The Texas Twist (21 page)

“How earnest?”

“Something in six figures.”

“And when we say earnest, are we to gather that we mean cash?”

Jessup took a drag and blew a smoke ring out the window. “We are, sir. And may I say I'm right pleased that
you can say so so frankly.” He cocked his thick chin toward the door, which Radar took to infer Ames. “I know that one understands, but he plays so high and mighty. Can't talk straight with the man. I like a man I can talk straight to. Round here, bein' that kind of man really pays off.” Again he looked toward—through—the closed door. “His kind, they don't last.”

“Then why are you backing him?”

“Oh, business is business, son. That million bucks has been on the books too long.”

“Million?” Radar almost blurted
Is that all?
And even though he didn't, his dismay was easy for Jessup to read: A million dollars was too small a sum to warrant a six-figure kickback.

“It was a million at the start,” drawled Jessup. “Back in 1920. It's been managed well since. It's worth nigh half a billion now.” Radar gave the sum a respectful whistle, but he knew then that he'd been played, set up to reveal just what he'd revealed: knowledge of how to price a bribe. Score one for Cal. Radar didn't like anyone scoring one.

Jessup went on talking and puffing, puffing and talking, lighting one cigarette after another off the dying stub of the last and lining up the butts like toy soldiers on the window sill. “So, understandably, we ain't lettin' the trust go for cheap. Now your ol' boy out there, he stumbled onto a play he could make. He found hisself a pot of legal, free money that'll set him up for life, or for however long he wants to pretend he's doing a damn thing with it.”

“Won't there be some oversight? To make sure the center's properly run?”

“Aw, hell, the board don't care about that. It ain't their money. But they damn sure gonna get their taste, and that's a point seems lost on your boy. Now I'm counting on you to get it found.”

“In cash.”

“Yep. To show the board y'all are serious about bringing a world-class brain operation to little ol' Austin.”

“And you speak for the entire board?”

“Them as matters. We all on the same page on this. Sauce is sauce.” Jessup stubbed out his last cigarette on window glass. “But sauce there will be.” With a sweep of his hand he knocked the entire line of butts down onto the street below. “Littering,” he said, shaking his head. “Look at me, ain't I a felon?”

Jessup strode to the door and threw it open. Vic and Kadyn had hastily removed their earbuds and Kadyn was back at her desk. The big man tipped his hat to her on the way out. “Little lady,” he said. “You sure I can't take you out someplace nice? Paris? My place?”

“That's a sweet offer,” she said. She reached across the desk and adjusted Jessup's bolo tie, playfully sliding it up his neck so far so fast that he had to pull her hands away to keep from being playfully choked. “But I think I'm gonna pass.”

Jessup glared at her as he loosened his tie and walked out.

“That wasn't exactly nice,” said Vic.

“You kidding?” said Kadyn. “Guys like him, that just keeps 'em coming back for more.”

“Where's Ames?” asked Radar.

“Out with his pal Henry Wellinov,” said Vic. He tapped his skull. “Ames could tell right away that the old guy's not all
there. But Henry told Ames that he sees you as a—how did he put it?—man of destination. And damned if he doesn't want to get down a bet on brain science.”

“His answering machine's set on
announce only,
” said Kadyn with a mischievous grin. “It's gonna be a tough lunch.”

Indeed it was. Down the street at a Chinese deli, Adam Ames listened with growing impatience as the lavishly unraveled Henry Wellinov ootled randomly from thought to disconnected thought, with no nod to causal connection or the niceties of polite conversation. Just now, and for no discernible reason, he was talking at length about his grandson's bar mitzvah. “Of course I gave the little pudwhacker cash, and that's lots, sir, lots and lots. A wad this thick.” Henry aggressively poised his thumb and forefinger two inches apart, and two inches from Adam's nose.

“Cash says you care,” offered Ames.

“Damn right it does.” This sent Wellinov off on a rant about, as near as Ames could tell, overdue library books, how people's failure to return them showed the depth of the country's moral decay. Then came something about his ex-wife, how she wouldn't go down on him with a gun to her head. Then his spin class. Some guy he knew in high school. How his kids never call. The lameness of professional wrestling. Comparative creation myths around the world. And on and on and on. At last Ames could stand it no more and cut Henry off in the midst of his discursive assertion that genetically modified crops were a national menace on the order of fluoridated water.

“Mr. Wellinov,” said Ames, “Henry. I need you to focus on me.”

Henry ground to a halt. “You don't care about corn?”

“I care about corn. I'm not going to die from it.”

“You could be disfigured.”

“Mr. Wellinov, please.”

Wellinov blinked. “Go on.”

“Now I gather that Radar told you about our work.”

“Yes. Impressive young man. Impressive. He says you'll be building buildings. I suppose if I donate you'll name a wing after me.”

“That's something we'd consider.”

“I'll settle for a breast!” Henry guffawed, spewing a bit of spittle on Adam's shirt. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” said Henry, still chuckling. “I'm funny. Go on.”

Ames went on, all the way down to how he'd prefer to take Wellinov's contribution in cash.

Henry said, “You'll give me a receipt for that, right? For the donation?”

“Of course.”

