The Daisy Ducks (18 page)

Back home, Mary and I went over her trip to
Schenectady to visit her mother.

"You're sure you don't want to come?" she
asked.

"No, I can't. Remember what Moe said, Mary, and
our talk. I think we both need a little space right now. A week or so
should do it fine. And since we're redoing the office building, I'd
like to oversee it, at least at the beginning. Then I thought I'd go
down to the Breakers for a week and fix the screens."

She sat on the edge of the bed and looked at her
nails, the way people do when they're preoccupied.

"Charlie, remember when you asked me if I was
having an affair?"

The words went through my gut like an artillery
shell. My heart skipped two beats. Steady, Adams.

"Uh-huh. Want to tell me?"

"No, dummy. I want to ask you. Are you?"

"No. No way."

"You and Janice aren't —"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Then what's wrong?" She was biting her
nails now, and there was wet on them.

"We know and we don't know, Mary. It's simple
and complicated. I could explain it to you in a few seconds, and you
could to me. And we could never explain it or understand it in a
thousand years. We need a break . . . and then a coming together
again?

"I guess I agree. I've felt so . . . so annoyed
with you lately, Charlie. And so far away, too."

"And you've had reason to be. I think I've got
to get a little of this wanderlust out of my system."

"Listen: watch out for Roantis and Summers.
Those two will get you into trouble, Charlie. They won't mean to, but
they will. Trouble seems to follow them wherever they go."

"Maybe it doesn't
follow them, Mary—maybe they tote it with them."

* * *

A week later, I drove Mary down to Framingham to
catch the train to Albany. I took her luggage into her compartment
and put it on the overhead rack. I sat down on the facing seat and
looked at her. A true knockout. Her nylons hissed as she crossed her
legs. I like that sound. Leaned over and kissed her. Her dark eyes
bored into mine.

"You going to behave while I'm away?" she
asked.

"Of course. What a silly —"

"You're not going to fool around with Janice,
are you?"

"Certainly not. The very idea makes my stomach
churn."

"Anything else churning?"

"C'mon Mare . . ."

"Well, I just wonder sometimes . . ."

"Listen, as soon as I get back, I'm going to
stop by the office and watch the beginning of the renovations. Then
I'm going to pack and head down to the Breakers. Then . . ."

"Then what?"

"I, uh, don't know what. Maybe I'll stay down on
the Cape for some fishing."

"It's too cold for fishing, Charlie."

"Well, there's just not that much to do in
mid-March. Tell you what: when you get back, let's fly down South
somewhere. Florida, Nassau, maybe St. Thomas, okay?"

"Deal. But you behave, hear? I just know Janice
will be waiting for you at the house."

"Oh, the hell she will. And you must know that I
would never commit any act that would require premeditation."

"Just impulsive acts."

I didn't answer. She was painting me into a corner. I
kissed her good-bye and waved when the train pulled out. I missed her
even before I got back to Concord.

When I walked into the Concord Professional Building,
the odor of paint, joint compound, and carpet cement hit me full
force. I heard shouting at my end of the hall. "Watch dat tank!"
screamed Moe at the workmen. In my heart, I wished they'd drop the
tank, destroying it and the entire host of loathsome sea creatures
within.

"It's not gonna work," said Moe ruefully.
He tugged at his short beard and ran his fingers through what was
left of his hair. He stomped around in the hall and fumed. "It's
no use. I can't get anything done around here, not wid dis cockamamy
—"

I surveyed the situation and was forced to agree with
him; even remaining on the premises was a waste of time. Moe and
Susan Petri and I went to the main lobby and got cups of machine
coffee. Moe tasted it and gasped.

"Susan, I want you to take the week off," I
said. "If you don't go out of town, you might want to stop in
every few days for half an hour and play the answering machine tape
and set up appointments. Moe, are you going to come in at all?"

"Of course, dummy. To feed my fish."

"Then," I said, getting up, "I am
leaving, knowing that everything here is in good hands."

