The Texas Twist (20 page)

Radar gave Kadyn a long, searching look. To the unschooled eye, she looked exactly as she represented herself to be: a young girl pushing through post-adolescence with insolent insecurity, heavy mascara, and perhaps a fantasy con scenario nurtured by too many viewings of
The Sting
and
Ocean's Eleven
. Could she know what the con life really entailed? Could anyone at that age? But she met his gaze frankly and openly, communicating this much: that she knew enough about herself and enough about them to make an informed choice. “We'll let you know, Kadyn. In the meantime, stay under Vic's wing. He seems to have room for you there.”

“Indeed I do,” said Vic.

“Okay, then,” Allie suddenly said with a sigh. She patted her belly. “Baby tired, we go now.”

They drifted to their various parts of Austin: Allie and Radar back to the Doke, Vic and Kadyn to her place in SoCo, and Woody to a Home Sweet Suites near the airport. Radar felt a pang as he parted company from his dad. On the one hand, Woody was back in his life, so yay. On the other hand, the old jackalope was in deep mufti as usual. And wasn't that their coconspiracy? To stay within roles with each other? Wasn't time inside these roles a lost opportunity to be with each other for real? And what about little Fundament? Didn't she deserve a genuine grandpa, not someone so permanently on script? Masks were no good for the sort of daughter Radar wanted to raise. He wanted her loved ones to be real. Real
with her, real with each other. Real, like he was real with Allie.

Real enough for him to say to her as they drove home, “I have to take a shot at Sarah.”

“What do you mean?”

“Engage her. See if I can flip her. I haven't tried it yet. I think it needs to be tried.”

“I don't disagree,” said Allie, “but how far are you willing to go?” She turned to face him. “I really don't want you sleeping with her.”

“I don't want me sleeping with her, either. I want me hearing how Ames plans to play us.”

“It could backfire.”

“Put him on a jealousy tip?”

“Or a turf one. That's you horning in. On his gal or his business, either way it's still horning in. It might piss him off.”

“Well, good. He could use some pissing off. The time to pussyfoot has passed.”

“‘The time to pussyfoot?'” She mocked a swoon, “Oh, Mr. Hoverlander, you do turn a phrase. Maybe you should write a book, too.”

“Uh-uh,” said Radar. “Only kids' stories for me.” He playfully patted her belly, but as he did so he thought about Ames and those pictures, and a shiver ran through him. That was some kind of stalker shit at minimum. Up till now, Radar had thought this was a straight money touch. But if so, what was with the pictures? How long had Ames been on their trail?
No wait, wait, Radar, don't assume. Just because he
has
pictures doesn't mean he
took
pictures. Maybe he's collected
them since we all crossed paths.
That sounded plausible to Radar—but he couldn't make himself believe it. It seemed clear to him that Ames had intended all along for their paths to cross.

They rolled through the back of the Doke and approached their building from behind.
I thought this was a redoubt,
thought Radar.
Now it seems like a trap. What kind of mess have I made?

“Radar, where are you?”

“Blaming myself for the world.”

“Really? Me too.”

“You? Why?”

“Over Ames. Over what I just remembered or just let myself remember.” Radar didn't say anything. He waited for her to continue. “We fought for a seat on a bus once. I belittled him pretty good. It was just one of those moments where you're a harasshole because you can be. Because even though I was a swollen, sullen, man-hating self-loather, I knew I was still hotter than anything a smelly hippie could hope to have. So I put him down. Maybe I pissed him off, I don't know. I wasn't even sure it was him until Kadyn mentioned Green Girl, because—” Allie stopped short. “Radar! I met him again. At that expo. He wanted to buy me a drink.”

“You shot him down?”

“No doubt in flames. Back then I chased everyone away.”

“I'm glad you got over that.” He patted her belly again, and this time through his unborn child he felt his own strength. At the same time, this new information caused him to recalibrate his take on Ames. He now saw Adam's true-believer gloss not as a temporary veneer applied for this snuke
or any snuke, but rather a permanent condition, and one that precisely defined the distance Ames kept from himself. Kadyn's comment about his wandering hands certified him as the kind of creep who doesn't know he's being one. The pictures, though, the pictures changed everything. They made the situation more dangerous. But how dangerous?
Run away
dangerous—the ol' shade 'n' fade if it's not too late? No. Ames found them once, he could find them again. So what about the opposite tack? Just confront him, lay out everything they know with a great, thumping, “See, dude? We're onto you.”

And then what? Call the cops? Swing a baseball bat? How do any of those moves do anything but bounce off Adam's bland do-gooder docket? And with that, Radar realized that the pictures didn't really change anything after all.
I still have to get to the bottom of him. I still have to make him show his hand. Until I hear who Ames thinks Ames is, I'm nowhere.

And nowhere is no place for a father-to-be to be.

O
n Monday morning, Radar and Allie had a fight about, of all things, baby names.

From out of nowhere (from a particularly irrational place, thought Radar) Allie had thrown a moratorium on the game that he, and he thought she, had been enjoying so much. She had decided that it was bad luck to inflict names, even highly speculative or colorful or imaginative or ridiculous ones, especially ridiculous ones, on the unborn. “I don't want to jinx him,” she'd said, and Radar had joked, “How about Jinx, Jinx Hoverlander?” Well, the trouble with too far is you never know you're going till you've gone, and Allie's stormy cold shoulder informed him that he had. Considering what was coming up with Sarah, he wondered if she had picked the fight just to put herself in a verisimilitude mood. He hoped so. Otherwise it was just her being mad at him and that was never big fun.

