perspiration, glancing nervously about.

“This is making me very uncomfortable,” Ms. Snow said.

“Well, it's almost over, honey,” said Rita. “You have yourself a nice evening, now.”

After breaking the connection, Rita thought of something else she might have said, but realized it wasn't worth worrying about. The man in the Sonics cap had moved himself onto the stool next to hers. and when she came up he grinned and said, “Mind if I join ya?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘join,' ” she said.

She sat and drained the last drop from her glass. “If you're talking about hanging out and watching the game . . . maybe giving me a hug whenever the Hawks score, that's fine. I get drunk enough, you might even get to second base. I'm in a funny mood and I wouldn't mind a stranger's hand on me. But you try more than that, you gonna be checking to see if you got all your fingers.”

“Jesus!” The man leaned away as if to gain a clearer perspective on her. “I don't think I ever heard a woman talk like that.”

“You ain't been talking to the right women.” Rita looked to the TV—the Jets were preparing to punt. “Dynasties,” she said. “That's what it's all about.”

The man made a puzzled face.

“Back when the NFL was really fucking great, what made it great was dynasties,” Rita said. “The Cowboys, the Niners. The Steelers. If you were a fan of theirs, you were high on the game all the time. If you wasn't, you hated 'em 'cause they won, and hating them made it fun.” She caught sight of the man in the mirror back of the bar, hulking beside her, and gave him a playful poke in the chest. “You're part of a dynasty, y'know?”

“Me? How's that?”

“White people. You own the fucking world. You wasn't around to hate, life wouldn't make as much sense.”

Jokingly, the man said, “You hate white people, how come you're messing around with me?”

“Takes all kinds, don't it?” said Rita.

 

* * *

 

Ms. Snow's residence turned out to be a pink-and-white house trailer parked in slot 14 of the Far West Motor Court, a dusty acreage just off the interstate surrounded by diseased-looking firs, each slot decorated with long flowerboxes, many filled with bottles and cans and paper trash. Jimmy parked behind Ms. Snow's old Toyota wagon and sat with his hands on the wheel, watching her shadow moving behind the Venetian blinds. From the way she was bustling about, he had the idea she was cleaning the place. It was toil to think straight, as it always was toward the end of a story. He thought it might be a good idea to get some more of it out before talking to Ms. Snow—he didn't want to confuse things.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel, trying to find an entry, but the characters skittered out of reach, as if pissed because he hadn't been paying them notice. A light switched on in another window of the trailer, one covered by a shade, and he could see Ms. Snow in clean silhouette against it. She removed her blouse and appeared to be washing her breasts and under her arms. It was a pretty sight. Relaxing. He leaned his elbow out the window and watched. The colonel would be prone to voyeurism of this sort. Sneaking up to Susan's chambers while she was in the bath. Tiptoeing across the bedroom, holding his breath, positioning himself so he could peer in through the cracked door. At first he saw only a soapy drawn-up knee above the rim of the marble tub, but then Susan leaned forward to rinse the soap away and he was offered a view of her breasts and her face, poised and lovely in its concentration. He felt himself trembling like a hound on point and toyed with the idea of entering the bathroom and taking her. But the time was not ripe. He would have to go carefully with her, ease her back into their routine. Cautiously, he re-crossed the bedroom, slipped out into the hall, gently closing the door behind. When he looked up he found Susan's maid staring at him from the head of the stair. She dropped into a curtsey and bowed her head, but he could tell she was hiding a smile. He approached and stood towering over her.

“Does something amuse you, Lupe?” he asked.

She kept her eyes lowered. “No,
Señor
.”

“I prefer you address me as Colonel.”

“Your pardon,
Señ
 . . . Colonel.”