“Then what do I care how you take the dough? Hell, I'll put 'er in a bushel basket if you like. Just like baby Moses.” And with that, he was off again, explaining at length how the real Bible, the original Bible, had been replaced by early Rosicrucians, and that's when all the trouble between religions really began. Personally he thought that the almighty God should be a goddess with almighty boobs. Certainly that's who he worshiped when he was alone.

The conversation never drifted back to the money. Ames couldn't drag it there, and he honestly wasn't sure whether they had concluded their encounter at all on the same page. Then, out on the street, after thanking Adam for lunch,
Wellinov suddenly said, “You'll match my donation, of course.”

“What?”

“With cash of your own. For the foundation. As a show of good faith.”

“I thought a receipt was a sign of good faith.”

“This is another.” Wellinov spread his hands. “Well?”

“I…I guess it could be arranged.”

“Then mine can, too.”

Ames smiled sourly and watched Wellinov depart, not at all happy with this last-minute pivot to cash of his own.

In reviewing his performance later, Woody was satisfied with how he had dizzied Ames and then forced a mistake on him.
Now he's agreed to a matching fund to the matching fund,
thought Woody merrily.
This is starting to get fun.
At the same time, he realized that his leverage had come much from the element of surprise and from his decades of practice at this sort of art. You could say that Ames had simply been outplayed by a strong player. But this was just a moment in time. Who knew what Ames would think, or how he'd counter, once he reflected on the meeting and had a heart-to-heart chat with himself?

Woody related this concern to Radar and Vic later when they convened a discreet meeting at a Farmer Boy restaurant well outside of town.

“What, you didn't have him fully wool-pulled?” asked Mirplo.

“No, just cornered. For the role he's playing, he couldn't blow my cover without blowing his own.”

“Either way,” said Radar, “that's his money in play at a
time and a place of our choosing, and to that I say nicely worked, old man.”

“I bask in the glow of your approval.”

On the drive back home, Radar texted Allie and asked if she'd teed up Sarah for him.

I had us both in tears
, she texted back.
You can be a real bastard sometimes
.

It grieved Radar to think of Allie bad-mouthing him, even for the sake of the snuke. But in order to flip Sarah, he had to give her hope: the sort of hope that might come to her if she thought he and Allie had had a big falling-out. Yet here they were, once again creating fabricat conflict for the sake of setting a hook.
That's got to stop,
thought Radar.
Sets a bad example for the kid.

That evening, Sarah stepped out on her balcony and noticed Radar leaning against his railing a few balconies over, staring out at the lake in a manifestly melancholy mood. They nice-nighted each other with nods. Sarah could tell by the set of his shoulders that he was a man still smarting from a spat, and she mouthed the words, “Are you okay?” He answered by waggling his hand to indicate
comme ci,
c
omme ça
. Then, boldly, he pointed down to the lakeshore and conveyed the idea that they should meet. She countered with a questioning look, but he just essayed a sad shrug:
Why not?
She smiled and went back inside.

Five minutes later, Sarah found Radar waiting for her outside the building. He led her north a few hundred yards along a lakeside path until they came to a boat landing, a calm, still place illuminated by a single sodium-vapor streetlamp, where tiny wavelets rippled up twin slabs of slanted concrete
and floating Styrofoam bumpers made hollow knocking sounds against a dock. Though it had been warm earlier, it was chilly now. Radar wore a substantial wool greatcoat, but Sarah had on only a short jacket, which she pulled close around her. “This is naughty,” she said through chattering teeth. “Does Allie know you've slipped out?”

“I suppose,” said Radar, downbeat. “At this point I don't think she much cares. What about Adam?”

“He's not home from work yet. He's working so hard.”

“Well, that's what you want, isn't it? A hard worker? He'll make a good husband.”

“Oh, husband. No one's thinking about that.”

“No? Sarah, you know I'm pretty good at reading people. It wouldn't be the first time I guessed what's going on in that pretty little head of yours.”

“Maybe not. But it would be the first time it didn't feel like an attack.” She turned to face him. “Why is that, Radar?”

“I've been rethinking some things,” he said.

“Such as?”

“Such as giving you such a hard time. I've done that too much. I want to say I'm sorry.”

“Well, thank you, Radar. You have been a little mean.”

“Are you cold?” he asked. She nodded. “Come here.” Radar opened his coat. She eagerly accepted the invitation, wrapping her arms around him under the coat and resting her head against his chest.

“Mmm,” she said, “that's more like it.” They stood like this for a moment, then Sarah said, “Adam thinks you hate him.”

“I suppose I do.”

“But see, I don't get that, Radar. If you're right about who he is, then you're just like him, aren't you? A cowboy? You boys, you all want to be cowboys.”

“Cowboys with different agendas. He tried to hurt you. I suddenly find I don't like that.”

“Why?”

Here we go,
thought Radar. He cupped her chin in his hand and tilted it upward. Then he kissed her as he imagined she imagined he'd kiss her if this moment ever arrived. He kissed her with conviction, vehemence; passion. He kissed to communicate commitment. To inspire loyalty. He kissed to bond. He kissed from his soul, from that place where a man tells a woman he's hers forever. It was a Captain Kirk kiss, hard enough to flip an alien.

It flipped Sarah.

She opened like a can of beans.