Big fish, p.3
Big Fish, page 3
"You could be right. Press on, old Buccaneer. And cheer up."
"Buck up," she corrected.
"It's not a cheerful story. When you deal with people who sell Russian caviar and French truffles you just think you're dealing with criminals. When you buy cocaine you are dealing
with criminals. I made a deal to buy some—actually, a lot— from a man named Kubitz."
"A lot, Buckskin?"
Bucky said the words slowly, as though he were surprised to hear them himself. "Two hundred thousand dollars. A half pound."
"You really do think big, Buckingham."
"Hell, you're a businessman. If you don't buy in quantity you'll get screwed on the mark-up by the middlemen."
"How did you get screwed?"
"The stuff was supposed to be available two weeks ago. I was supposed to meet Kubitz in a car in a parking garage at the Beverly Center—I give him the money, he gives me the coke, we shake hands, et cetera. But it doesn't arrive. Kubitz comes into my office that day, and says there's a problem. The problem is that the people who brought it from Colombia had to be paid in cash when they got to Miami. Then the people who were supposed to bring it here decided to close Kubitz's line of credit. If he wants it, he's got to pay for all of it on the spot. The deal is just too big. They're out so much money already that they're holding on to it until they see the cash. It's a real pain in the ass, he says, because now he has to scurry around to all his customers and collect something like five million dollars. But—"
"He'll give you a big discount if you'll pay in advance."
Bucky closed his eyes and nodded. "And the worst thing was that it was believable. I mean, this guy Kubitz is—he's hard to describe, but criminal doesn't cover it. He's something out of a nightmare. I remember sitting there thinking it had to be true, because this guy is, well, somebody you wouldn't give a whole bunch of cocaine to unless you already had the money in the bank."
"Great logic, Buckminster. When did you find out the shipment was hijacked by creatures from Venus?"
Rachel said, "Altmeyer, you could be more sympathetic with old Buckeye."
Bucky sat up and waved his hand at her as though his chair were about to move him off into the distance. "I deserve it. No excuses. Anyway, I hear nothing at all from Kubitz for about a week. I'm starting to get a little suspicious, so I start calling him. First he's out of town, then he's in town but they don't know when he'll be in. Finally he answers the phone, but he's not eager to talk money, and keeps acting like his phone is tapped. He won't even set up a meeting. He says he's too busy, that he'll get in touch with me. He says it like he's talking in code because he's got seventeen FBI agents in the room with him."
"Of course," said Altmeyer. "Go on."
"Well, you can imagine what Vm thinking by now. If he really is that worried, maybe he should be and so I should stay the hell away from him. But that's just what he'd want me to think if he were trying to rob me. Either way, what am I going to do about it? This guy goes around all the time with two bodyguards that are indescribable—they'd get turned away at a tattoo parlor. They both carry guns, and Kubitz does too, in shoulder holsters, hke cops."
"It doesn't sound promising, does it?" said Rachel. "I take it you decided to write it off. So why do you want all the guns, old Buckshot?"
"What could I do but write it off? I spent the next few days in mourning. In a way, I sort of got over it, like you get over losing a leg. On a chilly night you can still feel your toes get cold until you remember you don't have any, and that's a real consolation."
"Why the contemplated violence. Bucking Bronco?" Altmeyer strolled over to Rachel's chair and took one of her drinks.
"Because last night Kubitz called me here. He said that now everything's set and he's ready to deliver the cocaine. He wants me to meet him tomorrow night. I put it off."
"Why? Maybe he just doesn't want to get kicked out of the Chamber of Commerce."
"I think he's planning to kill me. He doesn't want to meet
at the Beverly Center this time. He wants me to go eat at Du-Par's on Ventura and then walk down Radford to the big parking lot beyond CBS carrying a briefcase."
"Maybe they'll pick up the series if the pilot sells."
"The way I had it figured is, I show up and pull out one of those nasty-looking Uttle machine guns. I wouldn't have to do anything. It would scare the shit out of him."
"That's probably true." Rachel looked at Altmeyer. "Do you think it would be a good idea to frighten a man like Mr. Kubitz?"
