Fifty Mice Part 17

"Barry." Real anger palpable now behind that easy grin.

"Whatever." Jay jerks his head to the doorway, and Barry follows him out like a puppy into the narrow hallway, where its dark and cool, and beyond which the living room blooms with flaxen shafts of eventide sunlight, and in which a group of the locals is starting to form a limbo line.

"What the f.u.c.k?"

"I dont know, Barry, I just thought, as long as were going to pretend to know each other," Jay says evenly, "why dont we pretend that were at a barbecue together? You know-hot dogs, hamburgers, potato salad, corn on the cob, Feds up the a.s.s: barbecue."

Barry laughs too hard, his smile a conceit, eyes darting to make sure no one has overheard this. "Feds! Jesus, Jimmy."

Jay murmurs, "Feds swarming in the backyard like summer fireflies."

"Theyre getting tired of your little game," Barry counterpunches, desperate to reclaim the higher ground. "You know that, right? The thing is, theyre beginning to think that, yeah, maybe you dont know s.h.i.t, in which case-"

"Bullet in the head, disappeared into the ocean? Magonis already used that." Jays swagger is a charade and he cant sustain it. "The thing is, its not a game. Whatever 'they-or you-think 'it is."

Jay waits and watches while Barry tries to process the honesty of this, and, finding that he cant, just discards it and resumes his clumsy role as blunt-force provocateur: "Publics gonna f.u.c.k you up. Just wait."

"Okay." Jay looks into the bright light and the limbo line. "I guess nothing else to do, then, but have a safe-house-protected pretend beer. And dance." Jay hands him an icy, dripping Corona from a cooler on the floor. Barry takes it, his broad up-with-people friendliness abruptly vacuumed into a tight, sinister half-smile.

"Beer looks real enough to me, James," Barry says. He holds the beer high, tips it, as if in a toast.

"Yeah," Jay says, "no doubt. But Im newer at this. You ask me whos on first and I still say: everybody. Everybodys on first." And with that he slips past Barry, and goes down the cool, dark hallway where the teacher who wrote the Pied Piper book and lyrics is all dolled up and explaining to the actress whose name hes afraid to ask (and which Ginger has told him, because she asked, but he immediately forgot it: Jean, or Joan something. Bennett? Falcone?) that "Goethe wrote a poem based on the story that was later set to music by Hugo Wolf, and he incorporated references to Faust, but I didnt think that was grade-appropriate, so I made the rats friendly and the kidnapping an object lesson in fairness." Jay feels the actress squeeze his arm with her bony fingers as he slips behind them, so close he can see the faint threads of multiple surgical scars behind her ears, where someone took up the slack in her face and left her with the smear of edamame-shaped smile and tissue paper cheeks that turn to him, his uneasy reflection twinned in her pale blue eyes. He doesnt hear her response, but knows its gentle and, to the best of her ability, heartfelt, whatever it is. Nodding in acknowledgment, he finds himself looking back down the hallway, where Barry has disappeared, but in the sliver of open doorway that exposes the bedroom he can see Ginger talking to Public, animated, unhappy, gesturing with her hands, the whole language of her body resistant to whatever hes asked.

Now the limbo line snakes out onto the front porch, back through the living room into the dining room, where, furniture pushed aside, bongos pop and bodies shimmy in the hands of the new zip-line twins from Altadena, a bamboo pole is strung between two Avalon yacht club weekender swingers, and who but Sandy, slithering, back bent, is underneath it, knees wide in her baggy cargo shorts, bare feet duck-flat and what appear to be saline implants tenting her Hawaiian shirt like mini-Matterhorns, while Magonis, caged by his chrome walker, leans and sings: Put de lime in de coconut, she drank em both up She put de lime in de coconut, drank em both up- Then its Public under the horizontal pole, arms winged, pinwheeling, spectators howling, clapping, his sensible federal man shoes scuffing panicky until finally he just falls back on his a.s.s.

Said, "Doctorrrrrrr . . ."

The party warps and whirls, a carousel of bodies and emotion, a rousing success, its odd moil of Feds and informants and islanders and artifice well matched to the fade and muddle in Jays head and yet concrete and real in a way that worries him, in a way that rattles the foundation of everything concrete and real thats come before.

Barry under the limbo pole.

Stoic Leo tucked in a corner with the Realtor, her bare heel hooked around his fake leg, her skirt clinging static to his hip, hes murmuring French into her ear as an excuse to get his lips that much closer to their goal.

Magonis in a syncro-shimmy mambo with the old actress suddenly, their gray eyes locked, her teeth perfect, his hair jumping like a small animal up and down on his head.

And Helen in the kitchen doorway, watching, archiving, ever-vigilant even as, behind her, Sandy powers down frozen margarita directly from the blender itself.