Radar arrived at the office to find Vic proofing posters,
wall cards, handbills, web pages, and evites for the foundation's fete, the magniloquently named
Inaugural First Annual April Fool's Fundraising Celebratiathon and Auction: A Fool and His Money Are Soon Partying
. “That's a mouthful,” said Radar. “You sure folks won't write it off as a joke?”

“Nope. They'll be charmed 'n' disarmed.”

“And how are we going to pay for it?”

“What, this part? This is legitimate enterprise. It pays for itself.”

“I don't know,” said Radar, still dubious. “It seems a bit much.”

“Anything that's worth doing is worth overdoing, my friend. You'll see.”

Radar noticed the call for costumes—
Come As Your Favorite Fool
—along with attendant examples: Dan Quayle, the Three Stooges, and, with smug self-reference, Mirplo himself. “Costumes, too, I see,” said Radar.

“Oh, yeah. You'll want to look your best, man. You'd better put your thinking cap on.” Vic considered his own statement, then said, “Of course, you could just wear a thinking cap.”

Radar studied Vic's promotional mélange. In true Mirplovian fashion, it was six ways over the top, but he had to cede to Vic the savantry of knowing what would draw a crowd. The amazing Mirplo had long since ceased to amaze. Now he just got things done.

At that moment the office door opened and Kadyn stepped in, followed in stride by Adam Ames and a rugged, leathery, ten-gallon Texan that Radar and Vic didn't know. He was a large, stocky man wearing Austin-standard boots
and jeans, a snap-button shirt strained by his gut, and a bolo tie adorned with a chunk of turquoise that could choke a tortoise. Radar and Vic didn't need to be told that this was Adam's inside man. He had allocation board written all over him.

And he had his eye on Kadyn. “Are you in school, little cowgirl?” he asked from the condescending depths of a drawl.

“Part-time.”

“Mmm, you got a little ol' part-time for me?”

Kadyn's look may have been intended to wither him, but it seemed just to bounce off the man as he moved in and more or less occupied the room.

“Everybody,” said Ames, “this is Cal Jessup.”

“How's university life, Mr. Jessup?” asked Radar, immediately regretting it, for that sort of demonstrative self-indulgence had no place in an orderly snuke.

But Ames just nudged Jessup and said, “Told you. Misses nothing. Radar, will you join us?” Ames led Radar and Jessup into his office and closed the door. At the reception desk, Kadyn opened her Serengeti and activated YvesDropp, and with wireless earbuds she and Mirplo went about their work, listening in on the conversation like catching the local news.

Inside the office, Ames offered his guests Dollar Tree bottled water and made a self-consciously self-deprecating (and therefore largely unsuccessful) joke about how frugal he was. Once they were settled, he said, “So, Radar, as usual, you seem to be further ahead in the textbook than anyone, you with that crafty mind of yours. What do you think is Mr. Jessup's business here today?”

Radar figured that Jessup was here to detail conditions of
the grease, but having oversold his cleverness once, he wasn't about to do it again, so he said, “Adam, I have no idea.”

“Shame,” said Ames. “I was hoping we'd get another wild theory about scoundrel code or whatnot.” To Jessup he said, “Radar has some jaundiced views. I think his brain must be a difficult place to live.” He turned back to Radar. “Well, as it turns out, he's here to talk to you. There are some particulars concerning the matching funds that he needs to discuss.”
Yep, detail the grease.
“And, well, you understand numbers better than I do, I think.”

The intercom crackled to life. “Mr. Ames,” said Kadyn, “Mr. Wellinov is here.”

“Be right out.” Ames stood up. “Well, Radar, this is your meeting. Mine's out there.” He smiled. “I'm taking our new best friend to lunch.” He started to leave, then suddenly, theatrically, chuckled. “Wellinov,” he said. “You know, I didn't get that at first.”

Ames departed. Jessup pulled out a pack of cigarettes. “Y'all don't mind if I smoke?” He went to the window and opened it. “Oh, out the window, of course. And don't tell me it's illegal, I already know. I fought that ordinance tooth and tongs, I can tell you.” He lit up. “I love Austin, but it's gone and got infested. Too many damn lib'rals with too damn many rules.”

“Liberals with rules?”

“What, you don't think? No smoking. No chaw. No plastic bags. No whale hunting inside city limits.”

Radar chuckled, as much at Jessup's effort as at the joke.

“Know which one's the funniest? Nuclear-free zone.” He pronounced it “nucular,” George Bush style, and Radar
wondered if that wasn't a bit of misdirectomy on Cal's part, designed to make him look less swift than he was. “There's a sign, you know. I seen it. Right outside of town. ‘Austin is a nuclear-free city.' Like some Jihad Johnny with a dirty bomb gonna pay any attention to that.” He shook his head. “Funny ol' world.”

“So, Mr. Jessup.…” said Radar.

“Mr. Jessup's my daddy. Call me Cal.”

And with that, Call Me Cal laid out the, as it were, proposed fiduciary relationship between Adam's foundation and Saligny University. He started by showing Radar a plastic-protected copy of the original Wilson Trust deed, the one that detailed Widow Wilson's terms and conditions. It was, thought Radar, a very authentic-looking document. Which meant next to nothing; it's not like period paper and inks were hard to come by. Nevertheless, he gave the supposedly ancient conveyance the attention that Jessup intended it to deserve. After he'd read it, they discussed its stipulations. The allocation board, Jessup said, was satisfied that Adam's proposal honored the intent of the trust. “That is,” said Jessup, “they might could be satisfied. But that'll depend on the matching funds. Ain't no way I can release the full endowment 'less I can show the board a partner in earnest.”