Thunder in the Blood (24 page)

‘I’m after advice,’ I said carefully, ‘and maybe a little help.’

Raoul gazed at me, saying nothing, then a smile flooded his face and he leaned forward, taking off my sunglasses.

‘Bad mistake,’ he said. ‘Makes you look like some gangster’s bimbo.’

He was holding the glasses up, examining them, Exhibit A. I began to blush. The beers arrived. Raoul proposed a toast, consigning the glasses to the ashtray.

‘Lovely eyes,’ he said, ‘why hide them?’

I sipped the beer, feeling strangely naked. Raoul leaned forward over the table again. He hadn’t once looked at my scar.

‘So why the call?’ he said. ‘Why me?’

I hesitated a moment, then told him about Grant Wallace. The man had been a personal friend. I’d flown over to see him. He’d seemed perfectly normal, no more stressed than usual, certainly not depressed. I’d gone away last week. I’d returned a couple of days later, only to find him dead. Raoul was toying with his beer. The word had barely registered.

‘Dead?’ he said.

‘Yes.’ I paused. ‘Suicide.’

‘Oh,’ he nodded, ‘and you have a problem with that?’

I said nothing for a moment, knowing the conversation was about to turn an important corner. From here on in, I had to trust him. If I got it wrong, the consequences could be less than pleasant. Raoul was still watching me. He had a notebook out now. It lay on the table beside his glass, a statement of intent. Hourly rates, I thought again. Information, instead of money. I smiled at him and took a sip of my beer. Everything in America had a value. Including this man’s time.

‘My friend shot himself,’ I said carefully, ‘with a gun that wasn’t there.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I had it with me. In Washington.’

‘You can prove that?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘Someone stole it.’

‘When?’

‘Monday night.’

‘And when did your friend…’ he frowned, ‘die?’

‘Two days earlier.’

‘Who says?’

‘The state police. They phoned his mother. A friend reported him dead on Saturday morning.’

Raoul was writing now, a series of lazy scribbles, his long body slouched in the chair, one hand still nursing his beer. He looked up.

‘They say it was his gun? The police? Specific make? Specific model?’

‘Yes. According to his mother.’

‘And you say it couldn’t have been his gun?’

‘Yes. Unless he’d bought another one. Same model. Same shop.’

‘Have you checked that out? At the shop?’

‘No.’

‘Why not?’

I looked at him, saying nothing, and for the first time I saw signs of real interest in his eyes. He was smiling again.

‘Why not?’ he said again.

I shook my head. ‘I can’t say. Not now.’

‘You want me to check it out? Whether he bought another gun?’

‘Yes, please.’

I gave him the name of the shop and the make and model of the gun, and he made another note. Then he frowned.

‘I get this right?’ he said. ‘Some guy comes in? Shoots your friend? Identical gun? Leaves it there? Makes it look like suicide? That the way the story goes?’

‘Something like that,’ I nodded, ‘yes.’

‘He have any enemies? This friend of yours? Any…’ he shrugged, ‘business problems?’

‘Not really.’

‘Emotional problems? Any particular relationship?’

‘He was gay.’

‘Boyfriends?’

‘Not to my knowledge. No one special. No one who’d… you know.’

‘Who then? Who could it have been?’

I shrugged, telling him I didn’t know, couldn’t guess. Then, as casually as I could, I frowned. A passing thought. Plucked out of the air.

‘He
had
just been sacked,’ I began, ‘though I don’t know whether—’

‘Sacked?’

‘Fired.’

‘Who by?’

‘Extec.’

‘He worked for Extec?’

I nodded, watching his eyes again, that same small spark. He reached for the pen and I obliged with more details, what he’d done at Extec, who he’d worked for. The pen stopped.

‘Beckermann? Harold Beckermann?’

‘Yes.’ I frowned. ‘You know the name?’

‘Sure.’ He nodded. ‘Sure.’

The pen began to dance across the page again. I reached for my beer. The frosting of ice on the glass had melted, leaving a small, round puddle on the table.

‘This Mr Beckermann,’ I began, swallowing the last of the beer. ‘You know him personally?’

‘Me?’ He looked up, smiling again. ‘I’ve met him, sure. But no, ma’am, can’t say I’m a friend.’ He paused. ‘Why?’

‘Oh…’ I shrugged. ‘I just wondered.’

