The Texas Twist (9 page)

We skate back to our gear, and I can see the admiration on Tommy's face. He appreciates this moment as a life lesson in humility. Very likely he will be transformed, as people often are when they meet me. “First things first,” say I. “You owe me ten bucks.”

“What?”

“Ten to one on the Benjamin, remember?” I open my hand flat. “Cough up.” Tommy coughs up a crumpled sawbuck. Best ten dollars he ever spent. “Now, tell me about the guy.”

Tommy sifts through his memory for the trenchant details. I can tell he's starting to like me. Well why not? Who doesn't like a Mirplo? “Yeah, he came around last fall, asked if he could take some pictures. He offered good money. He could've been a perve. Could've been a.…” Tommy gropes for the phrase.

I help him find it. “Photo hobbyist?”

Tommy nods. “Either way, he paid.”

“And bought us beer,” pipes up Wayne.

Figures. Scum like that would naturally abet underage drinking. “Well, no beer from this quarter,” I aver, “but let me ask you this: He live around here?”

They all shake their heads. But then Valerie says, “I know what he drives.”

Bingo!

“A Song Signature.”

Mentally my jaw drops. A
Signature
? Those bad boys push 600 horses and go from zero to too fast too quick. Of
course, they cost more than the house you grew up in and rock the mileage of a backhoe loader, but they sure are pretty: low white wedges you simply can't ignore. And every one is autographed like a lithograph. Signature, man, that's a rare breed.

Be on the lookout for that.

I get ready to split. “All right, kids, that's rock 'n' roll. Be cool, stay in school.” I toss my duffel over my shoulder and hump it on out of there. Not before giving Valerie my skates. Something to snuggle with at night.

As I walk away, I hear someone mutter, “That's a cool guy.”

Of course I'm cool. I'm a Mirplo.

And cool is how I roll.

T
hey sat around the kitchen table, eating baba ghanoush on pita chips, something Allie had never been fond of before, but now, suddenly, couldn't resist. Vic had just gotten back and was raving about New England clam chowder, and to Allie that sounded good, too.
With about half a bottle of Tabasco sauce, mmm.
Mirplo told them he'd tracked down Ames through his car. It hadn't been hard. “They don't exactly drape the landscape,” said Vic. “I asked a few car fans around town. They were happy to tell me about it. They'd never met a real Formula One driver before.”

Allie smiled. “So now you're a Formula One driver?”

“According to me I am.”

“Vic, why do you do that?” asked Radar.

“What, oversolve the problem? Same reason you do, dude. That's where the fun is. Besides,” he tapped his noggin, “you're the one saying to keep the tool sharp. If you always have a story to tell, you'll never be short a story. We writers
know that.”

Radar shook his head. “The amazing Vic Mirplo.”

“Many people say so.” He turned back to Allie. “The guy's got a McMansion in Orange, the next town over from Athol. The Signature, meanwhile, is frequently seen at the Orange Municipal Airport, for our hero also owns a plane, or leases it. Plus a boat. And a couple other cars. Museum-quality stuff, they say.”

“Did you check out his place?” asked Radar.

“Of course,” said Vic. “This ain't my first chicken dance.”

“And?” asked Allie.

“He's put a lot of money into it.”

“New money?”

“Nope. Been at it since he moved in. Got solar. Got sauna. Raluca likes it.”

“Raluca?” asked Allie.

“The girlfriend. Says he's lived there three years. It's mad stylish inside. Artwork up the wazoon. That's the word she used, wazoon. She's not exactly strong on English. And apparently in Romania they don't see a lot of direct-to-door marketing.”

“What'd you sell her, Vic?”

“Nice little rug shampooer. It'll last 'er a lifetime. Well, it would if it ever arrived.”

“In any case,” said Radar, “that sounds like stable money. So now we can hypothesize that he's been running games for a while, pluck-and-ducks, with a specialty in medical mischief. He finds his Sarahs, flies out to meet them, fleeces them, and recycles the proceeds into new toys.” Radar turned to Allie, “But it isn't dispositive, is it?”

“Nope,” said Allie. “Just because he splashes money around doesn't make the gain ill-gotten. Sorry, boys, I still don't see a smoking gun.”

“Never fear,” said Vic, tapping his Rabota, “I've got that, too.”

As it turned out, one of Mirplo's new race fans had a sister-in-law with cancer. From out of nowhere, Ames had become her new best friend, supporting her in her time of need, and soon producing exciting reports of cures out of Mexico. “She wrote him a lot of checks,” said Vic. “I have copies. Plus emails. The gun smoketh.”

Allie and Radar reviewed the evidence on Vic's tablet. When they were done, Allie said, “We'd better show Sarah.”

That evening they brought Sarah in and laid it out for her, chapter and verse. It was not a happy moment, no sense of triumph in unmasking a rascal. She sat on their couch, her hands clasped tight in her lap. Boy lay at her feet, not moving, seemingly in tune to the potent portent of the moment. Or perhaps he napped. “So then he's rich?” They nodded. “He told me he wasn't.” Sarah looked at the images of the cancelled checks and shook her head sadly. “Of course it isn't true. How could it be true? I don't deserve that kind of luck.” Just when it looked like she was about to start leaking tears, a renegade thought made her face brighten. “Unless he has the cancer cure, too, though, right? He could have both.”

“He doesn't have either,” said Allie gently. “Sarah, he doesn't even have a son.”

“What?”

“Dylan isn't real. He made him up.”

“No,” Sarah protested. “No, that's too much.”

Radar nodded to Vic, who had tracked down the boy through his skate pals and now showed Sarah a shot of him holding yesterday's paper.

