Big fish, p.4
Big Fish, page 4
Bucky felt better when he passed the third gate and moved into the shadows where the road passed over the dry concrete canal—was it the Los Angeles River or the Tujunga Wash? He glanced at his watch again. It had been only two minutes, and he was almost to the car now.
He could hear his footsteps as he approached the dark green Ford sedan. He slowed his pace, trying to control his
breathing in the tight vest. He strolled slowly up to it, and then past it a few steps. In his peripheral vision he could see the button was up on the right rear door. He stopped. Alt-meyer had said not to hover around the car or Kubitz would do something to draw him into the open. What kind of— He stopped himself. He was the one who was in trouble, and scared, and he didn't wonder about Altmeyer anymore. "Alt-meyer, God loves you," he thought. "Bucky loves you too. Don't lose track of poor old Bucky. Not now. Please, God."
A car's headlights appeared at the end of the street, and Bucky's breath caught in his throat. He walked a few paces unsteadily as the car glided past. He sighed and started to walk back in the direction of the studio again, but then he heard the car backing up behind him. He pretended he didn't hear it, just strolled back toward Altmeyer's Ford sedan. The car passed him, then jerked to a stop.
The side door opened, the dome light flashing on to reveal Kubitz, smiling. "Hey Bucky!" There were two other men in the car.
Bucky waved. "Hello."
"Come here," said Kubitz. "Get in."
Bucky could feel himself sweating, and it made him feel cold. "I don't want to. You come here."
He heard Kubitz and one of the other men laugh. He couldn't tell which one gave the high-pitched cackle, but it made him feel suddenly angry. He said, trying to make his voice sound even, "Just drop it on the ground and drive on. I've got things to do."
There was a pause while Bucky counted five, then the dome light flashed on again and Kubitz was standing in the street, holding a leather jacket crumpled into a bundle. The car coasted a few feet forward away from him, and its brake hghts glowed again.
"Okay, Bucky. Let's put this in the briefcase."
Bucky set the case down on the sidewalk and backed away from it. On his left he could feel the Ford sedan without looking at it, and he sidestepped toward it.
Kubitz walked to the briefcase, snatched it up with his free hand, and then dropped it. He pulled the jacket away, and Bucky saw the barrel of the pistol, and saw a flash, or maybe only decided he must have seen it, because he was on his back, the wind punched out of him. Some reflex made him gasp and try to sit up, but there was another flash and a spitting sound that kicked him back down.
He could see the sky, with the dark upper foliage of the eucalyptus trees on the right side, and what he thought of as he lay there as the usual number of stars. He found himself changing the position of his head to see them better. Moving made him think about the present. He could move, and he was breathing, and it didn't hurt much, and he heard the sound of feet. He rolled over on his side and squinted. There was his briefcase on the ground, and Kubitz was walking away. It puzzled Bucky that nothing else had happened in all this time. He reached up to the side of the car, swung open the door, and groped under the blanket on the floor. The shotgun felt light and familiar in his hands. He stood up.
The car was still in the street, and the side door was open. As he watched, he heard a sound like a buzz, and the rear window seemed to explode into a million chunks of sparkling glass. Then the sound of the rifle reached him, a muffled crack from somewhere far away. He remembered Altmeyer holding the long rifle, all blond wood with a telescopic sight the size of a man's forearm, and saying, "Don't worry. All she's got to do is hit the car. Rachel can hit a car, for Christ's sake."
Bucky leveled the shotgun on Kubitz, who was running toward the car. Just as he reached the open door, the car jolted forward a few feet. Bucky fired, the recoil slapping the muzzle into the air. He pumped it and leveled the barrel again and saw Kubitz was still standing. There was something happening to the car, though he couldn't see exactly what it was. As he aimed, Kubitz crouched and fired at something on the other side of the street. This time Bucky could see the sparks spitting out of the muzzle of Kubitz's pistol, but he didn't have time to watch it. From across the street something big and
horrible happened. There was a loud wooooow-ow sound, and a long thin flame like a blowtorch swept sideways; Kubitz seemed to jump backward into the air, and then the side windows of the car blew out in the same direction, as though a strong wind had passed through. Then he could see Altmeyer step out of the bushes holding something in his arms.
