Something for Nothing (22 page)

The waitress took their orders for lunch and more drinks (or Martin's order for another drink; Radkovitch was holding steady with his first bourbon, which irritated Martin). Radkovitch took a big breath, but Martin cut him off.

“Look, Anton,” he said. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have jumped on you.
I apologize. It's just that I—I guess I'm a little freaked out right now. I thought this was going to work out. Not that it was a sure thing, but . . . you know.”

“Martin,” Radkovitch said. He spread his hands out on the table, looking down and concentrating. Martin knew he was trying to pick his words carefully. “I think you should have been more up front with me—and with them—about the lien on your inventory—on the planes.”

Martin nodded. “Okay,” he said. “What did they say? What do you mean?”

“They were upset that you listed them as assets.” Radkovitch looked up, and made eye contact with Martin, raising his eyebrows. There was a hint of reprimand in the gesture, Martin realized.

“Well, aren't they?” Martin asked. “Or can't they be?”

“They aren't assets if they're already listed as collateral on another loan,” Radkovitch said. “You know that, don't you? You don't really even own them.”

Martin felt desperate. This wasn't the conversation he'd expected. He looked around the room and saw Ludwig, drink in hand. He was talking and joking with people Martin didn't know. A younger crowd, from the looks of it.

Martin looked back at Radkovitch. “Okay,” he said. “Fine.” He took a deep breath, and let it out, slowly. He wanted to get this conversation over with before Ludwig rejoined them. “So what are we talking about here? What's the bottom line? Are they giving us the money or not?”

Radkovitch shook his head, a series of tight, quick side-to-side movements. “No,” he said, and then pursed his lips. “Definitely not.” He picked up his glass but set it down without drinking from it. He rubbed his hand on the table, forward and backward a couple of times.

Martin sat there, feeling numb. As if he'd just been in a car accident. Not a bad one, but one in which you might be hurt, and you were sitting there, not sure yet if you were really injured—not sure what had just happened, in fact. One minute you're driving, the next minute—
wham
!
He took a deep breath, started to say something, then realized he didn't have anything to say.

“Oh,” he said.

“Listen,” Radkovitch said. “I know you're upset. But don't forget about the Buick dealership. That's still on the table. It's a good option, Martin. It's something we should consider.”

Radkovitch kept talking, but Martin started to tune him out. He thought for a second that he knew now how Al Pacino's character felt in that scene in
The Godfather,
the one where he's at the restaurant with the Italian mobster and the big Irish cop. They're trying to take over the family business, they've tried to kill his father, Marlon Brando, and now Al Pacino is going to kill them. Only they don't know it, and he's trying to work up the courage to do it. He's sitting there listening to the mobster, who's speaking Italian, and you can tell Pacino isn't really paying attention to what the guy's saying to him—because he's about to shoot him.

That was how he felt sitting there with Radkovitch. He liked the reference, because it allowed him to think for a second about standing up and shooting Radkovitch. He'd stand up like Al Pacino had, with his surprise pistol, and pop him right in the throat, or in the forehead.
Blam, blam.
Fuck you, you spoiled brat. Everyone in the restaurant would spin around at the noise, would see him standing there over Radkovitch as he lay bleeding on the floor. And then (just as Al Pacino had been instructed in the movie) Martin would drop the pistol, and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone . . . except maybe Ludwig, who'd probably give him a look that suggested he was both horrified and impressed. Then he'd head out the door into a new life. Maybe to Hawaii. How much would a ticket to Hawaii cost if he just walked into San Francisco International an hour from now and said “I need a one-way to Honolulu”?

Radkovitch's voice drifted back in. It was more shit about the Buick guys, about landing on his feet. Across the room Martin saw Ludwig again. But to his surprise, Martin saw that Ludwig was now standing
over there talking to Beaton. They were scanning the room now, and it was only a matter of seconds before they all made eye contact.

“Listen,” Martin said. “I'm not feeling so hot. I've gotta get out of here.”

He pushed his chair back and threw some money on the table. He didn't know how much, exactly, but it was more than enough to cover the tab.