Sarah blinked. “He's alive?”

“He's somebody else. Someone else's son.”

Sarah fell silent, processing all the evidence before her. “Yes,” she said at last. “Yes, I see he is.” She squared her shoulders. “Well, that's it, then. I'm going to the police.” The others said nothing, but their stone faces told her plenty. “What, I can't even do that?”

“It would be better if you didn't,” said Rader. “Most likely it goes nowhere. This sort of case rarely does. But it could stir a certain hornet's nest. With Ames, I mean. Guys like him, you don't want them mad at you.”

“Why not? What could he do to me?”

Radar mentally surveyed the many ways a man in Adam's line of work could wreak havoc on Sarah's life, just for spite. He could rape her credit rating, of course; that would be easy. Do back-office nastiness to her medical insurance. Sell her identity on the black market. Sic other swindlers on her. Put her on terrorist watch lists. Get her arrested. Radar didn't bother sharing these scenarios. Instead he said, “Don't worry about that. Just make a clean break and send him on his way. Once he knows it's no sale with you, he'll move on.”

“They do that? These…con people?”

“Sure they do,” said Vic. “The ol' shade 'n' fade. There's always other fish to freeze.”

She looked bewildered. “What is he talking about?”

“Few people know,” said Radar.

“He means marks, honey,” said Allie. “Potential victims.
Look, just don't have contact with Adam. Let him pass out of your life.”

“Of course,” said Sarah. “I mean, if I can't have him arrested. But it doesn't seem fair. It seems like he should be punished.”

“A lot of people in this world go unpunished,” said Radar. “With some it's best just to give them a wide berth.”

“What about you?” Sarah joked dimly. “Should I give you guys a wide berth?”

An awkward silence ensued. “I don't know what you mean,” said Radar levelly.

“I'm sorry,” said Sarah, covering her mouth, “I apologize. What a thing to say. It's just.…”

“It's just that you can't help noticing how much we know about his world.”

“No, no, it's none of my business,” Sarah said, flustered. “And just rude. To accuse you guys of being…bad people, and after all you've done to help me.” She stood up abruptly and dusted her hands theatrically. “Well,” she said, “no more Adam Ames. No more foolish dreams. Again, I'm sorry for.…”

“It's not important,” said Radar. “Don't worry about it. But don't have this moment with Ames, understand? Whatever he proposes, decline politely and say goodbye. Con artists don't like being unmasked. It hurts their pride, and then they can lash out. Keep what you know to yourself.”

Sarah nodded her understanding and departed, but she left an odd, unpleasant mood in the room. Well, it happens from time to time. You rub up against a genuine innocent and see the dark side of your business model. Every grifter goes through it. You either harden your heart or find another line of work. Vic shook off the moment by sitting down to
record a bent, Mirplovian version of current events, right down to the fish to freeze.

Radar cleared his disposition by downloading baby books, which made Allie chuckle indulgently. “You're gonna obsess all over this, aren't you?” she said.

“Why not?” said Radar. “I plan to be a thorough dad.”

“Thorough?”

“Thorough. Comprehensive. The whole package. Cognitive play. Changing diapers. Two a.m. feedings.…”

“I think that might be my department.”

“And I'll be right there with you, babe. Sleep-deprived right along with you. They're gonna say, ‘That Radar Hoverlander, he's almost a mother.'”

“They say that now,” muttered Vic.

“Radar, let's not go overboard.”

“Fine, fine, have it your way. I'll be an aloof and distant dad. Little Pandemonium will hardly even know me.”

“Pandemonium?”

“Only if it's a boy. Pandemonium is no name for a girl.” His eyes went to a faraway place. “Although, Panda.…” He paused. “Panda Hoverlander?”

“I don't think so.” Allie turned to Vic. “Have you been writing these down?”

Vic nodded. “So far I like Madrigal and Flintlock.”

“Oh, I
so
hope we have twins.”

A few days later, Radar reported back on his reading and informed Allie that she was probably far enough along to expect to start getting cranky.

“Cranky? Why?”

“It's genetic. Your DNA tells your hormones to make
you disagreeable as a test of your mate's loyalty. If he bails, you're not so far along that you can't land another one, but if he puts up with you at your worst, then you know you've got a keeper.”

“Radar, do you know the phrase ‘critical thinking'?”

“Of course.”

“Apply it to your reading.”

“I'm just saying, if you become irritable I will totally understand.”

“Go for a run,” snapped Allie.

“See? This is it!” crowed Radar. “This is the irritable!”

“Go for a run,” she repeated, and Radar suddenly got it that he should go for a run.

He crossed the Colorado River below the Tom Miller Dam and followed the Redbud Trail all the way out to Washington Hollow. The day wasn't too cold, probably not much below fifty degrees, but the wind had some bite to it, and it buffeted Radar when he ran into it or across it as he wove his way through the West Hills, past the water treatment plant and the widely scattered ranch houses with their pools tarped over for the winter. Whenever Radar ran, he tried to empty his mind. He did this by focusing strictly on the visual, absorbing the passing landscape like cinematography. Today, though, he couldn't get clear of the thought of himself tarred with Ames's same brush. Radar always thought that, despite his avaricious aims, crossing paths with him wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a mark. At least he was good entertainment. Seen through Sarah's eyes, though, he knew he was no different from Adam; no different, really, from any Spanish Prisoner practitioner or three-card monte
man. During his entire life on the razzle he had built nothing, created nothing, helped no one. That's why the money bugged him, he realized. There was no design behind it, no mission. It was only meant to be gotten and spent, and he no longer felt completely comfortable with that. Not with the baby coming. Role models are supposed to, you know, model roles.