"Where are you going?" asked Susan, who was
pursing her luscious lips at the edge of the paper cup and blowing
softly on the hot coffee. "What will you be doing?"

"I'm so glad you asked," I said, pausing at
the door, "because I haven't the faintest idea."
 
 

13

I SAT ALONE on the rough teak deck of the teahouse,
wrapped in a Japanese robe. I held a steaming cup of keemun tea in
both hands and watched the water ripple in the tiny pond. The pond
was bordered by rocks and bamboo staves. Dwarf bonsai trees grew from
the rock crevices and in big pots that Mary had made. Except for the
whisper of the miniature waterfall and the faint sound of the wind
chime, it was still. Two big goggle-eyed goldfish ghosted into view
from the depths of the water, then flashed away, their bronze sides
winking faintly. I rose, walked through the small house, and peered
out its rear doorway to the driveway and the back of the house.

The motorcycle, bright metallic red, was where I had
left it earlier. It represented everything that I, a middle-aged
suburban professional and married father, should not do. It was
everything forbidden. It was the embodiment of rebellion, danger, and
freedom.

I loved it.

Two days earlier, I had returned from the Concord
Professional Building—and my little visit with Moe and Susan
Petri—to find a car in the driveway. Its door opened and a pair of
stunning legs snaked out, tipped in tennis shoes.

"Oh hi there!" Janice had squealed as she
advanced. "Is Mary around?"

I replied that she was not; she was out of town.
Janice's face bore not the slightest hint of surprise at this tidbit.
For good reason: she knew Mary was away. And standing there in the
driveway looking at her in the tennis outfit, I knew it would only be
a matter of time before I would give in to temptation. Don't get me
wrong; I didn't want or plan to. But, like Mae West, I never give in
to temptation . . . unless it overwhelms me. Sooner or later it
would. So I made small talk with Janice for almost twenty minutes. I
did not ask her to come inside. After a while, she left.

But she would be back.

That's when I first thought about leaving town. I
went down to the cottage and did a day's work, then drove back to
Boston. That evening I treated Liatis and Suzanne to dinner at Legal
Sea Foods with Mike Summers, who had continued to lose weight and
build muscle, revealing a physique that was mythically hewn. All
during dinner, from the raw oysters through the lobster and scrod to
the dessert and coffee, Roantis kept prodding me about the Daisy
Ducks and the loot that was rightfully his. He'd obviously told
Summers all about the golden statue and the pact with Vilarde, too.
Far from being angry at having been excluded from the original deal,
Mike seemed anxious to get involved in the search for a chunk of the
action.

The next day at the BYMCU, Mike went through his
paces in the ring with Tommy Desmond. The force of their sparring
punches seemed to shake the old building's floor. I did my five
miles, worked out on the Universal gym machine, and returned to
Concord where, filled with boredom and dissatisfaction, I soon found
myself looking idly through a road atlas. I had a week, perhaps ten
days, to be off on my own. Since Mary and I were in what's popularly
called "a bad place" in our relationship (which I hoped to
God was temporary) and considering Moe's advice, I was further
induced to leave Concord—and New England as well. Should I fly down
to Tarpon Springs for a week of deep sea fishing? No. I had promised
Mary that that would be her vacation, too.

My eyes had wandered over the map. Texas had been
nice. Perhaps there was another area, closer to home, where spring
came early. My eyes settled on North Carolina and the Smoky
Mountains. I began to think about Bill Royce. Roantis had remembered
Bill's hometown, a place called Robbinsville. I found it on the map.
I realized I could even call down there and ask around for Bill's
whereabouts. The more I thought of this approach, the more I realized
it wouldn't get me anywhere—except maybe in trouble.

Then I had gone into the garage and started the bike.
I was out on it, touring the back roads and country lanes that were
temporarily free of ice and snow, for two hours. I purred along at
forty, leaning into the gentle curves and accelerating on the
straights. It had been a feeling of total freedom.

