Elisha's Bones - Don Hoesel [45]
“Feliz Navidad.”
“Venezuela?”
“Didn’t you tell me to get out of the apartment?”
“What are you doing in Venezuela, Jack?”
“Actually, I’m thinking about leaving. It doesn’t quite have that holiday spirit.”
I can almost hear him grinding his teeth.
“You hate planes. You seldom plan anything. And you don’t have any friends except for me and Angie. So forgive me for being surprised.”
This is new territory. It’s one thing to trade barbs in familiar surroundings, where everything is wedged between the siren songs of classes and department meetings. Duckey’s trying to make sense of my global position, to force it to mesh with what he knows about me. I feel a measure of sympathy.
“I need a favor, Ducks.”
“Of course you do.” As he says it, I can hear relief in his tone. It seems I’m always in need of a favor, and Duckey’s good at handing them out. It’s a familiar role and he knows how to handle this portion of the conversation. “What is it this time? Out of money and need plane fare home?”
“There aren’t a lot of casinos in this part of the world so, no, I’m good.”
“Couldn’t be that simple, eh?”
“Ducks, I need you to find out everything you can about Gordon Reese.”
It’s one of the few times I’ve rendered my department head speechless, and I’ve said some odd things over the years. In the ensuing silence I can hear sounds in the background and I can almost see Duckey sitting in someone’s kitchen, wearing a flannel shirt and jeans, surrounded by three generations of family. I’ve never felt more separated from another human being.
“Billionaire Gordon Reese?”
“Yep.”
More silence. I can feel through the phone the calculating going on as Duckey weighs any number of things, and I’m almost sure that trust is one of them. Duckey left the CIA long ago, and although he keeps former contacts in his back pocket, government-issue favors come with strings.
“What am I looking for?” he finally asks.
“Good question,” I say. “Any recent change in his circumstances. Something big.” I know I’m not giving him much to go on, and I feel some guilt for asking him to do this on his vacation. I don’t really know why I’m asking, when there’s a good chance I’ll be backing out of this deal, except that it’s one of those open questions I want answered—if only to satisfy my own curiosity. “Sorry, Ducks. I wish I could be more specific.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “But you’d better have an explanation par excellence.”
“Do you want me to make up something believable, or do you want the truth?”
“Surprise me.”
“Thanks, Ducks. This means a lot.”
He releases a sigh. “Are you in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
When I end the call, it’s with a smile, one that can only be granted by finding something familiar in the midst of uncertainty. I glance at Espy.
“You all right?” I ask.
“Just fine.” She adds a smirk, which is what I get for trying to get in touch with her feelings.
We drive in silence for a long time. I think the guy in the back—Marco—is sleeping, but it’s dark and I can’t see him very well in the rearview mirror. I feel myself drifting and I’m about to turn on the radio when Esperanza says, “Will you be catching a flight home tomorrow?”
Her question catches me without an immediate response, even though it’s one that should occupy the bulk of my mind. I let the question hang there while the road passes beneath us.
“I honestly don’t know,” I finally answer. It’s a hard thing to admit. This business, in the best of circumstances, is difficult. With all of the other things attached to this particular project, I have to face the possibility that I might not be able to keep up.
As the silence lingers, I realize that, yet again, I’m not on Espy’s wavelength. I’m still considering her question in terms of the job. There are areas in which I am none too bright, and I’ll be the first to admit that relationships fall within that province. Duckey will attest to that, as will Angie, and just about everyone else I’ve ever met. I think even my cactus is figuring that out. Here I am thinking that Espy’s foul mood has something to do with