Hughes’ cabin all alone, don’t talk to nobody, walks around with his nose up like a dog just pissed on his leg. You can’t tell what somebody like that will do.”
Coopersmith thought about offering further words of reason, decided there was no point in reasoning with a man like McNeil, and said, “I’ll see what I can find out.” He nodded to the cafe owner and went out into the valley.
As he walked through the snow to Sierra Street, he realized that there was a certain purposeful spring in his step and that he felt better than he had in weeks. It was, he supposed, damned perverse of a man to feel good as a result of somebody else’s troubles, but he could not help himself; if only for a little while, and only on a very small scale, he was involved again, he was useful to others and to himself.
Ten
Kubion spent the morning prowling the large, slant-beam-ceilinged interior of the cabin at Mule Deer Lake: upstairs, downstairs, front and rear, smoking too much, drinking too much coffee. He no longer had the savage headache of the night before, but he felt restless and edgy-an impotent, caged kind of feeling. Two sticks of marijuana hadn’t helped either, although the joints he had blown after their arrival last night had dulled his proclivity for violence and allowed him to sleep. That was the problem with pot: sometimes it did for him, and sometimes it didn’t. As a result, he didn’t use it often, but he liked to keep a supply on hand; liquor soured his belly, and everybody needed some type of high once in a while-ease the pressure, get rid of the down feeling.
Neither Brodie nor Loxner had said anything about the near blowoff in the car coming in, and he hadn’t mentioned it either; all of them pretending it hadn’t happened. So he’d lucked out of another of those bastard headaches, but unless he could learn to hold himself in check, he couldn’t keep lucking out of them indefinitely. He’d wind up killing somebody, sure as hell, and when you killed people without good reason, you were as good as dead yourself. Well, he’d learn; he had to learn, and he would, and that was all there was to it. He just wasn’t going to do to himself what all the fuzz in the country hadn’t been able to do to him in seventeen years. No way. No frigging way.
Kubion came down the side hall from the rear porch into the living room. Loxner was sitting in one of the chairs grouped before a native-stone fireplace. He was his old bluff, stupid self today-pretending, too, that he hadn’t let his yellow show through when he’d taken the bullet at Greenfront. His left arm was suspended in a handkerchief sling; he’d found merthiolate and bandages in the bathroom medicine cabinet and had wrapped it up as soon as they’d come in. The bullet had missed bone, exiting cleanly, and he’d be able to use the arm again in a few days, once soreness and stiffness decreased.
In Loxner’s right hand was a bottle of Rainier Ale, and he was listening to the table model radio which had originally been in the kitchen-staticky country-and-western music, fading in and out at irregular intervals. The three of them had picked up a newscast on the radio over breakfast, and there were no fresh developments in Sacramento; the cops still hadn’t found the dummy car. The news announcer had no further information on the suspected whereabouts of the holdup men, but the implication was that local law enforcement officials figured they were still confined to the immediate Sacramento area. Which was fine, except that it didn’t change things much as far as they were concerned. Sure, the odds were good that they could leave today and make it to Vegas or L.A. without trouble and begin looking around for another score, a quick score; but when you’re wanted for Murder One, and one of you has a shot-up flipper, and you know how the little unforeseeable things can screw you up-like that security guard coming in at just the wrong time to screw up the Greenfront job-you don’t gamble, you don’t put your ass on the line.
Kubion wandered around the room and then stopped short near one of the front windows. Damn it, this aimless pacing back and forth wasn’t doing him any good. What he needed was to get out for a while: cold air, a sense of movement and activity. He went upstairs and got his coat off the floor in his room, where he’d thrown it last night. When he came down again, Brodie was standing with a paring knife in one hand and a potato in the other, talking to Loxner.
“You going out, Earl?” he asked as Kubion walked across to the door.
“That’s what it looks like, right?”
“For a walk, or into the village, or what?”
“Why?”
