Chapter 13
Sleep came easily to Andy but the combination of Albert Martin, Chinese take-out, Dr. Garza the Veterinarian, and his mothers strange announcement, made for some strange episodes in dreamland. In one scene Janice Boyd was dressed in some raggedy habit passing out soup to a line of hungry African children as some tune from the Sound of Music played in the background. She was dressed like Julie Andrews, but she looked like Sophia Garza, yet, somehow it was his mom. That scene caused him to roll over and consciously switch gears, too weird. In another quick sequence, Rance Broadback was chasing Andy’s mother and her friend Marg through the streets of San Francisco. They had big crosses around their necks and were carrying signs that predicted the end of the world. Broadback was forced to shoot them. After that sequence, Andy rolled out of bed and popped five extra strength Tums. His heart was racing and his stomach knotted. He scratched his head and walked to the front window sipping a cup of cold water. At 3:00 am the streets of his neighborhood were quiet and still. An occasional cab or police cruiser would drive by, and there were a few lights on behind closed shades in the apartments and houses, but most people, he assumed, would be sound asleep. Something he decided to revisit on the condition that his mind not replay any recent footage. It didn’t, but it didn’t get much better either. He was up for good by 8:30 am and feeling rather foul.
Andy’s Weblog, November 5th
Definitely Half Empty
Is the glass half empty, or half full? Pretty good question, I guess, and for me the glass is definitely half empty. I realized that last night as I tossed and turned and worried about everything from losing my legs in a car accident to what I would have for breakfast if all the grocery stores suddenly went on strike. It was a strange night. But I realized that my life is wrapped up, for good or for bad, in negative impulses. It seems like everything that happens reinforces the fact that I am closer to death, more fragile than I realized, consumed with my own wellbeing, and, generally just a selfish bastard.
I see people all around me who seem to live outside themselves. Like my German friend that is fighting for his family or the woman who had a life-altering experience and is now better than she was, and she was already great. How does that work? For these people the glass is always half full. You can hear it in the way they talk; you can see it in the way they live. There is always a rainbow after the rain for these guys. Not me. I would just as soon have it rain all the time. It helps confirm that life is gloomy and dank. After the rain I just take off my jacket and remind myself how tight my shirts are. Rainbows are for children.
In reading this, I am half tempted to delete it all and come up with something really chipper, a happy little diatribe on the smell of fresh bread in a mother’s kitchen. But that’s not where I’m at for some reason. I am committed to being honest here, and, if nothing else, I know that is a good choice. So I guess I get one point for being frank, even if honesty reveals a glass that is half empty. Half empty and I suspect it has a leak. Bad sign.
Being Frank (I always get a kick out of that)
Andy
Andy pushed back from the desk and wished he could take back the post, if, for no other reason than he knew his mother would read it and call him, then he’d have to deal with that. He didn’t want to have that conversation. She was in a great season of life, according to her, while he was just in his constant season, she would never understand that, and he didn’t feel like explaining it. He managed to drag himself through the shower and, after rummaging through all the cupboards and looking in the refrigerator no less than six times, decided to walk somewhere for breakfast. He felt like eating and he didn’t care who might scowl at him while he did. He got his hat and jacket, shoved his hands in his pockets and headed up Chestnut to Willie’s Kitchen, a place where you had to wait for a booth or squeeze onto one of those revolving stools at the counter.
Willy’s was nearly empty save a couple of old timers nursing some coffee in one booth and a salesman at the counter eating a bagel and juice while he studied a spreadsheet. Andy took a seat at the only clean table and grabbed a plastic menu from a little stand on the backside of the table by the condiments. It was gummy and old and probably hadn’t been wiped off for years, but that probably meant the prices hadn’t changed either. Willy was an old gal who had run the diner for years. She was a crusty old bird who fought the no smoking law tooth and nail till she had so many citations that she finally relented and became a non-smoking diner, not quite over her dead body, as she had promised. Some claim to fame. Andy didn’t like Willy, which fit his current mood perfectly. But he did like some of the wait staff she hired. They never stayed; Willie was too nasty to work with for any length of time. But once in a while there would be a real sweet girl, usually someone from the University or a lady taking a second job, that you could really tell was a nice person. Andy enjoyed watching them interact with the other customers, and even with Willy, and, eventually he felt like he knew them, even though the extent of their relationship was always limited to the name on the little plastic bar pinned to their uniform.
The pin on the server’s chest today said Annie. He knew her name before she stopped by his table because of how relentless Willy was with her. “Annie do this, Annie bus those tables, Annie get the register...” By the time poor Annie got to Andy’s table she was on the verge of tears.
“What can I get you, sir?” she managed.
