Something for Nothing (3 page)

He'd found himself thinking about her more and more the past few months—ever since that last party, in fact. Or a specific two-minute slice of the party, that is. He'd asked to use the bathroom, and Miriam had walked him into the living room and pointed down the hall. When he came back out she was gone (it had taken him a little extra time—he'd been worried about the splashing sound his urine would make, and that had frozen him up, made him have to take a deep breath and relax). And so when he emerged from the bathroom, he was suddenly gripped with the sensation of being alone in Miriam Weaver's house. Or if not alone, then unobserved.

So he'd lingered. The party was going on outside, but from the hallway the voices and bursts of laughter (forced Walnut Station laughter, Martin thought) were muffled. There were some photos along the hallway, and he'd paused to glance at them. They were mostly of the kids, who were nice enough, actually (which was a triumph, given what
a dickhead their dad was). These were all in color. Shots of them out hunting at their duck club, getting their first Communions at church, stuff like that. There were also some older, black-and-white photos, mostly of Miriam and Hal when they were younger, maybe when they were first married, or before that, even. There weren't any kids in the pictures, anyway. Martin had to admit that Hal looked kind of handsome; he was certainly thinner, and he had more hair. And of course Miriam looked really incredible. She was one of those people who looked right at the camera. Jesus, she really was good-looking. Could someone please explain how Hal Weaver had managed to land someone like this?

Looking at the pictures in the hallway had made Martin think about Miriam Weaver and her private world. What she sounded like when she talked to a close friend on the phone, or maybe the letters she'd written but never sent. Or what she thought about when no one was around and the house was quiet for a change—her fantasies, her fears, her secrets. Down the hallway was the master bedroom; he could see the edge of their bed, and a bunch of ties on a clothing rack. And a couple of pairs of Hal's shoes on the floor next to the rack. That was about it, though. And there wasn't any time to peek in and see the rest of the room—it was time to get back out onto the patio (he didn't want Miriam thinking he'd used the bathroom to take a dump, after all).

But his brief foray to the bathroom had made him curious. He wanted a chance to wander around, feel the atmosphere, and touch the things that made it her house. He hadn't asked himself why this was the case, and he didn't intend to—not if he could avoid it. He just knew it was something he had a surprisingly strong urge to do. Ever since then, he'd thought about it off and on—thought about Miriam, her house, how he could get back in there. He thought about stopping by when he knew no one was around except Miriam, say hello, just checking in. But he knew he didn't have the guts for that. And it wasn't what he wanted, not really. No, he just wanted to walk around in there when no one else was around. Okay, it was a little strange. But it had
become a daydream place to which he'd sneak off, even while he was sitting talking to Linda and the kids at dinner, or when he was calling the banks and telling them payment was on the way (which it wasn't). He'd be talking, engaged and animated, but really he was imagining being in Miriam's house.

Martin flicked on the radio and willed himself not to think about Miriam Weaver. Within fifteen minutes he was driving through the Caldecott Tunnel, watching the lights flicker past. The kids always tried to hold their breath the whole way through. It was about a mile long, and even without traffic it took a minute or maybe a little more to get through it. Peter still hadn't managed it (the kid definitely needed to get some exercise).

He braked for a traffic backup, and turned off the radio (there wasn't any reception, only static). A middle-aged woman next to him in a white Mustang was fixing her hair in her rearview mirror. It looked like a wig. She probably had five or six of them in her bathroom at home, he thought, all lined up on Styrofoam heads and waiting—hoping—that they'd be chosen. “Let's see,” she'd say. “I'm going to wear you to work, because my boss likes this look, and you later on tonight, for cocktails.”

Martin could envision this because he himself had a toupee (that was what he called it, though Linda liked to tease him and call it a wig). In fact, he had his own line-up of three of those Styrofoam heads in his bedroom. They were on his bureau, each one crowned by a toupee with a slightly different style: shaggy, wavy, and clean-cut.