Someone wraps her arms around Jay from behind, and whispers, lips soft and breath hot against his ear, and he turns in to Gingers tight embrace, surprised, astonished, really, the strange familiar closeness of her, not at all sure that hes heard what she said. And Public joins the howling shrink for the songs refrain: -you drink them both together, and then you feel better- Jay is searching Gingers face for a clue: shes tentative, ashen-faced, grim. Jay asks, "What?"

"You need to get out."

"What?"

"Its not safe for you here. Go." She keeps looking away, anxious, keeps track of Public, in the crowd, his back turned to them, arm around Magonis, singing.

"Where?"

She kisses him, suddenly, hard, on the lips, with longing and desperation. Her smile is heartbreaking, her eyes dark, fierce, decisive.

He wants to ask her what she and Public were arguing about, but she cant seem to bear to look at him afterward, and shes dead serious when she says, end of subject: "Anywhere, Jay. Go. Please. Just run."

Much later, shock of the stillness, the quiet darkness, the party finished, food eaten, sharp miasma of smoke left on everything, sticky floor, guests long gone, bags of trash heaped on the back porch and the house left empty except for the three who live there.

Just run.

Deep in the unlit front closet, Jay quietly rummages through the boxes stored here, looking for and finding a box within a box. He opens it and removes his old wallet and some keys. Behind him, Helen walks back and forth through the bright frame of the kitchen doorway, helping Ginger clean up, as Ginger gently murmurs to fill the odd quiet Helen carries with her.

Just run.

He puts the wallet in one pocket and the keys in another and steps out of the closet, softly closing the door.

In a soft glaze of the next mornings sunlight Jays eyes slit open to the sound of Ginger and Helen leaving for school. He rolls and turns and stretches up to look over the back of his sofa: through the rippled gla.s.s of the bay window he can see distortions of the girls descending the hill flutter, flatten, refract, and disappear like a fata morgana.

Showered and dressed, he sits at the kitchen table eating cold cereal and smells the faint remainder of Gingers perfume and stares at the many crayon drawings of clouds fixed to the refrigerator with magnets.

He shivers with a gathered melancholy that surprises him.

Mid-morning the bell over the video-store door jangles and sunburned Sam Dunn flip-flops in to drop a big cardboard box on the counter, dust shedding from its sides. His guayabera shirt reeks of Humboldt s.h.a.ggy. The day is hot already, a hard, grinding, disquieting winter heat blowing off the high desert and across the channel.

"Asian Trash Cinema," Dunn announces. He spills the contents-mostly Chinese pirate DVDs-on the counter in front of Jay. "I picked these up in Thailand coupla years ago. Blood Maniac, Innocent Nymphs, and Leech Girl. Freedom from the Greedy Grave. Twist. Pom Pom and Hot Hot with Lam Ching-Ying and Bonnie Yu"-he sorts through them quickly-"this one, Green Snake-which for some reason is called Blue Snake in Hong Kong-its about snake sisters who want to be human," and then, as if he antic.i.p.ates Jays reservations, "Hey, Maggie Cheung and Joey w.a.n.g give each other baths. d.a.m.n." He steps back, hands up, switching to a soft-pedal. "Okay okay okay, yes, theyre mostly just plain kick-a.s.s chop-socky films, but some are modern cla.s.sics, and so Im betting more than a few of these island yacksll go for em big-time, and you and me, dollar a disc, we split the rentals. Pure cash profit."

Jay says, "What?"

"f.u.c.king hot weird s.h.i.t out there today."

Jay nods.

"Santa Anas. Earthquake weather."

"Mmm."

Dunn puts his hands flat on the counter. "Okay, look, heres the pitch: I can see what youre up against. Thats all this is. You gotta do something or youre gonna go broke. This stuff, youd be surprised. People get into it? Cant get enough. And these are t.i.tles you cant find anywhere else. h.e.l.l, I know a guy, well make a website, you can do online rentals like Netflix, only specialized, I guarantee there are a herd of film nuts out there who will jump on this."

Jay says, "I dont know."

Hes been casing Dunn for a couple of weeks, double-checking the regularity of that mid-afternoon Cessna out from the Airport in the Sky but unable to pin down Dunns return after dusk. Sometimes Jay suspects the pilot stays on the mainland, but then there are mornings Jay will open the shop and look out into the bay to the patchwork old teak cabin cruiser Dunn calls home, moored beyond the short-timers, laundry on the rigging, hull partly painted, windows dim-glowing with a smoldering glaze of dawning sun and Dunn in a stern hammock, faint firefly glow of a fatty that ebbs and wanes as he smokes it down to nothing. Some nights the cabin windows stay dark, but other times they glow and soft shadows form and flutter inside and the sound of a womans laughter comes jittering across the harbor like seabirds calling, light, high, strange. And some mornings the rear deck stays empty, Dunns dented aluminum skiff tucked and tied up under the pier, but the Cessna is waiting mid-afternoon for its run, flies out, as if Dunn is only an occasional pa.s.senger, unnecessary for the task. But always, the cruiser is lifeless on weekends, making it difficult for Jay to find a way to cross paths.