“Don’t let her get to you,” Andy said before thinking about it. The waitress gave a slight grin and said nothing.
“Uh, I’ll have #4 and coffee. Over medium,” Andy finally said to break the awkward silence that shouted, ‘mind your own damn business.’
“Okay,” she said and whirled away.
He ate in silence as people came and went and Willy bossed Annie around the little diner. She didn’t quit, but she didn’t make life very pleasant for the customers, either. All in all it was a pretty depressing breakfast. Andy felt nothing but full when he left. He was thinking about his “Why Not” list as he walked slowly back to his house. He walked with his head down against the misty rain and fog of the morning. Don Maclean began singing American Pie in Andy’s mind, an oddly depressing yet engaging song that Andy wasted too much time trying to figure out when he was in high school. Just as Don asked Andy the musical question, “Did you write the Book of Love and do you have faith in God above - if the Bible tells you so?” Andy’s conscious self heard a familiar clanging of doorbells and then the voice of Mr. Martin.
“Andy! Andy!”
Andy raised his head and turned, across the street Mr. Martin had spotted him and stepped out of the store to call him. Andy pulled a hand out of his jacket and waved, he wasn’t in the mood. Mr. Martin waved him over.
“Come!” Mr. Martin called. Andy turned and walked back to the corner where he pushed the pedestrian crossing button. He was briefly tempted to just walk across and test his invisibility, but American Pie had pushed the “Why Not” list off the stove. He sang softly as he crossed the street, still alone, the place he felt like being right now, for a few more seconds. “So bye bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry...”
“Andy! Good morning! I see you walking, come in - come in.” Mr. Martin said as Andy stepped on to the sidewalk.
Andy entered the open door, which Mr. Martin then shut and locked behind them. The closed sign was still in place, the lights were on against the dreary morning, but the opera music was not yet playing. Mr. Martin had cleaned up the mess from the crazy weekend and the place was normal again except for the radio which Andy’s mind was happy to provide, “Them good ol’ boys were drinking whiskey and rye...”
“Sit down, sit down... I’ll get you a drink, some coffee?”
“Uh, okay,” it was the first that he had spoken since he ordered breakfast and his words sounded strange. He sat in the same seat he had when Mr. Martin had told the story to Officer Mahone. “Andrew Boyd? Like the writer?”
Mr. Martin was talking to Andy from behind the counter as he fixed the coffee, but his words didn’t register through the mental fog. Slowly Andy began to focus, “... and it looks like she will be okay. The doctor said she has very strong bones for a little woman. That is good, ja?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Martin, did you say Maria would be fine?”
“Ja, yes. The concussion will be slow to heal and the hip, maybe three or six weeks, but yes.”
“Oh, that’s great. Really.” Andy forced himself to say.
“Yes. Maria told me to thank you for helping us. Thank you so much Andy, you are truly a good friend.”
The encouragement had a hard time breaking through the negative attitude that Andy had been enjoying all morning; he just smiled and nodded his head slightly. It would be tough to convince Andy Boyd that he was a good anything right now. He sipped his coffee and tried to focus.
“So, how long will she be in the hospital?”
“Mm, maybe a few weeks in the hospital and then some time at another place, for recovery, you know? To help her walk.”
“Yeah... You going to be able to run the place alone?” Andy asked, slowly coming up to speed.
“Oh, I am able. I will have my niece some days. And I will close early, to be with Maria.”
“Some people think she is the better cook.” Andy said, finally smiling.
“Ja. She is the better cook. I know that. I am just talk, ja? But I do okay.” Mr. Martin laughed.
The two men drank their coffee and Mr. Martin refilled the cups. The silence made it clear that they didn’t really have much in common except eating at the Deli and the past weekends unfortunate events. Eventually there was only one thing left to talk about, and it was clear that Mr. Martin was waiting for him to bring it up.
“So, have you heard about Albert?” Andy finally asked.
Mr. Martin looked deeply into his coffee cup, stirring sugar into the black liquid. He tapped the silver spoon on the side of the cup and carefully sat it on a folded napkin. “Ja.”
He looked at Andy. This was clearly why Mr. Martin had called him over from across the street.
“Albert is in jail,” he said.
Andy could tell the old man felt sick that his nephew had been incarcerated. He didn’t know whether to ask about it or to leave it to Mr. Martin to volunteer to fill in the blanks. Fortunately, Mr. Martin kept talking.
“Officer Mahone came to the hospital last night. He is a good man,” Mr. Martin began. Andy nodded in agreement. “He told me what happened when the Daly City officers got to Albert’s apartment...” He looked at Andy with a solemn face, his bushy mustache drooping a little too far over his upper lip and his neck and cheeks sporting the grey stubble of a long weekend.