“Okay,” Radkovitch said. He looked surprised, but also a little embarrassed, either at having been rude or because Martin was unraveling. It was the latter, Martin knew. Definitely.

Martin was about to stand up when he saw that Ludwig was suddenly standing at their table.

“Hey, guys,” he said. Beaton was with him. He was standing there next to Ludwig, staring down at Radkovitch with a frozen smile on his face. He looked a little drunk.

Shit, Martin thought. What the fuck was Ludwig thinking?

“Ron,” Martin said. He stood up quickly, put his hand out to Beaton. Beaton hesitated for a quick second, but then he reached out and took Martin's hand. They looked at each other, and Martin felt a sudden rush of relief. It was good to see Beaton again. And, though he wasn't certain, Martin felt as if Beaton was glad to see him as well.

“Hiya, Martin,” Beaton said. Then he glanced down again at Radkovitch, who was still sitting. It was obvious that Beaton knew who he was; either Ludwig had told him or it was just that easy to figure out.

“Oh, hey—yeah,” Martin said. He gestured toward Radkovitch. “Ron, this is Anton Radkovitch. Anton, this is Ron Beaton. Ron used to work for us—for Anderson Aircrafts.”

Radkovitch stood up quickly and put his hand out to shake hands with Beaton. “Sure,” he said. “Right. Nice to meet you.”

“That's right,” Ludwig said, putting his arm around Beaton and gesturing toward Radkovitch. “This is our new finance guru, Ron. He's a fucking wonder boy. He's gonna save the business. In fact, he's gonna save the whole fucking economy. He's gonna call his pal Kissinger, and they're gonna get together and fix things up. Isn't that right, Raddy?”

There was a pause as everyone looked over at Ludwig. He was smiling, but he looked drunk and pissed off. Martin knew he should intervene, but he felt frozen.

Radkovitch let out a little chuckle and then shook his head. “No, Ludwig,” he said. “You've got it all wrong. You don't want a Jew meddling with the economy. I mean, you know why money's green, don't you?”

There was a pause as everyone looked over to Radkovitch, and then back at Ludwig again. Ludwig shrugged. “I don't know, Raddy,” he said. “Tell me.”

“Because Jews pick it before it's ripe,” he said.

There was another pause, and Martin could hear the wheels turning—in his own head, and in everyone else's (except Radkovitch's, of course). And then he started to laugh, along with Beaton, and even Ludwig. And then Radkovitch laughed, too.

“Ha,” Martin said. “That's a good one, Anton.” He clapped Radkovitch on the shoulder. It was a good move—kind of ballsy, he thought. Take Ludwig's comment and throw it right back in his face.

Beaton smiled and patted Ludwig on the back. Then he grabbed a chair and sat down.

“Come on, Ludwig,” he said. “Sit down. Let's have a drink.”

M
ARTIN GOT HOME EARLY
. He was in a good mood—even took the kids out to the local A&W for root beer floats. He was glad to have made contact with Beaton again. He was a good guy. Maybe he should've fired Ludwig instead. Ludwig could be a real fuckhead, no doubt about it. Beaton was no prince, but he'd never pull the kind of stunt that Ludwig had at Spenger's. Imagine. He'd basically called the guy a Jew to his face.

He went to bed still feeling enthused, but he woke up a few hours later to the sound of Peter calling him.

Martin hopped out of bed, cursing quietly. Why tonight? Peter's nightmares had been less frequent than they had been a few years ago;
for a while he'd woken up almost every night. Martin, who was a much lighter sleeper than Linda, would get up, hustle into his room, and get into bed with him. It was a bad habit, but all he cared about was getting Peter back to sleep as quickly as possible. If he was awake for too long—anything more than a minute or two—he wouldn't go back to sleep for at least an hour. Maybe two, even.

Peter had had a dream about the story Martin had told them on the way home from the A&W. They'd been driving along with the windows rolled down and a pleasantly warm breeze moving through the car, when Peter had complained about the smell of road kill. It really did stink. But trying to be funny, Martin said it wasn't road kill that smelled so bad, but that the whole area was built on an ancient Indian burial ground. What Peter smelled were the corpses of those Indians as they were rising from the dead to enact revenge on modern society for its recklessness and bad behavior. Sarah had given him a roll of the eyes, and Peter had given him his standard, “Yeah, right, Dad.” But clearly it had gotten to Peter.

