A God in Ruins - Leon Uris [128]
Maud always had a tall and handsome and manicured Washington first-stringer after her short and uncommonly plain body. She seduced whomever at will. Earthly rewards? The devil pays mighty wages. Maud didn’t let morality compromise her lifestyle. Once in a while, when a jet carrier was bombed out of the sky, she winced.
That was the way of things, straddling the line. Legally, America exported more weapons than any other nation. Below the line in the gray and black world of gunrunners, America exported more weapons than any other nation. Fall into wrong hands? Who decides wrong hands when you put Stinger missiles in the hands of Afghans to shoot down Soviet planes, then have to buy them back from the Afghans?
That was the way it worked. Morality was best kept at arm’s length.
Maud mulled over the coming meeting with Red Peterson, who had become a major player. The Combine had decided it would be best to ally with Peterson, who had gained inside control of the distribution point in Colon, Panama. Two of The Combine’s top dealers had been erased, one tossed from a helicopter at sea. No one had accused Red Peterson. Yet no one failed to get the message.
Maud’s Cessna blessedly set down on a baked dirt strip on the far side of the mountains from Los Alamos near Yucca Bend.
The plane turned and taxied back to where a Wagoneer waited.
“Maud Traynor?” Red asked.
“Red? Do I call you Red?”
“Christ, I don’t even remember what my Christian name was.”
They sized one another up quickly. That old bird will fly, he thought.
Maud had looked into the eyes of the cruelest men in Afghanistan and Guatemala. Red Peterson was in their league. His skin was spotted and wrinkled from too many years in the oil fields.
“Here, let me give you a hand.”
Strong old bastard, Maud thought. Red was put together in quality tailor-made shirts and jeans and the prerequisite turquoise and silver trimmings. His voice was politely soft. He could let his eyelids drop in such a manner as to block him from looking on another’s eyes but at the same time look directly at you.
Peterson’s villa was halfway up a thousand-foot butte, negotiated by a series of switchbacks. The building was unevenly integrated into the natural contours of the hill. A smashing flying wing seemingly hung way out with no apparent support, its vista nearly to infinity.
Maud took quick takes. Five-car garage. His and hers Mercedes. Furnishings a daring but easy mix from ultramodern to staunch Western. Paintings were expensive, partly Western and the balance from Impressionism, nearly to modern.
Maud had not seen a more magnificent suite since the Peninsula Hotel. Marble floors with soft Navajo coverings, huge and fluffy monogrammed towels, hot jets, seating for two or more, and every electronic convenience imaginable. It’s going to be interesting, she thought.
They took drinks on the flying-wing veranda. Staff, well-trained and silent. Maud lifted a pair of binoculars and scanned beyond the valley where a set of book cliffs threw off their covers to take a vibrant fling before the sun dropped. She picked up a car ripping around the curves to the house and into the garage.
In a moment, Red Peterson’s wife, once among the most beautiful showgirls in Vegas, appeared with a pair of preteen girls.
Maud watched him turn into an affectionate pussycat daddy. “My wife, Greta, and my daughters. Joan is named from my momma and Tammy after Tammy Wynette.”
They found their presents in Daddy’s pockets and traded talk to catch him up. He’s just like I am with my grandchildren, Maud thought. Maybe they will be both of our salvations.
Greta gathered them up and moved them to their desks for homework. Greta was still extremely beautiful, a Walküre, an Amazon. She had little to say as she curled his long gray hair with her forefinger.
It certainly did not appear to be a dysfunctional house. What a showgirl Greta must have been, not a high kicker in the chorus line, but at six feet she stood on the platform of the ascending staircase, arms out, breasts