"Fine, you take sixty, no, seventy percent." Dunn is twitchy, he keeps angling his eyes to the street, running his hand through his hair, restless. "All your highbrow French flicks are just sitting there getting slowly degaussed, my friend. Or whatever happens to discs. n.o.bodys watching them. This is a win-win sitch."

Jay only vaguely understands what Dunn is offering, but the video business is a sham, so, f.u.c.k it, let Public sort this out; he nods and agrees, "Sure. Okay. Great."

Now its Dunn who demurs, backing off, as if this went too smoothly. "What? You sure?"

Jay was half hoping Dunn would show up at the barbecue, but no; and yet, now, here he is, walks right into the shop, just like that, with a harebrained business proposal, and so Jay quickly tries to figure the odds of this being coincidence as opposed to some twisty federal ruse, but then just as quickly decides it doesnt matter. It doesnt matter. Gingers admonition to run thrums through his every calculation. If its Doe or Public pulling strings, setting him up, the worst that can happen is they catch him, and his situation remains exactly the same.

But if its not? If Dunn is legit? Hes looking at an exit plan that may not present itself again.

Jay asks him, knowing the answer, "So do you fly to the mainland every day?"

"Yeah. Do you really think-?" Dunn stops short, looks from the pile of DVDs to Jay, and elaborates: "Weekdays. Mail run. USPS budget cuts have cut out weekend delivery, in case you hadnt noticed. I used to skywrite for walking-around money, but the whole spelling thing was a big problem for me." He c.o.c.ks his head. "Hey, you really, you really want these-do you really think its a decent idea?"

"Yeah."

"Awesome." Dunns grin is childlike. "Epic."

Jay tries to make the next thing he asks sound as natural as possible. "Hey . . . Sam . . . do you think, could you give me a ride to L.A.?"

Nodding, Dunn: "When?"

18 .

AT TEN MINUTES TO TWO that same afternoon, a couple sweat-soaked delivery guys will have a protective-plastic shrouded cerise chaise strapped end-up on a dolly truck when Ginger answers the door.

The men could complain about the hill before they say anything. Theyll have forgotten how steep it is. Theyll catch their breath and ask for Helen Warren. Theyll say theyve got her lounger, using the accepted American misp.r.o.nunciation.

Ginger will be completely confused by this. Why would Helen be getting a delivery, much less furniture? She might frown. She will ask to see the invoice.

The men will trade looks, and the senior one will take from his pocket and unfold a printout to show to her. The address of the bungalow, Helens name, Jays signature. Even sideways the chaise will look to Ginger like something out of a New Orleans wh.o.r.ehouse.

The sweaty men will wait, patient. They have more deliveries to make, and the longer this one takes, the fewer of the remainder theyll have time to do.

Ginger will scan the invoice, beginning to understand what it means, then perhaps step farther out on the front steps and stare down the hill, to the rooftops of the Avalon shops facing the harbor, not so much surprised by this development as (perhaps) regretful that it happened so soon.

But the gesture of the chaise longue itself will stump her.

Finally, sh.e.l.l nod, distracted, step out of the way of the men, and open the door wide for Helens long chair.

At half past two, Magonis will be sitting motionless in his chair, smoking his disagreeable electric cigarette, listening to the Chimes Tower ring and staring irritably at the half-open office door and sweating in the unseasonable heat, because the air-conditioning is being repaired.

He will check his watch. He will check the clock on the wall. Both will, more or less, give or take five minutes, announce two-thirty. But the tower is never wrong. Smoking, his irritability morphing into a kind of disquiet, h.e.l.l listen for the sound of someone coming up the hallway to suite 204.

Jay has never been late to their appointment.

At some point, before the hour is up, Magonis will dig in his pocket for his cell phone.

At quarter to three, as the tower chimes on the fifteen again, Public will come walking briskly down Crescent, and cross the street to the window of the video shop where Jay has posted the plastic sign with a clock that once had moveable hands someone long ago ripped off their pivot point, leaving the BE BACK AT: forever inconclusive.

Public might screw his mouth up the way Jay has noticed he will when he gets agitated, step back into the street and find himself unable to choose his next destination: looking first to the empty ferry landing, then north to the big casino on the point.

