Authors: Robert Masello
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers
Bestiary (41 page)
HOW COULD SHE stay so fat, Greer wondered, with nothing but low-fat, low-carb, low-cal crap in all the cupboards? He rummaged around on the shelves looking for a can or a box of anything edible. A bag of baked, salt-free veggie chips fell out and onto the counter and his mother said, “What are you looking for?”
“What do you think?” Greer said.
His mother picked up the chips and stuffed them back where they belonged. “Just tell me what you want and I’ll find it for you.”
“What I want, you don’t have.”
“Then maybe you should try shopping for yourself sometime, buster.”
She was in almost as bad a mood as he was. Greer had just gotten up—it was a little past noon—and he knew she thought it was a crime to sleep that late. But what else did he have to do? It wasn’t as if he held a job anywhere. And the night before, he’d been back at the Blue Bayou till all hours, drinking, popping pills, and trying not to think about the one thing he couldn’t stop thinking about.
Why hadn’t al-Kalli called him yet? He must have gotten the letter. Greer had put his cell phone number under his signature, and he hadn’t gone anywhere without the phone now for days. He even slept with it on the pillow next to his head.
“How about cheese?” Greer said. “We got any cheese?”
His mother, who already had her head in the fridge, yanked open a plastic drawer and handed him a pack of low-fat—big surprise—American singles. If he could rustle up some bread, he’d be halfway to a grilled cheese sandwich.
The phone on the wall rang and his mother picked it up. She still had the TV blaring in the living room—Greer could hear a talk-show host noisily welcoming Katie Holmes—and right after “Hello,” she said “Who?” And then she stood there, in what she called her housecoat—a big wide hunk of cloth in vertical, “slimming” stripes—listening to whatever crap the guy on the phone was no doubt trying to sell her.
Greer elbowed past her and found some cracked-wheat bread in the breadbox.
His mother was still listening to the caller. And then she said, “Yes, I am,” in a markedly different tone.
Christ, Greer thought, she’s
buying
it, whatever it is.
buying
it, whatever it is.
“I’m very pleased to hear that,” she said. “I had no idea.”
Greer nudged her to one side so he could put a frying pan on the stove; he thought about just nuking the thing in the microwave, but he wanted that crispy flavor you can only get on the stove. Man, this kitchen—kitchenette, to be more accurate—was small. Once he’d finished shaking down al-Kalli, the first thing he was going to do was move out and find a place of his own.
He poured some oil into the pan, and was just about to put the bread and cheese in, when his mother said, “Yes, he is—I’ll put him on. And thank you.”
She held out the phone to him, and Greer said, “Who the fuck you talking to?”
She slapped a hand over the receiver and whispered, “Watch your mouth in this house. It’s your commanding officer, from Iraq. He was just telling me what a fine soldier you had been there.”
Greer stared at the phone as though he’d never seen one before. His commanding officer, from Iraq? He didn’t even know who that’d be. Major Bleich? General Schuetz? President Bush?
And why would he be calling here?
The oil in the pan started to sputter, and his mother reached over and turned off the burner, while urging the phone on him with the other hand. “I’ll go in the other room and turn off the TV,” she said. “And don’t you be impolite with him. He might have some work for you.”
Greer took the phone and, leaning his weight against the side of the stove, said, “Captain Derek Greer.”
There was a pause, then a man with a slight foreign accent—maybe Middle Eastern—said, “Mr. al-Kalli received your letter.”
Greer instinctively straightened up.
“And he would like to discuss it with you.”
Greer’s mind was racing. He’d always thought he’d be prepared for this call, but that was when he’d expected it to come in on his cell phone.
“How’d you get this number?” he finally said.
“Mr. al-Kalli likes to know everything he can about the people he deals with.”
Now Greer knew perfectly well why they’d used this number, and why the guy had been chatting up his mother. It was classic technique—come at your enemy from the quarter they don’t expect, catch them off guard, and let them know you’re already way ahead of them in the game. Greer needed to do something to show that he wasn’t thrown off balance.
“This is Jakob, right?” The man he’d given the box to in Iraq. “Glad to see you made it out of that hellhole alive.”
“That’s right,” the man replied. “And yes, that was a very dangerous place.” He said it in a friendly enough tone, but Greer still thought it sounded like he was saying, “
This
could be a very dangerous place, too.”
This
could be a very dangerous place, too.”
There was a silence on the line, and in the apartment, for that matter; his mother had shut off the TV, and if Greer had to bet, she was eavesdropping on every word he said from her easy chair.
“Why hasn’t Mr. al-Kalli himself called?” Greer asked. “He’s the one I need to talk to.”
“And you will. Would you be free this afternoon?”
Greer knew he didn’t have to check his busy schedule—all he had on for today was some physical therapy at the VA, but Indira would be just as glad not to see him there. “Sure. What time?”
“About three? I’ll pick you up there.”
Alarm bells went off in Greer’s head. The last thing he was going to do was get into al-Kalli’s car, with this guy driving. If he didn’t wind up in the river, he’d be fed to that creature up in Bel-Air. “No, that’s not gonna work,” Greer said.
“Fine.” It sounded like Jakob had known it wouldn’t. “What do you suggest?”