Bucky had his finger on the trigger and there was nothing where Kubitz had been, so he started to run toward the car. There were no heads visible, and the car had begun to drift. As he ran it picked up speed, and he knew he couldn't catch it. His chest hurt, and he could hardly breathe, but he ran, his chest straining against the tight bulletproof vest. Finally he stopped and shouldered the shotgun.
"Hold it," said Altmeyer's voice. "They're all dead."
Bucky aimed at the slow drifting car, but as he stared down the barrel at it, the car crashed into the rear end of a parked Mercedes. There was a bang Uke the sound of a hammer, and then a tinkling of glass, and the car stopped. Bucky lowered the shotgun. The only sound was the idling engine of the car.
"Come on, Old Buck Rogers," said Altmeyer. "We've only got a few minutes unless everybody around here is deaf."
"Let's go," said Bucky.
"No curiosity?" said Altmeyer. He was already opening the door of Kubitz's car. He leaned in and Bucky could see him flinging things around. There seemed to be a piece of cloth, and then some papers, and then Altmeyer returned. Bucky could see now he was carrying a short, stubby weapon with a long magazine jutting down from the pistol grip and a leather shng that dangled as he walked. In his other hand he was carrying a brown paper bag.
"Home again, Home again, Jiggity-Jig," Altmeyer said, opening the door of the old Ford sedan. "The main thing is, make sure you've got the safety on on that shotgun. Mister Bucks."
Bucky nodded and laid the shotgun on the floor of the backseat, then covered it with the blanket again. He climbed
in beside Altmeyer, and stared at the dashboard. When Alt-meyer turned on the headlights, he could see the spray of broken glass shining in the street, and the twisted body of Kubitz sprawled beyond it, the clothes and flesh all in tatters and a stream of blood that seemed to run from beneath it into a black pool by the curb.
Altmeyer prudently steered around the glass and turned left onto Valleyheart. "Well, Bucko, how does it feel to be alive?"
"I can't remember."
They drove on, Altmeyer turning again onto Laurel Canyon and making his way across Ventura Boulevard and up the winding road into the hills. He drove up Bucky's driveway and stopped next to the kitchen door.
Bucky turned to Altmeyer. "I forgot to thank you, didn't I?"
"Some other time."
"No. And I've got to give back this vest. Is tomorrow okay?"
"No hurry. I've got to talk to you in a day or so anyway. There wasn't any cocaine in the car that I could see, but this whole bag seems to be full of money. Looks like it was a lot more than you gave him."
Bucky shrugged. "I just want to remember right now to thank you. If I forget now, then later on it won't mean anything. He killed me." Bucky tried again. "I mean he shot me. He was planning to kill me. I'd be dead now."
Altmeyer said, "Don't mention it. Rachel will be home by now, and I don't want her to worry."
"Come on Bucky, open your shirt," said Rachel. "Let's get a look at that manly torso."
"All right, but no disparaging remarks. The embalmer I have works cheap, and I don't want him insulted." Slowly and carefully, Bucky unbuttoned his shirt.
Rachel stared at his chest. "You certainly do bruise nicely.
Just like a big peach." She gently touched one of the two dark purple blotches on the white skin, and he winced. "But isn't he a lucky boy, Altmeyer?"
Altmeyer glanced up from his newspaper. "Yes. I've always said he was a lucky boy." His eyes returned to the newspaper.
"In a few days I hope to feel lucky. Right now I feel like I've been trampled."
"Just bruises," said Altmeyer. "We were afraid you might have a broken rib or two, but there's nothing under those bruises to break. It's all guts."
"Thank you," said Bucky. He thought for a moment. "I guess I mean that."
"You'll be romping on the playground with the other moguls and mogulettes in no time," Rachel said. "And besides, we've got a nice rebirthday surprise for you." She poured him a cup of coffee.
