The Texas Twist (19 page)

When he read the name printed on the card, he snorted an explosive laugh.

“What?” asked Ames, taken aback.

“This is a great one,” said Radar, continuing to chuckle. “I haven't seen this one before.”

“What do you mean?”

“Didn't you read the name?”

Ames took the card back and looked at it. “Henry Wellinov. So?”

“Well, it's a fake name,” said Radar. “A goof.”

“Okay, now you've really lost me.”

Radar said, “Let's say for the sake of argument that I'm at least a bit of what you think I am.”

“Comfortable among those who play fast and loose with the rules?”

“As you put it. Then wouldn't you think I know something about that world? Its language? Its codes?” He retrieved the card and tapped it with his fingertip. “This name here, ‘Wellinov'? Don't you get it? ‘Leave Wellinov alone'?”

“That's a weak jest.”

“It's not a jest. It stakes a claim. It tells the competition to back off.”

“Competition?”

“Other scalawags. People like me, according to you. I'm not saying I'm people like me, but if I am, then this Wellinov is, too.”

“And you get all that on the strength of a name. Amazing. But I don't think you're right, Radar. He's been vetted.”

“By whom?”

“People.”

“Oh, well, people do a good job at vetting. Vetting is what people do best.” As was common in conversation with Ames, Radar felt himself split between the need to stay on his own script and the burning desire to laugh at the moment's absurdity.

“They—”

“Your people?”

“Yes,
my people
. They think he's a lonely older guy who nurtures nonexistent health problems for, as much as anything else, the pleasure of simple human contact. I've met many such lonely sufferers in my time. When they find that they can channel their loneliness into something productive, well, they're grateful.”

“Ah, they get a VPM.”

“VPM?”

“Verbal prostate massage.”

Adam shook his head. “Radar, the things you say.” He pointed at the card. “Speak to this man. Get him to think less about his own problems and more about the greater good. Maybe he's what you think he is. Maybe he's something else. Either way, his money could make the difference, and we don't have much time.”

“Is that right?” said Radar.

“Yes. It's already March. The academic year ends in May. That's when my friend at Saligny leaves his position. He's termed out, Radar.”

“Termed out of an allocation board?”

Ames raised his hands in overstated despair. “I don't make the rules in Texas. I just know that this fellow Wellinov is the first legitimate prospective donor we've seen. I'm not saying you've been slack, but I do notice that I'm bringing him to you when it should be the other way around.” Ames waged a visible war with impatience and allowed himself to win. “In any case, Mirplo's party is timely. I'm hoping to announce full matching grants that night. I have to, or else I lose my window of opportunity and the Wilson endowment goes begging.

“Meet the man, Radar. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“Funny,” said Radar, “that's what Sarah asked me to do with you.”

“And see how well that's worked out?” Adam amped up his enthusiasm to the highest wattage, and this was when
Radar loathed him most. “We're a good team, brother. We've both been working hard. And when the funds are in place.… Look, Radar, I know I come from an altruistic space that you don't share, but don't worry: You'll be rewarded for your efforts. Even for your overactive imagination.” Ames shook his head again. “I honestly don't know what to make of that. I suppose it's the downside of your gift. You see things so keenly that you sometimes see things that aren't there.”

“Well, you know what they say,” said Radar, “the invisible and the nonexistent look very much alike.”

“That's clever,” said Ames. “Did you make that up?” He keyed the office intercom. “Kadyn, can you come here for a second, please?”

Her disembodied voice responded promptly, “Be right there, boss.”

“Bright girl,” said Ames. “Turns out she has a real knack for research. Watch this.” Kadyn stepped in and Ames asked, “The name Wellinov, how common is it?”

Kadyn dropped her head over her Serengeti Smartphone, a mini-tablet that packed the punch of devices ten times its size. In seconds she had the answer. “Plenty common,” she said, “in Belarus.”

“There you go,” Ames told Radar. “He's an immigrant. An immigrant with money. He could be our guardian angel, the matching grant that opens the university's trove. So see what you can rustle up, pard.”

“Pard,” said Radar, “I'll do my best.”

In truth, he knew that his best would not be necessary.

After all, how hard can it be to schmooze your own old man?

That Saturday, Radar and Allie drove down to visit the Cathedral of Junk, a stunning three-story tower of welded jetsam rising from the backyard of an otherwise unassuming house in suburban South Austin. Through years of obsessive diligence, its owner had created a honeycomb of rooms, chambers, grottos, stairwells, catwalks, and dens, all assembled from accretions of abandoned shopping carts and scaffolds, rusty lawn mowers and bed frames, rebar, teakettles, empty propane tanks, anything you can think of. The Cathedral of Junk was rather a touristy trip to take, but the couple was in a touristy mood, for they'd spent the morning buying baby items, and now a little recreational eccentricity was just the thing to put thoughts of impending parenthood at bay for the day. And the Cathedral of Junk certainly qualified as recreational eccentricity or, if you cared to glorify it thus, art. Behind high sturdy walls, it was its own little world of enshrined ephemera: hanging dangles of CDs and DVDs; pillars of paperback books; playpens filled with old Smurf dolls and skateboard decks; landline telephones; CRT TVs; calendars from 1996. In all, it was a reliquary, a walk-through reminder that everything's junk at the end of its day. But if you wanted a place away from prying eyes—apart from the goggle eyes of photo-snapping Japanese sightseers—you could do worse than this shrine to the notion that all things must pass.

Radar and Allie found Woody bent over a large flowerpot filled with upended food blenders. He had gained a little weight since Radar saw him last, and the fullness of his face gave him an elfin quality. He tentatively flicked the chopper blades that rose like the propellers of tiny
Titanics
and smiled
with satisfaction as they whirled.

