Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (17 page)

“Sure,” I rumbled with forced nonchalance, handing her Anna’s leash.

My Love was dressed in sandals, jonquil shorts, and that all-too-familiar yellow tube top that had traumatized me at Clear Lake so many months before. We strolled south along the beach toward distant rocky cliffs, where a renowned sea geyser was rumored to spout a stream of saltwater more than 60 feet into the air.

“It must have been pretty here once,” Sheeni remarked, “before all those Americans built their tacky beach houses.”

“Humans are such a blight,” I replied, tugging Vronski away from some drowned sea creature’s rotting corpse. “And dogs run a close second.”

My Love chuckled. “Aren’t you hot in that coat?”

“Not at all,” I lied. “I’m getting over a cold. That’s why my voice is a little raspy. And Mrs. K expects me to remain in uniform.”

“Do you work for them all the time?”

“Just on vacations. I almost didn’t make it this time on account of my motorcycle accident, but the bruises are healing nicely … Anything the matter? You’ve seemed a little, uh, withdrawn.”

“I didn’t want to come here. My father insisted. My mother
didn’t want to come either. She doesn’t approve of the Krusinowskis, as you may have surmised from her rudeness. Father insisted on accepting the invitation. He’s a lawyer and they instinctively suck up to people with money. I think he’s hoping to land some of the Krusinowskis’ legal work.”

“Well, there are worse things than a vacation in Mexico on the beach.”

“Not with my parents!”

Anna paused for a leisurely postprandial dog gag and barf.

“How are you getting on with Connie?” I asked.

“She’s OK.”

We resumed our walk.

“You know she’s madly in love with your brother.”

“So I heard. Personally, I think it’s pathetic that someone would mutilate themselves surgically to try and attract some disinterested person. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’m not sure I’d call it pathetic,” I said, swallowing hard. “Perhaps more like enterprising.” I felt a change of topic was called for. “I understand, Sheeni, that you had a recent brush with the law yourself.”

My Love gave me a quick hard look. “You seem remarkably well-informed. It was just a misunderstanding—one of many recently. Things have been very crazy lately. My brother was arrested. A close friend of mine got railroaded into a stupid marriage. Another friend had to skip town just ahead of the cops. I haven’t heard from him for two weeks.”

“You must be worried sick,” I said hopefully.

“Not really. He can take care of himself.”

“You almost sound like you wouldn’t be that upset if he were arrested.”

“Well, it might simplify matters if he were.”

I tried not to reveal the turmoil those ominous words touched off in my heart.

We never made it to the alleged geyser. My Love was her usual indefatigable self, but the dogs’ little pencil legs threatened to give out. We turned back.

“I, I never heard the name Sheeni before.”

“My real name’s Sheridan. Father’s a Civil War buff. A friend when I was little started calling me Sheeni.”

“Oh, who was that?”

“A boy named Trent Preston.”

More distress for Nick. Someday I hope to uncover some aspect of My Love’s eventful life in which that deranged poet has not been intimately involved.

4:10 p.m. When we got back, the Plock was jammed with ogling fellow campers, apparently invited over by Sheeni’s mother, much to Mrs. K’s evident annoyance. My Love retired to the roof deck with her book; Connie and I retreated to the beachside patio of the campground minimart for cold beers (Connie paid). I squeezed in juice from my little lime wedge and sucked on the brown bottle without mercy.

“How’s it going with Paulo’s sister?” asked Connie.

“Terrible. She wants to rat on Nick to the cops.”

“Really? She said so?”

“In so many words.”

“It’s to be expected, Rick. But I can see why you’re obsessed with her. She’s a knockout. A bit on the cold side though.”

“Sheeni’s a very warm person. She’s just pissed at her parents right now. Connie, you’ve got to help me get my money back from her.”

“How?”

“Tell her you spoke by phone with Nick. Tell her I said for her to write you a check for $689,000. So you can deposit it and then forward the money to me.”

“OK, Rick. But I’ll be amazed if she goes for it.”

I finished my beer and belched so explosively that everyone on the patio turned and stared. As if I cared.

“What do you think of our future in-laws?” I asked.

“God, Rick, they suck. How did those two ever produce Paulo and Sheeni?”

“That, Connie, is one of the great mysteries of the age. Another is why your father ever invited them here.”

