Caravan of Thieves (16 page)

He put his glasses back on and hit the gas. I stared straight ahead. McColl was just an extreme example of a type I ran into throughout my life. Foster parents, teachers, cops would try to get in on my hatred for Dan. They presumed a bond based on disdain for him. Some were trying to ingratiate themselves; others just wanted a place to whine. But my hatred was private and I never met anyone worth sharing it with. McColl seemed to think I’d say “Yes, I didn’t get along with him, thanks for killing him for me.” I didn’t. Instead, I thought about killing McColl right there. Unfortunately, he had no weapon that I could take from him and I would have a hard time fighting Blondie and Toothless without one.

“We’ve waited seven years for this. We’re part of a truly exciting plan.…” He was making it sound like a time-share opportunity. “It’s enormous. At last the right moment has come. If you commit to us, I can brief you. Until then, I can tell you this: this
stash of money is only one of many around the U.S., and the money from all these is only a small portion of the funding we will ultimately have. It’s an opportunity you were made for.” He did everything but pull out a pen and a contract.

“I’ll have to think it over,” I said.

“Where are we going?”

“You don’t have any problem following me, right?”

He pulled over, took his keys, and got out.

I made enough effort to lose them to give me a chance to call the Mondrian Hotel on Sunset Boulevard and make a reservation for Gloria Waters.

The valet took the jeep, and I rode to the rooftop bar, which was busy with a crowd far different from the one on Hollywood Boulevard. The bouncers at the door gave me a long once-over before letting me join the crowd. My T-shirt wasn’t from the right store. This bunch still believed they could please the wide world with their clothes and jewelry. They were aggressive only in their supplication: Notice me. Take me to a place where I can get more of this. And all poses and postures were designed to camouflage that attitude. And they all failed. Of course, the dominant color was white. I ordered a beer and walked around looking for a spot to ditch the transmitter among the couches and huge potted plants. At the door, the manager was talking to the bouncers and looking over at me. There was the answer.

I grabbed the arm of a waitress just a little too roughly and set my beer on her tray. “This beer is flat. At these prices it shouldn’t be. I know beer. Get me another one.”

The moment she left, the manager stood beside me. “Is something the matter?”

“Depends who you are. You’re not her boyfriend, are you?”

“I’m the manager.”

“Oh, good,” I said and shook his hand. “Gloria Waters, I’m supposed to meet her here. Do you know her? I’m sure you must. Gloria.” I let him edge me toward the door.

“Sure, Gloria? Sure. What’s your name?”

“Rollie.”

“Rollie. Are you a hotel guest this evening?”

“Nah. Not yet. Maybe I’ll get lucky,” I said, and I moved away from the door so he had to bump me and I could slip the transmitter into his pocket.

“Maybe you’ll be more comfortable waiting for Gloria in the lobby.” I had to give him credit: he said it as if he had just thought of a great idea.

I shocked him. “Okay. But if she comes up without me seeing her, be sure to tell her I’m down there.”

I
was certain I had lost them, all of them: McColl, Gladden, Shaw. But I could not shake the feeling of being followed. The itch made me crane around and look out the back window of the bus as it cruised up Pacific Coast Highway. The short Indian woman in the seat next to me who was holding a stuffed pillowcase on her lap said, “Are you being followed, too?”

“Careful,” I said. “I think they can hear everything.” She gathered her pillowcase and edged past me to a row near the front. I slid over to the window seat. The itch stayed with me, though I refused to scratch it again. The bus moved slowly through the Malibu traffic. Surfers bobbed in a loose, smug pack. Slowly one turned and paddled farther from the beach, another followed, and another, like a flock that mysteriously decides it would prefer to occupy the tree over there. The bus lurched forward before I could watch the rest of them form a wedge when they followed.

Hal had said Dan arrived from Ventura County with me in tow, so to justify my trip there, I formed pictures of Kate McFarlanes who had stayed behind. Kate McFarlane, local flower, plucked by
the dashing scoundrel Dan, replanted in the loving family garden, where she thrived, despite her missing petals. Kate McFarlane, the wild child, tamed and brought down by the infamous Dan; they say she gave birth and now will never leave the hallowed ground where she met her match; she can be found at sundown on the bluff above the beach, staring into the horizon, remembering. Kate McFarlane, harried mother and wife, facing the emptiness at the end of her PTA eligibility, but sometimes, after sneaking a morning shot of vodka, she pulls out a necklace and remembers a time when her heart was full and the world seemed young and easy. It was a sickening bunch of soap opera versions to cover the one I feared most: a vagabond Kate who flitted into town and stuck for a few years before coasting along. She would be tough to find.

“She’ll be there, or close by,
” Dan said.

“When was the last time you checked?”

“If I had to check on that, I might never have left.
” I stared at the empty seat next to me, reading the smile Dan wore at that whopper. It was his “I can still surprise you” smile.

“No, you can’t,” I said. And I saw the Indian woman looking at me.

