Bannerman's Law (18 page)

The dumbest thing they said was that he only hurts
young women.

Oh, yeah?

Ask hi
s
father about that. Or his mother. Ask the door
man at The Grotto last year who grabbed him by the
collar, the way that man in the Honda did, when all he
wanted to do was go to Molly
Ringwald's
table and show
her a poem he wrote.

Ask that drunken bully from Arizona State who tried
to make him drink a beer glass full of urine and then
poured it on him when he wouldn't. Ask the girl who was
with him. The one who thought it was funny. The one
who called him
Toad.

Molly R
i
ngwald would have liked his poem. She would
have invited him to sit with her. And she would have told
that doorman what she thought of him. He would have
apologized. He would have said I'm sorry, Mr. Dommer
ich. I didn't know that you and Miss Ringwald were
friends. If he had, maybe he would still have hands.

Ahead, the Honda had stopped. The man was pounding
his wheel again. He had lost Lisa's sister.

Yes, thought Dommerich, that's what he would do.
Stay with him. See where he goes, see where he lives.
That man, when he grabbed him, slapped him, had never
even looked at him. He was invisible then, he was invisible now.

Maybe Su
m
ner Dommerich would bring him a pizza.

₁₆

At Mario's, a restaurant and bar facing the Westpo
r
t commuter station, Susan Lesko toyed with a bread stick as she
waited for Paul Ba
nn
e
rm
an. It did not seem that this would
be the uneventful lunch she'd intended.

Her first indication of that had been the phone call from
her father. The second was the arrival of several members
of the council, which managed, loosely, the lives of the
thirty or more men and women from Europe who lived
there now. Even Susan was not sure of their exact number,
or of the true names of several. Some, Paul told her, had
prices on their heads, others were simply out of work.
Some would move on, some would stay. The council
would decide
.

The larges
t
influx had come during the past twelve
months, since the events at Ma
r
bella. Word had spread
that Paul was still alive and was coming to Spain. Dozens, from all over Europe, had converged there. Some
to back him up, to repay old debts, to see old friends,
some just to enjoy the show.

Quite a few followed when he retu
rn
ed to Westpo
r
t
where Anton Zivic, Billy
M
c
H
ugh, Ca
rl
a, Molly, John
Waldo, and six or seven others had long since settled.
They too had been presumed dead for the three years be
fore Ma
r
bella.

She was used to them now, she supposed. She liked most of them. Even Carla, lately. Several had become
friends. Still, sometimes, she would wake up in the night
half-believing that it all must be a dream. Susan Lesko,
the daughter of a Polish Catholic cop from Queens, hang
ing out with mercenaries, bombers, arsonists, killers. All
led by the man who loved her.

Sometimes, like now, she would look at the people
sitting at the other tables
—l
ocals, tow
ni
e
s—w
ondering
what they would think if they knew. They were certainly
better off for it, so far, because they were definitely safer.
Criminals, burglars, drug dealers simply did not last long
in Westport. And if they did know, if she told them, they
would never believe it anyway. Paul’s people looked just
like them.

Anton Zivic had entered Mario
'
s alone. A dapper little
man, cultivated, Italian suits, silver hair worn long, an
utter charmer, although he told jokes badly. He very much
looked the part of a high-priced art dealer, which he was, and not at all the part of a colonel in the Soviet Military Intelligence, which he h
a
d been. Zivic waved to her, one
finger aloft, indicating that he would join her presently.
He blew an affectionate kiss, then turned and huddled with
Billy McHugh who stood behind the bar polishing glasses
and with Joh
n
Waldo who sat on a stool munching one
of Uncle Billy's bacon cheeseburgers.

She watched the rolling motion of Billy's shoulders as
he polished. He still seemed to be favoring the right one
although he insisted that it was fine, no lasting damage
where her father h
a
d shot him that day in Spain. Shot
through him, actually, killing that maniac Tucker.

“
Listen. You got to stop
,”
he had said to her the last
time she asked about his shoulder.
“
I'm running out of
ways to tell you your father did okay
.”

”I was asking about you
.”

“
No, you weren't. You're not asking if I still hurt.
You're asking if what he
did
still hurts. You can
'
t do
that here
.”