“That’s easy, Rick. It’s more proof that he ratted on Paulo. Extreme guilt is the only possible explanation. Shall we order some nachos?”

“Connie, I thought you subsisted on one olive a day. Lately you’ve been eating like a horse.”

“There’s no need to diet now, Rick. Poor Paulo’s in jail and Lacey’s practically out of the picture.”

“Are you sure you didn’t turn him in yourself? Perhaps it was your body’s final desperate ploy to avoid starvation.”

“I wish I was that devious, Rick. Maybe I should take some lessons from your girlfriend.”

9:40 p.m. Some Plock passengers had to eat an expensive, multicourse dinner at a ritzy restaurant up in the hills. But since the Plock II runabout only seats five, the two servants got to remain behind and dine on leftovers from the back of the refrigerator. My Love, needless to say, looked enchanting dressed to go out. Bondo, with his new Gallic blood, stared brazenly at her, but she didn’t seem to notice. Connie looked inscrutably exotic in one of her many oriental-theme slinky silk frocks and new-to-me violet eye contacts. Sighing, I watched them drive away, then manufactured two stiff margaritas while Dogo dished up the leftovers. Bad news, diary. Not yet 15, I’ve already lost track of my lifetime cocktail count.

“Dogo, how did you get to be such a great cook?” I asked, chowing down on his toothsome leftovers.

“CIA, Rick.”

“You were a spy! But aren’t large eye-catching tattoos somewhat counterproductive for undercover work?”

“Different CIA, Rick. After my accident I went to work for the Ks on their boat. It was a real one—a 42-footer. But Connie gets seasick so they sold it. They sent me to the Culinary Institute of America.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, paid for the whole thing. Guess they got tired of my hobo stew and hangtown fry.”

“You never made a play for Mrs. K? I think she likes you.”

“No percentage in it, Rick. Sure, I’d like to jump her bones. She needs somebody to. But what happens when it’s over, when we get sick of each other? Eh? I’ll tell you what happens. Dogo Dimondo is out on his ass. And I like this job.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“I get my quota, Rick. Chicks go for my stump.”

“Beg your pardon?”

“My stump. Chicks are always checking it out. They start wondering what it would feel like.”

I put down my fork. “You can’t be serious.”

“I give it to ’em, Rick. Anytime they want it.” He held up his truncated but well-muscled arm. “All the way up past the elbow. That’s what they like!”

I didn’t finish the rest of my dinner. Just when you start thinking someone is a nice normal guy, he smacks a long one deep into foul territory. Not only that, I have to sleep unchaperoned right next to the fellow.

WEDNESDAY, March 31 — Mr. K is still delayed in L.A. with plant problems. Manufacturing truck springs must be a very delicate operation. Mrs. K said “to hell with him” and gave
orders after breakfast for Dogo to weigh anchor. He started up the powerful diesel engine and flipped some toggle switches on the dash. The rooftop satellite dish powered down, the expando slide-outs motored in, the front awning and steps retracted, and the hydraulic stabilizing jacks raised up and locked. Dogo did have to disconnect manually the power cord, water hose, and smelly sewer hook-up. I assisted with these tasks and got a big smear of grease on my uniform while helping attach the towbar to the Plock II.

The original plan was to cruise down the length of Baja California to La Paz, but the campground manager confided to Dogo that some gringo RVers had been waylaid recently by bandits along the more isolated stretches of the highway. So Mrs. K decided to head east toward Mexicali, then travel south through Sonora state toward Guymas on the other side of the Gulf of California. Personally, I would have headed straight back to the Estados Unidos, where you can drink the water, understand the natives, and where the bandits are mostly confined to the urban districts.

Deviate or no, Dogo demonstrated his customary competence in whipping our immense motor home along Mexico’s narrow highways. For him a second hand would only be redundant, not to mention sexually confining. Mrs. K occupied the copilot’s seat with her dog-theme embroidery; the other passengers made themselves at home in the comfortable, though now less spacious, main salon. Anna and Vronski parked themselves on a padded window shelf and nodded to passing motorists like those plastic novelty figurines. While we glided northeast on Route 3, I did the laundry (tossing in my soiled coat), vacuumed the carpet, cleaned the bathrooms, and served assorted snacks and beverages to the pampered passengers. I suppose this is what is known as a working vacation.