Greer had already given this a lot of thought, but he’d never been able to decide on the perfect spot. It had to be public, it had to be outside, and it had to have a lot of people around, no matter what time of day it was. The best he’d been able to come up with was the Santa Monica Pier. At the roller coaster ride. For want of anything better, he suggested it now.
“Three o’clock,” Jakob repeated, and then the line went dead.
Greer hung up, and a few seconds later, his mother, who had plainly been listening in, came back and said, “Well? What did he want?”
“They’re doing a survey,” he said, turning the burner back on. “They want to know how we’re adjusting to civilian life.”
“No. Really? I couldn’t help but overhear you; you were making a plan for later today.”
He slapped some cheese between two slices of bread and laid it in the pan. “It’s a survey, I told you. Some of it you have to fill out in person.”
She still stood there, not believing him.
“That’s it, okay?” He tended to the sandwich. “I don’t suppose we’ve got any no-fat pickles around, do we?”
EARLlER THAN HE
had to, he left for the rendezvous point. He left his Mustang down below, right near the parking lot exit in case he needed to make a quick getaway, and then walked up and onto the pier. The whole place was one long, noisy, crowded amusement park, lined with arcades and rides and concession stands, and it was, as Greer knew it would be, mobbed with tourists and beachgoers. The roller coaster was out toward the ocean end, and he could hear the screams of the riders even before he saw it. A bunch of kids were already lined up next to the iron railing, waiting for the next run. Right now, the thing was hurtling around a sharp turn just overhead, the wheels clattering loudly on the wooden tracks.
Greer leaned against the railing and started to light a cigarette. He hadn’t even put the match down before a lady with a broom and a trash bin on wheels said, “No smoking on the pier.”
He took a puff anyway, then ground the cigarette underfoot. She waited till he was done, then swept it up and into the bin—but not before giving him a glare. Goddamn state, Greer thought. You couldn’t smoke anywhere anymore. Pretty soon they’d be telling you that you couldn’t smoke in your own apartment.
The roller coaster swooped down behind him, and even though this was the place Greer had said al-Kalli should meet him, he moved off a few yards, to the relative shelter of one of those quickie photo booths. A couple of teenagers were inside, and he could tell from their shrieks and cries that the girl was flashing her boobs at the camera while the guy egged her on.
Greer checked his watch; he was still a few minutes ahead of time. He meandered over to the side of the pier and looked out over the ocean. Gulls were idly soaring on the breeze, and you could see Catalina Island, lying like a sleeping beast, on the horizon. Greer had gone there once, when he was a kid; it was a school trip, and he remembered that there were buffalo. The herd had been brought out, a long time ago, when silent movies—westerns—had been shot out there. He remembered wondering, at the time, if he could go back and work as a cowboy there one day. Man, that was a long time ago.
He checked his watch again; he didn’t want to be late, but now that he gave it some more thought, it wouldn’t look good to be there too early, either. It would make him look too nervous, or eager. He’d been going over his strategy a thousand times—what he was going to say, how he was going to say it. He was going to start off sounding reasonable, reminding al-Kalli of the great job he’d done for him in Iraq, and the grave injuries he’d suffered while doing it. He’d even resolved to make his limp a little more pronounced than usual. But at the same time, he wanted to be sure that he didn’t come off as weak or beholden in any way; he wanted al-Kalli to know that he, Captain Derek Greer, was a force to be reckoned with.
At three sharp, he went back to the roller coaster. They were just boarding another bunch. Greer moved out of the way and saw al-Kalli coming toward him, with Jakob close behind. A lot of other people saw him, too, and several stood back to watch him pass. It wasn’t often that you saw, out here on the pier, a bald man in a cream-colored linen suit with a scarlet pocket square and gleaming alligator shoes, strolling toward you with an ebony walking stick in one hand.
Even Greer was impressed—which he knew he shouldn’t be. The second he started feeling inferior, the game was lost.
“Captain Derek Greer?” al-Kalli said as he approached. He smiled and put out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you at last.”
Greer took his hand, and noted that al-Kalli’s was cool and dry, while his was warm and damp. Again, not good.
“I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“No, I just got here myself,” he said, and when al-Kalli smiled again, Greer thought,
Damn, he knows I just lied.
Damn, he knows I just lied.
Al-Kalli looked around, as if appraising the pier and its attractions. “I’ve never been here before.”
No shit, Sherlock, was what Greer thought. But what was it with this English accent? That night when Greer had crept into the zoo, he’d been too far away to hear what al-Kalli was saying. And though he’d been expecting him to sound like an Arab, or have trouble speaking the language at all, he sounded instead like that guy who played Lawrence of Arabia in the movies.
“Shall we take a look around?” al-Kalli said, as if he actually cared, and before Greer could reply, he’d sauntered off toward some of the other rides. Greer of necessity tagged along, with Jakob, in wraparound shades and a short-sleeved shirt that conveniently revealed his powerful arms, bringing up the rear. Greer wasn’t sure how he’d imagined this playing out—maybe the two of them standing over by the ocean railing, speaking softly, in private, while the gulls wheeled above?—but this was definitely not it. Suddenly Greer felt he wasn’t in control of the situation at all; worse, he felt like some poor relation who’d foolishly invited a big shot to meet him at some dive.
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