It had taken her a while
but
she understood what he
meant. No looking back. No regrets. Paul had said much the same thing. Regrets make you think too much. They
can paralyze you. If her father had hesitated, Billy would
have been dead. Nor did Paul mention, ever again, that her father had first shot him as well.

“
If it makes you feel better
,”
Billy had told her,
“
this summer I'm going to play tennis
.”
He made, with the bad
right arm, what he took to be a serving motion. It was
more of a clubbing motion.

Susan could only blink. The picture of this great bear
of a man thumpin
g
around a tennis court in shorts
.
.
.

“
Molly said she'd teach me. She's real good
.”

”I know
.”
Former NCAA finalist.
R
adcl
i
ffe. Susan had
played with her. Billy was saying that if Molly thought
he could play tennis with that arm, everyone else should
shut up about it.

“
Anyway
,”
he said, ”I don't pester you about how
you hardly eat anything
.”

“
Yes, you do. All the time
.”

“
Don't argue. Go sit
.”

He sen
t
her a bacon cheeseburger.

Paul's car pulled up outside, and backed into a space.
Someone walking by spoke to him. It was the woman who
ran the bookstore up the street. He smiled at her, making
small talk.

That shy smile. Soft voice. Gentle eyes. Even now,
after almost a year and a half, she still found herself star
ing at him, trying to reconcile that face, that gentleness,
with all that he'd done in his life. Looking at him, it was
hard to imagine how anyone, anywhere, could be afraid
of him. Living with him, knowing him, it was even harder.

Anton Zivic started toward her table but he saw Paul
approaching the door and waited for him. They spoke for a
few moments near the cigarette machine. She saw Anton
close his eyes and shake his head, a weary grimace on his
face. It was the sort of look parents have when told that their child has wrecked the family car. They approached
the table, Zivic leaning to kiss her cheek. Paul squeezing
her shoulder as he stepped around her.

“
Did your father get you
?”
he asked, sitting.

“
Ten minutes ago
,”
she nodded.
“
He says if you take
me to California you're dog meat. But he also says he and
Elena might come. When
's
the service, by the way
?”

“
Molly will call when she knows. But I think Billy and I had better fly out tonight. Ca
rl
a is
.
.
.
u
m
, being Ca
rl
a
.”

“
She's trying to find the killer by herself
?”

“
Nothing like that. I'll tell you later
.”
He turned to
Zivic
.
“
I've just put in a call to Leo Belk
in
. Did you know
he was in the country
?”

Zivic shook his head. His eyes asked a question.

“
Lesko told me
,”
Bannerman answered.
“
He and Yuri
Rykov are in Los Angeles with a Mosfilm delegation. I
spoke to Rykov. He said they'd look in on Carla today
.”

“
Our
Leo Belkin
?”
Susan wasn't sure she'd heard,
especially because Anton Zivi
c's
face showed no surprise.
“
What's the KGB doing with movie people
?”

“
Recruiting, I imagine
,”
he said distractedly.

Susan made a face. Paul will have his little joke. And
yet she sa
w
no light of mischief in his eyes.
“
You're
kidding, right
?”
she said to him.

Bannerman shrugged.
“
It's what he does, Susan. That's
his job
.”

She closed one eye, still unsure of all this.
'
‘
Recruiting
spies? What's to spy on in Hollywood
?”

Paul's expressio
n
told her that he had little interest in
this subject except to the extent that Colonel Belkin or his
aide, Yuri, could do him a favor. He answered nonetheless.

“
I'm guessing
,”
he said,
“
but film technology is pretty
sophisticated. Some of it has strategic applications. He'll
get someone to sell him whatever he
's
after
.”

“
But how can you
.
.
.”
She stopped herself. She was
about to ask how he could know that and do nothing about
it. She knew what he'd say:
“
What is it you'd like me to
do, Susan? Ask him to stop
?”

They'd had such conversations before. He is one man,
he would say. He cannot change the world. All he can do
is protect his small piece of it. Fortress Westpo
r
t. In any
case, he is retired.