Shit, he thought. Was there an accident up ahead? He had a lot to deal with at work. A lot to worry about, that is. Radkovitch had stopped by the office on Thursday, which had surprised Martin. He was supposed to be out all week, pounding the pavement, working on loan possibilities. He hadn't met yet with the guys from the Wells Fargo loan office (one of them was a contact from Merrill, apparently), but he wanted to talk about a backup plan.

“A backup plan?” Martin had asked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I thought the Wells Fargo guy was your pal.”

“I know, I know,” Radkovitch said to him. “He is. But just listen.” Martin heard the irritation in Radkovitch's voice, and it occurred to him that Radkovitch was getting a little tired of him. He'd been surprised by this realization.

“Fine,” Martin said. “Fire away . . . I'm all ears.”

Radkovitch nodded, and Martin was struck yet again by his looks. Lots of thick, dark, wavy hair, green eyes. And of course he was really built. Tall and lean. He looked like an athlete, is what it was, right down to the nice tan, and the telltale band of white skin that showed where he put a sweat band on his right wrist when he played tennis.

“Well,” Radkovitch said. “I've been talking to the people who own the Buick dealership in Oakland. You know, the big place on Shattuck, near Fortieth Street?”

“Yeah,” Martin said, looking out the big front window at Michael Ludwig as he washed down a plane. “Go on.”

“Okay,” Radkovitch said. “Well, the thing is, I heard through some contacts that they've been looking for a way to diversify. And I think Anderson Aircrafts is exactly the sort of business they'd be interested in right now. In fact, they are interested, Martin. I talked to them last week. It went well, all things considered.”

It was a way to land on his feet, Radkovitch had explained. Essentially, it would be a kind of buyout. Martin could still run things, but in point of fact Anderson Aircrafts would be owned by the Buick guys. They'd been in business forever, and even though times were bad, their pockets were deep. They'd be fine, and so Martin would be fine, too.

Of course, things would be different. It wouldn't be like owning the place. He wouldn't get the big bucks or be able to do the creative tax write-offs. He'd get commissions on sales, maybe a salary for managing the office. And they, in turn, would cover Martin's debts. Which were considerable, Radkovitch reminded him. He'd have to sell the place at Tahoe, the boat, and probably the horse—definitely the horse. But his place in Walnut Station would be safe.

“It could be worse,” he'd told Martin. “I think you should give it some thought.”

Martin had thought about it, all right. He'd sat there, projecting forward to his new life as a thinly disguised car salesman—a job he'd actually had a long time ago, before starting Anderson Aircrafts. He knew the drill: lots of hours, kissing up to customers, scraping for commissions, working your ass off. Get up, drive to work, drive home. Maybe have a good week here and there. And no time off—or probably not. And what would he have to do, anyway? No race horse, no boat, no membership at the club. Jesus fucking Christ, he thought. Maybe, if he was lucky, he'd be able to save up and take the kids to Baskin-Robbins and see fucking Gary Roberts once in a while.

Traffic in the tunnel started moving again, and soon enough Martin was driving through Hayward, almost at the airport and work. It was still overcast on the bay side of the hills, and much cooler. There were lots of gas lines here, as well. A couple of signs even read no gas.

He pulled over at Nelda's, the local diner near the airport, and bought a cup of coffee and some donuts—scarfed a couple down right there, put the rest in a bag for later. He'd give a couple to Ludwig. Then he walked over to the news shop next door to get the
Daily Racing Form
. He wanted to try for a few of the later races today at Golden Gate Fields, especially to see this one horse he'd been hearing about, Big Bad Wolf. Adrian Carmine, a hotshot jockey from L.A., was riding him, and he wanted to put some money on him. If there weren't any potential buyers coming by, why hang around? On Wednesday a guy in a white 240Z had stopped in and asked to set up a test flight for Monday morning—today. He'd even talked about trade-in value on the Z, which was usually a good sign. But something about the guy had made Martin think he was full of shit.