Altmeyer walked to the bookcase. "Not if he's got time to blow your head off." He looked at his new drink. "This one's a little better. Arthur is learning." He walked back to the door. "What do you think about Bucky? Is he learning?"
Rachel gave Bucky a sympathetic look. "I don't think so, poor thing. It sounds like he made some of that up."
"Whole cloth, Buckram?"
"That would be childish. Buckwheat," Rachel said. "How can we help you if you don't trust us? You weren't just buying, were you?" She reached out and placed a hand on his shoulder.
Bucky slumped forward, his elbows on his knees. "I'm sorry. I can't help it. It's all true but that part. I was going to try to turn a profit on some of the cocaine. But that doesn't change anything. Kubitz wants to meet me alone in a dark place, and he owes me enough to make it worth killing me about fifty times over at current rates. I need some kind of edge."
Altmeyer turned to Rachel. "What do you think now?"
Rachel smiled. "I think that's all of it, or enough of it, anyway. Please, Altmeyer. I know what you're thinking, but let's do it. He's our friend, and look at him. All alone, so sad and frightened he can't even keep his hes straight. And what if they did kill him? Wouldn't you be ashamed?"
Altmeyer set his glass on the desk. "Step over to our house tomorrow at ten, Buck-and-Wing."
BucKY Carmichael walked cautiously, facing oncoming traffic and trying to stay as close as he could to the mortared flagstone retaining wall that kept the hillside from shifting to bury the road. He heard a whine from somewhere around the bend and higher up the canyon as somebody down-shifted into one of the curves. He stopped and leaned against the jagged surface of the wall to peer up the next stretch of road. It was empty at the moment, so he ventured around the bend, now brushing his left calf against the weeds and dwarf foliage at the edge of the pavement as though he were navigating by touch. The engine sound sharpened and the black Porsche's trajectory swung it into view in an arc that seemed certain to pass through a point occupied by Bucky's right kneecap. He turned sideways, and the Porsche flashed by him along the canyon, accelerating again to hold to the inside of the curve.
He passed the crumbling concrete steps that led up through the weeds on the embankment to terminate abruptly at the trunk of a scrub oak tree. People had told him that this had once been Houdini's house, long ago burned down in one of the canyon fires. Either they were right or they weren't, but Bucky always told people he knew it was true because he'd seen the records.
A few yards beyond stood the brick pedestal with the statue of a swan perched on top that marked Altmeyer's driveway. He started the climb up the steep, winding path, pausing at times to keep the chirping of the invisible birds louder than the sound of his heart, then moving on. At last he reached a level stretch and caught his breath as he followed it through the trees to the beginning of the lawn.
He started across the grass toward the front door when he heard Rachel's voice call, "Hello, Bucky. Right on time, almost." He turned to see Rachel kneeling beside a circular pool in blue jeans and a sweat shirt, her hair tied in a tight ponytail behind her head. Beyond her was Altmeyer sitting in a lawn chair at a metal table, drinking coffee out of a mug.
"Sorry. I forgot how far it is from the swan down there to the house."
*'Goose," said Rachel.
"Goose?"
She nodded, looking down into the shallow pond, where several large speckled fish glided slowly in and out of Uttle forests of plants.
"Sit down, old Buckboard," said Altmeyer. "If you get a stroke and fall into Rachel's new pond, the carp will gum you to death and she won't save you."
"A nasty way to go," Bucky said, and sat beside him at the table. He stared over his shoulder at the fish. "The koi must have set you back a bit. Arthur's got one that's supposed to be over a hundred, and it cost him ten thousand."
"I got a deal on the fish from a guy I do business with," Altmeyer said. "We dug the hole ourselves."
Rachel stood up. "All right, time to get to work, you two. ril catch up with you after I've taken care of the goats."
"Goats?" said Bucky.
Altmeyer nodded. "Ideal goat country up here."
"What do you do with them?"
"I'm teaching them computer programming. Come on, let's head for the house. I'm out of coffee, and you didn't get any."
Bucky followed him across the dichondra in silence. As they skirted the swimming pool he said, "What do they—what does she feed them?"
"Goat food."