And now I sat at the lacquered tea table and stared
out at the bike, silent and still on its stand, yet with the aura of
a crouched cat, ready to spring forward with exhilarating speed and
power. Even parked, a motorcycle is not boring. It's adventure on
wheels. A rolling death wish. I walked out of the little garden and
along the driveway toward the garage. I had a list in my head; it was
time to pack.

I unlocked the Krauser hardshell bags from each side
of the bike and took them inside. They looked a bit like Samsonite
suitcases and weren't much smaller. I filled one of them entirely
with clothes; in the other I packed clothes and other things I might
need, like my binoculars, a camera with two lenses, a steel thermos,
and my Browning Hi-Power pistol with spare magazines.

I called Western Union and sent a Mailgram to Mary at
her mother's. She would receive it the following day, by which time I
planned to be well inside Pennsylvania. Then I returned to the bike,
locked the bags onto the frame and locked them shut, took a sauna
bath, made a drink, thawed out some spaghetti sauce in the microwave,
cooked dinner, and ate. I called my neighbor, Jim Burke, and asked
him to feed and look after the dogs. After that, I gathered all the
material I had on the Daisy Ducks and sat down with it. I went over
everything: notes I had made on the phone calls, notes on visiting
Kaunitz, snatches of information Roantis and Summers had given me,
and the information on the remaining Ducks—or the presumed
remaining Ducks.

Just before I went to bed I called Roantis and told
him I was going off on a motor trip to the Southern Highlands.

"Tomorrow? Early? Jeeez Doc, you dint give us
much notice —"

"Us? Who's us?"

"Uh . . . me and Mike."

"Why do you care? You're not coming."

"If you turn up something we will. Bet your ass!
Look, how long will it take you? When do you expect to get out to
Robbinsville?"

"Day after tomorrow, in the evening I think. But
that could change."

"Listen Doc, stay in close touch. Me and Mike
want to know where you are at all times, okay?"

I promised him I would, and said I hoped both of them
would live clean and not misbehave. Then I went to sleep.

Next morning I awoke before dawn. I was too wound up
to return to sleep. Outside it was dark and cold. Ordinarily,
hydraulic levers couldn't have pulled me from under the covers. But
today was different, and I was up and dressed in many warm layers
before five o'clock. At five-o-three I inserted the ignition key into
the control nacelle of the big BMW and felt the two wide, transverse
cylinders hum and vibrate. I rolled out of town, out Route 2 West,
south on 495, out 290 through Worcester before that city had even
begun to blink awake, down to go West and then onto 86, which would
take me southwest into Hartford.

I cleared Hartford before seven-thirty, and with the
growing light felt I could push the bike a little faster. I
discovered I could go close to seventy with nobody seeming to care.
On to Interstate 84 West all the way to Danbury, where I stopped for
coffee and a twenty-minute breather. Then across the line into New
York, where I ate, finally. I hummed across the bottom pointed end of
that state and entered Pennsylvania shortly after eleven. Then came
Scranton; I picked up my long road there: Interstate 81 South. This
road would shoot me right down the pipeline—the long series of
valleys of the Appalachian chain.

The road was almost deserted, and I made the bike
sing. At seventy, the moving air around a motorcycle is chilling,
even in the summertime. In early March in New England, it'll freeze
your flesh dead in no time. But I had the touring fairing on the
front of the bike, and I sat comfortably behind it in the relatively
still air. The twin cylinders, which on a BMW stick straight out to
the sides, were right in front of my feet, and the slipstream around
them was warm. I had on winter longies, flannel-lined jeans, and
insulated boots. Up on top I wore two sweaters and a fleece-lined
leather jacket. The jacket was not to look tough; it was to keep the
wind off and, in the event of a spill, to keep at least a little bit
of my skin on. I had a thick wool scarf and my full-face helmet over
a watch cap. Then, of course, I had my huge, gauntleted riding gloves
to prevent frostbite.