‘Why?’ he said again.

‘Grant thought the world of him, that’s all. You know, real hero figure. In fact, he was putting together a little book about him. Nothing enormous. Just…’ I trailed off, sure now that I had Raoul’s full attention. Even the way he was sitting had changed.

‘Book, you say?’

‘Yes.’

‘You see any of it?’

‘Yes.’

‘You
got
any of it?’

‘No.’ I shook my head, regretful. ‘That went missing, too.’

I was back in the motel by seven o’clock. Raoul had pressed me in the bar for more details about Grant, but I’d been vague and apologetic, telling him I was sorry to have wasted his time. I was a stranger, I said, and I was worried. I wasn’t brave enough to make a fuss and go to the police, but in the UK a good journalist was the next best thing. The latter remark had brought another smile to Raoul’s face and I’d ended our little chat by reclaiming my sunglasses from the ashtray and standing up. I’d thanked him for the beer. I’d apologized again for phoning out of the blue. Then I’d shaken his hand and left. He’d caught up with me in the street outside while I was still looking for a cab.

‘Where do I find you?’ he’d said. ‘Where are you staying?’

I’d smiled at him. ‘I’ve got your number. I’ll phone you in a couple of days.’

Now, back in the motel, I dialled Grant’s house, looking for his mother. We’d never discussed the arrangements for Grant’s funeral, but I assumed it was imminent. Attending in person would have been foolish, but the least Wesley would have expected from me was something flamboyant in the flower line.

After a while, the number answered. Mrs Wallace’s voice was as cold as her smile. I asked about Grant’s funeral.

‘I just need a date,’ I explained, ‘and a place.’

Mrs Wallace grunted something graceless about the will. Evidently Grant had made specific provisions for the disposal of his body. He wanted to be buried in a graveyard north of Front Royal, a town in West Virginia, and he’d long ago made the necessary arrangements. The plot overlooked the Shenandoah River. It was close to Stonewall Jackson’s headquarters.

‘Do you know how far that is,’ she said, ‘in airfreight charges?’

I mumbled something about what it must have meant to him, hearing her tallying up the bill. When it got past $3000, she stopped.

‘If he’d ever mentioned it to me, I’d have told him not to be so damn stupid,’ she rasped, ‘and that’s a fact.’

‘I’m sure it is.’

‘So what’s wrong with cremation? Anyone explain that to me?’

‘Maybe he felt—’

‘Too common, too obvious, that’s what he felt,’ she snorted, answering her own question. ‘Show Grant a T-shirt, he’d put the
damn thing on backwards, just to be different. That’s the kind of child he was. Awkward. Never changed. Never grew up. Talk to his father some time. If you want the truth of it.’

She rang off soon afterwards, still ranting about the costs of shipping her dead son north, and I was left with the name of the tiny country churchyard where he was to be buried, scribbled on the back of the week’s TV listings.

An hour later, when I was still wet from the shower, there was a knock at the door. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t the kind of place where the management bothered with anything but the bill. I went to the door. A lot of me wanted to turn off the light and the radio and pretend I was out for the night.

‘Who is it?’

‘Raoul Delahunty.’

I opened the door. Raoul was standing in the corridor. He’d changed since the bar, jeans and a leather jacket instead of the suit, and there was another man beside him, short and squat, with a flat, wide face, sallow complexion and Mexican features. Raoul indicated him with a slight tilt of the head. There was a powerful smell of aftershave.

‘Luis,’ he said. ‘Friend of mine.’

He said something in Spanish to the Mexican. Luis nodded, and disappeared towards the reception area. Watching him go, short legs, a curious, flat-footed walk, I realized I’d seen him before, only a couple of hours ago, on the street outside the Mission Bell. Raoul was looking beyond me, into the room.

‘You been here long?’

‘Yes.’

‘You should move. Every day.’

‘Why?’

He glanced down at me, not bothering with the smile any more. ‘Home truths?’ he said. ‘Or more bullshit?’

22

I flew back to Washington the following day, the recorder on my lap, playing and replaying the tape I’d made the previous evening.