One recent talk had to do with the Cold War being
over. No more Cold War, she had said, should mean no
more spies, no more contract agents. Maybe he and his people will finally be left alone. He smiled, politely, and
said,
“
Perhaps
,”
but she could see that he did not believe it. She pressed him.

He explained, somewhat reluctantly, that the Cold War
is not over. It has simply been redefined. The need to
know the intentions of a potential enemy is as great as
ever, especially one whose government may prove to be
politically unstable. The need to
“
interdict
”
any force or faction seeking to destabilize an otherwise cooperative
government is all the more critical. People will still be blackmailed, kidnapped, or killed. Espionage, if anything,
will increase, particularly against Western industry because
the need for economic intelligence
.
.
.
technology
...
is
as vital to the restructuring of the Soviet economy as it
was to that of Germany and Japan. Furthermore, because Russia
is now seen in a somewhat more sympa
thetic light, their agents will have a much easier time re
cruiting American citizens as spies. What's the harm, the
recruit would ask? Why not sell them something, make a
few bucks at it, before Congress gives it to them for
nothing?

What Paul said, she supposed, made a twisted kind of
sense. But it was all so terribly cynical. So wearying. “Not
cynical
,”
he would say, in that gentle way of his.
“
Realis
tic
.
But yes, it is wearying
.”

“
Susan
?”

Her mind had wandered.

Paul was discussing who should go to Los Angeles and
when. And he was telling them both that Lis
a
Benedict
had almost certainly been murdered by someone other than
California's latest serial killer. He told them what her fa
ther had said. The
killer
could be anyone but he was more likely than not to have been an acquaintance, possibly a former boyfriend.

He had no expectation of finding the killer but they
owed it to Ca
rl
a to at least try to narrow the field. His
first priority, however, was to keep Carla from drawing
any further attention to herself, and, therefore, to the rest
of them. If they should develop any leads, they will turn
them over to the police, bury Lisa, and get out of there.
He would not mind having her father there. He has a
...
talent
...
for this sort of thing and, if nothing else, he
would be useful as a buffer against the authorities. As for Susan, she can come out for the service but, until then, although he anticipates no personal danger for anyone in
volved, he would prefer not to put her at risk.

“
I'm co
m
ing
,”
she said.
“
I'm coming with you
.”

He raised his hands. She ignored the gesture.

“
I'm not just a mascot around here, Banne
r
man
,”
she
said quietly. ”I was a reporter, remember? I know how
to track leads
.”

“
That was in New York. You've never been to Los
Angeles. You wouldn't even know your way around
.”

She ignored that nonsense as well. They sell maps of
Los Angeles. As for the question of possible danger,
Paul's eyes said that he was telling the truth. He had no
reason to expect any. And yet he was traveling with Billy.
And if John Waldo was here, Waldo was probably being
sent ahead separately. John had also gon
e
to Spain sepa
rately. His job, she'd since learned, was to procure weap
ons, spare cars, and to prepare alternate evacuation routes. Paul had also asked Leo
Belkin's
help. Colonel Belk
i
n, if
nothing else, could be counted on to provide sanctuary, a safe house if needed, possibly within the Soviet consulate
as he had i
n
Lisbon. Even for Paul, who liked to be thorough, to hedge his bets, it seemed a lot of tro
u
ble
to go to.

“
What troubles yo
u
so much
?”
Anton Zivic asked the
question before she could.
“
About this murder, I mean
.”

”
I don't know
,”
he answered, rubbing his chin.

“
Do you have
...
an intuition of some sort
?”

He shook his head.
“
Not even that. When a thing like
this touches us
,”
he said,
“
I'm probably just hesitant to assume that it's entirely unrelated to us. And yet I'm sure
that it is
.”

“But
it bothers you nonetheless. This is your reason for wanting Lesko there
?”

A small shrug. He didn't answer. But Susan under
stood. She had heard the reference to her father's
talent.
Although he was reluctant to say it, for fear of seeming
foolish, Paul wanted not only her father but he wanted
David Katz. More rationally, he wanted that pa
rt
of her
father
's
mind that seemed to hear and feel things that were
just out of reach for most other people. Anton Zivic
seemed to know this as well.