“The officers knocked on Albert’s door. He was not expecting anyone, you know, and he is very tired. He has been awake all night dividing the, uh, the marijuana. So he just answers the door, you know, he doesn’t think. And when he sees the officers he slams the door and runs back into the apartment. He runs out a sliding door and jumps down to the ground. From the second floor! He jumps down to the ground and starts running away. The officers rush in and follow him, you know, and they catch him in a few blocks hiding in an alley. The boy is shaking and scared and crying. They take him back to the apartment. Mahone has arrived by then and they look around and they see, you know, they find all the dope. And they arrest him. They took him to jail.”
Those words were the toughest for Uncle Albert to say. Realizing that the police had shoved the boy to the ground, pulled his hands behind his back, his face in the gravel and dirt of an alley, cuffed him and pushed him in to the back seat of a cruiser. The fact that his nephew, his brother’s son, was sitting in jail with all the criminals, was a weight that was difficult for the proud German to bear.
“Mahone said they arrested him for possession with intent to sell, which, I guess, is very bad.”
“Are you going to press charges?”
“Mahone said I don’t have to. I can, you know, about the break in and about Maria, but I don’t have to. They have all they need to put him in jail.” Mr. Martin’s eyes swelled with tears. “My God, Andy... The boy could be in jail for a long time.”
“Mr. Martin, are you... Uh, do you have any liability? Since the drugs were here at your house?” Andy said. He assumed that the paddy wagon would be picking up Mr. Martin as an accessory, or something. He wasn’t sure how that all worked, but the fact was that the old man was holding illegal drugs and had not called the police.
Mr. Martin nodded then shook his head, “No. Mahone said that, too. But the boy tells the whole story, you know. He feels terrible for bringing us into his business.”
“Well, it was pretty stupid, actually.”
Mr. Martin squinted and shook his head again, “I know, Andy. It was stupid! He is ‘unwissend,’ ignorant, you know? I can’t believe it... He brings us in to this, you know? And he nearly kills his Aunt Maria!” Mr. Martin’s outburst was followed by another silence, which Andy eventually broke.
“What happens now?”
“I called my brother, Albert’s father. I told him that Albert is in jail. I told him everything, you know? He is very angry, disappointed, like me. He is coming today. He is flying in today.”
“Are you going over to the jail? Do you need a ride or anything?”
“Me? No,” he closed his eyes and pursed his lips. I love the boy, ja? But he has injured my wife. His father can take care of him now.”
Andy returned to the depressing safety of his house and splashed cold water on his face. He stared at the reflection in the mirror for a long time. He felt empty. He thought about going to visit his mother at the store, and about visiting Mrs. Martin, maybe bringing her some flowers, but he reconsidered. He toweled off his face and entered his office. Maybe he could unlock the secret door and disappear in to the world of Rance Broadback for a few hours and come out in a little better mood. He checked his email first; there was a message from Will Heard.
Andy -
Will here. I met this morning with the publisher and just wanted to give you an update. They are extremely worked up about the next book. They’re talking book clubs, Selection of the Month, the whole nine. Of course they won’t pull the trigger till they see the work, but if they come through with half of what they talked about, then this could be big. Patterson big. Cussler big. Get it?
No pressure, I just wanted you to know I’m out here fighting for you. I know you’ll deliver something that far exceeds everyone’s expectations, I’m just getting so excited I can hardly stand it.
Keep me posted on progress,
Sincerely,
Will
William Heard
Literary Agent
Bigby, Sachs & Heard
New York, NY
888-555-4646
Reply -
Dear Will,
Thanks for the note. Had a rough weekend but the book is moving along. I wish I was as confident about the deadline as you are, but I’m giving it my best, such as it is. I’ll have something over to you soon.
My mother told me this process is like fine wine, I’ve got to give it time in order for it to be right. So blame her if I screw up. Ha!
Andy
Send
Trading emails with Will made Andy feel a little better, although Don Maclean wouldn’t stop singing “This will be the day that I die,” in Andy’s head like the record had skipped and negated the substance of the rest of the song. An offensive, in the form of a Neil Diamond cd Andy downloaded from iTunes, would, hopefully, beat back the current “song that wouldn’t end.”
“Stones would play inside her head, and where she slept, they made her bed. And she would ache...”
“Ahh, Neil to the rescue,” Andy said, turning down the volume a little and scanning the last entry in the Broadback story before starting to peck out new words.
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Appalachian Malady -
“I had a hunch about this kid,” Rafferty said as he helped Phyllis Lecter on with her coat and walked outside to the waiting Escalade that would take her to the private airstrip on the south side of his property. “What do you think, Phyllis?”