Bucky eased himself onto a chair at the kitchen table and picked up his cup. "This will be fine, thank you. In the last couple of weeks I've had more surprises than I need."
"You don't have any choice," Rachel said. "Does he, Altmeyer?"
Altmeyer shook his head, folded the newspaper, and set it on the counter. "You originally gave Kubitz two hundred thousand. Last night he didn't have any cocaine to give you in return, but he did have a hell of a lot of money in the car. Do you know anything about him you forgot to tell us?"
Bucky tried to shrug, but gasped instead.
"I think that means no," said Rachel.
"Then I guess we have to assume he was either on his way to buy something or had just sold something."
"A shrewd business deduction," said Bucky. "He sure as hell wasn't giving refunds."
"We counted it last night, and it comes to exactly three hundred and fifty thousand, all in hundreds. A round number in identical bills always means wholesale," Rachel said, "not a lot of little sales."
"What are you going to do with it?"
"We talked about that," said Altmeyer. "We're going to split it up into two parts, capital expense and profit. The capital expense is your two hundred thousand. You get all of that back. That leaves a hundred and fifty thousand in profit. We have decided that part should be shared with us on an equitable basis."
"Keep it. Twenty-four hours ago I was dead. You don't have to give me any money at all."
"No. We agreed to get you your money back as a favor, so that part is settled," said Rachel. "I've got it all wrapped up for you in this bag." She held up a grocery bag. "The profit is business. Without really thinking about it we became partners, and now we're ready to liquidate the partnership and—"
"Don't put it that way," said Bucky.
"What she's saying is this. In any corporation there are shares. Each of us holds one share for going out there last night. You get an extra share for being the decoy, the one who had to get shot. That makes four shares. Each share is worth thirty-seven thousand five hundred. So you get seventy-five thousand, we get the same."
"And you're happy with that?" Bucky's eyes were wide.
"It doesn't matter," said Rachel. "It's fair. Altmeyer is always fair. Besides, it's all a bonus. All we thought we'd get is a chance to borrow appliances from you whenever ours break down. Now we have an appliance replacement fund."
"It's not fair." Bucky set his cup down and shook his head.
"Don't say that," Rachel said. "Altmeyer is the ultimate capitalist. If he thought it was fair to screw you out of your last cent he'd be just as happy with that. Oh, listen." There was the plaintive sound of the distant goats calling na-ah-ah. "Aren't they sweet? They're afraid I forgot about them. I'll be back in a minute."
Bucky turned to Altmeyer. "Listen, please. I don't want all this."
"Yes you do."
"Of course I do. I got into trouble in the first place for money. This is different." He waited, but Altmeyer said nothing. Bucky could hear the goats again, but now the cries were excited, and they seemed to be coming from right outside the window. He turned his head to listen. "Do they just run around loose?"
"Since we got the yard fenced. Sometimes they come looking for her."
Bucky stared at his cup. "You're both crazy." His head jerked toward Altmeyer. "I'm sorry I said that. I don't mean you're crazy, either of you. I just don't understand. I like you. I'm grateful to you. But I'm afraid of you—both of you." He seemed to lose his ability to speak. He stared at his coffee cup again, then rubbed his eyes. "People don't keep goats in Los Angeles. You're supposed to be a businessman, but you're some kind of criminal. I know that, and I don't care. I'm not surprised that I don't care. I wanted you to be one, because I knew if you couldn't help me I was dead. I want to give you as much of the money as I can because I'm afraid of being involved with you now that I know. I need money as much as I ever did in my life, and I'll probably do something stupid again to get it, but right now I'm scared. What the hell are you?" He shook his head. "No, please don't tell me."
Rachel walked in, leaving the kitchen door open. A black-and-white goat stepped to the threshold, stuck its face into the doorway, and sniffed, its upper lip quivering. "Go away, silly. You can't come in," said Rachel, but the goat stayed, staring at Bucky suspiciously.