“Well, if you’re going into the village, I could use a couple of cans of tomato sauce. I want to make Veal Milanese for supper tonight.”
Tomato sauce, Kubion thought, Jesus Christ. Brodie had this thing for cooking- culinary art, he called it-and he was always making crap like Veal Milanese and baked stuffed chicken and pineapple glazed ham. He said it was a hobby with him-he’d gotten interested from his mother, who’d won some kind of national prize once. Some hobby for a man; it was more the kind of hobby you’d expect a fag to have; and Kubion wasn’t all that sure about Brodie. Vic had a reputation as a stud, Mr. Supercock, but with that pretty-boy face of his and this culinary art business, maybe underneath his hard professionalism he was Mr. Superqueer instead; you never knew these days who was taking it up the ass and who wasn’t.
“All right?” Brodie said.
“Yeah, all right,” Kubion said, and went out into the chill, rarefied air. When he got to the enclosed garage tacked onto the lakeward side of the cabin, he saw that snow had piled up in two-foot drifts against the doors. Shit. He stood staring at it for a moment and then lifted his eyes and looked down a long, gradual slope and across a white meadow at the frozen, snow-coated surface of Mule Deer Lake. Pines and taller firs crowded in close to the southern and western shores, but congregated along the eastern shore, where a row of white-fingered piers reached out into the water, were several other cabins and houses and summer lodges. Most of them were unoccupied now, abandoned-looking beneath canvases of snow.
Some bitching country, he thought. The exact center of nowhere. How anyone could live in a place like this the year round was beyond him. Nothing but snow and ice and bitter wind and maybe an influx of stupid fishermen and hunters in season-no action, nothing to do, a goddamn prison with trees and rocks and snow for bars.
He turned and went into the woodshed-looks like an outhouse, he thought, some bitching place-which was situated at the rear of the property. The cabin, a double-tiered A-frame fashioned of bark-stripped redwood siding, sat on a projection of granite at the long slope’s upper edge. Flanked by trees to the north and east, through which its private and currently snowpacked access lane wound upward from Mule Deer Lake Road, it was completely isolated; the nearest dwelling was a fifth of a mile away. The cabin belonged to a man named Brendikian, a long- retired bunco gambler who had amassed a small fortune during and after the Second World War with trimmed and shaded cards and suction-bevel missout dice; then he had gone into score financing and safe housing for the independents working outside the Circle. This was just one of several secluded safe houses he had bought and on which he paid taxes through dummy California and Nevada corporations-totally untraceable should one of them be knocked over. Loxner had once done a job of some sort for Brendikian and had had no difficulty arranging for the cabin’s use at three bills a week.
Kubion found a curve-bladed snow shovel in the woodshed, came back, and cleared the area in front of the doors. Then he threw the shovel to one side and pulled the two halves open. Even though the car had been sheltered overnight, there was a thin film of ice on the windows; the garage felt like the interior of a frozen-food locker. He scraped away the ice, got the car started and out of the garage, and went down to Mule Deer Lake Road.
The village plow had been along there earlier in the morning, clearing it and pushing the snow into windrows at the shoulders; the pavement was slick with ice in parts, and Kubion drove slowly into the village. On Sierra Street, he parked in front of Tribucci Bros. Sport Shop, wedging his car against the long snow mound at the curbing. Music drifted down to him as he stepped out. The hicks always went in for Christmas in a big way-carols and trees and decorations and stockings on the mantel and sleigh rides, all the horse-shit. And this was a hick village if ever there was one. Populated by a bunch of half-witted Eskimos in wooden igloos. Christ!
He went into the shop, and a four-eyed balding guy was behind the counter, wearing a shirt with the name Vince stitched over the left-hand pocket. This Vince smiled at Kubion-friendly, vacuous, sure enough a damned Eskimo. Kubion smiled back at him, playing the game, and bought three packages of cigarettes. Vince wished him a