“I’ll admit, I’m intrigued... But Jim, let’s not move too fast, he’s an unknown quantity and we have a pretty good thing going. Things are tense enough since the Hagin thing.”
“But he’s squeaky clean, I’ve checked him out. And he is hungry. Didn’t you get that impression?”
“Don’t get me wrong, I’m way ahead of you on this. It could be exactly what we’ve been looking for. But let’s not move too fast, that’s all.”
“Okay, yeah. I’m just excited. It’s like he just fell into our lap,” Rafferty said. It was quiet till they reached the SUV. “Listen, is everything kosher in D.C.? On the case, I mean,” Rafferty said softly.
“There’s a little snag. But you know these things, it takes a while to get the right people in place sometimes.”
“A little snag?”
“The detective in charge. Kramer. He’s a hardass. He doesn’t think it was a suicide.”
“What about Williams?”
“He’s pushing Kramer to close the case, for the family and for the country, that type of thing. But he can’t push Kramer too far or he’ll smell something.”
“Is there any possible way Kramer finds out it was in-house?” Rafferty asked.
“No way. Not a chance. Williams has too much on the line. He did it right, used people that are way off the books. Impossible to trace it back to him, or any of us.”
“Okay. I still think it was a little drastic to play that card.”
“Jim, you’ve got to trust me on D.C., okay? Hagin was breaking all the rules - I mean all of them. And it was just a matter of time before he figured out our arrangement.”
“If you say so. By the way, I made a donation to the family today, they should be okay.”
“Nice. Look, I’ve got to get on that plane,” she said, still standing by the side of the closed door, the driver inside the car, oblivious to the conversation.
“I know, hey, thanks for coming, it was a good night, huh?” Rafferty said, smiling. He kissed her on the cheek and opened the door. Senator Lecter stepped in to the seat and sat down.
“A good night,” she agreed. He shut the door and the driver sped off to the awaiting Cessna XL. Rafferty watched the taillights of the Escalade as they wound down the road away from the house. He took a deep breath and went back inside to join the others.
Michael/Rance tried to talk Dr. Garza out of joining him for the ride back to Louisville. “It’s a long drive and you’ve probably got to work in the morning, am I right?”
“It’s okay, really. It’s early. Maybe I can get my date to spring for some coffee,” she said.
“You got it,” he smiled. “Let me say goodnight to our host.” He walked over to the three men who had reconvened in front of the fireplace after the smoking room meeting had broken up.
“Gentlemen, it has been a wonderful evening, but I am afraid this is a working trip for me, and I must return to my hotel,” he said as he stepped to the side of James Rafferty.
“Michael, thank you for coming. Really, it has been a pleasure,” Rafferty said. Michael shook hands with the others and stepped away with Rafferty’s hand on his shoulder. “Michael, I would like to meet again, just the two of us, if that’s possible. I could fly out to the West Coast, or, of course, you know where I live now.”
“I would like that. Here’s my card. Please, feel free to call me anytime,” Michael said. “This has been really great, sir, thank you. When I scheduled the trip I really didn’t anticipate a meeting such as this.”
“You should see what we do for the people who actually win at Churchill!” Rafferty said, laughing at his own joke.
“Excellent!” Michael said. “Dr. Garza is going to accompany me on the drive, if that is all right with you.” Michael looked across the room at Sophia who was standing with her coat and purse, waiting to complete the round trip with “her date.”
“I think that would be great, but Michael, you be careful with that one, she’s a tiger,” Rafferty said as he shook his guests hand and held up the business card. “I’ll be in touch, then.”
“I look forward to it,” Michael said. He caught the arm of Dr. Garza and stepped through the grand foyer to the waiting Escalade. They both noticed the snap of the pumps on the Italian marble.
“I’ve got to get out of these shoes,” she said.
“Sounds like someone needs a foot massage,” he offered.
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“Mmm, Dr. Garza, the black haired Venezuelan beauty. What is your angle, sister?” Andy said, looking out his window. It took several minutes, but eventually Andy had snuck back in to the scene unnoticed, and had edged up behind the dashing Rance Broadback and his sexy escort. From this vantage point he could not only smell the sultry fragrance of the exotic young doctor, but listen to thoughts and anticipate the actions of the chiseled under cover agent.
Andy re-read the final page. “Well, the hero gets lucky with the Venezuelan knock-out and here I sit in an empty house with a six pack of Pepsi and a thirty year old Neil Diamond record. Is there no justice?” He smiled at his plight. He didn’t feel nearly as bad as he did earlier, at least things were going well for Rance Broadback. “That makes one of us,” he thought, but since, in a way, he was Rance Broadback, the sentiment held at least a little solace.