The other reason for going to the track—let's face it,
the
reason—was that he knew he needed to check in with Val Desmond, the trainer for his current horse, Temperature's Rising. He was running in the big
stakes race out at the county fair on the Fourth of July. It was the main event of the year, and Martin was excited—thrilled—that a horse of his had made it into the race. Temperature's Rising was the third horse Martin had owned, and Val had trained all of them. The first two had been only okay, but Temperature's Rising was the real deal (for a local horse, at least).

Martin was also worried, though, because he'd been avoiding the messages Val had been leaving for him the past month or so. And, he knew, these weren't calls about the billing statements Val had been sending. (Martin didn't even know how much he owed anymore, couldn't bear to open the envelopes.) No, they were calls about the money Martin had borrowed from him. It was a lot of money. But what choice had he had? Penalties for back taxes; behind on the business loan; late on the bills for the Viking (he'd actually slept on the boat for a week to make sure some repo guy didn't snatch it before the check cleared); and of course there were the gambling debts. Too many calls to the bookie, too many trips to the track, and too many day flights up to Reno. This had all scared the shit out of him, and he'd turned to Val out of desperation.

Val and Martin had gotten close in the five years or so since Martin had hired him as the trainer for Gunpowder, his first horse. But he wasn't quite what you'd call a friend . . . or not a good friend, anyway. He was a little too intense, maybe even a little scary. And now Martin had proof of this scariness. Val hadn't threatened him—not unless you considered his recent offer to Martin a threat of some sort. He had a plan, he'd told Martin, something to “pull you out of the fucking hole you're in.”

It was a straightforward proposition: fly down to Mexico, pick up shipments of heroin, and fly them back up to the Bay Area. Val said he'd give him five thousand dollars per flight. About one per month, he said. “For about a year. And then we're done. The guys who stay in it for too long, they're the ones who get caught.”

As a start-up bonus, he'd forgive Martin half his debt, which now was well over eighty thousand dollars.

“You gotta admit, Martin,” he said. “That's a pretty good deal.”

Martin had thought he was joking, that this was Val's way of letting him know that he'd better figure out a way to pay him back, and fast. But Val wasn't really the sort of guy who joked around much. And when he kept looking at Martin and didn't smile, just raised his eyebrows, serious, waiting for a reaction, Martin realized that it wasn't a joke at all. Instead (and this was something Martin had thought later on, as he was driving home, reeling, trying not to steer right off the freeway), Val's calm expression was one that said “Now you know.”

He'd only done it a few times so far, he said to Martin. Five or six. And it had been a while.

“It was when we were in Tijuana for some races,” he said. “We drove it up in the trailers. It was mixed in with the hay. Besides, my connection down there had some contacts at the border, so we really just got waved through.”

But Val went on to tell him about how in the past six months Nixon had issued orders for stepped-up border security, and that now it was too fucking risky to drive. People were getting caught left and right.

“It doesn't matter how many bribes you pay, or if you hide the shit in your car door or in a fake gas tank or wherever.” They had dogs that would sniff it out, he said. Or they'd just randomly stop you and search your car, take it apart, find your dope, and lock you up.

But a plane was perfect. You could fly at night; you'd be invisible. You could haul lots of it. And there was nice money to be made.

Val had given him a vague account of how he'd gotten into it, something about some horse clients who were from Mexico, an old family with connections. Ramirez, or something like that. He was a horse breeder—he and Val had been working together for years. But Martin didn't press it. In fact, once he realized that Val was serious, and that some of Val's money was in fact drug money (that was the term,
drug
money
), Martin had gotten quieter, thinking about the various questions Val had been asking him for the past few months about small craft planes. How far can you fly on a tank of gas in one of those things? How much weight does a light aircraft hold? And how regulated is small plane flight, anyway?

Yep, Martin thought as he walked toward his car, sipping from his coffee. Now I know.

But he also knew that it had been two weeks since Val had approached him, and that it was time to make a decision. In fact, Val had given this week as a deadline: no later than Monday or Tuesday.

“Just tell him I need an answer,” he'd said to Ludwig when he called the office on Friday. “Yes or no. Tell him to use one of those skywriting planes if he doesn't want to talk to me.”