Altmeyer leaned back in his chair. "Bucky," he said quietly, "you're going to take the money. If you need more, I've got an investment you might be interested in."
"I hope this doesn't mean I'm going to find out what you do for a living."
Rachel laughed. "Bucky, you already know. Altmeyer does importing and exporting. He really does, and it's too
boring to talk about. He just figures out what's hard to get or too expensive in one place, then buys it in another place and ships it to the first place."
"Look, I really do need some way of investing this cash. It's what you might call my life savings. But is this—"
"Don't worry, Bucky. Altmeyer has been running around for weeks clearing his inventory to put together capital for this. It's not some midnight meeting with drug dealers. It's just business. If you want to invest, we just make it a bigger transaction."
"And who is the other party?"
"Some nice Japanese businessmen. What could be better than that?"
VICTORIA
I
t
I
Altmeyer and Rachel walked along the gray limestone wall on the quay, under antiquated iron lamp posts hung with baskets of red and yellow nasturtiums. Below the raiUng, the green harbor water seemed to rise and fall tamely in its stone enclosure. Across the street were the sprawhng, ornate buildings of the British Columbia Provincial Parhament, all cut stone and spires and greenish domes, set far back in the center of a vast green lawn.
'1 like Victoria," said Rachel. "It's what people wanted the world to be like in the nineteenth century, only they couldn't change it all fast enough."
"That's probably why there are so many old people." Altmeyer lit another cigarette and stared ahead at the tall mansard roofs of the Empress Hotel. "Some of them probably checked in before the first world war."
Rachel stopped. "Okay, Mister Fun. Let's hear what I have to know. This isn't going to be as easy as we told Bucky, is it?"
Altmeyer exhaled some blue smoke from his cigarette and watched it float out over the water. "Nothing special. We can get something they want. If the price is right, we deal. Either way, we all go home. It's not dangerous at this stage."
"So why do we need these guns? My purse feels like it's got a bowling ball in it."
"They're samples."
"Come on. What am I supposed to expect? Who are these Japanese businessmen? What do I say?"
Altmeyer smiled. "Okay. HI tell you what I know. There will be four of them, and only one of them supposedly speaks English. He calls himself Nagata, but it's probably not his real name. He may not be the only one who speaks English. We'll know he's not if he ever leaves us alone with the others."
"That's enlightening. All I got out of that was that we can't talk to each other."
"More than that, I'm afraid," said Altmeyer. *There are various ways of dividing countries for business purposes. There are the ones where you only use your right hand in public, and others where you use both. The Japanese aren't interested in hands. There are countries where you can't burp, and others where you must. The Japanese are nonburpers."
"I see. You're working around to telling me they don't do business with women present."
"No, Japan has moved over to the other side. It's one of the countries where women work. The thing is, we've both got to be watchful all the way through this. See what you can figure out."
"What do you mean?"
Altmeyer smiled. "In a Noh play there is an eight-man chorus. You know how you can tell who the leader is?"
Rachel shook her head.
"He's the second one from the right in the back row."
They strolled into the cavernous hotel lobby, their heels clicking on the marble floor and echoing among the carved wooden beams far above them. They approached the registration area, a massive structure of dark, polished wood that must have incorporated whole trees planed and beveled and
laid in place with the same incomprehensible expenditure of labor that built Stonehenge.
A white-haired man with a long nose so thin it appeared to have no nostrils presided at the counter in an Edwardian morning coat.
"I'm Mr. Altmeyer, room four thirty."
"Yes, sir. Mr. Nagata asked that you meet him in the conservatory."
"Thank you," said Altmeyer, and they moved away from the counter.
"That's another one," Rachel whispered.
"Another what?"
"Another oddity for Altmeyer's Travels. He didn't have it written down."
Both sides of the long hallway were lined with small shops. There were jewelry stores, and display cases filled with Eskimo soapstone carvings, and finally a whole row of furriers. The windows were all festooned with urgent-looking signs in red or blue Japanese characters.