Raoul Delahunty had stayed in my room at the motel for a couple of hours. The first part of the conversation’s missing from the tape because until he’d gone to the bathroom, I’d no chance to set up the machine, but once it was running, you can still hear the occasional impatience in his voice. He plainly didn’t believe my line about being a visiting tourist. I suspect he’d made a couple of calls since the Mission Bell, and what he’d discovered about Grant Wallace had been enough to convince him that I knew a great deal more than I’d so far let on. Neither of us, to be fair, was telling the whole truth, but we both had powerful reasons for pursuing the conversation as far as it might go.

Amongst all that, I like to think that there was also room for one or two other things. Raoul was extraordinarily candid about his attraction to large-breasted redheads, and a couple of times he suggested it might be a neat idea to fuck. I turned him down on both occasions, but the more we talked, the more attractive the proposal began to seem. He was shrewd, amusing and thoughtful, arid when he said he was worried about something he termed my ‘physical integrity’, I believed him. The aftershave, thank God, belonged to Luis.

Luis, incidentally, turned out to be Raoul’s bodyguard. He’d overseen our chat at the Mission Bell, and afterwards he’d followed my cab to the motel. Hence Raoul’s surprise arrival. Quite why a journalist on a respectable Dallas paper should need a bodyguard Raoul never made entirely clear. In some parts of America, Luis would be pure set dressing, a kind of designer
accessory, but the more I listened to Raoul, the more I began to understand why the need might, after all, be genuine. One reason was the stable of petty criminals and corrupt policemen he was obliged to maintain as off-the-record sources. Another, amongst an assortment of bigger names, was Harold J. Beckermann.

We were talking about Beckermann’s position in Dallas society. I was doing my best to steer the conversation towards pit-bulls. By this point, we were both on the bed, Raoul sprawled across the bottom, me propped up against the wall, supported by a couple of pillows. Beckermann, it seemed, was big on ‘giving’.

‘Giving?’

Raoul nodded. ‘Charity stuff. He’s a major benefactor in the city. Mainly in the health field. There’s a hospital out towards the university. He organized donations for a new surgical unit. Came on stream last year. Bells, whistles, you name it, the place has everything.’ He paused. ‘They love him out here, believe me. Yessir, Mr Generous.’

‘How much?’

‘Ten million on the first hit. Another five for the second. Plus regular bucks from an update fund. For that kind of money you get your name up there in lights. The Harold J. Beckermann Cardiothoracic Center. A citizen’s gift to the people of Texas. From the man with the big heart.’

‘Was that the headline?’

‘You kidding?’ He laughed here, a soft sound, genuine amusement. ‘No, ma’am.’

‘No?’

‘No.’ He’d shaken his head, picking at loose ends from the pattern in the bedspread. ‘Anyone ever tells you America ain’t deferential, they’re wrong. What we love, what we respect, what matters, is money. Beckermann is money. Big money. Money doesn’t come bigger than Beckermann. That’s how the class system works out here. Guys like him, high rollers, self-made guys, billionaires, Jeez, they’re the living proof the whole fucking system works. We don’t have royalty, we don’t have a king and queen, but I guess that’s because we don’t need it. What we do most of the time is make money, and what we end up with is guys like Beckermann, and other guys like your friend here… Grant Wallace. Guys like him. Guys who believe it, and write it all down, and get dead in the process.’

‘You think he was killed? You think that possible?’

‘Possible? Sure. Did it happen the way you tell it? I dunno.’

‘But Beckermann?’

‘Beckermann’s money. Big money. Plus everything that goes with it.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like influence. You ever hear of the fraternity clubs we have? Those little masonic outfits? Skull and Bones? Bohemian Grove? Any of that?’ He’d paused, favouring me with an enquiring stare, unsure again whether my ignorance was real or not. ‘You don’t know about these people?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I guess it’s obvious enough. You get to be important, a big hitter.’ He’d shrugged. ‘Commerce, showbusiness, politics, whatever. You get to the top, and then you get to be pretty selective about who you spend time with.’

‘Your spare time?’ I’d queried. ‘Friends?’

‘Shit, no. Friendship ain’t worth a damn. What matters is money. The bigger the bucks, the higher the profile, the more you limit the exposure. Believe me, it’s an interesting test, the real high-rollers …’ He’d sighed. ‘Fucking sub-human.’

‘Beckermann?’

‘An animal.’

‘You mean that?’

‘Sure I mean it. With most of these guys, it’s the same. They lose touch with planet earth. They’re all out there somewhere. Deep space.’ He’d fallen silent for a moment, looking at me. ‘Tell me something.’