Ricky Severinson was a first lieutenant, Annapolis man, who had the wrong disposition for war. He counted the minutes. Discomfort, impatience, and fear combined to torture him daily. So great was his torment that he assumed all the men in his platoon felt the same way and therefore his job was to do everything he could to alleviate their pain. We fought the heat, the dark, the dirt, but we rarely sought the enemy. To fill the endless, panting hours, Ricky talked about his father, who had invented the shopping cart ad,
those photo ads that go in the folding basket of your shopping cart. He was rich and vicious, and Ricky went to the Academy to spite him. But the old man pretended to be terribly proud when he heard everyone talking about how proud he must be. Ricky decided the appropriate next ploy would be to leave the Academy. His father countered by putting his photo, in uniform, on all the shopping carts in their small Connecticut town with the caption: “Proudly Serving Our Country.” Ricky graduated and was commissioned and sent to lead me and a few unlucky others. Eventually our battalion leader noticed our indolence and got around to screaming at Ricky, who finally led us out to look for the enemy and into an ambush at sundown. Ricky and four others were killed.

I only tell that story because Kate McFarlane had her photo all over the shopping carts at a Vons on Channel Islands Boulevard in Oxnard. A mortgage broker.

Blond hair, clear, focused blue eyes, thin face and nose, sharp chin, pearl earrings, and a single strand of pearls across the top of a blue dress. She looked efficient, part of a ruling class who could help the peasants make good choices.

I just thought how uncomfortable I would feel putting bacon or Twinkies in the basket if she were watching.

For ten minutes, I was sure it was her; then the doubts crept in, and I welcomed them as guests who would keep me in line and serve as protection against Dan, laughing on my shoulder, whispering warnings and lies. Or truths.
“Try to match that photo with me,
” he said. “
If it works, you’ve got the wrong woman.
”

First I bought a used bicycle because I had arrived on the bus and I did not want to take the risk of stealing a car until I needed to. Kate’s office was in a strip mall near the Channel Islands Harbor
between a real estate office and a dry cleaner. It was not yet noon when I took a seat in the window at a Starbucks kitty-corner from the office.

I waited, hoping she would come out for lunch so I could follow her somewhere, get a sense of who she was, who I would be dealing with. The Gloria Waters experience hung over me. Her rage still hurt worse than any punch from Blondie. I imagined myself traveling from town to town, accusing women of being my mother: which did I dread more, their rage or their affection? Two women came out, neither could have been Kate McFarlane. A man left. That was it for a while.

By one fifteen, I decided to face her. The door said “Wakeman Mortgage: A Full-Service Brokerage.” Four front desks stood unoccupied. Beyond, dividers formed cubicles. I walked back there. “Hello?” A slovenly man in his fifties held his sandwich an inch from his mouth as he peeked from his cubicle. Crumbs dotted his blue button-down shirt. “I’m looking for Kate McFarlane.”

He pointed with the sandwich, and when I turned, Kate was standing there. She wore a tan sleeveless dress cut at the knee and sandals with heels. Her blond hair was pulled back tight, just like in the supermarket photo. Around her neck hung a thin silver chain with a star that had diamonds, or things that looked like them, on each point. She was pretty; the photo was not doctored.

“I’m Kate.”

“I’m Robert. Robert Kent. We’re moving to town, my wife and I, and the time has come to get a mortgage.”

“Great. Did someone refer you?”

“My shopping cart.”

She led me to a small conference room and was just warming
up the spiel about how the folks at Wakeman gave the best mortgage when her phone rang. She was going to pretend she did not care who it was until she saw who it was. When she came back, she said, “Robert, please forgive me, but something has come up and I’m going to have to leave. A closing. Maybe someone else in the office can help you.”

“I can come back later.”

“It would have to wait a few days. I’m leaving town tomorrow.”

“After the closing.” That would have been a good moment for the unveiling, with just us and the guy with the sandwich and crumbs. But I hesitated and told her I would come back next week. She barely seemed to hear me. Whoever had called had all her attention. I took her card and retreated to my lookout post at Starbucks.

I was barely settled when a silver Mercedes sports car pulled up and Kate popped out of the office like a teenager sneaking out on a date.

I hopped on my bike to follow, which was easy with all the traffic. They went over the bridge to the harbor and parked and walked out on the pier to a boat about seventy feet long, sleek and modern and expensive. The guy who drove the Mercedes was about Kate’s height, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, shorts and sandals and a polo shirt and, of course, sunglasses. I guessed sixty-five, but the gray hair might have been fooling me. A thick Asian man greeted them on board and brought out a tray with drinks and snacks. A second man, who could have been the twin of the first Big Boy, appeared and climbed to the top deck.

Kate went below. Ponytail Man conferred with the big servant, who pointed to something on the deck that I could not see. A moment
later, two men about my age walked along the dock toward the boat. One carried a black backpack. Ponytail Man welcomed them with a handshake and half hug. The young guys looked all around before sitting down. The backpack came off and the guy checked with Ponytail Man before setting it down. Ponytail Man gave a nod, directing him where to place it. Everybody picked up a glass, a toast was made, and everybody drank. Ponytail Man did a lot of talking and the two young guys looked at each other and a moment later one picked up a backpack and they were off.