Later in the morning I had a private tête-á-tête with Connie
on her mother’s bed in the master stateroom. I was still wearing Dogo’s yellow rain slicker as a temporary cover-up while my admiral’s coat tumbled in the dryer.

“I talked with Sheeni last night, Rick, while we were getting ready for bed. She has a very nice figure.”

“I know, Connie. I’ve seen it. I’d very much like to see it again sometime soon. What did she say?”

“Well, she was surprised that you had phoned me and not her. I said you were afraid her phone line was tapped.”

“Good thinking. What did she say about writing the check?”

“Well, she didn’t say no. But there’s a slight hitch.”

“What?”

“Before she forks over the cash she wants to talk to you.”

“Damn. No way can I call her. She’d recognize my new voice.”

“Very true, Rick. You have quite a distinctive voice. Very masculine too for a kid with your build. Dr. Rudolpho is such a genius.”

We looked up in surprise as the door opened. My Love glanced in and immediately reddened.

“Oh, uh, sorry,” stammered Sheeni. “I was just looking for a place to lie down.”

1:20 p.m. After lunch Sheeni spent a half-hour in the forward bathroom retching her guts out. Speculating that she had picked up a foreign microbe, Mrs. K dosed her from the Plock’s extensive medical stores, told her to lie down in her parents’ stateroom, and sent the cabin boy in with a cup of weak tea.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Rotten,” she replied, holding an arm over her eyes.

My heart went out to My Love, though I kept my distance. In times of emotional distress I’m quick to offer a comforting shoulder, but for afflictions of the flesh I’m predictably useless.

“We’re bypassing Mexicali,” I pointed out.

“That is extraordinarily good news.”

I gazed silently at my suffering darling and heard her stomach gurgle unappealingly.

“I wasn’t doing anything with Connie this morning.”

“I didn’t imagine you were. Nor do I care if you do.”

I sighed. My Love peered at me from under her arm.

“Is there something else?” she asked.

“No, I’m leaving. I hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks. You’ll be among the very first to know.”

3:42 p.m. My Love is still napping; Third World scenery continues to whiz past the windows. This part of Mexico is nice if you like barren brown hills, endless desert vistas, and giant trucks driven by machismo-steeped maniacs.

To help relieve the tedium, Mrs. K has been teaching her daughter and the Saunders to play bridge. None is proving a quick study, especially Sheeni’s mother, who keeps interrupting the bidding to bad-mouth Nick Twisp and divulge facts of intense interest to the eavesdropping cabin boy. It seems Mr. Mince of my bank read news reports on the Twisp manhunt and ratted to the cops about my account. They traced the transactions back to Mario and Kimberly, and also to Sheeni, to whom my business partners had been mailing my checks.

“He created some sort of satanic timepiece,” Mrs. Saunders explained. “A horrid thing intended to appeal to the most degenerate elements. The police at first thought my daughter was mixed up in it too. But she was merely forwarding the payments. Of course, we’ve punished her for that. Our lives have been a nightmare ever since she met that depraved criminal. And now he’s spread his evil corruption to our son as well. Tojo, we’re out of mixed nuts here.”

“Right away, Mrs. Saunders,” I replied, stifling François’s forty-seventh homicidal impulse of the day.

“And did the police seize all of his assets?” inquired Mrs. K.

“Unfortunately not,” replied Sheeni’s father. “He moved everything offshore to an anonymous account quite beyond the reach of the FBI.”

“They must at least know the name on the account,” insisted Mrs. K.

“It’s under the name Emma Bovary,” he replied. “They have reason to believe that may be a pseudonym.”

9:37 p.m. We’re camped beside the Sea of Cortez on the outskirts of Puerto Peñasco. If I ever decide to have a down-and-out episode in a tawdry Mexican town, Puerto Peñasco is where I’ll be making reservations. Presently jamming its dusty streets and rowdy mariachi bars are hordes of carousing youths (on spring break from Arizona colleges) and Connie Krusinowski. Dogo has accompanied her into town as designated driver, bodyguard, and deviate on the make.

Sheeni and I wanted to go too, but Mr. Saunders reminded his daughter that she was grounded, and Mrs. K reminded Bondo of his scullery duties. After hastily cleaning up the galley, I invited My Love for a dog walk along the beach in the deepening purple twilight. It’s occurred to me that I should be taking advantage of these exotic foreign venues to commence Rick S. Hunter’s dogged wooing of his future Trophy Wife.