‘What?’

‘In your country, what do you call it when a guy makes, say, really serious money? On a deal? Millions? Zillions?’

‘
Call
it?’

‘Yeah. You gotta phrase? A saying? Over there? Lil old England?’

I’d looked at him a moment, not understanding. Then I’d seen the drift. ‘A killing,’ I’d said at last, ‘we’d call it a killing.’

‘Sure,’ he’d said quietly, ‘that’s what we say, too. Real neat little phrase. Except some of these guys mean it.’

‘Like Beckermann?’

‘Sure.’

‘And he’s in these… fraternity things?’

‘Sure. Him and a handful of other guys. Pols. Business guys. Republicans, mostly.’

‘Names I’d know? Washington names?’

‘Yeah.’ He’d smiled, ‘Power. Money. Influence. The Holy Trinity. Sucks, doesn’t it?’

I’d not answered him, lying back against the pillow, staring at the whorls of plaster on the ceiling, remembering the faces of the men round the pit, the hot, muddy smells drifting up from the creek.

‘You ever hear any rumours about dogs?’ I’d said carefully.

‘Dogs?’

‘Fighting dogs? Bets? On pit-bulls?’

‘Regarding Beckermann?’ I’d nodded. ‘Sure. Goes on a lot in these parts. And not just him, either.’

‘But he’s in it? Involved?’

‘Yeah. Goes with the territory. Power, money, influence…’ he’d shrugged, ‘blood.’

‘And he’s got a lot of dogs? Owns them?’

‘Yeah, I guess so.’ He was frowning at this point, watching me carefully. ‘You have a dog in mind? A particular dog?’

‘Mogul,’ I’d said, ‘a dog called Mogul. You’ve heard of a dog called Mogul?’

Raoul had hesitated a moment, then nodded. Mogul was a newcomer, he’d said, as yet unbeaten. Beckermann had acquired him from someone else. To date the dog had killed a dozen times, earning Beckermann a small fortune in side bets. That, at least, was the rumour.

‘So who was the previous owner?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Yes.’ He was staring at me, speculative, trying to work it out. ‘You interested in all that stuff? Fighting dogs? Pit-bulls? Is that it?’

‘No, I just…’ I’d shaken my head. ‘No.’

There was a long silence here on the tape. Raoul was still looking at me. From time to time, he’d been stroking my ankle, a light touch, the tips of his fingers, neither unpleasant nor menacing. Quite the contrary, in fact. Now, he’d withdrawn his hand.

‘What’s the matter?’ I’d said at last.

‘You.’

‘What do you mean?’

He’d shaken his head, refusing to answer, and when I’d asked the question again, he’d turned over, lying on his back, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘It doesn’t end there,’ he’d said softly. ‘You should know that.’

‘Where? Doesn’t end where?’

‘With the dogs.’ He’d looked at me sideways. ‘You know what matters about Texas? Really matters?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Mexico. We have the longest border with Mexico, El Paso to the Gulf. And you know something else? About Mexicans?’

‘No.’

‘Lots of them want to be Americans. That’s why they’re forever trying to get in. Most of them we catch and ship right back. Some get through, couple of hundred a month maybe. Then there are the others.’

‘Others?’

‘Yeah. Not many. But enough …’

‘I don’t understand.’

At this point, Raoul had got up on one elbow again. Luis was out in the car park, playing sentry. Every now and then, he’d tap lightly on the window and whisper something in Spanish. He was doing it now and Raoul had frowned, acknowledging him with a grunt, irritated at the interruption. He turned back to me, his interest in my ankle entirely gone.

‘To settle in the States, do it properly, you need citizenship,’ he’d said. ‘We call the Mexicans “wetbacks”. If you’re a wetback, citizenship’s worth more than gold.’

I still hadn’t understood. ‘And Beckermann?’ I’d said.

‘Beckermann can fix anything. Including citizenship. For a price.’

‘Money?’

‘No.’

‘What then?’

There was another long silence. I was back at the ranch again. The big Cherokee Chief parked outside the house. The one with the carefully curtained body. Something large inside. Something moving.

‘Are we still talking about dogs?’ I said.

‘Shit, no.’

‘Something else, then?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What?’

‘Men. We’re talking men. Men fighting men.’

‘For money?’

‘For bets, sure.’