In the absence of any facts or real knowledge, Jay has convinced himself that n.o.body knows how many protected witnesses are on the island. He believes that different marshals are each in charge of their own small group of a.s.sets, scattered among the four thousand permanent residents, ninety percent of whom live in Avalon, the rest in a few tiny unincorporated settlements bounded by the vacant sprawl of protected Conservancy land covering most of the seventy-four square miles of long, thin, craggy Catalina Schist rising out of the Pacific, southernmost part of the Channel Island archipelago.

This would ensure that any breach of the protection program would be limited. Unless a full list of witnesses was to become exposed.

It also means that each lead marshal is the ruler of his own tiny kingdom.

Susceptible to the vagaries of such license.

Accountable, like any king might think, only to his legacy.

Wilting in the blast of heat mid-island, Sam Dunn bangs out of the back of the Buffalo Springs Station terminal building lugging two big locked canvas mail sacks to his Cessna, waiting on the ap.r.o.n of the runway. He opens the cargo door, throws the bags in, goes back to the terminal, and rolls a four-wheel dolly piled high with UPS and FedEx packages out to the Cessna, where he quickly stacks them around the mailbags and some other L.A.-bound cargo. A short, fat man waddles out to retrieve the dolly, grunts something at Dunn, and disappears into the air-conditioned terminal, slamming the door shut.

Dunn is sweating.

Big half-moons bloom on his shirt under his arms, his hair dank, he drops his Revos onto his nose and climbs into the c.o.c.kpit, where Jay is all folded up low, in the pa.s.sengers seat, so that n.o.body can see him. He hasnt been waiting for long.

"Hi," Jay says. "Go."

For weeks Jay has been perfecting this plan to slip out of Avalon without anyone (Feds) noticing. Even as they began to back off their watchful surveillance after the incident with the marshal everyone called Tripod, taking a golf cart, Jay decided, was infelicitous due to the probability someone (probably a Fed) might quickly notice it missing and the certainty hed be spotted (by Feds) on the long snaking road to the airport. All those jogging circuits that took him along the ridge road suggested that the airport was probably too far to run to; not to mention there were a series of brutal ascents after the initial one; today the heat made this option even doubly difficult, had he chosen to take it. No, getting to the airport seemed impossible until he noticed the Catalina Conservancy truck bringing fresh water to several tin troughs for the buffalo and mule deer on the mesa. It made its circuit twice a week, mid-afternoon, driving up from the staging yard and the back of the canyon, past the golf course, on roads Jay had run, and proceeded to the farthest watering station first, a spot half a mile south of the airport, then snaked back through the wild rye and rattleweed and coastal sagebrush. He had actually practiced hopping on as the truck rumbled past him jogging, and then rode for a while tucked between the water tank and the back b.u.mper, where n.o.body could readily see him.

Knowing that this was potentially the most vulnerable moment of exposure, he had learned the best place to catch his ride was a hairpin turn thick with fennel and scrub oak just before the old burn area near the canyons lip. He knew that Monday and Thursday were water days, and this day was a Monday, and so Jay had decided, driven by Gingers warning, to make his break.

No one saw him go, he kept looking back as he ran, the roads were empty; he was fairly certain they hadnt seen him. But when he leapt off the truck hed stumbled and rolled his ankle, felt the sickening pop and the rubbery fold of foot underneath him. Pain came, slow-building, visceral; first the tingling rush of adrenaline from the shock, then a touch of nausea, and it made the half-mile trip uphill to the airport just that much more difficult. A shuttle bus from Avalon rumbled past on the gravel road; he stayed low in the seams of the rolling terrain, climbing, the side of his shoe cutting into the puffy flesh where his ankle was already swelling. Heat rose off the island clay. He circled wide around the head of the runway, then simply emerged from the brush into the baked, treeless, graded flats, and limped straight-line to Dunns waiting Cessna. An employee of DC-3 Gifts & Grill stood in the shade of the terminal, smoking, staring at him, but not seeing him.

He climbed into the plane and hunkered down behind the seats and waited, sweating in the stifling oven of the c.o.c.kpit for Dunns arrival.

Three oclock sharp, the Cessna shudders as the propellers find speed. Dunn releases the brake and eases out onto the runway. Cool air leaks into the c.o.c.kpit from circulation vents. He catches the bubble lights of a couple of Avalon sheriffs station SUVs juddering through the scrub oak, fishtailing up the airport road. At the runways end, Dunn sharply pivots the plane, pushes the throttle forward, and hurtles toward the open sky at the tarmacs opposite end.

Dunn glances, insouciant, at the arriving sheriffs vehicles as he whips past them. Theyve gone past the terminal, to skirt the runway, their sirens Doppler for a moment in the planes wake and- "What was that?" Jay asks, staying low.

"Nothing," Dunn says after a beat.