“Mr. Wellinov, I presume?”

Woody lifted his head and broke into a broad grin. He gave them both big hugs and topped Allie's with an avuncular kiss. Though he hadn't seen his son in six months, it had been his pleasure to drop everything at Radar's request, invent Henry Wellinov, and bring the circus of him to town. Woody liked acting rashly like this. It kept him light on his feet—deft, even into the depths of late middle age. And he loved Radar's play here, first allaying Adam's suspicions by introducing Wellinov through Ames's own channels, and then raising them again with the red-flag ridiculousness of Wellinov's name. That could get a man leaning two ways at once. A good thing, if you wanted him on the wobble.

After Woody released Allie, he stepped back and pointed at her belly. “Start with that,” he said. “Don't start with anything else.”

“You could tell I was…?” asked Allie.

“In the family way? From a mile away.”

“That seems like a safe distance,” said Allie. “Soon I'll be so big you won't even recognize me.”

“Trust me, my dear,” said Woody, “I would recognize you if you gained a hundred pounds.”

Whatever reaction Woody thought his comment would elicit, he didn't get it, for Allie suddenly stared at him, eyes wide. “Would you really?” she asked.

“Of course. Allie, you're distinctive. And beautiful. You could be the size of a shipping container and you would still be beautiful. And distinctive.” Allie looked thoughtful and, it seemed to Woody, distressed. “That was supposed to be a
compliment,” he said.

“Oh, I know,” said Allie. “It's just.…”

“Just what?”

“Just,” said Radar, “if you're right that she's that recognizable, even in a changed state, then we have to rethink some things.”

“No we don't, Radar,” said Allie with unexpected fervor. “I stand by my stand. Ames doesn't know me. We worked the same turf, that's all. Besides, like I told you, I wasn't me back then. I certainly didn't glow.” She turned to Woody. “Do I really?”

“Like a radon refrigerator, hon.” He turned to Radar. “So, when do I meet Ames? I don't suppose I should look too eager.”

“No, actually, in this case that would be okay.”

“Won't it seem like rushing the mark?”

“It will. But according to his script, I'm a clever scumbag and rushing the mark is what clever scumbags are expected to do.”

“Then let's do it Monday.”

“I'll set it up.” Radar pulled out his device and fired off a quick text to the effect that his meeting with Mr. Wellinov had gone swimmingly, and the quirky gentleman was now ready to get with Ames to discuss the particulars.

Vic arrived just then, barking his head on a low-hanging bower of laundry baskets filled with ancient encyclopedias. “Woody, hey!” he said brightly. “Great to see you, man!” He gave the old man a hug and an enthusiastic smooch on the cheek, then turned to Radar and said, “Hey, are we sure Ames doesn't know Allie from before?”

“Man, Vic, stop doing that,” said Radar, stunned again, yet not surprised, by Mirplo's uncanny jumps to relevant conclusions. “What makes you ask?”

“Actually it's something I found,” said Kadyn, who did a better job than Mirplo of navigating the laundry baskets. She went to Vic's side and laced a fingerless-gloved hand in his.

“Tell me about that in a minute,” said Radar. “First, Vic, are we comfortable with her here? Wouldn't we have been more comfortable discussing it first?”

“We might have,” Vic agreed somberly. He put his arm around her. “But I'm comfortable now. Plus…” he tapped her noggin with his fingertip, “she smart like whip. Kadyn, tell 'em what you did.”

Kadyn said with dark defensiveness, “Ames left his tablet unattended. It's not my fault.”

“Fault? What fault? Who fault?” said Vic. “It was great.” He turned to the others. “Guys, this gal's a natural.”

“I just did a search.”

“Which is what a natural does. Tell 'em the rest.”

“I searched for images of you three in all of Adam's apps and files.”

“Face-recognition hacks,” said Vic. “TSA shit. She won't even tell me where she gets it.”

Kadyn asked Radar, “Were you Olivier de Havilland, some kind of scientist?” Radar nodded. “He has pictures of that.” She turned to Allie, “And did you wine and dine some guy at a steak joint in Tulsa?”

“As Fabrice Traynor, yeah.”

“He has pictures of that, too.”

Said Radar, “I can't believe he'd leave pictures like that
just lying around on his device.”

“They weren't just lying around,” said Kadyn. “They were password protected.” She gave a schoolgirl smile. “But passwords are easy to guess.”

“Told you,” said Vic. “A natural.” She pinched him in protest and Vic jumped, but not too high.

“Anything else?” asked Allie.

Kadyn replied with a question. “What's Green Girl Solutions?”

“Nothing now. It's defunct. It used to be a multilevel marketing scam. Around 2003 or so.”

“Were you in it?”

“I had a cup of coffee with them.”

“They have a uniform?”

“Oh, God, I forgot about the uniform.”

“Ames didn't. He has pictures of you in it. At some kind of trade show in some kind of booth.”

“A franchise expo, yeah, that could easily be.”

Asked Radar, “Any pictures of Vic?”

“Not just pictures,” Kadyn laughed. “Video.”

“Karaoke,” explained Vic.

She teased him in the manner of the newly encrushed, “Apparently he wants to fly like an eagle to the sea.”

He nuzzled her nose. “Well, that's only because time keeps on slipping, slipping, slipping into the future.” He turned to the others. “So what do you think? Can she play for our team?”

“I really want to,” said Kadyn. “Ames is a dick. He's gropey.”

“Really?” asked Radar. “I wouldn't have thought that.”

“No, you wouldn't, would you. He's one of these guys who make it look like they don't know what they're doing. But he knows.”