They went in the side entrance and into a large, white kitchen, where Bucky sat at the butcherblock table while Altmeyer released coffee and steamed milk from a brass espresso machine into a mug for him.
Bucky sipped his coffee and tried to formulate the question that would make Altmeyer explain the goats. Somewhere outside he could hear nasal voices making a sound like na-ah-ah as Rachel showed up to do whatever she did with them.
Altmeyer returned to the table and set a telephone in front of Bucky. "Call Kubitz and tell him tonight is okay after all. Make sure the place hasn't changed. You're going to be
out all day where he can't reach you, so you've got to know now."
Bucky said, "But what's the plan?" "That depends on what he says. Call him." Bucky dialed the number and heard a voice that could only be Kubitz. It was deep and flat, with no inflection or accent. "Yes."
"This is Bucky. I'm calling because I got an appointment cancelled. Is tonight still free?" "Sure. Same place. Eleven."
"I'll be there." Bucky hung up, but he could hear the receiver go dead before his hand reached the telephone cradle. He could feel his heart beating again, and he noticed he'd been breathing hard through his mouth. He felt it all clearly: this was wrong. He'd let it happen too quickly. Maybe if he'd left Kubitz alone for a few weeks he'd have just taken the money and gone away. Maybe the moment wasn't really gone, and he could call Kubitz back and tell him he'd changed his mmd. But every second he thought about it, the farther the distance to go back.
"Very good," said Altmeyer. "You can stop worrying." He cocked his head, listening. "Rachel's goats are fed."
Bucky stared at him and felt the panic take the form of a pounding in the center of his forehead. He studied Altmeyer's thin, tanned face with its strange almond eyes, empty of any feeling Bucky could identify, except some kind of watchfulness. Suddenly Altmeyer seemed to be the problem. Who the hell was he, after all? He said he was an importer, and what did that mean? All the questions that Bucky had never asked himself seemed to matter now. You couldn't even tell how old he was, or if he and Rachel were married, or where they came from or—
"Okay," said Altmeyer. "I guess we'd better get downstairs. Bring your coffee."
Bucky felt something that could have been nausea. As
he followed Altmeyer out of the kitchen, he detected a horror at leaving the telephone behind. If he couldn't call Kubitz again now, that still didn't mean he had to show up tonight.
Altmeyer opened a door and started walking down a stairway to the basement. Bucky accompUshed a few steps behind him, then stopped, his legs feeling weak. Altmeyer was already at the bottom. He called, "Come on, Bucky. Rachel will be with us in a minute."
The panic seemed to take on an urgency. "Wait," Bucky heard himself say. "I'm scared."
Altmeyer returned to the foot of the stairway and stared up at him, his strange, empty eyes alert and unblinking. "Of course you are. You're an intelligent man. Come on." He disappeared into the dim space below.
Bucky stood gripping the railing hard. Then he noticed that his other hand was holding the coffee cup steadily, without spilling it. He looked at it for a second, took a sip, then walked down the stairs to the cool, damp basement.
Altmeyer was waiting for him a few feet away, leaning on a high wooden table that blocked the entrance to a narrow corridor. On the table were several sets of earphones that weren't connected to anything.
Bucky said, "What's this?"
"It's a firing range."
Bucky's coffee cup began to shake slightly. "Why do you have goats?"
"Rachel likes them. They're clean and affectionate and pretty." Altmeyer's voice was quiet, and the watchful eyes seemed tired.
For no reason he could understand, Bucky said, "Okay, what now?" He heard Rachel coming down the stairs, her footsteps lighter on the boards than his or Altmeyer's.
"How are we doing. Buck Private?" she called.
"Fine," Bucky lied.
Altmeyer said, "We have to get you set for your part of this. The strategy you figured out wasn't bad, but it was a little ambitious for you, and it had a couple of flaws."
Rachel walked up behind them and said cheerfully, "It would have gotten you killed."
Altmeyer reached over the counter and pulled up a short, heavy shotgun, then pumped it five times rapidly. "This is a httle more realistic. It's a Remington Eleven Hundred, just like the police use. It's rehable, quick, and simple. Have you ever fired a shotgun?"
"Once," Bucky answered cautiously, "but it looked different."
