The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (79 page)

Clinton claims he can tell if owners of the vacation houses are keeping close watch or not by the mail that keeps coming to the home. Clinton is careful to avoid creating suspicion. The thrill was to open the mail, read it, and reseal it. Clinton had known guys who worked for the censors in Vietnam. The only tricky part, Clinton thought, would be to empty the automatic teller machine at the rate of $400 a day. “Did you ever stop to think how long it will take us to get that much money out of the teller machine?” According to bank statements, the account with the automatic teller card has thirty thousand dollars in it.

Late at night Roy and Clinton had talked about money—what they would buy with it, what they would do to get it. Neither of them wanted the usual stuff such as fancy cars, women, investments, or silk shirts.
Roy had decided he would buy his own island to live on. Clinton said he didn’t know what he would do. Maybe he would travel to Africa and to Haiti to learn about the old religion. But after Roy had bought the island, and after Clinton had learned voodoo, they could not think what else to do with their imaginary money. Roy could not think of anything he needed beyond his jacket and sleeping bag. Clinton had done a lot of background work on “their” money-machine bankcard. The card would work at bank machines in fourteen western states.

“Meaning what?” Roy said.

“Meaning I could go and keep on going.” Clinton was smiling, watching Roy’s face.

“I already thought about all of it. Before we ever started this. Before I ever saw you. I decided to let things fall where they will.”

“You mean you figured me for a thief?” Clinton said, still smiling.

“No, not that. I just mean that whatever turns out, all of this has happened before, somewhere in the world. Some will go and some will stay.”

Clinton had touched Roy lightly on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, man. Me and this bankcard, we’ll be back.”

Roy touched Clinton’s sleeve. “You don’t have to say anything. You probably should just take it all and go. You, me, probably we’d be better off.”

Roy didn’t like the idea of trying the bankcard out of state, but Clinton assured him they had nothing to worry about. Clearly the owner of the vacation house used his Tucson bankcard as infrequently as he used his winter vacation house. Roy trusted Clinton to come back with the bankcard because they had talked about that.

Roy said, “We have endless wealth.”

Clinton’s face got tense. “That’s stupid. No one has endless money—”

“Except the U.S. government, who just prints more.”

Roy had tried to lighten Clinton’s mood, but Clinton sometimes got set off.

“Rich don’t want to give away any, but poor will come and take it all.”

The others in both units were afraid of Clinton’s storms of anger. Roy had overheard the men discussing him. The men had been drinking and were talking freely. A young white kid about eighteen said he was scared Clinton wanted to kill all whites. But the Mexican called Barney shook his head.

“Clinton, he’s after the rich. Clinton, he’d even go after Oprah Winfrey because the bitch is rich!”

“Kill the rich?” the skinny white kid said. “But someday I might get a lot of money.” All of them had started laughing then, even the guys who hated niggers and expected race wars, because the skinny kid was
really
stupid if he thought he’d ever have any money, let alone get rich.

The bank statement for the automated-teller card arrives at the house each month. Clinton says he is counting on there being only one bank statement sent out, the statement sent to the vacant house. They both agree they will have to clean out the bank account before cold weather to play it safe. They do not want to chance losing that kind of money. Because with that kind of money, they could equip their little guerrilla army. Speed was more important than size in guerrilla armies. The money was going to buy them everything they needed, the money was going to get them launched.

Clinton drops off to sleep every night thinking about the others. Far far away there are others like himself, men, right here in the United States, with nothing to lose. In the morning while the coffee is still heating in the campfire, Clinton tells Roy he wants to do some traveling.

Clinton’s argument had been a good one: they had some money to cover traveling expenses; the thing was to take advantage of the cold weather, which drove all the homeless and able-bodied to travel far to the south. Clinton could get one of those $99 bus passes and go right across the country. But Roy did not like the idea of Clinton moving around like that, from homeless camp to homeless camp. A black man in army camouflage pants was sure to get the wrong kind of attention.

Clinton had laughed bitterly. “Oh, I see. I travel like a bum and sleep in the ditch.” Roy realized his mistake then. Clinton was going to talk to people on the street, but he wasn’t going to sleep there. They wouldn’t find Clinton haranguing crowds outside soup kitchens. Not yet. Roy had only sighed loudly and walked away. He stopped himself from explaining. Explanations meant nothing. Clinton might figure it out for himself later; Roy had assumed Clinton would travel the way Roy traveled. Roy got a rush out of hopping freight trains. Roy liked to imagine he was a bullfighter with only split seconds and inches standing between himself and the charging freight train.

Clinton was quiet the night before he caught his bus. He was going to San Diego and L.A. first. The California riots had stopped when the weather cooled off.

Roy had told the men Clinton had to go to his grandmother’s funeral in Los Angeles. Roy tried to avoid the appearance of secrecy. Week by week the homeless men arrived, and always a few drifted to the ’Nam Veterans’ Camp, especially if they had run afoul of regulations in church soup kitchens or city shelters. The men who came to the ’Nam Camp were usually the crazies—the ones who “believed” they had fought at Khesanh or Mylai. Roy did not turn anyone away, but he had to watch each new arrival carefully because sooner or later the government would send undercover men posing as drifters as they had earlier in October, to report on any political activities by the homeless.

Roy had made it his business to listen closely to the men when they talked and drank; Roy visited Clinton’s unit each evening after he had checked with the men in his own unit. The fatigue jackets had helped pull the two units together. Just as uniforms were supposed to.

