everyone that we might be too far gone to have heroes anymore. Maybe that's a good thing.
They made a big show of getting him right when the Senate adjourned. Steps of the Capitol Building and all that. The footage has become another tabloid favorite, as overplayed as O.J.'s Bronco hightailing it down the 405 or those Boeing 767s disintegrating into dust and flame. Caruthers being led, handcuffs glinting at the sleeves of his five-thousand-dollar suit. 'This is an outrage,' he says, 'and I look forward to defending myself against all charges. I'm not concerned in the least.' But in a clip they showed later of him outside the courthouse, he was raising both cuffed wrists to get a trembling cigarette to his lips. Those charges keep proliferating, from murder to destruction of evidence to conspiracy to obstruction of justice to that new blue-chip favorite: perjury. James Brown took a sweetheart deal to roll, and then two more guys went snitch, and the word is the DOJ's putting that mosaic together, piece by piece.
June has stopped showing up for court dates, and there are rumors she will file for divorce.
Wydell turned up dead last week in Altamira. In the black-and-white morgue photos, he looked like a homeless person. That neat fifties hairdo grown out into a tangle. Curls of facial hair. Dirt-blackened cheeks. He'd been stabbed in the kidney with a screwdriver for sleeping in a bum's nook on the port, and he'd dragged himself behind a tire-repair shack and bled out.
Given the outstanding arrest warrant and the Interpol red notice, they'd done a fine job freezing his money. He had no address or bank account or telephone in his name. His first few weeks, he'd shacked up with his ghosts in a shitty motel in Veracruz, collecting tequila worms and venereal diseases and burning through what little cash he'd taken. I know how the walls closed in on him at night. I know the bitter taste of panic that greeted him when he woke. I know how he watched people's eyes when he passed them on the street. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. Knowing he could wake up in prison the next morning and every morning after that. Of everything that can grind away at a person, being anonymous is the worst. You give up your power, a bit at a time, until you feel like you're not much of anything at all.
It was shocking to see how poorly a federal agent had fared in just two and a half months on the run, and I must confess a pang of pride at how long I, a nobody kid, had managed. I'd been cracked and damaged, but they hadn't broken me.
I'm inclined to think that Wydell took the easy way out by dying. It's much harder to shoulder the weight of memory, to reconcile with the past, to turn and face your troubles. It's much harder, but I'm finding it worth the struggle.
I am sleeping through the night again. There is an immense power in holding no secrets. I have protection now, in my story's being public. If I died, the right people would ask the right questions.
Callie's sketch of Frank hangs boldly in my living room, over a crumbled stretch of drywall. I'd like to think it looks over me, but I know that's not the case. As I recently learned, people are eager to live with stars in their eyes. The problem is, they block out reality. No wonder we want to hide from reality. It's ugly. Brutal. But it can also be graceful, and it offers comforts I'm still acquainting myself with. There are surprises there, not all of them unpleasant.
I thought I had a simple life before. But I didn't. Simple is going for walks and not checking behind you. Simple is strolling past security cameras and not bothering to turn your head. Entering a restaurant and not scouting the exits. Passing a dark sedan and not having your palms sweat. I'm not saying I'm able to do these things all the time, but I know what they feel like now. It's a start. A fresh one. Day after day.
I pulled in to Induma's driveway and sat with the radio on, trying to figure out how I could possibly convey my gratitude to her.
Through the open blinds, I could see her flashing back and forth in the kitchen, cooking herself into a frenzy. I got out but left the truck running. She was not cooking for me, and I didn't want to intrude.
The Jag rolled in behind me. Alejandro. He jogged over and gave me a hug. He smelled musky, some Rodeo Drive cologne Induma had no doubt selected.
I said, 'I'm glad you guys made up.'
'We have a do-over of our anniversary this weekend. But I give her the gift now because I can't wait.' Proudly he tugged a Tiffany blue gift case from his waistband and opened it. A silver charm necklace. He studied my face. 'What?'
I said, 'She can't wear sterling. Gets a rash.'
The case closed with a snap. He turned away, cursed in Spanish.
I said, 'Hold on.'
Back in my glove compartment, the small red jewelry box remained where I'd shoved it weeks ago. The engine hummed, the radio played. I sat and looked at those sapphire-chip earrings. Then I brought the box to Alejandro.
He opened it and whistled. 'The sapphire look amazing.'
'Yes,' I said, 'and it's her birthstone.'
'Damn, Nick. You the Casanova.'
I folded his hands over the box. He hopped, excited like a little kid, then hugged me tightly and started for the door.
I said, 'Capra or Howard Hawks.'
He paused.
I said, 'Her favorites. Check out the revival theaters. She loves late matinees. For dinner take her to Inn of the Seventh Ray, up Topanga. It's all organic, and they have plenty of vegetarian stuff. Get a table close to the creek and you can hear the frogs, maybe even see a coyote. Then go to Shutters for hot chocolate. It's the best in town, and they serve it in giant mugs. There are great sofas. The pier's right there. Go for a walk after. It gets cold, so buy her gloves before to surprise her with.'
A few faint lines appeared in that smooth brow. 'But you take her all these places already.'
'No,' I said. 'I never did.'
Relief. That broad smile. Then it faded. An understanding of sorts passed between us. He nodded and headed inside.
I stood on the concrete of the driveway. From my truck's radio, the Stones were telling me I can't always get what I want, though I didn't require the reminder just now.
Alejandro appeared in the kitchen window. Hugged Induma from behind. She spun, surprised at the jewelry box. Opened it. Delight. The flash of those gorgeous white teeth. She kissed him, held up the earrings, put them on. Even from this distance, they looked just as I imagined against her dark skin.
But if you try sometimes…
I got into my truck and drove off.
Chapter 50
I pull up to the big white house and park right in front, in plain view. In the passenger seat, a brown paper bag from Whole Foods, crammed with groceries. I don't get out just yet. It's eight o'clock and dark out. I take a deep breath, tug at the door handle.
Steve answers, and we shake hands and make awkward small talk. And then Callie appears, bustling and excited at his shoulder. 'Oh, my, and look what you brought.' Her face gleams with almost aggressive pleasure.
Two glasses of red wine wait on the butcher block of the kitchen island, and Steve pours another. Emily sits at the table, reading the dictionary, running her hand, buried in a sleeve, down the rows of words. She glares at us from beneath her hood and stomps upstairs before I can say hello.
Steve curses. Callie starts unpacking the bags, feigning more interest in each item than seems plausible. Steve leans against the refrigerator and sips his wine, staring off at nothing.
Passing, Callie squeezes his arm. 'She's okay.'
Steve says, 'I should go up.'
I say, 'Why don't I?'
Steve looks at me, and I cannot read his face. He shrugs. 'Okay.'