"Fine. You never forget. Did you hit anything?"
"I wasn't too good at it."
"No problem. That's why we're here: to give you a Httle practice. The main thing is not to imagine you can bang away and the pattern will take care of your lousy aim. It won't. But a shotgun has advantages."
"What?"
"If Kubitz is a pro, this will scare him as much as anything that isn't dropped from an airplane. In the unlikely event that you have to use it, you may be able to hit something. The load will be double zero buckshot, so there won't be any question of repairs at the emergency room. That's twelve steel pellets, each the size of a .38 bullet. At twenty feet they'll blow a five-inch hole in him. Take it."
Bucky accepted the shotgun. It felt heavy and alien and cold.
Altmeyer handed Rachel a set of earphones and said to Bucky, "Now you're going to fire it. Keep it pressed hard against your shoulder to cushion the recoil. The barrel is sawed off, so use the ramp sight on the muzzle or your shots will go high of the target. We've got hours and hours. I want you to get comfortable with it."
Bucky frowned. "I can't walk down Radford carrying this. I can't do this."
Altmeyer said, "Last night we parked a car on Radford. Inside is one of these, all loaded and lying on the backseat under a dirty blanket. We've got all day to talk about the rest of it."
38
I
"I can't do this," Bucky repeated.
Rachel put her arm on his shoulder. "Altmeyer and I talked about it, and there's no way out. The chances are about ten to one that Kubitz will come through with the delivery and nothing will happen. Anyway, if he really is trying to kill you, he won't succeed. We'll be there." She smiled.
Altmeyer took the shotgun and pushed five shells into the slot at the side. "Just press the safety, pump it, and fire. If you're going to make any mistakes, make them now."
Bucky w^aited, peering down into the lighted glass case at the cherry cheesecake that^at in vulnerable perfection surrounded by a cordon of chocolate-covered doughnuts. He heard the cash register buzz and stutter, so he moved along the case past a regiment of brownies and let the lady's pastry-white fingers flick the bill away. When the hand swooped out a second time to take his money, he felt an impulse to touch it.
You could stay in here forever, Bucky thought, watching the daily changing of the pies and cakes. You could just keep eating and letting the plump, comfortable ladies float past and fill your coffee cup. All you had to do was give them a little money now and then. All you had to do to keep them happy was keep eating.
He took a deep breath and felt the constriction again. Altmeyer's bulletproof vest was too small. It was thin and light, but he felt as though someone had wrapped a rope around and around him so he could hardly breathe.
Bucky walked down Ventura Boulevard toward the crossing. What kind of man had a bulletproof vest he could lend you? He glanced at his watch as he reached the crosswalk. It was four minutes to eleven. Kubitz was probably watching him already from a car in the plaza, or maybe down the block.
The fight changed and the cars drifted to the right edge of the crosswalk, creeping a few inches over the line to remind him that they were stopped by the color of the light and hadn't even seen him.
As Bucky stepped up onto the curb he heard the engines race again behind him. The first few yards took him past the milk-white facade of an office building, and for a second he saw his own shadow projected and swept across it by the headlights of a turning car. Then there was a stretch of spiked iron fence, and behind it a couple of long, low buildings at the edge of the CBS property. There were lights in two of the windows, and he decided to believe that somebody was doing some late-night editing, or the music copyists were finishing a score. He didn't want them to be night watchmen in uniforms.
He stared down the street as he walked, trying to see if any of the parked cars looked different from the others. When he looked at the horizon, he became aware that his body was swaying in short little steps, like a man walking on the deck of a ship.
He imagined someone, maybe a police captain, but anyway someone in authority, saying, "He was staggering down Radford carrying an empty briefcase," and then, "He was wearing a bulletproof vest."
He passed the lighted cubicle where a parking guard sat facing the other way, and then the long, white concrete side of the office building, and then the entrances to three sound stages. When he'd thought about this it had been different, all dark alleys and bushes where somebody would be hiding. It seemed strange that he'd forgotten what it really looked like— he'd been here a hundred times, but it hadn't been this way. It was like walking the cleared ground at the perimeter of a high walled fort. There was probably some old-fashioned name for it, from the days before no man's land.