‘Long fights?’

‘Sometimes.’

‘Stand-up fights?’

‘At first.’

‘Until…?’

He’d shrugged, not answering, rolling over again, closing his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ he’d said at last, ‘I thought that’s where we were heading. I thought that’s what all this was about.’

On the plane, circling Washington, one wing dipped for final approach, I replayed this final sequence for the third time. As we flew down the Potomac, I listened to Raoul’s voice again, the long silences between us, the way he tried to coax me to part with information I didn’t have, the way the conversation drifted remorselessly back to that final moment when it dawned on me what we were really discussing. Men fighting men. To death. The loser buried, or burned, or ground into pieces and fed to the cattle. The winner declared an instant American.

Before he left the motel, Raoul had sworn me to secrecy. He’d been working on the story for months. He’d assumed I’d had a contribution. Knowing now that I hadn’t, he’d willingly meet the conditions for my silence. He’d talk to the Sun Valley Arms Corp and he’d make some discreet enquiries about the circumstances of Grant Wallace’s death amongst his police contacts. They, if anyone, would know about a cover-up. More than this he couldn’t do. And more than this I didn’t expect. I was still listening to the tape when the White House slid beneath the wing and the landing gear began to rumble down. The heat, I thought, and the smells, and the sweat on the men’s faces, watching.

I made the day’s first phone call to Stollmann from a booth at National Airport. For a moment or two, because of the noise, I
didn’t realize he’d answered. Then I recognized the flat, dry voice.

‘Sarah,’ I said briskly. ‘Is the phone secure? Your end?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK.’

I bent to the phone, shielding the conversation with my body, paranoid, already. I explained that Grant Wallace was dead. I told him the way it had happened and I said I’d gone to ground. I was about to brief him on Beckermann, and Polly Devlin’s son, when he interrupted.

‘Come back,’ he said, ‘tonight.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not?’

I explained about the FBI watch on international flights. They had my name. My name was on my passport. My new persona, Frances Bevan, would get me as far as the first emigration check. After that, in Wesley’s phrase, I was dead meat. Stollmann grunted and told me to get a pen. Then he dictated a Washington telephone number.

‘The name’s Eddie Cassidy,’ he said, before hanging up. ‘Give me an hour to sort him out.’

I put down the phone, still staring at the name. Stollmann, as ever, was being careful with the extra details. I left the booth and took my bags outside to the cab rank. By the time I got to the front of the queue, it had started to rain. The first three cabs I donated to people behind. The driver of the fourth, at last, was black and more likely, I thought, to turn a blind eye to the next half-hour or so. I got in, struggling with my cases.

‘Pharmacy,’ I mumbled. ‘I need a syringe.’

The driver studied me in the mirror, totally impassive. ‘And after, ma’am?’

‘Silver Spring.’

We drove across the city and up through Rock Creek Park. Three blocks from the Walter Reed Medical Center, we stopped at a parade of shops. The one on the end was a pharmacy. It took me less than a minute to buy a pack of five disposable syringes and a $1.50 box of Bandaids.

Back in the cab, I gave the driver an address. ‘9 Marion Street,’ I said, ‘and I’d like you to wait.’

‘How long?’

‘Not sure. Depends.’

‘You know the rate?’

‘Of course.’

‘OK,’ he shrugged, ‘ma’am.’

We set off again, skirting Silver Spring. I had my jacket off by now, and I was undoing the cuff of the blouse I was wearing underneath. I could see the driver’s eyes in the mirror, flicking up and down, uncertain what to do. National Airport to Silver Spring, I told myself, was a good fare. Add the extra he’d get for waiting and the man was looking at a hundred dollars, probably more. A hundred dollars was serious money. Too serious to risk losing.

We were slowing for lights now. I rolled back the sleeve of the blouse, exposing my forearm. The car stopped and I extracted the needle of the syringe from its tiny plastic scabbard, clenching my fist and massaging the biggest vein I could find. Then I drove the needle into the knotty blue vessel, feeling it slide in, easing the handle of the syringe out, watching it fill with blood. The blood was a deep scarlet, and when the syringe was full, I pulled it out, covering the wound with my thumb, fumbling for a plaster, stemming the trickle of blood. We were off again by now, traffic everywhere, the driver still looking at me in the mirror, big white eyes, slow shakes of the head.