Roy was not as worried about police spies and informers as he was about the questions that came from local advocates for the homeless—Tucson church people and “liberals.” “Why don’t more veterans join in class-action lawsuits? Why don’t more veterans join in the marches and demonstrations?”

“More?
You want
more
of us? You’ve already had enough!”

The men in camp had cheered Roy, and the “advocates” had hurried away. Later in the week, Roy read a newspaper article on the “apathy” of homeless Vietnam veterans. For Roy the article couldn’t have been better.

Apathy. Let them believe what they want to believe.

STERLING HAD SEEN BULLETS and guns everywhere for days, but he had tried to avoid looking directly at the weaponry. He had tried not to be within earshot of Zeta, Ferro, or Lecha, who seemed to be constantly crowded into Zeta’s office door just as the computer printer began to chatter. Paulie had been strangely inactive during this time, and Ferro had complained about Paulie’s lethargy when they were loading or unloading gear. Sterling had also noticed the change in Paulie
because one of the Dobermans had had puppies. Paulie had spent hours watching the dog before the pups were born.

Sterling could tell Ferro and Paulie had been fighting because more and more Ferro called Sterling to help him lift tarps into the back of the pickup while Paulie repacked the hot-air balloon or refilled water cans and plastic bottles. Paulie moved more slowly when Ferro was not speaking to him. Sterling had learned to stay out of Ferro’s way whenever Paulie’s eyes were swollen.

Sterling had found out a little from Seese about homosexual men. She said they were no different from other lovers, or other couples. Sterling could not explain his curiosity without sounding prejudiced. Paulie would have been strange even if he had not been gay. That was Sterling’s point. Sterling had watched Paulie become more and more worried about the pregnant dog. Mag had been a favorite of Paulie’s because she had crouched and growled at him even when he brought her dish full of food. “Mag” was short for her full name, .44 Magnum.

Sterling hosed down the kennels, raked dog turds into piles, and shoveled them into the wheelbarrow. The daily schedule was always the same. Paulie had been adamant about consistency. No consistency and these high-octane dogs would explode all over the place, and someone, probably Sterling, would get killed. At eight
A.M
. Paulie brought in the night dogs and set loose the day dogs in the twenty-acre outer perimeter. Paulie had trained the dogs to accept only the food either he or Ferro fed them. Under no circumstances were others even to attempt to feed the dogs. When Ferro and Paulie were away on business, the dogs ate from automatic feeders full of dry dog food.

Sterling was used to being ignored by Paulie. Sterling had ignored Paulie so they were even. Weeks had passed without either of them speaking to the other. Sterling had found Paulie in the kennel stroking the bitch and examining her belly. Sterling had stopped in his tracks with a wheelbarrow full of dog shit because he had never seen Paulie’s face so strangely expressive; Paulie’s eyes were filled with tears. Paulie’s voice sounded thick with his concern for the dog. He didn’t want the red bitch to die. Sterling asked if the dog was sick or having trouble because he had been cleaning kennels all morning and had not seen the red bitch lying down or vomiting. Paulie had seemed to misunderstand the question because he had started talking about there being “too many puppies.” “Too many” would kill the dog. Paulie’s voice had quickly dropped almost to a whisper, as if his throat were tight. “Too many.”
Sterling could see emotion had choked off Paulie’s words, so he nodded and pretended not to notice the tears.

“Too many puppies will kill her. Too many and she’ll die.”

Paulie had not left the kennel until Ferro had telephoned twice; on the second call Paulie heard something bad because Sterling had watched Paulie’s muscles tighten the longer he talked on the phone.

Sterling had been startled to find Paulie still smoking cigarettes and talking to the dog at eight
A.M
. when Sterling came on duty. Paulie had spoken to Sterling without looking away from the dog. “I counted them,” Paulie had continued in a soft, even voice. “I counted them with my hands—feeling them through her belly like this.” Sterling watched the rough, bony hands, fingernails chewed to the quick, gently press the dog’s abdomen.

Sterling had begun to get a strange, almost light-headed feeling as he listened to Paulie talk about a dog. Not this dog, .44 Magnum, but another dog long ago. Had the other dog been
Paulie’s
dog? No, it had belonged to a man. A man who came to the house but who did not like Paulie. Sterling had been relieved when Paulie had clarified which dog he was talking about. “This other dog” had been Paulie’s dog, but the dog had died from having too many puppies.

“You mean too many all at one time? You mean too many
inside her?”
Sterling had floundered for the words to say it without making it sound too gruesome. Paulie did not respond after that. Sterling decided he had asked Paulie too many questions instead of just shutting up and listening.

For all his reading about the art of becoming a good listener, Sterling had forgotten all the cardinal rules with Paulie. Paulie had something inside him that frightened Sterling a great deal, so much that Sterling had forgot the art of good listening.

Sterling had been wakened almost every night for the past two weeks by the headlights on Ferro’s returning truck. Just before dawn when Sterling awoke to nature’s call and groped his way to the toilet, Sterling had looked out the window and saw the silhouette of only one person, the driver. Ferro had stayed out all night and left Paulie at the ranch alone.

Sterling kept an eye on .44 Magnum throughout the week, but she had eaten all her food and had gotten more fierce and lively as her stomach had grown. Paulie had increased the dog’s daily rations. Sterling had no choice but to obey orders. Day by day Sterling could feel the tension grow.

STERLING HAD WAITED around the swimming pool hoping to find Seese on a break from the nonstop typing she was doing on the old manuscript. Seese had difficulty looking at computer screens for long without developing a headache. Seese had come outside to smoke a joint. Sterling always said no to marijuana because it made him too hungry and too horny.