Martin climbed in next to him and within minutes, Peter fell back asleep. Martin fell asleep, too. And then it was his turn to have a nightmare. He dreamed that his own body was rotting, and because it was summer and hot, his skin was starting to liquefy, and he was giving off a horrible stench. The only thing that would combat the smell was an expensive cologne from the men's department in I. Magnin's, in Union Square. Linda drove him across the Bay Bridge with the air-conditioning cranked up as high as it would go in an effort to keep him from melting and smelling. The kids turned their faces away and held their noses.

He woke up in the morning to the dog licking his face. Surely it was Arrow's breath that brought on the dream. But as he lay there, still trying to wake up, Martin was convinced that he smelled rot. It was as if the scent of his dream body was trapped in his nostrils. He felt to see if his flesh was staying in place, or if it was starting to slide off the bed. He couldn't figure out why the dream wouldn't go away. Jesus, he thought. I've gotta get my shit together.

He thought about the conversation he'd had with Radkovitch when they were leaving Spenger's. Martin had stopped him as he was getting into his car. It was a green 1972 Alpha Romeo. A 1300
GT
. A nice car, Martin had thought more than a few times. And one that hit just the right note. It was stylish, even a little sporty, without seeming like he was trying too hard. It was a nice car.

“Listen, Raddy,” Martin had said. “The Buick thing. I'll think about it. But I've got a few things I might be able to fall back on. I think I can come up with something, if you give me a chance. If you can call the dogs off for a while.”

Radkovitch had looked at Martin for a second, then nodded, mouth set. It was his best earnest look, Martin knew. The problem was that, the more Martin saw it, the less certain he was whether it reflected real earnestness and interest or something feigned and maybe a little affected.

“Sure thing, Martin,” Radkovitch had said. “It was just an idea. I think it's a good one, but it's just a suggestion. Don't worry, though. We'll work this thing out, one way or the other.”

Martin stood there as Radkovitch got into his car and then rolled down the window.

“And besides,” Radkovitch said, raising his voice over the sound of his engine and smiling. “If nothing else works, I'll call Kissinger and we'll cut a deal with the Arabs, get the oil flowing.”

Martin laughed and waved as he drove off, but even as he'd hustled over to where Ludwig was waiting for him in his car, he'd known that no one was going to be calling Kissinger on his behalf. And even if that were to happen (and it wasn't), Kissinger wouldn't have known who he was, and wouldn't have cared.

“Martin who?” Kissinger would say. “Never heard of him. Is this really something we need to talk about?”

“Never mind,” Radkovitch would say. “Forget it. He's no one.”

A
bout a week later, Martin was in the office in Hayward when the phone rang. Ludwig answered, and then struggled trying to figure out which button to push to transfer it over to Martin's desk.

“Martin,” a familiar voice said when he picked up the phone. “Derek Hano. How're you doing?”

“I'm fine,” Martin said. “Pretty good.”

Martin's heart sped up a bit. He felt Ludwig's eyes on him, but he wanted to try to keep it cool—didn't want to turn away, cover the phone, and talk in a hushed voice, or anything like that. Ludwig knew Hano was a horse guy, and that Martin had flown down with him to Mexico to see some horses that Val knew about (or that was the story that Martin had told him). So probably Martin was worrying too much.

“What's up?” Martin asked.

“Well,” Hano said. “I'd like to say I'm just calling to say hello—you know, to check in on my buddy Martin.” He paused for a quick second, then laughed. “But actually this is a business call. I just talked to Val. And he asked me to get ahold of you. Looks like we're on for another trip down south.”

Martin leaned back in his chair. “Really?” he said. He said it a little too forcefully—with a little bit of alarm in his voice, even—and so Ludwig glanced up at him. This meant that Martin had to give a little wave and let Ludwig know that everything was all right. But he was surprised. Blindsided, was more like it. He shouldn't have been—he knew that. But somehow he'd allowed himself to think that he was all done with his work for Val, that he was now retired from his career as a drug smuggler.